If you Google “Argentina models” (or just “models”), you will see nothing better than what I see every day and night. It’s a parade of beautiful girls. As one guy told me, “It’s like they’ve discovered how to engineer hot girls here.” I’ve become so desensitized to it that the only girls I notice are the ones who really stand out—the ugly ones. It’s so brutal to be unattractive here that moving to Chile or the United States would be your only option.
Having a round, proportional ass is such a given that there is no need for me to check them out anymore. But I look anyway to see how nice it is. You know those cheesy beer commercials with the party of very pretty girls? It’s better than that. Very few girls are overweight and all of them—even the tomboys—have long long hair. The only women that have hair shorter than me are the rocker wannabes or women over 40, but even that is rare because apparently older women here believe is still looking like a woman. Maybe I’m overhyping things but it really is that much better than back home. When you ask someone how long they’ve been in town, the answer is usually three days. Here in Cordoba, Argentina I’ve gotten several answers approaching two months, and chances are you’ve never heard of Cordoba. Es increible.
Still, many have complained about how “tough” Argentine girls are, but I wonder if that is just beta-speak for, “They don’t approach me like the girls in Peru.” The girls here will not encourage you, will never approach, will not make any sort of eye contact, and will do everything in their power to make it seem like they don’t want to know you. It’s so bad that I’m confident the word unapproachable came from Argentina. But it’s just a front. Once you crack it, and it’s really not that difficult, you are home sweet home.
In Chile I was advised by a native in a club bathroom (not in a stall) to dump my bad Spanish and just open in English to be even more different and exotic. I go up to a group and say something in English or just, “You guys speak English, yes?” It opens better than anything else I’ve tried. In Argentina, depending on the club, it takes only a few approaches to get “in” with a group. It’s the same amount of work you’d have to put in a U.S. megaclub, but unlike the U.S. there are no morbidly obese or warpigs in the group. They’re all good. I tell the gameless gringos I meet here that that’s all they gotta do is speak English but even while drunk they are too scared to approach. They just stand there, getting drunk alone while bobbing their head to house music I know they don’t like, whining about how they can’t wait to get to Brazil. I often have to ditch them in the club because they just fuck things up.
On Saturday night I went to a club called Dorian Gray that surprisingly wasn’t gay. I started talking to three 8’s. Two of them were fraternal twins, with hair almost touching their ass, and all had bodies that would break my buddies necks back at home. I wished I brought my camera. It is very difficult for any reasonable man to choose between the three. While the problem is other countries is “Can I do better?”; the problem here is “Which one do I pick?”
Girls usually go out in large packs so the biggest problem is indeed the picking. When all of them are giving you an equal vibe and they are all on the same level, it’s hard to make a wise decision. If you pick poorly then it will be all for nothing because not only will the girl who liked you go cold because you didn’t pick her, but her friend will too since she knows her friend liked you. Argentine girls are too proud to be second best. So right now I’ve adopted a mediocre, passive strategy of not picking. I make progress on the group and just wait until one of them gives me a green light. Sometimes the green light comes late, but it always comes. With four girls iin Salta I didn’t know what was going on until one of them asked me to sit with her in the front of the cab at the end of the night. It’s so ambiguous that I’ve seriously contemplated just asking “So which one of you likes me the most?”
The club closed at 6AM so we hopped in a cab to the after-hours club called “The Poor Devil.” They wouldn’t let me pay the cab fare. Finally, after almost three hours, the green light comes: one of them grabs my hand and walks me to the bar. BOOYAKASHA! She buys me a drink and refuses to let me pay for it. And I do mean refuse—I picked up her to physically move her away from the bar but she still insisted. She’s a 22-year-old student. That sort of thing never happens to me at home. Maybe this is how Argentine girls are tough?
They walked me back to my hostel a few blocks away, but then the two other girls started hovering like helicopters. Isolate or die, or as a buddy of mine used to say, divide and conquer. Now the other sister is on me talking to me about hanging out. Are they just being friendly? But I’ve never held hands with a lady friend before. And why did she keep asking me how long I was staying in town? The sun is out now and I’m so exhausted I can’t think. Green light still looks good in the light. It’s 7AM but on the streets instead of seeing professionals in suits or storekeepers tending shop you got dozens of drunk guys singing and running on the streets playfully hitting on the girls milling around. It was bizarre.