At 10 o’clock in the morning, I was eating the biggest meal of my life. Marta had insisted on an asado feast as my farewell lunch (brunch), so Cholo had the BBQ going before I even woke up. It looked like he was cooking for all of Rio Tercero. I had a bus to catch, so Marta refilled my glass with wine as Cholo made runs into the dining room with a chunk of meat balanced on a fork. I must’ve eaten three cows in five minutes.

We had lost track of time because Marta surprised me with a gift: all the mate essentials. A leather gourd, a travel-size thermos, top notch yerba, a metal “bombilla” (straw), fine sugar, and even mini containers to store everything in. I was good to go…or rather, Richard was good to go.

The night before, I went out with Yanina, Valeria’s younger sister. We spent most of the night at a “boliche” (club), but first we went to wish her brother-in-law a happy birthday. She never mentioned that it was a dinner with family and friends, so I was a bit shocked to walk in and have thirty people to kiss on the cheek. A man got up to give me his seat, and there was a glass full of wine and plate full of cake in front of me when I sat down. Questions were fired at me from all directions, and they fought to impress me with the few English phrases they had learned in school. One of which of course being “Hah-pay Barf-dee to yooo.”

I met Yanina at the bus station the next morning, ten pounds heavier. Cordoba is the second largest city in Argentina, populated primarily by university students. It’s the country’s educational core. Yanina had to make the 2-hour commute anyway, so it worked out perfectly for me to tour around with her and spend the night before my flight the next morning.

Yanina admitted there’s not much for a tourist to do in Cordoba, especially on a Sunday. It was like a ghost town. We walked through plazas, past the cathedral and university buildings, but it was more fun chatting with her and her friends on a quiet park bench. More educational too.

As we were talking about cultural differences – from schooling to eating – I mentioned that Yanina and all of her friends looked like Americans. I had meant that there was no single Argentinean look. Blonde and black hair, pale and olive skin, blue eyes and brown eyes. A few of them even looked like friends from home. But when I said they looked like Americans, they curtly responded, “We are.” My comment was based on appearance, not nationality, but I immediately understood their point. In their minds, the US is out to control the rest of the world. They feel that all the countries of South America are viewed as one subordinate landmass, under the reigns of our super power. They weren’t angry with me, but it was clearly a touchy subject. I learned my lesson.

I was the first North American that Yanina and her friends had ever met. After a few hours of conversation, her friends realized the randomness of me – a guy from LA – sitting on a park bench with them. As if it had just hit them that they had no idea how I got there. Plans had been made and executed so fast that even Yanina wasn’t sure exactly where I’d come from. I attempted to explain my trip and answer their questions about various countries (since none of them had been on a plane), but then I remembered the video my Dad had made for me at Christmas – a nine-minute compilation of photos with a catchy soundtrack. It was an invaluable tool. Back at Yanina’s apartment, they huddled around my laptop. They said it was like going to the “cine.” Yanina barked at one of her friends to turn the lights off and then they watched in awe. I’m not sure if any of them blinked for the nine minutes. There were “ooh”s and “aah”s and “Mira!”s (Look at that!) and, when it was over, they couldn’t believe that was only the first four months.

We continued to talk the night away, still focusing on cultural distinctions and, more specifically, the reputations that citizens of our countries have. Argentineans are stereotypically vain and cocky (in Buenos Aires, they said), and they loved my joke: How does an Argentinean commit suicide? By jumping off his ego.

They laughed at the joke, but laughed harder when I made a serious language error a few minutes later. I told them that when I think of people from other parts of South America, images from Diego Rivera paintings come to mind – laborious workers, colorful pueblos, traditional clothing, handmade crafts. I wanted to add that they travel around with their horses and mules, but instead of “buro” (mule), I said, “Todos tienen sus caballos y bulos.” I got a confused look from everyone, but I thought they had just misheard me. So I repeated the sentence. “Bulos?” they asked me. “Bulos. Si. Caballos y bulos.”

It turns out “bulos” are one of the more fascinating (and secretive) aspects of Argentine culture. Also called “hoteles por hora,” they’re where couples go for a few hours of privacy. You drive in and a number flashes, telling you where to park and what room to go to. The bedrooms vary, but the more expensive ones have wall-to-wall mirrors, Jacuzzis, non-stop porno TV, a menu of toys, a revolving bed, etc. You get the point. Hence the shock from Yanina and her friends – I had implied that South Americans bring their horses to these places for a romp in the hay.

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