My Virtual Private Network gave me the option to activate “Post-Quantum Encryption.” The guy next to me on the plane back from Buenos Aires asked Chat-GPT what type of plastic surgery his wife should get. On a bar counter by the Teatro Colon, the talking heads panned over tsunami warnings in Chile—cloudy skies, empty streets with the screech—knowing all too well the fate of Valencia. On the streets of Cordoba, I saw YPF, the first vertically integrated state oil company ever, beaming on every corner as if it were Silver Surfer. I knew all too well that the week before a U.S. Federal Judge demanded 51% of the company’s stakes. In a hotel conference center off a busy highway, I attended the “largest anti-leftist party” and saw the infamous chainsaw wielding, Italian dual-citizen, President Javier Milei speak. I circulated around the pit because men who smelled like wet feet and armpit kept populating. I eavesdropped while queued for the bar and learned who was who. I never did learn who the old guy with half his head gone was. My Mom asked my aunt, an avid supporter of the Right, to proofread my mediocrely written email to a professor about feminist epistemologies. She read my critique of modernity-which she inhabited quite comfortably—and I cringed. I went to dinners every day and felt full, finally. It turns out that I am as Argentine and Syrian as the rest of them no matter how “not-white” I am. My foot hurts, I hurt it some more, and it is getting worse. Time for care.