This is not working out so well.
The flight to Buenos Aires was not so great. A fifty-ish looking flight attendant with outrageously colored red hair, matching red gloves and enough bangles to do Madonna proud greeted us to the flight. Despite having paid for business class, I was totally unable to get any sleep at all. Should have taken Kathleen’s advice to take an ambien and drink a beer I suppose. I also was seated next to a 140 year old Italian guy who, although he spoke English about as well as Mushmouth on the Bill Cosby show or Fenster in The Usual Suspects, insisted on talking to me the entire flight. Oh, and he couldn’t work any of the space age gadgets in his seat, prompting me to have to show him how to work them all, because that’s the kind of guy I am. I notice that I am sitting one row ahead of Mario M____, a lobbyist acquaintance whom I first met when we both worked at the Texas Senate about 100 years ago for different senators. He’s also traveling solo, also going to Buenos Aires, but is spending most of his time in the wine country of Mendoza.
Other than that, Delta business class was pretty much on par with the American business class flight I took to London, only less so. Lower quality meal, slightly less helpful service, not quite as good of seats, and the newspaper options were kind of weird-two London newspapers for a Buenos Aires flight (what with the Falklands’ “recent unpleasantness” and all). The flight was completely full, including the U-Cal Irvine men’s volleyball team. The morning sunrise was blood red at the horizon-I’ve never seen that color sky before. I wasn’t able to make it to the one and only one restroom for business class before everyone else was awake, so I was forced to go through the airport and to the hotel with what Kimberly calls “bus face,” an unpleasant cocktail of stickiness, soreness, ratted hair, bad breath, and eyebags. Very much not ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.
Buenos Aires customs was not so bad. It was the shortest wait to get through I’ve ever had (which is another way of saying it beat Auckland, London, Vancouver, and Montreal, and LA, Dallas, and Atlanta). The hotel sent a hired car, which greeted me with a placard with my name on it, reminding me of that commercial (“I’m Mr. Galewiecicz”). I got to the hotel in about 30 minutes, for a relatively cheap price of 95 pesos (around $30-I’ve paid twice that in San Francisco for the same distance). Eli, the owner/cleaning woman greets me, and shows me the place. Calling it a total dump would be a bit harsh. It does have a ceiling fan, for instance, and I’ve lived in dorm rooms worse than this. Still, I’m fighting the urge to think about how much I’m paying to stay here at every opportunity. Eli, who speaks broken English, manages to describe where we are in relation to things I’ll want to see in the city, and gives me a more usable map than I brought.
I resist the urge to catch some sleep, and at around 10 a.m. head out to the city. It’s a mixture of industrial grade housing blocks, classical but faded edificios, cobblestone streets, buses churning exhaust, and cars and pedestrians each ignoring traffic rules in a constant game of chicken. I walked down my street, Peru, past the Plaza de Mayo which contains many of the significant government buildings, to Florida street. This is an heavy shopping area with lots of Saturday shoppers out in full force. Great people watching. Sixth Street and Bourbon Street bar owners have nothing over the Buenos Aires merchants in the realm of having hawkers outside their stores trying to get you to go in. Not quite sure I get how that’s supposed to be effective at all, much less to get you to go buy a radio, for example, in a store just because Annoying Barker Guy beckoned you there. Anyway, I walked all the way to San Martin Plaza, where the Argentine Army camped in the early 1800s, which has a beautiful prospect of the port. Although I started getting more tired and noticing that my sprained ankle and back were beginning to act up, I nonetheless started making my way up Corrientes Avenida, advertised as the site of many cafes and shops. I noticed an inordinate number of chocolate shops and bars. I also noticed no one is speaking English, and when I tried getting something to eat, found that no one behind the counters speaks English either. My Spanish is a sliver better than Karen Walker on Will and Grace trying to speak Spanish to her maid Rosario (“putto the chilreno to beddo.”) Even the words I know, I don’t really remember the verb tenses and syntax from two years of college Spanish, and I worry I’m coming off like Manuel on Fawlty Towers, only in reverse (“¿Que?, ¿Que?”). This will soon threaten to derail the whole trip, if I have to starve to death for not being able to order food.
Up Corrientes Avenida I go past the Obelisco, which marks the heart of the city, and is probably the busiest spot in town, en route to Callao Street. Callao has a number of shops and then leads to area near Santa Fe Avenida that is the embassy district, the Mayfair of Buenos Aires. Interesting embassies include Syria and Bolivia. In this area I find El Ateneo, an old theatre converted into a really good book store.
The streets of Buenos Aires are like in the United States, only more so. Buses and cars visibly spew dirty smoke; so much for the Kyoto Treaty. Vehicles drive incredibly fast even down narrow streets, and pedestrians seem to take their safety very lightly, practically daring cars to run them over. I did see one car that had run off the road and into a closed storefront. Men openly and aggressively leer at women, although in fairness, women not yet of a certain age do dress kind of whorey (tasteless word, but one of my favorites). If you play with fire….Its just good to be somewhere that someone with my particular failings can be right at home.
Let's just get this right out in the open. Several of you spoke to me about your view that I’m going to love seeing all these Argentine women. Well, the women of Eunice, Louisiana have nothing to worry about in that regard. There’s a lot of pretty girls here, but its nothing special enough to write home (or blog, for that matter) about. I see prettier women than this every day in Austin. Guess that’s not really part of the Buenos Aires Chamber of Commerce stock presentation (although it should be for Texas and south Louisiana).
I also notice that on the whole, people here aren’t too fat, unlike a certain other place I could name with lots of Tex-Mex restaurants. On the other hand, no one is especially fit; even the young people all seem to be carrying an extra 15 or so (they kept their “freshman 15”). I haven’t seen one person jogging or walking for exercise. People stay out and eat their dinner quite late, and eat small breakfasts with little if any protein. As I walked over town trying desparately to find a restaurant where I wouldn’t (1) feel like a leper for being alone and (2) could actually manage to order something in Spanish, I noticed how the entire town seemed to be out, even past 10 p.m.
Probably the highlight of the day, aside from arriving, was the Japanese-Argentine parade and festival. As I was walking back from Callao down Avenida 9 de Mayo, I saw a bunch of people carrying flags marching up the street, with drums banging a march rhythym. For about a minute or so, I really did think this could be a political demonstration, and hoped like damn that it would turn into that scene from Doctor Zhivago where the Czar’s army moves in on the peaceful Bolshevik demonstration. I was ecstatic that finally, I would get to become one of the “foreign nationals” Bush would have to send a carrier group in to evacuate. Then I saw about 100 guys in martial arts uniforms run toward what seemed like a demonstration, and thought “YES! It is ON! They’re going to break up this protest with ninjas…Boy is this great!” Of course, it was not to be. Turns out it was a “parade” celebrating 100 years of Japanese and Argentine friendship. Everyone in the parade seemed Japanese, or was wearing some sort of Japanese costume. I put parade in quotes, because they didn’t really move up the street like a parade is supposed to. More like they just stood out on the street for half an hour with people watching them do their various movments or yoga or banging or whatever the hell it was they were doing. At that moment I reflected on how many Asians I had seen through the day; apparently there was a great deal of Japanese immigration to Argentina in the early 20th century. After the parade concluded, a tango performance on stage near the Casa Rosada (“Pink House,” sort of like the head government building, or “Government House” in countries that were British colonies) broke out. A really good couple would perform to a song, alternating with this singer who would…sing. This was really fascinating. I’d never seen anyone tango (except Jack Lemmon and Joe E. Brown in Some Like it Hot). It’s a very powerful, sensual dance. No doubt disfavored by feminists. OK, before I get any more “livin la vida loca”, I’ll move on.
As I wondered around the city streets after a short nap, looking for somewhere to eat dinner, I noticed the city has a distinct smell I can’t place. Its kind of sweetish, but with a bitterness thrown in. I used to live in Alexandria, Louisiana, which smelled like the paper mill in Pineville, a sickly sweet creosote smell that was everywhere. This is like some kind of incense, but I can’t place it.
Tomorrow will focus on Monserrat and Catedral al Sur, and San Telmo.
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