THIEVING WOMEN OF BUENOS AIRES

WEDNESDAY, JULY 25
I arrive at the bus terminal with an hour to spare. The bus for Rio Gallegos leaves from dock 1 to 18. I find a seat and listen to the departures announced over the speaker system. A young woman sits beside, asks the time and to where am I travelling. She tells me she and her girlfriend have seats on the same bus. The bus pulls in. I surender my ticket, shove my wallet back in the leg pocket of mmy cargo pants and carry my bags towards the cargo hold. The two women shove sandwich me, shoving with their bags. I think of them as ill mannered. I should think that Argentinians are seldom ill mannered. On public transport, men give up their seats to women and oldies. And I should wonder at women without anoraks travelling to Patagonia. Shove, shove and my wallet has gone. So have the women. The theft and fake peso bills are my fault. I am seventy-four. I know better. My only excuse is that I am re-acclimatising.

COUNTERFEIT CURRENCY

TUESDAY, JULY 24
Carlo, the hotel manager, is delighted. The fake bills from the cab driver confirm his faith in the villainy of his Buenos Aires compatriots. I take the underground to the bus terminal and reserve a seat for tomorrow to Rio Gallegos.

THIEVING CAB DRIVERS

MONDAY, JULY 23
I go to the movies this evening. I take a cab back to the hotel. I don’t have sufficient change for the fare and pay with a 100-peso bill (3.3 pesos to the US dollar). I drop by the corner café, drink a beer and eat two empanadas. I pay with a 20-peso bill. The waiter catches me at the entrance to the hotel: the bill is a fake. All the bills the cabdriver gave me in change are counterfeit. A writer has an advantage over other folk: mishaps are good copy.

JAZZ FOR THE PRIVATE SCHOOL SET

FRIDAY, JULY 20
Travel guides report that NOTORIOUS is a jazz club. The club is at the rear of a high tek music store where shoppers sit at tables, sip coffee, wear head sets and scroll music on a screen. Entrance to the club is $7 with a minimum $12 table charge. I wear a Peruvian sweater, cargo pants and biker boots, reasonable gear for a jazz club and I don´t have anything else. This isn't the standard jazz club. This is jazz for a private-school, fur-coat clientele. Wear a sweater, make sure it´s cashmere; gold is essential though unobtrusive. Persperation is forbidden.
A snotty waitress tries sitting me at the bar. I take a table against the wall. A smoked salmon salad comes with slices of brie, different greens and walnuts - and shards of walnut shell.
The band is an all-white Brazilian trio (a black or brown face would be out of place). The trio play Portuguese weep music - music that needs to be played softly, that makes the listener lean forward to catch the notes. These musicians have discovered mikes. Even the drummer has a mike. The noise level is bearable from midway back in the music store.
Hey, pay no attention to what I write.
I´m a crotchity old man who wants his luggage.