Nine Levels Down

“I’ve never been to a pool hall where they seat you,” I noted, marveling at the courtesy endemic to this country. The waiter shuffled tables together, lifted chairs and pulled them out for us. Did we want Quilmes, Quilmes or Quilmes? Within moments, all hard decisions behind us, liters of the national beer appeared before us, served up with plastic cups and an ashtray.

Finally — finally — I had arrived in Argentina.

Maybe it was the cumbia that sizzled between the pool tables, their hips telling no lies, or the couple pressed against the wall, oblivious to anything outside their single plastic chair. It could have been the muscle-bound guy casually pulling up his sleeves to display the thorns and serpents encircling his biceps. Or perhaps the mulleted fellow behind him, blatantly taking photos of certain American patrons with his cell phone camera.

Whatever the defining factor, this was clearly no tourist joint. No, Argentines frequent this grimy, hazy rincón when they’re looking for good, clean fun (provided their idea of “clean” has nothing to do with bathroom sanitation and/or well-scrubbed walls). There wasn’t an English speaker in sight, a rarity given the Argentine obsession with the lengua franca.

Like most evenings, it started innocently enough; this time, with a bottle of cider at a corner café. Entertainment proved in abundance, from the Argentine variety show flouncing across the TV to our perpetually confused waiter flustering over our requests. We declared that our only goal was to inhabit a true local hangout; no European expats or Midwestern college students allowed.

Some blocks into our quest, this marvel of conjugation came my way: “I am beautiful your eyes.” Startled, grammatically confused, yet nonetheless flattered, I acknowledged the benevolent Argentine, my entire being melting into a blue puddle on the sidewalk.

Still riding on that epic compliment, I looked up to see what had the potential to be our final destination. We were standing outside La Puerta del Infierno, where the jukebox blared AC/DC and a diabolical cloud of smoke bellowed out onto the street. Inside this dastardly domain, billiards was an art of triumph and seduction, bad hair was not a choice but a requirement, and toilet paper surfaced only if you packed it yourself. The pits of hell had never been so appealing.

For a while, we had the table to ourselves, and we pretended to fit in. We’re just like you guys, we thought. We drink our Quilmes in plastic cups, we argue about horse racing, we know how to speak the español. Yeah, right.

In reality, we were Exhibit Norteamericanus, hailing from Chicago and New York (how you say Iowa and North Dakota in Spanish), and as such, the object of much wonderment and ridicule. What are you doing here, their sidelong glances seemed to say. And, “Why did you come here?” their spoken inquiries most definitely did say. So we gave up on the whole “fitting in” thing. Like a man told me on the bus the other day, my American-ness is so obvious, “It’s like it’s written on my forehead.”

Foreheads tattooed, we spent the rest of the night speaking bad Spanish and guarding our eight digits as if they were all the Quilmes in the world. But our reputation spread fast, and before long the bartender was joking that the litres cost $15 pesos, a whopping three times the regular price, given our exclusive nationality. He didn’t act on his jest, though, and we emerged from our favorite little corner of hell monetarily unscathed. We may not have blended in as seamlessly as we’d hoped, but such is life as a blonde in South America.

But it turns out that being escorted to a table in a pool hall is the equivalent of valet parking at a Kum ‘N Go. Next time, I’ll plop myself down without a second thought.