I arrived at Buenos Aires airport late on a Monday evening. Armed with a visa card, a phrasebook, and a hastily printed receipt from the Hostel Estoril, I waddled with my backpack over to the shuttle bus service ¨Manuel Tienda Leon¨that had been suggested by the Hostel. My ¨¿Usted hablo Ingles?¨ was met with a short, sharp, ¨No¨ from the girl at the counter. So much for that. Finally getting some sleep was going to be harder than expected. Fortunately, a girl in her late 20´s heard me struggling offered to help. She had no idea what an ¨ATM¨, ¨cash machine¨, or ¨automatic teller machine¨ was, so I reached for my phrasebook. I could probably have acted out ¨ATM¨, by pushing pinched fingers forward, pressing invisible buttons, and collecting invisible notes after rubbing my hands together,
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