Boy: “Hey, Lori, what’s up?” came the lazy, muted voice over my cell phone.
Me: “Who is this?”
B: “Man, I knew you’d be like that.”
M: “Who are you trying to reach?”
B: “Lori. That’s messed up. I knew you’d do this.”
M: “What’s your name?”
B: “James. We hooked up at the club.”
M: “What club?”
B: unintelligible name
M: “James, I can’t understand you. Speak up. What do I look like?”
B: “You’re a short Filipino girl.”
M: “And how old am I?”
B: “23.”
M: “James, I’m a 40 year old white woman.”
B: “WHAT?”
M: “My purse was stolen the other night. I think you hooked up with the girl that stole my purse.”
B: “That’s seriously messed up.”
M: “I know. Sorry about that. But I don’t think I’m the one you want to talk to. I just replaced my phone today, so the phone she stole won’t work anymore.”
B: “That’s seriously wrong. I can help you find her.”
M: “How? You think her name is Lori and you think this is her phone number.”
B: “No, man, I was at your place this morning. We hooked up.”
M: “No, you were at her place. I was by myself this morning. Where does she live?”
B: “Downtown. I don’t know the street names, but I could find it again. I think.”
M: “James, any help you could give me to identify her, I would greatly appreciate. Thanks.”
B: “Later.”

While on a first date on Thursday evening, my purse was stolen. Not just my wallet, but my entire purse. Keys, cell phone, wallet, the works. When I realized this, my first thought was, “How am I going to get into my apartment?” I borrowed my date’s phone and called Emily at home, who has a spare set of my keys. It being very late, and her not recognizing the number, she didn’t answer, assuming it was a wrong number. I called her cell phone. It being late, she had it on vibrate, and did not hear it.

I turned to my date. “You could drive me home and I could site on the stairs and simply wait for someone to enter the building then follow them in. Then once I was in the building I could try to figure out how to break into my apartment.” Even as I said it, I realized how absurd it sounded. His look confirmed that.

“Just stay at my place,” he offered. I grimaced. “I normally don’t go home with guys on the first date.” He gave me another look. “This is kind of an unusual circumstance.” He laughed as he said, “And I won’t think any less of you in the morning.” I graciously accepted his offer.

The next morning, his cell phone rang before 7 am. It was Emily, having just gotten the messages I had desperately left the night before. She had my keys in hand, ready to meet me. We agreed to meet at her gym, which wasn’t too far from where I was staying. As he parked in front of the gym, Emily hopped in the car with my keys, laughing. “You’ll never believe what just happened,” she challenged me. “What?” I curiously asked. “I was leaving my house, with your keys in hand, I pulled the door closed and realized I had locked myself out!” We burst into giggles. The plan was for me to go to my home, then call a locksmith to meet her at her home after she finished her workout. Perfect plan.

I connected to the internet, then Googled “locksmith san francisco.” I noticed half of the numbers listed were out of order or disconnected – not a good sign. After several attempts, I got someone live on the line, gave her Emily’s address, cross streets, and summary of the situation.
Customer Service Chick: Please provide a phone number where Emily can be reached.
Me: Emily’s phone is in the house, the house of which Emily is locked out.
CSC: I can’t send a locksmith out unless I have a phone number where Emily can be reached.
M: Emily will be sitting outside; her phones are in the house; there is no phone outside. I can give you a phone number, but she won’t answer.
CSC: What’s the phone number of the laundromat?
M: What laundromat?
CSC: The laundromat where Emily can wait by a phone until the locksmith arrives.
M: But she’s in front of her house now. She’s not going anywhere. There’s no way I can get a message to her to tell her to go to the laundromat. She has no access to a phone.
CSC: I can’t send a locksmith out without a phone number where she will answer.
M: But she has no phone. She’s not going anywhere, she just needs a locksmith to open her door for her.
CSC: No phone number, no locksmith.

I hang up, amazed. I call another locksmith and explain the situation.
Me: Are you available now to work on her locks?
Locksmith: Yes – I can get there in 15-20 minutes.
M: Great. Do you need a phone number where she can be reached?
LS: You said she was locked out of her house – she wouldn’t be able to answer the phone, so why would I want a phone number?
M: Good point. Thank you.

And 15 minutes later, I am happily in my apartment getting ready for work; Emily is happily in her house getting ready for work. Happy Friday.

Little did I know that my usually uneventful trip from SFO to DEN would be so fact filled. The pilot enjoyed pointing out geographical points of interest throughout the 2 hour trip. Sample here:

“To your right you’ll witness the Sierra mountains with a few snow capped peaks, a lovely sight to see.”

“We’re now flying over Yosemite Valley. Look to the right and try to find its most unique formation, Half Dome. It’s called that because it looks like a dome was sheared clear in half.”

“Now to our left you’ll see the Great Salt Flats. That’s where many speed records are set. Also take a look at the Great Salt Lake. No not that one. The one farther away, mostly white. Highest salt content in the world.”

“Now we’re crossing over Promontory. That’s where the Golden Spike was placed, joining the first transcontinental railroad in the world in the year 1869.”

“Look down to your right and you’ll see where the Colorado River meets the San Juan River. We’re also passing over Arches National Monument, and there’s Lake Powell, and now you can see the Canyon Lands. There all quite unique formations, very fun to see. If you get the chance, you should drive out here – it’s well worth it.”

But if I drove, I wouldn’t get the fabulous geography lesson…

Stunning.

The waiter cleared our plates at 10:30 pm, early by Argentinean standards. “Let’s check out the pub,” Stas encouraged.

Pub? Sleep? Pub? Sleep? I hadn’t had more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep since we arrived, and most of those were while on a bus or plane. After some persuasive convincing, I agreed to the pub. A few drinks later we began the 4 block walk home through the icy air. We were almost home when we heard the music.

Music! Live music! It seemed to be coming from the “Cabaret – El Gran Judas” which was right across the street from our hotel. “One more?” asked Stas. “Come on, let’s check it out.” Never one to turn down live music, I agreed.

As we walked through the door, the bouncer stopped me with a firm grip on my arm. “No Tomas.” I thought for a moment, realized I didn’t understand, so replied, “Repita, por favor. Mas despuescio.” His gaze went slowly from me, to Stas, then back to me. “No Tomas.” I shook my head. I still didn’t understand. Was there a cover charge? Was this a private club? He gave up on me and turned to Stas. “No Tomas,” he said firmly. Stas shook his head while saying, in English, “I don’t speak Spanish.”

“No wo-man,” replied the bouncer.

Aaahhh. No damas, he had been saying. How odd. There were women in the bar. Why wasn’t I allowed in? I began to protest, “Pero, alli…” Stas pulled me by the arm and ushered me outside.

“But, but, I don’t understand. Why couldn’t we go in? There were women in there.” Through hysterical gasps, Stas replied, “Did you see what they were wearing? That was a whore house – that’s why you weren’t allowed in…”

I can’t believe I’m 37 years old and sleeping in a bunk bed…

Our view from our hotel in Barriloche, Hosteria Wonderland.

During one of our many hot chocolate breaks, we shared a table with a father and his young son who were enjoying the fresh snow. Emily, the most fluent Spanish speaker of our group, spoke to them about where they were from (Buenos Aires), why they were there (family vacation, the wife had just had another baby), how long they would stay (a week) and their recent trip to Disney World. The rest of us continued our conversation, in English. The young boy, Paco, looked from the three of us speaking in English, laughing, back to Emily and his father talking, then to Emily, talking to us in English. After several minutes of this, he turned to his father. In Spanish, he asked, “How come I only understand when she (pointing to Emily) speaks?”

I walked into the bathroom to wash my face before dinner. I noticed Stas playing with the bidet. Before I could ask what he was doing, he turned to me, toothbrush in hand, spitting into the bidet. “It’s Old Faithful – here in Argentina!”

That’s exactly what it felt like. An indescribable amount of fresh powder. Slopes virtually to ourselves. Forests waiting exploration. Falling into infinite softness.