Aerolineas Argentinas Blows Goats

Buenos Aires, we need to talk.

Here's the thing: you know I love you, right? I mean, I've told you that plenty of times. I mean, I love your architecture, your neighbourhoods, and your parks. I love only paying you ARS$1.10 for a subway ride. I love hanging out at your antiques fair in San Telmo on Sundays. I love your Bomba de Tiempo shows every Monday. I love your restaurants and cafés. And your food. God, your food. I will hold a lifelong debt to you for teaching me that it is indeed possible to eat steak for seven days in a row — sometimes more than once a day.

I've said, on more than one occasion, that were I to find a job here paying above seventy percent of my last salary, I would seriously consider making a longer-term commitment to you. A little loft in San Telmo. A good bicycle. Courses to improve my Spanish. We could make it work.

However, until then, you have to let me depart. Because absence makes the heart grow fonder. And because you know that the true test of love is to let me go; to see if I'll come back. You know I'll be back; I mean, I've already come back twice, haven't I?

But I'll never be able return if I can't get out in the first place.

So, you need to go have a little chat with your national airline, and tell it to get off its ass and finally get me the Hell to New Zealand. Because while the first eleven-day delay was kind of cute, getting my flight times changed around at the last minute is starting to get really fucking old.

I should be on the plane right now, climbing to cruising altitude somewhere over Buenos Aires province, or maybe La Pampa. Instead, I'm still sitting in the common room of my hostel in Buenos Aires, at half-past three in the morning, with no chance at sleep because I checked out of my dorm at eleven o'clock yesterday morning. All this because Aerolineas Argentinas delayed the departure of my flight until 9:15am.

I suppose I should be glad that I found out about the delay — a mere ten minutes — before I was supposed to leave for the airport. If I was going to be sitting somewhere for an extra seven hours, I'd rather it be on a couch, near power outlets, with free Wi-Fi. Trying to sleep on uncomfortable Ezieza Terminal Two departure lounge seats would have sucked. I mean, I turned thirty-three yesterday, and I'm getting too old to be doing that shit if I don't have to.

In my search for a bright side, I should note that by staying up all night like this, I might adjust quicker to the sixteen-hour time difference between Argentina and New Zealand. At 9:15am Buenos Aires time, it will be 1:15am in Auckland. I should have no problem falling asleep as soon as I'm on the plane, unless I'm seated next to a gigantic fat man or a screaming baby.

Of course, given past experience, I'm not willing to believe I'm getting to New Zealand until that plane is in the air and has left Argentine airspace.

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1. New Zealand Will Have to Wait