Ten Things to Miss About Argentina
1. Media Lunas and Submarinos, Pizza, Steak and Red Wine
Argentina has the, bar none, most amazing pastries in the world, stuffed with dulce de leche (this soft, caramelized goo), croissants made with butter or fat (yum yum), and not just hot chocolate, but submarines, which are bars of chocolate dunked in boiled milk, such that they sink to the bottom and melt. And for lunchtime, they have huge flakey croissants stuffed with ham and melted cheese. There´s just something about the food here. On the pizzas, the pepperoni is like silk, your teeth cut right through it, it´s so soft, no tug-of-warring, like a dog with a bone, over tough salami. And the steaks are juicy and succulent, the crème brulee with a light caramelized crust that pops and flakes with the tine of a fork, and red wine that hums. I have no idea how the Argentinians stay the size of their shadows, eating so decadently so late at night. They must be vampires.
2. Theatre and Film
Argentina has all kinds of interesting theatre pieces. I went with Chris, his girlfriend Lucia, and Lucia´s family to see Dracula. It´s been on run for 20 years, which is probably how long ago I saw the movie. The craziest part was when they killed Dracula and has this bizarre SFX not unlike some of the wizardry you see at Screamers at the Ex, whereby a mechanized demon came out of Dracula´s chest and danced around like a bobbit. There is some cool black box stuff too. Ale and I saw a one woman show where the woman wore a white eyelet gown and placed all kinds of crystalware and food colouring splashes across an overhead projector, letting the shapes and colours drape across her body, which acted as the screen. We also saw a play at the National Theatre about the immigration wave, spoken in ´´broken Spanish”. I was relieved to discover Ale didn´t understand much of it, either. Another night, Lucia and her family took me to hear Lu´s brother perform in ´Teatro de los Ciegos´. The entire theatre is in darkness while the orchestra plays. Though it does challenge you to augment your sense of hearing, and learn to truly isolate and appreciate the sounds, it did cause me to feel claustrophic and anxious. I tried the Temezcal a couple of years ago in Mexico, and while the shaman was chanting in the pitch black cave and we all gave each other domino massages, I had the same feeling. If anything, the feeling for me exiting was euphoric and such a relief, it felt like an epiphany.
There was an interesting film fest on while I was there as well, and unlike TIFF where I´m working and miss a lot of the good films, this time I was off and could see as much as I liked. I saw a bizarre French love triangle film with misplaced subtitles that made it all the more mysterious, a profoundly disturbing French film, a non-sequential German film, an interesting Canadian film, where the director spoke about the film for about as long as the film lasted, an Argentinian documentary and a really eclectic and disturbing film called “Behind the Red Door” which shows the subculture of a seedy hotel and all the various dramas playing out behind each red door as the dusk heads towards dawn.
3. Stoneface and The Hand
Argentinians have a certain fame for being quite proud and dignified (some would say “presumido”, a stereotype I heard a lot while living in Mexico). The Mexicans would often claim to identify an Argentinian according to their long, straight hair, thin body, gypsy aspect, and over-confident air. What I found in going through Argentina were two extremes. At one end of the spectrum, people bend over backwards for you, stopping construction work momentarily to allow you access along the sidewalk, moving an obstacle out of the way to let you pass, or jumping out of their chairs and squeezing into a table to let you by in a restaurant. This is always accompanied by a ´´por favor” and grandstanding hand flourish when you thank them, as though this is the absolute minimum they can do to accommodate you, though their grand sentiment far outweighs this tiny gesture.
The other extreme is what I like to call stoneface. This happens a lot when vendors don´t have change. Which happens a lot. Especially when I go to the Shell Station on Paseo Colon. Once I was trying to buy a Gatorade and some Doritoes with a 100 peso note (the equivalent of 25 dollars). The woman gave me stoneface, with a slightly arched brow, as though to say, “I don´t know what you want me to do with that.” She proceeded to tell me they were out of change, and didn´t make a move like they sometimes do, to procure any. I asked, “So, what…I can´t buy these things then?” She replied (as the Argentinians do), with “Obvio”, and continued to stoneface me, as though to say, “I don´t understand why you don´t carry your own float, if you want to buy things.” I don´t understand this, when they have an ATM dispensing 100 peso notes. At the back of their store.
4. Psychologists
Psychologists are a bit of a phenomenon in Buenos Aires. Apparently, Buenos Aires, as a city, has one of the highest concentrations of psychologists per capita. They say there are 111 psychologists for every 100, 000 inhabitants. Everyone is one or is seeing one; some people are even seeing two. Apparently the number of psychotherapists (including psychologists and psychiatrists) jumped from 5500 in 1974 to 37,000 today. A cab driver once compared Brazilians to the samba, sultry, sexy and steamy and Argentinians to the Tango, intense and brooding. I´m not sure why all the psychoanalysis but the city does thrum and vibe with intensity and passion. 5. Taxi Cab Drivers
Speaking of taxis and psychology, I find that the taxi cab drivers are excellent psychoanalysts. In a cab ride from San Telmo to Palermo, a cab driver can have you sorted on the problem of the day. I´ve also learned a lot about the crime rate and political manifestos of the day. Riding back from Arenal one night, Yaelle, Luca and I got an earful about the Armenian Genocide, and resulting diaspora in Armenia Street in Buenos Aires.
Of course, the taxi drivers aren´t always reliable. I went to this ”remissario” service to get a round trip ride (discounted) to pick up Nem from the airport, but after waiting for 20 minutes (with 2 phone calls where the guy assured me the taxista was on his way), I gave up and hailed one on the street for 160 pesos one-way instead of 130 round-trip. I was complaining to Lucia on my cell that I was getting charged double, and the driver, overhearing me hollered, “No es el doble!! No es!!” (Es el doble!) Then he told me the remissario driver never showed up “because the price didn´t suit him”. The price didn´t suit him? He made the damn price. He should have quoted another price if the price wasn´t going to suit him. Then, my brother told me the remissario driver did actually show, but an hour late, with an hangdog expressions and excuses and denial. And these are the guys bringing you to the airport!
6. Entwined Cats and Entwined Couples
The first time I was ever in Buenos Aires, I felt like a peeping tom, compelled by all the entwined couples on park benches and promenades. I´ve since been to Brazil, so my impression has downgraded from R to AA. Still, it is quite something to see so many couples as you walk through the plazas and mercados, so completely entwined in passionate kisses that last the length of a four-circuits-around-the-park run at the Parque Lezama. The other species twining through the parks are the cats (Though I am currently in Peru, and would have to say the sheer numbers of cats here rival the number in Buenos Aires. I was at the Parque Central today and saw 17 cats at a glance, stomping through the cantuta beds. I was reading in the park, and a stray cat hopped up into my lap and napped there while I read.) The cats in the Recoleta are especially prevalent, all these live furry creatures scampering among the still tombstones.
7. Thursday Night Dinner Parties
When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, Chris had these cool Montrealer neighbors, Yaelle and Luca (and their two-year old son, Yohan). They were travelling the world, like me, for six months (thus dispelling the belief that once you are married with children the moratorium on travel begins.) Luca is a chef, and Chris an aspiring-chef, so on Thursdays they would concoct all kinds of culinary delights for an array of tourists and ex-pats, including some tangueros from Luca and Yaelle´s tango studio (which I later joined), Chris´ PhD. Student, and some visiting Chileans (though Chris drew the line at the homeless man (and poet, I might add), Roberto, who I befriended on my runs through the park). After Yaelle and Luca departed for Brazil (along with me), the dinner parties were put on hold. But as luck would have it I met Nem in Brazil (also an aspiring Chef!) so when he came to visit, we reinstated the dinner parties, with an amazing Bahiano flavor. After Nem went back to Florianopolis, we tried to keep up the tradition, but with me as co-pilot, things just weren´t the same. Apparently keeping the al dente pasta boiling for an hour doesn´t fly!
I was also spoiled with Sunday teas at Lucia´s grandparents home, and impromptu lunches at her parents´ home. Being in Argentina was such a change from the usual backpacking drill.
8. Milongas and Manifestos
Of course, while in Buenos Aires, I studied Tango with a whole slew of tango instructors. The way they tell it, it´s a straightforward dance all based on walking, but studying tango makes you forget how to walk. It´s like doing a kissing scene in a play. Suddenly you forget what is naturally driven by feeling and examine the mechanics and logistics of what looks good. In tango, I started to forget how to move my heels and toes, and when advised to ´´walk normally´´, would start walking like a caricature of Charlie Chaplin. I think having a background in ballet, jazz and salsa further confused me, the way that knowing Spanish before you speak Portuguese confuses you. That said, I went to some cool milongas with Yaelle, Luca, Amy, Martin, and Alberto (all people I met through Chris and Luca´s Thursday night dinner parties), and later with Juan Pablo and Raul, my Practica Instructors. Places with cool names like ´´La Catedral” and “La Viruta”.
While Milongas are places you go to on purpose, the Manifestaciones are places you end up in by-the-way. Manifestaciones can happen anywhere at any time. Sometimes they are about labour disputes, sometimes about the rise in the cost of living. Exiting the subway at Bolivar one day, I had to plough through a manifestation by angry futbolistas demanding that the San Lorenzo de Almagro football club be moved back to the working class barrio of Boeda. Another more serious protest downtown was led by the Qom community, an indigenous group from the province of Formoso, over the police dismantling of a roadblock which led to two deaths. These manifestations are so frequent and spontaneous that most residents, when questioned, can´t even tell you what the manifestation is about. Going to pilates one day, I heard what sounded like bombs going off above the station. Ascending the steps, I saw scarved men with nunchuks carrying signs with Che Guevara plastered all over them. Though he died over forty years ago, his legend lives on, inspiring roadblocks which close down the central streets for miles. That said there is always a lot of “luz y fuerza” and are sometimes accompanied by costumes, cat-piss wine, and even a live band.
9. VIP gates and secret clubs
Due to the vast amount of robberies and scams occurring in Buenos Aires, everything is under lock and key. When you arrive at a nice restaurant, when I go to pilates class at Lu´s dance studio, when you go to a fancy lingerie shop, or to take a tango class, the gates are locked and you have to ring a bell to get in. It´s very ´´Bethlehem” with the ´´innkeepers´´ either assessing you as a legitimate client, or reputable looking enough to be buzzed in. A lot of places, like theatres and clubs are simply neoclassical buildings with no placards to announce what they are. You have to know the address of where you are going or ask around, and the whole thing has a very ¨open sesame” aspect to it. I was talking to the owner of a lingerie shop who informed me she was once robbed at knifepoint by an eight-month-pregnant woman and her accomplice, and scammed once by an elegant looking foreigner who paid for all her items with counterfeit money (which the owner only discovered later when she went to exchange it.) I was victim to the age-old spill-and-steal scam in the Nuevo de Julio subway station. Two men approached me for directions, while another ´´innocently” splashed paint on my back. Then I had a few helpful passersby offering to do the wipedown. I clutched my bag and told them I didn´t need their help, but they were persistent, and sent in two or three more alloys after I refused the first. I glared at them, and hopped on the subway home. But I have met several tourists here who have been pickpocketed in similar heists.
10. Antiques and Street Fairs
I love just prowling through the cobbled streets and looking at all the antique shops crammed with everything from ancient record collections and dolls, to hideously ornate candelabra. It´s like your grandmother´s attic, but transplanted and multiplied across entire blocks. They also have the Defensa Street Fair every Sunday with buskers and tangueros, where you can buy original art, mate tea holders, innovative clothing and scarves, handcrafted jewelry, funky Tango CDs, kitchen tiles, and about a million and one other things you don´t realize you need.
A sidenote about laughter: A friend and I were chatting the other day about how, in text talk, laughter is written as “jajajajajajaja” in Spanish and “rsrsrsrsrsrsr” in Portuguese (or “kkkkkkkkkkkkk” if it´s something really funny), but in North America, our laughter is only denoted as “lol”. So restrained.
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