Spencer Morgan, who writes highly entertaining profiles of New Yorkers for the Observer, tracks down a lost flock of investment bankers in, of all places, Buenos Aires.
FOR THE LAST four years, up until a week ago, David Webb worked at Goldman Sachs. In January he spent two weeks hanging loose in Buenos Aires. He was also there checking out real estate investment opportunities. A friend of Mr. Webb’s had told him to come down and have a look. Within a day of arriving, he found himself dealing with more New York bankers than he does in New York.
“You’d start the day at a park and then run into five former bankers, and then you’d wind up at a bar and all of a sudden there would be 15 of them,” Mr. Webb said. “Ex-bankers, ex-traders, Lehman guys, Bear guys, everyone. Guys that got screwed by their job and came to a place where everything was cheap. It’s fuckin’ beautiful and the sun was going down at 9:30.”
He said that some of these young bucks, most of whom hail from New York and London, have embraced their new lives. But for most, with a few drinks comes a fountain of griping and grumbling, bonuses, bonuses, bonuses. Mr. Webb fled to Uruguay for a few days.
It’s a beautiful piece, complete with seduction by a tattooed heroine, an Ivy League education, a rise and fall at Goldman Sachs and the inevitable firing amidst the depression 2.0.
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