A few little differences between home and Argentina:
The sidewalks seem to be constantly under repair here. There’s a new construction crew every few feet.
The butter that comes with your bread is almost always flavored with something: thyme, sundried tomatoes, rosemary.
The women do more primping in the public bathrooms. You can be at a coffee shop at 11 a.m. and there’s always someone at the mirror re-applying lipstick and fluffing their hair.
Everyone thinks Hank is a girl. I know this because they’re forced to choose a sex for their adjectives, “Que hermosa! Que bonita!”
The red lights turn yellow before going back to green.
There’s lots of graffitti with messages to girlfriends. “Happy Anniversary! Manuela, I love you!”
Our bathroom has a bidet and two new brushes so we can scrub under our nails when we wash our hands.
In modern buildings, I keep shoving my hands under sinks expecting them to work automatically. They don’t.
Our cab from the airport smelled good, like tea, and they still play Milli Vanilli on the radio here.
People, completely sane strangers, stop to kiss the baby or touch his head.