After a red eye-flight from the States to Santiago, I’ll hop over the Andes to Mendoza, where I’ll meet up with the boyz, as I like to call them. They’re in their early 20s and have been grinding out 60-hour weeks since graduating from college. Needless to say, this crew is hungry for adventure and ready to hit the snow skiing. There’s only one problem: I make it to Mendoza. My luggage—containing all the skis—doesn’t. We’re running late before we’ve even started. South American baggage tracking isn’t as sophisticated as it is in the States. Neither is the customer service. There’s no telling when or if we’ll see the equipment. With decades of experience under my belt, I can be flexible, but how will a bunch of Wall Street guys handle the blip in the itinerary? When the going gets tough in South America, I tell the boyz, the tough hit the discoteca.

It’s 1:30 a.m. by the time we reach the venue and the line is out the door. A beautiful dark-skinned woman with blue eyes takes our pesos upon entry as electronic music thumps inside. Heavy bass reverberates off the walls as a brilliant laser-light show cuts through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. Skinny long legged women in high heels dance upon the bar as we position to order drinks. One of the boyz orders a bottle of vodka on ice and a six-pack of Red Bull then hands me a glass of ice and laughs, “Looks like we are right on schedule.” I nod my head and reply, “Yes, we are now on Argen-Time!”