x domingo x

D L M M J V S Objetivo: Bailar y Correr

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21 1 de diciembre Modo: Pies y taxi
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29 30 31 Distancia: 50 kilómetros
Buenos Aires, Argentina

c
“So, what’s the cover, Trick?”
“Nada.” I knew, because this bar had been like a weekend home
away from home for me and the other twentysomethings from the States,
Ireland and Australia. We all loved The Shamrock for three things in
particular: an authentic pub atmosphere, rarely seen in this metropolis of
thirteen million, no cover charge and near perfect pints of Guinness.
“Really? How does this place make any money?”
“Oh, there’s a cover charge. Just not for gringos.” I had to cut Kip
some slack. He had only been in the country for a week, while I had
spent the past four months in Buenos Aires. I was participating in a
study abroad program offered through the University of Texas at Austin.
“No cover charge for americanos?” Kip persisted.
“Norteamericanos.” Seven syllables seemed like a mouthful for anyone
simply trying to state their country of origin. And unlike the Europeans
who could snap back Soy inglés, Soy francés, Soy irlandés or Soy español,
you still left yourself open to Canada and Mexico with the cumbersome
Soy norteamericano. The best that I could do personally was lop off three
syllables with a simple Soy de Florida. In more casual settings like this
though, I still preferred gringo. Two syllables and a tad self-deprecating.
“Kip, they know that U.S. students and expats drink like fish when
they go out, so the management doesn’t see any reason to hit us up for
five extra pesos just for the privilege of walking in the door. Unlike the
porteños who’ll maybe have one round all night, we walk in, make a
beeline for the bar and order up a round of overpriced cerveza.”
“So the locals don’t drink?”
“Some do. You know the tinto here is first rate. Occasionally you’ll see
a pibe walking around with an Isenbeck or a glass of champagne or this bitter
canned concoction called Pronto Shake. But most of them are accustomed
to just having a trago with meals. The minas are a whole different story.
You rarely see a girl having a drink here, which is both positive and negative.
When you’re dating an argentina, you appreciate the cheap date factor,

6
but when you’re out there playing the field, you can’t even consider buying
a girl a drink as an ice breaker. Unless you are fluent and have your piropos
down cold, about the only thing you can offer a dark stranger in B.A. is
yourself as a dance partner. If you’re lucky and she’s trying to learn English,
you might make progress with some impromptu Berlitz bartalk.
Otherwise, your best plan of attack is going out with a group of casual
girlfriends like we’re doing tonight. The girls will get together, have
dinner and talk for a few hours, and we’ll sit here throwing back a few
rounds before meeting them at 1:00. That way everybody stays true to
their national social norms and, barring some unforeseen incident, goes
home happy.”
“Patrick, who are the girls?” Kip asked.
“Two amigas from the Universidad del Salvador. Mária and Geral
are best friends. They’re both studying architecture. Mária’s one of the
e s s e n t i a l e s p a ñ o l first girls that I met in Buenos
domingo: Sunday
Aires. My first weekend in
objetivo: purpose, objective town, I went with Andy and
bailar y correr: to dance and to run Locke to this amazing club out
modo: by way of. Also, method or means.
Modo de decir algo (way to say something),
on the Costanera called El Cielo.
modo de transporte (means of transport). You would love this place:
pies: feet. a pie (on foot) 20,000 square foot multilevel
Yo soy inglés/francés/irlandés/español/
norteamericano: I am British/French/Irish/
complex right on the water,
Spanish/North American. indoor/outdoor, monster sound
Soy de...(Florida): I am from...(Florida) system and three deejays that put
gringo: foreigner, specifically one from the
United States of America living or traveling in
together the most seamless mix.
any country of Latin America. Anyway, it was my first Friday
porteño: person from the city of Buenos Aires. night in town, and Andy told
cerveza: beer
pibe: guy, dude.
me that he would call when they
trago: cocktail, mixed drink were leaving his apartment. So
tinto: red wine. Vino fino tinto on labels. I’m at home at Señora Rocca’s
mina: beautiful girl, babe, hottie, etc.
piropos: pick-up lines in Argentina.
by eight waiting to hear from
El Cielo: the sky or Heaven. him...no
Movicom: Argentine brand of cell phone. ring. Nine,
still no ring. Ten, nothing. Eleven, silence. Finally, at
quarter after midnight, he calls on his Movicom to say
that they are in the taxi en route to El Cielo. That
weekend was a rude awakening for my body clock which
was still stuck on Atlanta time. Hell, all the bars in

7
Buckhead were closed by one-thirty. Here, you’re lucky if the cerveza’s
cold by one-thirty. Anyway, the trance was fierce that Friday and I danced
with Mária for almost three hours. When we left El Cielo at five the next
morning, my shirt was soaked with sweat. It was the first of August and
the middle of winter, so it was pretty damn cold outside. We walked
twenty blocks up Avenida Alcorta looking for a taxi, and the wind coming
off the Río de la Plata just cut right through us. I ended up spending that
whole Saturday and the next three days in bed recovering from my initial
brush with El Cielo. And I missed the entire first week of classes.”
“Sounds like a big night.”
“Yeah, brace yourself, Kip. This one could be even bigger. I promise
that you’ve never seen anything like this boliche we’re going to tonight.”
Considering that Kip lived in Chicago, that was a bold statement. But
given the weekly spectacle that I had witnessed at Avenida Adolfo Alsina
938, it was no exaggeration. The place in question
was called Infierno and the business hours had been
memorized by legions of loyal club-loving patrons
throughout the Capital Federal: 2:00-6:00 Saturday
nights. Technically, it was Sunday morning when Infierno finally opened
its imposing black metal doors; yet, it was much easier to indulge in that
blissful excess of constant motion for four hours when you convinced
yourself that it was still Saturday night.
Once through the doorway, I led the charge through the crowded,
smoke-filled main room of The Shamrock where our mates were already
quaffing Guinness and sizing up the avenida: avenue
situación de minas. Río de la Plata: River of Silver, but
usually refered to as River Plate.
Andy Cunagin was a good friend boliche: common name for a type
and former classmate of mine from of nightclub in Argentina.
Washington & Lee University where Infierno: Hell
Capital Federal: Political boundary
we both pledged ΣAE, majored in which separates the metropolitan
Economics and graduated a few years area from the surrounding
province of Buenos Aires.
ago. Upon graduation, I had accepted situación: situation
a job offer from Southern Bank in ¿Qué tal?: How are you? One of
Atlanta, and Andy had jumped on a the most common greetings.
maestro: Literally, master but
study abroad opportunity in Osaka, slang for man or dude
Japan. Three years and six months later, gaucho: Argentine cowboy
we both found ourselves immersed in full-time academia. Andy was
finishing up the Masters of International Business program at USC, while

8
I was pursuing my own MBA, or Masters in Buenos Aires. Andy had
come to the “Paris of South America” via the local office of Citibank.
His MIB program required a six-month internship abroad to prepare
graduates for future international job opportunities. Andy’s roommate
in Buenos Aires, Locke Rapier, was also enrolled in the USC program. A
graduate of UNC, Locke was doing his internship with the Latin
American division of a cable multinational. A banker and a cable guy; it
would be hard to imagine two better friends to have in this town where
commercial lending rates had soared to double-digit levels and cable
penetration was among the highest in Latin America.
“¡Cunagin, Qué tal, maestro!” Andy had not seen Kip Schaumloffel
in three years, so it was a Virginia class reunion of sorts for us down here
on the balmy banks of the River Plate.
Andy smiled, “Kip! Great to see you! Hey, I want you to meet my
roommate from Carolina. Locke, I went to W&L with both of these
guys. You already know Patrick, and Kip is down visiting for a few days.
So, Kip, what do you think of B.A.?”
“It’s incredible!” Kip replied. “I should have come down here years
ago. It sure beats December in Chicago! It was twenty below when I left
O’Hare last week. I get here and the temperature has yet to drop below
eighty. This is definitely my kind of place! ‘Trick’s got me set up in the
guest room at Señora Rocca’s.”
“Ah, so you’ve met Dolores!” Andy had already been introduced to
my Argentine host mother, Señora María Dolores Zamora de Rocca.
Dolores, or Dodo as her friends called
her, was a five-foot, sixty-five year-old
professor, widow, grandmother and all-
around fascinating individual from the
northern province of Tucumán. To top
it off, she was kindhearted, a self-
proclaimed bad cook and just a tad loca.
In her hallway closet, Dolores kept an
assortment of old Halloween costumes including a witch getup and the
authentic woven poncho of an Argentine gaucho. In short, she was a
large part of the reason that my stay in La Republica Argentina had been
so memorable. In typical fashion, Dolores had adopted Kip the second
that he walked in the door of her Palermo apartment last week. Kip had
expressed a real desire to improve his Spanish, so Dolores had worked

9
with him for two hours every afternoon helping him adjust to the belleza
of castellano rioplatense. Kip’s “Qué tal, maestro” greeting to Andy was
his first real attempt at flexing his Spanish muscle in public: a precarious
first step for almost any newcomer to Buenos Aires when surrounded by
native speakers who practically sing their language.
“Oh, yeah. She’s treating me like a son. I didn’t think we were going
to get out of the house tonight because she was so interested in our plans.
‘Why are you so dressed up?’ ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Who are the girls
that you’re meeting?’” True, Dodo was a bit nosy, but she was also pretty
helpful and quite resourceful in a pinch. She attributed the latter quality
to the fact that she came from modest means in the Argentine countryside
rather than being born into Buenos Aires royalty as were many of her
current friends and neighbors.
Given that Kip’s Windy City Spanish was a bit rusty, Dolores was
concerned that he was going to have a hard time charlando with the
minas. Determined to arm my college roommate with some rudimentary
porteño jargon, Dolores had banged out a page of lunfardo, or Argentine
slang, on her green 1941 Royal manual typewriter before we could walk
out the door. The half-page lingo cheat sheet was the perfect set of

10
belleza: beauty Spanish crib notes which Kip
castellano rioplatense: formal name for folded and tucked neatly into the
the type of Spanish spoken in Argentina.
charlando: chatting
shirt pocket of his crisp white
lunfardo: Argentine slang oxford...por las dudas.
por las dudas: just in case Señora Dolores’ interest in our
ómnibus: bus
tucumana: a female from Tucumán evening social agenda was certainly
Mar del Plata: popular Argentine beach understandable. She had once
resort south of Buenos Aires
Punta del Este: very popular beach
savored the Buenos Aires nightlife
playground for the rich and famous in herself as a young girl, fresh off the
Uruguay’s southeastern peninsula. ómnibus from Tucumán some
La City: Slang reference to Buenos Aires.
forty years ago. Given her wit and
IQ, playing the role of the pursued damsel tucumana in the 1950s
was one that she had admittedly enjoyed. Today, younger
generations in B.A. enjoy the same unbridled anticipation
fueled by hormones and adrenaline. Evenings in the
capital city are simply intoxicating and few can resist
the myriad temptations that she has to offer.
Eventually, as is often the case among former
classmates trying to gauge the success, or lack thereof, of their fellow
alumni since graduation, the conversation turned to occupations, career
paths and promotions. “So, Andy, how are things at Citibank?”
“Good. Things are slowing down with the holidays coming up.
Lots of partners taking the family to Mar del Plata or Punta del Este. All
in all, it’s a good time for me to step out unnoticed, head back to the
States and finish up school. I’ve got one more semester at USC which
I’m looking forward to. It’s the simultaneous job search that I wouldn’t
mind putting off for a little while. If I could land a position back down
here, I would jump on it, but given the current unemployment rate,
now is not the best time to be shooting around the old résumé in La City.
Maybe this Patagonia trip will help me sort some things out and decide
what I’m going to do when I get back to the States.”
My sentiments exactly. Andy and I had been planning a four-week
trek south into the Patagonia region for the past three months. It was
pure coincidence that we both ended up in Buenos Aires at the same
time of the year with the same anticipated date of departure: January 1st
of the new year. One chilly night back in August, we sat down after
dinner at Andy’s apartment on Avenida Arenales, started talking about
traveling and realized that my classes and his Citibank internship would

11
both be ending in late November. Andy grabbed his weathered Guide to
Trekking in the Patagonia and rolled out a large Pirelli road map of South
America on his dining room table. We hovered over the map and made
a list of those places that we wanted to visit before leaving the Southern
Hemisphere. After some deliberation, Mount Fitz Roy, Torres del Paine
and Machu Picchu bounded to the top of the yellow legal pad under the
heading “must-see” in Argentina, Chile and Peru, respectively.
Overall, that was about as far as we got in the planning phase on that
fateful first night. Before I made the long walk home down Avenida
Arenales, we made a gentleman’s agreement to meet every other Sunday
going forward in order to plan the perfect Patagonia assault.
The primary factors weighing against us were the very same variables
that had dogged young explorers for generations: time and money. Time
was in short supply because the month of December was the only barrier
separating us from the head-first plunge back into Corporate America.
As far as dinero, neither one of us had amassed much in the way of savings
since graduation. During my three years at Southern Bank, I had made
regular contributions to my 401(k) and purchased a few shares of the
bank’s stock through the employee dividend reinvestment plan. Thanks
to the historic run-up in the U.S. stock market, financial
service stocks like Southern Bank had
practically doubled in value in a

very short period. So on my

last day in the corporate trenches, I
decided that if I were going to leave the country, my modest life savings
were going with me. After cashing out, I faced a substantial tax penalty
for early withdrawal, but it seemed a small price to pay for a few months
of freedom and adventure. My final quarterly dividend check showed
up in the mailbox a week later: forty-seven cents for the 1.8 shares of SB
stock remaining in my account- a stinging stamped final jab from my
former employer.
Fortunately, Andy shared my need to define and remain within the
parameters of a strict budget. Our back-of-the-envelope calculations
suggested that, with a little creativity, we could possibly stretch our few
remaining pesos over thirty-one days and four countries. During the
next few weeks, we would define our general path: south to Río Gallegos,
west to Mt. Fitz Roy, south to Torres del Paine, Chile and eventually to

12
Punta Arenas, north up the Chilean coast to Santiago and ultimately on
to Cusco, Peru and west to the ruins at Machu Picchu. At that point, we
would go our separate ways. Andy would travel north to Ecuador and
eventually the States. I would set out in the opposite direction in route
twentypico: twentysomething. The to Buenos Aires for a final New Year’s
term, y pico means and a little bit. weekend with friends and adopted
If the time is 2:03, you can just say
that it’s dos y pico. family. On New Year’s Day, I would fly
piola: awesome, incredible. Onda
piola describes a place that has a
home to The Sunshine State. After three
great atmosphere. months of planning, the giant Pirelli map
9 de Julio: July 9th, the day of
Argentine independence. The city’s of the Southern Cone was peppered with
main thoroughfare is named after it. dozens of red push pins inserted during
our Sunday strategy sessions. The pins indicated those cities, national
parks and historic sites that we most wanted to see. As far as connecting
the red dots, we would be making that up as we went along. Aside from
the miles of trekking that our feet would log, we envisioned several bus
and train trips for which we would not and frankly could not make advance
reservations. The only pre-trek purchase was for an Aerolineas Argentinas
flight out on Tuesday midnight that would take us 1,300 miles south to
the heart of the action.
But for the moment, our Guinness-deprived, thrill-seeking bones
had brought us to downtown Buenos Aires. We were a roving band of
single twentypicos ready for whatever this noche porteña could throw our
way. It was pushing 1:00, so Mária and Geral would already be waiting
for us at the entrance to Piola. After
polishing off their respective tragos, the
banker, the student, the cable guy and the
accidental tourist walked single file out of
The Shamrock and into the humid evening
air on Avenida Callao.
We strolled up to the dark corner of
Callao and Arenales and hailed a cab.
Seconds later, the black and yellow ‘87
Renault was racing like a stealth fighter
knifing through one of the traffic circles
that make life so dangerous and interesting
along the world’s widest avenue, Avenida
9 de Julio. Skillfully dodging a few colectivos
on Avenida Córdoba, the taxista made a

13
hard right and pulled to the
curb in front of Pizzeria
Piola. There waiting for us
were Mária and Geral as
planned; however, the
clever architects had
brought along ten of their
closest friends to join our
group. Kip was about to
learn firsthand what people
meant when they say that
“Argentines love a crowd.”
01:30....sábado....Piola
Upon paying the taxista and barreling out of the back, Kip also got a
crash course in local greetings. As was customary, the four of us exchanged
a beso or an abrazo with the twelve members of our leather-clad welcoming
committee. At first, Kip seemed a bit overwhelmed with all of the
maneuvering for hugs and kisses with complete strangers, but given the
smiles and laughter around him, he opted to go with the flow.
Forty-eight embraces later, the flow carried us across the threshold of
one of Argentina’s hippest pizzerias. Piola is a narrow and deep
establishment with high ceilings, neon signs, black spideresque
chandeliers and tables adorned with bright red, green, yellow
and purple cloths. In addition, the walls often showcased
the works of aspiring local artists. The waiters were always
very professional and never seemed to buckle under the pressure of
simultaneously waiting on five or six tables, making constant trips to the
kitchen, opening dozens of bottles of tinto and dodging the flood of
patrons that would pass in and out of Piola’s doors each evening. So
when sixteen of us entered the doorway that night, the hostess barely
flinched. No waiting list. No colectivo: a city bus in Argentina
besos y abrazos: hugs and kisses
bloomin’ onions. No vibrating plastic macanudo: a great guy
buzzer/coaster with pink neon lights. No sos un gringo: You’re not a gringo.
Sos is used in Argentina instead of the
Just grab a drink at the bar, make more traditional Eres as the first person
yourself at home and we’ll find some you form of the verb, ser (to be).
room in the back. Brahma: popular Brazilian beer
shopping: mall, galleria
The interlude gave me a good
opportunity to introduce Kip to the entourage including two of my best
friends from the university, Francisco Aráoz Bugallo and his brother Pedro.

14
 francisco The three of us had met on campus one afternoon early
in the semester. Francisco and Pedro were what the
Argentines call macanudos. In August I had explained to
them that, given the nature of my study abroad program,
I was having to spend an inordinate amount of time
with other gringos. Understandably, I had not traveled
over 4,000 miles to hang out with debate club members
from Dartmouth and psych majors from Harvard. As a
result of this unexpected group dynamic, I had not made
too many Argentine friends during my first month in
country.
pedro
Sensing that I was not getting my ARDA (Argentine
Recommended Daily Allowance) of local flavor, Francisco and Pedro
took me under their collective wings and introduced me to their close
network of friends. Had it not been for those two, I would not have
experienced life in Buenos Aires from the perspective of the average college
student. From that day on, the majority of my free time was spent with
other Argentines talking, studying, playing fútbol, sipping máte,
clubhopping, and, in the process, improving my castellano.
The local immersion and daily interaction had taken my Spanish
light years beyond the plateau reached after eight years of conversation
classes in the U.S. Although locals had mistaken me for everything from
an Italian to a Brazilian upon arrival in August, my
accent had improved to the point that I was being taken
for a porteño with increasing regularity. And if I could
ever get up the nerve to throw some lunfardo into
casual conversation, Francisco and Pedro would both
exclaim, Ay, Patrick, no sos un gringo. Although an
exaggeration, it made me laugh nonetheless.
A table for sixteen was cleared and we were seated, as promised, near
the back of the restaurant. The guys ordered pizzas and bottles of Brahma
while the girls, always watching their caloric intake for no valid reason,
stuck to their Cokes. The conversation was as varied as the sixteen
personalities gathered at our rectangular table. Geral and Mária were
budding architects, Natacha worked as a marketing assistant for a trendy
shopping in downtown, Mariano was a junior analyst in Deutsche Bank’s
local office and Augusto was one of the country’s youngest and only
environmental attorneys. The topics, voiced in a mixture of English and

15
 Spanish, ranged from work to pizza to local
politics to cultural differences to fútbol clubs to
dating. Before we knew it, the 2:00 hour was upon
us. Without hesitation, we paid the bill, slipped
on our dancing shoes and queued up for taxis
that would whisk us to the awaiting palace
known as Infierno. Fourteen of us fit tightly
into three separate taxis, leaving me and
Mária standing on Avenida Libertad outside
of Piola waiting for a Renault of our own.
I preferred sharing a taxi alone with Mária,
because it gave us a good chance to catch
up. As expected, much of my time at dinner
had been spent serving as Kip’s personal
interpreter. The minas in our group had taken
a real interest in the blonde German from Chicago,
or as they called him, el rubio. Sensing that my
old roommate was perhaps smitten with one or two of the members of
our pack ratón, I seized the opportunity and bridged the delicate gap
between gringo and porteña. In the taxi, Mária assured me that Kip had
made a big splash with the other girls, especially with her good friend
Carolina.
When we stepped out of the taxi at Adolfo Alsina 938, the techno-
hungry masses were already lined up around the corner. The building
known simply as Infierno occupied a full city block, but it would not
elicit much attention from a random passerby on any given afternoon.
Her towering front doors remained closed and bolted from the outside
during the week, and the absence of windows on her front facade prevented
interior light from seeping through. Given the lack of visible signs of life,

16
the same passerby might also assume that the former
Buenos Aires department store, which had been closed
for over twenty-five years, would never again witness
the hustle and bustle that she had known during her
Seventies shopping heyday. Nothing
could have been further from the truth.
What went on inside the giant dance
factory during the other one-hundred sixty
four hours each week remained a mystery to the
outside world. One could imagine that the restocking
of intoxicating liquids and last minute rehearsals by legions
of deejays and multi-talented vaudevillians were the
primary agenda items. Whatever the task, all
chores were carried out with the single-minded
purpose of being ready when the doors finally
opened on Saturday night.
That moment had again arrived and the sea of young porteños all
dressed in black was testament to that. Many of the clubgoers who
lined up outside were ricos and famosos from the entertainment industry.
Females with the most status and easiest access to the VIP lounges
were either models or TV actresses, while the leading males were either
fútbol stars or young actors. Many more were sons and daughters of
families from the upscale neighborhoods of Recoleta, Palermo and
Belgrano. Still others had made the long journey from middle class
suburbs and towns like La Plata, Ramos Mejía and Quilmes for the
chance to enjoy the Infierno experience.
The hulking doormen dressed in black leather trench coats stood
outside, not necessarily to turn anyone away, but rather to weed out
loca,lagentequeestá
potential trouble makers and drug dealers. Unlike clubs in many
cities, the last thing that Buenos Aires bouncers had to be concerned
locaporvivir,locapor
with was enforcing a dress code. Porteños were famously fastidious
about their attire, and both males and females viewed
hablar,locaporsalvarse,
Saturday night as the perfect opportunity to dress to
the nueves. For the ladies in particular, an evening at
conganasdetodoal
Infierno was usually preceded by Saturday afternoon
excursions to upscale shoppings like Alto Palermo
mismotiempo.
and Paseo Alcorta for new outfits. Revealing black
miniskirts, white stretch pants with bell bottoms,

17
skimpy sweaters and tops exposing perfectly tanned and toned bare
midriffs were all big sellers at stores with names like NASA, John L.
Cook, Sol Porteño, Kosiuko and Axis. Regardless of where they were
purchased, the aim was the same: To draw the male eye, capture it, twist
it, taunt it, torture it, and then let it go by merely walking away. With
more supermodels per square inch than anyplace in the Southern Cone,
looking good and dressing well are two messages that are reinforced ad
nauseam by the Buenos Aires media.
The undisputed heavyweight champion of
Argentine supermodels is Valeria Mazza, who entered
the realm of the untouchables the day that the global
press began referring to her simply as Valeria. The
fine European genes of the River Plate have
produced other catwalk stars such as Natalia
Graciano, Dolores Barreiro, Daniela Cardone,
Nicole Neumann and Carola Del Bianco.
Rest assured that once these divas decide
to hang up the high heels, a whole new
crop of young bombshells stands poised
to fill the pages of Elle, Vogue and
Cosmopolitan.
It was these girls of the generación nueva who were most likely to be
spotted on a night like this at Infierno. Not surprisingly, their names
were as beautiful as their faces: Natalia Nuñez, Lorena Arece, Cecilia
Marinc, Mercedes Rabe,
Tatiana Fanogo and
Carolina Ortiz to name a
few. Competition was
fierce between the women
as well as for the men vying
for their affection. Out of
this culture had arisen a
special breed of club feline known simply as una histérica. The derogatory
term was no doubt invented by a frustrated pack of Argentine males
understandably puzzled by the mixed vibes being thrown at them by the
opposite sex. Beautiful girls dressed in mind-blowing, tight outfits might
seem inviting, but the looks on their faces told a far different story.

18
 Desensitized by generations of pickup lines, the average mina in
Buenos Aires had adopted an icy-cold stare as her game face of choice.
The legendary cara dura was always enticing, often imposing and
downright arousing. When a girl glared at you with that “So, you want
a piece of me” look, the obvious response was “Yes, please!” Unfortunately
for legions of excitable males, it was never that easy. Instead of
being an invitation on par with a “Come hither” look,
the cara dura was meant to keep excessive testosterone
levels at bay. This was one reason that meeting a group of girls prior to
going out was such a good idea. Dance partners were guaranteed, meaning
that you could get down to business on the floor sooner rather than later.
Mária and I walked straight from the taxi to the velvet rope where
my friend Pablo the doorman recognized us, gave us both abrazos and let
us pass. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have never received such
treatment, usually reserved by clubs for celebrities, but I had gotten to
know Pablo pretty well over the past three months. When he first learned
that I was from the States and had gone to school in Virginia, he was
floored. Pablo had spent a semester abroad himself at a small college in
Virginia. The Commonwealth Connection let us forge a fairly superficial
bond that would get me in the front door of Infierno in record time for
weeks to come.
Once beyond the labyrinth of vaulted entranceways, we checked
Mária’s black sweater with the guardarropa girls and walked toward the
forty-foot long red velvet curtains that keep the main dance hall shrouded
in mystery. The only object capable of penetrating the fabric is the
thundering pulse of one-hundred-twenty beats per minute coming from
the other side. And once that curtain is parted, you know that there is
absolutely no turning back. The sights and sounds which Infierno utilizes
in pummeling a first-time visitor’s sensory receptors leave a lasting
impression. Start with the dance floor: row upon row of glass block that
once served as a decorative accent
for the now defunct department
store. The glass runs the length
of the club and the lights in the
parking garage below the main
floor remain on for maximum
effect. The garage lights cast an

19
eerie white glow onto the faces of gyrating patrons. Sporadic chips in the
glass block serve as proof that Infierno’s floor has seen its share of abuse:
first makeup counters and lingerie departments and now JBL subwoofers
and bouncing bodies filled with adrenaline and frothy liquids. Once
past the velvet curtains and glass block, eyes are immediately drawn upward

UNO DOS TRES...

B O O M !

to gaze at the three levels of patrons leaning over the iron railings
above, giving one the impression of standing on the battlefield of a
modern-day techno Colosseum. While the main dance floor occupied
the entire first floor of Infierno, the three upper levels were filled
with assorted bars and VIP rooms teeming with regulars. Viewed from
below, the fifty feet of open space created a cavernous atmosphere capped
off by an antique pressed tin gold ceiling with a giant stained glass skylight
in the center. Banks of lasers were mounted from the perimeter of the
skylight projecting pastel beams four stories down on the writhing mass
below. Six-foot banners strung from
the rafters emphasized the height of
the structure and gently swayed in
time with the beats. Various lasers
and strobes were also mounted on the
twenty-foot Doric columns of each
floor sending blue and purple pulses
in every imaginable direction. The
visual effect was simultaneously
20
 disorienting and intoxicating for the maddening
crowd. In order to get one’s bearings, the best
advice for the uninitiated is to head straight for
the main bar on the fourth floor, which is exactly
where Mária and I found the rest of our trance
cohorts. The look on Kip’s face spoke
volumes about what he was witnessing.
An avid clubgoer, Kip thought that he had
seen it all in New York, Chicago and L.A.,
but nothing could have prepared him for the
club/runway/carnival that is Infierno. The runway portion of the show
revved up when a thirty-foot catwalk extended into the dance floor and
an impromptu fashion show broke out at 3:00.
Thoroughly zoned out in the aural avalanche, patrons
were never fully aware that a platform was growing
into the crowd. As the models made their way down
the catwalk, hundreds of bodies continued moving to
the infectious grooves of Underworld, Prodigy, Sasha
& John Digweed, Orbital and BT. The usual white
flashes of Nikons and Canons were replaced by a sea of
red lasers and strobes. The colors bathed the brooding
Barbies in soft light filtered through a haze of steam
and Marlboro Red smoke trails. During the thirty-
minute procession, a mutual oblivion was reached: the
models did their thing and the dancers did theirs. Once
the catwalk was retracted, the dancing sea reclaimed
the prime real estate lost during the fashion show and
the deejays basked once again under the house spotlights.
The raised altar at the back of Infierno serves as command central for
a team of deejays surrounded by banks of amplifiers, CDs, turntables,
and mixing boards. Each member of the crew is decked out in gear more
suitable for a shuttle pilot; wireless black headsets with
microphones facilitate communication between the half-dozen
mixmasters during the four-hour sonic session. It is from
this lofty perch that the marching orders are issued, and the
crowd willingly obeys well into the morning. Around 4:30, just
when you think that your mind and body have seen it all, the carnival
side of Infierno kicks in. Wandering attention on the dance floor turns skyward
21
where a trapeze artist descends from the rafters,
hovers three stories above the crowd and begins a
dizzying series of acrobatic maneuvers in time
with the thundering breakbeats. Unlike the
slinky supermodels’ catwalk feats, the
trapeze artist’s aerial daring truly
captivates the crowd. The frenzied pace
of trance motion slows to a more
manageable rhythm out of respect for the high-flying daredevil who

boldly performs his routine without a net. When finished, the mechanical
swing and rider return to the rafters and the second act begins the long
procession to the center of the main dance floor. Enter stage left: an
automated scaffolding advances slowly across the glass block with two
scantily-clad passengers on board: one a male fire-eater and the other a

female contortionist. Considering the freak quotient dancing madly

around them, the two vaudevillians seem right at home in the friendly
confines of Infierno. The duo carries out a syncopated fire consumption
and limb extension to the throbbing bassline and female voice of a Crystal
Method anthem seducing the crowd: I want you to trip like me, I want
you to have fun, I want you to trip like I do.

22
 Just after 5:00, the lasers reignite and
we know that we are in the homestretch.
The first three hours of the techno
carnival have claimed several victims in
our original gang of sixteen. Among
the survivors, Mária and I show great
determination as do Kip, Geral,
Francisco, Carolina, Andy and Gabriela.
The adrenaline level is now off the charts which is not surprising given
the seamless mix of house anthems raining down on the
main floor. By this point, any attempts at thirst quenching
are futile as every ounce of bottled water is long gone.
The dehydration levels experienced by those under
the influence of stimulants like
methylenedioxymethamphetamine have
led to an unprecedented run on the H2O.
Personally, I wasn’t tempted by Ecstasy
since its primary effects were an elevated sense of well-being and a strong
desire for physical intimacy. Those two qualities had been constants in
my genetic makeup for years, so such chemicals would just be a waste of
money. For the most part, no one else in our crew was obsessed with
making E the focal point of the evening, so a night at Infierno remained
essentially pure with unadulterated beats and genuine affection.
Promptly at 6:00, the house lights came up slightly and we made our
way back out to Avenida Alsina where the city that sighed historically to
the beat of a tango had willingly inhaled this new rhythm called techno.
After four straight hours of darkness interspersed with lasers and
fluorescent lights, the Buenos Aires morning sun was a rude awakening
for the visual senses. Although everything would remain blurry for several
minutes, we could make out a procession of empty taxis before us poised
to whisk our fellow revelers back home. Kip and I saw the girls off and
deposited our weary clubhopping remains in the back of a waiting
cab. Thoroughly drained, our evening in Hell was over, but the
images would last a lifetime.

23
 When the taxi pulled up to Señora Rocca’s
apartment on Avenida Cerviño at 6:30, it
appeared that the entire neighborhood was still
asleep. The barrio known as Palermo was
founded in the 1870s when a yellow fever epidemic prompted many
wealthy families to move to the countryside north of Buenos Aires. One
of the first residents to inhabit the new suburb was former President
Roca, a true nineteenth century visionary who spearheaded the movement
for Buenos Aires to become the “Paris of South America.”
Before stepping out, I noticed a silver-haired figure with hands
on hips out of the corner of my eye and immediately knew that I was in
trouble. In Buenos Aires and other parts of Latin America,
the portero is the most powerful man in any building.
The tenants of every residence know their portero on a
first name basis and will tell you that he is both omniscient
and omnipotent. Señor Nelson was one such individual.
Having observed the comings and goings of every resident,
signed for all of their packages, inspected all of their
apartments and approved the entry of every single visitor,
the portero had enough dirt to blackmail everyone in the
building. Yet, that was not the portero’s nature. He was
there to act as the gatekeeper. In my case, he was also
there to give me a hard time for staying out all night and
Bue’ - no to pass that information on to the apartment’s active
rumor mill. Each afternoon around 17:00, the señoras that cleaned the
individual apartments would gather near the building’s main entrance
and exchange the latest chisme, or gossip, with Nelson and each other.
My late arrival Sunday morning would certainly be thrown in as a hot
topic, and I could expect a few weary glances on the elevator from other
residents in the days ahead. Whenever I attempted to mount a defense
that would somehow excuse my behavior, Señor Nelson would simply
smile and say “Bueno.” As expected, Kip and I walked into the lobby and
Nelson just smiled. I tried to justify my all-nighter by explaining that
this was Kip’s last night in town and we wanted to pack a lot in. True to
form, my plea was met with an unconvinced two-syllable retort of

24
“Bueno.” Evidently, more fodder for the rumor mill.
Once upstairs, Kip went straight to Dolores’ guest room to sleep.
After eight straight hours of drinking and dancing, it seemed the only
logical thing to do. Unfortunately, I had promised myself back in August
that I would run the Buenos Aires Marathon. As luck would have it, the
marathon would begin in ninety minutes. Had I not put in some long
hours training over the course of the semester, I would have been tempted
to bag it. However, the simple fact was that four hours of electronica
had left me invigorated and a sea of adrenaline was urging me on.
Eventually, I gave in, changed out of my smoke-saturated rags and started
lacing up my old Asics. Like any sane individual, I was not looking
forward to the forty-two kilometers of pain that I was about to endure,
but that was overshadowed by my desire to avoid any future feelings of
regret. Regretting that I was in Buenos Aires the one day of the year that
the marathon is held and did not run. Regretting that I had trained for
three months and not achieved my goal. Regretting that I would soon
be back in the States working and unable to take advantage of such
opportunities. Bottom line, no regrets. I grabbed my Walkman and was
out the door with twenty minutes to spare.
When the gun went off at 8:00, I was in
high spirits. A little sore from the myriad
arm and leg gyrations the night before, but
good nonetheless. One mile into the race,
my pores opened up completely and the
Shamrock/Piola/Infierno toxins came gushing
out. The stench of old Guinness, Quilmes,
Tanquerray and stale smoke was
overpowering, and my fellow runners granted me plenty of breathing
room to maneuver. Surprisingly, I was feeling pretty strong around the
four-mile mark. My limbs were loose, my head was clear and the Dave
Matthews mix tape was keeping things on a positive tip. Find some
inspiration, It’s down deep inside of you...Amend your situation, Your whole
life is ahead of you. Who knew? Maybe I had stumbled upon some
miraculous new training schedule: three months of regular distance
workouts capped off with an all-night rave binge. I could already see the
cover of next month’s Men’s Health magazine: Techno Training: Your
Blueprint to Marathon Success!

25
 At the ten-mile mark, high spirits and momentum were fading fast.
Running down the city’s outer perimeter, Avenida General Paz, was like
running in an eight-lane frying pan. The elevated freeway provided zero
protection from the sun which was slowly starting to cook the asphalt
underneath the runners’ feet. Judging by the amount of water that I had
lost in ninety minutes, my organs were once again toxin-free. My main
concern at this point was not physical but rather psychological. Questions
and doubts seemed to be the only comments that my tiny brain put
forth. Are you still having fun? ¿Che, como andás? Had this really been
such a good idea? ¿Sos loco? You know, you could be at home in bed right
now. ¡Ay, que calor! Need Orange Gatorade Now! Hey, that little kid is
going to pass you! ¡Basta!
When I reached the halfway mark and course turnaround on Avenida
de los Constituyentes, my body was sending mixed signals. All limbs
were still moving, but general numbness and dehydration were setting
in. Mentally, I was having some trouble acknowledging that I was still
thirteen miles from the finish line. Mirroring my own energy level, the
juice in my Walkman’s two alkalines was fading fast. Dave Matthews
was now crooning a baritone version of Jimi Thing. And even though it
was only 10:00, the sun had already warmed the Argentine soil to a
toasty eighty degrees. The weight of my soaked T-shirt forced me to peel it
and reluctantly toss it into a green dumpster near the fifteen-mile mark. I say
reluctantly, because it was my favorite shirt with the Buenos Aires Club de
Corredores logo emblazoned on the front. Still, shedding excess cotton at this
point was the only sensible thing to do. ¿Como andás?: How’s it going?
The nineteen mile mark found the ¿Sos loco?: Are you crazy?
¡Ay, que calor! : Oh, what heat!
runners routed like cattle back up the ¡Basta! : Enough already!
on-ramp to Avenida General Paz. I Club de Corredores: Runner’s Club
Boludo: Idiot
slowly climbed the ramp and at the top Cruz Rojo: Red Cross
instinctively glanced over my left shoulder to check for oncoming traffic.
Boludo! The highway is closed. What’s wrong with you? Starting to lose it?
Indeed, I was. I made it through the notorious wall at twenty miles, but
the proverbial wheels came off a scant two miles later. The Cruz Rojo
tent at the twenty-two mile mark would be my desert oasis. Inside the
white tent, I was greeted by two nurses and a half dozen other running
wounded. I collapsed on a cot and the mind games commenced. Come
on, you may be suffering, but at least you’re not sitting behind a desk back in

26
Atlanta! “To realize one’s Personal Legend is a person’s only real obligation.”
The words of The Alchemist came back to me. Paulo Coelho’s story of a
young Andalusian who turns his back on the priesthood and becomes a
shepherd in order to fulfill his Personal Legend: traveling. I could identify
with Coelho’s protagonist, Santiago, who gave in to his desire to see the
Pyramids simply because he had “always heard about them.”
Similarly, I had only heard about life in Argentina through the words
of Borges, Cortázar and Sarmiento, but that was enough to pique my
curiosity. That, coupled with the fact that I was stuck on the commercial
banking fast track to middle management, prompted me to consider a
semester abroad. I was slowly losing the ability to do one of the only
things that I did well: speak Spanish. I had been hired by Southern Bank
before graduation under the impression that I was going to be working
in the bank’s Latin American Division. Imagine my surprise when I
showed up for work on day one and met my training manager who
informed me, Oh, the Latin American portfolio...Yeah, we sold that off for
a big loss last quarter. We knew those countries were never going to repay us.
Nobody around here speaks much Mexican anyway.
I would grin and bear it for the next three years working in the bank’s
Public Finance division. I analyzed financial statements of government
entities and wrote lengthy credit memorandums encouraging my superiors
to approve those loans that I felt were most likely to be paid back.
Unknowingly, I was slowly mastering what García Marquez once referred
to as “the mundane simplicity of mercantile prose.” I recommend the
extension of a $2.5 million term loan to the Smith County Solid Waste
Authority to be repaid over a fifteen-year period at a floating rate equal to
LIBOR plus twenty-five basis points for the construction of the largest solid
waste landfill in Southeast Georgia. It was actually standing in that
approved landfill for a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed in a Brooks
Brothers suit some months later that finally pushed me over the edge.
Though I appreciated the steady paycheck and thirty-first floor window
view of downtown Atlanta, this was definitely not my Personal Legend.
So I gave my notice, cashed in my modest savings and booked a
flight to Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires! What the hell are you gonna do
down there? Take tango lessons! A member of the bank’s Board of Directors,
who had read my unanticipated resignation memo, hit me with that line
of questioning on a crowded elevator in front of six puzzled coworkers.

27
A classy move, indeed. Coelho was right: If someone isn’t what others want
them to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how
other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own. So, like it or
not, this was the path that I had chosen. And now this path found me flat on
my back in a white tent on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. This twenty-
minute pause for reflection chased down with a sugar water mixture served
in thimble-sized paper cups seemed to give me my third and final wind.
Sore and light-headed, I ran the final four miles of the race at a snail’s pace. It
was now 12:00 and the midday heat was oppressive. Hard to believe that we
were standing in line at The Shamrock only twelve hours ago. I would gladly
kill for some Orange Gatorade. Dammit, where is the finish line? Mi Buenos
Aires, tierra florida, donde mi vida terminare. Oh, God, please just let me
finish.
At 12:30, four and one-half hours and over forty-two
kilometers later, I crossed the finish line on Avenida
Alcorta and limped to the end of my chute where a young
girl placed a commemorative medal around my neck. I
had never been so happy to finish a race in my life. Instantly,
my body was flooded with the endorphins that I was dearly
craving. The wave of opiate-like peptides carried me through the crowd and
smack into the middle of the Parque Rosedal where I collapsed in the shade
of a giant tree near the Japanese Garden. An hour later, I would find the
energy to walk the seven city blocks back home where Señor Nelson was
waiting outside sipping his Sunday máte. Nelson, I am exhausted. I just ran
the marathon. Obviously not impressed, Nelson smiled and replied, Bueno.
When I walked into the kitchen of Dolores’ apartment, she and Kip
were enjoying a late breakfast and practicing some Spanish. I vaguely
remember Dolores making some comment abut my ghostlike appearance
before I wandered back to my bedroom. After nearly falling asleep in the
shower, I toweled off my lifeless frame, walked back into my room,
closed the persianas in order to achieve total darkness and curled up on
the twin mattress which felt more like my deathbed. The final seconds
of consciousness were spent in an endorphin stupor. I’ve got to get ready
for the Patagonia. We’re leaving in two days. What time is it? How many
days ‘til Christmas? Did I take a shower? The last thing that I actually
remember was feeling thirsty. When I finally rose to get something to
drink, it would be twenty-eight hours later.

28