Erika and I were dealt a disappointing blow today. Tío Aldo talked to Luis, Erika's dad, and told him that $570 was way too much money for a one bedroom apartment in Buenos Aires, even in Palermo, a barrio he said was very expensive anyway. All contradictions aside, Aldo is going to look for an apartment for us that's cheaper, which, to be honest, is quite rad of him. The question burning in our minds now is, when exactly? Though it's definitely better for a porteño to find an apartment for you than to try and figure it all out on the internet (the voice in my head, yelling "I'm industrious, I can figure this shit out on my own man"), the truth is that it was an enormous relief to have the apartment search out of the way. At least one less thing to think about. But no. No.
Of course the idea of each of us paying $285 dollars per month to live in the coolest neighborhood in Buenos Aires, within stalking distance to parks, vegetarian restaurants, and jaunty boutiques, shit, that is enough to make me salivate even now. I've never had enough money to live in SoHo, or Wicker Park, or Capital Hill back when I lived in New York, Chicago or Seattle, but finally, finally I thought our time had come to clean our dirty underwear with the rich and fabulous. But Aldo and Erika make great points--unfortunately, might I add--when they point out that we can live in a nice, and larger 1BR in a less trendy neighborhood that offers amenities galore with less hype, fewer neighbors with eating disorders, and equally great access to the Subte, parks, stylish restaurants, not to mention an apartment with pretty décor and maybe even something like a garden, or a storage room, or a double bed. It's true that the more money we save, the less we have to freak out, the easier it will be to take a trip to Brazil or Uruquay or Chile. But still, it hurts. It really does.