Even the Trash Speaks My Name

I told everyone who reads this blog (which I think is now about 3 people, thangs, guys) that this blog would be about my heroic and intriguing ex-pat adventure in South America. So, here I am: Buenos Aires, Argentina.... The beef, the wine, the tango. Everything here is gorgeous. (I havent yet sampled the wine, beef or tango, but my travel guide tells me I'm in for a treat.) Anyway, I was looking for an apartment today with my sister. The appointment was at 6pm, so of course we had a coffee to wake up, and a little snack at about 5:50, then ran over to the place we wanted to see. We couldn't figure out the intercom system at the building, so we tried to sneak in when this old lady was coming out (who, by the way had lit a cigarette in the lobby whilst checking her mail) We tried to do a little switch-er-oo on her and keep the door open when she exited, but she had a little freak-out and yanked the door shut before we could go in, all the while shouting obscenities in spanish (they speak spanish here) at us. Finally, we got up to see the apartment. It's a nice little place in a very fashionable part of town called Palermo Hollywood. I can't believe I'm moving back to Hollywood. My sister and I think the place is amazing, however it is the only apartment we have seen in Buenos Aires. The price is right, the location is right, but can we be sure? We know nothing about this country, have no idea about prices, neighborhoods or anything. So, we left the apartment somewhat confused: it looks good, but what do we know? Suddenly (that's right, suddenly) My sister points out something odd: All the trashcans on the street of the apartment in question bear my own name, Nick, scrawled in grande Sharpie. This must be the place, yes, the trash speaks to me... We called they guy later in the day and took the apartment. It's perfect. We have a fold-out couch, by the way, so come on by.