"Migraine? What is that? English for 'needing to drink beer'?"

Such are my Israeli roomates, fresh from their required service in the national military, and eager to let loose upon the unsuspecting bar scene of South America. And even more eager to encourage me to paint the town red with them. Havi, the pot-bellied social ringleader, sports a Last of the Mohicans ponytail, has a penchant for wearing only Speedos, and recently received a stipend from his previous occupation of eight years at Israel's top fast food joint "Best Burger."

Oh yes, and he also happens to be the hot dog eating champion of Israel.

Just last night he sat me down to discuss his methods of consumption (weenie first, then bun, as the weenie--in his own words--contains "juice to suck up the bun"). It was a mixture of broken English and unconscious slips into Hebrew, and I find that I am now even speaking my own language in a more fractured style to accomodate my roommates.

The knowledge of American culture is rather astounding to me--even more so the obsession with the song "Hotel California"--and our room emits an ambience of Arabic techno (think incomprehensible wailing sung from the throat with a throbbing trance beat most likely created under the influence of an amphetamine), and John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Road."

I have fallen in with some local folk and an assorted mixture of expats that never fail to inspire. Yesterday we took a boat ride across the Rio Parana, where on the opposing island shirtless yokels wave from tin roofed shanties, and cattle graze freely along the waterfront. The water is a mucky brown, and regional lore is that swimming in the water causes genetic mutation, or at least transmit some sort of unknown, long since dormant STD.

"Do you know what is Funkytown?" I was asked by my friend Evangeline, a sort of social center of Rosario who manages to find all the expats around and take them on tours of local monuments and tourist magnets. "I have American friend from Florida, and all he talk about is Funkytown.

"Well, it's really more a state of mind," I said, pausing to ensure my answer was sufficient. "It's also halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco."

And still, the yacht rock/dental office waiting room tunes of Kenny Loggins, Michael McDonald and sounds that bring to mind going to a dinner party at an an oceanside taupe colored apartment that only has glass furniture and wine coolers, follow me to this day. Just this morning I saw a vintage T-shirt through the storefront window, the God rays of the sun sending only one beam of light through the clouds as if to point my eyes in its self consciously retro direction: "Choose Life."

"There is no party without the pork," Havi says to me. I have no idea what that means.

Peace and Wellness,

Phil