believe this might not be so bad after all. My finger slowly moves toward the buzzer as my brain calculates whether I have enough room left on my credit card for a room at the Buenos Aires Howard Johnson.
Before I reach a tally, the door swings wide, pouring three squirming dogs and a giggling redheaded child onto the sidewalk. Behind them comes a tiny redheaded woman in a floral-print jumpsuit who throws her arms open at the sight of me and shouts, “
¡Hola!
” She smiles almost as loudly as she speaks. I clearly haven’t woken anyone up. “You must be Cassandra!” she exclaims, her accent strong, though different from the cabdriver’s.
“Cassie,” I say, smiling sheepishly, too tired and discombobulated to feign her level of enthusiasm. At my voice, one of the dogs jumps at me. I stumble back but manage to stay relatively upright. The tiny woman scolds the animal sternly in Spanish—no translation needed—and it runs into the house, followed by the others. None of this bodes well, and I am more apprehensive than before about venturing inside. Is this the Argentine equivalent of white trash? I wonder. The woman looks nice, her small curvy figure and soft curly hair giving her a motherly quality that is highly appealing at the moment, but will her husband be a wife-beater-wearing gaucho? Already paid, the cabdriver slips off with a friendly nod during the commotion. I watch the cab longingly as it sputters away.
“Cassandra, I am Andrea,” my host says, pronouncing it An-dray-ah, then throws her arms up in the air as though she has just finished her routine on the uneven bars. “And this—this beautiful chico is Jorge.” Hor-hay. The child, no longer giggling, runs behind his mother’s legs, peeking out from behind a floral thigh just enough so he can keep one eye on me. I extend my hand, but Andrea ignores it and moves in to give me a bear hug (or a cub hug, in her case) and a kiss on my right cheek. The little boy is dragged forward and back again with her movements, that eye looking up at me all the time, wide with disbelief. I want to tell him I know exactly how he feels. “No handshakes in Buenos Aires, Cassandra. Only hugs and kisses. Isn’t it marvelous? Well, let’s get you inside. Come, come.”
Andrea’s English is quite good, which is lucky for me, because her accent is thick and she talks as fast as she walks, even with Jorge hoisted on one hip. I do my best to keep up with her as she shuttles me down a long indoor driveway that houses no car save a tot-sized plastic convertible piled with stuffed animals ready to go for a spin. She slips left through a narrow door in the wall and begins to climb a dark, narrow staircase that seems to unwind endlessly. I catch something about my apartment being the servants’ quarters at some point. The rest is a confusing tattoo of rolled R’s. Still, it’s reassuring to hear so much English in her indulgently maternal singsong tone as she goes through a list of things I need to know, like how to use the key (giant and antiquated, it looks like a prop from a Merchant Ivory film), how to flush the toilet (there’s a string dangling from the ceiling; apparently, plumbing is not a national strong point), how not to use the bidet (didn’t need to know that), and so on. With her free hand, she makes gestures I can’t see about things I only partially understand. When we finally reach the top step, me huffing and puffing and grateful my spinning instructor can’t see me now, Andrea unlocks the door, swings it open, and reaches inside to switch on the light, all with Jorge still attached to her hip.
A warm amber wall sconce illuminates a small foyer with floral wallpaper not dissimilar to the pattern of Andrea’s jumpsuit, a small rustic wood table, and a narrow mirror with stained-glass trim. “I think you will like it very much. I decorate it myself.” Andrea beams proudly. The hallway to our right bends out of reach of the light. I envision a horror
Before I reach a tally, the door swings wide, pouring three squirming dogs and a giggling redheaded child onto the sidewalk. Behind them comes a tiny redheaded woman in a floral-print jumpsuit who throws her arms open at the sight of me and shouts, “
¡Hola!
” She smiles almost as loudly as she speaks. I clearly haven’t woken anyone up. “You must be Cassandra!” she exclaims, her accent strong, though different from the cabdriver’s.
“Cassie,” I say, smiling sheepishly, too tired and discombobulated to feign her level of enthusiasm. At my voice, one of the dogs jumps at me. I stumble back but manage to stay relatively upright. The tiny woman scolds the animal sternly in Spanish—no translation needed—and it runs into the house, followed by the others. None of this bodes well, and I am more apprehensive than before about venturing inside. Is this the Argentine equivalent of white trash? I wonder. The woman looks nice, her small curvy figure and soft curly hair giving her a motherly quality that is highly appealing at the moment, but will her husband be a wife-beater-wearing gaucho? Already paid, the cabdriver slips off with a friendly nod during the commotion. I watch the cab longingly as it sputters away.
“Cassandra, I am Andrea,” my host says, pronouncing it An-dray-ah, then throws her arms up in the air as though she has just finished her routine on the uneven bars. “And this—this beautiful chico is Jorge.” Hor-hay. The child, no longer giggling, runs behind his mother’s legs, peeking out from behind a floral thigh just enough so he can keep one eye on me. I extend my hand, but Andrea ignores it and moves in to give me a bear hug (or a cub hug, in her case) and a kiss on my right cheek. The little boy is dragged forward and back again with her movements, that eye looking up at me all the time, wide with disbelief. I want to tell him I know exactly how he feels. “No handshakes in Buenos Aires, Cassandra. Only hugs and kisses. Isn’t it marvelous? Well, let’s get you inside. Come, come.”
Andrea’s English is quite good, which is lucky for me, because her accent is thick and she talks as fast as she walks, even with Jorge hoisted on one hip. I do my best to keep up with her as she shuttles me down a long indoor driveway that houses no car save a tot-sized plastic convertible piled with stuffed animals ready to go for a spin. She slips left through a narrow door in the wall and begins to climb a dark, narrow staircase that seems to unwind endlessly. I catch something about my apartment being the servants’ quarters at some point. The rest is a confusing tattoo of rolled R’s. Still, it’s reassuring to hear so much English in her indulgently maternal singsong tone as she goes through a list of things I need to know, like how to use the key (giant and antiquated, it looks like a prop from a Merchant Ivory film), how to flush the toilet (there’s a string dangling from the ceiling; apparently, plumbing is not a national strong point), how not to use the bidet (didn’t need to know that), and so on. With her free hand, she makes gestures I can’t see about things I only partially understand. When we finally reach the top step, me huffing and puffing and grateful my spinning instructor can’t see me now, Andrea unlocks the door, swings it open, and reaches inside to switch on the light, all with Jorge still attached to her hip.
A warm amber wall sconce illuminates a small foyer with floral wallpaper not dissimilar to the pattern of Andrea’s jumpsuit, a small rustic wood table, and a narrow mirror with stained-glass trim. “I think you will like it very much. I decorate it myself.” Andrea beams proudly. The hallway to our right bends out of reach of the light. I envision a horror
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