Tobacco

Twenty hours on a plane, all in. It’s a good opportunity to quit they said, and they were right. Another opportunity I didn’t take. Instead I spin out in the manner of a fourteen year old taking his first toke outside Buenos Aires airport fending off over-zealous taxi drivers with bad spanish.

I keep forgetting I am on the other side of the world. I’ve yet to observe the light encroaching into the evenings rather than receding – though I know it’s the onset of spring from the fiestas of Saturday evening. Its cold, a lot colder than I expected and slightly overfamiliar. Its very Europeaness belies its geographical remoteness – its not a new thing to say I know, but it is felt – uncannily felt.

Rolling tobacco is sold here, but clearly not often. It collects dust on the shelves of the Kiosks. The Argentinians disguise any curiousity they may have about you very well day to day – another European trait I guess. It does seem to attract their attention when I roll a cigarette though….its clearly associated with smoking pot and then presumably only in the dark corner of a club or in the privacy of one’s home. I think they take me for a disoriented or laissez faire Dutchman.