A Thrusday in the Life of Me.

     My phone twinkles its wind chime alarm and my hand hits it like a sledgehammer as I roll over and with blurry eyes attempt to make out the Spanish snooze button. Half an hour later it sounds again, then two minutes after that. I pull myself out of bed and trudge on into the kitchen, slip a piece of bread in the toaster, grab a yogurt out of the fridge and head back to my room to concoct a new combination of the same old clothes. I decide on something that probably involves boots and throw my notebooks, electronic dictionary, Guía T (bus map of Buenos Aires), phone, and wallet in by gray bag. I throw it over my shoulder as I grab my keys and head out the apartment door. I call the elevator and hit the timed switch for the hall light. The car jolts to a stop and I slide open the metal grate and the solid sliding door with a clatter, enter, and close them both behind me. For five floors I have no option but to inspect my appearance in the mirrors that cover all three solid walls of the elevator. Once again I slide open and close the doors, walk down the hall, insert and turn my flat golden key to the right, haul open the heavy door, and take a breath of the morning air of Buenos Aires. As I walk down the block to the right, I sift through the change in the key chain’s leather pouch until I find 1.25 worth of monedas. I stick the combination of metal in my right jean pocket and look up to see a glance of my number 29 bus jog down the street perpendicular to me. La *@#$ #@*$! As I near the corner, the smell of freshly baked media lunas (croissants but fluffier) over stimulates my olfactory senses, but my dreams of warm dough dissolve as I respond to Julian's (the doorman of the apartment building next to the bakery), "Hola Emi, ¿cómo andás?"

             I turn the corner and pass the huge random statue of Homer Simpson before crossing the street. I get to the end of the next block, wait for the light to change, cross Santa Fe Ave., turn to the left, and avoid any dog doo until I reach the bus stop. My arm fishes for my book in my bag and I continue the reading that I need to finish before my 10:00 class as I wait. and wait... and wait until the 29 decides to pick up some passengers. I dig out the coins from my pocket, step on to the bus, and tell the driver my faire. The bus lurches forward and I insert and reinsert the monedas into the ticket machine until swallows the coins and spits out a little piece of carbon paper. I move towards the back until an available handle, seat, or space against the handicap wall opens up. 35-40 minutes later I disembark and walk three blocks to a three-hour Spanish Language and Grammar course after which I cruise to the corner Parilla (Argentinean BBQ) where I order a quick, juicy, and hot off the grill Vacio Chico (steak sandwich). The Asador literally removes the meat from the grill, slices off what becomes the contents of my sandwich, and hugs it with a delicious roll.

            I walk 15 minutes to the Subte, which I ride for 20 minutes until it drops me off right in front of my apartment building. I enter the apartment, find my bed, and crash until I leave for a story writing workshop from 6-9 after which I hustle home, grab my tango shoes, and head to La Viruta, an underground dance hall for a lesson. And that concludes a Thursday in the life of Me.