That title might make a little more sense as you read below.
My notes for today start with “pray for New Orleans and south Louisiana.” That’s what I did, and apparently that’s what lots of people did. I was checking the storm as best I could with sporadic internet access. I also wore my fleur de lis shirt I bought from some kids raising money for their school, outside Jazz Fest a couple of years ago. Glad to see it wasn’t the storm of the century after all.
As I type, someone next door is practicing the accordion, playing tango style. Its my last night in Buenos Aires. I spilled some water on most of my notes, so if it’s a bit more garbled than usual, blame the water, or the accordion.
Oh, and I hope everyone had a great Labor Day.
Starting with the night, after I wrote the last post, I tried to go to the movies but couldn’t find the theatre. I did however, pass the Buenos Aires Tango Festival, being held in what appears to have once been the Harrod’s store. Hundreds of people were milling about looking at demonstrations and displays from tango-related businesses. An informal dance floor covered about a third of the space, and at least a hundred couples were tangoing. These must have been locals; everyone not only seemed like they knew what they were doing, they seemed really good. The program said it was a 17 day festival sponsored by the city government, and this was the last night. Sorry I didn’t have my camera—it was quite the display.
Moving on to this day, I recently joked to a friend that my life is much like a cross between Fraser Crane and the lyrics to every Bad Company song ever written (although even I know, deep down, that its more like the Bay City Rollers). Today was more of a Fraser Crane day.
Over breakfast at McDonald’s, drinking té and chomping on their version of an Egg McMuffin, I had to rearrange my plans on the fly when I realized all the museums are closed on Monday. So today changed from Recoleta and its various museums to Palermo and the Botanical Garden. That’s too bad, as it’s a cloudy, clammy day that would have been best spent inside museums.
Palermo is a generic name for several smaller neighborhoods north of the city centre. The west has a number of shops, bars, cafés and restaurants, the north has small homes and apartments, and the east has a number of parks and woods.
I took the subway for the first time. It was pretty good, and was comparable to other large cities' subway systems. It was fairly clean, with minimal debris and largely lacking the bizarre subterranean characters you find in the New York subway stations. The trains run pretty often. But it was pretty warm, even though it was only about 70 outside. It must be murder down there during the summer.
The botanical garden was smallish for a city the size of Buenos Aires. It didn’t have many flowering plants, which I suppose owes to the fact that its between winter and spring here. It did have a wide variety of trees and plants, including Roman, French, Japanese, and cactus gardens. Well over half was comprised of Argentine and South American trees and shrubs. I saw a lot of people there for a Monday afternoon. Lots of older men were there, dressed reasonably well but not for work, reading on benches or milling about the trails. I also saw a good number of older women, but surprisingly didn’t see many moms with little kids. It turns out there’s another park just adjacent with a big playground, which is where they were. There were a few joggers too, enjoying some open space without bus and truck exhaust fumes choking them to death. The gravel trails throughout the park make for excellent running (leaving aside the whole pollution thing).
After leaving the Botanical Garden, where no one in the information booth spoke a word of English, I walked down (or up) Avenida Santa Fe looking for a quick bite. The street, which was pretty much in the middle of town (although not the “center”) was bustling at mid-day. I had some really good empanadas carne, sort of like small pastry turnovers filled with cheese, fish, pork, or in this case, spiced meat. I noticed as I walked along the street I was getting a number of stares, which was getting to the point that I was checking my face to see if I had something splotchy on it. All clear, so I at first attributed it either to the fleur de lis shirt or my bitchin’ good looks, you know, like David Cassidy or Charlie Sheen. Then, I recognized a really inconvenient truth—wearing a vest, t-shirt, cargo shorts, squared off sunglasses, and hiking shoes made me look like Walter Sobchak in The Big Lebowski. “He died—he died like so many young men of his generation, before his time. In your wisdom, you took him Lord, as you took so many bright flowering young men at Khe Sanh, at Lan Doc and Hill 364.” That is what you call a severe wardrobe malfunction. But I soldiered on (no pun).
I then spent the next couple of hours walking around Palermo Viejo. This appears to be a like the Montrose area in Houston, only a lot less gay (but only slightly less yuppiefied). I didn’t see any Restoration Hardwares, but the neighborhood was filled with antique stores, bars, cafés, restaurants, vintage clothing stores, private schools, “resident parking only” signs, and people hanging out at all of the above (well, not at the parking spots of course). The area’s hot spot is Plaza Juan Cortazar, surrounded by no less than nine cafés. All serve alcohol, and naturally, there’s a fairly large playground in the Plaza. I should point out that a “café” here is sort of a cross between a Starbucks, a restaurant, and a bar. The focus is more on hanging around while discussing (or summarizing) Proust with your six existentialist friends who haven't bathed since Sunday, breaking up with your girlfriend, working on your novel, or having your 12th espresso for the day (since you were probably up past midnight for dinner). So, when in Rome….I planted it at a place called Utopia Bar. Just as I was thinking about the playground being right next to the tables--“how convenient, the parents can get tanked while the kids play,” a guy sat at the table next to me with a Stella Artois and turned to face the playground and yell something to his two year old and his three year old. I guess if you can’t multi-task, you can’t be a parent these days. Daddy needs his little helper too. In other words, this is Central Market on 38th Street. Next to both of us sat at one table a blonde woman wearing black Keds with “Iron Maiden” written on the bottom and underwear spilling out the back of her jeans, reading a novel while polishing off her second 40 ouncer and a pack of Marlboro Lights, speaking in broken English to the 140 year old woman at the next table holding a Pekinese who had moments before been singing to herself. Several couples and a table of three guys with scarves and man-purses just about half filled the remaining tables, making me wish one of my brothers was with me while I wore a scarf and thanked him for smuggling a million dollars into the country for me. I drank my te, enjoyed a moment off my feet, and left, silently praising myself, yet again, for my superior American work ethic.
Then I headed back to the hotel, taking an extremely long walk back on Santa Fe. This is an American-style street, reminding me of some of the extremely busy streets near Union Square in San Francisco. Its fun just being around all the energy and people, without of course actually having to talk to anyone, which is just as well because nearly no one understands my broken Spanish. I spent a good part of the walk looking for washcloths, which apparently no one has ever heard of. I divide the world into two kinds of people—those who use washcloths, and those who don’t (actually, there’s a third, people who use scrunchies, but I see that as a passing fad). Although the walk is fun, it brings home the fact that the buses, trucks, and many cars spew exhaust like the pre-Clean Air Act USA. It actually got a little overpowering; every night so far when I come home, I can feel the film of grime covering me (and for a lawyer, that's saying a lot). Yet I noticed closer into the city centre that a number of cafés had set up tables on the sidewalk next to the street, where nearly everyone was smoking. Why not just serve asbestos with every meal, next to the gravy, to get it over with quicker? So much for the precious Kyoto Treaty-maybe if countries like Argentina want us to enact even more stringent clean air rules, they ought to enact some of their own. The fumes are pretty noxious, and visible. Its really a noticeable contrast with walking down a similar street in a comparable US city, how much less exhaust occurs in the US.
Turning from the international environmental movement to another subject, in walking around the city over several days, I noticed there’s private security and cops everywhere. Federal police are on every block in the central city area, while nearly every store has two or more private security employees. I’m not exactly sure whether that’s to protect the merchandise or the shoppers, likely the former. The private security people don’t exactly inspire confidence that when the deal goes down they’re going to be much help. Later that night, at a crossing on the Florida pedestrian mall, I see a “federale” with what appears to be a semi-automatic rifle. That’s a crossing guard who means business, I guess.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that public displays of affection, by which I mean blatant macking down face-sucking, appears to be completely acceptable and tolerated. For example, I passed one couple sitting at a fountain at a particular intersection, who were going at it hot and heavy. When I returned, about three hours later, the same couple were at the same spot still going at it. In the immortal words of Judge Smails, “don’t you have homes?”
All day long now I’ve been thinking of lines from the Big Lebowski. I’ll close with some personal favorite lines: “I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.” “This is not Nam. This is bowling. There are rules” and my personal favorite: “Look Larry…have you ever heard of Vietnam?”
Tomorrow-Recoleta and Eva Peron, Retiro, San Martin Plaza, and I go back to law school.
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