On my first day, I walked into the classroom and saw this kid sitting in the back row laughing.

He looked at me from across the classroom and began waving for me to come over and sit next to him. He must have heard that I was from America. From the looks of the kid, I had a feeling that sitting next to him might lead to trouble. I didn’t know what to do.

There I was standing in front of a full classroom, the teacher not in the room yet. These were my very first moments ever at a school in Argentina—everything around me seemed so strange. I had to make a decision. I welcomed his invitation and took my seat. His name was Sergio, and he later became my best friend throughout the rest of my time in high school.

My school, Instituto Ricardo Rojas, was located in a tranquil, sunny suburban neighborhood called Cerro de las Rosas, which means Hill of Roses. It was surrounded by beautiful homes all in a row, with flower gardens, orange and grapefruit trees blossoming, the type of homes that you might see in Italy.

As my first day of class was underway, I was looking out the classroom window next to my desk, and I could see a house that had metal shutters with bullet holes in them. The houses surrounding it were all lovely homes with cars parked in the driveways; you could tell families lived in them. But this one house had bullet holes in the shutters.

Using my broken Spanish and hand gestures, I asked Sergio, "Why does that house have those bullet holes?"

"Well, a few years back, there was this girl with a machine gun in the house who would not surrender to the police, so there was a standoff. The girl was a university student, and part of the communist guerrilla movement blowing things up and trying to take over the country," Sergio explained.

"A university student?" I asked.

"Yes, and her dad was a doctor and well off," Sergio continued. "She had been holed up in her house with a machine gun and refused to surrender, so one day the military drove a tank up this street. She was shooting at them from that window up there, so they blew her away."

I couldn't believe what Sergio just recounted. He said it very matter-of-factly, unfazed.

Only 90 days earlier I had been in Darien, Connecticut, watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch."

"So how long ago did this happen?" I asked.

"Maybe two or three years ago."

"How come they haven't replaced the shutters by now?"

"Because no one lives there—it's empty."

"Well, why not?"

"After that happened, no relatives wanted to say they knew the girl or the family, or claim the property, for fear of being associated with the girl's guerrilla network and being "disappeared." It's been empty ever since."

I didn't know a soul in Buenos Aires, so I immediately called up Laura.

"Yanqui! What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were in Cordoba playing in a band with Fede?"

"Yeah, I was, but I got robbed."

"What?"

"Yeah, it's a long story, and then our drummer kicked me out of his apartment cause they had tied him and his sister up. He gave me like 5 minutes to throw everything into my suitcase and leave – he was screaming at me. He freaked out. No one would let me into their houses, except Fede. They all thought I was toxic, and they were all scared I was involved with something nefarious."

"You? That's hysterical. These Argentines are just nuts. Oh, I miss the States so much."

"You miss Miami and shopping."

"Yeah, that too," she said.

"Well, I'm glad you're here, so when are you going back?"

"I have 3 weeks to kill. I have no band, I'm stuck in Buenos Aires, I don't know a soul except you. And, I have zero plans."

"Yeah, you do. Tomorrow one of my girlfriends is having a party."

"Am I going to like her?"

"You leave her alone—besides, you wouldn't stand a chance; she's got a boyfriend."

"Okay, we'll see."

"Look, why don't you come by tomorrow at 11:00, and we'll all go together. Marcos is coming too. You haven't met my brother, have you?"

"No, I didn't even know you had a brother."

"Yes, you do. I've told you! You're just a space case."

"You have a brother?"

"Yes, and he's totally cool, and he's into new wave bands. You guys will get along so well. Oh, I'm so glad you called me—I'm dying for some excitement."

"Me too. I haven't spoken to anyone in English in like 4 months—it will be great to hang out."

"Come by my place at 11:00, okay?"

"Definitely. I’ll see you tomorrow!"

Viviana

Many apartments in Buenos Aires, especially in the older downtown area, were French-inspired and built in the early 1900s—many have French-styled open elevators—like small cages where you pull open folding metal doors to enter, and you can see the floors go by as you ascend.

Viviana and I, tipsy from the night, closed the elevator door behind us as we ascended the beautiful turn-of-the-century apartment building.

The elevator stopped on her floor, and we stepped out of the cage. The lights were dim as we walked down the narrow hallway of beautiful dark wood. The doorways were ornately carved in the Art Nouveau style. After months of hanging out, I was finally going to see where she lived as she let me into her apartment.

Looking around, I was impressed. "You have a beautiful apartment."

I felt transported back to Paris during the turn of the century. Old black-and-white photos of relatives were on the walls. She had antique furniture mixed with '70s mod pieces and a Persian rug. Plants were on windowsills and throughout the room.

"I like it. It belonged to my grandmother," she replied as she lit a couple of candles and sat down in an armchair. I sat on the couch across from her. She took out her rolling papers and started filling one with tobacco.

She was acting differently than she normally did when we were all out together. She was more serious. She stared at me with a slight smile, knowing she would be offering herself to me. She was just deciding when.

Viviana dressed in layers—she had the soul of a bohemian in 1920s Paris. She had the features of a Spaniard—dark hair and dark eyes like a flamenco dancer.

She went into the kitchen and came back with a dark brown bottle.

"What is it?" I asked.

She put down two small antique liquor glasses. "It's Madeira. It's like port—wine with brandy."

She had a Persian cat that slowly walked around us.

"My cat is checking you out, Yanqui. She wants to know if you are a good guy or a bad guy," she said, and then laughed a wonderfully seductive laugh.

She paused, taking a sip from her glass.

"I'm a Scorpio. Did you know Scorpios never forget?" She stared at me with a growing smile.

There was now complete silence in the room—it was the middle of the night.

She looked at me to see if I dared to approach her.