I'm sitting in a really cool hostel (Cool Raul Hostel, San Lorenzo 1670) in Rosario, Argentina after a six-hour, 300km train ride where Primera Clase did not mean First Class. Still the train ride was fun-- like taking a tour of the Argentinean countryside in 1963. What was not fun was having to carry my suitcase.
When I came down to BsAs I didn't pack for a backpacking trip and packed way too many shoes and useless coats that I now have to lug around another 3,000km. I have my backpack which has the essentials and a huge suitcase with everything else. I'm tempted to leave it but there's just too much winter gear I'll need when I get back. So what to do? Keep the suitcase but give it a good lipo treatment, Argie-style.
First to go was my 2kg of mate that I brought for no good reason. Next to go will probably be two pairs of jeans, two pairs of shoes, a couple of shirts and a jacket. I will also move some of the heavier articles to the backpack, If I can reduce the weight of the suitcase by 25% I'll be stoked. Even so, I fear a good percentage of the weight is the suitcase itself so I may just buy a bag to haul my stuff in. We'll see.
The bad news is that as I type this I can't stop thinking about a pair of red Ponys I saw earlier. I want them. What to do? SL
27 December 2009
14 December 2009
Back to the grind...
I returned yesterday, Saturday, from a week-long trip to Uruguay. It consisted of three separate events: the trip there; Montevideo; and Punta del Diablo.
The trip there: I took the midnight ferry to Uruguay and made some Uruguayan friends who said I should support the Montevideo team Peñarol. One of them has a daughter in North Carolina and he wanted to give me a box of stuff to give to her once I return to the US; I told him I lived nowhere near North Carolina!
Montevideo: The city looked very impressive from across the harbor (probably what Manhattan looked like from the East River in the 1880s) but the city itself was disappointing. It's an okay city, average for Latin America...I guess it's just not what I looking for. It does have a nice beach though, so it has that going for it. And a great chivito place in the called Chivitos Marcos in the Pocitos neighborhood.
Punta del Diablo: This is the place I was really trying to get to so getting there was a great relief. It's a small and quiet dirt-road surf slash beach town. I was there four nights and am happy to report I did very little during my stay. The hostel staff said a Lonely Planet writer had been there a few weeks earlier so expect this little bit of paradise to be totally different in two years; come here while it's still peaceful!!!
Overall impressions: Positive. Everyone says Uruguayans are nicer and more tranquilos than Argies but I've found Argies nice, too. One thing though: it's as expensive as the California...I don't know how Uruguayans can live there!
The trip there: I took the midnight ferry to Uruguay and made some Uruguayan friends who said I should support the Montevideo team Peñarol. One of them has a daughter in North Carolina and he wanted to give me a box of stuff to give to her once I return to the US; I told him I lived nowhere near North Carolina!
Montevideo: The city looked very impressive from across the harbor (probably what Manhattan looked like from the East River in the 1880s) but the city itself was disappointing. It's an okay city, average for Latin America...I guess it's just not what I looking for. It does have a nice beach though, so it has that going for it. And a great chivito place in the called Chivitos Marcos in the Pocitos neighborhood.
Punta del Diablo: This is the place I was really trying to get to so getting there was a great relief. It's a small and quiet dirt-road surf slash beach town. I was there four nights and am happy to report I did very little during my stay. The hostel staff said a Lonely Planet writer had been there a few weeks earlier so expect this little bit of paradise to be totally different in two years; come here while it's still peaceful!!!
Overall impressions: Positive. Everyone says Uruguayans are nicer and more tranquilos than Argies but I've found Argies nice, too. One thing though: it's as expensive as the California...I don't know how Uruguayans can live there!
04 December 2009
Uruguay and the Future
I'm trying to write more often (but less lengthy) so bare with me.
I went to Uruguay last week with my friend Mira because she had to renew her visa and going to Uruguay is just what you do here. We took a Buquebus ferry to Colonia, the closest Uruguayan city to BsAs. The day was spectacularly perfect, which should have been no surprise since the previous day had been dark and wet (Mira's theory, which I subscribe to, is that the weather here is the opposite day after day--if today is nice tomorrow will be terrible).
Colonia is a very typical and cool, umm--surprise!--colonial town: cobblestone streets, old Spanish and Portuguese buildings, tons of foreigners, etc. We took a tour and touched the water which magically reminded me that I need to go to the beach. Plus, simply breathing unpolluted air and seeing streets devoid of people, cars and trash did much to remind me that getting out of the city is beneficial for both body and mind.
I'm planning a week-long trip to Uruguay (land of the Ramos clan!) and, specifically, Montevideo, which has been described by numerous people as a smaller and tranquil version of Buenos Aires, but with a beach. Souuuunds perfect: I'm all partied-out. It will be a welcomed break. Since I'll be so near I'm going to take a few days to explore (read: lay about with my feet in the sand) either Punta del Diablo or Cabo Polonia, small fishing/resort towns some kilometers (I'm going Metric, bitches!) to the north of Punta del Este.
Punta was a place I wanted to visit before coming down here but, honestly, I don't want to party and I don't want to deal with tons of tourists. I'm going to need all of my strength and health for my last week in Baires before starting the long trek north into Bolivia and, eventually, Peru, where I hope to again sit with feet in the sand, sipping ice-cold beers and eating seafood so fresh it will fight to get out of my mouth! SL
Thanks, I hope you got bare with me...get it? Well, at least I amused myself. Is this what Sarah Palin meant by gotcha journalism?!
I went to Uruguay last week with my friend Mira because she had to renew her visa and going to Uruguay is just what you do here. We took a Buquebus ferry to Colonia, the closest Uruguayan city to BsAs. The day was spectacularly perfect, which should have been no surprise since the previous day had been dark and wet (Mira's theory, which I subscribe to, is that the weather here is the opposite day after day--if today is nice tomorrow will be terrible).
Colonia is a very typical and cool, umm--surprise!--colonial town: cobblestone streets, old Spanish and Portuguese buildings, tons of foreigners, etc. We took a tour and touched the water which magically reminded me that I need to go to the beach. Plus, simply breathing unpolluted air and seeing streets devoid of people, cars and trash did much to remind me that getting out of the city is beneficial for both body and mind.
I'm planning a week-long trip to Uruguay (land of the Ramos clan!) and, specifically, Montevideo, which has been described by numerous people as a smaller and tranquil version of Buenos Aires, but with a beach. Souuuunds perfect: I'm all partied-out. It will be a welcomed break. Since I'll be so near I'm going to take a few days to explore (read: lay about with my feet in the sand) either Punta del Diablo or Cabo Polonia, small fishing/resort towns some kilometers (I'm going Metric, bitches!) to the north of Punta del Este.
Punta was a place I wanted to visit before coming down here but, honestly, I don't want to party and I don't want to deal with tons of tourists. I'm going to need all of my strength and health for my last week in Baires before starting the long trek north into Bolivia and, eventually, Peru, where I hope to again sit with feet in the sand, sipping ice-cold beers and eating seafood so fresh it will fight to get out of my mouth! SL
Thanks, I hope you got bare with me...get it? Well, at least I amused myself. Is this what Sarah Palin meant by gotcha journalism?!
Cali Friends
Jonesy and Sara were in town two weeks ago and it was nice seeing familiar faces. I'm actually not homesick, which totally surprises me since the last two times I was out of the country for en extended period of time (Europe and Mexico, both times about a month) I was terrible homesick at about three and a half weeks. But not yet.
Still, being reminded of SLO, college and friends was really, really cool. Sara was always craving ice cream and Jonesy and I weren't complaining--that stuff is pretty good here! We happily obliged. I'm a huge fan of lime and orange flavors which I find incredibly refreshing in this hot and muggy weather.
On a related note: they brought me corn tortillas! Those things are next-to-impossible to find here so being brought a big bag was awesome and enabled me to make and share some tasty veal tacos. Baby cow tacos are really the way to go...why allow them to grow up and get tough?! SL
02 December 2009
Attack of the Trannies!
Scene: Club Chic, Palermo. 06.00, daybreak, after four hours of dancing.
I'm exiting Club Chic as the scene is winding down. It's light out and I am regretting not having my sunglasses. The club is--oddly enough-- located in the middle of a large wooded park called Bosques de Palermo and we have to cross this to get back home. George, Juan and I are walking up Sarmiento towards Plaza Italia when, up ahead and between us and a food stand, are two trannies looking for the last street action of the night. They start hollering and walking confidently towards us as my friends and I giggle like English schoolgirls at the oncoming prospects and joke about how much we would pay (Answer: suprisingly little).
Before we're done with our jokes, these two "ladies" are essentially assaulting us: the thick topless one chose me while the taller one chose my friend George. We're still walking, mind you, though obviously slowed by the interference; they grab by the shoulders and promise things for various prices. Ew. [I'm almost positive this caused me to throw up in my mouth a little, ruined my stomach for the next 24 hours and began a chain of events that led to perhaps the single-most embarrassing situation I've ever been in some 6 hours later. But that's another story...]
As suddenly as these Sirens of the Night appeared they disappeared, this time into one of the many passing taxis. Then, like a Saharan mirage, a guy scuttles towards us like Zoidberg from Futurama, yelling in our direction (at us?) between bites of his super milanesa sandwich:
"Did those bitches rob you?! Check your pockets. All they do is rob people coming out of the club; they'll get close to them and then reach into their pockets. Fucken whores!"
We all check our pockets but seem to have everything we had before the assault save a little dignity. Nothing is missing from any of us. Are we lucky? Have we escaped with only an assault? It sure looks that way. Bad. Ass.
In celebratory ecstasy George orders an hamburguesa; Juan isn't so brave and my stomach is still reeling. As George eats, I notice two guys on a bench about ten meters up the road: one is laying on the bench, well asleep while the other sits on the backrest. Both look homeless and I figure they are simply taking turns laying on the bench or some other naive thing. Ha! The guy who's sitting is going through the sleeping guy's pockets! He sees me looking but continues anyway, undeterred. After a few minutes of slow-motion pick-pocketing the perpetrator leaves, disappearing into the woods from whence the trannies had come some minutes before. Perhaps they are the same person? I don't know, I'm tired. Just another night in Buenos Aires. SL
[Edit: I still am not certain, but those trannies may have taken some money from me after all, about ARS$60. For those of you keeping score, I've "donated" about ARS$125 thus far.]
I'm exiting Club Chic as the scene is winding down. It's light out and I am regretting not having my sunglasses. The club is--oddly enough-- located in the middle of a large wooded park called Bosques de Palermo and we have to cross this to get back home. George, Juan and I are walking up Sarmiento towards Plaza Italia when, up ahead and between us and a food stand, are two trannies looking for the last street action of the night. They start hollering and walking confidently towards us as my friends and I giggle like English schoolgirls at the oncoming prospects and joke about how much we would pay (Answer: suprisingly little).
Before we're done with our jokes, these two "ladies" are essentially assaulting us: the thick topless one chose me while the taller one chose my friend George. We're still walking, mind you, though obviously slowed by the interference; they grab by the shoulders and promise things for various prices. Ew. [I'm almost positive this caused me to throw up in my mouth a little, ruined my stomach for the next 24 hours and began a chain of events that led to perhaps the single-most embarrassing situation I've ever been in some 6 hours later. But that's another story...]
As suddenly as these Sirens of the Night appeared they disappeared, this time into one of the many passing taxis. Then, like a Saharan mirage, a guy scuttles towards us like Zoidberg from Futurama, yelling in our direction (at us?) between bites of his super milanesa sandwich:
"Did those bitches rob you?! Check your pockets. All they do is rob people coming out of the club; they'll get close to them and then reach into their pockets. Fucken whores!"
We all check our pockets but seem to have everything we had before the assault save a little dignity. Nothing is missing from any of us. Are we lucky? Have we escaped with only an assault? It sure looks that way. Bad. Ass.
In celebratory ecstasy George orders an hamburguesa; Juan isn't so brave and my stomach is still reeling. As George eats, I notice two guys on a bench about ten meters up the road: one is laying on the bench, well asleep while the other sits on the backrest. Both look homeless and I figure they are simply taking turns laying on the bench or some other naive thing. Ha! The guy who's sitting is going through the sleeping guy's pockets! He sees me looking but continues anyway, undeterred. After a few minutes of slow-motion pick-pocketing the perpetrator leaves, disappearing into the woods from whence the trannies had come some minutes before. Perhaps they are the same person? I don't know, I'm tired. Just another night in Buenos Aires. SL
[Edit: I still am not certain, but those trannies may have taken some money from me after all, about ARS$60. For those of you keeping score, I've "donated" about ARS$125 thus far.]
26 November 2009
Club America
I just picked up my new passport a few hours ago! I'm bummed I didn't completely fill up my last one but hopefully this new one will be full before it expires in ten years. My initial appointment was for November 3rd at 08.30 but I totally missed it. Unfortunately I was still out in San Telmo and though I could have made it to the embassy I doubt they wouldn't have let me in. Trust me. [Think of The Simpsons episode Bart v Australia where Homer step on embassy grounds then Australia and repeats until a Marine hits him with the barrel of his rifle while proclaiming "Here in America we don't tolerate that kind of crap, Sir.]
A few days after that missed appointment I rescheduled for the 17th of November. This time I went to bed early and woke up in time to shower, eat breakfast and take a cab to the embassy. I showed up early, maybe 08.15 or so and there was already a line of about 60 people awaiting entrance to interview for an American visa. The line for citizens was about three deep and I was quickly called to the window and buzzed through the six-centimeter thick bomb-proof steel and glass door and into the security room. It felt like the US Embassy was the most exclusive club in the city and I knew one of the owners: My name's Arturo and my uncle Sam owns this place! Come on in Sir, no waiting in line for you. America, Fuck Yeah.
They told me my new passport would be ready in 10 working days (on November 30th) but this last Monday the 23rd I received a call telling me my passport was ready! I returned this morning and went through the US citizen VIP line and through the same security hassle but was in and out in 15 minutes. After living in a country notorious for bureaucratic inefficiency it was comforting to set foot on American soil and experience a good aspect of American culture: we get it done!
Ironic, but the federal government--in my experience-- was more efficient here that it's ever been in the States. I have even more respect for the Foreign Service...they've got my back! And after listening to so much anti-American jibber jabber at home and here it was nice to see so many people going through the equivalent of a rectal exam at the DMV just to visit the US. I really am fortunate to have an American passport which gives me access to the entire world without having to wait hours in lines.
Alright, alright enough of this "America, Fuck Yeah!" patriotism.
On a related note: The new passports blow! They're like comic books telling the history of America through cliche images and quotes. Fairly cheesy. Funny thing: under Important Information, Number 6 suggests you avoid violating foreign laws. They could have gone with something stronger like "Don't violate" but instead made the deliberate decision to use "avoid" as if to say "try, but not too hard." Yes Uncles, I will try. But not too hard. SL
A few days after that missed appointment I rescheduled for the 17th of November. This time I went to bed early and woke up in time to shower, eat breakfast and take a cab to the embassy. I showed up early, maybe 08.15 or so and there was already a line of about 60 people awaiting entrance to interview for an American visa. The line for citizens was about three deep and I was quickly called to the window and buzzed through the six-centimeter thick bomb-proof steel and glass door and into the security room. It felt like the US Embassy was the most exclusive club in the city and I knew one of the owners: My name's Arturo and my uncle Sam owns this place! Come on in Sir, no waiting in line for you. America, Fuck Yeah.
They told me my new passport would be ready in 10 working days (on November 30th) but this last Monday the 23rd I received a call telling me my passport was ready! I returned this morning and went through the US citizen VIP line and through the same security hassle but was in and out in 15 minutes. After living in a country notorious for bureaucratic inefficiency it was comforting to set foot on American soil and experience a good aspect of American culture: we get it done!
Ironic, but the federal government--in my experience-- was more efficient here that it's ever been in the States. I have even more respect for the Foreign Service...they've got my back! And after listening to so much anti-American jibber jabber at home and here it was nice to see so many people going through the equivalent of a rectal exam at the DMV just to visit the US. I really am fortunate to have an American passport which gives me access to the entire world without having to wait hours in lines.
Alright, alright enough of this "America, Fuck Yeah!" patriotism.
On a related note: The new passports blow! They're like comic books telling the history of America through cliche images and quotes. Fairly cheesy. Funny thing: under Important Information, Number 6 suggests you avoid violating foreign laws. They could have gone with something stronger like "Don't violate" but instead made the deliberate decision to use "avoid" as if to say "try, but not too hard." Yes Uncles, I will try. But not too hard. SL
24 November 2009
On Being Robbed (And Not Liking It)
Argentina 1, Uruguay 0. The game was nothing like the epic Argentina-Peru game some days before, but very few games have been or will be as emotional as that game; even fewer will have the collective well-being of an entire nation riding on them. Surely the Argentineans will be celebrating their classification into the 2010 World Cup Finals at the Obelisk, the scene for most of this city's sports-related celebrations. Living only about a mile away (I walk a mile in my sleep-- it's nothing!) I figure it is worth a visit to see a sport celebration close-up-- as a resident of the Bay Area I have never had the opportunity to see anything like this in person (quiet SoCal people!).
So off I go: first unlocking and then locking my apartment door, then walking down a long corridor and finally unlocking and--following the instructions posted on the door-- gently closing the building door. The night is brisk and I'm double-layered against it; I don not have a scarf so I walk with my head down. I head left down Juncal and then right onto 9 de Julio, the main street through the densest part of Buenos Aires. It also has to be the world's widest street since there are at least 24 lanes of traffic riding on it; I say at least because like all good urban Latin Americans, Porteños have a magic way of turning two lane into three, not counting the lanes created by alternatively amazing and intrusive moped, motorcycle and non-motorized cycle riders.
I cross Arenales and then Santa Fe: Trak, the chicken sandwich place on the corner, is closed but employees are milling about desperately removing chicken grease off the walls. After crossing Santa Fe I'm out of my neighborhood and into less familiar sidewalks. This may seem unimportant but knowing where sidewalks have wobbly spots or are missing altogether helps you walk like a local-- that is: fast and confidently. Also, it's good to know where dog owners tend to let their dogs to their deeds. Why? Because it'll be on the ground and, very likely, in your path.
At the next intersection I make a left and head into what's known as the Microcentro. This is a commercial area that I've spent more time in and has people walking at all hours. And as we all know, more people equals more safety. At Alvear I make the trek across 9 de Julio and it takes two light cycles to get across. (If you're old or a n00b three cycles is what you should expect.)
Now I'm walking on the other side of 9 de Julio and it's better if only for the fact there are less dog regalitos (presents, in porteñospeak) on the sidewalk because- as I said before- it's less residential. I can see the Obelisk in the distance and as I walk towards it I'm offered free admission into a bar. I decline because i have no plan on drinking tonight and start walking away but am told they'll give me a free pass for the weekend. I should walk away. But it's a bar, and it's near my house. And it's free.
This "free pass" deal is very common so think nothing of it as I walk in. I instantly know I am not in a bar. And I should walk away NOW. But it's too effin late. I am the only customer and in a matter of seconds I have a girl on each arm and am seated in a corner...all while awaiting the elusive "free pass."
Three orange drinks are promptly served (Fanta I assume; but though I love Fanta I know better than to drink them at a place like this) and am verbally given prices for things illegal in most of Puritan America (and here, also, I suspect.). The girls ask me questions and mention that I look noticeably uncomfortable. I reply that I am (a lie cannot cover up obvious physical discomfort) and continue answering their questions with surprising honesty, the way one only does with a total stranger. I should walk away now. But the drinks mean I owe them money, I am sure of it. Fuck. And I know the $15 pesos in my wallet are not going to cover the bill.
I look around and hope the don't have an ATM inside. They don't and I attempt my first escape:
"I really have to go, ladies."
"Okay, just pay what you owe us." I worried for a second: how long have I been here? What have I done? I hope it was with both of them. Waiiiiit, owe them for what??? Hopefully just the drinks. Crap.
"How much?"
"$40 pesos." Oh good, only $40. Just drinks. Relax, you didn't drink the orange drink. You're good.
"I only have $15...I really just want the free pass. Here, I'll give you fifteen."
"But you owe us forty for your drink." Fuck you.
"Fine, is there a bank nearby?"
"Yes, this woman will take you." Oh, she looks crazy.
The bank is two buildings down, within sight of the massive doorman who will keep an eye one me. The doorman himself has the man and build of a man not to be messed with: boots, a chain attaching his wallet to his pants, a leather jacket and long, wavy hair; essentially a metal guy. I can tell he is the sad type who is not inherently aggressive but because of his size and appearance can only find work as the tough-guy and will play that persona to protect his source income.
The woman escorting me is smaller than me but gives the impression she will push my head into a window and bite my ear off if she thinks I'm going to pull some funny stuff. I walk. The doorman keeps watch. "You know, you're robbing me. That's pretty shitty." The woman mumbled; I don't even think it was in response to my accusation but to remind me she was as crazy as I instinctually thought. At this point running away is an option, but for $40 pesos not worth the risk of a guy in their employ a block down bash my head in AND take my money. So I withdraw $50 and walk back to the bar, cash in wallet.
I foolishly find myself at the bar--well strip club/brothel is what it turned out to be so I'll call it that--again, waiting for change. AH SHIT! Fool me twice, shame on me. The same two girls come up to me again and--pointing at a menu-- claim I owe them for more than a drink. Silly me, it turns out the $40 pesos was just for my drink! How unchivalrous of me to only pay for my drink. I will gladly pay for both of your drinks! Oh, and I owe you for more? Please tell me. At this point I stop listening because I have already decided I am not going to give them more money. (And this, friends, is a little literary tactic called foreshadowing.)
The beautiful Chilean to my left (I know she's Chilean because earlier she asked me if their National Team had beaten Peru earlier (they had); women here may be even more passionate than men when it comes to fútbol) points at three or four items on the menu that I've inadvertently purchased by the mere act of straying in. Saying "I'm not paying" is surely suicidal so I play it cool: "Oh my mistake, she [my crazy ATM escort] didn't tell me. Can someone take me to the ATM again?" Wow, we have ourselves a first-rate sucker right here! Cha-cha-ching! At this point they have $65 pesos of my money, and I owe them at least another $250 (the non-alcoholic orange drinks were the cheapest thing on the menu so $250 is a conservative estimate).
Here we go again. My escort leads me out, again asks the bouncer to keep an eye on us and makes a right out the front door. But I make a left. First I walk, until the crazy woman realizes I'm not following and turns around to see me a good ten meters away. She rushes back to the doorman who intends to give chase but stops after a few steps. Chasing someone on a semi-busy street is not good practice anywhere at any time but I've met too many people in Buenos Aired who have been robbed in plain daylight while passersby make no attempt to interfere or stop the thief. I make the first left at Cordoba) and do a speed walk that might qualify me for the next Summer Olympics (I'm awaiting an official ruling from the judges.)
In my full-retard sprint-walk I wonder if they have guys in the neighborhood ready to pull guys like me into a corner. This being a city of dark doorways where people love to stand provides my imagination with plenty of potential Ahhhh this guy's gonna pull me in and kill me" scenarios. Now everyone has me worried: the people in those doorways; poorly-paid security guards; magazine vendors; suspicious-looking men walking alone. But more than anyone, the prostitutes working their corners have me worried. Surely, if anyone on these streets is in cahoots it is them: are they giving away my location for a few hits of paco?
I keep walking down Cordoba towards the old docks and, long before then, Calle Florida. La Florida is a pedestrian mall with shops and lights and people at all hours and is my best bet for getting home. Once I'm on it my only worry are the prostitutes who are on seemingly every intersection. Is my progress being tracked? I keep looking around like I have seen in those History Channel-recreated KGB-CIA face-offs.
After two blocks or so on Florida I hit Plaza San Martin and wind my way beneath its Winter-bare sinuous trees fully exposed beneath the strong moon-lit sky and get back to Juncal. By now I am nearly laughing about being robbed and cross 9 de Julio. I can see my building, but just in case they are watching or I am being followed I go around the block, walking between the French and Brazilian embassies, down Arroyo and up Libertad until I'm back on Juncal and inside my home sweet home.
I never did make it to the Obelisk. And they never gave me that ephemeral free pass. Will they recognize me when I walk by? We'll find out soon...it's on the way to some good food places and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some two-bit whores and an overweight douche with bad hair stand between me and some superpanchos and gyros! SL
So off I go: first unlocking and then locking my apartment door, then walking down a long corridor and finally unlocking and--following the instructions posted on the door-- gently closing the building door. The night is brisk and I'm double-layered against it; I don not have a scarf so I walk with my head down. I head left down Juncal and then right onto 9 de Julio, the main street through the densest part of Buenos Aires. It also has to be the world's widest street since there are at least 24 lanes of traffic riding on it; I say at least because like all good urban Latin Americans, Porteños have a magic way of turning two lane into three, not counting the lanes created by alternatively amazing and intrusive moped, motorcycle and non-motorized cycle riders.
I cross Arenales and then Santa Fe: Trak, the chicken sandwich place on the corner, is closed but employees are milling about desperately removing chicken grease off the walls. After crossing Santa Fe I'm out of my neighborhood and into less familiar sidewalks. This may seem unimportant but knowing where sidewalks have wobbly spots or are missing altogether helps you walk like a local-- that is: fast and confidently. Also, it's good to know where dog owners tend to let their dogs to their deeds. Why? Because it'll be on the ground and, very likely, in your path.
At the next intersection I make a left and head into what's known as the Microcentro. This is a commercial area that I've spent more time in and has people walking at all hours. And as we all know, more people equals more safety. At Alvear I make the trek across 9 de Julio and it takes two light cycles to get across. (If you're old or a n00b three cycles is what you should expect.)
Now I'm walking on the other side of 9 de Julio and it's better if only for the fact there are less dog regalitos (presents, in porteñospeak) on the sidewalk because- as I said before- it's less residential. I can see the Obelisk in the distance and as I walk towards it I'm offered free admission into a bar. I decline because i have no plan on drinking tonight and start walking away but am told they'll give me a free pass for the weekend. I should walk away. But it's a bar, and it's near my house. And it's free.
This "free pass" deal is very common so think nothing of it as I walk in. I instantly know I am not in a bar. And I should walk away NOW. But it's too effin late. I am the only customer and in a matter of seconds I have a girl on each arm and am seated in a corner...all while awaiting the elusive "free pass."
Three orange drinks are promptly served (Fanta I assume; but though I love Fanta I know better than to drink them at a place like this) and am verbally given prices for things illegal in most of Puritan America (and here, also, I suspect.). The girls ask me questions and mention that I look noticeably uncomfortable. I reply that I am (a lie cannot cover up obvious physical discomfort) and continue answering their questions with surprising honesty, the way one only does with a total stranger. I should walk away now. But the drinks mean I owe them money, I am sure of it. Fuck. And I know the $15 pesos in my wallet are not going to cover the bill.
I look around and hope the don't have an ATM inside. They don't and I attempt my first escape:
"I really have to go, ladies."
"Okay, just pay what you owe us." I worried for a second: how long have I been here? What have I done? I hope it was with both of them. Waiiiiit, owe them for what??? Hopefully just the drinks. Crap.
"How much?"
"$40 pesos." Oh good, only $40. Just drinks. Relax, you didn't drink the orange drink. You're good.
"I only have $15...I really just want the free pass. Here, I'll give you fifteen."
"But you owe us forty for your drink." Fuck you.
"Fine, is there a bank nearby?"
"Yes, this woman will take you." Oh, she looks crazy.
The bank is two buildings down, within sight of the massive doorman who will keep an eye one me. The doorman himself has the man and build of a man not to be messed with: boots, a chain attaching his wallet to his pants, a leather jacket and long, wavy hair; essentially a metal guy. I can tell he is the sad type who is not inherently aggressive but because of his size and appearance can only find work as the tough-guy and will play that persona to protect his source income.
The woman escorting me is smaller than me but gives the impression she will push my head into a window and bite my ear off if she thinks I'm going to pull some funny stuff. I walk. The doorman keeps watch. "You know, you're robbing me. That's pretty shitty." The woman mumbled; I don't even think it was in response to my accusation but to remind me she was as crazy as I instinctually thought. At this point running away is an option, but for $40 pesos not worth the risk of a guy in their employ a block down bash my head in AND take my money. So I withdraw $50 and walk back to the bar, cash in wallet.
I foolishly find myself at the bar--well strip club/brothel is what it turned out to be so I'll call it that--again, waiting for change. AH SHIT! Fool me twice, shame on me. The same two girls come up to me again and--pointing at a menu-- claim I owe them for more than a drink. Silly me, it turns out the $40 pesos was just for my drink! How unchivalrous of me to only pay for my drink. I will gladly pay for both of your drinks! Oh, and I owe you for more? Please tell me. At this point I stop listening because I have already decided I am not going to give them more money. (And this, friends, is a little literary tactic called foreshadowing.)
The beautiful Chilean to my left (I know she's Chilean because earlier she asked me if their National Team had beaten Peru earlier (they had); women here may be even more passionate than men when it comes to fútbol) points at three or four items on the menu that I've inadvertently purchased by the mere act of straying in. Saying "I'm not paying" is surely suicidal so I play it cool: "Oh my mistake, she [my crazy ATM escort] didn't tell me. Can someone take me to the ATM again?" Wow, we have ourselves a first-rate sucker right here! Cha-cha-ching! At this point they have $65 pesos of my money, and I owe them at least another $250 (the non-alcoholic orange drinks were the cheapest thing on the menu so $250 is a conservative estimate).
Here we go again. My escort leads me out, again asks the bouncer to keep an eye on us and makes a right out the front door. But I make a left. First I walk, until the crazy woman realizes I'm not following and turns around to see me a good ten meters away. She rushes back to the doorman who intends to give chase but stops after a few steps. Chasing someone on a semi-busy street is not good practice anywhere at any time but I've met too many people in Buenos Aired who have been robbed in plain daylight while passersby make no attempt to interfere or stop the thief. I make the first left at Cordoba) and do a speed walk that might qualify me for the next Summer Olympics (I'm awaiting an official ruling from the judges.)
In my full-retard sprint-walk I wonder if they have guys in the neighborhood ready to pull guys like me into a corner. This being a city of dark doorways where people love to stand provides my imagination with plenty of potential Ahhhh this guy's gonna pull me in and kill me" scenarios. Now everyone has me worried: the people in those doorways; poorly-paid security guards; magazine vendors; suspicious-looking men walking alone. But more than anyone, the prostitutes working their corners have me worried. Surely, if anyone on these streets is in cahoots it is them: are they giving away my location for a few hits of paco?
I keep walking down Cordoba towards the old docks and, long before then, Calle Florida. La Florida is a pedestrian mall with shops and lights and people at all hours and is my best bet for getting home. Once I'm on it my only worry are the prostitutes who are on seemingly every intersection. Is my progress being tracked? I keep looking around like I have seen in those History Channel-recreated KGB-CIA face-offs.
After two blocks or so on Florida I hit Plaza San Martin and wind my way beneath its Winter-bare sinuous trees fully exposed beneath the strong moon-lit sky and get back to Juncal. By now I am nearly laughing about being robbed and cross 9 de Julio. I can see my building, but just in case they are watching or I am being followed I go around the block, walking between the French and Brazilian embassies, down Arroyo and up Libertad until I'm back on Juncal and inside my home sweet home.
I never did make it to the Obelisk. And they never gave me that ephemeral free pass. Will they recognize me when I walk by? We'll find out soon...it's on the way to some good food places and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some two-bit whores and an overweight douche with bad hair stand between me and some superpanchos and gyros! SL
29 October 2009
First Impressions/ Primeras Impresiones
This is a pretty incredible city, not quite as I remember it but nothing ever is. It's a great mixture of European classicism and Latin American populism: Buenos Aires is like an old woman far past her prime who still chases after younger men; you know that in her prime she was the hottest little thing around and even though her physical body has decayed she still maintains that confidence, class and style imbued by that once-masterful physical shell. In a sense it's sad to see the city living so much off its past but at the same time I can't blame her: she really is beautiful!
Everything in this city bleeds Italy and Spain (something like 90% of the people have ancestors from there) but they've still managed to infuse that Latin American...there's no word for it, it's a feeling that can only be expressed with a hand gesture that makes a forty-five degree arch from the heart downward or by ... the French phrase je ne sais quoi which seems a very appropriate description for this particular situation.
Time here runs fast only when people are walking-- everything else is sloooow: the meals; the coffee; the chats; the laying-out in the parks...life in general moves at a pace more to my liking. Then again, most countries move slower that the US. It's amazing how much Americans work and how fast life there is compared to most of the world, including our European brethren. You have no idea how many times I;ve gotten a "What?" (in a tone of utter disbelief) when I say that most Americans get two or three weeks of vacation per year. It almost makes me cry. Every single time. But back to BsAs...
I compare it a lot to New York City...not so much physically (though it is incredibly dense: the city proper is about twice as dense as San Francisco proper, and half as dense as Manhattan Island) but in how both were-- and are-- magnets for people from all over the world. Definitely on different levels because NYC is unique but let me make my case.
Both cities welcomed millions of European immigrants from the 1880s (Italian unification) to the 1940s (end of WWII). When you think of the millions of Italians that arrived in NYC know that MORE arrived in BsAs. And even MORE in Sao Paolo! From a city of about 250k in the 1880, Buenos Aires proper reached 2M by 1924 and topped 3M by the end the second World War (12x larger; compare that to NYC, which increased its population by a factor of about 6 during those same years). Then there are the Spaniards, and the Germans and the Poles and those from the collapsed Ottoman Empire and and and...you get it. Even now it continues drawing hundreds of thousands of people from nearby Uruguay, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay and Ecuador and throughout Latin America. There are tons of Europeans here and so few Americans. Latin America has a bad image in the States I guess.
I sense in both cities a shared culture of massive urbanism that incubates creativity. But it's not New York. People here aren't Italian-American. They're not "of German ancestry." They're not "Puerto Rican." Very simply, they're Argentines. It was hard for my American let's-hyphenate-your-culture mentality to grasp at first but now it makes much more sense than our system. Then again, they have very few blacks or Asians so I guess being Argentine is simpler if you all look the same!
And more...
Buenos Aires had the first subway system in the Southern Hemisphere and Latin America, having built the first line in 1913. Five more lines were built, the last in the late 30s (recall that "past its prime" jab from earlier?). They are woefully inadequate for a city of this expanse and population but the city is planning on adding a few more. This being Latin America, financial crises and corruption seem to eat away at infrastructure projects and they may never be built. Sure there are new parts of the city-- most notably Puerto Madero and some awesome skyscrapers in Palermo-- but by and large this city is full of buildings unless you tear one down there isn't room for something new. Coming from San Jose-- a city built mostly post-WWII-- BsAs appears a bizarro version, having been build up and out before the second war.
On a totally unrelated note:
I live in a neighborhood called Recoleta. Or Retiro. Or Barrio Norte. I'm still unsure as I think my apartment overlaps all three. But only the first two are real neighborhoods, while the third is becoming more common in usage but is not considered real...yet. Well, whatever. I live in one of them and it's really the nicest neighborhood within the city center (it's really an issue of centricity for me...I need access to trains, buses and subways as well as my bank and street food and parks). It doesn't have the hip shopping or the fancy clubs but it has the old money and the Hermes and Polo (which they actually play here...I've been watching a lot of it and it's actually pretty awesome) and blah blah blah from Paris or Geneve or some other European capital.
Anyway, the neighborhood ends abruptly to the east a few blocks from my apartment where it meets the train tracks. Further east of the tracks lies a tollway and beyond that the docks and the River Plate. Well, in part of that rail yard and below the tollway lies a famous villa miseria...basically a shanty town. So famous, in fact, I don't know its name and neither do you. It's where the kids who sing on the train for a few centavos come from. It's where the mother using a newborn for sympathy (also for a few centavitos)comes from. It's probably where some of the pickpockets come from. But whatever, what amazes me is how close such a large villa miseria is to the CBD, tourist zones and uppity neighborhoods.
My understanding is that it developed after the financial crisis of 2001 (Google it!) after some nouveau poivre (new poor, I just made it up!) took over excess land in the rail yard. The government, having gone through something like four presidents in a week, was in no position to force those people off the land so the people stayed and are in the process of turning cardboard into corrugated metal into brick and mortar. Now it's history. And my reality.
Crap, well I'm pretty much done here. As a constant analyzer of all things I've mostly enjoyed reliving these memories. And if I bored you along the way know that I bore myself myself in a few places, too! You can tell where because the writing will abruptly shift to a new topic without the obligatory transition sentence! I'm going to go back and add a few italics and correct the most obvious grammatical errors. The rest I will leave and call my "style." SL
Everything in this city bleeds Italy and Spain (something like 90% of the people have ancestors from there) but they've still managed to infuse that Latin American...there's no word for it, it's a feeling that can only be expressed with a hand gesture that makes a forty-five degree arch from the heart downward or by ... the French phrase je ne sais quoi which seems a very appropriate description for this particular situation.
Time here runs fast only when people are walking-- everything else is sloooow: the meals; the coffee; the chats; the laying-out in the parks...life in general moves at a pace more to my liking. Then again, most countries move slower that the US. It's amazing how much Americans work and how fast life there is compared to most of the world, including our European brethren. You have no idea how many times I;ve gotten a "What?" (in a tone of utter disbelief) when I say that most Americans get two or three weeks of vacation per year. It almost makes me cry. Every single time. But back to BsAs...
I compare it a lot to New York City...not so much physically (though it is incredibly dense: the city proper is about twice as dense as San Francisco proper, and half as dense as Manhattan Island) but in how both were-- and are-- magnets for people from all over the world. Definitely on different levels because NYC is unique but let me make my case.
Both cities welcomed millions of European immigrants from the 1880s (Italian unification) to the 1940s (end of WWII). When you think of the millions of Italians that arrived in NYC know that MORE arrived in BsAs. And even MORE in Sao Paolo! From a city of about 250k in the 1880, Buenos Aires proper reached 2M by 1924 and topped 3M by the end the second World War (12x larger; compare that to NYC, which increased its population by a factor of about 6 during those same years). Then there are the Spaniards, and the Germans and the Poles and those from the collapsed Ottoman Empire and and and...you get it. Even now it continues drawing hundreds of thousands of people from nearby Uruguay, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay and Ecuador and throughout Latin America. There are tons of Europeans here and so few Americans. Latin America has a bad image in the States I guess.
I sense in both cities a shared culture of massive urbanism that incubates creativity. But it's not New York. People here aren't Italian-American. They're not "of German ancestry." They're not "Puerto Rican." Very simply, they're Argentines. It was hard for my American let's-hyphenate-your-culture mentality to grasp at first but now it makes much more sense than our system. Then again, they have very few blacks or Asians so I guess being Argentine is simpler if you all look the same!
And more...
Buenos Aires had the first subway system in the Southern Hemisphere and Latin America, having built the first line in 1913. Five more lines were built, the last in the late 30s (recall that "past its prime" jab from earlier?). They are woefully inadequate for a city of this expanse and population but the city is planning on adding a few more. This being Latin America, financial crises and corruption seem to eat away at infrastructure projects and they may never be built. Sure there are new parts of the city-- most notably Puerto Madero and some awesome skyscrapers in Palermo-- but by and large this city is full of buildings unless you tear one down there isn't room for something new. Coming from San Jose-- a city built mostly post-WWII-- BsAs appears a bizarro version, having been build up and out before the second war.
On a totally unrelated note:
I live in a neighborhood called Recoleta. Or Retiro. Or Barrio Norte. I'm still unsure as I think my apartment overlaps all three. But only the first two are real neighborhoods, while the third is becoming more common in usage but is not considered real...yet. Well, whatever. I live in one of them and it's really the nicest neighborhood within the city center (it's really an issue of centricity for me...I need access to trains, buses and subways as well as my bank and street food and parks). It doesn't have the hip shopping or the fancy clubs but it has the old money and the Hermes and Polo (which they actually play here...I've been watching a lot of it and it's actually pretty awesome) and blah blah blah from Paris or Geneve or some other European capital.
Anyway, the neighborhood ends abruptly to the east a few blocks from my apartment where it meets the train tracks. Further east of the tracks lies a tollway and beyond that the docks and the River Plate. Well, in part of that rail yard and below the tollway lies a famous villa miseria...basically a shanty town. So famous, in fact, I don't know its name and neither do you. It's where the kids who sing on the train for a few centavos come from. It's where the mother using a newborn for sympathy (also for a few centavitos)comes from. It's probably where some of the pickpockets come from. But whatever, what amazes me is how close such a large villa miseria is to the CBD, tourist zones and uppity neighborhoods.
My understanding is that it developed after the financial crisis of 2001 (Google it!) after some nouveau poivre (new poor, I just made it up!) took over excess land in the rail yard. The government, having gone through something like four presidents in a week, was in no position to force those people off the land so the people stayed and are in the process of turning cardboard into corrugated metal into brick and mortar. Now it's history. And my reality.
Crap, well I'm pretty much done here. As a constant analyzer of all things I've mostly enjoyed reliving these memories. And if I bored you along the way know that I bore myself myself in a few places, too! You can tell where because the writing will abruptly shift to a new topic without the obligatory transition sentence! I'm going to go back and add a few italics and correct the most obvious grammatical errors. The rest I will leave and call my "style." SL
08 October 2009
Week 2: The Party Scene
Well, the party scene is operating a a CRAZY level. Two weeks and my brittle Californian lungs have had enough! By body is not as young as I feel, which is unfortunate, really. What follows are two examples of the party scene here, which also summarize it very aptly, for me at least.
1) My third or fourth day here I was heading out with some folks from the Hostel Carlos Gardel in San Telmo. It was already 11 and was getting pretty ancy to get the night started. The people I was going out with told me it was far too early and remained on the couch watching a movie. We agreed to meet up at La Puerta Roja a few blocks away on Chucabambo (a hostel resident worked there and gave us free drink tickets...we had to go!!).
So I headed out alone, hoping to stop in at various bars while always making my way to Chucabambo. Well, by now it must've been all of 23:15hs (I'm learning their ways-- bear with me). My first stop was El Balcon, which is a bar I'd visited on my first night: second floor of an old colonial building overlooking Plaza Dorrego, high ceilings with brightly-colored walls. I didn't even have to climb the steep and narrow stairs to know there was nothing there for me. The upper doors were locked and only one bartender had arrived.
I returned to the hostel, laid on the couch another couple of hours and headed out at about 02.00. We were still early but there was enough of a crowd to make it fun. The place peaked about 04.00 and closed near 06.00. The entire bar (seemingly) migrated around the corner to another bar where the fun continued. I barely made it to 06.00 before nearly falling asleep.
2) My roommate Heiko invited me to see a DJ who's playing at Creamfields Buenos Aires in a few weeks. We went to Levitar which is a pretty cool electronic boliche (club). We arrived at about 02.00 and it was still a bit early since the DJ didn't go on until about 03.00 or 04.00. By the time the DJ came on the place was packed. This was now a Friday morning mind you and surely most of these people had to work or go to class in a few hours.
Levitar finally threw us out at about 08.00 and some promoter offered to take us to an After, an after-party club a few blocks away. We got there and by now it was about 09.00. All of the people at Levitar who were wearing sunglasses--and who I thought were douches-- were now looking pretty effin brilliant in my eyes. The Sun was way bright and here we were standing in a long line at 09.00 on a Friday while people walked and drove to work. I felt like a bad person...and I still feel bad when I see people heading to work as I'm going home. A very crappy POS feeling.
This place was called Hummer (a massive blank-white facade with only the word Hummer written in pink neon) and it seemed to be going off. At 09.00. It turned out our promoter couldn't get us in after all but it's all for the better: I was dead tired and didn't have my shades.
So, now some drinking tips for this city:
1) Don't drink too much!
Despite drinking for hours and hours people here are very good at pacing themselves.
2) Pour foamy beer!
It's just what you do. It results in a flatter beer and changes the taste of it. For crappier beers this is actually a welcomed change.
3) Vodka+Redbull is a Vodka+Speed
They call it what it is here!
4) Fernet+Coke, the national drink.
Imagine something like Jaeger and Coke: gross, right? Yes!!! I hated it the first time, and was told I'd hate it my second time. And my third time. But by my fourth time, I'd like it. [Edit: it took five drinks for me, which others had said was the magic number. I am now in the Fernet y Cola club.]
5) You can't just weiner-in-the-butt a stranger
I saw a foreigner get slapped for doing this. Funny as hell!!! But, yeah, don't do it.
6) Smoking not allowed...
...is what the signs say. The law seems to only require establishments put up that sign but by three everyone is smoking inside. Your clothes will smell in the morning and you'll hate it.
7) Take your sunglasses out with you!
You'll be home after the Sun comes out...
8) "I'm from California"
They don't hate Americans...but they don't love us either! I get a pass because I'm "Latin" (I've been told more than once). But everyone loves California... I've been sung California Dreamin' twice!!
9) If you're a man, be prepared to use the ladies room
The men's room is used primarily for certain activities after a certain late hour...activities that keep you up, let's say. Expect it.
10) Handy beer terminology:
Shopp: pint
Porron: 12oz bottle
Litro: literbeer
1) My third or fourth day here I was heading out with some folks from the Hostel Carlos Gardel in San Telmo. It was already 11 and was getting pretty ancy to get the night started. The people I was going out with told me it was far too early and remained on the couch watching a movie. We agreed to meet up at La Puerta Roja a few blocks away on Chucabambo (a hostel resident worked there and gave us free drink tickets...we had to go!!).
So I headed out alone, hoping to stop in at various bars while always making my way to Chucabambo. Well, by now it must've been all of 23:15hs (I'm learning their ways-- bear with me). My first stop was El Balcon, which is a bar I'd visited on my first night: second floor of an old colonial building overlooking Plaza Dorrego, high ceilings with brightly-colored walls. I didn't even have to climb the steep and narrow stairs to know there was nothing there for me. The upper doors were locked and only one bartender had arrived.
I returned to the hostel, laid on the couch another couple of hours and headed out at about 02.00. We were still early but there was enough of a crowd to make it fun. The place peaked about 04.00 and closed near 06.00. The entire bar (seemingly) migrated around the corner to another bar where the fun continued. I barely made it to 06.00 before nearly falling asleep.
2) My roommate Heiko invited me to see a DJ who's playing at Creamfields Buenos Aires in a few weeks. We went to Levitar which is a pretty cool electronic boliche (club). We arrived at about 02.00 and it was still a bit early since the DJ didn't go on until about 03.00 or 04.00. By the time the DJ came on the place was packed. This was now a Friday morning mind you and surely most of these people had to work or go to class in a few hours.
Levitar finally threw us out at about 08.00 and some promoter offered to take us to an After, an after-party club a few blocks away. We got there and by now it was about 09.00. All of the people at Levitar who were wearing sunglasses--and who I thought were douches-- were now looking pretty effin brilliant in my eyes. The Sun was way bright and here we were standing in a long line at 09.00 on a Friday while people walked and drove to work. I felt like a bad person...and I still feel bad when I see people heading to work as I'm going home. A very crappy POS feeling.
This place was called Hummer (a massive blank-white facade with only the word Hummer written in pink neon) and it seemed to be going off. At 09.00. It turned out our promoter couldn't get us in after all but it's all for the better: I was dead tired and didn't have my shades.
So, now some drinking tips for this city:
1) Don't drink too much!
Despite drinking for hours and hours people here are very good at pacing themselves.
2) Pour foamy beer!
It's just what you do. It results in a flatter beer and changes the taste of it. For crappier beers this is actually a welcomed change.
3) Vodka+Redbull is a Vodka+Speed
They call it what it is here!
4) Fernet+Coke, the national drink.
Imagine something like Jaeger and Coke: gross, right? Yes!!! I hated it the first time, and was told I'd hate it my second time. And my third time. But by my fourth time, I'd like it. [Edit: it took five drinks for me, which others had said was the magic number. I am now in the Fernet y Cola club.]
5) You can't just weiner-in-the-butt a stranger
I saw a foreigner get slapped for doing this. Funny as hell!!! But, yeah, don't do it.
6) Smoking not allowed...
...is what the signs say. The law seems to only require establishments put up that sign but by three everyone is smoking inside. Your clothes will smell in the morning and you'll hate it.
7) Take your sunglasses out with you!
You'll be home after the Sun comes out...
8) "I'm from California"
They don't hate Americans...but they don't love us either! I get a pass because I'm "Latin" (I've been told more than once). But everyone loves California... I've been sung California Dreamin' twice!!
9) If you're a man, be prepared to use the ladies room
The men's room is used primarily for certain activities after a certain late hour...activities that keep you up, let's say. Expect it.
10) Handy beer terminology:
Shopp: pint
Porron: 12oz bottle
Litro: literbeer
03 October 2009
One week and counting (or: Part 1, the FOOD)
My first week in Buenos Aires came and went without fanfare or recognition. It was a bitterly cold week that saw me battle an Antarctic air every morning, afternoon and night--a battle a never came close to winning because I came prepared for Spring and its later, warmer season. I brought my heavy coat only because I had room and was under the weight limit (I came in at 47.5lbs coat, tequila and all). Even so, I managed to get sick and am still recovering; today, Friday has been the warmest day thus far and my body welcomed the warmth with new-found energy and health.
I spent most of the first three days running around town on the Subte (subway) and colectivos (buses) following dead-end leads on places to let. My main aid was Craigslist but I found most of the apartment descriptions terribly misleading; I drowned my deceptions with warm cafe con leche and medialunas. Luckily I managed to find a place-- not exactly what I'd imagined but it will be fine for now; also: I was tired of disappointment. Finding a shared apartment also gave me free time to spend with my fellow hostelers, though it did remove a reason-- a point, really-- from my daily city walks. Instead of purpose I now walked around for the purpose of others, walking with them on errands very similar to ones I'd once been slave to. (Irony: I was free of personal obligation but willingly and happily enslaved myself to those of others. I suppose it is true: when a chore is done voluntarily it stops being a chore.)
But wait, there is a point to all this, a reason for all these words I've arranged into phrases and ultimately sentences (and hopefully, more importantly, emotions). Food! Yes! Between everything I was doing with whomever I was doing it with, food was always on my peripheral vision. Of course. I've managed to try most things uniquely Porteñan (Buenos Airean) with the following notable exceptions:
Panchos (hot dogs; funny thing: the Pancho Mejicano has: jalapeños, some other hot pepper, and 4 types of hot sauce! Nothing else! Excessive but I will eat it when I have someone to impress.)
Ravioles de ricotta
Higado (liver)
Chichulines (tripe)
Mondongo (stomach stew)
Morcipan (Morcilla+pan; a blood sausage on a french roll)
I'm certain there are others I've yet to hear of, see or smell but rest assured that if it's semi-edible I will consume it (and write about it)!
Now the more extensive and very, very delicious list of what I have tried:
Milanesas: breaded veal cutlet, pan fried and usu. served with papas fritas, though also mashed potatoes. My favorite thing ever and, if you know me, you won't be surprised to learn this is the first thing I ate upon arrival!)
Empanadas: Fist-size savory pies; can be meat, chicken, cheese and ham, veggies, etc. My favorite so far has been cheese and onion.
Choripan: Chorizo+pan; a mild chorizo sausage on a french roll.
Ñoquis: Gnoccis: delicious here like everything else, especially with a light tomato sauce topped with a mild sour cream and loads of Parmesan cheese.
Bife de Lomo/ Bife de Chorizo/Vacio: Not sure what cut of meat they're from because they basically put a huge piece of meat and cut bits of it. Regardless, all of the meat here is free-range grass-fed, natural blah blah blah and primarily veal. Before you cry and call PETA on me: the young ones are DELICIOUS. Coming from a former long-time (6+ years) Vegetarian this should mean something. I will only eat baby animals from now on.
Hamburguesa AKA Hambu: Eh, a hamburger. The Suprema comes with ham, an egg, french fries, lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. Lettuce and tomatoes you say?? Yes, they double the price. I'm from California and I need my veggies! Hambus are usually served as a pair, which can be surprising to the uninitiated (but I finished them like a good Porteño would!)
Matambre: Boiled eggs, sweet peppers, olives and other goodies wrapped in what looks like flank steak and served sliced, deli style.
Jamon Crudo: Cured ham, basically the national equivalent of jamon serrano or pruiscutto.
Tortilla: A Spanish omelette; potatoes, egg and various other goodies. Served like a slice of pie.
Tarta: Torte; quiche-like with less egg and a crusty cover. Also served like a slice of pie.
Pizza: Varies by method of consumption: By-the-slice tend to be thick-crust while delivery-style are just like in the USA. Meat on pizza is not the norm.
Dressings: Salsa Golf is mayonnaise and ketchup. Mayonnaise is the same. Ketchup is different. Salsa Golf is BOMB.
Vino: The national grape is Malbec because, if anything, it's the only place in the world where it grows to its potential. I know little about wine (and I've only had bottles in the ARS$10-15 range; read: cheap) but it is good, especially with breakfast but also good with lunch, dinner or a snack. I've had it served cold once but I suspect that will become more common once summer settles in.
Quilmes: The national beer. Not very good but then again I'm spoiled. Often comes in liter bottles to share.
Chili-Bomb: Hot pepper-infused Vodka dropped into an energy drink; I was craving something spicy [see note #4 below] and a cute Porteña and Brasilera recommended it and said I wasn't a man if I hadn't had it; well I'll be God-damed if I was going to let two South America floozies tell me I wasn't a man! I took it like water and while they were trying to get the burning out of their throats I told them I was Mexican and laughed! The shoe's on the other foot or something. I don't recommend it but I will buy you one if you come down here!
Notes on FOOD:
#1: The Parrillas, small hole-in-walls in poorer barrios are where you find good and cheap poor-people food, which is really the best there is. This is where Choripans, Morcipans, Vacipans are found. My favorite places so far and the one place where public drunkeness seems acceptable (well, until a woman shows up at which point the screaming drunks are warned to behave because there's a lady in the room. They stubbornly oblige and proceed--in a fruitless attempt-- to romance the woman regardless of age or attractiveness.)
#2: Delis offer a mixture of Italian and Spanish meat options and French cheeses. Not surprising given that everyone here is either of Spanish or Italian heritage and everyone looks up to the French, as they should, culinarily-speaking.
#3: The fruit and vegetable racket it run exclusively by Bolivians; if not for them I wonder if there'd even be any fruits and veggies here. I've hear rumors they control the supply of peppers in town so I am trying to befriend them.
#4: Nothing here is spicy and I'm having trouble locating peppers and/or sauces (see #3). If you'd like to send me either write and I'll send my address.
#5: I haven't yet explored ethnic foods here but surely I will get to them. Then again, what I thought was an inherent bodily need for Mexican, Vietnamese and Japanese foods has yet to materialize, and maybe never will. But I will fo' sho' hit up the Arab Shwarma shop this weekend and "borrow" any hot sauce they may have. Or maybe the Superpancho mejicano dealers are who I have to go through...
#6: Meat is generally as cheap as fruits; house wine is generally cheaper than soda or water. Adding lettuce and tomatoes to a ham and cheese sandwich, for example, will nearly double its price. House wines are always a peso or two cheaper than sodas or water.
#7: Veggie options abound. Pasta are always a delicious option; empanadas are always available without meat; hell even Mickey D's and BK offer soy burgers, something they don't even offer in Vegetarian-friendly California!
#8: There's an obvious and glaring lack of coverage concerning "sweets." Reason: I'm not a sweets kind of guy. But if they're your thing trust me: there are shops dedicated to confectionaries and everything looks absolutely gorgeous and is made fresh daily.
#9: Buenos Aires has a large Jewish population and is in many respects similar to NYC in that they received large waves of European immigrants during the same time periods and from similar places. But unlike NYC, there doesn't appear to be much of a Jewish culinary impact, and by "impact" I mean "Where are the freakin' Jewish delis because I'm dying for a Katz-like pastrami sandwich!!!!"
What I know is this: I've eaten consistently better here than anywhere else. The food here is by no means cheap, but a huge plate of gnocci and a glass of cheap wine makes me happier than a five, five dollar, Five Dollar Footlong. SL
I spent most of the first three days running around town on the Subte (subway) and colectivos (buses) following dead-end leads on places to let. My main aid was Craigslist but I found most of the apartment descriptions terribly misleading; I drowned my deceptions with warm cafe con leche and medialunas. Luckily I managed to find a place-- not exactly what I'd imagined but it will be fine for now; also: I was tired of disappointment. Finding a shared apartment also gave me free time to spend with my fellow hostelers, though it did remove a reason-- a point, really-- from my daily city walks. Instead of purpose I now walked around for the purpose of others, walking with them on errands very similar to ones I'd once been slave to. (Irony: I was free of personal obligation but willingly and happily enslaved myself to those of others. I suppose it is true: when a chore is done voluntarily it stops being a chore.)
But wait, there is a point to all this, a reason for all these words I've arranged into phrases and ultimately sentences (and hopefully, more importantly, emotions). Food! Yes! Between everything I was doing with whomever I was doing it with, food was always on my peripheral vision. Of course. I've managed to try most things uniquely Porteñan (Buenos Airean) with the following notable exceptions:
Panchos (hot dogs; funny thing: the Pancho Mejicano has: jalapeños, some other hot pepper, and 4 types of hot sauce! Nothing else! Excessive but I will eat it when I have someone to impress.)
Ravioles de ricotta
Higado (liver)
Chichulines (tripe)
Mondongo (stomach stew)
Morcipan (Morcilla+pan; a blood sausage on a french roll)
I'm certain there are others I've yet to hear of, see or smell but rest assured that if it's semi-edible I will consume it (and write about it)!
Now the more extensive and very, very delicious list of what I have tried:
Milanesas: breaded veal cutlet, pan fried and usu. served with papas fritas, though also mashed potatoes. My favorite thing ever and, if you know me, you won't be surprised to learn this is the first thing I ate upon arrival!)
Empanadas: Fist-size savory pies; can be meat, chicken, cheese and ham, veggies, etc. My favorite so far has been cheese and onion.
Choripan: Chorizo+pan; a mild chorizo sausage on a french roll.
Ñoquis: Gnoccis: delicious here like everything else, especially with a light tomato sauce topped with a mild sour cream and loads of Parmesan cheese.
Bife de Lomo/ Bife de Chorizo/Vacio: Not sure what cut of meat they're from because they basically put a huge piece of meat and cut bits of it. Regardless, all of the meat here is free-range grass-fed, natural blah blah blah and primarily veal. Before you cry and call PETA on me: the young ones are DELICIOUS. Coming from a former long-time (6+ years) Vegetarian this should mean something. I will only eat baby animals from now on.
Hamburguesa AKA Hambu: Eh, a hamburger. The Suprema comes with ham, an egg, french fries, lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. Lettuce and tomatoes you say?? Yes, they double the price. I'm from California and I need my veggies! Hambus are usually served as a pair, which can be surprising to the uninitiated (but I finished them like a good Porteño would!)
Matambre: Boiled eggs, sweet peppers, olives and other goodies wrapped in what looks like flank steak and served sliced, deli style.
Jamon Crudo: Cured ham, basically the national equivalent of jamon serrano or pruiscutto.
Tortilla: A Spanish omelette; potatoes, egg and various other goodies. Served like a slice of pie.
Tarta: Torte; quiche-like with less egg and a crusty cover. Also served like a slice of pie.
Pizza: Varies by method of consumption: By-the-slice tend to be thick-crust while delivery-style are just like in the USA. Meat on pizza is not the norm.
Dressings: Salsa Golf is mayonnaise and ketchup. Mayonnaise is the same. Ketchup is different. Salsa Golf is BOMB.
Vino: The national grape is Malbec because, if anything, it's the only place in the world where it grows to its potential. I know little about wine (and I've only had bottles in the ARS$10-15 range; read: cheap) but it is good, especially with breakfast but also good with lunch, dinner or a snack. I've had it served cold once but I suspect that will become more common once summer settles in.
Quilmes: The national beer. Not very good but then again I'm spoiled. Often comes in liter bottles to share.
Chili-Bomb: Hot pepper-infused Vodka dropped into an energy drink; I was craving something spicy [see note #4 below] and a cute Porteña and Brasilera recommended it and said I wasn't a man if I hadn't had it; well I'll be God-damed if I was going to let two South America floozies tell me I wasn't a man! I took it like water and while they were trying to get the burning out of their throats I told them I was Mexican and laughed! The shoe's on the other foot or something. I don't recommend it but I will buy you one if you come down here!
Notes on FOOD:
#1: The Parrillas, small hole-in-walls in poorer barrios are where you find good and cheap poor-people food, which is really the best there is. This is where Choripans, Morcipans, Vacipans are found. My favorite places so far and the one place where public drunkeness seems acceptable (well, until a woman shows up at which point the screaming drunks are warned to behave because there's a lady in the room. They stubbornly oblige and proceed--in a fruitless attempt-- to romance the woman regardless of age or attractiveness.)
#2: Delis offer a mixture of Italian and Spanish meat options and French cheeses. Not surprising given that everyone here is either of Spanish or Italian heritage and everyone looks up to the French, as they should, culinarily-speaking.
#3: The fruit and vegetable racket it run exclusively by Bolivians; if not for them I wonder if there'd even be any fruits and veggies here. I've hear rumors they control the supply of peppers in town so I am trying to befriend them.
#4: Nothing here is spicy and I'm having trouble locating peppers and/or sauces (see #3). If you'd like to send me either write and I'll send my address.
#5: I haven't yet explored ethnic foods here but surely I will get to them. Then again, what I thought was an inherent bodily need for Mexican, Vietnamese and Japanese foods has yet to materialize, and maybe never will. But I will fo' sho' hit up the Arab Shwarma shop this weekend and "borrow" any hot sauce they may have. Or maybe the Superpancho mejicano dealers are who I have to go through...
#6: Meat is generally as cheap as fruits; house wine is generally cheaper than soda or water. Adding lettuce and tomatoes to a ham and cheese sandwich, for example, will nearly double its price. House wines are always a peso or two cheaper than sodas or water.
#7: Veggie options abound. Pasta are always a delicious option; empanadas are always available without meat; hell even Mickey D's and BK offer soy burgers, something they don't even offer in Vegetarian-friendly California!
#8: There's an obvious and glaring lack of coverage concerning "sweets." Reason: I'm not a sweets kind of guy. But if they're your thing trust me: there are shops dedicated to confectionaries and everything looks absolutely gorgeous and is made fresh daily.
#9: Buenos Aires has a large Jewish population and is in many respects similar to NYC in that they received large waves of European immigrants during the same time periods and from similar places. But unlike NYC, there doesn't appear to be much of a Jewish culinary impact, and by "impact" I mean "Where are the freakin' Jewish delis because I'm dying for a Katz-like pastrami sandwich!!!!"
What I know is this: I've eaten consistently better here than anywhere else. The food here is by no means cheap, but a huge plate of gnocci and a glass of cheap wine makes me happier than a five, five dollar, Five Dollar Footlong. SL
28 September 2009
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