The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (12 page)

Antonio, gorgeous Antonio, looks at me sweetly, chair held out in expectation. What is there to fear, really? There is no cliff to avoid, no rapids to negotiate. The water isn’t even over my head. All I have to do is sit back and float.

Apparently, I’m really good at this floating thing. My and Zoey’s spontaneous lunch at a sidewalk café with a complete and utterly gorgeous stranger blends into a romantic dinner for two at an Italian restaurant, lingers into cocktails at a jazz bar, turns into slinking up the stairs to my apartment well after three in the morning, the two of us giggling at every floorboard creak and pawing each other through our clothes like teenagers. Inside my apartment, we fumble onto the giant, pristine bed (thank God I made it this morning), stripping each other down to nothing but skin. I have never had this kind of sex before, sex without consequence, sex without purpose, sex without the promise of anything but the twining of bodies. We are a drunken blur of kisses and strokes, fingers exploring, mouths wetting. This is so not in the plan, and I’m loving every minute of it. Even when he stops to put on a condom and I have that twenty-second grace period when I can think about what I’m doing, I choose not to, shut my brain down, focus on the caramel lines of his back instead, the salty taste of him still in my mouth. I can be impulsive. Antonio’s tongue runs from nipple to nipple. I can go with the flow. His hand slips between my legs. I am a free spirit. He pushes inside me. All I have to do is float.

Only when we are lying still and spent, limbs curled through sheets and around each other, do I allow myself the pleasure of contemplation. I have had sex with an incredibly hot man who barely speaks English, who is (as far as I can tell in my drunken state) good in bed, who dresses impeccably, who looks like a movie star, who lives in Argentina, who thinks I’m beautiful . . . The pluses and minuses run through my head at lightning speed. None of this is in my plan, but maybe it should be. Have delicious affair with sexy Argentine. There’s something so irresistibly romantic in that potential checkmark. Shouldn’t every woman have one wild fling with a sexy foreigner? It could be one of those life-altering experiences, a time in my youth to savor when I’m surrounded by great-grandchildren. It could be meaningful, if temporary. It could be . . . delicious. I feel a warm hand slide across my stomach. My mind quiets, my body answers. Stop thinking so much, it tells me. I let the gentle current take me where it will.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Why didn’t anybody tell me about Buenos Aires? It’s fabulous! It’s fantastic! It’s fabutastic! It’s so amazing it needs a new word. I don’t know if it’s all the shopping yesterday, the sex last night with A, or Sam and Trish’s squeals of delight when I recounted every juicy detail over the phone this morning—or maybe I’ve just finally opened my eyes. But, my dear cyber friends, I now see that without a doubt Buenos Aires is the world’s best-kept secret! Valium Lady wasn’t kidding: The city is magic. And I plan on sucking out every last bit of that magic while I’ve got the chance. Even those disapproving looks from M, who seems to be lurking around every corner of the house at all hours these days, can’t spoil the fun. Let him look down his perfectly shaped nose at me, for all I care. I am having a blast.

For the first time in my life, I am tall, exotic, and rich. Everywhere I go, I tower inches if not feet above most of the women and many of the men. In the midst of all these Penelope Cruz look-alikes, my blond hair is capable of producing whiplash in both sexes. Back home I would have balked at dating someone as empirically good-looking as A, would have plunged, inevitably, into immediate and debilitating insecurity. I’m attractive, sure, but hardly one of the beautiful people. Yet here in Buenos Aires, I am in a whole new beauty league. I constantly catch A staring at me with those wolf eyes of his, and he’s not the only one. I can’t seem to walk down the street without turning a few dark-haired heads. And since I haven’t got a clue what they’re saying, even the catcalls are charming here.

The contents of my wallet have gotten a makeover, too. Not only is the exchange rate far in my favor, but I can buy absolutely everything I could possibly want absolutely everywhere at just about any time. Shopping seems to be a national pastime, right behind plastic surgery and psychotherapy. What’s not to love about this city? Plus, it turns out M was right about at least one thing. Practically everyone I encounter does speak some amount of English. Those who don’t are admirably resourceful. Some point to my translation dictionary with me until we’ve managed to get through to each other. None talk slowly or loudly—is it only Americans who use this misguided tack? Zoey and I especially enjoyed the saleslady in the lingerie shop who mimed “B-cup” with surprising success. Zoey also wanted a new thong, but we thought we’d spare the poor woman that particular charade.

Of course, it’s not all shopping. When I’m not roaming the streets with Zoey, I’m roaming the sheets with A. For those of you who haven’t had a mindless fling in a while, I strongly recommend it. Let’s just say the permanent flush on my face isn’t from all the sun I’m getting.

I
t’s shameless, I know, but I can’t help gushing about the city on my blog, in e-mails, to anyone from back home who will listen. My mother refuses to hear anything positive—I almost suspect she’d be happier if I called her from an Argentine hospital or prison in desperate need of rescue—but even her frosty disapproval can’t spoil this first blush of love. I’ve fallen head over heels for the city, and I want to enjoy every second I've got here.

So it’s with relative ease that I whittle away the warm Sunday afternoon in search of an irresistible outfit for my first official date with Antonio. Not that it would matter if everyone else were to suddenly begin speaking German. I am in my own little world, focused on the dialogues in my head. When I left him at the front gate early this morning, Antonio said he wanted to take me somewhere really special this Thursday night. It’s time to experience the glamorous side of the city. I can see the whole evening flowing out before me, shining and twinkling in the moonlight. A perfect meal. Heady red wine. Antonio’s conspiratorial smile as he asks the waiter for the check. We can’t keep our hands off each other. Our feet play under the table. We forgo pastries and espresso for dessert of a different kind. I will commit every word, glance, touch to vivid memory. There will be more scintillating tales for Sam and Trish. More fodder for my blog. More distance between me and the tangled naked mess of Jeff and Lauren. Strange how, in the matter of one day, that mess seems finally to be a world away, and receding farther and farther with each passing moment. Antonio is the ideal distraction. I am giddy just thinking about it, my Argentine love affair.

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Or, more to the point, I don’t want to get ahead of this moment. No second-guessing, no hedging. I’ve been blaming my quarter-life catastrophe on having the wrong plan. But sometime in the last twenty-four hours, a niggling question has burrowed its way into my brain.

What if it’s having a plan that’s wrong?

So an experiment: I left my apartment this morning without even a cursory glance at the plan, and I am determined for once to see where life takes me when left to its own devices. For now the only goal I allow myself is to find a drop-dead-gorgeous outfit for Thursday. Too dreamily distracted to worry about insignificant things like personal safety, I venture boldly into an unfamiliar neighborhood on Andrea’s advice, in search of the perfect little black dress. (Yes, she has assured me, those are a date staple here, too.) Nothing can pop the shiny bubble that encircles me as I glide from store to store. Every shoe I try on tickles me pink. Every dress brings a blush to my cheeks. But it’s a bright red dress that gets me at last. I shimmy into the slinky number with a flared skirt clearly made for dancing. It is completely unlike anything I would normally buy, and that clinches it. I take a twirl in front of the mirror, and the soft fabric swooshes against my bare thighs. It takes every ounce of my concentration not to imagine the way it will feel sliding off my hips and falling to the floor.

I meet Zoey for dinner on Tuesday night at the café where I first saw Antonio. Ostensibly, we’re here to practice our Spanish. We do, proudly, manage to order coffee and ask for more sugar without a word of English, but aside from that, Antonio is all I can talk about. His face, his body, his voice, his gracious manners, his endless compliments, his insistence on calling me Cassandra, which makes me feel a bit like an Italian movie star. When I’ve exhausted all his attributes, I begin the comparisons to Jeff. I’ve known the man only half a day, but I find no dearth of material in this area. Zoey listens happily. It’s nice, she says, to focus on someone else’s love life for a change. She even joins in on the Jeff bashing, not letting a little thing like never having met him slow her down.

Two hours and four cafés con leche later, I realize that we haven’t even cracked open our textbooks. We’ve been too busy amusing each other with our collective heartbreak—it feels so good to laugh about the misery. The waitress, her arms swathed in extensive tattoo work, doesn’t seem to mind. She leaves us alone, mostly, sauntering by occasionally with a barely discernible nod in our direction. As she rounds the room, passing table after table with her nods, no patrons snap their fingers or wave to her, frantic for more coffee. Nobody hounds her for change.

“Did you notice how the people here are as fast as New Yorkers when they’re on the move,” Zoey observes, “but the second they set themselves down somewhere, it’s like time stops?”

It’s true. The rhythm of life here ebbs and flows. Inside this café, it virtually crawls. Seattleites are relatively relaxed. It’s one of the reasons (right after seeing
Sleepless in Seattle
and drawing the conclusion that we all live in quaint million-dollar houseboats) that people migrate there from all over the country. But unless we’re on vacation, we rarely come to a full and complete stop. The people in this café are savoring more than the amazing coffee. Everything from the stance of their bodies—elbows on tables, arms over chairs—to the way they set down their cups between sips, flaunts an enviable serenity. It reminds me that despite all the modern conveniences I am not on American soil. And for the first time, that fact doesn’t leave me sad and wistful and longing for home.

Is it Antonio who’s made that happen? I hate to think I’m so needy that a bit of attention from a man is all it takes to be happy. Is it my newly discovered buying power? I couldn’t be that shallow, could I? No, it must be more than that. Maybe it’s this café. I never had a place like this back home. Sure, Sam, Trish, and I have our favorite spots, but those places aren’t so much restaurants and bars as concepts. There is always that unmistakable reality that you are the customer.
Like that coffee? Buy this music compilation. Enjoying that steak? Take home this barbecue sauce.
Somehow, in this place, I feel like I’ve stopped by a friend’s house. A really, really cool friend.

I lean back in my chair and take it all in. El Taller. Zoey looks it up in her dictionary—that’s almost like studying. It means “The Workshop.” It does sort of have an industrial feeling, but it isn’t cold at all. The walls are deep red, similar to my new dress, I note with a smile. The wooden tables are battered but gleaming, and giant rough beams run along the ceiling. In the middle, industrial-looking stairs hang suspended by some complicated system of chains and pulleys. And then there are the hauntingly beautiful abstract paintings. They remind me of the one in Andrea’s foyer. Not the colors, so much, but their thick broad strokes and sheer size.

Plus, the location can’t be beat: mere blocks from Andrea’s house and with a prime view of the plaza’s comings and goings. Antonio said it was fate that we met—he never comes here, this neighborhood being so far from his. He’ll certainly make an exception now. We can stumble over in the morning for an omelet con queso. We can stumble home at night after too many beers. In between, we can sit for hours sipping enormous mugs of café con leche.

El Taller. The Workshop. Yes, I decide, this will do just fine. “I really do like this place,” I say.

Zoey nods, inhales slowly as though breathing in the atmosphere. “Yeah. Me, too.”

We both like it so much we make a plan to come back on Friday. We’ll force ourselves to practice our Spanish then, we vow. But we both know the only thing we’ll be practicing is the fine art of kiss-and-tell.

Wednesday is an eternity. Spanish class drags on and on and on. Back at the apartment, I try to busy myself with a new blog entry, but my mind wanders so often it takes me two hours to get a page out. A week ago I would have easily spent an entire evening fine-tuning my plan, but now that’s the last thing I want to do. Since letting go of my rigid schedule, I’ve had nothing but fun, and, amazingly, I haven’t lost a limb or landed in jail or anything. Instead I call home and let my stepdad blather on about his tulip bulbs. “I’m lining the whole front walk this year, and the packets say to plant them a couple of inches apart. That’ll take about fifty-eight bulbs on each side. Imagine that!” My mom reads to me from the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
classifieds. “Oh, look at this, they need someone to answer phones at Amazon.com. That sounds perfect for you, honey, with all your Internet experience.” I send pointless e-mails to Sam and Trish. I clean my spotless bathroom. I hand-wash my bras. I dig out my traveling sewing kit and darn the small tear in my favorite cardigan.

Thursday morning is worse. After cooking an elaborate breakfast that I am too nervous to eat, there is absolutely nothing left to distract me. With Antonio coming by around nine
P.M.
, I’ve got hours and hours to kill. It will surely be a slow and agonizing day.

I have to relax, I tell myself. The house being relatively quiet, I take my Spanish textbook and dictionary into the courtyard and stretch out on a lounge chair. Flipping ahead to the section called, cheerfully, “Making Friends,” I manage to parse out a few good sentences I can use over dinner. There was so much I wanted to tell Antonio that first day we met but didn’t have the words for. “
Trabajé para una compañía del Internet,
” I repeat over and over until I can say it without looking.
I worked for an Internet company.
Now, how does one say “They fired my ass”?

The house begins to rumble. Andrea must be back. I brace myself for the ensuing chaos of dogs and child, but it doesn’t come. Finally, when all is still again and I can hear only the birds communicating in the trees behind me, Andrea enters the garden alone. Wordlessly, she shuffles over and slumps into one of the other lounge chairs.

“Busy morning?” I ask.

“Mmm. Many, many preparations.”

“Jorge’s asleep?”

“Mmm.” Her eyes are closed, her arms folded across her chest.

Andrea’s husband, Martin, is coming home this weekend. He’ll be here for two weeks, and then it’s back to Chile until Christmas. She’s been scrambling to “get the house ready,” whatever that means. It always looks spotless to me, no jam fingerprints on the walls, no antique tabletops marred by felt pen. Except for the toys, you wouldn’t even know Jorge lived here. Or three dogs, for that matter. Yet somehow she’s managed to run herself ragged with preparations, carting in endless bags from the shops and boxes down from the spare room. But who am I to judge? I must have looked in two dozen shops before I settled on that red dress. I am already imagining how I will do my hair. I have been dreaming about Antonio’s soft lips all morning. Am I falling for this beautiful Argentine man who looks at me like I am a goddess and can barely understand a word I say?

Andrea is preparing for the return of her husband, the father of her child, a man she has known and loved for nine years. I don’t know Antonio from Adam. And my track record for judging men? Not so good at the moment.

I remind myself to be careful. Take it slow. Don’t get caught up. After all, Jeff made quite a fuss over me in those first few months, and look where that got me. He was all stiffly pressed shirts and ties, elaborate home-cooked dinners and breakfasts in bed, flowers, sweet silly presents like the sour candies I’m addicted to, and that silver key chain with my initial. What do I make of these things now, these remnants of love? He’s probably plying Lauren with the same gestures and trinkets at this very moment. Come to think of it, he probably already did that years ago. No doubt it was my experiences that were secondhand. How do you know when the gestures and trinkets are real? Perhaps you should assume they aren’t.