“But I thought camping was an American thing?” my roommate’s boyfriend said innocently a few days before. Our anticipations ran high before our trip. Should we go? After a long debate, we answered (in typical Argentine fashion) 2 hours before we were supposed to leave: of course. Where were we going? When? With whom? These were the questions we would have normally needed answered, but who needs details in Argentina? Okay, so we would be there, and Becca, and Marcello and Pia, and a ragtag bunch of their friends. And the facebook event said it would be at Dique El Cajon, whatever that meant. And we were supposed to go fishing — but we´re in Argentina, no one does what they are supposed to.
Armed with backpacks, sleeping bags (except for me, I had a musty blanket from my house here), layers upon layers, plates and silverware, tissues, snacks, and…
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