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.

3 bottles of Argentinean wine, 2 parties (both commencing after 2 am), 1 introduction to dulce de leche (the best sweet EVER), and 0 hours of sleep later, we were on our way to the airport, bound for the Patagonian mountains to snowboard for a few days. We were greeted by the largest snowstorm the area had seen in 10 years. Which meant being rerouted to another airport and a 4 hour bus ride, but it also meant fresh powder. Oh, yeah.

Argentina is famous for many things: tango, red wine, steak. It was the latter we were most looking forward as we sat down to lunch. The smell from the grill wafted towards us. We salivated reading the menu. We all ordered the same. Bife de chorizo. The tender, slightly fatty, incredibly delicious slab of meat, grilled to perfection.

Emily and I decided to split a salad, split a steak. The others ordered their own. The waiter brought theirs first, then two plates for Emily and me. He placed the platter with the steaming steak down on the table. With a soup spoon, he began to cut the beef in half. I quizzically looked across the table at Emily, I had never seen this before. She returned my look. We supressed snickers as the waiter continued his task, not without struggle. As he left, we noticed the Argentinean couple at the table next to us also staring in disbelief at the severed-by-a-spoon steak.

Despite the salon’s name, Cool Cuts, we scheduled hair appointments. Emily raved about the stylist she had when she was here last year. I was due for a trim, I was on vacation, why not?

We entered the salon, clientele jockeying for space in the small waiting area. Air kisses from the receptionist greeted us. He sashayed Emily off to the second floor and motioned for me to sit on a trendy ottoman. “Quieres cafe?” I smiled, shook my head no and began to read People, or its equivalent, in Spanish.

“Low-ree?” I glanced up. A barrage of unintelligible words greeted me. I smiled and followed. He sat me down in the chair, the kind that reclines to allow you to have your hear washed while sitting down. He arranged me just so, wrapping towels around my sweater. The water hit my head full force. “Ay! Que frio!” He stopped the steady stream of water long enough to offer an explanation I didn’t understand. He stopped speaking, I simply smiled and nodded.

It was then it hit me.

I didn’t know the proper Spanish vocabulary to explain how I wanted my hair cut. I could ask how to get to the library, instruct a taxi driver where to turn, order delicious food in a restaurant, but give guidance to a hair stylist? Hm.

With my peripheral vision, I glanced around. Emily, my translation savior, was no where to be seen. I racked my vocabulary. I could do this.

The hairwasher escorted me to the stylist. He, too, gave me a great shower of air kisses. “Buenos tardes! Que tal?” I smiled, offered my standard, “Bien, y tu?” and that’s where communication stopped, more or less. He made several comments, asked me several questions. I smiled, nodded, then when he finished, motioned to my hair. “El largo, lo mismo.” (the length, the same) “El mejor bella possible, por favor.” (the prettiest possible, please)

He looked at me, somewhat dumbstruck. Then picked up his scissors and began snipping, yanking, shaving, shearing. It wasn’t quite what I envisioned, but I wasn’t dissatisfied.

As I was admiring his work, Emily returned from upstairs. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Our haircuts, despite our instructions, were identical. Specialty of the house.

We rented an apartment from a friend of a friend of a friend. Maria, the apartment owner, showed us which keys worked where, the extra supply of towels, and how to transform the futon from couch to bed. After she left we showered, preparing to explore the town. Stas found the cd player and popped in some upbeat tunes. As we entered the living room we realized he had also found Maria’s kaleidoscope colored disco ball. Patches of red, blue, yellow, and green light washed over us. Let the vacation begin…

As we got off of the plane, sounds of Spanish washed over me. Memories of elementary school language classes flooded my mind. All I could remember, however, was “Donde esta la biblioteca?” (where is the library?) and “Que hora es?” (what time is it?) I hope I remember more. Otherwise this is going to be quite the boring trip.

“McLeese? Lori McLeese?” The flight attendant hovered in the aisle. I looked at him, eyebrows arched in acknowledgement. “Special meal, lowfat selection.” I accepted the tray he offered with curiosity.

“Lowfat?” sneered Stas. “What’s up with that?” I shrugged. The meal preference must have remained in my United profile leftover from those days when I traveled often; I did not remember making a special request for this journey. As I finished my meal, a good half hour later, Stas, sans food, turned to me. “So when to the regular fat people get to eat?”

The Great American Bagel Company, Old Dominion Brewery, and McDonald’s greeted us as we prepared for our 3 1/2 hour layover. A bagel sandwich, a few rounds of cocktails later, and we decided we should head to our gate. Stas insisted on getting coffee before the 11 hour redeye to Buenos Aires. We walked, and walked, and walked. A Starbucks loomed. We ordered our drinks and began the long walk back to C12. We arrived to the “all passengers for flight 847 should now be on board” announcement. I looked at my co-travelers. “This is starting to be a habit…”

“Food…” we all concurred, and with that ordered breakfast burritos, fruit cups, and fresh orange juice. We ate quickly, laughing, anticipating the adventure about to enwrap us. I glanced at the large red Satan-like numbers on the digital clock. “Hey! Our flight leaves in 20 minutes; let’s get going!” The others implored me to relax, not to be so uptight, we were on vacation, what’s the big deal?

As we arrived to the gate, there were no passengers in sight. The United gate agent, slightly perturbed by our lateness, inquired, “Were you on a connecting flight?” Emily and Stas looked away. I stammered, “No… there was a really long line at baggage check-in.” As we walked down the gangway I turned to my companions, smirking at my obvious lie.

“It’s true. There was a long line at baggage check-in. When we were there an hour ago. Before leisurely eating breakfast…” I giggled.