It seems inevitable that when I arrive too early to a Milonga, I end up wondering what the hell I am doing with my life.
But the Argentine bartender agreed that the wine was too expensive and gave me a discount.
And the one guy I picked out to dance with turned out to be a serious masseuse and fixed the insane tension in my back by digging his fingers into my psoas for three minutes on the pink velvet couch. The Europeans really do a good job with Milonga furniture.
Today I continuing with the project of being poor in an unenjoyably expensive city. Radiccio and bread salad.
“It’s not so bad”, the Swiss say, “we get paid more.”