Dodging Missiles and other Boludo Bombs

I’ve recently solved a mystery---or cultural phenomenon perhaps---that I’ve previously identified as the “Argentine Missile Crisis”.  You see, my experience with kissing Argentines (4 times out of 5…which is about as many encounters as I’ve had) can only be described as stepping into a war zone, their missile-like tongue ready to attack before the adversary (in this case my mouth) even reaches enemy lines.

Now, at first I thought I was just having a string of bad luck, or maybe I was just being dramatic. But then I started asking around to my fellow expat ladies, and they had tales of the same missile dodging.  Brilliant! I wasn’t the only one suffering from PTSD (Post Traumatic Smooch Disorder?): this was/is actually a thing. But the conundrum wasn’t really uncovered until recently when a very cute American friend of mine (which helps validate his extensive market research) was talking about the way Argentine chicas kiss…. describing a tongue-vacuuming, missile-housing type of encounter. ¡Ya está! That’s it! It all makes sense now. Their kissing is a cultural accommodation really only suited  for other compatriots. Unless, of course, our boy Messi over here is getting you all hot and bothered.

This is the part where I usually stamp a stereotype-reducing postscript, but BA has made me a little cynical (see last posts for confirmation) and I just want to make sure other unknowing soldiers are prepared for beso combat. And it’s my blog, damn it!

In other war metaphors…taking a stroll down any BA sidewalk after an evening of downpour is like walking through the Malvines minefields. Sneaky loose tiles collect the muddied rain and wait for just the right moment to explode all over your new canvas Paezs and poor, exposed legs. Deficient government spending strikes again!

And, finally I said I wouldn’t talk about expat sex life. Well now I’m bursting with 8 months (well 7 years, really) of musings and I thought, “Screw it (ha), here I go.” But, then I thought again. Nope. Let future expats figure it out themselves. I will only say this: Do your sexy business as far outside of your friend circle as possible, but if you get lazy and have a tequila-induced oopsi daisy, don’t expect much more than what the Argentines call a “touch and go” and a casual "hey buddy" the next time you see them at Magdalena's Party.  For now, I’ll continue my confessionals offline and save myself from cringing later. 

Buenos Aires: an adult playground complete with hair pulling, game playing and name-calling. It’s dramatic, confusing and often times infuriating. But, as playgrounds tend to be, it’s fucking fun. And so we swing on.

Until next time, Boludos.