Enter Gustavo...

It is 2:20 in the morning, and I just got home from dinner a half an hour ago. And what a dinner. The phrase in Spanish is "que rico!", which means, "how rich!" It has never been more apt. No Thanksgiving can ever compare to the A$13 of wine, blood sausage, tenderloin, french fries (with lots of vinegar), flan with dulce de leche, and espresso with milk that I just consumed. Three other COPA girls and I went to a restaurant called DesNivel in San Telmo (the oldest barrio in BA) that is famous for having good meat and good prices. When we arrived 10:00 p.m. it was packed. I'm talking two levels, 3 rooms on the main floor, tables in every free corner packed. We waited in line until 11:00 when we finally got a table and commenced one very serious supper. The paint was a little cracked and the floor was a little dirty, but the food was delicious and the waiters all looked like they could be cousins of Antonio Banderas. Nice as the cute college girl waitresses are in Minnesota, it's just not the same as having Antonio Banderas's cousin ask you if you want dessert.

But I was going to write about Gustavo. Now, if any of you were thinking that in 6 days I have somehow managed to procure some handsome lover, please people, who do you think I am? To be honest, Gustavo is a handsome Latin lover, but not mine. He is my host mother's boyfriend of several years that I met the other morning while brushing my teeth. I'm sure I made a great impression, mumbling hello in broken morning Spanish. At least I was showered and dressed. He, on the other hand, was impeccable. Tall, dark, and classically handsome, like a 40's moving star (not unlike my host mother, half Sicilian and, well, she's hot). He was dressed to the nines and upon being introduced ignored my extended hand and went for the two cheek kisses. I really wouldn't mind growing up to become my host mother, tall, beautiful, no job that I can figure out, an apartment in Buenos Aires, and a man with good manners.

Speaking of men, I hate to be so superficial, but not a day has gone by that I was not floored by the sheer beauty of people here, men, women, children, just beautiful. The women are beautiful in a different way than Polish women, with hips and shiny black hair that they wear past their shoulders. The men have serious cheekbones and eyelashes like those of a baby animal. I saw a 12 year old girl today in skinny jeans, Converse shoes, and a cute top. I have never looked that stylish, and certainly not when I was 12. Those were the days of plaid button down shirts, oversized white tennis shoes, and large Champion hooded sweatshirts, one in every color. It must be encoded in their DNA somewhere. The Style Gene.

The photo is of an old theatre that has been converted into a book store with a cafe where the stage used to be. The picture doesn't do it justice, but just imagine 3 balconies of bookshelves with all of the ornate decorations of an old theatre. It is 4 Subte stops from my apartment.... need I say more?