I’ve occasionally been accused of not giving chances, but sometimes I can give them as well as I take them. Yesterday, I was contacted by the bartender who cancelled on me last week, citing illness, which, truth be told, is a perfectly acceptable excuse for breaking a date. He wants to try again on Thursday night, and I, feeling generous and hopeful, agreed.
I’m not inking the date into my agenda or anything because something always has a way of coming up — especially in BA, where the old “Tengo un cumpleaños” excuse never seems to go out of style. I mean, how many birthday parties can one possibly go to in one year? As much of a birthday person as I am, there are few of them that I wouldn’t happily and without guilt skip. Interestingly, I’ve never used a birthday as an excuse to blow off a date with a porteño, but “Sorry, I’ve got a headache,” seems to work as fine out of bed as it does in.
There is a certain validation in the fact that the one date from last week that I actually pursued, the one I wanted, might come true, after all. I’m certain I haven’t heard the last of the others. The Chilean already shamelessly reared his ugly head. David, Gustavo and the Alejandros surely won’t be far behind because that’s what these crazy porteños do. It’s like they are all working with the same script and following the rules from the same book: How To Lose Friends And Alienate People. Male or female, for so many of them, the song and dance remain the same: a kiss on the cheek hello, a kiss on the cheek goodbye, “Hola, Como estas?” a thousand times a day, niceties, niceties and more niceties. All meaningless. If you’re looking for one who is actually considerate, interesting and dependable when it counts — between the holas and the chaus — you might as well be searching for a needle in a haystack.
Speaking of idiots, yesterday I was talking to this guy, and after he asked me all the questions in the script (What do I do for a living? How long have I been in BA?), he wanted to know if I like living here. Feeling in a particularly honest, sarcastic and cranky mood, I responded, yes, everything but the people. I knew it would get rid of him — and it did.
Nest stop: Australia. Seriously, I’m considering it. As soon as I sell my apartment in New York, I’m putting my plan into motion (barring, of course, a Buenos Aires miracle) — at least for an extended visit. It’s a place I’ve always dreamed of experiencing firsthand (since around the time Men At Work released “Down Under”), and the reviews I’ve heard from people who have gone and lived there have been glowing. How can one go wrong in the country that produced Hugh Jackman, Simon Baker and Eric Bana — not to mention some of the coolest sexiest guys I’ve had the pleasure of meeting here in the real world? And there, I think they leave home sometime before turning 21. Who could ask for anything more?