The Argentinean Plot to Kill Me with Free Dogs

So Johnny and I took a little train ride up to Tigre today, which is outside the city and boasts an amusement park, which we did not visit, and a giant craft market, which we did. Upon typing the words "craft market" a fanny pack sprouted as if by the blackest of magic on my hip. Anyway, I was wandering around in kind of a retail haze after buying cheap earrings and things made out of sheep and then John said, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there are puppies over there." Yeah, nice work, Pastore. Not just puppies, a BASKET OF PUPPIES. That they were giving away for FREE. Why is Argentina trying to kill me? Sr. Waffles II, welcome to the dog pound in my heart.

On a non-dog related note, we went out Friday night with some friends of Ana, an Argentinean living in New York who had the unenviable task of trying to teach me Spanish before we came here. They were extremely great people and I hope we see them again. The experience also opened my eyes to a curious fact: while folks here do indeed, uh, rock it to the break of dawn - literally, the bars close as the sun comes up - they don't, for the most part, seem to get drunk. Walking home among clutches of revellers who, while boisterous, are not actually weaving or falling down is both weird and a bit shaming, to me, seeing as the only reason I never noticed nobody was drunk before is because I was too busy busting my knee on the sidewalk and trying not to walk into walls. Clearly, I am the sort of steady, responsible person who should be allowed to own a dog