Title: Still Pissed Off, But the Coffee’s Good: Another Morning in San Telmo, Buenos Aires
I’m walking toward Pasaje 312 coffee shop. I just rounded the corner of Defensa at San Lorenzo, heading down maybe two-tenths of a mile to the single orange-umbrella table, then stepping inside. My favorite spot—the one that opens early. Perfect when you’ve barely slept.
I’m actually extremely angry and pissed off right now. Blood pressure’s probably sky-high. Last night around 2:30 a.m., I went over and started banging on the doors of those Ecuadorian students who’d started up late and kept going. I banged on their door and yelled in Spanish for them to shut up and lower their voices. This was at 2:30 a.m., and afterward I couldn’t get back to sleep.
They said “yes” through the door without opening it, but the noise continued for another half hour.
This morning when I woke up, I turned on my JBL speaker, put my iPhone on YouTube Music, and blasted Elvis: You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.
Then I kept going with rock ’n’ roll, cranked up high.
From there I slammed my door, banged on theirs again, and hit the doorbell buzzer. No response. I’m sure they’re sleeping it off—probably intentionally—but it was basically my way of getting their attention.
Hopefully I got it this time. If not, there’s going to be more hell to pay tomorrow morning.
OK, so I’ve had two zeros in a row. One was yesterday—the empanada class. Total waste of money, don’t know how else to put it. What set me off was that I brought my own bottle of wine and it was received without any problem at the door. But when we were making empanadas—normally that’s supposed to be a social event, literally the only reason you go to a class like that—you could find the recipe online and probably do a far better job than they did.
In essence, they refused to open my wine. They said if you want wine, you have to pay—meaning they’re selling $12 bottles. The three college-student guys and I, sitting at one end of the table, wouldn’t have had any problem paying. The guy immediately to my left is a Cuban from New York wearing a Rolex. The other two are from Ivy League schools, and I doubt they’d have minded paying either.
So it was more the principle we stood on. We figured one pour from my bottle would be sufficient for just us, and we’d undoubtedly order another bottle or two anyway.
The other end of the table had a couple from Tulsa, Oklahoma, with two young children and their Argentine au pair.
We said screw it, drank water, and pretty much walked out after the empanadas were cooked. We took a bite—they were so doughy we said the hell with it and went out to find a real place to eat. I’m now at three new friends. We had outstanding conversation, good food, good wine, good company. And just like that, my mood suddenly changed.
I forgot all about the earlier incidents—the loud Ecuadorian kids keeping me up all night and the empanada fiasco. The reason? Elduardo, the owner of the San Telmo bar/café, pretty much lifted my spirits.
We talked about everything from music to politics to how kids these days don’t even know the working end of a screwdriver.
I’m almost through a double espresso, a cappuccino, and a large cup, now starting on my second fresh croissant that just came out of the oven. I’m the only customer in the place, so he poured himself a coffee and a croissant, sat at one of the adjoining tables, and we’re having a wonderful conversation, just enjoying life in general.
Maybe 30 minutes later, the first actual customer besides me walks in. They’re both speaking Spanish. The guy might be a priest or something—I don’t know. He has a very prominent cross around his neck, a wooden one you don’t see every day.
When we spoke about music, we talked about the greats like Elvis Presley. One thing he pointed out: not only do the women watch how he dances, but the men do too. He had a style all his own, but he was also one of those involved with younger, underage women or girls. During his concerts, many of them were brought back to him and, well, they allowed him to have his way with them and so forth.
That kind of talk led us into politics—Epstein, and what would’ve happened if he’d talked instead of being murdered in jail.
Those are mostly my friend’s opinions, not necessarily mine, but we also covered the Kennedy assassination and various other topics he wanted to bring up. Anyway, he felt good about it. I felt good voicing my opinion. And so far it’s not even 8 o’clock in the morning.
The anger’s gone now. Sitting here with the coffee and the conversation, the whole thing is starting to feel smaller.
Buenos Aires does that sometimes—kicks you around, then hands you a perfect croissant like it’s apologizing.
If those Ecuadorian kids start up again tonight, I’ll let you know how round two goes. For now, though, the croissant is warm and the espresso is strong.
Ralph
San Telmo, March 2026
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