So it was Michael, along with the other travel weary passengers, touched down safely at the Ezeiza airport about a forty minute ride outside of downtown Buenos Aires. Michael was relieved and glad to be starting is life anew, as he exited the plane smiling at the wonderful staff who had taken care of him Michael said to himself 'Phase #2 complete'. All he need do now is get out of the terminal and hire an awaiting taxi. Of this Michael had no trouble as he breezed through customs and made his way down the escalator outside, where to his surprise he found it was a muggy 87 degrees, and sweltering. Michael quickly took off his long leather coat along with his cold weather accoutrement, for in leaving the frigid, bitter, North American Winter, here South of the Equator it was the middle of Summer. Of all his plans of emigrating to Argentina Michael had not factored in the weather and so he was most inappropriately dressed. Michael unbuttoned his suit jacket as he climbed into the back of a blissfully chilled taxi which had air conditioning.
"Donde, Senor?" the old Argentine driver asked.
Michael had been practicing a few phrases in Espanol on the plane, so he said confidently "Me llevara al Wilton hotel, por favor, Avenida da Calla." with a nod of is head the driver pulled away from the curb for the long drive north back to the city. This gave Michael a chance to take off his jacket and tie of which he crammed, along with his long coat into his carry on suitcase; which Michael would not let out of his sight. Trying to relax with an overwhelming excitement Michael watched as the sun set over the dark forests of cypress and pine trees, as the driver had a local radio station on, playing regional music that sounded a bit like country and western music, with a flamenco, folksy flair. The rhythms of the guitars help put Michael in a restful state of mind, and with a few longing, lingering thoughts of his hometown, Chicago, Michael was soon at a loss for words when they pulled up outside the city on the main highway. The city of Buenos Aires looked like Paris, or Vienna, among the newly fashioned, ultramodern sky scrapers in the massive city, there beside the vast and dark southern arm of the Atlantic Ocean, the centuries old buildings of European design were made of pink limestone and granite and were lit up by the fading sun in glowing coral and amethyst hues. Michael wondered what went on behind the giant carved wooden doors and wrought iron gates of some of the old palaces and homes of the former aristocracy of generations before. Michael had the overwhelming sense that the walls within the structures of this city, Buenos Aires, had many secrets to hide. Yet Michael had no idea whatsoever how right he could be. This city, in a strange way, reminded Michael of Chicago, in that it was a vast metropolitan area, with wooded parks and green spaces, with magnificent architecture, there beside a vast body of water, with a river running in an S, like snake, through the city, the Reachuelo, or 'Little River', this all helped to make Michael feel a bit less homesick, as this age old city seemed somehow familiar to him.
His driver drove Michael through the Plaza de la Republica, a sort of Piccadilly Square, where a massive obelisk nearly 220 feet tall, a smaller version of the Washington Monument, stood in the center of the plaza turnabout surrounded by theaters, neon signs, night clubs, and bars. His driver explained the obelisk was erected in 1936, and some other facts Michael did not catch as the driver spoke too quickly for Michael to decipher. As the light of the new day faded into night Michael soon found himself being driven through the Ricoletta District down the Avenida Callao past embassies, museums, art galleries, boutiques and the old French Style mansions; which surrounded his hotel, a welcoming sight for sore eyes and aching back. Michael gathered up his suitcase, paid his driver, he only wanted to lie down, in a comfortable bed, for he had been seated for almost fourteen hours and it was almost 9 o'clock as Michael checked into his five star, opulent hotel. He was greeted by the nice man at the desk, who spoke to him English when he realized his hotel guest was having trouble with the Spanish language. Michael was relieved when the desk manager explained, the 'Portenos', as the Argentines called themselves, were very knowledgeable in several languages, Italian, German, English, etc.. So he spoke to him English as Michael went ahead and paid the $1,200 in cash for his seven day stay, for Michael wanted to live it up for a week before he settled down somewhere else, in the city.
"I am very hungry and tired!" Michael said as he received his room key.
"If you would like dinner, after you freshen up from your long journey, the kitchen closes in one hour."
"Muchos Gracias." Michael said thinking he could take a quick shower and get a quick nap, then head back down to the restaurant for a late meal. However, when he laid down on the king size bed, after a long hot relaxing shower, Michael curled up under the soft silk sheets and closed his eyes for what was supposed to be twenty minute nap. Instead he woke up at 9:55 so he rushed to get dressed, throwing on a comfortable pair of jeans and a white v-neck, soft cotton, tee shirt and his Nike's, Michael hurried down the hall, taking the elevator back down to the lobby where he found the restaurant had closed and locked it's doors. With a sigh of distress he went to the concierge desk who informed him, this being a Tuesday, many of the shops and restaurants close early, as it is only Wednesdays, Thursdays, Friday's, and Saturday's when the city stays open until four a.m. Sunday through Tuesday is time to rest from all the drinking and tangoing. However the kind man did recommend Michael try a little authentic English Pub around the corner called, the Cock and Bull. So with a ravenous belly to contend with Michael left the hotel and wandered down to the old English style 'public house', where a sign hung out front; which had a painting of a red rooster sitting on the back of a black bull. Hoping for a sandwich or some fish and chips, Michael entered the bar. All was dark and quiet not a soul to be seen, no customers, no bartenders, no hostess, nor waitresses, nothing. They must have closed and forgot to lock up, he thought. Now suddenly as he turned to leave Michael heard a loud commotion coming from back in the kitchen, to his left. It sounded like a scuffle, heavy metal tables being dragged across the tile floor, then the sound of a struggle, when suddenly Michael heard a woman scream loudly, in a frightened, desperate tone, shouting in Spanish at her attacker. Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as an icy wave coursed through his veins, quickly he turned, running back into the kitchen to offer his assistance to the woman who was screaming at the top of her lungs. Michael did not know what he would find when he threw open the kitchen door, but he had an overwhelming urge to see what the fuck was going on. So he summoned up the courage of a lion and went to see who needed his help.
"Donde, Senor?" the old Argentine driver asked.
Michael had been practicing a few phrases in Espanol on the plane, so he said confidently "Me llevara al Wilton hotel, por favor, Avenida da Calla." with a nod of is head the driver pulled away from the curb for the long drive north back to the city. This gave Michael a chance to take off his jacket and tie of which he crammed, along with his long coat into his carry on suitcase; which Michael would not let out of his sight. Trying to relax with an overwhelming excitement Michael watched as the sun set over the dark forests of cypress and pine trees, as the driver had a local radio station on, playing regional music that sounded a bit like country and western music, with a flamenco, folksy flair. The rhythms of the guitars help put Michael in a restful state of mind, and with a few longing, lingering thoughts of his hometown, Chicago, Michael was soon at a loss for words when they pulled up outside the city on the main highway. The city of Buenos Aires looked like Paris, or Vienna, among the newly fashioned, ultramodern sky scrapers in the massive city, there beside the vast and dark southern arm of the Atlantic Ocean, the centuries old buildings of European design were made of pink limestone and granite and were lit up by the fading sun in glowing coral and amethyst hues. Michael wondered what went on behind the giant carved wooden doors and wrought iron gates of some of the old palaces and homes of the former aristocracy of generations before. Michael had the overwhelming sense that the walls within the structures of this city, Buenos Aires, had many secrets to hide. Yet Michael had no idea whatsoever how right he could be. This city, in a strange way, reminded Michael of Chicago, in that it was a vast metropolitan area, with wooded parks and green spaces, with magnificent architecture, there beside a vast body of water, with a river running in an S, like snake, through the city, the Reachuelo, or 'Little River', this all helped to make Michael feel a bit less homesick, as this age old city seemed somehow familiar to him.
His driver drove Michael through the Plaza de la Republica, a sort of Piccadilly Square, where a massive obelisk nearly 220 feet tall, a smaller version of the Washington Monument, stood in the center of the plaza turnabout surrounded by theaters, neon signs, night clubs, and bars. His driver explained the obelisk was erected in 1936, and some other facts Michael did not catch as the driver spoke too quickly for Michael to decipher. As the light of the new day faded into night Michael soon found himself being driven through the Ricoletta District down the Avenida Callao past embassies, museums, art galleries, boutiques and the old French Style mansions; which surrounded his hotel, a welcoming sight for sore eyes and aching back. Michael gathered up his suitcase, paid his driver, he only wanted to lie down, in a comfortable bed, for he had been seated for almost fourteen hours and it was almost 9 o'clock as Michael checked into his five star, opulent hotel. He was greeted by the nice man at the desk, who spoke to him English when he realized his hotel guest was having trouble with the Spanish language. Michael was relieved when the desk manager explained, the 'Portenos', as the Argentines called themselves, were very knowledgeable in several languages, Italian, German, English, etc.. So he spoke to him English as Michael went ahead and paid the $1,200 in cash for his seven day stay, for Michael wanted to live it up for a week before he settled down somewhere else, in the city.
"I am very hungry and tired!" Michael said as he received his room key.
"If you would like dinner, after you freshen up from your long journey, the kitchen closes in one hour."
"Muchos Gracias." Michael said thinking he could take a quick shower and get a quick nap, then head back down to the restaurant for a late meal. However, when he laid down on the king size bed, after a long hot relaxing shower, Michael curled up under the soft silk sheets and closed his eyes for what was supposed to be twenty minute nap. Instead he woke up at 9:55 so he rushed to get dressed, throwing on a comfortable pair of jeans and a white v-neck, soft cotton, tee shirt and his Nike's, Michael hurried down the hall, taking the elevator back down to the lobby where he found the restaurant had closed and locked it's doors. With a sigh of distress he went to the concierge desk who informed him, this being a Tuesday, many of the shops and restaurants close early, as it is only Wednesdays, Thursdays, Friday's, and Saturday's when the city stays open until four a.m. Sunday through Tuesday is time to rest from all the drinking and tangoing. However the kind man did recommend Michael try a little authentic English Pub around the corner called, the Cock and Bull. So with a ravenous belly to contend with Michael left the hotel and wandered down to the old English style 'public house', where a sign hung out front; which had a painting of a red rooster sitting on the back of a black bull. Hoping for a sandwich or some fish and chips, Michael entered the bar. All was dark and quiet not a soul to be seen, no customers, no bartenders, no hostess, nor waitresses, nothing. They must have closed and forgot to lock up, he thought. Now suddenly as he turned to leave Michael heard a loud commotion coming from back in the kitchen, to his left. It sounded like a scuffle, heavy metal tables being dragged across the tile floor, then the sound of a struggle, when suddenly Michael heard a woman scream loudly, in a frightened, desperate tone, shouting in Spanish at her attacker. Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as an icy wave coursed through his veins, quickly he turned, running back into the kitchen to offer his assistance to the woman who was screaming at the top of her lungs. Michael did not know what he would find when he threw open the kitchen door, but he had an overwhelming urge to see what the fuck was going on. So he summoned up the courage of a lion and went to see who needed his help.
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