There was also the drama of the Brazilian Consulate. Now we knew at this point that we were going to be visiting the Grahams (who I stayed with in London) at their house in Brazil, where they live part of the year. As a UK citizen I didn't need a visa but for silly burocratic  reasons having to do with the stubbornness of the US government, Casey, as an American citizen, has to have a tourist visa. He had tried to get one in London but they had said it would be easier at the consulate in Buenos Aires. 
Everyone has dealt with difficult burocracies like this (think the DMV on steroids, with major governmental backing) and this was no exception. We  finally found the embassy, which was cleverly hidden, and ascended to the appropriate floor. After going through a very half hearted security check, we found ourselves in a room with several other people and no one at any of the 6 attending desks. Finally a large woman with a thicket of frizzled black hair came bustling out, accusative, as if we had interrupted her lunch break (hard to imagine at 9am). "whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?!?" she demanded, as if she honestly could not imagine why two travelers had come to the Visa Desk of the Brazilian Consulate. When we told her that we (duh) had come to ask about getting a visa she said nonononono (the wizard will not see you now) you have to make an appointment or come back on Monday VERY early in the morning. Then she shuffled away. We waited until finally she returned whatwhatwhatwhatwhat!?!? We asked, with gentile calmness, if we could make an appointment now. Nonononono do it on the website. We left, discouraged but not defeated. There was absolutely no possibility of making an appointment so we returned very early Monday. We had been planning to be there by 7:30 since the doors, said the website, opened at 8. But we slept through our alarm and arrived, very much still asleep despite having traveled the subway and walked several miles (the subway in BA is fairly limited so there are always long distances to walk even when you do ride it) at 8. I had had a dream the night before, a premonition, that if we wore nice clothes everything would go smoothly. So there we were, decked out in my wrinkled white shirt from my Europa capital days a rumpled gray shirt Casey had picked up in Spain. Our finest finery. We were ready to do gentlemanly battle with mrs. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. But as it turned out the doors did not open till 9 (which One has to suppose is the Brazilian definition of VERY early). So we sat outside and watched mournfully as a crowd of visa petitioners just like us began to arrive. Of the ten or so people outside the embassy, most of them American, not on made eye contact with another. We all knew that we were there for the same purpose and we all wanted to win. The air was thick with tension. Finally the doors opened and we all streamed forward aggressively. Casey then made a brilliant move, like a chess player forcing a check mate. He elegantly opened the door for a very impatient Mrs. Whatwhat, offering a gentlemanly smile and a warm good morning. She smiled, barely, and we sensed that we might have just won ten points. But that left us at the back of a long line. We crowded into the office and filed into the Visa Line. There were two very ominous American boys, maybe a few years older than us, but clearly with similar intentions (the bastards, how dare they go to brazil, We are going to brazil), who were extremely well dressed and carried intimidating manilla folders full of official 'documentation. Folders!! I though, Alas!! Casey meanwhile pulled out a very tattered brazil itinerary, a half
completed application form, and his ragged passport. I began to lose hope. They had folders! But then, the tides turned. The two Americans stood with Mrs. WWWW (WhatWhatWhatWhat!! she yelled at them repeatedly) and she demanded to know the phone number of their hostel. They turned around, forlorn, and asked if anyone in the room had a lonely planet guidebook. Oh yes, I responded, charming and benevolent, indeed I do believe it seems I do. Out the guidebook
came with a flourish and with that simple graceful gesture, all the tension in the room, at least on this side of the desk, was evaporated. We were all on the same team. All American, all travelers, boldly going where (according to mrs wwww petulant sense of surprise, no man had traveled before). We were all in this together, rebel fighters against the vast overwhelming powers of the Evil Embassy of Death. We smiled and joked and told DMV stories with the others in line and the room filled up with golden light. On the other side of the desk of course, it was all still stormclouds. The two Americans finally turned away, having failed utterly (losers!!! Take that!!!) and we stepped up to the desk. And before she could even say you know what (whatwhat) Casey played his ace, with all the suave, mysterious charm of a Casanova. How are you? He asked her. And she melted. It was clear that no one in her illustrious career (which had evidently gone on far too long) had ever asked her that question, certainly not as warmly and genuinely as Casey had done. She beamed back for 2/5 of a second and then her expression closed up and she responded stalwartly: fine. But we had broken through the storm clouds, released a tiny ray of sunlight. Now, instead of Demanding passports and documents, she simply asked for them. We couldn't help holding our breath as she stamped forms and flipped through papers. It actually looked like we were going to make it. But then she stopped and we realized, with a sinking feeling, that we had run into the same obstacle as the two Americans who had failed before us. She wanted our address and phone number in Brazil. Ok, I said brightly, and then wondered what the hell
I was going to write. I didn't know the Grahams address so I scribbled down as many words as I could remember, the region, nearby town, name of family. As an afterthought, I also put down my dads phone number, sure that even if they did call him, he would cover for us. Meanwhile, mrs. Ww had escaped behind the screen into the staff area, where she always eagerly ran off whenever there was the slightest pause in the proceedings. Though she was under the pretext of doing official business, it was easy to imagine she was just escaping for coffee and gossip. She returned, skimmed over what I had written, and looked deeply dissatisfied. She looked up at us, and her eyes narrowed. Bring more information tomorrow, just in case. And go settle the payment at the bank. To our incredulous excitement, the slip she handed us said "visa pickup tomorrow 12:00." We had done it. 
The visa itself, of course, looks beautiful, elegantly adorning Casey's Passport. Sweet victory.