It was time. After months of moaning about this country’s lack of non-liquefied vegetables, whole grains, beans, spices … I’ve given in. Given up, rather. I’ve acquiesced to milanesas and white toast and gravy. To trans fats and canned corn. To everything I have ever stood for, really.
The site of my resignation was an un-notable café on Montevideo, a TV flickering in the corner and a single framed print on the buttery wall. My comrades? A pretty homogeneous bunch — each one a white male between 40 and 65, suit jacket neatly draped at his side, cell phone within spitting distance, annual earnings and fixed-term loans and short-term goals etched into his face.
Having encountered one too many freeze-dried spinach raviolis, I ordered the “pollo al curry,” curried chicken, knowing full well it wouldn’t be curried. Sure enough, the imposing white flesh was bathed in what could only be described as brown gravy, and Colonel Sanders himself could have dished up the puré de papas nestled alongside. But it was soothing, warm, well salted, easy on the stomach, everything one might say about surprisingly good hospital food. Better than most, for sure. Because boy oh boy, have I experienced “most.”
Just the day before, having dreamed of vegetables, I had embarked on a pursuit of a simple salad, my zeal that of a Spanish conquistador. My gold was anything green and can-free. My nemesis: mayonnaise. Yet my fortune, like those of the Gallegos, fell at the first sign of success, at the false friend that was an attractive-looking salad glistening in the case.
Half a bite in, I knew it was a mistake, a land not worth conquering. The colors were nothing more than an illusion. The broccoli, that succulent apparition of my dreams, water-logged and bitter. The lettuce unpleasantly reminiscent of weeds that grow in medians. The beets, those fantastic pink pickles I have happily massacred over a salad or two, were deprived of their bite, obscured by the ever-evil mayonnaise. Enough.
Such is how I found myself at the Café and Restaurant Valentina, marveling at the quantity of “salads” it took me to internalize a simple fact: In Argentina, the browner, the blander, the better.
My new doctrine in mind, I tentatively stepped into a kiosko. Anxious to fortify my ever-weakening bones, I perused the yogurt. The drinkable variety is relatively popular here, as people slowly awaken to the hunchbacked hordes around them. Tired of strawberry kiwi, I unearthed a new flavor hiding at the back. Just in for winter, Banana Dulce de Leche beckoned me with its outright grotesqueness. I couldn’t imagine why or how the combination would be appealing, but some inner force propelled me forward. Like the conquistador finally resigning to the ways of the natives, I passed over 2 pesos and slowly tore off the lid.
And?
It was delicious.
16 June 2007
07 June 2007
From Helsinki to Hello
“No hablo ingles,” I insisted, pounding his beer on the table.
It gave a nice emphasis, I thought, proud of my newly declared Finnish nationality. Snatching back the bottle, the doe-eyed 18-year-old slurped up the foam and gave in to my tale, anxious to move discussion toward which his friends I found the most guapo. Lavishly rolling my r’s and excessively injecting my speech with the local “uh” — “qué sé yo,” or “what do I know” — I barreled on with my lies, victorious.
For in this land of “English speakers” desperate to take their book smarts out for a spin, each moment of Spanish conversation, vapid or not, is a success. Their guttural twist on the language of the north had become irritating quickly, especially when all I wanted was to practice the local tongue. Hence, my newfound propensity for untruths. Slowly but surely, I had learned the power of a simple lie — or dos or tres — to transform legions of bar patrons into private tutors. It seemed like a brilliant plan.
“You speak English; I know you do,” said the quiet, curly-haired one on my left. “I’ve heard you.”
“¿Dónde?” I scoffed, ready to take down any argument that obstructed my perfectly crafted “No English Allowed” zone.
“In the bus, like two months ago. You asked my friend and I if the 59 goes down Las Heras,” he retorted. And like that, I flashed back to the me of a different era, a spineless creature who regressed to native linguistic terrain at any Argentine’s prompting. A pathetic being that didn’t even know the route of the 59, the bus that passes my door. A wimp that wouldn’t dare talk back to the haughty college freshman who announced my American-ness to the crowd, declaring that it was “stamped on my forehead.”
At the time, his proclamation irritated me, as evidenced by its inclusion in a previous tale of my Argentine woes. Yet never did I think it would come back to haunt me eight weeks later, just when I’d finally wizened to the ways of an English-obsessed land.
Yet return it did — a serendipitous reunion at a varnished picnic table amid hundreds of pubescent Argentines. But this time, I was not going to let them win. “How dare your boludo of a friend make such unfounded declarations? Didn’t his dad ever tell him what happens when you assume?”
Stumped on the translation of the “ass out of you and me” part, I stopped. I began to ponder exactly how obvious my nationality is in this country of tall, dark, and handsomes.
Obviously, it’s, well, pretty obvious. Enough so, at least, for some guy to remember my ponytail for two months just to use it against me, when I was least expecting it. When all I wanted was a little “out of the classroom” learning.
It looks like my education will go bar-less from now on. In fact, I think it’s time to give up on the cultural disguises completely. It’s time to declare “I’m proud to be a (North) American.” Out come the eagle-emblazoned sweatshirts; the red, white and blue bandannas. The pink Gap t-shirt; the Iowa Hawkeye baseball cap. From now on, I’m going to let it all hang out.
It gave a nice emphasis, I thought, proud of my newly declared Finnish nationality. Snatching back the bottle, the doe-eyed 18-year-old slurped up the foam and gave in to my tale, anxious to move discussion toward which his friends I found the most guapo. Lavishly rolling my r’s and excessively injecting my speech with the local “uh” — “qué sé yo,” or “what do I know” — I barreled on with my lies, victorious.
For in this land of “English speakers” desperate to take their book smarts out for a spin, each moment of Spanish conversation, vapid or not, is a success. Their guttural twist on the language of the north had become irritating quickly, especially when all I wanted was to practice the local tongue. Hence, my newfound propensity for untruths. Slowly but surely, I had learned the power of a simple lie — or dos or tres — to transform legions of bar patrons into private tutors. It seemed like a brilliant plan.
“You speak English; I know you do,” said the quiet, curly-haired one on my left. “I’ve heard you.”
“¿Dónde?” I scoffed, ready to take down any argument that obstructed my perfectly crafted “No English Allowed” zone.
“In the bus, like two months ago. You asked my friend and I if the 59 goes down Las Heras,” he retorted. And like that, I flashed back to the me of a different era, a spineless creature who regressed to native linguistic terrain at any Argentine’s prompting. A pathetic being that didn’t even know the route of the 59, the bus that passes my door. A wimp that wouldn’t dare talk back to the haughty college freshman who announced my American-ness to the crowd, declaring that it was “stamped on my forehead.”
At the time, his proclamation irritated me, as evidenced by its inclusion in a previous tale of my Argentine woes. Yet never did I think it would come back to haunt me eight weeks later, just when I’d finally wizened to the ways of an English-obsessed land.
Yet return it did — a serendipitous reunion at a varnished picnic table amid hundreds of pubescent Argentines. But this time, I was not going to let them win. “How dare your boludo of a friend make such unfounded declarations? Didn’t his dad ever tell him what happens when you assume?”
Stumped on the translation of the “ass out of you and me” part, I stopped. I began to ponder exactly how obvious my nationality is in this country of tall, dark, and handsomes.
Obviously, it’s, well, pretty obvious. Enough so, at least, for some guy to remember my ponytail for two months just to use it against me, when I was least expecting it. When all I wanted was a little “out of the classroom” learning.
It looks like my education will go bar-less from now on. In fact, I think it’s time to give up on the cultural disguises completely. It’s time to declare “I’m proud to be a (North) American.” Out come the eagle-emblazoned sweatshirts; the red, white and blue bandannas. The pink Gap t-shirt; the Iowa Hawkeye baseball cap. From now on, I’m going to let it all hang out.
04 June 2007
On Culture, Class, and a non-Climactic display of fur
This week I went to an opera. Not only that, I stayed through all four hours. But the best is still to come, for the ultimate truth is, I enjoyed it. Yes. Not a teeth-clinched, “That was fun, wasn’t it?” high-pitched false enjoyment, or an introspective, think-about-how-much-we-learned enjoyment, but an authentic one. I have done what no 20-year-old has done before.
I mean, in what other supposedly stuffy art form do women don britches to portray homoerotic kings playing with swords and weeping in the moonlight? Or give ladies of the court badonkadonks that would put MTV Spring Break to shame?
And besides, the duet that closed the second act was unreal. Achingly, horrifyingly sad, for a few moments it transcended the sheer ridiculousness of the entire endeavor. The audience was captivated, holding back even their persistent coughing fits. Well, until a cell phone in the fifth row shattered the ambiance. Twice.
Even Argentine opera-goers fall from grace, apparently.
But though the entire experience clearly thrilled me, I had a few complaints. First and foremost, where was the fur? Sitting on the bus the afternoon of the show, I marveled at the veritable jungle surrounding me. Be it striped, spotted, speckled, or streaked, nearly every female over the age of 12 was enveloped in animal. Aroused from their summer hibernation, they had been prowling the streets all week, ever since the temperatures plunged toward zero. Off they went to the pharmacy, the grocery store, the gym … in this country, the creatures could be seen anywhere. Yet the one place I expected to see flocks of them in abundance, I counted exactly one. Uno.
The explanation lies in cheapness, a concept that would bristle many a porteño. For I had ended up at the rehearsal show, a terrain reserved to students, friends of the stars, and, clearly, everyone avoiding spectacle in a city addicted to flaunting its societal status though plastic surgery and family crests. For, while the avenidas echo Paris and opulent tea settings say Buckingham Palace, nothing in Buenos Aires defines Argentina’s focus on the Continent more than the Teatro Colón. The ornately carved Grecian temple flanking Nuevo de Julio declares to the world that Buenos Aires, too, is a great European city. It may not be in Europe, but that’s totally beside the point.
Now approaching its centennial, the gem of Buenos Aires holds within its walls many of a story reflective of the country's complex relations between politics, culture, and class. Within its walls, which are now closed for renovation, Evita sparked a mass protest of the city’s moneyed, anti-Peronist elite. The presence of the glamorous radio star waving from the president’s balcony was too much for many attendees, who felt passionately that the opera was no place for those born into families without an estancia, or at least a few trust funds. So, as the story goes, the haughty porteñas defied her en masse, sending their maids in place of themselves. The furs got an evening off, and they got their message across in a way that promoted a mature, sensitive dialogue.
My own opera experience was slightly less controversial, in a theater a few blocks from the legendary Colón. But luckily, I can squint as I walk down the street, and the looming buildings transform into gold-trimmed balconies, the cacophony of brakes and candied peanut-sellers form a symphony, and the fur all around me transports me to the opera — with appropriately dressed clientèle.
I mean, in what other supposedly stuffy art form do women don britches to portray homoerotic kings playing with swords and weeping in the moonlight? Or give ladies of the court badonkadonks that would put MTV Spring Break to shame?
And besides, the duet that closed the second act was unreal. Achingly, horrifyingly sad, for a few moments it transcended the sheer ridiculousness of the entire endeavor. The audience was captivated, holding back even their persistent coughing fits. Well, until a cell phone in the fifth row shattered the ambiance. Twice.
Even Argentine opera-goers fall from grace, apparently.
But though the entire experience clearly thrilled me, I had a few complaints. First and foremost, where was the fur? Sitting on the bus the afternoon of the show, I marveled at the veritable jungle surrounding me. Be it striped, spotted, speckled, or streaked, nearly every female over the age of 12 was enveloped in animal. Aroused from their summer hibernation, they had been prowling the streets all week, ever since the temperatures plunged toward zero. Off they went to the pharmacy, the grocery store, the gym … in this country, the creatures could be seen anywhere. Yet the one place I expected to see flocks of them in abundance, I counted exactly one. Uno.
The explanation lies in cheapness, a concept that would bristle many a porteño. For I had ended up at the rehearsal show, a terrain reserved to students, friends of the stars, and, clearly, everyone avoiding spectacle in a city addicted to flaunting its societal status though plastic surgery and family crests. For, while the avenidas echo Paris and opulent tea settings say Buckingham Palace, nothing in Buenos Aires defines Argentina’s focus on the Continent more than the Teatro Colón. The ornately carved Grecian temple flanking Nuevo de Julio declares to the world that Buenos Aires, too, is a great European city. It may not be in Europe, but that’s totally beside the point.
Now approaching its centennial, the gem of Buenos Aires holds within its walls many of a story reflective of the country's complex relations between politics, culture, and class. Within its walls, which are now closed for renovation, Evita sparked a mass protest of the city’s moneyed, anti-Peronist elite. The presence of the glamorous radio star waving from the president’s balcony was too much for many attendees, who felt passionately that the opera was no place for those born into families without an estancia, or at least a few trust funds. So, as the story goes, the haughty porteñas defied her en masse, sending their maids in place of themselves. The furs got an evening off, and they got their message across in a way that promoted a mature, sensitive dialogue.
My own opera experience was slightly less controversial, in a theater a few blocks from the legendary Colón. But luckily, I can squint as I walk down the street, and the looming buildings transform into gold-trimmed balconies, the cacophony of brakes and candied peanut-sellers form a symphony, and the fur all around me transports me to the opera — with appropriately dressed clientèle.
La Farmacía
Armed with cowboy boots, a cough worthy of tuberculosis, a load of self-pity, and half a llama on my back, I walked into the pharmacy. I pretended to browse casually, but the meager selection of dandruff shampoo and baby bottles couldn’t sustain me for long, so I approached the counter. Immediately, half a dozen pharmacists were staring me down, ready to help in any way possible.
A toz? I uttered weakly, my language skills inhibited by the cold outside, my cold within, and the irritatingly warm response from the Argentines. I watched in wonder as the petite Asian woman shuffled through a selection of white boxes before settling on two.
Where are you from? she asked, as the clan of lab-coated staff behind her all turned to watch. Upon learning my stately heritage, she nudged the bigger of the boxes forward, a gesture as if to say that since I’m American, I could obviously handle this one. Argentine jarabes don’t strike a lot of brand loyalty in me, so I half-shrugged and accepted it. It was, after all, my only option in this land of customized pharmaceutical advice. In Argentina, such matters are left to the professionals.
That settled, she scuttled behind the counter, emerging with a wide tan felt collar. “It’s a gift,” she said, thrusting it toward me. I looked at her questioningly, disrupted from gazing at the stunningly gorgeous young pharmacist in the back. “Put it on,” she encouraged, so I swept it over my still-wet hair and fumbled with its adjustment around my neck. “No, no,” she reprimanded, before zipping around the counter to tuck it into my sweater, turtleneck-style. “You must bundle up,” she said, not satisfied until my neck was fully swathed.
As I shuffled my selection down to the cashier and paid, the whole medical team shook their heads, clucking to themselves about those silly Americans, leaving the house without a felt collar. It was all strikingly similar to Graciela’s constant daily warnings. How dare I go bare-footed as I lit the stove? Everyone knows that colds and flus run rampant on cold kitchen floors, just waiting to bore into some unsuspecting, unprepared foreigner. For weeks, I laughed off her advice as mere folklore. Yet when the cough crept into me late at night, folding me in half with hacking, I considered believing. Now, llama-fied, my neck tightly clothed, cough syrup still clinging to my throat, I admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in folklore.
A toz? I uttered weakly, my language skills inhibited by the cold outside, my cold within, and the irritatingly warm response from the Argentines. I watched in wonder as the petite Asian woman shuffled through a selection of white boxes before settling on two.
Where are you from? she asked, as the clan of lab-coated staff behind her all turned to watch. Upon learning my stately heritage, she nudged the bigger of the boxes forward, a gesture as if to say that since I’m American, I could obviously handle this one. Argentine jarabes don’t strike a lot of brand loyalty in me, so I half-shrugged and accepted it. It was, after all, my only option in this land of customized pharmaceutical advice. In Argentina, such matters are left to the professionals.
That settled, she scuttled behind the counter, emerging with a wide tan felt collar. “It’s a gift,” she said, thrusting it toward me. I looked at her questioningly, disrupted from gazing at the stunningly gorgeous young pharmacist in the back. “Put it on,” she encouraged, so I swept it over my still-wet hair and fumbled with its adjustment around my neck. “No, no,” she reprimanded, before zipping around the counter to tuck it into my sweater, turtleneck-style. “You must bundle up,” she said, not satisfied until my neck was fully swathed.
As I shuffled my selection down to the cashier and paid, the whole medical team shook their heads, clucking to themselves about those silly Americans, leaving the house without a felt collar. It was all strikingly similar to Graciela’s constant daily warnings. How dare I go bare-footed as I lit the stove? Everyone knows that colds and flus run rampant on cold kitchen floors, just waiting to bore into some unsuspecting, unprepared foreigner. For weeks, I laughed off her advice as mere folklore. Yet when the cough crept into me late at night, folding me in half with hacking, I considered believing. Now, llama-fied, my neck tightly clothed, cough syrup still clinging to my throat, I admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in folklore.
¡Vamos al campo!
You see, en realidad, there are two types of asado. You can put it all on the grill, Ramiro explained, nearly tipping over his café as he swept his arms open wide, his imaginary grill big enough to hold a half-dozen pampa-fed steers. Or you can stretch it over a fire, slowly intoxicating the splayed cow with the smoke, added the man ahead of us in line.
And like that, the two Argentines spiraled into a dizzyingly carnivorous conversation for a Saturday morning at the gas station. United incidentally, the countrymen regaled each other with tales of memorable parrillas and that one perfect intestine, grilled to perfection. And sure enough, even before the coffee was paid for, the never-exhausted topic of empanadas had been breached.
We were kilometers away from a kiosk, basking in the open pampa, yet one thing was no different from being trapped inside city walls — the glorification of all things meat. The official purpose of our journey was to venerate the patron saint of Argentina, the Virgin of Luján, but per usual, a large percentage of the venerating went towards products of blood and bone.
To be fair, it did consume a lot of energy listening to our overly excitable tour guide, transforming his 12 years of English language education into tangible evidence of the hazards of an Argentine accent imposed onto, well anything other than Argentine Spanish. His use of the word “moreover” was exemplary, though, and he proved quite adept at stripping the Virgin of her blue cloak, revealing her scandalous under-cloak. Horrifyingly blasphemous, to be sure, but it made for fine entertainment. Yet the high point of the tour came when he whipped out his sleek camera phone and began snapping away, our slightly confused American smiles captured forever.
But Ramiro, our exchange program employee assigned to shepherd us on our cultural journey, could care less about the church and its endless stalls of rosaries and candy apples, for the essence of parrilla was in the air. And deftly, it weaved its way into our hearts. Settling into a table basking in the fall sun, we contemplated our hunger. That whole body and blood of Christ thing, while it nurtured our souls, didn’t quell that vast emptiness that only beef innards can satiate. The beaming waiter regaled us with stories of his “friend” in California, a once-tourist who had mailed photos of the two men grinning amid a cloud of meat smoke, the envelope addressed to the “restaurant on the terrace by the river” in Luján. Clearly, we weren’t in Buenos Aires anymore.
Out came the empanadas, out come the bread, and, with a shake and a flourish, out came the chimichurri. The latter, a vinaigrette-esque sauce with tomatoes, peppers, onions, and spices, is traditionally Argentine. Because, although spices are strictly prohibited in the majority of dishes, some culinary idiosyncrasy upholds their use in the creation of chimichurri. So we drank up the offerings, still radiating from the Virgin’s healing presence, and savored the slight sensation of heat on the tongue. Then, they arrived.
“They” being the spitting, splattering parrillas, thumped onto the table as if to taunt us. And as such began the battle of our lives. The more we ate, the louder the grills sizzled, the intestines and kidneys and who knows what else talking back to us, bemoaning our incompetent stomachs. There were steaks and ribs and chickens and sausages and steak stuffed with oregano, but there all familiar territory ended. We were to eat first and ask later, Ramiro instructed us, advice both smart and frightening.
Some hours and a few flans later, our hair drenched in smoke and our bodies coated with a film of grease, we shakily stood up. We had survived. Waving our waiter adios, we rolled back toward the plaza in slightly painful, semi-euphoric states. After all, the Virgin was smiling down on us.
And a good thing, too — who knows what might have happened if we'd attempted that feat on our own.
And like that, the two Argentines spiraled into a dizzyingly carnivorous conversation for a Saturday morning at the gas station. United incidentally, the countrymen regaled each other with tales of memorable parrillas and that one perfect intestine, grilled to perfection. And sure enough, even before the coffee was paid for, the never-exhausted topic of empanadas had been breached.
We were kilometers away from a kiosk, basking in the open pampa, yet one thing was no different from being trapped inside city walls — the glorification of all things meat. The official purpose of our journey was to venerate the patron saint of Argentina, the Virgin of Luján, but per usual, a large percentage of the venerating went towards products of blood and bone.
To be fair, it did consume a lot of energy listening to our overly excitable tour guide, transforming his 12 years of English language education into tangible evidence of the hazards of an Argentine accent imposed onto, well anything other than Argentine Spanish. His use of the word “moreover” was exemplary, though, and he proved quite adept at stripping the Virgin of her blue cloak, revealing her scandalous under-cloak. Horrifyingly blasphemous, to be sure, but it made for fine entertainment. Yet the high point of the tour came when he whipped out his sleek camera phone and began snapping away, our slightly confused American smiles captured forever.
But Ramiro, our exchange program employee assigned to shepherd us on our cultural journey, could care less about the church and its endless stalls of rosaries and candy apples, for the essence of parrilla was in the air. And deftly, it weaved its way into our hearts. Settling into a table basking in the fall sun, we contemplated our hunger. That whole body and blood of Christ thing, while it nurtured our souls, didn’t quell that vast emptiness that only beef innards can satiate. The beaming waiter regaled us with stories of his “friend” in California, a once-tourist who had mailed photos of the two men grinning amid a cloud of meat smoke, the envelope addressed to the “restaurant on the terrace by the river” in Luján. Clearly, we weren’t in Buenos Aires anymore.
Out came the empanadas, out come the bread, and, with a shake and a flourish, out came the chimichurri. The latter, a vinaigrette-esque sauce with tomatoes, peppers, onions, and spices, is traditionally Argentine. Because, although spices are strictly prohibited in the majority of dishes, some culinary idiosyncrasy upholds their use in the creation of chimichurri. So we drank up the offerings, still radiating from the Virgin’s healing presence, and savored the slight sensation of heat on the tongue. Then, they arrived.
“They” being the spitting, splattering parrillas, thumped onto the table as if to taunt us. And as such began the battle of our lives. The more we ate, the louder the grills sizzled, the intestines and kidneys and who knows what else talking back to us, bemoaning our incompetent stomachs. There were steaks and ribs and chickens and sausages and steak stuffed with oregano, but there all familiar territory ended. We were to eat first and ask later, Ramiro instructed us, advice both smart and frightening.
Some hours and a few flans later, our hair drenched in smoke and our bodies coated with a film of grease, we shakily stood up. We had survived. Waving our waiter adios, we rolled back toward the plaza in slightly painful, semi-euphoric states. After all, the Virgin was smiling down on us.
And a good thing, too — who knows what might have happened if we'd attempted that feat on our own.
Tango a Go-Go
So I was at Kentucky Pizza, across from Plaza Italia. The nearest streets were Santa Fe and Thames, and it was just a few blocks to Armenia. I ordered a slice of Napolitana, the local excuse to douse a thick crust pizza in cheese and oregano. Just a few blocks away, Palermo Hollywood pulsated with its European discos and sushi bars.
Oh, Argentina and its stew of cultures all wrapped up into one big empanada.
The names of my surroundings may have spanned the globe, but the foamy mug of Quilmes before me was undeniably Argentine — like the raucous crowd in the late-night pizza joint, its walls triumphantly plastered with Argentine flags. And as such, it was the perfect prelude to my first milonga, or tango hall.
We walked past it the first time, not realizing that a neighborhood cultural center housed one of Buenos Aires’ infamous tango institutions. Only after consulting the address did we step through the door, where a hostess ushered us downstairs. A large dance floor dominated the big dimly lit basement, and tables jostled for positions close to the action. If it weren’t for the accordions wailing over the sound system, I would have sworn I had stepped into a roller rink. One that serves $7 bottles of wine, mind you.
The revelers downing vino were having a good time, whether staring deep into each other’s eyes or exploding into laughter, but on the dance floor, it was serious business. Cheek to cheek, the tangueros seduced the dance floor, their steps deliberate yet fiery. Red dresses fluttered. The steps were complicated and perfectly timed, dramatic and seductively close. Violins wailed; hearts broke; accordions bemoaned the losses. And then Shakira struck.
My friend and I looked at each other in disgust and wonder as the dance floor transitioned from the poignant romance of a bygone era to a grind that very much said today. Lights flashed, hips shook, and all semblance of milonga-ness evaporated. So it went for a good hour or so, as the musical selection slid from weird to weirder. At one point Elvis Presley had the entire place kicking up their heels.
And then, just when we’d had enough, the unmistakable first wails of a tango echoed in the atrium. The disco lights subsided, the pace slowed, and Argentina became Argentina again.
We were back to the Argentina of postcards and guidebooks.
Oh, Argentina and its stew of cultures all wrapped up into one big empanada.
The names of my surroundings may have spanned the globe, but the foamy mug of Quilmes before me was undeniably Argentine — like the raucous crowd in the late-night pizza joint, its walls triumphantly plastered with Argentine flags. And as such, it was the perfect prelude to my first milonga, or tango hall.
We walked past it the first time, not realizing that a neighborhood cultural center housed one of Buenos Aires’ infamous tango institutions. Only after consulting the address did we step through the door, where a hostess ushered us downstairs. A large dance floor dominated the big dimly lit basement, and tables jostled for positions close to the action. If it weren’t for the accordions wailing over the sound system, I would have sworn I had stepped into a roller rink. One that serves $7 bottles of wine, mind you.
The revelers downing vino were having a good time, whether staring deep into each other’s eyes or exploding into laughter, but on the dance floor, it was serious business. Cheek to cheek, the tangueros seduced the dance floor, their steps deliberate yet fiery. Red dresses fluttered. The steps were complicated and perfectly timed, dramatic and seductively close. Violins wailed; hearts broke; accordions bemoaned the losses. And then Shakira struck.
My friend and I looked at each other in disgust and wonder as the dance floor transitioned from the poignant romance of a bygone era to a grind that very much said today. Lights flashed, hips shook, and all semblance of milonga-ness evaporated. So it went for a good hour or so, as the musical selection slid from weird to weirder. At one point Elvis Presley had the entire place kicking up their heels.
And then, just when we’d had enough, the unmistakable first wails of a tango echoed in the atrium. The disco lights subsided, the pace slowed, and Argentina became Argentina again.
We were back to the Argentina of postcards and guidebooks.
Nine Levels Down
“I’ve never been to a pool hall where they seat you,” I noted, marveling at the courtesy endemic to this country. The waiter shuffled tables together, lifted chairs and pulled them out for us. Did we want Quilmes, Quilmes or Quilmes? Within moments, all hard decisions behind us, liters of the national beer appeared before us, served up with plastic cups and an ashtray.
Finally — finally — I had arrived in Argentina.
Maybe it was the cumbia that sizzled between the pool tables, their hips telling no lies, or the couple pressed against the wall, oblivious to anything outside their single plastic chair. It could have been the muscle-bound guy casually pulling up his sleeves to display the thorns and serpents encircling his biceps. Or perhaps the mulleted fellow behind him, blatantly taking photos of certain American patrons with his cell phone camera.
Whatever the defining factor, this was clearly no tourist joint. No, Argentines frequent this grimy, hazy rincón when they’re looking for good, clean fun (provided their idea of “clean” has nothing to do with bathroom sanitation and/or well-scrubbed walls). There wasn’t an English speaker in sight, a rarity given the Argentine obsession with the lengua franca.
Like most evenings, it started innocently enough; this time, with a bottle of cider at a corner café. Entertainment proved in abundance, from the Argentine variety show flouncing across the TV to our perpetually confused waiter flustering over our requests. We declared that our only goal was to inhabit a true local hangout; no European expats or Midwestern college students allowed.
Some blocks into our quest, this marvel of conjugation came my way: “I am beautiful your eyes.” Startled, grammatically confused, yet nonetheless flattered, I acknowledged the benevolent Argentine, my entire being melting into a blue puddle on the sidewalk.
Still riding on that epic compliment, I looked up to see what had the potential to be our final destination. We were standing outside La Puerta del Infierno, where the jukebox blared AC/DC and a diabolical cloud of smoke bellowed out onto the street. Inside this dastardly domain, billiards was an art of triumph and seduction, bad hair was not a choice but a requirement, and toilet paper surfaced only if you packed it yourself. The pits of hell had never been so appealing.
For a while, we had the table to ourselves, and we pretended to fit in. We’re just like you guys, we thought. We drink our Quilmes in plastic cups, we argue about horse racing, we know how to speak the español. Yeah, right.
In reality, we were Exhibit Norteamericanus, hailing from Chicago and New York (how you say Iowa and North Dakota in Spanish), and as such, the object of much wonderment and ridicule. What are you doing here, their sidelong glances seemed to say. And, “Why did you come here?” their spoken inquiries most definitely did say. So we gave up on the whole “fitting in” thing. Like a man told me on the bus the other day, my American-ness is so obvious, “It’s like it’s written on my forehead.”
Foreheads tattooed, we spent the rest of the night speaking bad Spanish and guarding our eight digits as if they were all the Quilmes in the world. But our reputation spread fast, and before long the bartender was joking that the litres cost $15 pesos, a whopping three times the regular price, given our exclusive nationality. He didn’t act on his jest, though, and we emerged from our favorite little corner of hell monetarily unscathed. We may not have blended in as seamlessly as we’d hoped, but such is life as a blonde in South America.
But it turns out that being escorted to a table in a pool hall is the equivalent of valet parking at a Kum ‘N Go. Next time, I’ll plop myself down without a second thought.
Finally — finally — I had arrived in Argentina.
Maybe it was the cumbia that sizzled between the pool tables, their hips telling no lies, or the couple pressed against the wall, oblivious to anything outside their single plastic chair. It could have been the muscle-bound guy casually pulling up his sleeves to display the thorns and serpents encircling his biceps. Or perhaps the mulleted fellow behind him, blatantly taking photos of certain American patrons with his cell phone camera.
Whatever the defining factor, this was clearly no tourist joint. No, Argentines frequent this grimy, hazy rincón when they’re looking for good, clean fun (provided their idea of “clean” has nothing to do with bathroom sanitation and/or well-scrubbed walls). There wasn’t an English speaker in sight, a rarity given the Argentine obsession with the lengua franca.
Like most evenings, it started innocently enough; this time, with a bottle of cider at a corner café. Entertainment proved in abundance, from the Argentine variety show flouncing across the TV to our perpetually confused waiter flustering over our requests. We declared that our only goal was to inhabit a true local hangout; no European expats or Midwestern college students allowed.
Some blocks into our quest, this marvel of conjugation came my way: “I am beautiful your eyes.” Startled, grammatically confused, yet nonetheless flattered, I acknowledged the benevolent Argentine, my entire being melting into a blue puddle on the sidewalk.
Still riding on that epic compliment, I looked up to see what had the potential to be our final destination. We were standing outside La Puerta del Infierno, where the jukebox blared AC/DC and a diabolical cloud of smoke bellowed out onto the street. Inside this dastardly domain, billiards was an art of triumph and seduction, bad hair was not a choice but a requirement, and toilet paper surfaced only if you packed it yourself. The pits of hell had never been so appealing.
For a while, we had the table to ourselves, and we pretended to fit in. We’re just like you guys, we thought. We drink our Quilmes in plastic cups, we argue about horse racing, we know how to speak the español. Yeah, right.
In reality, we were Exhibit Norteamericanus, hailing from Chicago and New York (how you say Iowa and North Dakota in Spanish), and as such, the object of much wonderment and ridicule. What are you doing here, their sidelong glances seemed to say. And, “Why did you come here?” their spoken inquiries most definitely did say. So we gave up on the whole “fitting in” thing. Like a man told me on the bus the other day, my American-ness is so obvious, “It’s like it’s written on my forehead.”
Foreheads tattooed, we spent the rest of the night speaking bad Spanish and guarding our eight digits as if they were all the Quilmes in the world. But our reputation spread fast, and before long the bartender was joking that the litres cost $15 pesos, a whopping three times the regular price, given our exclusive nationality. He didn’t act on his jest, though, and we emerged from our favorite little corner of hell monetarily unscathed. We may not have blended in as seamlessly as we’d hoped, but such is life as a blonde in South America.
But it turns out that being escorted to a table in a pool hall is the equivalent of valet parking at a Kum ‘N Go. Next time, I’ll plop myself down without a second thought.
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