Wednesday, March 11, 2026 – San Telmo, Buenos Aires
Today is Wednesday, and we’re once again riding an Argentine bus back to our lodging at Defensa 814 in the heart of San Telmo. The public transport system here is straightforward: you preload a SUBE card with money, tap it on the reader when you board, find a seat (or stand), and just signal the driver when you’re ready to get off—he glances back occasionally to catch the cue.
In our group, Leo from Austria is pretty much the only one who actually knows where we’re going. Today he shared this hilarious story: apparently, at Vienna Airport (or maybe Salzburg—either way, it’s become a running joke), there’s this viral myth about a special waiting area or help desk for tourists who land in Austria thinking they’ve arrived in Australia.
He says the mix-up happens just often enough that people love repeating the tale, even though the airports have repeatedly denied it exists—it’s more of an internet legend fueled by the similar names.
So I couldn’t resist: “Wait, Leo… do you guys have kangaroos hopping around Austria too?” He just grinned. I grinned back. We both cracked up.
(And yeah, for the record, no kangaroos in Austria—just plenty of confused travelers and good laughs.)
So I asked Leo if they had kangaroos in Austria; he smiled. I smiled. We both chuckled a bit.
Earlier this morning, we were at a different spot teaching English to kids. This location felt a bit more modern, with a half-painted regular church nearby adding some character to the scene.
Let me know which of the two pictures you like best. I just couldn’t help myself to take this picture watching this little girl looking up at Jesus Christ.
We started the class with a lively group of 6- to 9-year-olds, splitting them into two smaller groups to keep things manageable. Then came a second, even smaller session with 6- to 7-year-olds—about an hour each. Whenever they started to settle down, I’d get them energized again with quick games: frisbee tosses, soccer kicks, anything to keep the energy up. We drilled numbers, colors, and animals through play. My partner Jack ran a fun animal-themed bingo game, and the teacher Lia blasted catchy English-learning songs from my JBL speaker. The kids lit up instantly—music really bridges the gap.
I’m hauling a Trader Joe’s bag stuffed with training goodies (and a few inflated soccer balls earlier). Lia the English teacher asked me to carry it since she’s biking tomorrow to a new area, so plans changed—no leaving it behind today.
On the way, I gave away three of those soccer balls. First, to a guy recycling cardboard boxes on the street—he looked like someone who could resell or use it, and he accepted gratefully. Next, at the bus stop, a kid was waiting in line with his mom and grandmother. I asked the mom if it was okay to give the ball to her son; she smiled warmly and said yes. Their faces lit up—they were so thankful. I also tried offering one to a firefighter (his shirt read “Bombero Ambato”), but he politely declined, even when I asked if he had kids. No worries.
While waiting in the shade near some street vendors, I bought a few things. One vendor sold ground herbs for all sorts of remedies—I picked up 32 pre-packaged packets of moringa (sometimes called moringa or “the miracle tree” in Africa). You brew them into a potent tea known for its nutritional boost.
The other purchase was a cannabis-based topical salve for pain relief. The packaging prominently features marijuana leaves, but inside it’s a green ointment that reminds me of Bengay. I’ve been dealing with plantar fasciitis in my left foot, so I applied some right away. It’s already feeling a bit better—whether placebo or not, I’ll take it.
We finally got off the bus and walked the rest of the way. Not many homeless people around—I’ve only seen a handful in three days. I spotted one more opportunity and gently tossed the last soccer ball to a skinny guy sleeping on the sidewalk, eyes bloodshot. I said, “Hey, take the ball—you can sell it if you want.” He woke up surprised, then happy. It felt good to brighten his day, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
Now we’re at La Casa San Telmo, the same spot I brought the boys to for lunch yesterday. It’s famous locally as the cheapest place with the best food. I ordered a hearty lentil stew with beef (kind of like a Spanish-style lentejas con carne), served with three small biscuits and a sprinkle of powdered cheese on the side as a free appetizer. Paired it with an ice-cold Fanta. The place is air-conditioned bliss—I’ve been sweating buckets from the humidity all morning, and I’m still not fully adjusted.
The stew was delicious, comforting, and perfectly seasoned. Total bill: 18,000 pesos. I gave 20,000 and told the waiter to keep the change. For context, that’s cheaper than an In-N-Out combo back home—and way more satisfying.
On the walk back, I passed a bakery and grabbed some pastries. Breakfast here has been pretty bland: plain scrambled eggs (no pepper, no sauces), super-strong coffee that I dilute with hot milk or water (and sometimes reheat in the microwave). So tomorrow, I’m bringing these croissants—or really, more like Spanish-style pastries topped with chocolate and colorful sprinkles—for the first 12 people who show up. It’ll be a nice upgrade.
I’m usually the early riser (along with Pachi), getting to breakfast first while the cheese-maker scrambles eggs and brews coffee. Sleep has been rough two nights in a row—groups nearby are noisy until late (around 2 a.m. before I crash), and I can’t even tell what language they’re speaking. My workaround: YouTube sleep music with a one-hour timer.
Food overall has been fantastic. Last night, after the San Telmo market didn’t grab me, I stepped out and found a restaurant called Sigon Pho. I ended up enjoying homemade noodles—it looked pretty authentic. It was a bit pricier than normal Vietnamese food, but it hit the spot.
What a full, rewarding day—teaching, giving, eating, and soaking in the city. Excited for tomorrow’s new spot.
…Tomorrow I’ll bring those chocolate-sprinkled pastries for the first dozen kids (or teachers) who show up early. A tiny upgrade to a usually plain breakfast. Small gestures, but they stack up.
The day winds down now—feet still tingling from the salve, belly full of lentejas, mind buzzing from laughter and soccer balls handed off like little sparks. Three days in Buenos Aires and already the city feels less like a place I’m visiting and more like one that’s quietly claiming pieces of me: the kids’ wide eyes when the music hits, the grandmother’s warm nod at the bus stop, the surprised grin of the guy who woke up to a free ball on the sidewalk.
This isn’t some grand volunteer-hero arc. It’s just showing up, staying open, saying yes to the small openings life throws at you. A soccer ball here, a packet of moringa there, a shared song, an extra 2,000 pesos left as tip. Nothing changes the world. Everything changes a moment.
And that’s enough.
Because if you want a life that feels alive—that burns steady in your chest and settles deep in your bones—you don’t wait for permission. You step into the humid air, hand over the ball, order the stew, play the silly bingo game, and keep walking. You take it. Day by day. Right here, right now, in the middle of whatever ordinary, beautiful chaos the afternoon hands you.
That’s how the fire stays lit.
Rafael (Ralph) 3/11/2026
Trawlercat Chronicles 