Whatever, Reader

Photo property of La Cumparsita Tango Bar Sunshine beams white through stripes of blue in the city of Buenos Aires, where airport staff commence year's end by hammering hand drums inside the terminal, where taxi drivers tile the car with dreams of race cars, family, Jesus, and—if you dig hard enough—nearly naked women, where your problem will never be someone else's problem, where you can't find dinner at 8 p.m. because it's still too early to open, where lane lines on the street only matter as much as the cop beside you.    Buenos Aires gushes like the falls of Iguazú above, like the Río de la Plata beside it. Whether tarnished, faded, or fraying, the flag is found on every corner, above groups of friends who sip mate together and pretend not to notice the Americano walking past them. T he birthplace of tango—dance's most pornographic form, where adroit hands delicately crawl and dance and flick along shoulders. A sudden flash of thigh disappears before an

This story can be purchased and downloaded from SmashWords here . I met Marzanna at a party intended to help foreigners make connections abroad. She was drinking at the bar with a man who appeared to be from Uruguay, though his nametag showed a flag of the United States. We shared stories of our experiences and impressions of Uruguay, drawing comparisons of the major differences between our homes and this South American variant of western ideology. Within minutes of conversation, I was introduced to a diverse array of Marzanna's ex-boyfriends. These included foreigners, millionaires, transsexuals, and pathological liars. The foremost of these was her late ex, who had died after 4 bed-ridden vegetative years. Marzanna had visited him every day until his unexpected exit. "I had to get away from there," she said, with a tone and demeanor reminiscent of what I felt upon leaving Utah. Like me, Marzanna had come to Uruguay seeking greener pastures - not because life would be