Our sedan flew down the main, and very wide, highway connecting the international airport to the city. Mack, Cef and I sat comfortably while Mack played linguistic ping-pong with the driver. The drive itself was uneventful and resembled the trek on interstate 90 between Cleveland and Toledo, Ohio; i.e. flat and blank. Regardless, Buenos Aires was the intended destination and just based on prior reading, it was most definitely no Toledo.
We passed the last in a long series of tollbooths, when a sudden sprout of tall, and very narrow, apartment blocks began to surround the highway. They were weathered, partly rusted structures, only serving to distract from the architecturally stunning streets below them. Plunging almost suddenly into the downtown Congresso district, I could see porteños, as inhabitants of Buenos Aires are called, moving frenetically in all directions, across vast avenues and green public squares. Taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather, they occupied every available seat the outdoor cafes had to offer. The oxidized monuments were a plenty and there seemed to be some grand statue placed every fifteen yards or so.
My first recorded jaw-drop can be attributed to my initial glimpse of the Argentine Parliament building. It was a behemoth jumble of architectural styles looking as if it had been around the block a couple of times; never mind that it actually occupied the entire block. The building looked like a government building should in such a strife-worn country like Argentina; soiled by soot, smog, conflict and history. Only our fast moving car, and my lack of stamina, prevented me from immediately exiting and running up those battered steps.
We continued to drive down one of the main avenues teeming with activity, when my mind began to wander back to New Year’s Eve, 2004. I was in Mexico City with a couple of friends of mine, Kooory and Riggs, excited by the expectation of a crazy New Year’s celebration in one of the biggest cities in the world. Perhaps some advanced planning and/or a quick skim of our Lonely Planet book might have saved us the resignation of ending up in La Zona Rosa; Spanish for the gringo’s play pen. For most of Central America, New Year’s Eve isn’t wild parties and exploding streams of champagne, but a quiet night with the family.
So, there we were in the shut-down Mexican capital, at one of the only open watering holes; a small place called – God, help me – Boomer’s Sport’s Bar. The three of us sat at the “Anglo Table” with some Canadians, Brits and New Zealanders. All the men were transparently hitting on the lone, attractive British girl while trying to pound two-liter bottles of Sol beer so we could say to our friends back home that we had at least gotten drunk.
There were also pockets of Peruvians, Estonians and a Honduran or two at Booomer’s that evening. And an old man from Argentina. He must have been in his 70’s, sitting in a corner by himself, propped up with a cane and as equally resigned a face as the rest of us. The old man didn’t mix with the other groups. He just sat there, statuesque. Eventually, I stumbled over, accompanied by a Honduran guy who used to live in DC. The Honduran introduced me to the stoic gentleman, and I put together some slurred Spanglish for an introduction. The old-timer mentioned he was from Buenos Aires and, my interest piqued, I asked him how Buenos Aires was. The man immediately turned to me, his face dramatically coming alive; his hands forming fervent gestures. He was trying to find the right words, but kept fumbling them. His eyebrows that, for the entire night had merely been two straight lines, were arched upward as if trying to squeeze out all the emotion from his brain.
Through my Sol haze I stood and watched this man struggle while trying to adequately relay his thoughts. A few seconds more and he was looking through me, exclaiming, “Buenos Aires, muy bien, muy bien” as if he was about to cry at any second. I never forgot that old man and his passion for the city of his birth. It only inspired a passion of my own to one day get to Buenos Aires myself and see what exactly would make someone respond that way.
Like many visitors to Buenos Aires staying longer than a week, Mack, Cef and I opted to rent an apartment in lieu of a hotel. When the very helpful airport shuttle driver dropped us and our bags off at the corner of Juncal and Aguero, we were greeted within a few minutes by the two 60s-ish owners: Luisa, a whirlwind of a woman, and her husband; a poor man who smiled uncomfortably every time her wind began to whirl.
The couple met us at the door of the small building and within seconds, the still lively Luisa was off like a balloon rapidly losing air. She crammed together several sentences with nary a breath, nor punctuation. If Mack and Cef hadn’t been there with their superb Spanish-speaking skills, I probably would have picked a corner to quiver in until the tornado had passed.
To be fair, she was actually quite sweet; just very excitable. Her husband, whose name is highly irrelevant considering his role as the straight man of the comic duo, quietly reaffirmed whatever Luisa was spouting with a nod. They showed us every nook and cranny of the spotlessly clean, one-bedroom apartment. They walked through how every contraption worked. She would jump up and down repeatedly at any mention of the city she obviously loved. Smiling and employing wild hand gestures as compass needles, she would point in every direction on our city map to where we should visit; where we should eat.
After we had signed the one-month lease and handed over the gobs of American dollars Mack had stuffed in her sock, the agency representative – who had stopped by later – the husband and his unhinged wife flew out the door in a gust of Spanish and cheek kisses. Once the door had slammed shut, the three of us looked at each other with utter exhaustion. How do you regain your bearings after a natural disaster? Mack and Cef had to lie down and I leaned against the wall to catch my breath.
Our rationale for choosing a living situation that did not include a smarmy concierge was two-fold. We wanted to actually feel like we were living in the city as opposed to living on the surface of it. No matter how long you stay in a hotel with all of its trappings, it will always feel like your just visiting. Secondly, for tourists hailing from the richer parts of the globe, an apartment rental in Buenos Aires – hell, anything in Buenos Aires – is comparatively dirt-cheap. I’m talking about a very comfortable, one—bedroom apartment with a balcony, all utilities included and maid service in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city. Not bad for a couple of middle-class gringos and a Chileano.
Speaking of neighborhoods, the agency we had arranged the apartment through claimed it was in the upscale and fashionable Recoleta neighborhood. Filled with achingly gorgeous French buildings and plenty of shi-shi shopping, Recoleta is Beverly Hills with more cleavage. Upon observing the street signs on our corner, however, we quickly noticed that we were technically on the borderline between Recoleta and Palermo, BA’s bastion of trendy and cool, which was fine by us.
The Aguero stop on the BA subway system was three blocks from the apartment, though as we traipsed around our neighborhood, it became patently obvious this was a true walking city. We didn’t need to walk far to be infected by BA’s non-stop energy. With a resident, and thriving, café culture and with kilometers and kilometers of shops and packed restaurants, I found it hard to believe the country is just recently recovering from a crippling economic crisis.
I began to see where the aged Luisa was getting her youthful exuberance from. I could see how walking a few blocks to run an errand, seemed to put a spring in the step. That energy was contagious. Luisa and the old man in Mexico gently reminded me that the older segment of humanity still knew a thing or two.
Who are these fictitious people with unreasonable names, which you keep in your South American stories?
Posted by: McCef | April 20, 2007 at 02:55 PM