First Day at Work: the Rookie

I get a taxi to work for my first morning, since I have literally no idea where I'm going. It takes about half an hour to get to the Microcentro, though I head to the wrong floor of my office and am knocking on a glass wall trying to get someone's attention before I realise I need to get the lift to the ninth floor, where the reception is located. Finally, my colleague lets me in and I find my new desk.

I help myself to the buffet breakfast in the office kitchen: sliced pineapple and strawberries, a sweet chocolate croissant and a cheese and ham croissant covered in a sweet, sugary glaze. I say croissants, but they're known here as media lunas, or half moons, and my dear colleague assures me they are not the same as croissants, though they quite obviously are. If I eat this amount of junk every day for breakfast, I'll be needing to run marathons every weekend!

It takes three hours to set up my desktop and get logged on at work - fortunately with the help of the friendly tech guy - so I can't say I do a lot of work this morning, but I guess that's allowed. A couple of emails have been sent around the office so everyone knows of my arrival, and various people come to my desk to introduce themselves. There are about 20 people in the office, and I know at least 12 of them already from my stint working in São Paulo, so it's not like getting to know a completely new workforce.

At lunch time, the news bureau chief has organised a delivery of empanadas as my welcome treat. These are basically greasy little miniature Cornish Pasties full of either meat or cheese. I eat three - two beef, one cheese, and I can't say I'm overwhelmed. I don't like greasy, fried food and I won't be eating these every day, but the locals love them.

I survive my first day at work. So far, so good. Time to attempt the tube journey home...

¡Ay, Dios mío! 

Ok. Let's get this straight. One of the reasons I wanted to move from London was because of the daily hell that is the commute on the tube. Being squished in a human sandwich with my face in some old businessman's armpit for half an hour in a hot, overcrowded underground train on a twice-daily basis has never been my cup of tea. So, imagine my horror when I find out the Buenos Aires subte (for subterráneo, meaning underground) is just the same, only much, much hotter. Oh god, I'm going to need a bike...