On Wednesday, March 25, we decided to chance an outing to the market. We hadn’t left the inn since we got here on Sunday. We needed the fresh air and a few vegetables aside from the green olives and pickled eggplant might cheer us, we thought.
We got two blocks away before the popo stopped us. Apparently, we are not doing a very good job of presenting as locals. The guard informed us the quarantine exception for getting groceries applied to only one person at a time. Oh, we said in Spanish. “Where are you from?” He questioned us. “Los Estados Unidos,” I responded, giddy with comprehension. I could tell, however, from the look on the guard’s face this answer was the equivalent to sporting a Hard Rock Café Wuhan t-shirt around town. So we told him we would just be scurrying right back to our inn. On the way back, I grabbed some pesos from Chef and panic purchased cauliflower and plums from a vegetable stand. Then we sprinted to the heavy door of exile.
Because we have the good WeeFee at our Argentinian inn and we are modern day pandemicans, we shared our happy hour with Her Royal Highness (for those of you new to PMP, Her Highness is our daughter, who used to be small but now is a grown ass woman so it is ok to have happy hour with her). During the happy hour chit chat, Chef tells HRH a little background about the airline that is our last best chance out of Argentina.
Apparently, Eastern Airlines had a thriving business in the 1920s and 30s, then went bankrupt in 1991, and re-constituted in January 2020. Shut up, you bastards, I am not making this up.
Eastern Airlines, believe it or not.
No es bueno!
Will there be an Episode 14?