The joke goes, I’m not a sex tourist, but I play one on vacation.
I’m in a cab in Buenos Aires, on business. The driver is a young kid with a shaved head and wire-rim glasses — not the typical paunch-bellied porteño cabbie. After a dinner of pork intestines and Quilmes beer, I’m just buzzed enough to forget that my girlfriend Kyona is sitting next to me. Before I know it, I’ve asked about the zona roja. The driver takes us around the block to a cobblestone street in Jorge Luis Borges’s old neighborhood. But tonight there are no transvestite hookers, just policemen at every corner. The driver offers to take us to the strip of actual niñas instead; he sounds like a waiter sorry to have run out of the house special.
-Nerve
