I am presently in my friend's fun little loft apartment in Palermo Hollywood. I love the mild late winter weather of Buenos Aires, but I'm going to take this moment while my friend sleeps (she wears ear plugs and is a bitch to try to wake up) to talk to the literary young men out there.
Dear literary young men,
What is the deal with Philip Roth? Every one of you is madly, truly, Savage Garden-ly in love with Philip Roth. Granted, I've only read the semi-crappy Plot Against America, so all the rest of his books might, together, be as blessedly wonderful as a hot bath after a long day of walking cobble stone streets... still, I wish one guy would say that he loved something less obvious. Arundhati Roy, for example, or Chimimanda Adichie. Raymond Queneau. Pat Barker. Geraldine Brooks. Hell, Charles Dickens would be more of a surprise than Roth (or Pynchon or Foster Wallace, for that matter). So, please, literary young men, broaden your horizons. Take a risk in your reading. Because, right now, you all sound the same.
Okay, with that done, I will say a few things about Buenos Aires. Dulce de leche is in everything. Everything. Also, there is almost as much helado here as there was in Italy. Argentinian men wear the most adorable, uncool sweaters, and it is incredibly sexy. Submarinos sound more indulgent and delicious than they are. The capital of Montenegro is Podgorica. Also, this seems to be the only place in the world where I have good fashion sense.
Will update later. Chau.