2.3 This Goes Out to You, Mrs. Rosa

plaza in Buenos Aires
{The peaceful Plaza de Mayo, which we didn't actually find until 2 days later.}

Every person on this bus is glaring at me. And its not because of the way I smell either. It's because apparently I think I'm so important that I get two seats on the bus. One for me and one for my backpack. But I can't lift it and I think I will be crushed under its weight if I hold it. I would rather walk the rest of the way to Buenos Aires if I have to deal with this angry couple staring, staring, staring at me. So I put the back pack on my lap. Redemptivly, it is taller and wider than I am, which blocks my face of shame all the way into the city.

Eli has a philosophy about traveling which forbids forward planning or even making note of addresses. I'm hoping his gut instinct says 'oh hey! this is where you get off' but so far no such luck. For fear of being in Chile before we figure out we've gone too far I'm going to attempt to get some directions.
"Con Permiso?" This means excuse me, which I know only because my middle school Spanish teacher, Mrs. Rosa, use to yell this at us when we got too loud or her slicked back pony tail braid got too tight.

"Nosotros estamos cerca de la Plaza de Mayo?". I am asking because according to the map Plaza de Mayo is kind of near where we are going.

"Si! [something something something I can't understand because this guy is talking so fast]. Mira por los numeros ocho-ciento."

I turn to Eli with a look that can only mean "what did he just say?". I'm horrible with numbers when they're in English. I can't even dial them correctly into a telephone. And in the coming weeks I will require a translation every time Eli and I check out at the grocery store.

"He said '800' "
The numbers on the buildings are currently in the 20,000's so Eli and I watch out the window as I look for the right block and he waits for a sign from the divine god of direction.


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