Buenos Aires, Argentina

Thursday, January 27, 2005:

I reached Buenos Aires at noon on Wednesday, the four month anniversary of my flight from Miami to Tegucigalpa, Honduras. I expect to settle in here for at least a few weeks, if not more, which means that my scheduled departure for Africa (March 1) may be postponed once again. This entry will have to serve as a temporary filler as I will still need several days to post the details of the last two weeks, including my trip through the Southwest of Bolivia, into Northwest Argentina and across to Iguazu Falls. As I settle into some semblance of an actual "routine" here in BA (Spanish classes, gym, other classes possible), I expect to post a bit less frequently or at least write significantly shorter posts. There is more than enough here to keep me busy.

Tired from my arrival by a 20-hour bus trip the day before, I slept for nearly 12 hours and woke up well-rested at a quarter to 10:00. With a long list of things to see and do, I showered, dressed and made my way out the door by 10:30. It was sunny and warm with clear skies as I made my way down the street in the direction of the central Plaza de Mayo.

My hotel, Las Brisas del Mar ($8 per night including private bathroom and cable; the small building is a beautiful example of turn-of-the-19th-century architecture), is located in the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires. The area is just south of the bustling "Microcentro" and is considered the "Bohemian" section of the city. Famed for its many Tango clubs and its Sunday antique market, San Telmo features narrow cobblestone streets, old 19th century mansions and a surprisingly wide range of antique shops selling a surprisingly wide range of high quality antiques. The area was once home to the wealthiest residents of the city, but a yellow-fever epidemic in the late 1800s led many to relocate further to the North. It now draws artists and students and, while the generalization only goes so far, it may well be the Buenos Aires equivalent to Greenwich Village in New York. Numerous cafes, pizzarias, ecclectic shops, Italian delis and parrillas (grills) line the streets. The cozy square Plaza Dorrego was crowded with young people leisurely reading books and sipping espressos at shaded, outside tables as I passed. A number of vendors were selling homemade jewelry on the sidewalk. As I pushed on, I passed walls covered in elaborate, colorful murals, most frequently depicting tango dancers or pastoral street scenes of people dressed in formal 19th century clothing.

Eventually I reached Plaza de Mayo and passed the Casa Rosada, the rose-colored presidential palace. It was from the balcony of this building that Eva Peron addressed legions of adoring Argentinians (and, likewise, from which Madonna recreated such scenes in Evita, to the anger of many Porteños). Tourists snapped photos from the park across the street. People lounged on benches and enjoyed the sight of immense 19th-century building looming above and around them. The Metropolitan Cathedral, completed in 1827, stands on the North side of the street, on the left and slightly down the road from the Casa Rosada. A bas relief over the doors depicts Jacob and Joseph. The tomb of Argentina`s liberator, Jose de San Martin, lies within (ironically San Martin, who is a hero in much of South America, moved to France to live out the rest of his days after emancipating the country; numerous streets are named after the man and he has many monuments dedicated to him, not the least of which is a large display on horseback in the center of Lima, Peru). Lining the Plaza are monolithic banks, soaring clocktowers and old cupola-topped mansions and municipal buildings. Another noticeable site, though far less spectacular, was that of numerous police and police vans on the streets leading up to the Casa Rosada. Some had helmets, shields and vests, along with the full range of offensive anti-riot gear. Large metal barriers sat on the side of the street, ready for immediate deployment to block all approaches to the presidential home.

I moved West and North past rows of majestic old buildings on wide boulevards that bore striking resemblances to those in the center of Paris. At times I though I was in Paris, the look and feel was so similar. The architecture fit the bill and the people around me certainly dressed the part of image-conscious Europeans. Old world cafes lined the streets and correspondingly old, gruff waiters in tuxedos pushed in and out through ornate mohogany doors to bring drinks and small sandwiches out to their clientele on the streetside tables.

I moved up the busy pedestrian street, Florida. Lined with bookstores, cafes, music stores and, among other things, (every few hundred feet, it seems) McDonalds restaurants, it stretches for many blocks up toward the city´s central train and bus terminals. Young men and women handed out fliers at every corner and magazine stands selling cigarettes and the latest fashion magazines (and plenty of them) were ubiquitous. There were also numerous street performers strumming guitars or practicing magic tricks. The day before, on my first jaunt up the avenue, I saw a puppeteer directing a piano-playing puppet resembling Albert Einstein with a lazy eye. He earned a lot of money and received a lot of applause with an impressively spastic display reminiscent of something from the movie, Being John Malkovitch.

After some time I veered left and found ABC Bookstore, the first planned stop of the day. Although Buenos Aires is the book-printing capital of South America, I had been unable to find a place that carried actual guides of Buenos Aires the day before. Strange, but true. Lonely Planet recommended ABC for its lselection of English books and --- can you believe it? --- because it carries a wide range of Lonely Planet guides. Sure enough, a copy of Lonely Planet: Buenos Aires was up for grabs and, without anything else to compete with it (a Time Out guide would have been nice), I snatched it up. In fairness, it seemed decent enough. My grudge against Lonely Planet is, thus far, directed only at the South America on a Shoestring edition, which was itself most likely researched on a shoestring (a dirty, lying, fabricating shoestring that doesn`t doublecheck its lousy shoestring facts). That said, it gets some things right and it was right on ABC Books. A secondhand section also led me to a copy of Alan Furst`s "The World at Night" for only $3 (anybody who has not read an Alan Furst novel should go read an Alan Furst novel immediately after they finish reading this).

I went to lunch at a Chinese tenedor libre ("free fork," meaning all-you-can-eat) buffet. At $2.75 it wasn`t a bad deal. The wide array of Chinese food was peppered with the occassional touch of more standard Argentinian fare: miniature empanadas and slices of prosciutto, for example. I read through the newly-acquired Lonely Planet to see what options I had for taking more Spanish classes. After lunch I headed down the street and into the Congressional district of the city. On the way I crossed the immense Avenida 9 de Julio, a 12-lane mega-highway that demands a mad, full-speed dash across it to ensure that the green "walk" light does not change to red while you are smack in the center. Built in 1936, a gleaming white obelisk in the center of Avenida 9 de Julio and Avenida Corrientes commemorates the 400th anniversary of the first Spanish settlement of Buenos AIres in 1536. It is one of the more widely-recognized landmarks of the city and (so I have heard though not yet witnessed) a center of riotous football-hooliganism after important victorious matches.

After several more blocks wandering down Avenida Corrientes, I turned the corner of Avenida Callao and came to the building that houses the Instituto de Lengua Espanola Para Extranjeros (Spanish Language School for Foreigners: www.argentinailee.com). On the way up to the third floor, I passed a Tango dance-lesson center. Hmmm, I thought. Hmmm. I have often wondered if Tango lessons include instruction on arching one´s eyebrows and tossing back one´s head --- or, perhaps, in growing a silly, Salvador Dali-esque mustache. Whatever the case, the proximity to the ILEE offices provided the opportunity to answer such important questions in the near future, should the desire to know grow too strong.

At $200 for 20 hours of class each week, the prices are stiff in comparison to those in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. On the other hand, a number of materials were included in the package and the qualification of the teachers seemed high. I signed up for a group class (maximum of 6 students) starting on Monday, January 31. I would have to come in at 11 AM on Friday, however, to take an evaluation test assessing my current level of fluency. Because she noticed that I was able to ask all my questions and complete my registration in Spanish, one of the teachers passing through the office paused to compliment me. She seemed particularly impressed by my ability to pronounce all of the double "l"s (ll) and "y"s with the Argentinian-style "shh!" annunciation. "Where are you from?" she asked. "Nueva Shork," I replied, trying my best to impress.

On my way out, I asked if anybody could recommend a nearby dentist who spoke English. This was another important item on my list of things to do for the day. Unfortunately, as my time on the Bolivian Altiplano drew to a close, I began to experience some "discomfort" with my teeth. Put more precisely, my gums were bleeding from time to time, most disturbingly during the night while I was asleep. I had tried everything to get it to stop but, after a week, it hadn`t. I had several theories as to why it was happening, but couldn`t confirm any of them.

Theory 1: The water I drank and brushed my teeth with in Rurrenabaque, Bolivia was the same as the rancid and foul black Jungle-Rot Water that runs through the Pampas.

Theory 2: The high altitude on the Altiplano --- which caused my mouth to parch overnight each and every night --- was dehydrating my mouth and causing me all sorts of trouble.

Theory 3: South American toothpaste is crap and one of the ingredients on the label is "Bolivian Jungle-Rot Water." Unfortunately, my Spanish skills are not up to the task of deciphering the label fully, which is all the more reason to take more classes.

Whatever the case, I needed a dentist and had resolved to find one as soon as I hit Buenos Aires. The women in the ILEE offices couldn`t think of anybody in particular, but recommended me to the English Hospital in Buenos Aires which would surely be able to refer me to somebody competent.

I thanked them, told them I would see them the next morning for my evaluation, and headed out. In an internet cafe, I managed to find a recommendation on the useful Buenos Aires "City Guide" section of the Economist`s online website (http://www.economist.com/cities/citiesmain.cfm?city_id=BEA). Armed with a name and an address, I headed down the street and walked some 15 minutes to the office. I had to buzz up to be admitted. I could not understand the rapid voice, muted by the intercom static. In the end I had to ask "Do you speak English? I have an emergency." I was let in.

In a clean, modern-looking office that would not be out of place in Manhattan, the receptionist told me the doctor I was looking for was away on vacation (its summertime in Buenos Aires and many of the more affluent Porteños are away in Uruguay, the lake region in the west, and on the beaches of Mar del Plata which is the local equivalent of the Hamptons). Nevertheless, if I had a seat and waited I could meet with a different dentist. I thanked her and sat down, thumbing through numerous fashion and interior design magazines. After 15 minutes, I was admitted to see a young dentist who vaguely resembled George Clooney. I was hoping that any further "ER" similarities would end right there. Immediately.

I explained my problem to him in a mix of English and Spanish. His English was not very good, but between the two of us, we managed to communicate back and forth. He gave me a standard teeth-cleaning and --- as is generally the case with trips to the dentist --- it wasn`t particularly fun or pleasant (but it wasn´t any worse than a trip in the U.S. either). As he worked, he tried to explain to me what he was doing. We then had the following exchange as I rinsed and spat.

"You need, umm, how you say it, umm..."

"Do you want to explain in Castellano [Spanish]?"

"No, is good I practice my English... You needed, umm, need, hole between your teeth?" [Looks at me quizically and shrugs.]

"A root canal?!!" At this point I am sure that my worst fears are confirmed: I have surely contracted Bolivian Jungle-Rot Trench-Mouth Gingivitis, along with a new strain of previously undiscovered South American Ebola virus ("Ebola Josh," they will call it). The affliction will require a prompt unanesthaetized root canal, to be followed by immediate amputation of the lips, gums and mouth.

"Yes! Root canal." Oh god! Stupid Bolivian toothpaste.

As I savor the thought of what is in stores for me, the doctor finishes his cleaning. He then gives me a tube of special toothpaste and tells me how to go about using it two or three times each day. He then takes of my bib and wishes me well.

"But the root canal?" I ask. "When will I need that?"

"Root canal? No! You don`t need a root canal! You have some, how you say [pronounces word resembling "tartar"] that form in this part of your mouth." [Gestures to area in mouth]

"No root canal?"

"No."

What a funny misunderstanding. Can`t wait for those Spanish lessons.

Back in the waiting room, the receptionist tells me I should come back on Monday to talk with the English-speaking doctor after his returns.

"How much do I owe?" I ask.

"Don`t worry about it," the receptionist tells me, "you can pay after you see the doctor on Monday."

What a great city so far. These people take me in on no notice, clean my teeth, give me a tube of special Anti-Bolivian-Jungle-Rot toothpaste and tell me not to worry about paying until I come back. Although I am not looking forward to the prospect of being told on my return that I actually do need a root canal. "That first guy you saw is an idiot!" I can envision the English-speaking doctor telling me. "We just keep him around cause he sort of looks like George Clooney. Which reminds me, speaking of `ER,´ has anybody seen my old bloody scalpel? Here, have a seat for a second..."

My gums are feeling a bit abused as an immediate consequence of all the poking around, but my mouth does feel cleaner and I do feel all-around better. I thank Dr. Clooney and the receptionist and head back out on the street, this time on my way to the Recoleta cemetary, the resting place of the city`s wealthy and elite, including Eva Peron. I don`t know why there is such a fuss over Recoleta in all of the literature I`ve read on Buenos Aires, but its apparently a spot that is not to be missed and, since I am relatively close to it, I decide to head on down the road and see where the rich and famous go for their eternal rest.

As I had plenty of time to people watch on my walk, it is at this point that I will comment again, in more detail, on the style of many Porteños. I have only seen such attention to appearance in Italy, France and, to a lesser extent, New York City. People take care of themselves and watch their appearance and dress. Not all of them, of course, but a great many of them. Many of the women are dressed in black or, surprisingly, green and, with their fancy European-style shoes and bags, appear to be trying out for a role in a TV series entitled Sexo y la Ciudad (and I should add that I have never seen so many Jennifer Love Hewitt look-alikes in such a short time).

As for the men, I have noticed quite a number of skinny, lanky sorts with messed-up (but deliberately messed-up) locks of shoulder-length hair and carefully-cultivated scruffy tufts of facial hair. Wearing bright orange and yellow striped jerseys, they themselves appear to be auditioning for the leading role in a Broadway musical spectacular entitled: JESUS CHRIST SOCCER-STAR.

In any event, some research has confirmed that attention to appearance is indeed a chief priority among many citizens of Buenos Aires. The rate of plastic surgery among the city´s inhabitants is one of the highest in the world. Curiously, so too is the rate of psychotherapy treatment. Apparently 1 in 146 Porteños is a psychotherapist (the city received an influx of German and Austrian-Jewish psychiatrists in the 1940s, as they fled Europe to escape Hitler). The current economic troubles have fed the city`s appetite for shrinkery. Before the collapse of the Argentinian Peso in December of 2001 (the Peso was pegged to the dollar then but is now worth only 34 cents), nearly 1/4 of Buenos Aires lived in poverty. The figure is now said to approach 1/2. Not that you would know from looking at many people here. The unfortunate reality is that a very educated and affluent Porteño may, despite an outer appearance of wealth, live in a small home or apartment with 10 or 20 family members to save money. The gap between rich and poor is said to be growing here, with the middle-class slowly dissolving and opportunities for economic advancement among the lower-class said to be slim to none at all. This all makes the title of the current entry seem a little tasteless and, with nothing else to say on the matter, I`ll simply move on.

The Recoleta cemetary makes it pefectly clear that any obsessions Porteños have over appearance do not end at death in the slightest. A vast metro-necropolis, the cemetary is a bizarre landscape of immense crypts and tombs that house and commemorate Buenos Aires´ wealthiest and most well-known figures. Standing ten or fifteen feet in height (or more), many of these constructions resemble miniature mansions. If ever there was an appropriate venue for a show called "Deathstyles of the Rich and Famous," this would be it. Quick! Somebody dig up Robin Leach (sorry).

Wandering amidst the mausoleums, through crowds and past scruffy congregations of bored-looking calico cats, I came to the flower-bedecked tomb of Eva (Duarte) Peron (note that Juan Peron is buried in another far less exclusive cemetary on the other side of the city). A hushed mass stood huddled around the solemn grey building, which featured a sculpted flaming torch over the door. By the side of the sealed door leading down to her subterranean vault, a plaque depicting Evita bears an inscription beginning "Don´t Cry for Me..." Ironically, Evita is buried alongside the elite Argentinian aristocracy who she was said to despise and who (it is generally agreed with far more certainty) despised her and her appeals to the "shirtless" poor masses. Although she is revered by most Argentinians as a saint, there are still some who resent her "lower-class" presence in Recoleta. As for the question of whether she was truly a champion of the downtrodden or a fascist and master propagandaist, there are many who would say she was both. It is not a question I plan to ask any Argentinians point blank.

I spent another half an hour walking through Recoleta, taking in tombs both tasteful and not. Some were truly garish, designed as miniature Athenian temples or covered by statues of winged angels and towering crosses. Never have such ostentatious displays of wealth left me so utterly unenvious. You can´t take it with you when you go, but some people had clearly attempted to lodge expensive parting protests. One Argentinian saying is that "it is cheaper to live extravagantly than to be buried in Recoleta." True or not, I wouldn´t be caught dead in some of these buildings.

I sat on one of the many benches under the shade of a tree and watched people go by, smiling in the sun. Some cats lolled on a tomb nearby, one of which featured a statue of a man with a long Italian mustache alongside the cob-web covered door. The gentleman in question had lived in the late 1800s, though I could not discern much more from the writing on the crypt. Over the years, as time took its toll, the statue had lost the left arm from the elbow down. Shelley´s words "look on my works ye mighty and despair!" came to mind. I thought that one additional reason for despair that Shelley might not have though about was that no matter how big and opulent your dead-person mansion might be, it is still --- more likely than not --- going to smell like cat pee.

I left Recoleta and, walking past the outer walls, spotted a sign that read as follows (in Spanish): "Resting here are those that have preceded us on the Road of Life. This is a place of respect and it is to be respected. Letters and drawings are prohibited." Directly across the street stood a Henry J. Beam´s Bar and Grill and, next to it, a Sports World Cafe. How very dignified, I thought.

Eager for a coffee and a rest, I hopped into a cab and asked the driver to take me to Cafe Tortoni, one of the oldest and best known places in a city that takes its cafes very seriously. The driver began to ask questions --- where I was from, whether I spoke Castellano, when I had arrived in Buenos Aires, etc... He began to give me advice on what to see and what to watch out for (dishonest taxi drivers, for one thing). I was a lawyer? Ahh, good, over there is the law school. I was going to study more Castellano? That was good too. His son was a professor of English and, as for him, he was Italian and spoke some Italian, but thought it was better to know English.

As we passed certain landmarks, he pointed them out for me.

"There´s the English Tower. Across the street that is the memorial of the Isla Malvinas (Falkland Islands) War. The president we had then was a mad son-of-a-bitch for starting that war with English. A mad son-of-a-bitch. They had to close the tower for a while because people were defacing it."

"That´s the Casa Rosada. Only the back is rose. Son-of-a-bitch! Only the back! See how the rest isn´t painted rose! Stupid! Look at all the police. 27 people died here in 2001 during the protests."

After that, he tried an Argentinian joke:

"How does an Argentine commit suicide?" (In fact, I had just read this joke in my new Lonely Planet. Nevertheless, I shrugged.)

"He jumps off his own ego."

(Because they are said to be the proudest people in South America, Argentines are the subject of many such jokes. Lonely Planet gives several others, including the following:

---How do you get rich quick?

Buy an Argentine for what he´s worth and sell him for what he thinks he is worth.

---How do you recognize an Argentine spy?

From the sign on her back that says "I am the greatest spy in the world!"

---An Argentine asks a Spaniard, "Friend, do you know which country is closest to heaven?" "Argentina, I suppose," retorts the angry Spaniards. "No, friend," says the Argentine, "Uruguay is the closest to Argentina.")

At Cafe Tortoni the driver wished me well and gave me his card. "Be careful," he said. "There are some crazy sons-of-bitches around."

In Cafe Tortoni I ordered a coffee and sat down amid the dozens of small, circular tables that filled the dimly-lit room. The large, low-hanging chandeliers, muted reds and dark wood colors, and numerous portraits and paintings functioned to create an old European feel. The place would have fit in anywhere in Paris and was more impressive than any of the cafes I have visited in Paris. Ancient, gristled waiters in tuxedos wove deftly in and out of the narrow aisles with plates of cheese and meat and tiny thimble-like mugs of hot espresso.

As with Parisians, Porteños spend a lot of time in cafes. Many places boast that they were the haunts of famous Argentinian intellectuals and writers, such as Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortazar. Borges is by far the most famous Argentinian writer outside of Argentina and was a regular at Cafe Tortoni (I have not read any of his works, but enjoyed the following description of his regarding the Malvinas/Falkland Islands War with England: "like two bald men fighting over a comb").

I spent several hours reading the Lonely Planet (learning some of the information about Buenos Aires posted here) and marking down various places to visit and things to do (I also spent time reading Love in the Time of Cholera). After that, I walked some more and put in some time on the blog.

I went for dinner at the very Argentinian hour of 11:30 PM. I found a parrillada near my hotel --- it was packed with diners. For $8 I received a gigantic steak, a side of chorizo (spicy sausage), a salad and a liter of beer (Quillmes, which is very good, runs about $1 per liter).

Although the streets were packed with people just going out for the evening at 1 AM, I called it a night. I had my ILEE evaluation test in the morning and a meeting with the members of an Argentinian English Club later on Friday night, as well a number of other errands to run. While I slept comfortably, I did wake up several times to the sound of people coming back from bars at 5 and 6 AM.