Cementerio de la Recoleta
A day and evening in BA with Maggie
Maggie begged me to check out the sushi restaurant (fortunately closed) then we grabbed the bus to Avenida Corrientes, lit brightly by the neon of the theater marquees and store signage. People packed the streets like Times Square. We took a short jaunt on Florida Street sans cambio hawkers, then we smiled as we whisked past the accommodating security guards up the elevator to Zirkel Restaurante at Club Alemán for a free view through the window of Buenos Aires all in lights.
Afterward we walked toward San Telmo along the riverfront. We turned right too soon but were rewarded with a terrific night time only spectacle of La Casada Rosada glowing pink. We tried a shortcut by hopping a fence but that led to a dead end, so we backtracked to Corrientes and delighted in Puerto Madero with a rainbow reflecting off the water. We discovered an affordable outdoor restaurant next to the waterfront where Maggie could order fried calamari. In San Telmo Plaza we found a table right next to the dance floor and a glass of wine in time for the 11 p.m. tango show. On our way back to her hostel in neighboring Monserrat, we both agreed we had the perfect day's tour of Buenos Aires.
Le Tigre with Maggie and the Mamas
A welcoming breath of fresh air
The slums next to Retiro station consist of tarp, sheets of plywood and corrugated tin. Trash buries the patches of grass on the terminal side of the chain link fence. Everyone warns you tenais cuidado, be careful at Retiro. Luckily, I made it through the terminal with all my stuff intact.
I took a taxi to an apartment on Gral. Lucio Norberto Mansilla in Barrio Recoleta where I stayed for my month-long course to learn how to teach English to non-native speakers. Eugenia, the woman hosting my visit, was at work, so her 92-year-old mother, Edna, met me at the door and fixed me lunch before I took another taxi to the school for my orientation. I would have walked or taken the bus, but she insisted I take a taxi as I was new to the city and insisted on paying for it, about $5, as I didn't have anything smaller than a 100-peso note. She even accompanied me to the street and hailed a taxi for me.
A South American custom popular in Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and parts of Brazil, mate is a strong herbal tea shared amongst a group of friends. A handle-free mug or gourd is filled with dried leaves of yerba mate and then topped with hot water from a thermos. The mug is passed around as everyone sips the piping hot liquid from the same metal straw, a bombilla. If you know you're sick you decline to partake, however, generally it's considered rude not to join in. In Mendoza I had enjoyed drinking it with Maggie and her friends.
Eugenia and I discussed Argentina politics in Spanish constantly. I listened to her Spanish, but I also tried talking in Spanish as much as possible. It was like a constant language lesson. She spoke English very well but tried to stick with Spanish for my benefit. When I was confused she explained things, repeated herself using different Spanish words if I didn't understand her and helped me improve my vocabulary and grammar. We spent our evenings talking and watching television, sometimes in English with Spanish subtitles or in Spanish with English subtitles or just in Spanish. With time my confidence grew. The first few days I felt a little stressed, and the first two nights I almost panicked, wondering if I had made the right decision to sign on for this program and how I could handle living with a Spanish speaker in an immense city for an entire month. But within a few days I began feeling more at home overall, much more relaxed. I decided I had made the right decision.
It was much cooler in Buenos Aires than Mendoza, although still humid. Eugenia had air-conditioning. I slept well and the fan helped mute the street noise, which included hooting horns and screeching bus brakes.
Learning English in order to learn how to teach English
Our TEFL class consisted of Tom, a twenty-something-year-old from Ireland (he’s taaaaalll!) and the ever-entertaining Ethan, a 25-year-old from New York. Our teacher Mali, pronounced "Molly," was a real cut up and we spent most of our time sandwiched in our desk seats hunched over laughing.
Still, I grew frustrated with the course's emphasis on English grammar, and Mali's teaching style did not jibe with my learning style. Most of the classroom experience was highly random, and I spent much of my time laughing hysterically when I wasn't struggling to understand what we were supposed to be doing. The following video depicts one such episode, as Ethan decided to explain his response to something, I can't remember what exactly, through what he described as "an interpretive dance."
The school program wasn’t too awful and I'm glad I did it. We had some fun and sometimes I laughed quite deliriously and not always due to stress.
Catching busses and dodging shit
The Monday of my first day of class I decided to take the #39 collectivo, the public bus, at 9:15 a.m. as class started at 10, so certainly I could make it on time. I found the correct spot to wait for the bus. After about ten minutes one pulled up but he motioned that he was not taking passengers, just dropping some off. Waited another ten minutes while some of the others standing in line gave up and caught taxis. I really didn’t want to take a taxi even though I was running out of time, as I knew that another #39 would show up. It did. Then toward the end of the ride, the driver stopped and kicked us all off to the #39 directly behind us. The new bus started veering toward a different route, so I pushed the button and hopped off as soon as I could. I walked in circles awhile before I found the school's office. I was all apologies and explanations in Espanol when I rushed in ten minutes late, but discovered class had not started and remembered that the first day they served us students breakfast.
After that I walked to and from school along El Salvador and after a few days, I felt pretty comfortable strolling through the neighborhoods of Palermo and Recoleta. Returning from school I usually took a varied route as I spaced out while sightseeing and took a wrong turn. Eventually I would find my way home. I stopped hugging my backpack to my chest and staring suspiciously at every passerby. I didn’t have to check my map and although I searched for the street names, sensed I was headed in the right direction even when the signs had been removed from the buildings or signposts. The idiot dog-owners forced me to watch the sidewalks so I could sidestep the messes they couldn't be bothered with. In El Calafate, where the dogs rule the streets without leashes, you don't have to watch for piles of shit in the middle of the sidewalk. But in Buenos Aires where dogs are dragged around by their indifferent owners ...
After researching my route using the website, I set out from the apartment to meet my group at Sarmiento and Jean Jeaures for the La Bomba show, planning to walk as it was still light out. After making an immediate wrong turn, I retraced my steps for Bustamante. As soon as I turned the corner I heard a woman yelling as she struggled with a man in the street. Within seconds, the man had her cell phone and was running from her. He hopped onto a waiting motorcycle steered by another man and zoomed off. The woman threw up her hands. The street was crowded with people, but it happened so fast no one could have helped. The woman didn’t even seem upset, just resigned. How sad.
So after the show ended around 10 p.m., I felt a little vulnerable as I trailed a group of people toward my bus stop. As soon as I got there I saw my bus, collectivo #188, rumble past. I waited about ten minutes as hundreds of other buses, multiples of the same bus, roared down Pueyrredon. And this was not a “nice” place to wait for a bus at night, as a group of men loitered in a neighboring alcove between two businesses. For several minutes I stood alone until a few people filed up to wait for their buses. Then as another bus pulled up to pick up people, I saw the #188 speed by in the passing lane. Pissed, I considered running up to it as it stopped at the next light, but doubted they would let me on away from the designated stop, so I decided to wait. Just another ten minutes. After at least ten minutes I saw two #188’s stopped at the light on their way to my stop. I stood out in the street and waved my arms like windmills. You practically have to throw yourself in front of the bus to get them to stop. I thought for sure they realized I needed a ride and as they pulled closer I stepped onto the curb so they wouldn’t run me over. But no, both charged right by. I cursed Buenos Aires’ ridiculous public transportation system and stomped home. I almost hoped some asshole would try to mess with me so I could body slam him.
The walk was pleasant once I got away from Pueyrredon and Corrientes. I passed outdoor cafes and a crowd of people almost blocking traffic while standing in the street and sitting on plastic chairs watching a political documentary on an outdoor screen. I found several other lone women walking the same street. I kicked myself for even wasting my time and walking through a much creepier neighborhood to wait for the worthless collectivo #188.
One evening heading out after dark I took an unexpected evening tour of Buenos Aires via the #92 collectivo. I had taken the #92 home from a tango club on a previous evening, and I decided to catch it and save myself the walk without researching the website to pinpoint the correct drop off. Since Corrientes is a one-way, the #92 taking me back stops close by but not on the same street, so I missed my stop. By the time I realized it, I was miles away. The bus driver told me to get off and catch the return bus, but since the street was a one-way, I would have had to wander through a strange neighborhood and I didn’t feel sure that I would find the right street to pick up the #92 back. So silly me, I decided to stay on board thinking at some point the bus would make a complete circle, right? Isn’t that how it works? After another half hour I realized that was stupid and when we made it to a two-way street and I could see #92 coming from the opposite direction, I hopped off in order to retrace my steps. The bus driver just laughed at me as I left.
It truly takes two to Tango
But one night I gathered some steam and headed out for my first night of Tango in Buenos Aires in a group class at La Catedral Club in barrio Almagro on Sarmiento near Medrano. (www.lacatedralclub.com) Located in the upstairs of a former warehouse, La Catedral caters to Tango dancers, mostly younger and many foreign, with a grungy decor sporting gothic artwork on the walls. Nightly dance classes for beginners and advance students are followed by milongas. It also has a bar and a vegetarian restaurant. For 70 pesos, I joined a class of five women and one man led by a gray-haired dancer named Alberto Goldberg. He took turns dancing with each of us, while the male student also took turns dancing with us while trying to follow the teacher's moves. Alberto was good at steering, but I still managed to step on his toes and spin the wrong way most of the time. And although as usual, the women way outnumbered the guys in the class, the teacher danced with all of us and I had a good experience overall.
My second night at La Catedral followed another frustrating bus experience. When I finally made it to the late Tango class, it was awful. A large group of all beginners. I paired up with this Swiss guy and I had to explain to him what to do. Then I ended up with a French woman. She was sweet and we had some fun, but after a while, she decided she’d rather drink wine. After initially directing everyone to switch partners, the instructor decided to focus on the couples trying to dance and rather than dance with the handful of us women standing around with our arms crossed, he would break up the couples and dance with the woman while the man stood and stared with his arms crossed. After about five minutes of this nonsense I headed out the door. Dancing Tango requires a man who knows what he’s doing, and I haven’t met him yet.
I finally found my dance nirvana at La Bomba de Tiempo on a Monday night with the roadies. Billed as a weekly percussion party, La Bomba de Tiempo features a 17-piece improvisational drum group with a conductor who directs the percussionists through Latin American and African rhythms. Cost is $80 pesos, I bought a drink for $45. The open-air venue is Ciudad Cultural Konex on 3131 Sarmiento, an old cooking oil factory down the street from La Catedral. Doors open at 7 p.m., the band starts at 8 and ends at 10, an Argentine rarity (early and on-time) due to strict noise restrictions in barrio Almagro.
More money madness
Frustrated and exhausted, I decided I didn’t want to take the subway back with Tom and since I’d noticed several #39 collectivos rolling past us on Santa Fe, I decided to cross the street to catch one and head home. Never exactly sure of which specific stop I needed to catch the bus, I chose to cross the narrower street and saw a Western Union office on the other side. I decided for some reason to check it out and lo and behold, the guy behind the window told me he’d be happy to change my USD to AR$. I immediately headed out the door to see if I could track down Tom, hoping his height would help him stand out, but all I saw were hundreds of other heads and preferred to not chase after him, not sure exactly which side of Santa Fe he was headed. So I changed my USD; they even took my $5 bills, for a rate of 12.5, the best I’d found in Argentina! The internet actually gave the rate as 12.8, 13-something on the street, but I was happy to take the money and run. Even though the machine counted my bills for me, I sat down and counted them myself before stepping out into the street. I scurried home with my loot via #39.
Random observations on my month in Buenos Aires
Another morning I passed a woman wrangling ten large dogs on leashes. I admired the hopeless optimism of the women scrubbing the sidewalks every morning. Sometimes while ambling through the streets I smelled a whiff of marijuana. At one newsstand on Montevideo, I walked through a cloud of it. Everyday after trekking to school and back I had to wash black dirt off my sandaled feet. One of the things I love about crossing the streets of Buenos Aires is most are one-way, so you usually know which way to look to see who’s trying to run you over; in Argentina, cars always have the right of way.
I’m amazed at how unfriendly everyone appears in Buenos Aires, especially walking on the street. Hard. Stone-faced. Almost unhappy. Sometimes angry. Definitely stressed. They don’t catch your eye or smile. Even the little children act suspicious or turn away (except for the two young Asian girls in our apartment complex).
So I started practicing Random Acts of Greetings. I made an effort to smile at everyone I passed on the sidewalk, but mostly at women. The men always returned any casual glance with a smarmy, hopeful or suggestive look, especially the middle-aged and older men who usually stared at me in a predatory fashion, so I ignored them. All but our two doormen/maintenance guys who always greeted me with a real smile and a friendly greeting. Otherwise, there’s the man with scoliosis; I passed him twice on El Salvador. The first time we made eye contact. The second time we smiled at each other and his seemed genuine.
One woman on the street corner returned my smile with a hostile glare. A woman cleaning the sidewalk responded to my “hola” with a half-smile but made minimal eye contact. Another woman walking out of a store walked directly in front of me, forcing me to walk around her. She didn’t even acknowledge me. One time I accidentally bumped into a woman’s bag while we stood next to each other waiting for the light to change, and the woman grimaced suspiciously; my clumsiness is a timeless pick-pocketer’s technique.
While walking during lunch one day I saw a totally random sight. Amidst the shabby over-the-top we’re-so-chic-ness of Palermo, (the burger place with the prices and descriptions written in marking pen on cardboard amidst the “graffiti” from thousands of patrons and the servers rudely yelling your name below a signed photo of the Soup Nazi), this old man with a cane and one arm in a cloth sling wobbled by me in a halting gait, dried blood covering his shirt and shorts.
One morning near Santa Rosa I noticed a man in a wheelchair behind a barred security gate waving excitedly at me with a wide, toothless grin. I walked over and said "hola" as I waved. He seemed nervous once I made it to his doorway. I offered a “Como Esta?” and his response was mumbled. I don’t know if he had dementia or speech difficulties from a stroke. I didn’t stay long, but it made my day.
At the artisan fair that last hot Friday in Plaza Julio Cortazar on Serrano in Palermo, I stopped by one booth displaying inch-long, painted figures enclosed in glass tubes. The artist, a smiling man with a scarred nose that looked like someone had sliced it with a knife years ago, explained in his broken English how he created his works of art using a sharp metal needle to carve up pieces of chalk, sometimes match sticks, then paint them. He gave me a magnifying glass for a better look. The pieces were the quality of an elementary child’s school drawing. He had a huge selection of Star Wars figurines,Tango dancers, some Argentine futbol stars, a rendition of the last supper he hadn’t painted, aliens with large heads and eyes dabbed black. He even had a depiction of ET. His creations included a multitude of birds including a pink flamingo and a bird he asked if I could identify. I shrugged, so he pulled out a book with pictures of the birds of Buenos Aires and pointed to the photo. Some of the carved figures were in water, which magnified the size. He was so nice and friendly, such a rare commodity in this city. I’m sure he hoped I would buy something, but he didn’t quote prices or pull a sales shtick like the other vendors. He didn’t act disdainful in the manner of the other artists. When he offered me a piece of chalk and a large needle to allow me to make my own creation, I backed off, easing myself away with “Gracias. Ciao.”
During my last Mate and Medilunas date at the Sugar Bar (www.sugarbuenosaires.com) with the other roadies and sweet Mila, I almost grew weepy as I listened to all the 20-somethings and their big travel plans and the-world-is-my-playground futures.
By my last weekend I lost my damn SUBE card, but nothing else of value. I spent my final day in Buenos Aires walking. Walking, walking, walking until my feet ached (but I used my Teva sandals this time so no blisters). March 11, 2015, turned into a gorgeous Saturday. It had rained in the morning and except for some clouds early on, the sun came out and by noonish I was fine in shorts and a tank top with my windbreaker wrapped around my waist. By the time the sun started to dip behind the buildings, my feet throbbed and sadly I realized it might be my last time in Buenos Aires. And although I checked my map frequently for reassurance, I knew where I was going. I had figured out Buenos Aires' maze of streets, from Palermo to Recoleta to San Nicholas, to San Telmo, to Monserrat. Except for a rambling detour from Avenida de Mayo, I made my way that day without a hitch.
Living in Buenos Aires for a month was an exhilarating experience. My only regret from this trip is that I didn’t go to the ballet at Teatro Colon with Mila when she e-mailed looking for someone free to join her.
I survived the big scary city of Buenos Aires relatively intact. No awful incidents, just a few urban frustrations. And I didn't step in dog shit, not even once.