Returning to Buenos Aires? Miss Cybil did that!

Argentina, I want my money back. First, I had to deal with the inanity that was the “south” of Argentina, just because I was politely asked to leave my hotel. (And Jimmy suggested I leave the city for a while, even though those nuns had it coming, I tell you!) But then I decided to come back to Buenos Aires.

So Lois, I went to the park. And you know what I saw? A couple that seemed to be on the verge of divorce.

Photo credit of impending doom: Cybil Blaine

Granted, you might not be able to tell from the photo. But I can. Just look at how resigned to a life of despair they both seemed to be!

And then, you know what? Some guy came up to the cars while they were at the stoplight!

Photo credit of impending chaos: Cybil Blaine

In New York, when you were at a stoplight, they just pissed on the cars. But this guy, he was playing the trumpet. I liked it better when they pissed on the cars. At least the world wasn’t pretending to be nice for a minute.

So I tried to decompress by going to this paseo part of the park with marble something-or-other and lots of trees and roses. Sounds nice, right? Well, just take a looksie:

Yeah, that’s right. This random, anonymous girl just got all up in my face at the park! Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

People, I tried to have a nice day, but disaster was all around me. So then I left the park and went back downtown. Could I get a second of peace and quiet? Not so much. I mean, really. Like the weather wasn’t bad enough!

(But they were still cute!)

What I’m trying to say is that this city, it needs help. Not me, I swear.

Miss Cybil does a big hunk… of ice!

Now kids, I know what you’re thinking. How can Cybil Blaine have gone through so much in her lifetime–the divorce, the shakes after that round of Bloody Marys at the Hilton in Jersey City, that decade in which three human beings were removed from my uterus–and still live it up so much?

The answer? I keep it real. And sometimes, that means saying “no” to the pleasures of bubble baths and Mai Tais (say wuh?) and say “yes” to the pleasures of the natural world. Dirty stuff, and stuff that poor people might like. Or something. What I’m trying to say, Jimmy, is that I didn’t have enough money to check into the super-posh hotel in Calafate and had to check into a youth hostel. And then I got roped into seeing the Perito Moreno Glacier, which is a really, really big hunk of blue ice.

 
A random, anonymous girl steps in front of my attempt to capture the Perito Moreno Glacier on film. Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

But really, the glacier was pretty awe-inspiring. It means that there is a God, because He drinks and needs a lot of ice for His glass!

A bunch of random motherfuckers stepped into my view of the glacier. Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

Afterwards, on the bus, there was a movie. The Day After Tomorrow, with Mr. Randy Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal. (Which is a lot like Not Without My Daughter, only with less Sally Field and more Dennis Quaid. And instead of the Middle East, there’s a blizzard. But basically, Gladys, it’s the same movie.)

And you know what? I realized that instead of black guys–who are so 2006, anyways–I should be trying to get it on with 17-year-olds (hello Mr. Gyllenhaal!) or black guys with British accents, which is what one of the guys was in the movie. I mean, at least he had a decent job!

And then, on the way back, we were stopped by something else in the road.
And I found a Vicodin in my purse while the sheep did their road-crossing bit. So life was pretty sweet.