Being Seduced By Buenos Aires

There's an unusual amount of romanticism associated with Argentina. There's something about the idea of Buenos Aires in particular that conjures up an image akin to what Lonely Planet calls an "elegant, seductive place with a ragged edge."

Perhaps it's the richness for which Spanish is spoken here by "los portenos," with "vos" instead of "tu," and softness of the language to accentuate each "palabra." Perhaps this image comes with the beauty of the quad syllable, feminine name of Ar-hen-teen-a. People come here ready to sit in on tangos or drinking really heavy espresso at the cafes.

Did I go here because of the romanticism? No. I came here because of Borges.

I mean there are several reasons I came to South America: the love of trekking, the interest of Spanish language culture, the wish to improve my Spanish. Yet, my interest in the three of the above reasons arose because of an insatiable appetite for Latin American literature sprung from Marquez in high school and sculpted by Neruda during university. I came here because of these writers. I wanted to see what they saw. I came here because of Borges because I wanted to see what Borges saw.

I think Buenos Aires is a bit disappointing to anyone who comes in expecting Latin America, who comes in expecting Lima or Santiago. Buenos Aires is on the Atlantic Coast and as a friend explained to me looks outward toward Rome, to Paris. "We are Francophiles...we feel we are closer to Paris than to  Caracas." He's dead right. Since most people come to Argentina via Europe and since the country had very few native inhabitants, it gets odd because of all the ornate Second Empire Mansard roof buildings that seems redundant, particularly when steeped in anarchist graffiti or on streets that reflect the "ragged edge" of the city. To me it was hard to pick through the city until I realized this is a Borgesian paradise. Just like Borges dreamed of a paradise as a library, I started to think of Buenos Aires as a library, with the buildings reflections of what people wanted to read about. It is the land of "portenos" which can mean "people of the port" but also "immigrants." Everyone here is Spanish, Italian, French, German, and unlike the US where there's an emphasis on a definitive "American" culture, here the definitive Argentinian culture is the witness of each culture sitting beside each other like books in Borges's library.

...

When I first came into Buenos Aires, I saw less of the romantic and more of the ragged edge.

I came through Ezeiza Airport, about 45 minutes from downtown and went on a bus to take me to MicroCentro sorta.

It took 2 hours.

Buenos Aires traffic is a sludgy mess of horn pounding cars. If you get around--notice the if--walking around is your best way around, no taxis. Taxis are as slow as walking, if not slower.

Between the airport and downtown is when the ragged edge came out of Buenos Aires. For 10 to 15 miles there seemed to be an infection of blank, 1960s-1970s brutalist plain ugly ass high rise apartment buildings that looked like they were a part of the megalopolis in the movie "Dredd." Buenos Aires is a cruel city for a lot of people--many individuals move from Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia, etc looking for a better life and they end up in the outskirts, in the high rises. I'll touch more on that as I write.

I got to a bus stop near Puerto Madero and a local helped me get on Calle Florida where my hostel was. Florida is well known in Buenos Aires as the shopping district of MicroCentro, with an influx of stores with images of Lionel Messi. It could be a pharmacy, "farmacia," selling toothpaste and Lionel Messi is going to be on there brushing his teeth.

That first night was like any first night in the respect that I just didn't care about doing anything because of the exhaustion of travel, particularly flying. I was in Microcentro, the equivalent of Times Square of the city, so I walked around. I saw the Obelisk, the advertisements for the Addams Family musical (which is "Los Locos Addams" or "The Crazy Addams"), the endless array of McDonald's, pizzerias, the "Tango Show" in bright lights that I would find out cost $87 US (if a business charges in $US don't go...unless you're in the US).

If I had any goal it was to eat a proper dinner and by proper dinner I wanted parrillera, asado meat. Every street had its parrillera where you'd see endless amounts of carcasses being smoked and grilled; on my way into Microcentro I saw carcasses standing up with fire being blown on them in Puerto Madero and decided that was for me.

I, on a whim, walked down Lavalle, which was full of sandwich shops, fast food restaurants, pizzerias, and I happened upon a parrillera. I saw the meat on the grill and sat down.

If you're a United States-ian, you're used to a certain protocol in restaurants. The host sits you down, you get a menu and order a drink, the waiter voluntarily comes back and you order food and the waiter checks up on you to give your refills even if you're drink is just slightly below the rim of your glass.

In Argentina, you just sit down. No fuss, just sit down. You wave down a waiter, who isn't too pleased to see you. "El menu por favor." You get a menu. You decided what you want to eat and drink? Flag the waiter or waitress down again. Order. Then wait. Play on your iPhone or Samsung Galaxy, try to find wifi and once you realize it's a fruitless endeavor you look through your pictures.

Many people would be at odds with such service but I didn't mind it. For a culture that values personal space like the US we seem content with waiters and waitresses interrupting us mid-chew to ask us how everything is. In Buenos Aires, no one interrupts your meal unless you absolutely need something. I liked that.

I got steak with papas fritas and gaseosa or Coca-Cola. It was quite tasty. And not too horribly expensive.

...

Buenos Aires was sort of a starter city to Latin America for my trip. I knew restaurant Spanish but my conversation Spanish was mediocre and Buenos Aires, with its proximity to pure Spanish Spanish (as opposed to local variants) and also its international diversity lent itself to a moderate number of English speakers.

It was in Buenos Aires I started to take in lessons that would permeate through my trip across South America.

I mentioned the restaurant etiquette. I also learned what restaurants to go to versus ones to avoid. I learned that parrilleras, as tasty as they were, were also expensive. I also learned to avoid restaurants that had tacky photos of their food plastered on their restaurant. I learned that after going into a place that had a sandwicha de milanesa for 6 pesos. 6 pesos!

I realized I made a mistake when he put the sandwich...in a microwave.

A sandwicha de milanesa, if you're unfamiliar, is a fried steak sandwich. I bit into the sandwich and it was a rock. At the least the coca-cola for 6 pesos was ok.

My policies starting forming about how restaurant choices were to be made:

1) If you're outside a restaurant and you see good looking food in the window, go in.

2) Ditto for smelling the food. If the food smells are so good and strong you can whiff it down the block, go in.

3) Trust the cafes. Cafes were the best places to eat, because they were simple and had primarily sandwiches. It was always fresh, always tasty.

4) If the restaurant has vegetables other than potatoes, eat there.

5) If the menu is in English, don't eat there. It's a trap. Don't eat there.

6) Tacky pictures....yeah...don't eat there.

...

UNESCO has designations for every damn thing, including "City of Design," which it has designated for Buenos Aires for evidently having a badass city layout. (http://portal.unesco.org/culture/en/ev.php-URL_ID=28228&URL_DO=DO_TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201.html)

This is justifiably so because you could walk around everywhere in Buenos Aires. It was such a brilliant city layout. No joke; UNESCO was right on the money.

Buenos Aires has a ragged edge, with some tourists (posting on tripadvisor, lonely planet forums, etc) believing the city to be grimy or dirty but I honestly didn't think it was above average dirty. It wasn't like Callao or the dog poo covered streets of Valparaiso alleys. It's an old city, established in the 16th century. It's always been the port of Argentina, the bustling city of any Argentine. It's got a little wear and tear, but for me it wasn't any dirtier than, say, Athens, GA. I had no problems.

I started out my first "day" after my night arrival at 7:30AM or de la manana to walk to the US Embassy. The US Embassy was within a neighborhood or barrio called "Recoleta" that had many green plazas and other tourist areas such as the National Library of the Argentine Republic and the National Museum of Bella Artes. I figured I could walk to the Embassy, take some pictures as I went down Ave. Santa Fe, so forth.

During the morning I would see people working on the streets, but the areas were fairly quiet. In the US 7:30 is on the cusp of rush hour-holy shit-time to do something. In Buenos Aires, I would find out, the days usually didn't start until 10ish. When I would eventually walk down to Museo de la bella artes I would find out that it opened at 12:30 de la tarde or noonish.

I figured I could go to the US Embassy to check in; I thought it would be special to do it in person instead of online. When I arrived after a brisk 1 hour walk I saw people lined up to go in from around the block. I mean there was a huge line. Shit. Was I really going to have to wait 2 hours to check in?

Now, as I walked down Recoleta that day I would notice the ornate Italian Embassy, the Peruvian Embassy, etc and there wouldn't be anyone around the area. The US Embassy, a goppishly hideous building, had me getting in a line that was barely moving and easily 200-300 people deep. A representative from the embassy was walking through the line to check everyone's appointment. I said I didn't have an appointment, I just wanted to check in, I was from the US. Oh? Apparently I said a magic word because then I was escorted above everyone else in line and told to speak in front of a window my business. I say window because I could not see anyone, but he let me in, and it wasn't 10 minutes before I got to a teller, who informed me that I could fill it out...online ("do you have internet access?") but I could fill it out manually. I did fill it out, but I was never called again. That was ok; eventually...after 30 minutes...I would get the message and bail, but I saw why everyone was in line. Everyone was in the Visas and Immigration area. I mean there was at least 150 people in that area. Now that doesn't mean everyone was trying to get to the USA to live. It could mean people wanted to visit. It was interesting, however.

What you learn from being abroad is how difficult the USA is to everyone else for coming in. When I came into Argentina by plane via Lima I had to pay a "reciprocity fee." Essentially, we decided to make Argentines (and Chileans among others) a hefty fee to come into our country and they in turn decided to charge me (and Australians, Canadians) $160. After 9/11 we've become an increasingly paranoid nation. I would learn this as I traveled; Americans are too scared of every damn thing.

As for Buenos Aires, I left the embassy and started to walk around Recoleta, an upscale district; it's the Buckhead of Buenos Aires (or Upper West Side,I don't know--I'm Georgian, imagine your city's fancy neighborhood). Recoleta had its mix of parks and green areas, such as Plaza Francis, its ornate statues sitting among roundabouts, ornate neoclassical or Beaux Artes buildings, and its ugly ass brutalist high rise buildings that were copied...from the Americans (or United Statesians, whatever).

I began to see the Buenos Aires fascination with Italy and France via the car places around this area. Granted, Recoleta is not representative of Buenos Aires as a whole. But it was fun to see the shops selling Citroen, Peugeot, and Alfa Romeos which you would never see in the USA.

It was also fun seeing these buildings so huge and ornate and covered in graffiti. One of the things I quickly realized as I was taking pictures was how incredibly intelligent the graffiti was. It wasn't personal "hey I'm here" graffiti. It was on religious and military statues, it was on the older buildings and it was clever political or social commentary. One of the pieces of graffiti I took a picture of was on the National Library of the Argentine Republic or La Biblioteca Nacional de la Republica Argentina. I made an effort to go into a lot of bookstores and libraries while I was in this continent; it was my love of this continent's literature that led me to trek here. I went in and it was...well, ugly. Uglier than the national library in Chile, uglier than most buildings. It was a Brutalist building, fairly recent; this means it was slabs of concrete atop slabs of concrete with no ornamentation. As an Argentine friend would explain, in the midst of French and Italian inspired buildings, we had one inspired by the US. Yep.

The piece of graffiti said "aires de ezorkia." The "a" of "aires" had the anarchist circle around it and that's what really caught my eye. It was later that I would meet a guy in my hostel, let's call him J, who was interested in politics and explained to me the translation. "Aires" means "wind" or "air," but he said "you know 'winds of change,' this is like 'winds of garbage' or 'winds of shit.'" He had also collected photos of the political graffiti which was all very cool.

As I rounded up in Recoleta I ended up in a fairly aimless position finding myself near an old church. I mean in the US a church from 1902 is old; this was 200 years before that, a white church that once you got inside shut you up. It was gorgeous, with extravagant almost surreal imagery, statues, huge books with a typeface that was its own form of art. Gold was everywhere and I started feeling like where I was, in Recoleta, could be pretty cool.

But then I saw the Recoleta cemetery. Cemeteries can be cool or boring, depending on what kind of person you were. Not Recoleta. Recoleta was nothing short of badass. Recoleta cemetery was a city, a city of mausoleums that were incredible. Huge domes, pillars, Greco-Roman figures, 19th century soldier statues dotted this mausoleums. It was a cemetery interesting enough for history lovers purely for having so many political leaders, writers, presidents entombed and buried; Eva Peron ie Evita was buried here. When I say it is a city, however, I mean it has its own plazas and boulevards. It was ridiculously awesome.

Speaking of ridiculously awesome (a very US use of that word I would find out from my British friends) after Recoleta I figured a new goal would be to visit El Ateneo by going through Palermo into Barrio Norte. If you google "beautiful bookstores" or something like that you're bound to find at least 10 articles featuring El Ateneo. Here's the thing, though; this area or neighborhood (barrio) above Ave. Santa Fe is crawling with wonderful bookstores. Buenos Aires isn't everyone's cup of tea, particularly if you're expecting tango on every other block or something that doesn't look like Europe. That's fair enough but Buenos Aires is a book lover's paradise. In fact one of the city's nicknames is "The city of books." As part of my interest to see what Borges saw, I understood his love of books because his city loved books as he did. On Ave. Santa Fe there was at least a bookstore every two blocks. No joke.

The grandest of the bookstores, El Ateneo, was a sight worthy of its own poetry. I talked about how the National Library was an ugly, grey stained building. El Ateneo was the opposite; a force of opulence that overwhelmed your senses. It was a former theatre turned into a bookstore. Where the stage was, there is now a cafe. Where the box seats were, the seats once occupied by the richest of patrons in order to be seen, are now places for people to grab a book and sit and read. It was three levels of books, music, movies and as an intense lover of all three I felt myself become very attached to this place...a bit too attached perhaps but because I somewhat agree with Borges that paradise is a library, I think this place is a bit of a paradise too.

...

That night I spent time with a friend whom I shall call P. P was a pen pal that was wanting to learn English and I was wanting to learn Spanish. We decided to meet that evening. I won't go into detail about our night, because it was mainly walking around, sitting at Plaza San Martin and talking but we became deeper than pen pals. It was something special, if brief. That is all I will reveal in public.

...

For the most part that night was about finding some empanadas. I tried a place on Av. Corrientes which leads to the Obelisk. Yeah...those empanadas weren't my favorite.

Disappointed, I found a gelato place and that was quite refreshing. What I found interesting was that my area was incredibly bustling; it was the shopping area of the city, on Calle Florida and near Corrientes and Lavalle. Yet, as soon as 9 hit, it was empty. Eerily empty, as if everyone just up and vanished.

Also, on Calle Florida I started to see some harsh realities about Buenos Aires. Like I said before, many immigrants came to Buenos Aires in the past 10 years and unfortunately quite a few of them haven't found much luck jobwise. Like any major city there's bound to be homeless; I'm used to Atlanta, whatever. Because this was my first time out of the country it was also my first time seeing children homeless. On Florida it wasn't uncommon to see kids coming up to tourists and asking for change. At first it was a bit of a shock to me, I mustn't lie. It was unfortunate but Buenos Aires has its ragged edge.

Honestly, though, I usually felt safe, even at night. Perhaps I was protective, or whatever, but I never had any real issues. I didn't go into neighborhoods that weren't well lit, and I kept to myself if in a crowded place. There are always stories of bad things happening to tourists such as getting sprayed into one's eyes by mustard and having a purse stolen or whatever, but I never came across that. All cities have this element; you get over it and find fun.

Speaking of finding fun, that night after walking around, chatting with P, I decided to hit my bed early. I know, boring, right?

...

My last full day, for I intended to leave for Mendoza on Friday afternoon, I started off early in the morning to San Telmo. Oddly enough, I've never been to Washington D.C. Buenos Aires was actually my first time in a national capital. So I decided to do the touristy thing and visit the government buildings. San Telmo is a neighborhood with old colonial buildings, far more Spanish and Italian than French unlike Recoleta. Plus, it was where many of the official buildings were.

It was where the Ministry of Defense building was, which was a lavish building surrounded by palm trees. It was where the Presidential Palace was, which I couldn't get but half a glance at because of construction and how closed off it was. Then I got to Plaza Mayo, named after the month of revolution, which had buses and buses of school children, endless graffiti, and banners about the "disappeared."

To get on a tangent, I want to bring this up. Not enough United Statesians know about the "disappeared" or "Operation Condor" wherein a good portion of South American nations were taken over by far-right military dictatorships which rose to contain terrorism and far left activities. In Argentina, this resulted in a military junta between 1976 and 1983 where the military was in control of the nation. This junta would take anyone prisoner that it felt was against peace, the right, and so forth; over 20,000 people were "disappeared" in that they were snatched and never heard of again. All around Buenos Aires I'd see spray painted faces with their names and years like "1977" indicating that it was someone who had disappeared.

It's important for people of the United States to know about this because these far-right dictatorships were ultra-capitalist which meant that during the Cold War they were given either market support or in some cases logistical and technical support (more on that with Chile) by the US. It's important because it is a part of our egregiously awful foreign policy legacy and I'm a firm believer in owning up to our faults.

I didn't go to the museum on the disappeared, because I didn't have enough time.

My last government stop was the very neo-classical Congress building which had its own plaza. It was in the plaza that I was to meet with P, who I would have coffee and bread (croissants and flan more specifically) with, then she would show me her university and we would walk down to Puerto Madero.

Puerto Madero is a relatively new area of Buenos Aires, and one friendly with nightlife and tourists. For the most part, though, the locals like the area as well.

Just like in the States we have these old places taken over and gentrified (for Atlanta I'm thinking the Atlantic Mill, now Atlantic Station area) this port of Buenos Aires is filled with high rise, transparent glass buildings. It is where the major corporations are, and it is a walking area for people to go alongside the port and stroll. I was there around 5 en la tarde or 17 horas, right as the sky was fading in its blue hue. It was gorgeous, to see the port near sunset. Most people like the ornamental, neo-classical buildings, but I felt something stronger in seeing and subsequently walking on Puente de la Mujer, or the "Woman's Bridge." It was very plain to the average eye but the way it was designed there was an intense movement about it; I found it breathtaking, particularly at that time of day, particularly with P.

...

After this, P helped me get a bus ticket for the next day and we walked alongside Puerto Madero into Retiro, a district that is historically known for the tracks. All the trains pass into Retiro and we reached a point to where Puerto Madero ended and all the gentrification vanished suddenly. It was night and locals were all around waiting for local buses. In Latin America, there isn't an extensive train system like in Europe or Japan. Most people travel cross country through buses so Retiro's bus station was like an airport. Each company had its own stall that you bought tickets for and you took on buses that were double deckers. You could go semi-cama or cama. Cama was sort of like business/first class because you got wider seats that would lie completely down.

Retiro was interesting because around Recoleta and San Telmo you often saw more cosmopolitan people, people dressed like Europeans. For a while I thought every woman over 24 had to wear high heels because walking around every woman I saw had on high heels and walked around like it was nothing. Even the men walked around in dress shoes. In Retiro, I saw the working class of Buenos Aires and I felt that was important for me to see. They were the salt of the earth of Buenos Aires and I could see them wearing shoes not made in Italy and so forth, but they had a dignity I quite admired. Perhaps because I grew up in a working class place I feel for them deeper than others but I had no trouble walking among them and I hope for a better life for them all.

...

That night I had a few options. I thought about seeing a theatre show, as Citi Teatro Metropolitan was showing "Amadeus" and "The Motherf--- in the Hat." Yet, I knew I couldn't leave Buenos Aires without seeing some kind of tango. It was touristy, and most of the tango shows were filled with tourists (not just US ones either), but hell yeah I was going to see tango. In the Obelisk area, there was "Tango Show" in lights but as I said earlier, it was $87 US. No.

Most of the tango clubs were in San Telmo, but I decided to stick local and found a club off Corrientes. It didn't start until 10 en la noche, but what the hell. I went to a cafe, got a nice sandwich, and moved to the club. Online it said the cover charge was $30 pesos. The hostess said $50 pesos. I said no and started to walk off, but then I thought "am I giving up that easily? No." So I went back and asked her to let me in, telling her it was my last night in Buenos Aires and that I would only stay 30 minutes. She relented and let me in.

This wasn't a professional tango club where the performers are like actors. It was amateur-ish. Unfortunately I came in to just see tango and not dance...and everyone else there had the same idea. There were collections of tourists aiming to watch tango, but no one was to dance. For 10 minutes, 15 minutes no one danced, but the music was playing. Then a young Argentine couple got up to dance. To someone expecting Baz Luhrman style lavish tango tackiness, this was anticlimactic. For me, as a poet, I enjoyed them because they were amateurs and seeing them enjoy themselves led me to enjoy myself. They didn't practice timing over and over; they just wanted to enjoy themselves. So I was just watching them try new ideas and things and when they got it wrong close up with each other and laugh or smile.

It got better as more people came in. The "bouncer" was this old Argentine and for the first 20 minutes it was mainly young tourists and these two old European guys. Then an old lady came in and I could tell she was a regular because the old "bouncer" beamed with joy seeing her and the lady opened up her jacket saying in Spanish "I am underdressed, excuse me" while smiling as the old "bouncer" said it was ok and gave her a hug and kiss greeting.

After her the other regulars, older people, started to come in, saying hi to each other because they all knew each other. They were dressed to the nine and sat down ordering drinks first, to get some energy. Then after about 20 minutes they finished their drinks and all at once got on the floor to start doing legit tango. I mean this wasn't extravagant tango but they knew what they were doing. I stayed a bit after I was supposed to leave, but whatever. I eventually left, but I got my haggled $30 pesos worth.

...

I left the next afternoon for Mendoza. Before I left I went to a cafe and grabbed one of the most delicious sandwiches I ever had, with Parma ham, arugula, mozzarella cheese, and sun dried tomatoes. Damn it was good.

When I left I had mixed feelings. I didn't feel romantic about it like others had. I didn't fall immediately in love with it like I did with Santiago. Yet as I look back it was a remarkable experience, to see the livability of los portenos, to be able to walk around and eat and drink at cafes and live casually.

I think P had a lot to do with that, and in hindsight I wished I stayed for one or two more days to be with her.

As I was writing this I felt the wound of nostalgia for this experience. It had its ragged edge, but Buenos Aires was a city of breathtaking beauty in the way to live within its borders.

As I left on the bus I saw the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. This was a city that always looked outward, but inward was where I felt the charm.

In short, go to Buenos Aires, if only once.

For Mendoza, you'll have to wait.