Please repeat that another six times, I have no idea what you're saying.

Last night was my second night working at a bar. Second night ever.

The place down the street where we watch fútbol americano was in need of some assistance. Summer plus holiday time means that a lot of the employees are leaving, so Patrick, the owner, needed some seasonal help. Enter me and Brent.

Last night I was waitressing, not only for the first time in my life, but also in Spanish. I surprised myself by doing okay, even though there was more than one customer somewhat irritated by my requests that they repeat what they said, as I tried to pretend that it was simply too loud to hear them. In my homeland experience in the service industry, I discovered that 98% of people are pretty cool, and 2% are assholes. Here, I'd say it's closer to 75% cool, 25% asshole, and not just because I have crappy Spanish, but because they walk in that way. That's just my assessment after one night. I'll let you know if further research and observation indicate otherwise.

The pay is abysmal, and only a few people leave tips, so it turns into a long night for not a lot of reward. But, it gives us something to do, and Patrick is a great guy so it's nice to be able to help out. On Sunday he's going to teach me how to bartend. I have a feeling this is going to take more than one day.

Change, please.

The other day, I bought a couple of lemons from the fruit and vegetable vendor down the street. "Seis pesos," el hombre me dijo, and I handed him a 10-peso bill and waited for my change. (Which, for those of you who do not know either math or how to say numbers in Spanish, should have been four pesos.)

He came back with a five and said that, since I was so pretty, the lemons would only be five pesos, after all.

Now, undoubtedly this is partly true, since I was wearing short shorts that day. However, I've been in Argentina long enough to realize that the main reason for the extra peso in my pocket was that the guy didn't have the proper change to give me.

This lack of small bills and coins -- in a country whose largest bill is worth about US$25 -- is epidemic. When you pay, you will almost always be asked for the exact change, or at least for a smaller bill. When you happen to give exact change, you will almost always be thanked for it. We've talked to business owners who have said that the hardest part of doing business in Argentina is that it's so hard to get your hands on change.

I once had to buy two more pesos worth of dried kiwi because la vendadora didn't have any combination of bills or coins to give me two pesos in change, so we had to round it to the nearest-sized bill I had. It's not unusual to wait -- and wait -- at the checkout at the grocery store, because the checkers don't keep enough change in the drawer and they have to beckon the woman who is in charge of small bills and coins to bring them some every time a person needs it. Brent realized that they are doing this on purpose, because having to wait 10 minutes for 50 cents inspires some people to just say "olvídalo" and walk out without their change, giving the damned Disco a little unearned profit. (We shop there as rarely as possible.)

It's so nice to take a class rather than teach it for a change.

We're a month into our membership at our second gym, and this one, I think, is a keeper. Despite its higher cost, we chose it due to its proximity to our apartment and its extensive group fitness schedule.

I've attended several classes with a variety of instructors in the morning and early afternoon. Although I'm not a big fan of the instructors not using a microphone in such a large room with such loud music, the classes are still easy to follow. The instructors don't tend to make a lot of individual corrections, but if someone is way off base, they make an effort to put him or her back on track. Eh, the fitness floor could use some refinishing, but otherwise I'm pretty impressed by what they're offering. In fact, fitness instructors and fitness goers at home could learn a thing or two:

1. So far, I've seen more male fitness instructors than female. At home, the vast majority of instructors are women. And women do a great job; I should know, as I am one. I'm just saying that it would be nice to see more male fitness enthusiasts stepping up, saying, "This is a valid way to exercise," and encouraging more men to attend classes.

2. The fitness instructors are in shape. Good shape. They could not be mistaken for a potential couch potato; it's obvious that fitness is a major part of their lives. At home...this is true about half the time. Walk the walk.

3. Classes end with a long stretch. At home, the final stretch usually gets squeezed into the last minute or two, and some participants leave before it's over. Which leads me to...

4. No one leaves early! The only time I've seen people leave early is when it's obvious they have to go somewhere -- they acknowledge and thank the instructor on the way out. And they often quit working out a few minutes before that and go stretch by themselves in the corner. At home, people will walk out -- in a huff -- if the class is not what they expected. Sometimes you have to do that, but you never have to be grumpy about it.

5. The only prechoreographed classes (classes designed by a company, which instructors get certified in and are required to teach exactly as they are) are from Les Mills (huge fitness organization, with challenging workouts). Everything else on the schedule is freestyle (planned by the instructor). And the classes are very well attended.

Wait, I had a BIRTHDAY!

I was so excited about celebrating my birthday that I forgot to write about it.

Brent was full of surprises, which I love, even though none of them included puppies. Flip flops, chocolate peppermint candy (not a JuniorMint, but possibly the closest thing you can get to it in this country), and coconut milk were only the beginning. He also took me to a tango show.

The funny thing about the tango, this iconic idea of Argentina, is that Argentines don't so much care for it. Oh, there are huge, beloved tango names scattered throughout history, you can find lots of lessons around town, and there are places you can go to tango the night away, but the dancing is really for the tourists. We love that stuff.

But even though every tango show in the city is performed with the turistas in mind, they are still awesome.

Brent did his research and chose a fantastic venue. Not only was the show incredibly impressive, it included a dinner that was as good as any regular restaurant. I even ate meat, since with the choices available it was either break the vegetarian streak or have pasta, which is never on my list of birthday favorites. Dessert beat the hell out of birthday cake (depending, of course, on the amount of frosting), but it was a bummer that both choices were made of lots and lots of milk, so that Brent couldn't have much of either one. Bummer. Big birthday bummer. (Fun fact: one of the desserts, flan with caramel sauce and caramel ice cream, included a slice of cheese and a slice of what must have been jam. A slice. Of jam.)

The highlight, however, was the tango lesson before the show.

In understanding the significance of this, it helps to know that Brent doesn't dance. Not because he can't -- I know he would do fine after a few of the salsa lessons I'm hoping for on my 30th birthday -- but because he considers it not fun, which I mock him about a little bit because I find it incredibly hard to understand. But, because I love him, I halfway respect this life choice and only try to talk him into dance lessons when the timing feels right.

And he arranged this evening for me knowing full well that he would have to learn dance steps for up to 45 minutes.

The tango lesson was awesome fun, though Brent assures me that it was a one-time birthday event.

I told him this, but I don't know if he believed me: this birthday was the best birthday I've had since Mom put chocolate dinosaurs on my cake. For real.