I flew into Buenos Aires at night, hoping to meet my good friend Tiffany “Anon” Gross and her friend Randi at the hostel in Palermo where they had been since that morning. Feeling pretty confident with many years of studying Spanish under my belt, I swaggered out to the taxi stand where I promptly forgot how to say 15, as in $15. I ended up paying $20 to get into the city, which I found out later was a fair price after all, despite my inability to bargain.

We raced into the city at mach speed and my confidence continued to tailspin as I tried to communicate with the driver. I could pick up a few words here and there and responded based on those words. But I was getting the feeling that all my answers were a bit non-sequiturish.

We got to where we thought the hostel should be based on the address, but it looked more like a private residence than a hostel. We drove around and around, me unable to offer any suggestions, and he dropped me off at a hotel that he thought could be the one. I walked in, looked at the prices, and thought, “Dear God, please tell me Tiffany did not book us a $150 room.”

I floundered around a bit more, trying to communicate that I either needed to go online or use the phone to figure out where this hostel was, when someone, thankfully, came up and began to speak to me in English. He worked at the hotel, and began flipping through a phone book calling all the hostels in the area. All I could hear was “hola, bla bla bla bla bla bla, Tiffany Gross?” Finally his face lit up, and he directed me to the hostel that had her in the books.

It was the original place we had driven by, though there were no signs to indicate that it was in fact a hostel. We found this time and time again in Buenos Aires. We couldn’t figure out if they were trying to keep their existence on the down low and trying to skip out on taxes or what. But if you’re coming to Buenos Aires, don’t depend on signs, just make sure you have addresses.

I went in, laid down, and crashed after my 14-hour plane ride. About 2 hours later, Tiff and Randi came barreling into the room and we hugged hello. I got briefly caught up on Tiff’s life (we hadn’t seen each other since I left last August) before she stumbled into bed and passed out.

The next morning, we got up and headed to the famous graveyard in a neighborhood called Recoleta with Chris, an American guy they had met the night before. The cemetery was famous because it was filled with expansive, extremely ornate, and even flamboyant tombs, many containing the coffins (that were in plain view!) of famous dignitaries, well-known writers, Nobel Prize winners, and Argentinian politicians (like Evita). Tiff and I were overjoyed with the expressive statues of mourning angels, star-crossed lovers, and windblown generals on many of the tombs, and had fun posing in front of them. Chris was a bit horrified with this sacrilege and quickly left, saying he’d meet up with us for dinner later.

After the cemetery, we walked around Recoleta. We found a park where people were lounging on the grass and listening to live music play. Everyone had thermoses and mate (a South American tea), and most couples were very affectionate (a nice change from Africa, India, and SE Asia where all forms of public affection are seriously frowned upon). People were learning to juggle, and some folks had strung up a tight rope and were trying to get across it. There was a nice community feel that reminded us in many ways of NYC parks.

That night, we headed out to Puerto Madero, an upsale area of town by the water. We walked over Puente de la Mujer, a famous, modern looking bridge, and walked around the pier for a while. We ate dinner and had a bottle Trumpeter Malbec, which Tiff decided was the best wine she’d ever had. We headed back to Palermo where Tiff and Randi had liquados (delicious fruit drink made with milk, similar to a milk shake), and Chris and I split a bottle of Quilmes (Argentinian beer).

The next day was fairly uneventful, except for the fact that we got so horribly lost on the way back from dinner that we took a cab back the 40, yes 40, blocks off course we were to the hostel.

The next morning at 7am, Beth arrived from NYC after her NYU/Harvard trip, and she began the agonizing process of deciding which law school to attend when she got back. After 3 hours of deliberation, Randi and Tiff came upstairs, exclaiming that they didn’t understand what the fuss was about, that she could not turn down a full scholarship, that Beth clearly wanted to go to NYU, that Boston sucked, and that, most importantly, “who wants to have to say they go to Haaaaarvard, anyway?”

After another hour or two of deliberation, the decision was finally made, and Beth sent her acceptance to NYU. After walking around town that day, we ended up in San Telmo in a central square watching tango dancers. After Beth’s 4 days of excruciating indecision, we toasted with Malbec to a decision well made (Beth clearly… relieved).

That night, we continued to celebrate, feasting on the best steak dinner that has ever passed my lips. Suggested to us from my friend Shayna (aficionado de Buenos Aires), we headed over to “La Cabrera” in Palermo looking forward to the famed “Argentinian Beef” experience, but getting much more than we had bargained for. Not only did we get 2 ridiculously massive servings of steak that we split between the four of us (eating one on your own might cause a medical emergency), but each serving came with a platter full of dipping sauces and side salads, in addition to the salad platter that the table received. This smorgasbord and a bottle of red set us back a whopping $9 each. All those heading to Buenos Aires, go directly to the corner of La Cabrera and Thames in Palermo. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

The next day, we were finally able to meet up with Beth’s good friend Shosha, who has been living in Buenos Aires for several months. She jumped on the subway from her hood in San Telmo to Palermo where we had lunch. Beth and her caught up and I grilled Shosha on “must sees” in Argentina. We also learned that we had been paying too much for wine and beer, and that we would soon be shown the best places to get cheap eats.

We were going to stay one more night in Palermo before heading over to stay in San Telmo for a change of scenery. We found a cheap tango place in the neighborhood, and decided to check it out. Upon arrival, we were told that the food was included (which confirmed what the woman had told us on the phone). We asked, “What food is included?”, and were given a series of options. We settled on the meat and cheese plate, and ordered the free glass of red wine to start.

The dancing started and we were all thoroughly impressed with the skilled maneuvers of the professional dancers. The quick footwork was mesmerizing, particularly due to the fact that it was being carefully conducted on a stage the size of a queen sized bed.

We slowly started to notice slightly amusing characters gracing the stage. One being a piano player who bore a striking resemblance to “Ugly Betty” the leading character of the ABC hit series. The faces she was making as she swayed back and forth, jolted upright at critical moments, and retreated into mouse-like pensiveness as she lessened the intensity of the music with her keystrokes. Beth could not get enough of her, and began taking pictures, not of the tango dancers, but of Ugly Betty. Randi’s favorite comment of Beth’s was, “But how could you not have a crush on her?”

Tiff and I meanwhile, were enraptured by a male soloist who sang between dances. He looked like a well-dressed Italian mobster, and sang with a voice that was appallingly opera singer meets lounge singer. His face would contort as he hit certain notes, one hand on the mic, and one clenched in hard held fist, with his eyes squeezed shut. Other times, we would walk slowly across the stage, arm outstretched to the audience as he shamelessly made eye contact with onlooking women, singing sweet nothings in our direction.

Tiff and I held it together for a while, but after our second glass of wine, all bets were off. At one point, despite being separated by Randi and Beth, we were both laughing silently, but uncontrollably, with tears streaming down our faces. (BG: Yes, real tears…) Each time he came on stage, I felt a surge of dread as I gathered all my strength against his ridiculous faces and resounding vibratos.

When we got the check, we saw that our food was not included. We tried to bring this up to the waiter who just lifted his hands in a “I’m sorry, you must not have understood” gesture. As previously mentioned, my Spanish skills are far from up to par, but between me and Tiff, who has a fairly good command of the language, we were pretty certain of what we had been told. (BG: And the fact that he repeated it in English, since I, the non-Spanish speaker, perfectly understood him.) We reluctantly paid, but then quickly took off and skipped the tip.

On our way to meet up with Shosha and her friends, Tiff and I began reliving the lounge singer experience, each blaming the other for our side-splitting demise. As we leaned against a wall, laughing after reenacting one of his moves, someone yelled from an open window something in Spanish that was akin to “SHUT UP expletive, expletive…!” This really threw us over the edge, and Randi and Beth dragged us away from the scene.

The rest of the walk, Tiffany wracked up an impressive string of quotes that ended up somewhere on the quotes page, until we arrived at a cute little restaurant where Shosha was with her friends. Beth sat at the end of the table with Shosha, distancing herself as much as possible from our antics, and Randi and I gave Tiffany lemonade, swearing that it had vodka in it. Tiffany continued to doll out the quotes with a drunken innocence that Randi and I both found to be even more hilarious than the quotes themselves.