Just under two weeks ago, we arrived in Buenos Aires and, rather than checking into yet another hotel, we headed home.   We’d heard that apartment rentals are really common among visitors who come to this amazing city for more than a couple of days, and so, a few weeks ago, we started browsing some of this area’s many apartment-rental websites.  In no time at all, I’d found the apartment version of my Mr. Right.  Its name was 2698 Libertador, and it had not only a gourmet kitchen but a washing machine; not only a comfy-looking couch but a DVD player.   I started daydreaming about all of the meals we were going to cook, all of the cable TV we were going to watch and, yes, even all of the laundry we were going to do.
I understand that what I just wrote sounds really, really lame.  I mean, Derek and I are living the dream, right?  We’re supposed to be out experiencing the world, not at home separating our lights from our darks.  But there you have it.  After eight months on the road, everything in our backpacks (not to mention the backpacks themselves) needed to be washed, and we desperately needed to sleep in the same bed for more than a few nights in a row.   It was time to take a break.
After almost two weeks here, we’ve really settled in.  We got a Blockbuster membership.  (Incidentally, at the only Blockbuster I’ve ever known to sell olives alongide the popcorn… It gave me a little insight into the Argentine palate!)  We joined a gym. ((A funny note about the gym–it runs on Buenos Aires time, i.e., about 3 hours later than what we were used to at home.  This means that most restaurants here don’t open until 8:30 p.m., and they fill up far later than that.  We got seated for dinner last night at 12:15 a.m., and the place was still packed when we left.  The doors of some bars stay locked until at least 2:00 a.m.  And, where classes at the Nashville YMCA start around 5:30 a.m., the ones at the Buenos Aires Well Club don’t kick off until 8:00 a.m.  I guess that means no one’s at their desks by 8:30/9:00!))  Hugo, our doorman, recognizes us now.  We acquired a favorite grocery store and, within it, a favorite cashier.  (She’s the one who doesn’t cringe at my very weak attempts at Spanish.)  I went running enough times that I no longer get lost upon walking out of the door.  In truth, we kind of feel like we’ve moved to a Spanish-speaking version of NYC’s Upper East Side.  Our new ‘hood is all nannies and dogwalkers and ladies who lunch.  Stepping out of our apartment, we can walk to boutiques, art galleries and trendy cafes in less than five minutes. 

We were technically supposed to move out a few days ago, but neither of us could bear the thought of leaving just yet.  And so here we are.  It’s Saturday night and, while we were supposed to head to a tango bar to watch the city’s best dancers as they tango the night away, I’d say there’s fairly good chance we’ll stay in tonight.  Just because we can.