Last tango
I am so sad that I didn’t have any time for more lessons. My third, and sadly, final lesson of this trip was with both Ramiro and Luciana. Ramiro starts our small “warm-up” by having me bend to the floor, starting from the head, bending at the waist, feeling and articulating each bone from the top of the head down the spine, to finally, the waist. In order to “help” me, he is walking his fingers slowly down my spine. All the while, he is whispering, in a soft, italian-inflected spanish, in that sensual way Latin men are known for.
I later learn that one of the girls at the hostel was watching, green with envy. Ramiro is very attractive.
A moment later, Ramiro talks to me about the tango closed position, aptly named the “tango embrace.”
He says “How do you hug your friend?”
I say “I don’t know… like this,” slightly confused by the question, as I hug him, giving his tall, lean body a slight squeeze.
He corrects me. “No, a close friend,” and wraps his arms me, diagonally, like a messenger bag, and holds me quite close, continuing to lecture me about the appropriate body position in that same, tantalizing castellano.
If everyone gets this kind of treatment, I can see why tango is so instantly popular, and why Americans converge upon Buenos Aires to learn it.
Living the BA good life, and feeling quite a bit of guilt.
I came to Buenos Aires for three reasons.
- MEAT
- TANGO
- LEATHER
Perhaps it is my imagination, but I keep feeling like the question I am being constantly asked “The exchange rate is good, no?” is one not of curiosity, but of slight sorrow, self-pity, and resentment. Not too long ago, BA was one of the most expensive cities in the world, on par with NYC. Now, Americans and Europeans arrive in droves, buying up the local wares, filling up the best restaurants in town, seeing the broadway-quality shows at rates no average porteno can afford to buy.
At first, I was very excited to be living like I will never be able to afford to in my own city. Two meals a day in some of the finest restaurants in town, where an appetizer, dinner, dessert, beverage cost roughly $20. Walking down their version of SOHO with not one, but two, three shiny bags of shoes (I finally became successful in my shoe quest) from their local designers, costing what would be $200, $300 a pop here. I felt decadent, I felt rich, I felt…
Guilty.
At least once a meal, you have to shoo away young children, begging for money at your dinner table, once begging for our leftover drinks and empanadas. I look around as I eat my Sunday Brunch at Janio (Two hockey-puck sized tenderloins in a delectable gravy, accompanied by a spinach-tomato sautee and a gratin potato, about $10) and recognize that it is filled with tourists. There was a table of college-aged English girls to my right, certainly taking for granted the luxury that I seldom get to appreciate.
I feel guilty.
I wonder if rich americans every feel this way. I wonder how long I would have to be here before I too, take my new-found wealth for granted.
Facing my fears in the most Chichi of places
Despite my guilt, I decided that my “last meal” of sorts should be not a parrillada (as just the look and smell of grilled meats is starting to make me sick) should be at one of the nicest restaurants I can find. My guide book recommends Tomo I, which they say is often cited as the best in BA, but it’s in one of these very expensive hotels, clients dressed to the nines, and I would not have been able to pull off that look. I decide upon Gran Bar Danzon, within walking distance from the Hostel. My newest dorm-mates, Susanna and Peter (from the Hague) and Pablo (from Madrid) surprisingly decide to join me.
This was the kind of place you’d find in the meat-packing district, on a week that was not Semana Santa you’d probably need a reservation a week ahead, dark and pretty, full of the most beautiful people in BA.
Susanna and Peter balked, because we could only get a space at the bar, they had already eated, and really had joined me for conversation. So it was me and Pablo, practicing my spanish, talking about the value of apartments in our respective cities. I am surprised I understand the Spanish for the “housing starts” economic indicator. He is quite nice. His family is from San Fermin, the city where the Running of the Bulls takes place, and I had a nice time recounting my horror story from years back.
I order an incredible veal stew braised and served in a reduced port wine sauce. The meat is deep brown, almost black, slightly reddish in color. A sprig of thyme delicately draped across the top. I cut it with a fork. One of the other dishes was a Ojo de Bife (ribeye) served atop a deconstructed morcilla sausage. Pablo orders it, solely for the purpose of making me taste morcilla for the first time.
Traditional morcilla is Spanish Blood sausage. It is literally congealed blood, cooked with onions and spices, of course, in a sausage casing. I am an adventurous eater, but I have a deep fear and loathing of offal. Although morcilla isn’t quite a sweetbread, it’s close enough.
One time, I was telling an ex-colleague that I had a great sausage in Seville, and she asked me if it was morcilla. After describing it to me, I felt my stomach turn, sickened by the idea that some year prior I may have ingested a sausage of blood.
Pablo gently talks me into it. A dime-sized portion rests on the end of his fork, inviting me to taste it. I take a deep breath. I open my mouth. I quickly close it. I can’t do it. He tells me not to think about what it is. I don’t want to insult him by scorning his native food. I think to myself, “at this restaurant, I’m sure that this will be the best morcilla I will ever encoutner.” I succumb.
It tastes like blood. Well-seasoned, creamy blood. There’s a first and last time for everything.
Luckily, the dulce de leche tart, vanilla ice cream, and banana puree was enough to reward my courageous foray.
Final thoughts on BA
BA is a bustling metropolis. I am a city girl, and I thought from what I had heard and read that I would love it.
It wasn’t love at first site. After about 3 days, I said to someone “it’s OK, But I don’t think I could live here.”
It’s a huge, urban sprawl, and even during a week where, stuck in mid-morning traffic, the taxi drivers say “oh, this is nothing. Everyone is out of town.” There is a subway system that only seems to circumscribe where anyone would want to go. There is a comprehensive bus system, which even after a week, I was too confused and intimidated to try. Even the blocks are huge, so walking, even when the weather is nice, exhausts you.
Petty theft is rampant, and I consider myself smart,vigilant, and/or lucky enough to not have been robbed. Violent crime is not a problem outside the dangerous neighborhoods, but I witnessed the aftermath of at least two robberies, and they weren’t even stupid tourists. I kept three hands on my purse at all times, and would walk down a street, crossing the street over and over in avoidance of anyone who was not an old lady or a young couple. I never was totally comfortable.
The stuff you want to see and do are nowhere near each other. I spent more time traveling to where I was going than at the place I was going to. The days fly by.
They have a ridiculous problem making change. If the bill is 12 pesos, and you try to pay with 20, they ask “do you have anything smaller?” It’s so hard getting a hold of small bills and coins, that the taxi drivers often told me that I didn’t need to worry about giving them the extra 48 centavos or whatever. I imagine this is one of the problems with the devaluation of their peso… it used to be worth 3 times as much. The bills are the same, but the cost of everything is 1/3 of what it used to be.
After I got a better feel of the city, and started talking to the people, my thoughts changed. Portenos are full of life and energy, and are very friendly, if you speak the language. I engaged in so many conversations with so many people, curious about why I was visiting, what I did, where I was staying, what I enjoyed.
Like New York, no one really seemed to know where anything was, but were happy to give you their opinion. They seem to understand what is wrong with their city, but love it all the same, and are so proud to share it with you.
It’s a bold, vibrant city, with amazing nightlife, beautiful and warm people, a movement and heartbeat all its own. I was very sorry to leave and I’m dying to go back.
Although I’m very pleased to be eating this plate of vegetables right now.
1 comment:
I am jealous... And hungry! A 'deconstructed morcilla sausage' - ok, I confess, this may be a bit much for me too.
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