Ideally, they were to start pounding the pavement from the moment they landed, to establish a Buenos Aires Clubhouse explorer-style and quite empty-handed. But on the airport they got separated. The reason? Nobody has a clue of it! Arriving on different planes must have had something to do with it.

So, Frank went out in the wild to find his other and while looking around he encountered these three funny-looking brothers. “Who are you, who look oh so wise? Can you tell me why you come in this unaccustomed disguise?” “We are the three Gauchos that roam the land,” one answered. “And our dress is no gringo’s business, you understand?” “No insult intended, I beg your pardon, oh highest of Gauchos in this fairest of gardens. I am restlessly searching for my maiden and partner, in case you have seen her please name me your barter.” “No barter we take from Gringos in need, but help we can offer for no fee indeed. The honourable dame has shouldered her luggage and went to see a match of futból with a team that we think is rubbish.” “Follow this map, the stadium is quite suburban,” one of them said. “And make sure to wear this jersey so you won’t cause a disturbance,” his brother smirked. Quite thankful for receiving such generous counsel, Frank put on the jersey, consulted the map and bid farewell to the Gauchos.

Arriving at the stadium that had been circled on the map, Frank lucked out and found a wall with a gap. He slid in, an explorer in yellow-blue disguise, not foreseeing that his outfit wasn’t really all that wise. He spotted the stadium’s microphone which lay unattended, waited for the perfect chance when the fan’s chants ended, climbed in front of the stances from which he intended to call upon the masses with a message that was splendid:

“Oh mighty Boca fans please kindly listen to my call,
although most of you don’t know me at all.
I am missing my one and only partner in crime,
her name is Marcie and I pray that she’s fine.
If…”

Upon being addressed as the fans of their rival team, the masses erupted with an angry scream and unrolled little somethings – white, long and lean. (As you can see, it didn’t look clean) Ten thousand rolls of toiletry paper came flying down making Frank look like a draper. Too late the poor guy had deduced, what foul game those Gauchos had used. Clothed in the rival’s “Boca Juniors” gear, his demise in the “River” stadium would have been near, had he not – in a flash of life-saving reason – escaped his imminent lot, not to return till the end of next season. Will Frank ever reunite with his maiden fair? To find out you will have to wait in despair…

(…until the next e-newsletter.)