Argentina - 12/31/15

2:00 p.m.
A-Train in Buenos Aires.
A woman walked up and down the train handing out mirrors. They were cheap pieces going for ten pesos. 
Every few stops there embarks a caller, he enters the train and immediately identifies himself as a crippled vagrant, asks politely for donations without extending his arm, wishes us all a happy new year and a prosperous life. Rarely does anybody acknowledge the callers, nor do the callers appear the least bit expectant. 
Most politely keep to themselves, few instigate conversation. The conversations they have amongst themselves seem quite intimate, romantic. Companionship runs deep here.

3:00 p.m. 
Eating a burger and fries at Mostaza on Avenida Florida, a fast food joint. Mediocre and overpriced. It’s a tourist trap.

3:15 p.m.
In a café/restaurant waiting for coffee and toast. The owner’s name is Andrea. A smoking, raspy voiced little auburn haired Latina who vehemently chased me down when first I left for not want of anything the café had to offer. Andrea introduced me to her amigo outside who asked how much money I wanted. I told him 1000 pesos, at which point he made a phone call to another of Andrea’s friends. They ushered me back into the café and instructed me to enjoy my coffee and biscuits while I waited. 
The café was open and airy, patroned by locals and tourists alike. To my left a family of six ate and spoke loudly in crumb covered tongues I could not translate. They laughed and were happy. The family, the elders, capped their meal off with red wine, besides one glass of white for the mother, who dipped in it her index finger to be transferred to the watery, gurgling mouth of a small brown infant seated comfortably on her lap. Three men in flannel shirts sat at the bar, chatting in fluctuating tones with the bartender. They would at once transition from close quartered, hushed whispers to rather the exact opposite, heads thrown back in uproarious laughter, arms folded at their chests. Several tables in front of me, a single Anglo girl nibbled at a salad with distinct carrot shavings and thinly sliced radishes. She brushed her straight black hair behind her shoulders and leaned back in her chair, observing the room in similar fashion to myself. Twice we locked eyes and took one another in. I wondered if she was traveling alone or had merely branched off from her group for the afternoon. Overhearing her conversation with the proud, buxomly waitress revealed the young girl to be, as I suspected, a traveler not trained in the art of ordering food in foreign countries. Thank God for the international sign language of the index finger. I wondered if she’d yet seen the Casa Rosada at night. 
A short, wiry Argentine man who looked to be in his late thirties entered the café. His hands were dry, tired and wrinkly, and he rubbed his primary fingertips together steadily at his sides. Without a moment’s hesitation, the newcomer walked briskly to the dimly lit back of the café, behind a frosted window with V.I.P. printed in bold white letters, and slid himself into a booth with his back to the room. I looked at Andrea where she stood at the bar entrance buffing a wine glass with a beige stained yellow towel. She nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of the man behind me. Her movement was instantaneous. A blink. Every motion calculated. She knew the second I was going to look at her before even I did. Within the frame of a half second, a breath, the slurp of a suckling child dribbling milk onto his cheek, a peso dropped onto a table for the service, four glasses clinking together and the splash of beer on the bar, a nod. The scene continued unaware. 
I stood and stretched my back, walked casually to the dark V.I.P. booth and sat across from the small Argentine man. His mouth was small and he pursed his lips in. His black eyes watched me, sized me up without moving, took in my movement, my demeanor, and promptly categorized me as trustworthy enough. Lines had long formed beneath them and cut to his cheeks, and curled from the corners of his eyes to his ears. His short cropped black hair had silver spackles throughout, and he ran a hand back and forth over it twice before setting them both flat on the table between us. 
“Hola.” His voice staccato. Gravel. Strong. 
“Que tal?” My reply, less projected than his but still without waver.
“Trabajando.” Again tersely, and at this his tightly pursed lips separated wetly into a wide yellow smile.
I smiled back, uncertain of the nature of this stranger’s smile. The man extended one of his weather and work beaten hands and I took it in my own, none too surprised by its inherent strength betrayed by its ancient aesthetic, and I understood him then to be a criminal of integrity, not to be trifled with in spite of his disarming and unalarming appearance. 
“Luis.” Still smiling.
“Peter.” I replied and glanced at the black pouch situated to the man’s left.
“Ah, si. Trabajando. Quanto cambio quieres?” He zipped open the pouch. The café hummed outside our booth, obscured by the frosted glass and big letter silhouettes. Forks clinked and scraped plates. Cups clapped saucers. Men laughed. 
I reached into my back pocket, withdrew my wallet, and handed him my American currency.
“Quiero mil pesos.”
“Si, un momento, por favor.” Luis separated my money by denomination. One hundred, three fifties, two twenties, a five, five ones. He reached into his bag and pulled out two handfuls of stacked Argentine pesos, not the slightest bit of the greater stash I glimpsed in the bag. Luis’ hands became a blur and the rustling papers overtook my ears. He laid down on the table 4000 Argentine pesos and instructed me to count. I did. 
Quick. Efficient. He pulled a well-traveled flip phone from his right pocket and began punching in numbers. He consulted his phone intently, punching numbers as rapidly as he’d flipped and segregated both our bills. He showed me the screen and spoke rapidly as I struggled to follow along. I realized Luis had done the math in his head already, and was merely showing me his calculations as a courtesy. We counted our money one last time and, satisfied, shook hands and smiled once again. 
“Peter.” He smiled.
“Luis.” I replied. 
“Gracias. Muchas gracias.”
“Y tu, muchas gracias, senor. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I walked to my table and dropped seventy-five pesos on the empty plate, then sat at the bar and ordered a Quilmes. A long blonde haired man in an open button down shirt sat beside me. He introduced himself as David and explained he was from Georgia. 
“You here for Luis, too?”
“Yep. Wasn’t even expecting it, really. But I guess the black market finds you anywhere.” I took a swig of beer. 
David was now at the tail end of a six-month excursion through the whole of South America, in all of Argentina he’d taken a particular liking to Buenos Aires. We drank our beers and he told me of his travels. He bought another round and told me to look forward to Ushuaia and Patagonia. At the last beer swig I stood and wished him farewell and a safe journey home, then dropped ten pesos on the table. He bade me the same and I departed out the café door into the bright heat of Avenida Florida.

7:45 p.m.
Returned to Luis with Marie at 7:00 to exchange her money and the last of my own money. She was sick and so had not accompanied me out that morning. 
We are now sitting in La Plaza Italiana. Marie’s volatile disposition is irritating to almost no end. There is nothing I can do about it. I will likely limit my time with her to the highest extent possible. 
The heat has gone. We are in the shade, sitting on our backs in the grass. The air is cool.