How to make a peso

The big silver tube fell from the sky like a few hundred thousand pounds of steel. Which, all at once, disrupts basic assumptions even if you thought you didn´t have them. Which is, of course, because it is a few hundred thousand pounds of steel, and yet doesn't fall out of the sky like a few hundred thousand pounds of steel at all. I digress. You didn't come here for this crap.

Before I forget, let's play a little game. The game is titled "If you read this post then send me an email that says 'I read this post.'" After all, while Google will tell me exactly how many times this page was seen every single day, it does not go so far as to reveal your identity. For all I know, my parents might be hitting refresh 27 times a day. Even if I have never met you, just throw me a once-sentence line.

Onwards.

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The big mass of steel dropped us out of the sky and as we fell, we were occupied mostly with thoughts of when the hell the pounding headaches the acres of booze we'd comsumed on our last night in Cape Town would dissipate. Plans to delve into my journal and forge meaningful reflections on time in africa suddenly collapsed into previously self-prohibited viewings of hollywoods greatest aboard a Malaysia Airlines flight nowhere near Hollywood. But, perhaps such is a fitting tribute to Africa. Four or five months on the continent, depending on where you begin, and some zillion countries (if you count countries) and some zillion zillion cultures (if you count cultures) and some zillion zillion zillion languages (if you count languages) and one humanity (if you count humanities). We checked off all the prerequisite boxes in the traveler community: from visa fiascos to long-haul bus rides with sacks on our heads, and we left with a more profound understanding of Africa than we ever would have imagined. It is not, necessarily, the correct understanding. But it is an understanding. And it is profound.

And through all that. Through the little tiny corners of the continent that the pictures on coffee table books would have you believe still dominate the depths of the darkest continent, and through the regularly bland cities and wildlife usually secluded to designated parks that really do dominate the continent, we left with one overarching conclusion. Africa left us with a hangover.

And we dropped from the sky to a land where I speak the language. A land where everyone speaks THE language. ONE language. As opposed, that is, to South Africa where there are somewhere around 10 OFFICIAL languages, so no one speaks THE language. Here, where we now find ourselves, we have been swirled into a more homogenous culture. Here, Spanish is the end all. And I'm stunned at how much I still speak.

We were prepared this time, though, for the wright brother's unnatural invention to swing its aluminum bat across our temples this time around. While the Turkish version of culture shock still shook to the very foundation, we were ready. We relaxed. We took deliberate days to accostom to urbanization and latinization - albeit the Argentinian version of Latinization which is about as Latin as Cape Town is African. We took deliberate nights to remove the jet lag - which, it turns out, is not a myth. Jet lag does indeed exist, but requires the appropriate ingredients:

Transatlantic flight.
Scotch.
Wine.
Beer.

Mix well.

And now we´re here. Fully, truly here. The New World, with its whole new meaning after the first visit to the very, very, very old world. The guidebooks have shifted now in their numerical data and years are now in the thousands from the millions. That is, "Evidence of human habitation dates back ... years. Asia - millions. Africa - millions. America...thousands. Low thousands. And it feels downright wonderful to be back on our home turf, where ancient roots turn to immigrant indifference and Indians no longer have anything to do with India. (It took an extraordinarily long time for me to figure out why there would be an "Indian Market" in Bolivia. Turns out, calling Native Americans Indians isn't wrong due to politcal incorrectness. It's wrong because to do so is simply idiotic.)

Anyhow, we settled in to Buenos Aires, which bears more resemblance to New York City or Chicago than to the San Jose or Quito that I know of Latin America. Culture here does not take the form of new ways of thinking. It does not take the form of Indian Train rides or African masks or various ways of dealing with poverty. Instead, Argentinian culture is in coffee shops, empanada stands, quality wines, fine dining, theaters, movies, and music.

But that's all fairly expensive. I need a few extra bucks.

And within three days of arriving on New World soil, I had a job. A waiting job in a restaurant where my rusty spanish didn't seem too big of a hindrance. Before I showed up for the interview, I was hired. And within three days of arriving on New World soil, we also had an apartment rented out.

Within four days of arriving on New World soil, I'd lost the job as the manager on day four decided legal status in the country was, after all, a prerequisite for work. And within four days of arriving on New World soil, the apartment fell through as the owner/roommate had cats to which I am allergic. "But they're not allowed in your room" she says as they continuously claw at the door to get into our room and take any momentary lapse in disciplined door-closing to nest in our bed. We packed up my scratchy throat and moved back into a nice privacy-less dorm in the city center.

I believe Bill Gates once wrote, "It is NOT below you to flip burgers." Mr. Gates, is it below me to sell brownies on the streets of Buenos Aires tax evasively, illegally, and for mere pennies?

From my first sale I was forbidden by a lack of appropriate change. From my next three posts, removed by the authorities. My mind wandered between thoughts of my own ridiculousness, my balance sheets (yup, balance sheets.), the value of my assets (two baking pans and some flour) and just how large a loss I'd probably make by the end of the day.

But the unimaginable happened - on the corner of Florida y Tucuman I befriended the billetilleros passing out fliers, and they went perserk. The flywheel moved a bit as one purchased a delicious treat. He spread the word, and others followed suit to the deliciousness. Girls came back for seconds. A man runs up, "I've been looking for you for hours!"

Thoughts morph from desolation to enjoyment. From daily losses to visions of profit. From quitting the ludicrous endeavor to how I'll change my ratty brown paper bag sighn to market myself better. To brand-building exercises. I could be "that brownie guy." "What do you want for desert?" "Let's wait for that brownie guy to come by." Hedgehogs, flywheels, clock-building.. is it possible that I learned more about business in one day selling brownies ont he streets of Buenos Aires than most do in a semester at Wharton?

Maybe.

Sobering stil is the thought that, with 50% return on investment, I still only made small change. Because, alas, 50% of one peso is only 15 US cents. I needed to make more brownies.

My newfound riches of day 1 were plunged into brownie materials, with costs now exceetding revenues, and plunging me back into debt. A seemingly prudent business move to bake two pans at once turned to a glitch of sorts as the lower oven rack proved unlevel - yielding burnt thin brownies on one end and thick under-cooked brownies on the other. Luckily, I learned from day one on entrepreneurship that if I tell people a brownie is burned, somebody will still want it, AND I get honesty points. Negative to positive. WHIZAM!

I set out for day two, and the slump hit. Maybe my sign was too nice (now on a cardboard box instead of ratty paper) and ruined the homemade alure. The big spenders of the day before had had their sugar fix for the week. So I did the unimaginable and left my Tucuman y Florida post for a slow stroll along the pedestrian mall. This, it seems, served me well in non-monetary terms. I saw tangos, the requisite robot-imitators, flamenco guitarists... And I sparked conversations with everyone who didn't know what a brownie was. Among other things, I discovered that all the people handing out flyers look darker and more lating because they ARE. Dubai's Pakistanis and Texas' Mexicans turn to Argentina's Peruians and Bolivians. They make between 1 and 5 pesos an hour, which makes my brownie operation seem like microsoft.

So I suppose day two was a success after all, even though I only sold 30 brownies. And so was day three, even though I only sold thirty more. Day four was less so, when I left the damn tin on top of my dorm-room locker to punish it for not marketing itself more effectively, and took the day to wander brownieless instead. So far day five isn't looking much more promising - especially since I released the secret and thus disappointed thoroughly the receptionist at the hostel, formerly a star customer. The secret: I am decidedly not a cook. I got the recipe on google.

And as if that isn't enough, of the profits I did make I spent a majority on a ticket last night to La Bohéme. Turns out, it's an opera....

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Remember - please send me an email! (mikemlane at gmail.com)