I involuntarily fall asleep after lunch. When I wake up a few hours later, I stumble around -- my hip flexors are stiff and sore from the overnight flight. I pull aside the gauzy white curtain, not knowing what time of day it is. The evening is here and the sky is shot through with symmetrical bands of pink, blue, and gold. The architecture is totally, utterly confusing.
I want a cocktail and a steak. Luckily, here in Buenos Aires, I can get both very easily.
At La Biela, a well-known cafe in the Recoleta neighborhood, two metal pitchers of hot coffee and milk are brought to our table. The atmosphere can only be described as drowsy -- it's all cigarette smoke and sunlight breaking through palm fronds, while an accordionist plays on the street corner. In spite of the eighty-degree weather, the waiters wear starched white button-downs, black pants, and green aprons -- aren't they hot? Every time I blow on the cafe con leche to cool it down, my aviators fog up.
At 12:30pm, it's social hour. There's hugging and kissing and countless cafecitos (espressos) are delivered to the regulars.