Not a pumpkin pie

It's not actually pumpkin. It's butternut squash. But I like the word pumpkin better, so I'll keep calling it that.

Today Samantha and I went to eat lunch very late, because we took too long to do a worksheet with Emily in Plaza San Martín. How can anyone keep track of time there? It's too beautiful. Too many pretty people and bears. Guess who we found at the restaurant? Rose, Sabrina, and Whitney! Who among us is psychic?

I saw an enormous pumpkin pie (the savory kind) and my eyes grew just as enormous and I ordered it. But it was too much pumpkin even for me, even with Samantha's help. Next time I will conquer.

A mountain of us went to IUNA School of Movement because everyone who visits Argentina must learn tango. But I won't take lessons there, even though it is free there for IES students, because I do not like taking the subway very much. And six hours a week is time better spent on radio projects, taking pictures, browsing used book stores, etc.

The subway is too crowded, and you have to fight to get on and fight to get off, and it doesn't wait for you, and it's super-dangerous as far as getting robbed goes. I felt pretty silly wearing my backpack in front, but even men with backpacks look pregnant on the subte. It's much safer that way.

Rose and I picked up our laundry today. That's how they do it here--you drop it off one day and get it back the next, folded and smelling sweet. I want to find a place to do it myself, so I don't have to pay as much.

No pictures. It was a beaureaucratic day, and no one wants to see pictures of that.