and the party don't stop till 8 in tha mornin...

At the risk of sounding like a complete lush, my second entry of this little blog must be centered on the subject which I know best at this juncture. And yep, you guessed it, that subject is ‘the good life,’ put in the words of Mr. Kanye West.

While writing an email today I was listing my agenda for this week and thinking back on the past week, when I realized that at the moment my life here is completely ludicrous. I’ve resigned myself to being unemployed until the middle of March, Spanish class is going strong, and we're in those last few beautiful weeks of summer. It’s the feeling of the middle of August in Atlanta or NYC: fall is bearing down upon you, but it isn’t depressing or annoying, it’s just a reason to stay out an extra hour every night. Although I’m in a new sultry February, let me tell you, sweatin ain’t too shabby down here in Buenos Aires.

Last weekend was headlined by a Saturday night filled with my first full blown Argentine roof-top party. It was reminiscent of parties in BK, but held together by a few key differences: the later starting time (I’ve been told you never arrive at an Argentine house party before 1:30-2am), the large amount of Spanish speakers, and once again, the stunning Argentines. The liquor and beer were flowing (not quite to American standards, however), a dope djay was spinning some type of vocal-less electronic beats gritty enough to boogie to, and good looking folks were everywhere. Things were getting beautifully hot and bothered until about 4am, when a neighbor cut the power to the pad. The lights went out, people started yelling and hugging, our host, Tigre, had candles lit all over the house within the blink of an eye, and the mayhem was controlled. Supposedly, this is a fairly normal way for an unhappy neighbor to stop a party…weird but effective.

But did that stop us? You guessed it again, NOPE. A smaller but dedicated troupe of about 15 of us strolled down the street to this amazing self-serve beer bar called Bellagamba. Jokes were cracked, raving declarations made, love confessed: diagnostic of the later stages of any good night. As the pale light of dawn began creeping in through the windows, the BA signal that it’s about time to wrap the night up, the crew began to disperse. It was the 4^th night in a row that I’d been told to go to bed by the rising sun. This ‘good life’ ain’t too shabby.