Between Meals: Turista

Tomorrow, I don my chef's outfit- black-and-white checkered pants and a GIANT white chef's coat (pictures to come)- and sharpen my knives.

But first, one more week as a turista. My cousin Wes and his girlfriend Colette came to visit. We did the tourist thang.

The adorable pair at Helena, a sickeningly cute Bay Area coffee shop- mismatched pillows!- transported to Palermo Soho.

The Jardín Botánico- where to go if you're hankering for a few dozen stray cats and dengue fever from the mosquitos.

According to my trusty guidebook- Time Out Buenos Aires- el Parque Tres de Febrero, which is reminescent of Central Park, transforms into a transvestite prostitute stomping ground at dark. I have yet to summon up the courage to prove or disprove this theory, but the white roses and gurgling fountains do provide a soothing atmosphere for love to work its magic.

As the guards closed the gates to el Cemetario de la Recoleta at dusk, we saw a woman cry and beg to be let in to see all the famous generals and politicians buried there. Ha, right. There is one draw and one draw only: Madonna's, I mean Evita's, grave.

Puerto Madero- an overhauled port- is Buenos Aires’ version of gentrification. I had heard it’s the place to stalk beautiful people, but all I saw were tourists, ships and this white, pointy thingStill, it’s a great area for a quiet stroll or a swanky meal on the water.

The Falklands War Memorial (the first person to explain what makes the Falklands worth fighting for wins a prize!) and sunbathers. Note to Argentinean government: that uniform looks pretty hot and itchy for the summertime.

TANGO! Colette tells me you're not supposed to take pictures at tango clubs because you might catch men looking deep into the eyes of women other than their wives. ¡Que barbaridad! So I surreptitiously took one of this fun guy, who had a one-man show that incorporated some krump elements.

Finally, the first in what I hope will be an ongoing series of quirky usages of English in advertisements here:

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