When you travel for an extended period of time, there isn’t exactly a ton flexibility when it comes to bringing along a diverse wardrobe. A shirt here, a few shorts there, and a whole lot of underwear. When I left home 8 months ago I brought along a backpack and a single rolling suitcase.
Every month when it comes time to pack and unpack for a new location, I’ve thrown away or donated shirt or two, or a pair of socks that have gotten extra ratty. I also haven’t bought anything new during those 8 months. The only things I’ve acquired are some jean shorts that are a size too small, a Moroccan robe that, as it turns out, is pretty useless outside of Morocco, and multi-colored head buff that I’m fairly certain belonged to a previous female tenant at one of our apartments. I think it’s pretty safe to say that none of these things have improved my “going out” attire.
Not that my “going out” clothes are necessarily bad. I have a a pair of jeans and another pair of not-jeans-but-some-other-pants-that-I-don’t-know-what-they’re-called pants, plus about 5 or 6 of what I like to call “nice t-shirts” that I rotate through on a consistent basis. My life has to fit in a single bag under the ridiculously arbitrary 23KG airline limit, so I keep things pretty simple.
The Shirt
Fast forward 8 months and countless nights out in my “nice t-shirts” and we’re in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It’s a Friday night and there’s a nice birthday dinner scheduled for one of my friends. Now typically, I wouldn’t be one to dress up for something like this. But we were going to be heading out to a club afterwards and the dinner was at some fancy schmancy secret location. The best option I had in my arsenal was a wrinkled short-sleeve button down shirt that was a pocket protector and a mustard stain away from getting me stuffed in a high school locker. I just couldn’t bring myself to wear it for such a nice occasion, so instead consulted in our resident fashionista, Uncle Rich, for a clothes loan.
As it turns out, I think I would have been better off naked. Here’s where we landed…
Oh, you want a little closer look…? That’s right. It’s silk. And you’re right, those are palm trees… or dragonflies… or maybe dandelions. And yes, I am drinking red wine. I’m classy now.
The Effects of The Shirt
Not in ten million years would I buy this shirt for myself, but for one night it seemed like a pretty viable change of pace. And I will say, if you wear nothing but board shorts and flip flops and t-shirts for 8 months straight, when you finally throw on something like this you’re going to be catching some eyeballs.
The internal, “wow, I look like a douche” dialogue is quickly tucked away in the back of your brain and replaced with comments like:
“Ryan, is that a new shirt? You look good.”
or
“Wow, is it hot in here? Or is it just Argentina in the middle of summer?”
or
“The only thing that could make that shirt look any better would be if you weren’t wearing any pants.”
Suddenly, your confidence is brimming and this seems like maybe not such a terrible idea after all. But fear not, my friends, that inner-douche dialogue will come roaring back, and it’ll come roaring back with a vengeance.
3rd-Party Perspective on The Shirt
Dinner went off without a hitch. I was amongst friends, we shared some wine, we took some pictures that my future children will undoubtedly use as blackmail…
All in all, a major success. You go to a nightclub, however, and the shirt tells an entirely different story.
Some random guy we knew had gotten us VIP access and bottle service at a club to continue the birthday celebrations. The whole nine yards. Here I was standing against the railing of the VIP, bottle in hand, overlooking the plebeians down below. Not sure how you would say it in Spanish, but I imagine they would call me something like “Señor Douche.” It was only a matter of time before I got what was coming to me.
Silly, stupid American in a silly, stupid shirt
After a long night I headed for the exits around what ended up being a little after 6AM (Very similar to the Spanish 7AM Standard I wrote about earlier). The morning sunlight was especially jarring and sobering after a solid 4 hours in the club. Before I started my stumble home, I did the standard “Phone? Wallet? Keys?” pocket-tap check. Wallet and keys were good, but no phone. Poof! Gone.
Here’s what I think happened…
- Silly, stupid American wears silly, stupid shirt.
- Smart, savvy Argentinean sees silly, stupid American in silly, stupid shirt
- Silly, stupid American parades around VIP in silly, stupid shirt
- Smart, savvy Argentinean follows silly, stupid American leaving club in silly, stupid shirt
- Silly, stupid American is clueless of his surroundings in silly, stupid shirt
- Smart, savvy Argentinean steals silly, stupid American’s phone in his silly, stupid shirt
Andddddd scene.
The Shirt’s Inner-Douche Dialogue
Remember that inner-douche dialogue I was talking about earlier? The one that got tucked away by all the compliments that probably weren’t even compliments, but instead just gut reactions to the jarring nature of me wearing something besides a t-shirt?
Yeah, well, that comes ROARING back when you’re standing in a dirty side alley begging the Spanish-speaking bouncer to let you back in to look for your phone, while wearing the most ridiculous shirt imaginable as the sun comes up and you’re body is transitioning to hangover mode right before your very eyes. It’s a dark place. A dark, dark place. One I wouldn’t even wish upon my worst enemy.
My phone disappeared that fateful November morning. Gone into the Argentinean black market. Never to be seen again. I could blame it on carelessness or on the crowded club or on the alcohol, but I don’t.
I blame it on the shirt.
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Of course, this entire saga has reminded me of one of the greatest Seinfeld episodes of all time.