All day long, the news channels flick between images of the beaches of Pinamar, Mar del Plata and hip, trendy Punta del Este in Uruguay, comparing which has the hottest temperatures and which the hottest, most scantily clad women.
All the local mini-supermarkets near my flat are closed for at least two weeks, and I spend 45 minutes ploughing around the neighbourhood in search of a bunch of bananas to fuel me for my hot, sticky January runs in the park. This is no easy task, and most of the shops don't even advertise when they'll be reopening - it's a given that they'll be shut until Feb.
Even Miranda, my favourite local parrilla, is shut for two weeks and I can barely believe the cheek of the place! I can't imagine a restaurant in London being so arrogant as to dare to close down for two weeks for summer holidays, but in Buenos Aires this is the norm and I just have to get used to it.
While everyone heads to the beach, I revel in the relative quietness of the subte and the Microcentro, my daily walks from the tube to the office much less crowded and the man who makes weird faces at me on the walk to the tube curiously absent. Even the group of intimidating builders I walk past daily in my summer dresses are absent for the entire month, making my commute much more relaxing.
My January is spent mostly topping up my tan by the lake in the Bosques de Palermo on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, taking 10k runs around the neighbourhood and relaxing in the evenings in front of a DVD. The few friends I have here have gone away to ranches and other summer hideaways and I'm perfectly content to while away the scorching days in my scorching hot flat, preparing for my February trips to Mendoza, Punta del Este and Brazil, with a nice hot cup of tea and a Havannet...
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