Restaurants of Note in Buenos Aires

Gran Bar Danzon: I’ve now eaten here three times in the last 4 months. The food is spectacular, the setting glorious. It’s a little medeival inside, with candles and dark silver walls, perfect dark lighting, a gorgeous wine bar (if you’re into that). The perfectly grilled langostines were served with an amazing cauliflower puree (so much better than it sounds). The stewed veal entrée in a malbec red wine reduction was some of the best stewed meat I’ve ever eaten, and the dulce de leche souflee was, according to Mark (a big food nerd) one of the best three desserts he’d ever eaten. Great prices. Make a reservation.

Desnivel: This is the best bang for your buck, if you can deal with harried waiters known for their obnoxious and inattentive behavior (although the one I had on the 3rd try was quite nice). It’s no-frills, but some of the cheapest and most delicious parillada restaurants we ate at. The area in the back is nicer than that in the front. It’s packed all the time, especially on Sunday when San Telmo has its market. Provoleta, a round hunk of provolone cheese coated in flour, grilled, and topped with olive oil and oregano is delicous. They’ll tell you to get the lomo, the prized Argentine tenderloin, and it’s the most tender bu the least flavorful. It’s served in a sauce, and the sauce is OK, but it destroys the potatoes that accompany it. And papas noisette, little formed and fried balls of potato… not so good. We had the asaso de tira (beef ribs) and they were short on meat, heavy on fat, but very flavorful and delicious. We tried to order the butterflied bife de chorizo (a popular cut) just to taste it (we saw some girl devour it earlier in the week) but the waiter absolutely refused, telling us it was way too much meat. He was right, and it was very kind of him to spare our wallets and arteries like that.

La Cabrera (Norte): Holy crap. Gorgeous restaurant, cozy and intimate. La Cabrera was totally booked, so we were sent down the street to La Cabrera Norte, the new restaurant they had to open up to keep up with demand. We asked the waiter if the bife de chorizo was large enough to share, and he said “yeah, sure.” This thing was HUGE. Perfectly cooked. And it came with about 11 little dishes with accompaniments, like mashed potatoes, both regular and sweet, green beans, onions in wine; like the kimchee you get with every korean meal. There were also a number of very unnecessary sauces to accompany your meat if you chose. We ordered almond and parmesan-stuffed olives as an appetizer, and there were about 30 of them. The bread was delicious, there were free sopressata-provolone appetizers; that with the along with the huge bowl of french fries I superflously ordered (they actually were soggy, anyway)… we hardly made a dent. And the whole meal didn’t top USD$30. I think we had dessert. I can’t really remember. La Cabrera is a must.

Trendy restaurants in Palermo Viejo. There are a number of trendy restaurants in even trendier Palermo Viejo that all have the same idea going on… gorgeous, split level, loft-like spaces, option of eating inside or out, at sofas or tables, very reasonable three-course weekday lunch menus. The food is not traditional argentine, but tries (and sometimes succeeds) to be inventive. We ate at Janio, Mott, Cluny, Bar Uriarte. There are more, and they’re blocks apart. We preferred them in that order, and I believe that they all had prices that were close, with Bar Uriarte’s lunch menu topping out at about USD$15 per person. The atmosphere is nice, the service is excellent, the food ranges from good to great, no one rushes you to leave. All in all, the best way to eat a non-meat-orgy meal.

Happening: It wasn’t. Recommended to me by this guy Marcelo, who is Argentine. It’s in Puerto Madero (I think there are others). Beautiful restaurant, nice waitstaff. On the night we arrived, there was no one there practically, but it was during the winter vacation where I think lots of locals are skiing in Bariloche. The meat arrives very overcooked, and although we didn’t ask for it done rare, they never asked. When I asked the waiter why no one asks how we want meat cooked in BA, he said, “It’s generally served medium well, or someone will ask you. Why, was it not?” No, it wasn’t. And the crema catalana had a crust you needed a drill to get through, The custard, when you finally got to it, was overcooked.

Te Mataré Ramirez: It means “I will kill you Ramirez.” It was without a doubt, the WORST MEAL I HAVE EVER HAD IN A RESTAURANT IN MY LIFE.

It’s billed as an eclectic, erotic-themed restaurant. The menus have long, poetic, entendre-filled names and descriptions that take you a good 20 minutes to read and decipher… it would probably be more like 15 if the lighting weren’t so bad you could hardly read the menu or see the food. There ware names like "I surrendered to a deliciously vulgar pleasure," which I barely understand in English, much less Spanish. There was a floor show where people had puppets doing very naughty things. Humorous, and possibly funnier than that, as my Spanish is mostly academic and not too colloquial.

We weren’t too hungry, thank god, because we only had to suffer through two entreés, as opposed to that and a couple of appetizers. Mark ordered the duck confit. I don’t know much about duck confit but it was a scary shade of pink and Mark said it tasted like undercooked pork. I had the veal, which was served shredded, in a timbale, was dry as hell and had no flavor whatsoever. Then thin jus that accompanied it didn’t help. There was a smathering of cannelini beans, probably out of the can, vinegared, and A SOLITARY 2 INCH PIECE OF PICKLED CELERY. It was god awful. And at about USD$25 an entrée, by far the most expensive meal we had.

We left angry, and ready to kill Ramirez, wherever he might be.

I just can’t learn to dance this way

I had this dream that I was going to spend my month dancing and eating my way through Brazil and Argentina. I managed to do the eating part quite well. A little over a month, and I did not cook one meal myself.

The dancing part was more difficult.

I stopped taking dance classes in Brazil when I realized that the quality and authenticity of instruction in New York is at least equal, probably better, and more professional. They start on time, there are more classes of more variety offered more times during the day. The Salvador dance schools felt like chop-shop operations, only offering classes 2-3 hours per day, all at the same time at every school, and the rates varied so much that you didn’t know what to expect. One woman charged me 25 Reals, about USD$13, the same price it would be in the US. And I’d had better classes in the US. I was satisfied with what I did, but I didn’t feel I was really getting something special learning there versus learning in NYC.

On the contrarty, there are SO MANY dance classes in Buenos Aires, that it’s hard to focus. They’re practically all day and night, all over the city. It took me a week to get up the motivation (and to not feel badly dragging my friend to watch me suck at tango for an hour) to take a class. I finally settled upon Tango brujo, a store and dance studio around the corner from the hostel.

The class was a mixed basic-intermediate level. People were at all different levels, none too great but all seemingly more experienced than me. They taught one move, and we practiced the move over and over again. I could not get it. I’m not so sure too many others did either, but I defintely couldn’t do it. My body weight and position was all wrong, and they kept trying to fix it, and I just couldn’t do it. All these instructiors focus so heavily on technique, which is wonderful, but there’s so much going on at the same time just to take this one small step, it’s very hard to perfect.

After toying with this one move for about 15 minutes, we had to put it into practice. Unfortunately, I’ve never danced before outside the 3 private lessons I’ve had, so I don’t know how to do any of the other stuff, either. My partners are leading things I just don’t know how to do. And, nice as they were, they’re saying, “no, we’re not doing that move, we’re just dancing.” But I don’t know how to dance in the first place.

I need a progressive class, at least until I get a little more comfortable with the basics. I need a class where everyone is slightly better than me, so that I can understand what I need to do and I don’t have to figure out if what I’m doing isn’t working because of me of because of my partner. I have to dance with a limited number of moves that I am trying to perfect. Learning samba, I can jump into a class. I’ll pick some of it up, and some of it I won’t. But if I mess up, I only have to deal with me, not with someone else.

I just couldn’t function in a drop-in class. I’m not disappointed. It gave me more time to dedicate to the other side of the tango passion… the SHOES. So I left BA with not so much a better understanding of the dance, but I now have a 4-pair mini-collection of tango shoes to inspire me.

Montependejo, back to BA. A comparison in tango spectacles.

Montependejo- This is what Mark keeps calling Montevideo. I am so sad to report that if there is something great about Montevideo, we just didn't see it. The city center was slightly delapidated, and reminded me of what Cuba must have been like 30 years ago, before it totally fell apart. It is barely modern, with the old and the new juxtaposed in a very unique way (businessmen in suits walk by horses that cart away recyclables.) Barely modern isn't a bad thing, but it's really hard to understand in a capital city where half of the country's population lives.

We went to the recommended folklore show called "El milongon" that explores the dances of Uruguay: Candombe, the afro-uruguayan dance that comes from the same place as Brazilian Candomble, tango, and gaucho-style taiko drumming and stepping.

It was awful.

The Uruguayans have a tango tradition, but according to the Argentines (for whatever that's worth) they don't really. They production was totally lackluster, cheesy vegas at best. I don't really know good tango, but I know bad tango, and this was it. Tango has an air of seriousness, but the FOUR dancers were not only not smiling, but there was no passion whatsoever in their gaze. In fact, ennui and depression was the only feeling conveyed.

The candombe was just pathetic. Especially after witnessing an actual candomble ceremony in Brazil. There was one expressionless older woman and an overenthusiastic Sammy Davis lookalike.

The gaucho bit was fantastic, but it was a brief flash of light in an otherwise very dark and depressing hour and a half performance, which was about 2 hours too long. And at USD$20, a total ripoff.

We went back to the town center to find hardly anything open, so we had to go back to the same restaurant, as the two others we found open were completely empty. To El Fogon's credit, the 5-meat parillada we had was divine.

We had changed our 2 pm Buquebus departure to 7:15 am, just to get out that much earlier. Even the all-day rain we came back to in BA was a welcome relief.

Back in Buenos Aires, we decided to see a real Tango show. The advice was to see Señor Tango, often described as the most popular tango spectacle. It's in Barracas, a somewhat shady part on the border of the city. The price of admission includes car service to and from the event.

The location is a converted warehouse made to look like Moulin Rouge. It was huge, with three levels housing 1500 people. It was packed to capacity almost, as it is almost every night.

I can't even describe it. There were horses. The women were impossibly thin with freakishly long legs dancing incredible tango. Showy. Sexy. Each set of dances took you through the history of tango, from its seedy origins to the 80's slightly scary look, to hollywoodized tango to the present.

It was 2.5 hours, no intermission.

There was an amazing orchestra, half of the members were only about 19 or 20 years old. They had a couple of old bandeon players join them for a couple of songs.

There was an amazing tenor singer, at times accompanied by a pair of twin women singing in perfect harmony. when they closed the show with "Don't cry for me, Argentina," it was all I could do to stop from crying myself.

It was glorious.

Montevideo, Uruguay

I have a couple of colleagues from Montevideo, and the last time I came to Buenos Aires, each of them asked, "Did you go to Uruguay?"

So, after our little side trip to Rosario, Mark and I decided to go to Montevideo.

We took an hour long ferry ride and a 2.5 hour bus ride from Colonia to Montevideo. It is freezing cold, and considering that we´re right on the River, it's especially freezing. Right now, I´m wearing three long sleeve shirts, two pairs of socks, the hat Johanna made me in Brazil, and my leather coat. It's not quite cutting it.

The hostel faces Plaza Independencia, in the center of town. The hostel is also freezing cold. It's in an old building, no insulation (although we're starting to think that there is no insulation here at all, anyway). There's a space heater which warms the space immediately in front of it. But the hostel is cheap and clean, and that's all that really matters.

We have to change our money to Uruguayan Pesos, totally different from Argentine Pesos. When we arrived at the bus station, there was only one ATM machine, and it didn't operate on any of the cash systems our money cards use. They primarily have a system called RED or Banelco, where we use Cirrus, or Star.

So Mark changes USD$60 to Uruguayan pesos just to get us in a taxi, and perhaps some dinner. The conversion rate is not an easily calculable 2:1 like in Brazil, or 3:1 in Argentina. It's 23:1. 23 pesos to the dollar. I'm not quite good at dividing by 23, nad dividing by 25 I can do, but I hate estimating.

We are tickled by the big McDonald's sign that says "Delicious and with low prices" and right underneath it it says, "Extra crispy sandwich, $40". The fact that the Uruguayan peso uses the same exact symbol for the USD makes everything look very expensive. Our dinner last night came to $700 and it was all we could do to stop ourselves from cracking up.

It turns out that it is exceptionally difficult to use an American ATM card here. We had to go to 10 different banks to find one that would give us money. And yet, there are 10 money exchange places on every block. And, most of the ATM machines give you the option of taking out USD, whether you use an American bank card or not. Many of the stores, not even touristy ones, give quotes in USD as well as in Uruguayan pesos. We can't quite figure this out.

There is a small pedestrian boulevard. There is not much of note. Actually, there´s not much going on in town at all. We went out last night, and the only stuff that seemed to be open was a couple of obars, pizza places, and strip clubs.

Oh, and the casino. Right around the corner form the hostel.

I'm not a gambler. I actually hate it. I know I'm going to lose, so what's the point. Mark isn't either, it turns out. But there was nothing else to do.

The casino was tiny, NON-SMOKING (awesome), and most importnatly, WARM. We get $100 (uruguayan, about USD$4) in tokens. We shared a machine, playing video poker and video roulette, and worked out strategies on every coin, just for entertainment's sake. It was strangely enough, hilarious. Every time we won, I demanded it cash out, just to hear the sound of the tokens. We played for an hour before we were bored. I really don't know how people do this all night. We turned our $100 into $400, laughing so hard because it looked like so much money, but it was only about $13.

To celebrate our big winnings, we went on a search for hard cider (about all I like to drink), walking for what felt like forever before we found something that was open. The cider cost about USD$2. We had to sneak it back to the hostel, hard to do because we can't seem to figure out how to open the large, old, big, wooden door to the hostel that you have to pull, then push (we got yelled at for shoving it open with the force we thought it required). The cider tasted like it was apple juice and vinegar strained through pantyhose.

We did manage to get a good dinner that night, at a parilla called "El fogón"... an order of pulpo a la gallego (octopus) and an entrecote, a banana liquado and the most delicious and large piece of dulce de leche semifreddo, drowned in hot chocolate sauce we couldn't finish between us. The meat portions are smaller here, just as tasty as in BA, and more expensive but still very reasonable.

We also shared a "Pamplona de cerdo," a cheese and bacon stuffed pork roll on the grill at the mercado del puerto, kind of a small south street seaport. The best part was that we were sitting right in front of the parilla dude, and we just watched him fling meat around while we were eating. It was like watching a sushi chef in action.

Interesting was the trip to the Manos del Uruguay store. It's my favorite wool brand. It's made in a cooperative in Uruguay, and the yarn is thick and thin, very soft for wool, and it comes in the most beautiful variegated colors. In the US, it's USD$13 a hank. There are a number of Manos stores in Montevideo, and they only sell wool in one of them. The stores are dedicated to sweaters and handicrafts made from their awesome yarn. We get to the store that sells the yarn, and all they have is a huge bin with whatever leftover yarn they have from making the sweaters. There was a Uruguyan woman there, and when she heard us speak english, she went on a rampage. She ranted about how much it costs in the US, and how it's totally ridiculous that they don't sell the actual yarn in the stores, but whenever she comes to visit, she buys a ton of it anyway, at U$400 per KILO, about USD$17. You can get a kilo for a little more than you would pay for a hank, which is about 200 grams. I bought 2 kilos.

All in all, not much going on in Montevideo. We'll be happy to leave first thing in the morning.

Comparing BA to NYC

Things BA does better than the US

Quality of the meat: Argentine does meat. High quality. Unfortunatley, although I speak spanish, they know we’re tourists, and keep conversation to a minimum. The first couple of places we went for meat, we forgot to ask for it cooke “A punto,” which means “medium rare.” The first couple were well done, and although the flavor was good, it killed the meat. I finally asked the waiter at “Happening” in Puerto Madero if you have to specifically have to ask for the meat cooked the way you like it, because where we’re from you’re always asked, he apologized and said he was sorry it was not done “a punto,” which is how it is supposed to be done. Perhaps they think americans like it this way?

Customer service in the stores: You have to be buzzed into almost every store. The stores have one of every style on display. You have to ask for your size. In some stores, I tried on 20 pairs of shoes. When I was done, and I didn’t buy anything,, I would say “thank you” and the response was always the same: No, por FAVOR! With that emphasis. It was like they were calling you ridiculous for thanking them for their help. It’s really nice.

Taxi drivers: You get into the taxt, they ask you where you’re going. You give the direction. If you simply say anything else to them, they talk, and talk, and talk. One guy, on the way back from Boca, gave us a whole tour of everything we passed by. He told us about the volunteer fire department, the house that was completely settled by the Polish, the one across the street that was settled by Italians. He pointed out where Peron was brought down, and the marble pilars that were left destroyed from the protests. They’re educated, proud of their city, and want to tell you all about it while asking about your experience. This has happened a number of times.

Coffee: the coffee is delicious. Everywhere. It’s served in coffee shops, cafes, bars. How nice to walk into a bar, in the cold, and order a nice cup of hot coffee. And it’s almost always served with a couple of little cookies and a chaser of water (sometimes sparkling!) Of course, at an average of 5 pesos a cup, it’s relatively quite pricey.

Tipping: 10% tip is recommended at restaurants. Taxi drivers don’t expect to be tipped. I tipped one and he laughed at me.

Lack of strollers in the streets: People carry their kids IN THEIR ARMS! No strap-on device, very very few wide strollers taking up space in the narrow streets. I really don’t know how these thin women carry their 3-year olds around in their arms all day long, but that seems to be the way it’s done.


Things BA is lacking

Toilet can’t handle paper: One would expect in a modern city like this, you’d be able to flush the toilet paper. But alas. You have to place your used toilet paper in the receptacle beside the toilet, stinking up the place until you throw out the garbage. My friend Mark is particularly distressed by this. I was smart enough to not tell him until he arrived.

Change: There is a big problem with change. The bank machines dispense mostly $100 bills, but everyday items don’t cost nearly that much. You have to hoard your change. If something costs $11, and you give them a $20 bill, they ask you if you have anything smaller. In fact, at the train station today, there was an advertisement begging people to stop hoarding their change and that they have to pay with it. Why can’t the government take some $100 out of circulation and replace them?

Complete disregard for vegetables: The “salads” here are disgusting. Canned vegetables. Iceberg lettuce. Vegetables cooked beyond all recognition. Poor, poor vegetarians here.

Sidewalks and dog poo: Sidewalks are COVERED in poo. There are lots of stray dogs. There are lots of owned dogs. I really don’t know which are to blame.

People digging through garbage: At night, people young and old, slash open the garbage bags that line the street and dig through them. With panache… they sit amongst the bags and make themselves at home. I assume they’re homeless, but a lot of them look pretty clean to be homeless. It’s more gross than sad, especially knowing that a lot of those bags have to be filled with used toilet paper.

Intersections with no stop signs in palermo: Palermo is a relatively new neighborhood, and not “very touristy,” claimed our taxi driver last night. So they have not yet insalled traffic lights. Or stop signs. At almost every crosswalk. The drivers just have to know to slow down.
Crazy bus system: There are 140 bus lines that service BA. The Guia T is a thick booklet that you need a PhD to decipher. It’s some crazy three-part system where you have to look up where you are, then look up what bus lines pass through that 5 block square, then where you’re going. It’s total insanity.

I don’t know what I expected for 10 bucks a night

I had been told by a couple of people familiar with Rosario that it was a nice city, about 4 hours away from BA. The girl at the hostel told us that it was nice, but there wasn’t anything touristy there. We changed our hostel reservation from 3 nights to 2 nights.

A good idea, in fact, because as nice as Rosario seems to live, you can really see almost everything there is to see in two days. Even their toursim touts “Rosario en 48 horas…”

We get to Rosario Sunday night, about 7 pm. The hostel is 9 blocks from the bus station, but we opt for the cab ride. It was hard finding a hostel, as there really is no tourism here, but I managed to find one on hostelworld.com that claimed to have WiFi, showers in the rooms.

We are the ONLY people at this hostel.

Literally.

The hostel is one of the most threadbare hostels I have ever been in. The walls have holes in it. The beds are sinking in the middle, which is shocking because it seems like no one has ever been here. The door handles are helt together with pins. And by pins, I mean pins, sticking out in a rudimentary way.

I ask where the shower is, as the room has a small room with a toilet. Mark pokes me and points… THE SHOWER HEAD IS RIGHT OPPOSITE THE TOILET. That’s right. There is no bathtub, there is a shower head, no curtain to separate where you shower from where you answer nature’s call. You shower and squeegee the floor when you’re done.

Oh, and the shower is dripping. There is a bucket under the shower head, and there’s a dirty towel on the floor underneath it.

Mark is horrified. He’s never had an experience like this, and although I have, it was quite a step down from the BA hostel. I gave him the option of leaving, but he decided to tough it out. He took it a lot better than I though he would.

It’s also colder in the hostel than it is outside. And it’s COLD outside.

I’m not sure how many layers of clothes I slept in. and I’m not sure how I was brave enough to shower in that bathroom, but the water was very hot and had good pressure. The floor wasn’t dirty at all, and even though I’m kicking myself for leaving my flip-flops in BA, it wasn’t bad at all. I showered in steaming-hot water, and when I wanted to wash my face, I used the cool water from the sink. Kind of surreal. And not nearly as gross as I expected.

The next morning, the young guy working the desk, who looks just like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, made us a couple of cafés con leche, gave us a basket of croissants and dulce de leche for speading. The best breakfast we’d had, actually.

Eating in Rosario
La Huella: corner of Carlos Pellgrini and Entre Rios. Entre Rios 1702. There were not a lot of people there on a Sunday night, but it was a really nice-looking restaurant, lots of exposed brick. Clean as a whistel, good prices, and it’s parilla. Can’t mess up grilled meat THAT badly.

There is a room on the side, which we’re noticing a lot in these restaurants in Rosario, that’s a kid playroom. Fantastic idea! It’s staffed, and while the Rosarinos are indulging in wine and three-hour meals, the kids can play, make friends, and not bother the hell out of their parents and the other diners.

We chose a table right in the path of the playroom and this one particulr kid’s parents. He must have run back and forth about 10 times. The kid comes by the table and stares at me, and our breadsticks. I ask him if he wants one. He nod. I give him a breadstick and he runs to his mom and uses it as some kind of magic wand. The next time he ran by, he just took our breadstick. It was pretty cute, surprisingly.

Mark orders the “matambre” of veal in a roqufort sauce. Matambre is some kind of thin rolled, seasoned meat. I order the grilled lamb. “A punto,” this time. And an order of Canneloni a la Rossini, which a colleague of ours and some cabbie had previously told is divine. We are a bit saddened to discover that there are people in the restaurant eating SALAD and it’s actually not made of shitty iceberg lettuce and some sad-looking vegetables. Could’ve used that.

Mark’s veal comes, and it’t about two plates long, covered in Roquefort sauce. The sauce is divine, and the veal is tasty but not what we’re used to… they included the flavorful but very chewy layer of fat. My lamb is perfectly seasoned. The canneloni is not actually made from rolled pasta, but crepe dough, filled with escarole and DROWNING in bechamel. Wee’ve seen many people order many pasta dishes at many restaurants at this point, and it seems that’s how Italian is done in Argentina. Ick.

Overall, the food is great. The waiter is attentive, enjoying practicing his minimal English, smiling, polite, helpful. Mark ordered “panqueques con dulce de leche,” which isn’t pancakes at all, but perfectly done crepes, carmelized on top and filled with dulce de leche. I order the budin, but I’m quite happy when I realize our quite lovely waiter didn’t hear me order it. Sharing the crepes was decedence enough. Oof.

All that, and a couple of cups of coffee, set us back a grand total of US$25. Holy cow.

The best part? The waiter asked us where we were from, and he not only gave us all his Rosario recommendations, but he insisted we take his bus pass to we could get back to the hostel without taking a cab. He opened his wallet right up and insisted we have it.

I don’t remember the last time I got tipped by a waiter.

The oldest trick in the book

I had become so paranoid about carrying anything around in Salvador, that I have been extra diligent about where I put my things. If I carry a bag, it is tucked firmly underneath my arms. Most of the time, I have money in every one of my pockets. That way, if I get robbed, I not only have something to give, but not that much. My back-right pocket is designated as communal money for Mark and me… it pays for dinner, cabs, and bus rides so we don’t have to fight over who pays for what.

One day, I decide to strap on the backpack for the first time, laptop packed, to use the WiFi that seems to be at every restaurant and every café in town. The internet at the hostel sucks, and there are only two computers that are always being used.

We get about two blocks from the hostel, and all of a sudden, Mark and I are shit on by birds. It’s on my hat, my new leather coat that I just picked up, and all over Mark. We’re groaning. It seems as though this happens to Mark a lot, and I’m sort of laughing, but he is pretty pissed.

Out of nowhere, a couple come by, patting us down with napkins to help us. How nice, but now I’ve got the feeling of someone rubbing bird shit in my head. I tell them a couple of times that that’s not necessary, that we’re a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I walk away. It’s kind of hard to get away from them. I turn back, and Mark, overwhelmed, not able to speak Spanish, is now being aggressively cleaned by these people. It all happened so quickly that I was thinking to myself, but couldn’t manage to get the words out, “Mark, just walk away from them!”

It happened more quickly than it seemed, but it took him a moment to walk away from them.

Even though we were hungry, and on our way to go to dinner, both of us had to go back to the hotel and take a shower, clean off the backpack and clothes as best we could. The bird shit stained my new leather (a leather cleaner should be able to take care of that…) and got on the hat that Johanna made for me, which I desperately needed, because of the cold.

It wasn’t until a day later when we saw another guy at the hostel, his backpack covered in bird shit, hearing him tell the same story, that we realized that we were victims of the oldest trick in the book. Someone squirts something on you, they rush over to help you clean up, they steal your shit.

They didn’t get anything from us, as I had all my money neatly tucked away, and so did Mark. But the guy at the hostel had been robbed really badly just the day before, and the same couple went after him again. Luckily for him, he had nothing to steal the second time.

I feel strangely vindicated that I didn’t get robbed, and that I wasn’t actually covered in bird shit. We’re still trying to figure out what foul viscous liquid it was, and how they managed to get it on our heads.

I guess I gotta REALLY learn to tango.

I look like a tango superhero in these.

That I bought.

Today.

Ack.

(Bought at Darcos Magic shoes, about $75)

Men are icky in Argentina, too, it seems

MOM AND DAD... YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ THIS ONE

I leave the comfort of Nega Maluca to go to the Salvador airport. I get there quickly, having treated myself to a taxi versus a taxi + bus in the middle of the hot winter daylight. I arrive to discover that my plane was delayed an hour and a half. I also discover that I don’t technically have a connection, I’ll be waiting on the plane at Sao Paulo while we pick people up to go to Buenos Aires.

Smooth flight. And thank goodness, as just a couple of days prior there was a horrific, completely avoidable, 200+ fatality airplane crash on TAM landing at Sao Paulo. There is a runway there that was deemed too short for dangerous weather, and it had been shut down for a while, but it was decided they were loosing too much $ with the runway being closed that they used it. The plan landed too fast in wet weather, sped down the runway, crashed into a gas station, and blew up. Awful.

I’m tired, I’ve got a throat infection. I can’t lie down on the airport floor as everyone else does, as this particular floor isn’t carpeted. But Salvador airport has one thing that I’ve always said should exist at airports: a salon offering MASSAGE.

I don’t feel stressed enough or sore enough to warrant a massage, but at USD45 an hour, I felt like maybe it was a good idea. I could lie down. Nap. Wait.

They sure are a lot more open than we are. She didn’t leave the room while I undressed, and didn’t feel it necessary to cover me with a towel at some point. I had to tell her I was going to sleep, to stop her from talking to me for the full hour as it appeared would happen. It was a pretty bad massage. But I did get to rest. Naked, On a table.

I’m glad I got that massage, as perhaps it prevented the total meltdown that should have happened later on.

I land at Buenos Aires at around 3 am. An older couple I met on the way allowed me to share their car service, as we were both going to the center of town, and the next bus wasn’t to arrive for an hour.

The husband is annoyed that I gave his wife 50 pesos. But it was worth it to not have to wait. I was getting quite tired.

I get to V&S Hostel Club, a familiar sight, as I stayed here a couple of months prior.

I ring the bell.

No answer.

I ring two, three times more.

No answer.

I ring the bell for what feels like (and may have actually been) 15 minutes. I bang on the glass door, as I remind myself of the time I put my hand through my bedroom window at college. It was a highly unpleasant experience, and I made sure it didn’t happen again, despite my growing anger.

The night watchman, Juan, comes to the door.

I tell him that I have a reservation, that I’ve paid. He says no one is there.

“What do you mean, no one is there?, I ask”

“No one is there.”

No one is coming until 8 am, and it is only 4:15.

This same conversation goes on back and forth too many times. He will not let me in the vestibule. I am yelling. I try to convince him to let me in the vestibule. He won’t. He repeats himself over and over again, without a change in disposition. I’m thinking he’s a bit slow. I am yelling in the middle of a quiet, desolate street, that I cannot believe he is going to allow me to be alone in the street for hours.

He tells me there is a hotel a block away.

I walk a block away, with my 25 kilo bag,, backpack, and knitting. I am exhausted.

I come back. He has already gone away. I pound again. He comes out and says he will walk me to the other hotel.

I start crying. Oy yes, I pull the meek female card. Except it was pretty real. Bawling.

Now he totally changes.

He lets me in, sits me down on the stairwell, rubs my arm, and says over and over again, don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s OK. Don’t cry. I sat there crying this way for a good couple of minutes, with him rubbing my back and telling me not to cry. It was very sweet, actually.

I stop crying, and tell him that he was very kind, that I just want to go to sleep. The cold marble floor was so much better than being outside, waiting in the cold for four hours, with all my stuff, but without the jacket I had planned to buy once I arrived.

He still was petting my back. At this point, it was enough, but I didn’t say anything.

I lay down on the floor. He comes over and pets my arm some more. I try to go to sleep.

He sits on the stairwell, right next to me. Watching me. I figure he still thinks I am going to break in and rob the place. Quite a good plan, actually, if that was what I was into.

About 20 minutes later, he comes down the stairs and tells me that there is a small library where I can go and be warmer. I thank him again for his kindness.

He tells me to sit on the chair, it’s comfortable. I tell him I want to sleep, and the floor is wonderful, thank.

I lie down. Put my towel on top of me like a blanket. He sits in the chair right next to me, petting me to go to sleep. I am quite annoyed by this already.

He is now petting my face, my arm, my back, whispering me to go to sleep. I can’t, with all this touching. It was definitely overkill, and it was so annoying and uncomfortable, but the last thing I wanted to do was to piss him off so he’s throw me out again. I loie perfectly still, to make it seem like I am sleeping. I’m not worried… we’re right next to the dorm rooms that I stayed in the last time I was at this place, I’m just annoyed and tired and wanted so much to be left alone.

Every time I turned to adjust, he would start again, telling be to go back to sleep. This went on for about an hour. Then, right before 7 am, he comes over, pets me some more, tells me that he has to go. He wants me to call him, He gave me his number. I was so happy he was leaving, I say, OK, bye, goodnight.

This response was not what he was hoping for.

He told me again that he had to go. His hand is now up my shirt. I said “Please, I’m trying to sleep, go, leave me.”

He doesn’t stop. He told me again he had to go. I take his hand off me and tell him I am sleeping.

He lies down next to me. I say no and push him away.

He tells me to keep my voice down, everyone is sleeping.

He tries to kiss me full on the mouth.

Now I start screaming in English, “I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANT MORE. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST PLEASE LEAVE ME BE” and he runs off.

It wasn’t traumatizing, just completely exhausting. I don’t know if he was mentally changellened as I had originally thought, but there was definitely something wrong. I really can’t understand how he could have gotten the impression that I was interested in a fling on the floor of this hostel. I was crying, begging to sleep. The weired thing is that I really think he thought there was something between us. He left me his number!!

8 am sharp, I went upstairs, looking like something the cat had dragged in. I said “Good morning. I’m Cindy. We have a problem. I arrived late at 4 am yesterday, and was locked out, I have no idea why no one thought to tell me that there wasn’t a 24 hour reception when I said I was arriving at 3 in the morning, but when I got here, your night watchman felt me up in my sleep. All night. I’d like to talk about this later, as I really just want a bed right now, and I see you have other people waiting.”

As this is Latin America, I knew I wasn’t going to be compensated for this financially. I didn’t even bother. He didn’t do anything wrong enough for me to press charges. They say he’s worked here for 10 years without any problem, and they were horrified,

I didn’t have to pay for sleeping on the floor, luckily.

Photos and Videos from Buenos Aires, full set

Photos from Buenos Aires Trip (flickr)

Video of me dancing with Luciana



Video of Andy playing football with a young boy in La Boca

Final Days in BA

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

Every conversation I have with a porteno, at some point (usually very early on) gravitates towards the value of the American dollar. The current rate is about 3 pesos to the dollar, but everything is priced like in the US. For example, a taxi ride that would cost about $12 in NYC costs 12 pesos in BA.

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.

La Boca

I was exhausted last night. My intent was to go to a tango dance (called a milonga) and not dare (a) either wear my crazy new shoes or (b) actually dance, but to see the Tangueros in action. Of course, this does not take place until after 1 in the morning (on a THURSDAY,) and I'm not exactly a night owl. So, the plan was to take a late dinner in the neighborhood, take a nap, and head back out. I'd be taking a cab back and forth, so even if I stayed for a short while, at least I did it. I tried to go to a new restaurant, but it was closed, so I wound up back at Marcelo's favorite Palacio de la Papas Fritas. Had a rather boring (yet huge) plate of fried merluza (alternating fish and meat, as is every other tourist I've met...), a side of mashed pumpkin (bland, but a welcome change from the ubiquitous potato), and a monolithic proportioned piece of budim de pan con dulce de leche. Oof.

I staggered off to bed, had a terrible night's sleep that I never really woke up from (alarm was still on NY time, duh.)

This morning, after a quick jaunt to get my leather pants made, after my second tango lesson (I love tango now, by the way,) I went with Georgie and Andy to La Boca, a neighborhhod often referred to as 'dodgy at night.' I was happy to have company, because everyone warns about the danger of La Boca.

It was glorious. There is a small strip, admittedly touristy, filled with outdoor restaurants, tango dancers, singers, bandeon (accordian) players... colorful and alive. We had lunch (pasta for me this time... tasty but overcooked) and walked around for a spell.

Leather Pants

Leather Pants. Cut to my size. In a day. A DAY. Brown, distressed, supple. About USD150. Enough said.

Today, I was Carrie Bradshaw

Last night, I went with my hostel-mates to a parrilla restaurant, finally, called Desnivel in San Telmo. It was the one highly recommended to me by Jorge, who was my neighbor on the plane. Unfortunately, no one wanted to eat parrilla. Everyone wanted the lomo, the tenderloin, grilled to perfection and doused in a variety of sauces with a variety of french fries, a bargain at about 8 USD. I really wanted the ribs and flank steak parrilla, but I wasnt going to do it alone (although I may soon...)

It was as good as expected. Even though (or perhaps, more so) because of the waiter. He was the Buenos Aires version of the Soup Nazi.

We got into the restuarant, and although there was no one waiting to be seated, we were asked about 7 times if we were a group of 7. It was 10 pm, and I was starving. And we're standing next to the grillmaster (there was only one for this huge restaurant, and he was WORKING) watching him cook all that delicious meat. Torturous.

We sit. No one speaks spanish but me, so they point. I start to speak to him in spanish, and he wants none of it. I'm trying to ask him what is better, and it goes something like this...

'Tengo preguntita. Que es mejor, el lomo o el ...'
'EL LOMO.'

No smile, nothing. Pen in hand, pretty much just writing it down. Perhaps he was just in a foul mood. He never brought us bread, or checked on us, he didn't even want to take our order when someone wanted dessert. He shouted something to the effect of 'don't be in such a hurry!' so we got the check instead.

Tried to find a tango venue, and no one could point us to one. Evidently, many of the Porteños are out of town this week.
---

Which brings me to today. If this is what Buenos Aires is like when nobody's here, I'm truly afraid to see what it's like when it's busy. I constantly wonder where the time has gone.

I decided that I was done shopping. Everything sucks. I wanted to see ONCE, the bustling district where most of the immigrants live. But first, I wanted to see the tango shoe store.

Oh. My. God.

This particular store was called Comme il faut, Arenales 1239, Puerta 3 Dpto M. There are about 3 shoes on display. They ask you what size you are. They bring you what they have. All the time, I am sitting there, drooling at the ones that this other woman was trying on, but they don't carry my size. Incredible color and texture combinations. Hot pink and purple. Red leather and black pony. T-strap, open toe, whatever. But only what they have. And she brings me this thing.

Purple leather lizard, with a 3'' stiletto heel in matching iridescent purple. There's a braided T-strap in iridescent aqua. It's dreadful. It's impractical.

Incredibly sexy.

I must have them.

I shouldn't. REALLY. They're about USD100, and I don't tango. Yet.

What an inspiration, though. Maybe these will make me dance. They'll make me dance BETTER.

I decide to do what I normally do when I cam gun-shy... walk away, and if I'm still thinking about it, I'll come back for them. I'll look online to see if there are more tango stores nearby. There HAVE to be. This is BA. Except time is of the essense, because it's Semana Santa, they're closing the whole weekend, and they're not sure when they're closing today.

But it was 12:30 afternoon, and I had plenty of time.

I go back to the hostel, to get my ATM card and take out some cash. Along the way, I see two more shoe stores, not for tango, but I wander in, and I find a couple of pairs I like. Like the others, I think about it, and head towards the hostel.

Meanwhile, I was supposed to call the tango instructors at noon to arrange for a 2pm lesson. I found only one phone in the street, it didn't work. I got back to the hostel at exactly 2pm, and send them an email that the afternoon is not good for me. At 2:30, a woman approaches me asking be about tango lessions. It takes me a good minute to realize that it was the couple I made an appointment with, and they had been waiting.

Now all I want is to look at tango shoes. But I do the right thing, and had my lesson.

OMG, it was awesome!! I'm slightly retarded, but I must be a lot less retarded than people who have never danced anything. That's what they told me, anyway. It was particularly great because while I was dancing with Ramiro, Luciana would position my body in the proper way.

There are a ton of tango shoe stores, evidently. About 5 on one block, walking distance from the hostel. It seems that here, at least, popular tango shoes are made in crazy color combinations. The shinier and crazier, the better. One place called 'Darcos Magic Shoes' makes them in the back of the store. You specify the style, the style and height of the heel, the color and fabric. It takes 12 days, although they can make it in 6 hours. one man was not so eager to help me, but there a creepy close talker who I suffered talking to in order to get some help. Incredible store, though. A lesson was taking place in the corner.

So I finally decide that I must have those crazy shoes which the Porteña called 'divine' so I start walking. I still haven't taken out any money (ATM booths are not as plentiful here as at home, and there seems a 50% chance that the machines don't function...) so I try to take out $, get diverted passing by some tango show which I decided to buy tix to for tomorrow night (it's USD 20 so if it sucks, who cares) and hail a taxi. It takes forever. I get to the store and they'r still open. I tell her to get the shoes while I get some money. I have to walk 2 huge blocks to get it. I'm pooped.

I get the shoes, and two more. A cute pair of nude-colored with dark brown leather trim kitten heels at 'Viviana Valdez', Talcahuano 1184, and a pair of peep-toe grey leather wedges at Mandarine (address currently missing...). I pick up a little surprise for some folks along the way (not telling what yet).

And then I walk into a leather store, which are a dime a dozen, but this particular store called out to me. They had some pretty grey leather (to go with my new shoes??) in the front, and the man wasn't pushy like the others. They'll make me apair of leather pants, cut to my measurements, in a day. A DAY! About $150.

Just call me Carrie Brashaw. How decadent.

¿What the bloody hell did I get accomplished today?

When visitng Buenos Aires, plan small. Everything takes a lot longer to do than you think (IMO.) I had small plans today. And I couldn't quite manage to complete the small plans I had made.

I wanted to visit Recoleta, a neighborhood that's pretty wealthy, full of manors and expensive shops and restaurants. In typical hostel fashion, you talk to one person (in my case, a Mormon from Utah named Dan), you exchange about 3 sentences, and you make plans for dinner. I talked him into having parilla with me (hard to do that alone,) but by the time we were done, we were a total of 8 people (Nima, Dan, Dan, Georgie, Peter, Andy, Korn), many of whom had a lot of meat the night before and needed a night off, and we're not leaving for dinner until 10 pm. I was expecting the experience to be quite unpleasant. Group dinners are often a fiasco I avoid like the plague. Type A personalities like myself don't like to wait around while everyone takes their sweet-ass time, making group decisions (worsened by the fact that no one knows each other, so no one wants to step on anyone's toes or be in charge, trying to figure out the check. Actually, it turned out better than I thought. We went to a pizzeria (which here, also seems to always have empanadas) and I had an odd assortment of empanadas. A couple of beef ones, well-seasoned and mixed with olives and hard-boiled eggs, a cheese-and-onion (needed salt, but what doesn't?) and one stuffed with, no joke, creamed corn, which I could have done without. Although, it's hard to beat ANYTHING stuffed in a crust. Recoleta was dead on this Tuesday night, so we cabbed it back to Palermo, had some drinks, and I finally got to bed at about 4 in the morning.

Anyway, I wanted to see Recoleta during the day. Blah. It's the upper-west side, on a much grander and more spread-out scale. I wanted to see the cemetery, which is supposed to be very creepy and notable, but I meandered in the wrong direction, and wound up very close to the hostel. Save that for another day.

At this point, I'm starving, and all I wanted was to have another nice lunch under the beautiful Porteño sun. Harder than you'd think. Only stupid americans want to sit IN THE SUN, and although there are many cafes that had outdoor seating, most of the seats either have umbrellas or are strategically placed in the shade. Or both. Walking, walking, walking. Dizzy. Fuck it. Back to Palermo via taxi. And you can't just say 'Palermo,' because it's SO GINORMOUS that you need to give them an avenue and a cross street.

So I tell the taxista to take me to Persicco, an ice cream shop that's supposed to be one of the best ones. To tide me over before I find an actual restaurant. Today's flavors: marron glace (glazed chestnut) and mascarpone, which contained fruit to my surprise. I dealt, but I really don't like fruit adulterating my creamy or nutty dessert. Certainly not without prior knowledge. I literally asked her 'what's the pink stuff?' Eh. It's creamy and rich, flavorful. It's no gelato. It doesn't have to be, I guess, but eh. Like the other desserts I've had here, just a touch sweeter than they have to be.

At this point, I haven't had any real food, and I decide to head back to around where I ate the other day. I finally ate at about 3:30, at some cafe that had outdoor seating in the sun. Unremarkable, but decent. I had more fish with maybe some of the best mashed potatoes I've ever had (after adding some salt...) I decided to go back into a store or two, and almost bought a pair of black jeans, tapered to the ankle, zippers on the back pocket.

And then I remembered how much I REALLY HATE THE 80s and I just couldn't do it. I'm DONE. Although, I found this really nice shoe designer called josefina ferroni where the shoes were beautifully made, but everything was Flash Gordon style. And I'm not exaggerating. I drooled slightly over a pair of high-heeled, ankle-high, METALLIC BLUE with a silver lightening bolt on the side. Truly ridiculous, but I'd feel like a superhero. And btw, only one of many metallic blue shoes I've seen.

I still don't have a towel, because I failed to follow a simple rule here: when you see something you need or like, BUY IT right away. Even the few chain stores here don't often carry many sizes of something, and just because it's in one branch does not mean it's in another. Often, it's not. And every store has only one size out of anything they have. You have to ask for your size.
Anyway, I saw one or two places where I could get a towel, and put it off. Bad, bad idea. But I did manage to get flip-flops, so I'll be dripping wet when I put on my clothes, but I won't have to put my feet on the slimy bathroom floor.

My tango lessons were a bust as well. I emailed a couple highly recommended to me on yehoodi, and they wanted to charge me 80 american dollars for an hour and a half. The going rate is 100 pesos per hour or less. At the rate they're charging, the lesson had better come with a happy ending.

So I texted the instructors that do the free lesson at the hostel (which I skipped because I'm a big snob) and they're planning on meeting me here tomorrow.

Oh, and I found the yarn district. I managed to contain myself.

Tonight I damn well better be eating some parilla. And if my new friends back out, I'm going at it alone. And they want to see some tango. I'd better get prepared because I don't think anyone has a plan.

If shopping were a sport, I just did the ironman.

I decided to spend the day in Palermo, a part of town so big it's subdivided into three sections: Palermo SOHO, Viejo, and regular Palermo. OK, there's nothing to do there but shop and eat. Really. And so I did.

I woke up about 10:30... thankfully one of the guys in the dorm made a little too much noise. I realize that I desperately need a towel. And a pair of flip-flops for the shower, as by the time I got my sorry ass out of bed, everyone had showered. Ick. I used my shirt from two days ago to dry myself off. Double ick. I missed breakfast, which was fine, because my stomach was still yelling at me for having eaten meat and fried food for both meals.

Last night, about 9:00 (approaching the Argentine timing), I went to the very highly recommended (by Marcelo) Palacio de las Papas Fritas. It's a very simple place (Marcelo calls it 'Old School'), well known for the 'papas souffles,' disk-cut potatos fried in oil so hot, they puff up. I had the Bife de Chorizo (a huge hank of rump steak), accompanied by the famous papas. There was also a small 'salad,' but the Argentinian salad is nothing to speak of. The meat was good enough, tasty, but the cut didn't do much for me, the fries were great.

But the dessert. Oof. Called Budím, it was a very thick bread pudding, with flan flavoring, topped with a thick layer of dulce de leche. Holy shit. All that, a cup of coffee, a bottle of mineral water, was $27 pesos (about $9.)

So I go to Palermo. I shopped all day. It takes all day, as Palermo is HUGE. Walking around for SIX HOURS, I barely passed the same store twice. It's full of small cute boutiques that make you ring a bell to enter, but aren't full of snobby salespeople.

I didn't buy anything. The clothes are pretty much price-wise, on par with the US, but THE ENTIRE CITY IS STUCK IN THE 80s. ARGH. I guess things are similar in NYC, but I haven't been shopping in a while. You know, I suffered the 80s thing once, and that was PLENTY. Skinny flats meant to be worn with leggings, and there are plenty of those. Bat-wing tops made from brightly-hued jersey knit, adorned with gold. Jeans aplenty, but from the 700 pairs I've tried on, they either make my thighs look and feel like sausages (slim fit), or they're perfect in the thighs and calves and are big in the waist.

I got hungry about 2 in the afternoon (and desperately needed coffee) and meandered with that slight wobble I get when I've gone too long without eating. I happened upon a cafe that had tables outside and in the sun (only a stupid american would want that... but it was clear, about 75-80 degrees, beautiful, and I'm pasty white) and when I looked at the name, I realized that it was a place called Janio, recommended to me by Kephram and Ellie. Three course lunch for 16 pesos (divide by 3, people. About $6.) First course. a couple of sweet cheese kreplach sauteed in butter. Then a fried merluza (more fried, but at least it was fish) with mashed potatoes. I went easy on them both, but then they bring me a coconut cream torte, with some kind of graham cracker crust, creme anglaise on the side. Fuck. That, a double coffee, and a bottle of water... total 27 pesos.

I took the subway again to the big Abastos Mall. I can see why malls are so popular here. The city is so spread out, the traffic is pretty intense, the subway really doesn't go where you need it to go. I was done shopping by this time, really, but I wanted some ice cream that BA is evidently famous for. I knew there would be some, along with a bathroom and a place to rest my tired feet.

There were two across from one another... Freddo (long line) and Munchi's (no line). I know that no line is often a bad sign, but I wasn't thrilled with the flavor selection at Freddos. I had a double... 'coconut with dulce de leche' and 'flan with dulce de leche.' In case you were wondering, yes, that's dulce overkill. I was shaking fron the sugar high. Although, I decided, if I should die, I'd like to be embalmed with the stuff. If at all possible.

I have yet to book any tango time, as Marcelo's suggestion has not contacted me. Perhaps if I can stop eating and shopping for a minute, I'll get a chance to do it.

NYC to BA, Take III: Por fin!!

I get to the airport with my new traveling buddy, Maria, 3 hours before departure. I don´t have a seat and the flight is overbooked. I am dismal. Perhaps I was not meant to be there.

I check in. I ask about the upgrade to business class. I{m offering to pay. Nothing. Seat assignment at the gate.

They board practically everyone, and it{s me and many people I recognize from Friday night, waiting rather impatiently. The bitchy flight attendant says nothing other than "we{re trying to get you a seat" rather nastily, and can{t seem to understand why we're pissed off. She retors, after a couple or requests for more info, "I do this every day, if you'd all just give me a minute!!" While we're all waiting for seats, some woman is complaining that she can't get the vegetarian meal she requested. Sorry honey, take a number.

Anyway, my stomach starts turning, but a coupl eof minutes later, I'm back on business class. YIPPEE!!

And thank god. It's a 10.5 hour flight, leaving at 10 pm. And we were delayed an extra hour and a half getting out, because it had been raining earlier that day. So it was essentially a 12 hour flight. I had a liquid dinner ("would you like the wine glass or the large glass of pot?" he says. As if there was any question. I had to SLEEP!)

I put on my BOSE noise-cancelling headset, curled up into the same position I normally sleep in, one knee up to my chest, one stretched out, and closed my eyes (in case you were wondering, they do indeed cancel noise. I swear, there was some argentinan dude on my right who did not stop talking the entire trip.)

I remember stretching my legs and feet a few times (they swell when I fly), repositioned my body and the headset, now instead of being hooked into my ipod, is now just tuning out the loquacious argentine.

I wake up to a screaming baby, and look at my watch: 8:30 am. EIGHT FUCKING THIRTY!! I don't even sleep that long in my own bed. That made all the difference in the world.

BA was a comfy 75 degrees today, sunny but not too hot. It's a national holiday, so I was advised by Jorge (sitting next to me on the plane) to visit San Telmo, the antiques district. I figured out the subway (called Subte) pretty easily, and took a ride there. It's cute. Nothing too interesting. The only quote I remember from Frasier was "I am not one for whom antique is a verb." I feel the same. But really, I was just happy to be parading around the city, linen skirt blowing in the gentle breeze, shoulders being kissed by the sunlight. It's been too long.

I tried to go to the Parilla (Grill restaurant) Jorge recommended to me, but there was a couple of impediments:
(a) Packed.
(b) It seems that it was a "2 or more person" thing.
(c) ORGAN MEATS. They don't mess around. I saw sweetbreads, morcilla (blood sausage), and other entrails. Bah. Must do that with Rik, who'll eat pretty much anything.

I wound up at a small cafe on the edge of San Telmo, nothing special. I had a veal cutlet with fries, a double cafe cortado, a bottle of mineral water. About $6. Ridiculous.

I came back to find Calle Florida, which evidently is the place to get leather. It's fine. It's pretty much a large pedestrian mall with lots of stores, one leather purveyor after another. It was pretty much like the Florence leather market, though much cheaper. I'm not saying leather pants are not in the cards, but I haven't yet committed.

I also made it to Galeria Florida, one of a number of Buenos Aires malls. Packed. Nice enough. Kept me busy. I got to walk. That's all I was really after today anyway.

One thing that's troubling me is the friggin' keys here. They're these old school skeleton keys. There's one for the front door (to get in AND get out), there's one for the room. I can't seem to get them to work without hurting myself. And when I was in a restaurant today, I locked myself in a hot bathroom for a while. No joke.

It's nearing 9 pm, so I think I'll head out for dinner and call it a night. I didn't pass out, get sick, or get lost. I call today a win.

NYC to BA ,Take 2: The Huelga

I was very happy to have been able to rescheduled my ill-fated trip to Buenos Aires for Spring Break. Over the last month, once every couple of days, someone stops me in the hallway and says, "Oh, how was your trip?" and I recount the torturous event. "I'm going spring break," I say.

Recently, people have been asking, "are you excited? You must be excited." After all, I have waited a long, long time.

I'm not too pessimistic, but I'm pretty superstitious. Especially about flying. Flying scares the bejeezus out of me. I haven't been too excited about this trip. It's like I used up my excitement in February. So I reply, "Yeah, if I go this time." This response generally inspired reactions of sympathy or exaggerated eye-rolling.

I decide to get to the airport 2 hours ahead of time, rather than three. Good move, even though it's a big holiday week with easter and passover coming. There's hardly anyone there. I am about 4 people from check in, and one of the flight attendants whisper "Latin America is on strike, flights to Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires are canceled."

My mouth drops open and I LAUGH.

Unbelievable.

It turns out that it's actually Sao Paulo Airport where the air traffic controllers are striking, but because it's so closer to BA, flights are being diverted there and AA (seemingly the only company) doesn't want to go.

Luckily, I am near the front of the line, and the flight attendant re-books me for Sunday. I decided to book it, even though I'm losing two days. That is, if AA decides to fly on Sunday.

One person ahead of me is a girl named Maria, whose parents are flying Avianca from Bogota to BA to meet her. Their flight is still a go. She is pissed. Turns out, she lives exactly three blocks from me. We cab it back home, and make plans to do the same on Sunday night. Maybe.

Hell, at least this time, I had my bags, was able to re-book, and could GO HOME. I call it a win. Except I'm getting tired of visiting JFK as my vacation. And who's going to pay the thus far $75 in cab fees from needing to take an unplanned taxi ride?

To be continued...

Flight #955: NYC to BA with a layover in NYC

I had a flight to leave JFK for Buenos Aires at 10:10 pm January 15.

I show up at the airport 7:40, and queue up on what might be the longest line I've ever seen in my life. I patiently wait on this line for 2 hours to check in. After all, even though I hate to stand and wait, I knew I'd be sitting and waiting for 10 1/2 hours cramped in coach on a redeye.

At this point, I had already gotten two phone calls from Orbitz saying that my 10:10 flight was postponed to 11:10, then 11:30. I laid down, listened to This American Life, and waited.

It wasn't until about midnight before I boarded and realized that by some miracle of miracles, I was bumped to Business Class.

BUSINESS CLASS!! WOO-HOO! I get into my reclining, wide seat, buckle up. Pump up my lumbar cushion. Cozy up in my QUILTED American Airlines blanket. Put my shoes in the American Airlines shoe bag that was thoughtfully placed on my seat. Lubed myself up with my AA complimentary hand lotion.

"Do you want a drink before take-off? Some champagne?" purrs the flight attendant.

Of course.

I peruse the wine and dinner menu, specially selected for American Airlines flight #955 business class passengers. I decide on the dessert Port to help whisk me off into oblivion. I decide to skip the pepper-crusted beef and potato-leek soup, as delightful as it sounded. All I wanted to do was sleep. Although yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I would like to be roused from my sleep to have breakfast in the morning.

I figure I got about an hour's nap before the lights turned on, having moved only a couple of feet from the gate, when the pilot says "Prepare for Landing."

This was not a good sign.

We were deplaned at 2:00 a.m., for what we were told were "mechanical difficulties."

I called "same seats."

I lie on the moldy, carpeted floor, bra undone for comfort, contacts out, rendering me near-blind, dopey from having been awake since about 5:30 the previous morning. I wait.

They claim there's another plane, and they're going to try their best to get us on it in about an hour and a half.

4 a.m. Flight canceled.

Not due to weather. It's because since so many flights had been backed up for DAYS since the storm, crews were working overtime as it was, and at some point, it is deemed unsafe for them to fly. I agree, I must say. The crew goes home.

Needless to say, people are angry. There is yelling. Chaos. Crying children. Crying adults. I just stare into space. Speechless. There are 3 people working. There are no flights. They look anyway. They patiently and calmly field all sorts of questions and abuse. They advise us to call AA to try to get a flight, although I had to ask 3 times for the number. I try in vain to get a flight. So do countless others. My phone dies in the process, as one helpful Texan tries her best. I watch people stand at a desk for hours, in hopes of scoring some kind of ticket the hell out of New York.

One woman was missing her own wedding. Her and her whole wedding party.

Another was going to miss connecting with her 6 year old son waiting at the BA airport for her.

Countless families with two, three, four young kids. Some of whom not only can't get to BA, but can't get back to Boston, where they live and where they flew from earlier this morning.

A woman from Moscow, who had better luck calling her travel agent IN MOSCOW, who was on her 2nd of 4th leg of a journey taking her from Moscow, to NY, to BA, and then to ANTARCTICA. She was able to get a flight within the 1/2 hour to BA (through Miami?) but couldn't seem to get her luggage. Can't go to Antarctica without clothes, obviously.

Howard Jones' 80's ballad "No one is to blame" is poignantly playing in the background.

As tired as I was, as disappointed and depressed as I was, and as much as I had just about given up hope of ever leaving NY at this rate, I knew I was not going to compete with the problems most of these people were going to face over the next couple of days. The earliest flight ANYWHERE wasn't going to happen until Monday. At least I had a home to go back to.

Except that I had promised it already to Maria and Mireille, Rik's friends from Amsterdam, who were hopefully going to have less trouble coming to NY than I was having trying to leave.

I give up. I feel as though my soul has left my body. I want to curl up into a ball and sleep for 7 days. See no one. Talk to no one.

Just then, a man in his mid 40's asks me if I got a flight. If I was from Buenos Aires, because he heard me talking in Spanish. Tells me that he's going to Sao Paulo, to BA. He'll get there tomorrow night. He has to give a couple of lectures on Sanskrit.

He asks me to have coffee with him. I tell him that I appreciate the offer, but I am really in no mood to have coffee. I want to go home and go to sleep. It is now 5 in the morning. He keeps pressuring me to have some coffee with him. Asks what I do. Why I wanted to learn Spanish. Why I'm going to Argentina.

I really can't tell you how little I wanted to be hit on at this point and time. I am really surprised I didn't get more aggressive.

I get away from HornySanskritMan and, deflated, trudge downstairs to get my luggage.

Just when you think it can't get any worse. I now see about 200 fellow flight members. They can't find anyone to unload the luggage.

It wasn't until 6:40 in the morning that I was able to get out of there.

***

I get home about an hour later, after a $50 cab ride that AA is damn well going to pay for. I nap for a couple of hours. I decide to call AA again.

My mom always says that no matter what pile of shit I step into, I always land on my feet. Something good always happens.

I calmly convince one of the managers that simply crediting my account for the $1078 ticket was not sufficient after my suffering. She helps me find and reserve a $820 ticket for spring break, and issues me a $250 credit for my troubles as well. I'm sure there will be no Port wine nor pepper-crusted beef this time. I had to go to Columbus Circle (after a big plate of Pad Si Ew to fortify me...) in the freezing cold, on minimal sleep, to get the voucher applied.

So, Buenos Aires, I know you won't wait for me, with your blazing summer sun, open-air milongas, carnival in session. Pero espero que te conocere pronto.