A pretty, minuscule salesgirl appears at my elbow. “¿Necesitas ayuda?” I have to repeat myself twice to get across that I’m not finding anything in my size. My accent needs work. My conversations with Jorge have clearly given me misplaced confidence.

The salesgirl explains that they only carry B cups there. Later, I’ll wonder about this—do all women in Buenos Aires have the same size breasts?—but for now, I just feel dejected as the kind-eyed salesgirl directs me to a department store. There, in a bleary haze, I buy a granny bra I’ll never wear again, as well as a couple of sundresses, one of which I will later discover was meant to be a bathing suit cover-up. I was never one for fashion.

When I make it back to my apartment, I’m ravenous and exhausted. I order a trio of greasy empanadas from a bodega across the street, where two old men sit at a rickety table outside smoking and staring at me unabashedly. They’re not exactly leering, but I’m a sore thumb. I see—or perhaps just imagine—some hint of disappointment in their stares, like if the universe were going to cough up a blond foreigner into their midst, couldn’t it have done better than this?

The grease from my empanadas soaks through their little wax paper bag and the smell of them makes my stomach growl. I take the food and the strange, ugly clothes back to the apartment that’s mine for the next two weeks. Its spotlessness is a reproach to my grubbiness. There’s a laptop computer in the corner, which Tom told me I’m free to use. I log in and connect to the Wi-Fi. I have several e-mails from my parents. Call when you can, my dad writes, your mother is worried. I e-mail them back to tell them I’ve arrived and I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. If only.

I e-mail Gena the therapist to cancel my next several appointments. I’m taking a trip, I say, I’m in Buenos Aires and not sure how long I’m staying. I know it’s probably a terrible idea, but I needed to get away. I also tell Gena not to worry, though maybe it’s narcissistic to think she would.

I take a long shower and crawl into the plush bed naked; it’s 8:00 p.m. and I decide I can’t stay awake any longer. Despite how far away I am, the time difference is only three hours. I’ve dealt with much worse jet lag many times, and in those days I had to get up and compete the next day. Now, I have nothing to wake up for. I could sleep for a hundred years.