“Isn’t is precious? We got it for a song too. They were practically giving away real estate after the crisis in ’01. Come in, come in.” Tom beckons me from the foyer. The furniture is modern and sharp, and there’s a narrow terrace with a view of the Rio de la Plata. I’m not sure I deserve to stay somewhere so beautiful. “I’ve just made tea, would you like some?” I nod and follow him into the narrow, gleaming kitchen. He pours me a cup, and we sit for a moment. I feel a sudden wave of exhaustion so intense I could collapse on the spot.

“You know this neighborhood got its nickname because it’s meant to resemble SoHo in New York, but being from there I think that rather flatters New York. Maybe in its heyday. Anyway! This is the perfect neighborhood for a young person. The Argentines, they’re very enterprising, very resilient. After the crash, all of these little artisan boutiques started sprouting up around here, with people converting warehouses into galleries and showrooms. Dreadfully hip. When we first started visiting twenty years ago, this was a rather nothing part of town, but it’s undergone quite the renaissance.” He says the word with its full, flamboyant French pronunciation. “How were your travels, my dear?”

“Not too bad. Although they’ve lost my luggage. Or, rather, they sent it to São Paulo.”

“Oh dear. Aerolíneas, I presume? They always lose luggage.”

I nod. “Actually,” I continue, “I neglected to bring a change of clothes in my carry-on. Is there somewhere nearby I could go to pick up a few things?”

Tom sends me to a shopping mall, and just as I arrive there, a new wave of jet lag hits me hard. I feel adrift and disoriented. I’ve been all over the world, but it’s a blur of mountain resorts and ski slopes, with only the occasional brief trip to a capital city where I was surrounded by the considerable buffer of my teammates. Buenos Aires feels more foreign than I expected. I’ve overheard no English. I’m both panicked and relieved by this.

I skim the racks but can’t find anything in a 36D. All my adult life I’d been a sleek aerodynamic 34B. Being an athlete shielded me from some of the body anxiety that hounded other women my age. At just under six feet, my coaches were happy when I was between 165 and 170. Weight was just a number—like my resting heart rate, my CO2 levels, box jump reps—but now it’s another reason to loathe myself. After I stopped training, I packed on twenty pounds, giving me these never-before-seen knockers. I know I probably look fine, but I feel like the extra weight carries everything that happened, that it’s an outward sign that I’ll never again be what I once was.