Remember Joe? Let’s rewind to fifteen years ago in South Korea, where we first met. He briefly graced our local football team, a peculiar blend of geeky charm and eccentricity, walking a fine line between quirky and outright bizarre -the kind of guy you find endearing from a safe distance. We weren’t exactly best pals, but he was memorable.
Fast forward to Santiago. A casual scroll through social media revealed Joe was in Argentina, right where I was heading. An online video catch-up was arranged in which he regaled me with tales of the ‘blue dollar’ and living like a king. Spoiler alert: Joe’s financial advice was about as reliable as a chocolate teapot.
Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, Joe’s tall tales of fiscal extravagance quickly crumbled. Far from living large on the blue dollar, he was as financially floundering as a fish out of water, heavily reliant on ATMs at an abysmal exchange rate. His advice on bringing small US dollar bills was off the mark; larger denominations were actually better. Clearly, his stories were more fanciful than factual. The ‘blue dollar’ lifestyle? More like ‘blue dollar’ fairy tale.
After a month in Argentina, Joe still needed a hand with his phone and some accommodation advice, which I happily provided. But when the conversation shifted to borrowing money, my generosity hit a brick wall.
Joe’s flair for chaos wasn’t just a financial comedy show – it was more like the opening act of a circus that was just getting started. He bailed on a rock concert he had passionately insisted we attend, then showed up later to our dinner at a football-themed restaurant, pretending he’d been with us all along. Photographic evidence? He had it in spades.
The next day, I sent him photo of tango dancers in San Telmo with a caption ‘drinking a beer and watching tango in the square’, I told him to get up and out as was missing out on the world, only for Joe to cheekily post my photo along with my caption to social media, pretending he was out and about soaking up the local culture instead of nursing a hangover in bed.
Then came the World Cup final debacle. Joe theatrically claimed he was on his way to join me for the match, but hadn’t even left his place, almost derailing my plans to witness footballing history.
But the real cherry on top of this absurdity ice-cream sundae was Joe’s nightly barrage of voicemails. Each message was an auditory journey through the bizarre, a series of rambling, often nonsensical monologues that left me questioning his grip on reality. His need for help was as overwhelming as his messages were unhinged, painting a picture of a man who had not only lost his way but was doing donuts in the parking lot of sanity. Joe had taken a decade-long hiatus from the workforce, preferring to spend his nights in the glow of YouTube videos. His so-called ‘research’ from the comfortable bubble of his apartment often led him down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories leading him to romanticise the lives of those living in emerging countries while hating on his homeland.
It soon became clear to me that Joe’s tales of life in Argentina were a mix of half-truths and fantasies and I felt bad for him. But his requests became incessant, and soon, he lost his phone, further entangling himself in a web of helplessness.
Despite my efforts to steer him toward stability, suggesting he return to the States, Joe saw me as ‘one’ of the establishment, unable to grasp his ‘free spirit.’
Ultimately, I realized Joe was like a suitcase without a handle – difficult to carry and not worth the effort. After making sure he was somewhat okay, I chose to distance myself and eventually cut ties, despite Joe’s relentless attempts to stay connected, even through a different phone number. It was a tough lesson in travel – sometimes, you just can’t carry others, especially those lost in their own storms. I packed up and headed to hills of Patagonia.
