Argentine Apartheid vol. 1

The room went cold when I asked them about the No Argentine Rule. Thermostat dropped right out -- my nose cracked on the inside and my fillings ached. And that was when I had tried to do it innocently: “La di da…so I hear you don’t let Argentines stay at this B and B…”. No telling what would have happened if I had blundered into it.
“No.” The young man who was writing down my passport details said, without looking up from his work. He sat behind a high desk in the lobby of the B and B. It was really the living room of a converted mansion done up in art deco with each room named for a famous Argentine. It was One of those majestic turn of the century deals that gets abandoned when dictatorships fall and wealthy politicians have to take the money and run.
I scanned the rack of tourist excursion brochures. A night of Tango en Buenos Aires (starting at 40 dollars)! Sky Diving over las Pampas! White Water Rafting! The concierge, who had until then been excitingly inquiring where I was from and if I followed Argenting football, declined to elaborate.
“…Porque?”
He stopped writing and looked up at me gravely. His friend on the sofa filled a mate from a large silver thermos but left it steaming on the table. In the depths of the house, a toilet flushed.
“Lamentablemente, Argentines are always the ones causing problems. It’s not just them, though. Its Latins in general. We don’t let any Latins stay here. In the past, whenever there were problems, it was people from this continent.” He had a “surely you understand” sort of tone.
“Oh yea?” Face neutral here, don’t want this lunatic feeling threatened.
“Lamentablemente, yes. Of course, this is not how we would prefer it because obviously…”
“You are Argentines as well,” I added, feeling that the obvious somehow needed to be stated. He flinched slightly under the observation.
“…Yes. Of course. And its not like we never allow Latins to stay here. Obviously if we know them or they come recommended we can make allowances, but in general…”
“Claro, of course,” I agreed, words tasting like sand.
“So we do it not only to protect ourselves, but to protect you, our customers.”
“And you never had problems with other, uh, types of foreigners?”
“No, it is always people from this country who cause trouble…”
He left it hanging like he had more to say but couldn’t quite find the words. I let that silence drag itself out.
“In fact,” he said, scrutinizing me, “I thought you looked a little Argentine when you came up the stairs because of your features…” he motioned to his face and nodded at me knowingly. Apparently hinting at something. I grabbed my passport off the counter, caressing the eagle on the front like a protective talisman. Where’s the room then?