Lois! After a few months in this “Argentina” place, I think I finally have a few good recommendations for when you and Stan finally get your ass down here.

1. Buy fewer things. I know this sounds dumb, but it’s true! For example, instead of just buying your plasma TV down here, you can bring it down! Apparently, some of the ‘taxes’ for outside things are a little high. I think it might have something with gas prices and pay for pilots.
Photo credit: a group of angels.

So a PowerBook will set you back $6,000 pesos! Which is $2,000!! (And apparently if you’re making pesos, it feels like $6,000. Go figure.)

2. Ignore the real price what you’re really paying. Just focus on that whole ‘I can divide by three!’ bit and you’ll be okay. Just keep telling yourself: it’s a third cheaper than in the states! Don’t look at the 11 peso price tag on your brick of mozzarella. Actually paying attention to the shocking inflation–and imagining what your life would be like if you made pesos–isn’t going to help anyone. I mean, what you can do?

3. Stay with a new friend! Making new friends online is also a great way to ensure that the party never stops.

An example of how the party can keep going, ad infinitum. Photo credit: God.

4. Make your money in a currency that’s not pesos.

5. Stay home. Have someone read this to you, and close your eyes. Envision a mythical place inhabited by Borges where everyone dances tango, maté, and malbec called “Buenos Aires.” People are good looking, and the water goes down the other way when you flush the toilet. I think it’s counterclockwise. July is actually summer. Open your eyes.

Cheap way to travel, eh??

Okay kids, I’ve gotta get a load off of my chest. No, not the time I set fire to a monastery just to get back at God for that time I had to go to a church on Easter! Fine, near a church. My mother made me go near a church, because there was one on the way to the liquor store. But I was still scarred for life.

No, kids, what Miss Cybil wants to get off of her much bally-hooed “killer rack “is that her lawyer, Jimmy, didn’t tell her that Argentina is a democracy. It’s maybe going to be an election year, soon-ish,  so it seems you can’t go more than five feet without seeing the face of some guy. Now, I’m not bitter because I was just divorced by Voldemort, who I incidentally just put through dental school. Really! I’m just bitter because I have a hard enough time deciding what shoes to wear.

Much less what dude’s face I’ll want to ignore for the next four years. Besides, I haven’t been sober enough to vote since the Nixon administration. So I’m voting for Nacho.

And you know what? He’s got my vote. I say: let a Mexican into the White House! I mean, why not?

Although I probably shouldn’t, on account of my having eaten so many carbs since I got to Buenos Aires, or Peru, or wherever the hell I am! I’m getting a little rump in the roast, if you know what I mean (my butt’s getting big!), you’d really think that the black guys would be lining up to get a piece. So after I decided to go Atkins style, and I walked through Gaiman.

Yes, that’s Gaiman, also known as some random Welsh settlement, in the middle of the day. And no, I’m not making the footbridge bit up. Like, do hobbits live there? I mean, really. But now like I didn’t have enough enemies in the world–Lois, I’m looking at you, dear, I know you’ve been snatching my TV Guide–the hobbit people heard my Atkins pleas. And you know what they gave me for lunch? Get a load of this: 
See, while I wanted food, the rest of Argentina was sleeping–in other words, no other place was open while I was fucking starving–so I had to get tea. And Welsh tea service, as Miss Cybil discovered, is merely an excuse to have a smorgasbord of desserts in the middle of the day.

But you know what? I found something else out about myself: pie at 2 pm? I’m okay with that!

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.