We've officially marked 12 years of living in Argentina. Okay, so I didn't exactly throw a party or anything, but I've been reflecting a lot lately on what we've achieved since we moved here in 2012. Was coming here worth the hassle? Well, join me as I evaluate this decision that has seemingly left us financially unable to return home.
Let's rewind to 2009 when I was working for a New York company called Epiq Bankruptcy Solutions. After about two years of temping, I finally landed a temp-to-perm position at Epiq. This company handled all the bankruptcy paperwork for giants like Chrysler and Lehman Brothers. My role? Data entry for the daily claims we received. There was an overwhelming amount of work—so much so that the company had us, temps and full-timers alike, working from 11 am until 10 or 11 pm, Saturdays included. We were clocking close to 90 hours a week. But the upside of being worked to the bone was the time-and-a-half pay for overtime and company-paid dinners (up to $25 a night), plus a chauffeur to drive us home. The hours were brutal, but the pay and perks made it somewhat worthwhile. Eight months into my first year, I was hired full-time, which meant a pay raise and some limited benefits.
Then, a few months later, the claims we'd been feverishly entering started drying up. Suddenly, those fat paychecks barely covered our bills. And then, to add insult to injury, Epiq decided to lay off a large chunk of their workforce—myself included. The severance pay they gave us was a joke, barely two weeks' worth, and then New York taxes swooped in and took half of that. I was screwed, barely scraping by to cover rent and essentials. What little was left was spent on basic groceries like eggs and JELL-O packets. I'd never been in such a dire situation. I'd given my all to Epiq, only to be tossed aside like garbage. To be fair, they did this to other hardworking folks like me as well.
With our time and money running out, I hit up every temp agency I'd ever registered with, scrambling for another temp-to-perm gig. At first, all I found were meager assignments, many lasting only a day or a week. But money was money, and we needed it—especially with my husband in college full-time, needing funds for transportation and food.
By mid-2011, I landed a longer-term assignment at Bank of New York. My job was redacting client info from documents, scanning them, and filing the paperwork away. The pay was $12 an hour, no overtime, but it had two things Epiq didn't: a stunning city view from the cafeteria and no office drama. Epiq was a cesspool of personality clashes; at least Bank of New York wasn't that.
But even with this job, we barely scraped by in our shoebox apartment in the Bronx. Eventually, the assignment ended and I was relying on unemployment benefits, which sucked!
After months of failed attempts to land a decent-paying job, my husband and I made a tough call: we decided to move to Argentina.
It was my last choice. Though I was born there, my folks took me away when I was five. I grew up American, knew no other customs but those of the States. My husband was Puerto Rican by ancestry, but red, white and blue like me. What the hell were we going to do in Argentina, a place whose culture was starkly different from any American or Latin culture we knew in the States?
My parents had retired to Argentina in 2007, buying several properties with their US dollars. Buying a home with a few thousand dollars in Argentina was a cakewalk—thanks to the peso's devaluation.
So, when they offered us one of their homes, the pros were obvious:
- A mortgage-free home (still had to pay property taxes)
- Fully furnished (bonus!)
- Gay marriage was legal
- Argentines are eager to hire Americans
- Argentines adore Americans
- Argentina has the world's best economy
- President Kirchner wiped out all debt
Argentina seemed too good to be true, but we trusted my parents and set our plan into motion. When our lease ended, we moved in with my husband's aunt and uncle, saving up for the big move.
A lot went down during those final months. My husband graduated, we married, and packed our lives into four giant boxes and four pieces of luggage.
Then, departure day came.
Goodbyes were said, we boarded the plane, and waved goodbye to the US—seemingly forever.
Then mid-flight in, a pang hit my gut. Was this a warning? Had I screwed up? The old saying, "If it's too good to be true, it probably is," echoed in my mind.
But it was too late. I was onboard, committed to my decision.
I'd convinced myself Argentina was America with a Latin twist. But when I landed, I was reminded: this was nothing like the US. Roads and homes were rundown, shops scarce, and there were folks on horseback hauling goods.
Luckily, our new Argentine home was as promised—peaceful, free from the Bronx's usual raucous.
Finding work wasn't as easy as my mom promised. Weeks bled into months. Two years in and we still had no jobs. Freelance writing kept us afloat for several years, but we felt isolated in this foreign land.
We longed for friends, family, and the familiar fast-food joints and restaurants we used to frequent back home. In our host province of Cordoba, options were limited to Burger King, McDonald's, and at the time, Subway. We missed the variety of junk food, pizza and other dishes that we were accustomed to. For those wondering why we obsess over food from home, it's not just about the flavors (though that's part of it). It's about the cherished memories that certain restaurants, some of which have since closed down, evoke.
Over the years, we made trips to Buenos Aires, the Argentine capital that has a more Americanized vibe with its restaurants and atmosphere. This provided some relief from our homesickness for a while.
Meanwhile, on the job front, we ended up working for some real assholes who repeatedly took advantage of us. Our job hunt was a bust too—temp agencies down here didn't give a damn. Then Zach started teaching English, and I realized we could actually offer a service people here needed: English lessons from native speakers. The pay sucks, but at least we call the shots, set our hours, and don't answer to anyone.
However, while we've found more peace here financially, safety's a whole different story. The Argentine economy's tanked, and crime's shot up. My once-quiet neighborhood's crawling with thieves, eyeing up houses like ours for an easy score. They've tried breaking in, tampered with our gas meter, even vandalized our place. They also successfully stole shit from our house in 2016 that's irreplaceable.
Some folks say we shouldn't let fear rule our lives or force us to live like hermits. Yeah, well, losing our laptops isn't an option. We need them to make a living. Our budget's tight; replacing stuff isn't easy. We thought about alarms, but these crooks know how to disable them. House sitters? Forget it. They'd rob us blind too. So, we stick to ourselves—a bubble within Argentina. It's like living in a pocket universe of the U.S. like an embassy, minus the guards or diplomatic immunity.
Outside our door is Argentina, and we keep it that way. Trust has been shattered here in the past. We've had crappy experiences with other expats and locals. So, we've chosen isolation. It's kept us sane and shielded us from further letdowns and betrayals.
Sure, people tell us we complain too much. Others claim we blame others for our mess. But hell, we've done the best we can. Sometimes the right choice at the time turned out to be a clusterfuck. That's just life. But despite the bumps along the way, we've stuck together, found joy in our shows, movies, video games and damn good food!
So, heading back home—even for a visit—looks really bleak right now, especially with Argentina's economic mess. But we're survivors and we'll keep fighting to find peace and happiness in Argentina, come hell or high water.
