booty call

It is no secret that the famous Latin machismo is alive and well in Buenos Aires. In a lot of ways, men, both young and old, rule this city. They dine alone and in large groups, spend hours over beers, and love, but oh how they love women. It seems that men are trained from birth to admire women and admire them out loud.

It took some serious adjusting and constantly referring to my lunfardo dictionary to get used to being subject to a barrage of remarks in the city and to understand what was being said to me. Indeed the divorce rate is high in Argentina, and the infidelity rate even higher. Just the other day I was sitting in a locutorio as a middle-aged man was typing on an instant messenger to a scantily clad girl on a web cam while simultaneously assuring his wife at the other end of his cell phone that he would be home soon. How can you blame him? There’s just something about women that makes men do crazy things. Combine that with the springtime sun that will soon become oppressive, summertime swelter, and you have one hell of a horny city. Sex is big business here. Telos, or by-the-hour hotels are everywhere and range from seedy, back alley, dirt huts to Vegas-style masterpieces replete with vibrating beds and room service menus offering a variety of sex toys. Where else to take your lover when the wife is waiting for you at home?

I think booking my plane tickets home got me thinking about men and machismo in Buenos Aires. It is just luck that the Casa Rivadavia is beside the pancho stand where all the motorcyclists in Buenos Aires post up to drink beer and peep ass. I can barely get a foot out the door without an ay, mamita or mirá que cola or sos una bomba. It is so common to hear such things that I actually get offended these days if I don’t. Men indiscriminately holler, whistle, whisper, and whoop at women – young and old, fat and thin, gorgeous and missing teeth. The surprising thing is that it feels good and a great gauge these days for me to know when I absolutely, inarguably look like hell.

So I keep thinking about going back to Santa Barbara to visit in December, escaping the worst of miniskirt months in BA. I think about the men at the stores around the house and my neighbors who call me preciosa, linda, corazón, and querida. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, I think maybe my self-esteem jumped a point or two. It will be strange to go back to a more reserved plane and people; a place where really I am just another brown-haired fat girl. I miss my family and friends so much but when I finally pack it in here, it’s the little things that I will miss. I guess I am starting to come around on the machismo… that’s all I am saying.