Next, I search Airbnb for a place to stay. I find an apartment in Palermo Soho—one of the nicer neighborhoods in the city, according to Google. My sensory memory of being in Buenos Aires is sharp and clear, but the details—where we stayed, what we visited—have all left me. It’s the feeling that’s indelible: of me before, of Blair, one of my oldest friends, coming into a new and sudden focus. I book the apartment for two weeks. The Internet has made everything so easy! I rarely booked my own travel before, and it’s weirdly thrilling. I’m giddy, ratcheting up toward hysteria. I’m going to sit here at this bleak, nondescript bar, drinking a cocktail that is both too sweet and too strong, and tap, tap, tap my way into another life. Maybe I should take some Spanish classes. Booked. Maybe I will get myself a little job, so I can stay as long as I want. I answer an ad on Craigslist for English-speaking tour guides. Is it really this easy to start a new life? Maybe it is; I’m high on the prospect. From here on out, I’m someone new. I’m Elizabeth Sullivan—my middle name paired with my mom’s maiden name—the fake name I use when I meet strangers in bars to throw them off the scent if they recognize me. Elizabeth? Liz. Liz Sullivan. Here I am.

As I’m landing in Buenos Aires in the late afternoon after the connecting flight from Lima, my luggage is arriving in São Paulo, Brazil. I don’t know this, of course, until I’ve been standing at the baggage claim carousel at Ministro Pistarini for what feels like an eternity. The two girls who sat next to me on the flight from Lima get their bags right away. They’re from LA—decked out in expensive workout gear, eyes hidden behind massive designer sunglasses—and they talked through the whole flight. Never to me, only to each other. They went through an extensive beauty routine en route, because you know being on a plane just murders your complexion. I’d hoped the wine they were drinking—complimentary on these international flights—might induce a nap, but it only made them louder. They were just so excited to be on their way to BA. WOOHOO! As they disappear into the terminal, I realize I could’ve just introduced myself. It would have been nice to know someone here. But off they go, and I remain, watching the luggage turn and turn until only a few solitary bags are left on the carousel. Who these lonely remaining bags belong to is a mystery; perhaps someone is currently waiting for them in São Paulo.