Say hello to my little friend

Does this look like a drug mule to you? 

We casually mentioned to our server at the hotel one morning, that we hoped to find some good Dulce de Leche to take back to the States. The next day, she turned up at our table with a container. We tried to pay her, but she flatly refused. "I brought it from home. I have lots because I am a very fat girl," she said patting her flat-as-a-tortilla, size 0, Argentinean belly. 

We gushed with thanks, wrapped it in plastic, and stuck into a corner of our luggage for smuggling past U.S. customs. 

A day later when we were standing in the Buenos Aires airport, we noticed a line forming at a station where travelers were paying to have their luggage shrink-wrapped. We had already checked our bags -- shrink-wrap-free. 

"Oh that's just so people can't get into your bags to steal, say, an iPod," said the Continental attendant. 

"Or put anything IN your bags...like drugs," Jamie whispered to me as we walked away. But then his face went pale. "Maybe we should have done that."

(I wasn't buying it...He pressed on.)

"Didn't you see the documentary about that chick who's spending the rest of her life in an Indonesian prison because somebody put drugs in her bag?"

(OK...I got onboard.)

"Oh shit," I said. "The Dulce de Leche. She wouldn't let us pay. What if there are drugs in there." 

We continued with this crazy-ass paranoid talk until we were both convinced that hotel employees had stashed 14 kilos of cocaine in our bags, and that we'd never see our families again. What is it about airports that can guilt you into thinking you're a drug runner or full-blown terrorist? It's sort of like waiting for the results of an employee-mandated drug test. Suddenly you're convinced that the poppy seed dressing from a salad you ate six weeks ago is gonna keep you from getting the job. 

Turns out the Dulce de Leche was clean. Or at least the German Shepherd greeting us at Bush International in Houston didn't get a whiff as we skulked past him. But sadly, that container of Dulce de Leche in the refrigerator? Never been opened.

You know how you have that friend who's kind of a hippy and she throws really great dinner parties because she invites fascinating people and has great art on the walls and you get the feeling she just smoked a big bowl of weed because her house smells like patchouli and it might even be kind of dirty and the food's not really that great but you would totally go back because it's so damn interesting? 

That's exactly what it feel like having dinner at Trattoria Il Ballo de Mattone in Buenos Aires. It wasn't the best food I had on the trip, but I absolutely loved the vibe. 

Dinner music: 54-46 by Toots and the Maytals.

Happy graffiti

Not-so-happy graffiti

Le Bar

The New York Times recommended this place. The hotel staff did not. Why did we listen to The Times? Because the photography was good, that's why. 

Here's a hazy -- non-NYTimes shot -- of tapas and cocktails.

Dinner music (courtesy of Le Bar DJ): Scooby Snacks by Fun Lovin' Criminals and Roadhouse Blues by The Doors.

Knit, knit, purl, purl

And I thought I could knit.

These ladies were tearing it up at the market in San Telmo.

L'heure bleue en Buenos Aires

Named by the French for the innocent hour between daylight and dark. The blue hour. My favorite. 

Listening to: When the Blue Hour Comes by Joan Osborne

Follow that pot

When we set out for lunch at Providencia in the Palermo Hollywood neighborhood of Buenos Aires, the hotel staff warned us that the cafe had unpredictable hours. And there isn't really a sign -- just a big orange door that's sometimes painted green. (It was orange the day we went.) So I knocked...hard (following directions)...and a squaty woman wearing an apron opened the door speaking in urgent Spanish. She was holding a big steel pot. I tried to communicate that I'd like to eat something...por favor. She gestured for me to follow her, which I did, as we crossed the street -- pot in tow -- and headed down the road. She took us to another building, where inside it looked like we might be in a miniature restaurant with Alice in Wonderland chairs...or maybe just someone's apartment. 

Before we could speak, a woman delivered two cups of brown broth to our table. In a thriller film, this would be the part where we drink the random liquid, begin to feel drowsy, and wake up hours later in a bathtub of blood with our kidneys missing. Turns out these people were nice though. And their brown liquid was rich with cumin and coriander. When I tried to ask about the other spices, our server said, "Oh! Lots!" Clearly, I need to improve my Spanish. 

They also brought us warm brown bread and a ramekin of celery in a sweetened hot chili oil. I ordered El Potaje, literally The Soup with uneven hunks of sweet potato and zucchini and butter beans the size of chestnuts (adding to the Mad Hatter vibe) and a melty mound of queso nestled in the bottom of the bowl sort of like a topsy-turvy French onion soup. 

The staff -- if you could call them that because they seemed way too happy to be working -- chopped and stirred behind the counter and serenaded us in an ironic-bay-at-the-moon kind of way to Argentinean folk music. 

I couldn't tell you about Providencia, but Arevalito? My favorite meal in the city. 

Dinner music: Nada Mas by Atahualpa Yupanqui