July 6-7, 2010:  It’s my habit to stay up all night the night before a flight and pack.  This was no exception.  It had been a million friggin’ degrees out all day-a heat wave hitting Boston’s North Shore-and it was least 100 degrees upstairs in my mother’s house.  Great time to break out a frozen margarita and get packin’!

July 7, 2010 - 5:30 am:  Bags:  packed.  Shower:  taken.  Evelyn (my dear friend kind enough to drive me to the airport at this ungodly hour):  M.I.A.  Uh-oh…

5:45 am:  Evelyn lost the e-mail with my address and couldn’t program the Garmin.  She managed to pull over at the infamous Bunghole Liquors to call for directions.  We are now back on track!  Headed to Logan for a 7:15 am flight to Miami.

6:30 am:  Checked-in and sitting at the gate in the airport waiting to board it finally hits me that I am headed to South America.  South-friggin’-America, bitches!  That’s nuts!!!

--Sometime mid-air it starts to bother me that I didn’t wake my Mom up to say bye to her.  It had been so hot all night and I had been up all night making so much noise packing that I’m sure she had a hard time falling asleep.  I did go into her room before I left to try to say bye but she was sleeping and I figured if she had actually managed to get to sleep I shouldn’t wake her.  I let her sleep.

--After an hour long stop in Philly (no plane change) I landed in Miami.  Waiting at the baggage claim I decided to call my Mom.  She had some great advice, “Be careful.  Don’ be get thrown in foreign prison.  That are verrrry bad place to be.”  I know, Mom, I watch Locked Up Abroad too.  I cried a little when I hung up with her.  Just a little.

12:30 pm:  Flight to Buenos Aires leaves at 9pm.  I take my mammoth suitcase, my normal sized suitcase, my carry-on and my ginormous purse and head to the ticket counter.  Of course it’s too early to check-in for the flight.  Seeing as it is not recommended that I leave my bags unattended I am now stuck with the baggage that outweighs me for at least four hours.  Awesome.

--I decide to get something to eat.  I drag my bags through the terminal.  I find an Au Bon Pain.  Better than nothing.  I get in line.  The woman behind me is clearly annoyed by all my baggage.  Get over it!

 The line moves faster than I expected so I didn’t get as much time as I thought I would in between wrestling with my bags to peruse the menu.  The cashier impatiently awaits my order as the woman behind me now looks like she wants to spit her latte on me.  I hastily order a steak and cheese on baguette.  What?  Really?  Steak and cheese?  Whatever, it’s food…

I get my order and now have to maneuver through the narrow passage ways to get out of there!  Who designs these airport restaurants anyway?  Don’t the take into account that there are single travelers who can’t leave their bags and have to schlep them around with them?  How are they supposed to get them through six inch wide aisles???  No consideration…  I nearly run over the woman restocking the condiment bar.  “ ¡‘Perate, señorita!”  Luckily I speak Puerto Rican.  So, I waited for her to finish so I could get by, all the while keeping an eye out for the latte-spitting woman behind me…

I finally get the hell outta there and find an empty bench where I can park my bags and my ass and eat my steak and cheese-which turns out to me more like roast beef with Thousand Island dressing.  Whatever, it’s food.  I watch as people pay the guy at the near-by stand to wrap their bags in blue plastic wrap.  What is that all about???

4:30 pm:  I can check-in for my flight!!!  I happily schlep the things back to the ticket counter where the attendant instructs me to place them on the scale.  The carry-on turns out to be too heavy.  WTF?  They didn’t make me weigh the carry-on in Boston!  So here I am, pulling things out of the bag one at time and watching the scale.  I finally get it down to the weight limit but now I’m standing there with a hair dryer, a pair of platform stilettos (which probably weigh about ten pounds right there), my laptop, a Prada bag stuffed with currency converter plugs  and a make-up bag (containing another five pounds worth of eye shadow).  Now what the hell do I do?  The attendant is looking at me pitifully.  I set the stuff down on the counter and weigh my other two bags.  They are thankfully not over the weight limit.  At the suggestion of the attendant I place my odds and ends in the other two bags which she then closes with plastic lock-ties.  Holy shit, did I just check my laptop???  And the Prada???  What the hell was I thinking???  I spend the next four hours wandering the terminal in a daze chanting to God not to let my laptop get destroyed or my Prada stolen.

--I find that the flight is not over-booked.  In fact, there are several rows that are completely empty!  Score!  The seats are quite nice, there’s a nice selection of movies and television shows to watch without having to swipe a credit card or take out a loan to borrow a headset.  There’s a fluffy pillow and soft plush blanket for my use-there’s even free food!  Cannelloni for dinner in a ceramic dish with real silverware!  And this isn’t even first class!  I <3 LAN Argentina!

--I eat dinner, I watch a documentary about Buena Vista Social Club, I sleep.  The next morning the flight attendants serve breakfast:  scrambled eggs, hash browns and a fruit cup.  I don’t quite finish the fruit cup before the attendant comes around to collect the trays.  Everyone is now speaking Spanish at this point.  I think she asked me if she could take my tray.  I told her I was not done yet.  She said something else.  Between the unfamiliar accent and my ears being blocked up from the air pressure I had no idea what she was saying.  I asked her to repeat herself.  Still didn’t get it.  I think she got a little impatient at that point so she reached over to remove my fruit cup from the tray.  Hey!  That’s my fruit cup!  I don’t know when I’m gonna get to eat again, biatch!  I want my fruit cup!  I really had to fight the instinct to swat her hand away.  Good thing I did.  She placed the fruit cup on the seat back tray and took the rest.  Oh!  I get it, “Déjala” “Leave it”, that’s what she was saying!  Ok, yeah, you can leave the fruit cup and take the rest.  Peace!

July 8, 2010 - 7:00 am:  We land at Buenos Aires’ Ezeiza International Airport (yeah, that’s right, the abbreviation for the airport is EZE.  Ez-E, that’s me!)  I was prepared to pay a $131 US entry fee as was advised on the U.S. Dept. of State website.  Turns out it’s $140 US.  What are ya gonna do?  I get in line, pay my fee, get the sticker in my Passport, get in another line, get my passport stamped with a tourist visa, find the baggage carousel, get my bags, pass through the customs scanners and find the kiosk for the airport transfer I had prearranged through the apartment rental company.  The woman at the kiosk tells me the price for the transfer.  Ay!  Pesos!  I completely was not thinking straight that early in the morning!  I needed to get pesos.  I ask her where there was a bank in the terminal as I had heard that the bank gave better rates than the exchange kiosks.  She said something that I didn’t quite catch but luckily she also pointed in the right direction so I followed this visual clue.  I still apparently looked lost though because a security officer asked if I needed help.  “¿El banco?” I asked.  “Sí, pasa por acá a la derecha.”  THAT I understood.  I went through to the right and there was the bank!  And also the line out the door.  :/

I asked the guy in line in front of me if he was exchanging dollars (he looked American).  With a distinctive Southern drawl he replied that he was and then told me that the line was not moving very quickly either.  I spotted the empty ATM to the left of the bank line.  I asked him if he thought that I might be able to just withdraw pesos from the ATM.  He told me that his buddy, who lives in BA and whom he was visiting, told him that was the easiest way to get cash so I decided to try it.  In backing out of the line with all my baggage I nearly ran over the nun in line behind me.  “¡Ay, lo siento mucho!  ¿Con permiso?”  “Sí, sí, pase.”  Oops, sorry, God!

8:30 am?:  The driver of the airport transfer pulls off the highway into a neighborhood that isn’t so great looking.  “Oh, God, is this it?  What did I get myself into???”  Apparently the TomTom was not working.  He resets something and we get back on the highway.  Thank God.

--Some minutes later we pull onto Avenida Estados Unidos.  THIS is it.

8:50 am:  I was to meet a representative from the rental company at the apt. at 9am-or so I thought.  It was slightly before 9.  I manage to get inside the gated entry and then inside the hallway to the elevators.  I get the suitcases into an elevator about the size of a phone booth and head up to the 4th floor.  I get out and look for apt. B.  No B.  Oh my God, did I get taken???  Well, I’d only paid them a $45 administrative fee so far so that was not much of a concern-although they did have my account number...  I am more concerned with the fact that I might have no place to stay and even more concerned with the fact that I really need to use a bathroom!  And it’s friggin’ cold!  I manage to weed a sweater out of one of my suitcases and then begin the struggle of getting my bags back in the postage stamp-sized elevator and down to the entryway.

There I realize that there are three “cuerpos” or sections of the building.  Maybe apt 4B was in another cuerpo.  But which one?  I ask a maintenance man who was mopping the floor, “¿Dónde está apartmento 4B?” to which he responds, shaking his head, “No puede preguntarme eso.”  Huh?  Why can’t I ask you that?  “Tiene que llamar a la persona en el apartamento.”  He goes over to the panel of buzzers and presses the button for 4B.  I suddenly get the sense that he’s not all there...  This was like the blind leading the blind. 

“Sí, yo lo sé pero creo que no hay nadie por allá en este momento.  Estoy esperando a alguien de la oficina .  Tengo una cita a las 9,” I tell him.  I didn’t think there was anyone in the apartment because I was waiting for a representative from the rental office for a 9am appointment.

He looks at me at then at his watch.  Shaking his head he says, “Son las 9 y cuarto.  El propietario ya estaba aquí pero no le vio entonces salió.   Ya salió.”  What?  Is this guy puttin’ me on?  I get the sense that he’s trying to make me panic.  Whatever, dude, I hope this is fun for you.  But, if this joker is right, then the owner had already been there and left because it was now 9:15 and he hadn’t seen me.

I thought I needed to call the rental agency to tell them that I’m there waiting.  I pull out my cell phone.  T-Mobile was cutting me off that day but since I’m an hour ahead here, maybe I still have service through a local network.  I have bars and it’s registered to “Personal”, one of the Argentine carriers.  I might be able to make one phone call to the rental company.  Why hadn’t I put their number in my phone book?!  I pull out the laptop (which had thankfully survived the baggage handlers and hadn’t been stolen!) to try to get the number off an e-mail.  The battery is low and there’s only one WiFi network available.  Maybe the battery will hold out long enough for me to connect to that one network so I can access my e-mails and if I can’t call then maybe I can at least send an e-mail.  Man, I still need to use the restroom though…

After a few unsuccessful attempts at accessing the WiFi network I begin to panic a little.  How am I going to get in touch with anyone given that my only human contact right now is Mr. Bojangles over there moppin’ the floor…but more pressingly, how am I gonna manage not to wet my pants?!  At that moment a man carrying some folders appears at the gate.  Upon seeing me he calls out, “Emiko???” 

“Sí, yo soy.  ¿Ustéd es de B y T?” 

“Yes, yes, of course.”  And he speaks English!  Unfortunately I can’t let him in because you need a key not only to enter but also to exit the gate.  We speak through the iron grate.  He calls the owner who apparently lives only a couple of blocks from the apt.  He tells me that the owner will be there shortly to let us both into the apartment.  He asks me how long I had been there.  I tell him since shortly before 9.  He tells me that the appointment wasn’t until 9:30.  I reply that I thought that the appointment had been set for 9am and I also tell him how the janitor had told me that the owner had already come and gone.  He waves off the janitor’s response, “Don’t listen to him.  He doesn’t always know what he’s talking about.”  I figured as much.  I get the vague sense of being in a Stephen King flick, Quasimodo staring ominously at me as he disinterestedly mops the floor, whistling some creepy clown music with my only help being locked on the other side of an iron gate…better get the webcam ready to record this. 

I have no idea what the rental company representative said his name was.  I think of him as René because he reminds me of my very first college advisor whose name was René.  René Morrisette. 

--I was never so happy as to finally get into the apartment, drop my bags and use the restroom!  I promptly find that there is a little tienda right next door to the apartment building where I buy some water.  I then find that the apartment has free WiFi-bonus!  I drink a gallon of water, post to Facebook and then pass out for a four hour nap.  I had made it here.