Argentina Diaries: Day 8

Of course Hav had already packed and of course I had not. He left to get us some coffee while I masterfully pushed, squeezed, and cajoled my purchases into an already crowded suitcase. We finally got breakfast at a restaurant on Santa Fe where we were its youngest patrons by at least three decades. I took this as a good sign. I really just wanted a breakfast taco and tried to order it in a roundabout way, but either my Spanish or the meaning for 'tortilla' differed. We ended up with a potato, egg, and cheese frittata, which was fine by me. (Post-note: I recently learned that 'tortilla' in Spain and Argentina is what we call 'frittata'.)

After breakfast (by this time, brunch), we walked through Las Canitas and Palermo in search of a notably chic jewelry store that's open daily but by appointment. "I just want to look in the window," I told Hav, "then decide if I want to call." Unfortunately, it seems the reason reservations are required is because there are no windows. We continued walking to Malba, a privately funded modern art museum.

I don't know how to describe nature, much less art, so I'm happy to read a quote in Malba's program from Oscar Buny, an artist whose work was there on exhibit:

I don't believe that art can be explained, deep down, what it leaves behind is always an unknown.

His work filled the third (or in Argentina, the second) floor. Much of his photography pieces captured death removed. For example, he frequently took pictures of men flopped on pavement. He overlaid the photograph with a piece of Plexiglas sprayed with bullet holes. I'm not sure I got the meaning, exactly, but I liked looking at the pictures. I stopped abruptly in front of a comparative piece. On the left was a prophetic portrait of the Twin Towers he'd done in 1996. Each tower had a bullet hole in it. On the right, at least ten times the size of its counterpart, was the ubiquitous, fateful 9/11 image of Tower One being blown up and the plane heading for Tower Two. The piece was titled, Osama 2001. I felt hollow and confused. I'm not an especially ethnocentric or patriotic kinda girl so reaction to these reminders of 9/11 have surprised me. Maybe it's being in a foreign country?

We left the museum, turned the corner, and went to what's billed as "Buenos Aires' Greatest Mall", which turned out to be a little bit like getting a massage and then helping someone move. I can report that malls are vacuous anywhere in the world. We left quickly.

Walking back to Palermo Viejo Hav and I had an awkward conversation about expectations and well, hooking up, or not, as it were. We remain in this hybrid, amorphous state in part because of our shared reluctance to pull out the magnifying glass when it comes to Us. I had questions but lacked the energy to probe. This trip has been a sublime experience and no one wants to look at the clock on vacation.

At 5 we returned to the apartment to wait for Cristina. We had packed our belongings and in the last hour before the airport we talked about what a great trip we'd had and how we should have taken Spanish lessons when we arrived. Oh well, next time we'll be prepared. Cristina came with a friend? Housecleaner? I had written her a note to say that I tried to wash the sheets but the upstairs door to the laundry was locked. (I always had to prepare in advance what I wanted to say.)

She took us through a checklist of questions, an "inquisition" we told her, when she asked for a word to describe the process of asking what we'd used or broken. Technically, inquisition missed the mark, but I couldn't think of a nice and tidy alternate. And then we spent the next hour with her teaching me Spanish and me teaching her English. She told me that when I return to BA (something in me blurted out "proximo ano" - huh?!) I'd have to stay with her at her house. She has a garden and a bathroom and bedrooms. We talked about the new president and Hilary Clinton and yes, Bush. We talked about everyday stuff really -- the way people who've just met speak, independent of barriers -- country, language, or otherwise. We exchanged addresses, a throwback practice that has a sincerity to it which escapes electronic mail.

She called a taxi for us. Eventually it came, and we were off. Our trip had a sense of completion to it. I didn't want for more time (save another day in Patagonia), yet I hope someday I'll return. I feel inspired to learn Spanish, and Italian, and French. My desire to live in a foreign country is renewed.

So that's it. My Argentina diaries as forthright as I know to be. At times journaling this seemed more chore than joy but more often it was the opposite. In fact, a typical scene would be sitting at a cafe waiting for our coffee or meal, and I'd pull out this notebook and start writing just after Scott got up to wash his hands or check something out. He'd return sooner than I expected and say "are you writing again, Vaness?" Yeah. I guess so.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 2

It is clear to me after choosing to rent an apartment that a) this is the best way to travel and b) I wish I could be here for a month -- an immersion in the language and culture. It's not always easy though -- there is no concierge for recommendations, lesser chance to meet up with other travellers to speak with in English as a reprieve -- all that. But, and this makes it all worth it -- you feel as if you are part of the city.

On Sunday after waking up late, we headed out for the day. First stop, San Telmo, home to a huge flea market. By the time we got there, we were pretty hungry so we stopped in a cafe to get breakfast. I didn't like my pan -- the bread pieces were like croûtons -- so we paid and left to look for another place. We found a French restaurant recommended in both our guidebooks but it didn't open til 12:30. In the meantime, we walked the fair. Every tourist book, site, blog, and bathroom stall I read before my trip recommended watching the tango dancers who perform on the side of the street in San Telmo. Unfortunately, every time we walked past one, they were on a break. Kinda like the writers on strike in LA. So we ended up seeing them take pictures with tourists. One woman (what is it with Americans?!) pratically humped a dancer's leg. No shame. In other news, we intended to buy all of our gifts while at the market, but much of it was kinda cheap and cheesy. It's not that I have friends who are above cheap and cheesy, mind you... I just didn't want to cart shit around. I saw a cool papier mache mobile I liked for Devin (her bday is the day after mine), but that's just too high maintenance to pack.

At 12:30 we went to the French restaurant and were greeted by the (very) French owner who first made fun of my Spanish, and then when I switched to French, made fun of that too. Turns out, he's an ex-New Yorker who left a few years ago, fed up with Bush, Francophobes, and America's terror campaign. We didn't catch his name, but you can't miss him if you end up at Le Brasserie Petanque. You'll know him because he drops the word "motherf*%ker" at every table he greets, but in the most charming of ways. Really. And he gives you a free drink when you walk in the door. How do you beat that? Anyway, my heart melted when a group of Americans sat down next to us and tried to speak Spanish to me. Evidently they mistook me for Argentinian. Aww shucks.

Well, we ate and left San Telmo, then headed over to Congreso and Micro Centro. Not much law makin' or finance happens on Sundays, so we headed towards Florida street. Think of your least favorite mall stores. Now put them outdoors in the middle of a business district. Voila! Florida street. But because Hav and I planned a run later and I didn't bring running shoes, I patronized said street for a pair of borderline these-could-be-cute-or-hideously-wrong Adidas.

BA has many great, vast, and centrally located parks. Being summer, the parks were packed. Hav and I dodged locals as we ran first around the perimeter of the zoo, then switched to Plaza Italia and continued our trek. We ran, then finished off with frisbee, and I put a cherry on it all by twisting my ankle at the end. Two days later and still store.

We got home, showered, and headed out for sushi. Thirty minutes later in the wrong shoes, we found our restaurant. CLOSED. Naturally this sort of thing only happens when you're hungry enough to consider crime. We settled, and by 'we' I mean 'I', on a parilla (across the street from La Dorita but NOT La Dorita, as I had to hear about for the rest of the trip). The place was eh, but I did have a good glass of wine (Santa Julia Malbec) or five, and really good potato chips.

Neither by intention nor extraordinary conversation, our dinner lasted three hours. Finally we got our check and walked to Freddo for my birthday dessert. I don't eat dessert save birthdays or a major holiday (i.e. Xmas, Thanksgiving, Arbor Day...) so I had a free pass. Freddo, those bastards, let us in the door but wouldn't serve us -- something about it being too late though it was only midnight (early by BA standards) and people who walked in after us were served. I hope they choked on their - my - ice cream. We left and went elsewhere.

This is what happens when two people-pleasers travel together and neither speak the language: you both try to please the other and neither ends up happy. We ended up at an ice cream shop where we couldn't figure out how to order. You had to first choose your size, where 'size' are diagrams of unrecognizable shapes; second, pay; third, give the receipt to the scooper who asks you what you want. You can see how that process might require advanced Spanish. Turns out we ended up paying for three scoops of ice cream, but were confused by the whole thing and ended up asking for only two which in turn confused the scooper. And to cement the fact that we didn't know what THE HELL we were doing, both of our scoops were different banana flavors. We left disappointed and went home.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi

Argentina Diaries: Day 1

So here we are in Buenos Aires. It's Sabado (this is my way of seriously trying to learn Spanish). We arrived EARLY. We found our cab driver but of course needed to get cash. Wait - let me back up - the Miami airport is nasty. Havis and I got a slice of Pizzeria Uno which we were both looking forward to until we took a bite. Puke. But then we shared a beer. Not puke. We've been sharing a helluva lot of beer. Anyway, Hav suggested we get cash while still in the States, but I disagreed - we could get cash in BA. We rented an apartment for our stay and per the email agreement, we needed US$138 to pay the remainder of our balance. I went to the ATM. I tried to get out pesos. Simple enough, right?

Unlike Europe or even Mexico, most Argentinians do not speak English, or at least they don't let on that they do, which could be why Buenos Aires is called the Paris of South America. The ATMs are only occasionally with English options. I cobbled together my Spanish to withdraw money. As it turns out, I pulled out 300 pesos (US$100) and it wouldn't let me get any more. I'd reached my limit, as best as I could tell. Havis changed his US$40 that he was smart enough to get out in Miami. So now we had 420 pesos. All the while the cabbie waited patiently.

He took us to our apartment. We learned that there are an awful lot of Bolivians in BA, which evidently didn't please him. He told us that Argentinians are "Italians who speak Spanish [when Spanish is not 'Espanol' of course, but 'Castellano', pronounced cast-eh-zhano. This is true. The inflection sounds very Italian. The national pride is reminiscent as well. They all say "ciao" (spelled "chau") and occasionally I hear "prego" save that here, because there's an innate aversion to finishing or even enunciating words, it's pronounced "preg-ah."

Anyway, so we get to the apartment. The cab driver tells us it's US$32 or 100 pesos. Uh, what? I thought it was included in the remainder we owed Casa San Telmo, our rental agency. Okay fine. We paid him and went inside.

Eva, an employee of CST, met us an introduced us to Cristina, the woman who owns the apartment. Eva's English is like my French, which got us far enough along to understand that they didn't want US$138, they wanted US$368! WTF?!

So the email string I had was not clear. I thought I paid the rental fee and the deposit was included, but apparently not. This was, perhaps, lost in translation. One problem -- we only had about 464 pesos ($155) left. Not enough. So Cristina left and Eva walked me to an ATM while Hav waited in the apartment. We walked, and walked, and walked some more. ATMs are not on every corner. We found one eventually, and I tried, and tried, and tried to pulse out money. Shit. I had apparently already reached my maximum withdrawal for the day. Seriously? US$100 is all you can extract in a day? (Later in the trip I found other ATMs that provided me work-arounds.) That's so weird. Why? $100 does get you very far. Actually here it does. So Eva, who, btw, has been married for a very long time and has four daughters, from 24 to 16, walked me back to the apartment. Shit. Am I in trouble?

By this time Eva and I have been gone almost 45 minutes and I'm worried about Scott being worried. When we returned, Eva called Mercedes, the owner of CST. She said a whole bunch of stuff in Spanish or whatever to her boss, then hands me the phone. Mercedes tells me we're to meet Cristina on Monday to pay the remaining balance. Okay, this I can handle. Eva gave me her personal email address (we are now friends -- amigas, if you will), and left.

Hav and I made a plan to go see the city. Let's hit the city! See Palermo Soho -- all that good stuff. Ok. I let the water warm up as I prepared for the shower (which entails grabbing a camel-load of Sonya Dakar products, change of clothes, and a towel). I hopped in. The water filled up around my ankles but I couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Oh well. And then it happens.

Scott: VANESS!!! Oh my God!
Me: What? What's wrong? (I'm thinking he saw a rat or somethin'.)
Scott: Water -- EVERYWHERE! Shut it off. Shut it off!

I opened the shower curtain. Sure enough the bathroom floor is three inches deep in water It's out the door. I shut if off. Scott ran in and handed me a HAND towel. (I haven't been hand towel size in over two ears.)

"What's his name? Ernesto?"
"Armano," I answer. Scott runs out to the balcony and called for the building maintenance man who miraculously met only an hour earlier and happened to be in the courtyard two floors below. Armano ran up to our apartment. Water is literally spilling onto the balcony. Meanwhile I've been upgraded from hand towel to beach version. After about 10 minutes, Armano produced a huge clog of hair from the drain. He is talking at us but of course we didn't understand. No entiendo, we tell him. He speaks louder. Our faces turned puzzled. He says, somehow, that he'll be back. He returns with a girl who speaks a little English. She tells us that a huge wad of hair was blocking the drain but he cleared it. We ask if we're gonna be in trouble -- we just rented the apartment less than an hour earlier. That apparently didn't translate b/c he answered with, "There are always people coming and going from this apartment." GREAT. In addition to questioning our hygiene, we're also drug dealers. We thanked him and his friend after we all pitched in to shoo the water into the drain in the bathroom floor. I signaled with my hands a question of, "will the floors warp." Of course they won't... the floor is laminate. And then, after several very uncomfortable silent moments, they left. Problem solved. Hav showers and we're on our way.

First stop: food. We're hungry. We walked around, or got lost as it were, but saw a street fair so it was okay. We found our first restaurant choice, Krishna, a vegetarian joint where nothing on the menu save lassi, seemed recognizable. The music, however, looked familiar. Gopala, Gopala, Devikananda, Gopala. Yay. And then, Pink Floyd. Gopala?! Go figure. We ended up with some really good food by sheer luck.

I'll digress from my account to say that I really love Buenos Aires. It's both prideful and arrogant at once. In leaving to go to Patagonia, it already feels like we're leaving home. Fo the most part, the people have been exceedingly warm when engaged. There's a cool exterior to be sure, but once the formalities are done away with, there exists a warmth that bleeds sincerity.

Also, though I've been challenged, I really look forward to speaking Spanish. Part of me is a little disappointed when someone speaks back to me in English. I could see myself having a vacation home here.

So I'll return to my story. Saturday night, after Krishna, we walked around a lot more then finally returned to the apartment where it smelled like mildew. I showered and went for dinner at 9. We held off as long as we could. People eat very late here. 9 is early. We went to Bar Uriarte where we sat at the bar next to some girls from Austin. Had I been myself I would've been like "you're from Austin? I lived in Austin!!" but I think Hav wanted the anonymity. The night ended up uneventful: a long dinner (2 hours) then back to the apartment. We fell asleep around 1 and planned to get up at 9. I set my alarm incorrectly so we slept in till 10.

I forgot to mention that on our way out to dinner we stopped and had mate at a cafe. Making mate is an experience steeped deep in tradition. you get hot water, loose leaf mate, and a special instrument that looks like a cross between a straw and a perforated spoon. Also a special cup is used, called a gourd, I suspect because real gourds are used. You place your mate in the cup, slowly add hot water, sugar if you like, then place your straw-thingy in the mix and drink. Buenisimo! That is all.

It is the virtues, not the faults...which constitute one's true legacy. -- Gandhi