Spices.
It is difficult to understand, this national obsession with blandness. This isn’t to say that all the food is flavorless. But as a general rule (and this describes only Argentine food in its purest state) details like spices are of last concern. Beef is the number one priority, followed by bread and rice as white as the ideal bloodline. Pungent cheese and sweet onions follow somewhere down the line. But pepper? Who needs it...
A perfect case study comes in the form of a Mexican-Argentine fusion restaurant located in stylish Palemo Viejo. When I walked in the door last weekend, it felt vaguely Mexican, thanks to the orange walls, rustic wood tables, and visible mounds of guacamole. My hopes rose. After settling into a seat (and waiting a typically Argentine time for a waiter to approach our table), I began to fully appreciate the “fusion” quality of the venue. From the wall, a Warhol-ized Marilyn Monroe smiled seductively at me, her breathiness matched only by the pop-chic Madonna cd throbbing throughout the small eatery. The Beatles grinned dopily from the opposing wall.
Needless to say, a Day of the Dead skeleton was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, a basket filled with slices of baguette and thin breadsticks appeared before us. Nestled in the middle were small toasts dabbed with what appeared to be a sun-dried tomato spread. In lieu of butter was a vessel of cilantro carrot relish, sprinkled with a few kidney beans. Not quite chips and salsa, but the combination managed to meld surprisingly well with a margarita, regardless (Yet a glass rimmed with sugar? Honestly).
The true test came with the tacos, burritos, and enchiladas we beckoned our way. The tacos, though entirely edible — quite good, in fact — were like nothing “Mexican” I’d had before. The corn tortillas were fried to a crisp, rendering them tasty if a bit grease-laden. The steak was hot off any Argentine parrilla, while the shriveled peppers were indicative of the attitude espoused by my host mother, who thinks vegetables “are a bit stupid.” Weirdest of all, though, was the pashmina-like draping of ham hugging the beef. Only in Argentina.
To be fair, the guacamole, bright with lime and cilantro, ranked up there with the finest Tex-Mex institutions of the American southwest, and the tortilla chips held their own. All in all, it amounted to a fascinating, and quite enjoyable, intercultural experience.
So, the next time you lump all Latin American food into the same pot of spicy refried beans, think again. And pack a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
31 March 2007
¿Tacos de Jamón?
I have written before about the marvels of Buenos Aires' cuisine, and I can nearly guarantee I will do it again. It's a pretty serious deal here, after all. For food is an experience; something to be revered, to be nurtured over a several hour-long meal. It’s a thing to cut lovingly, chewed neatly, and seasoned with a hearty laugh and roll of the r. Yet what it is not seasoned with?
28 March 2007
On Guilt
After 10 blocks of marble entryways, tanned and taut 50-something women, and stern doormen, I was in a state of hypnosis. The incessant beeping of the gold garage doors, alerting me that an Audi would soon cross my path, became as expected as the beating of my heart. The fierce yipping of the neighborhood white poodle club faded into the seamless silk of the sidewalk tapestry.
But suddenly, I stopped.
He said nothing, did nothing, didn't so much as twitch. Yet the boy's intention was somberly clear. He held three yellow balls in his hands and bore his eyes into mine, drilling a well of guilt. I had never seen the street kids "working" around here, not in this fabulously comfortable nook of Palermo. They show up in other parts of the city, darting in front of the traffic paused at a red light, feverishly performing a 30-second long juggling act before dipping between the cars, hands outstretched. Watching the whole affair, my stomach tightens as I worry about the impatient driver with his foot on the gas, regardless of who lingers in the street. I worry about the ball that rolls beneath a truck, luring a kid with it. And I worry about what happens when it's too dark to juggle, when the city rushes off to ballets and operas and leaves these performers on their own.
Yet the saucer-eyed boy before me wasn't performing. Instead, he seemed confident in the power of a simple stare. I smiled at him, hoping to provoke something,
anything, to prove the street hadn't hardened him completely. I pointed at the balls, fumbling over my Spanish. He interpreted my ill-conjugated statement as a cue to start his act, so he robotically lobbed them into the air, juggling the balls exactly five times. In the glare of the car dealership, I dug through my coins and dropped a few into his hand. There ended our exchange, and my young friend gazed down the sidewalk, scoping out his next target.
I treaded across the street, slightly aghast. Had I just reduced this human being to the level of an organ grinder monkey, forcing him to entertain me before I would bestow a few centavos upon him?
The issue of guilt is increasingly bothersome here. I'm American, blessed with a fantastic exchange rate and global mobility most Argentines can only dream of. I step into a restaurant and wave my magical credit card and leave full, happy, and little the worse for the pocketbook. In many places of the city, this can be hard to handle. Yet in a neighborhood like this, wealth disparity normally feels more like something you read about in the pages of La Naciòn, next to dreary bar graphs depicting the poverty rate. Here, the folks stroll down wide sidewalks with their greyhounds and sip cocktails in posh dimly lit bars. They even wear their sweaters with the sleeves oh-so-casually draped around their necks (possibly their worst fashion faux-pas).
So no wonder my little friend chose our barrio. It was only good business sense — much like his choice to conserve his juggling energy for a situation that demanded it. Pity clearly is the wrong emotion. He knows how to get by, even when up against a tough crowd. Whether I'm in alleys crawling with cockroaches or the familiar streets of Palermo, there´s a common determination worn into the faces I pass, etched through military dictatorships, desaparecidos, economic crises. Yet equally universal is a single truth: There, here, and everywhere, my pity is the last thing anyone wants.
But suddenly, I stopped.
He said nothing, did nothing, didn't so much as twitch. Yet the boy's intention was somberly clear. He held three yellow balls in his hands and bore his eyes into mine, drilling a well of guilt. I had never seen the street kids "working" around here, not in this fabulously comfortable nook of Palermo. They show up in other parts of the city, darting in front of the traffic paused at a red light, feverishly performing a 30-second long juggling act before dipping between the cars, hands outstretched. Watching the whole affair, my stomach tightens as I worry about the impatient driver with his foot on the gas, regardless of who lingers in the street. I worry about the ball that rolls beneath a truck, luring a kid with it. And I worry about what happens when it's too dark to juggle, when the city rushes off to ballets and operas and leaves these performers on their own.
Yet the saucer-eyed boy before me wasn't performing. Instead, he seemed confident in the power of a simple stare. I smiled at him, hoping to provoke something,
anything, to prove the street hadn't hardened him completely. I pointed at the balls, fumbling over my Spanish. He interpreted my ill-conjugated statement as a cue to start his act, so he robotically lobbed them into the air, juggling the balls exactly five times. In the glare of the car dealership, I dug through my coins and dropped a few into his hand. There ended our exchange, and my young friend gazed down the sidewalk, scoping out his next target.
I treaded across the street, slightly aghast. Had I just reduced this human being to the level of an organ grinder monkey, forcing him to entertain me before I would bestow a few centavos upon him?
The issue of guilt is increasingly bothersome here. I'm American, blessed with a fantastic exchange rate and global mobility most Argentines can only dream of. I step into a restaurant and wave my magical credit card and leave full, happy, and little the worse for the pocketbook. In many places of the city, this can be hard to handle. Yet in a neighborhood like this, wealth disparity normally feels more like something you read about in the pages of La Naciòn, next to dreary bar graphs depicting the poverty rate. Here, the folks stroll down wide sidewalks with their greyhounds and sip cocktails in posh dimly lit bars. They even wear their sweaters with the sleeves oh-so-casually draped around their necks (possibly their worst fashion faux-pas).
So no wonder my little friend chose our barrio. It was only good business sense — much like his choice to conserve his juggling energy for a situation that demanded it. Pity clearly is the wrong emotion. He knows how to get by, even when up against a tough crowd. Whether I'm in alleys crawling with cockroaches or the familiar streets of Palermo, there´s a common determination worn into the faces I pass, etched through military dictatorships, desaparecidos, economic crises. Yet equally universal is a single truth: There, here, and everywhere, my pity is the last thing anyone wants.
24 March 2007
Of Gravel Roads and Avenidas
Several years ago, back in the northern hemisphere, I spent a leisurely spring day riding down a lonely gravel road on my bike. As the saccharine air infused my lungs, I marveled at the absolute tranquility of the place. Nothing, it seemed, could so much as bother the lazy fly that hummed its way down the road. Nothing except for a rumbling, rattling pick-up truck. Onward it came, unleashing a tremor throughout the countryside. I braced myself for the onslaught of dust and chaos. Yet before I could even make out the person inside, it sputtered to a silent stop, leaving the road unscathed so I could pass in unruffled peace.
At the time, I marveled at the simple forethought of this farmer, his soul steeped in Midwestern courtesy. People aren’t like this in cities, I thought. This is an affliction endemic only to places with round, drawling names like “Iowa.” Thus, I came to Buenos Aires with my teeth fully clenched. I was entering a city crawling with some 12 million inhabitants — a veritable cesspool of pick-pockets, rapists, and thieves.
In elevators, I stonily stare at the buttons, pretending the other person doesn’t exist. On the street, I look through the man handing out flyers for pedicures or plastic surgery, confident he's a con artist looking to strip me of cash and/or my dignity. Anyone asking me where I’m from is no doubt plotting my murder … and on and on flows my pessimism, a stoniness only appropriate for a city of this magnitude.
Or, more often than not, only inappropriate.
Perhaps the most telling moment came a few nights ago. I was walking down Avenida Las Heras, searching for the elusive intersection with Ortiz de Ocampo. I knew I was near, but my inability to distinguish between Ortiz de Ocampo and the nearby Scalabrini Ortiz had left me baffled. Passing a McDonald’s, I decide to enter, leaning on this beacon of all things deliciously American in pursuit of a benevolent soul. The door is locked. The sad-eyed janitor shakes her head at me, indicating the time for Big Macs has passed.
I next descend on a middle-aged woman standing near the curb. She tells me she doesn’t know, her voice brimming with remorse. Está bien, I say, embarrassed that she is still pondering my question after more than a minute. She gestures toward a couple standing a few meters away, a man helping a woman labor over crutches. I nod, knowing that I cannot ask them, as they obviously have their own difficulties.
I take a sharp right and continue on my quest, passing back under the Golden Arches. Soon, cries of ¡Senorita, senorita! force me to swivel around, only to realize an entire family of garbage sorters had somehow become immersed in my struggle. Remnants of Happy Meals strewed before them and orderly rows of glass Coca-Cola bottles at their feet, they gesture down the street. Alla, they say — over there. Turning on my heels just in time to see the forlorn Mc-employee observing my helplessness, I head toward Ortiz de Ocampo. The middle-aged woman smiles from the corner, where she had sought out directions for me from the woman on crutches, who had, in turn, sought out the family to beckon me toward my destination. The entire collective watches as I cross the street, chuckling at the silly yanqui girl headed off into the night.
Within seconds I arrive at the street, but the act of getting there still left me baffled. A half-dozen porteños had dedicated themselves to helping me, inspired only by pure courtesy — the kind I thought I’d left behind on a dusty gravel road in Iowa. This was only one encounter of many, instances of people going far, far out of their way to help me. It’s an unexpected friendliness that emanates nearly everywhere here, not through crystalline blue farm skies but dank city streets, dingy cafés, and lurching elevators — each time, amazing me anew.
At the time, I marveled at the simple forethought of this farmer, his soul steeped in Midwestern courtesy. People aren’t like this in cities, I thought. This is an affliction endemic only to places with round, drawling names like “Iowa.” Thus, I came to Buenos Aires with my teeth fully clenched. I was entering a city crawling with some 12 million inhabitants — a veritable cesspool of pick-pockets, rapists, and thieves.
In elevators, I stonily stare at the buttons, pretending the other person doesn’t exist. On the street, I look through the man handing out flyers for pedicures or plastic surgery, confident he's a con artist looking to strip me of cash and/or my dignity. Anyone asking me where I’m from is no doubt plotting my murder … and on and on flows my pessimism, a stoniness only appropriate for a city of this magnitude.
Or, more often than not, only inappropriate.
Perhaps the most telling moment came a few nights ago. I was walking down Avenida Las Heras, searching for the elusive intersection with Ortiz de Ocampo. I knew I was near, but my inability to distinguish between Ortiz de Ocampo and the nearby Scalabrini Ortiz had left me baffled. Passing a McDonald’s, I decide to enter, leaning on this beacon of all things deliciously American in pursuit of a benevolent soul. The door is locked. The sad-eyed janitor shakes her head at me, indicating the time for Big Macs has passed.
I next descend on a middle-aged woman standing near the curb. She tells me she doesn’t know, her voice brimming with remorse. Está bien, I say, embarrassed that she is still pondering my question after more than a minute. She gestures toward a couple standing a few meters away, a man helping a woman labor over crutches. I nod, knowing that I cannot ask them, as they obviously have their own difficulties.
I take a sharp right and continue on my quest, passing back under the Golden Arches. Soon, cries of ¡Senorita, senorita! force me to swivel around, only to realize an entire family of garbage sorters had somehow become immersed in my struggle. Remnants of Happy Meals strewed before them and orderly rows of glass Coca-Cola bottles at their feet, they gesture down the street. Alla, they say — over there. Turning on my heels just in time to see the forlorn Mc-employee observing my helplessness, I head toward Ortiz de Ocampo. The middle-aged woman smiles from the corner, where she had sought out directions for me from the woman on crutches, who had, in turn, sought out the family to beckon me toward my destination. The entire collective watches as I cross the street, chuckling at the silly yanqui girl headed off into the night.
Within seconds I arrive at the street, but the act of getting there still left me baffled. A half-dozen porteños had dedicated themselves to helping me, inspired only by pure courtesy — the kind I thought I’d left behind on a dusty gravel road in Iowa. This was only one encounter of many, instances of people going far, far out of their way to help me. It’s an unexpected friendliness that emanates nearly everywhere here, not through crystalline blue farm skies but dank city streets, dingy cafés, and lurching elevators — each time, amazing me anew.
14 March 2007
Pass the Steak, Por Favor
“So, pick I one thing of here and one of here, no?”
So goes my Spanish as I try to decipher the menu at the posh downtown eatery called 1812. Often, Argentine menus feel like hieroglyphics, with their countless words for “entrails” and multiple spellings of “mozzarella.” The “English” versions, while perfect for a good laugh, are no more helpful. Would you order “A gentle pasta to the Maryland style with blow?” Me neither. I haven’t yet figured out if the drug laws are really liberal enough to permit such obvious trafficking, or if there’s a vegetable out there that stumps Google translator every time. A mystery for another day…
But back to 1812. Bryce and I are staring at the menu, puzzled, as we try to discover why the food remains priceless on the menu. The clinking glasses and soft jazz indicate it’s not a soup kitchen, so we inquire. At first, I think that maybe it’s a fixed menu, where you pick one thing from the appetizers, one from the entrees, and one from the desserts — hence my poorly phrased inquiry. But no, the hostess shakes her head. “16 pesos para todo,” she says. It’s not until we arrive at our table that we understand.
For, next to the gleaming mahogany is a smaller, shorter table. What is it? Nothing other than a staging ground for the endless stream of empanadas, corn tartines, Caesar salads, steak kebobs, French fries, breadsticks, and who knows what else headed our way. At first, we tentatively order a few dishes, unsure of what lay ahead. Had we realized when we stepped into the cool gastronomic paradise, we might have taken a deep breath first. Alas, we dove straight in. Some foods we ordered; others came unannounced. It was a restaurant freely flowing with food. The waiters buzzed about, uncorking local wines and prodding the jewelry-draped, older clientele to request a steak or fillet, to top off their heaping plate of tagliatelle or pancetta.
We watched, somewhat aghast, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on. It’s like a buffet, we realized, sans the marshmallow fluff. Or a cruise ship, where the food is amazing and beautifully presented and nowhere near a boat. At last, we came to the conclusion it’s a food amusement park, where you watch the various dishes pass by whilst sipping a fine mineral water and nibbling on olive-laced bread. When something strikes your fancy, you pounce. Otherwise, it’s all about leaning back and enjoying the show … and admiring the waiters, all of who are immaculately dressed and gorgeous. And no matter how long you tough it out, how gluttonous a feast you make your visit, you pay just a meager $16 pesos.
Find me a Hy-Vee Grand Buffet with cloth napkins, heaping dishes accented by swirls of vivid green and red sauces, at-table service, and all for a cost of less than $5.30, and I’ll be stateside in a flash. Until then, well...
By the way, I've put up a few pictures.
So goes my Spanish as I try to decipher the menu at the posh downtown eatery called 1812. Often, Argentine menus feel like hieroglyphics, with their countless words for “entrails” and multiple spellings of “mozzarella.” The “English” versions, while perfect for a good laugh, are no more helpful. Would you order “A gentle pasta to the Maryland style with blow?” Me neither. I haven’t yet figured out if the drug laws are really liberal enough to permit such obvious trafficking, or if there’s a vegetable out there that stumps Google translator every time. A mystery for another day…
But back to 1812. Bryce and I are staring at the menu, puzzled, as we try to discover why the food remains priceless on the menu. The clinking glasses and soft jazz indicate it’s not a soup kitchen, so we inquire. At first, I think that maybe it’s a fixed menu, where you pick one thing from the appetizers, one from the entrees, and one from the desserts — hence my poorly phrased inquiry. But no, the hostess shakes her head. “16 pesos para todo,” she says. It’s not until we arrive at our table that we understand.
For, next to the gleaming mahogany is a smaller, shorter table. What is it? Nothing other than a staging ground for the endless stream of empanadas, corn tartines, Caesar salads, steak kebobs, French fries, breadsticks, and who knows what else headed our way. At first, we tentatively order a few dishes, unsure of what lay ahead. Had we realized when we stepped into the cool gastronomic paradise, we might have taken a deep breath first. Alas, we dove straight in. Some foods we ordered; others came unannounced. It was a restaurant freely flowing with food. The waiters buzzed about, uncorking local wines and prodding the jewelry-draped, older clientele to request a steak or fillet, to top off their heaping plate of tagliatelle or pancetta.
We watched, somewhat aghast, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on. It’s like a buffet, we realized, sans the marshmallow fluff. Or a cruise ship, where the food is amazing and beautifully presented and nowhere near a boat. At last, we came to the conclusion it’s a food amusement park, where you watch the various dishes pass by whilst sipping a fine mineral water and nibbling on olive-laced bread. When something strikes your fancy, you pounce. Otherwise, it’s all about leaning back and enjoying the show … and admiring the waiters, all of who are immaculately dressed and gorgeous. And no matter how long you tough it out, how gluttonous a feast you make your visit, you pay just a meager $16 pesos.
Find me a Hy-Vee Grand Buffet with cloth napkins, heaping dishes accented by swirls of vivid green and red sauces, at-table service, and all for a cost of less than $5.30, and I’ll be stateside in a flash. Until then, well...
By the way, I've put up a few pictures.
The Cob That Makes the World Go Round
It turns out I should have packed my “I heart corn” t-shirt, after all.
For, what does the first person I talk to in my first Argentine bar say? That his brother is getting his PhD at Iowa State. My primer porteño (Buenos Aires-an) pal comes from a family of corn scientists — as does apparently everyone in this country who isn’t a fashion model and/or pregnant. Like in Iowa, corn is king here. It’s inescapable: My host father 'Tin is a retired cereal exporter who used to do business with a Hawkeye state company, and his son, also in the corn biz, turned down an offer to study abroad in Ames. I still can’t figure out why.
So, given the constant barrage of biofuel-fueled news I’ve read in Iowa newspapers, I was curious to hear what ‘Tin thinks about etanol (creative translation, huh?). Especially in light of Bush's voyage to these parts last week, it's all the talk down here, too. Tonight I got my wish. After our usual dinner banter about the myriad varieties of Argentine pumpkins (which appears to be a national food), discussion somehow turned toward geopolitics. And ‘Tin, who normally remains silently bemused at his wife’s English-and-Spanish-laced chattiness, piped up.
I held my breath as he tried to unravel centuries’ worth of trade agreements into a logical explanation of why Argentina works the way it does. Why this country refuses to export its plentiful oil bubbling underneath Patagonia, why it refrains from jumping too far into the sugar cane-etanol trend, why the people here are relatively wealthy and the oil-laden Bolivians aren’t. Did I mention he doesn't speak English?
Needless to say, I didn’t necessarily get everything he said (aka, it might as well have been in Arabic), but it was fascinating, nonetheless. At the monstrous gas station catering to the Mercedes crowd across from our apartment, petrol sells for about US $4/gallon. But, unlike Iowa, there’s no corn involved. Back in the ‘60s, the military made gas from the plentiful maíz gracing the Argentine landscape, but these days, they don’t bother. There’s just not enough of a need, ‘Tin said. After all, Argentina has less than 40 million people, with a third of them in Buenos Aires. So the oil seeping from nearly every region of the country works just fine. Why not just export it and use the money to buy toilets that can actually flush? Doing so would be strategically suicidal, according to my sources. Thus, Argentina was left behind when Bush made his Latin America tour. With regard to etanol, the Argentines say no gracias.
Now it’s back to futbol here, with politics left until the next commercial break. I’m quickly learning that if I’m going to survive, I have to learn to converse about the two national past-times. I’ve got the corn-politics thing down; now, I just need to figure out how to say the goalie made a touchdown…
For, what does the first person I talk to in my first Argentine bar say? That his brother is getting his PhD at Iowa State. My primer porteño (Buenos Aires-an) pal comes from a family of corn scientists — as does apparently everyone in this country who isn’t a fashion model and/or pregnant. Like in Iowa, corn is king here. It’s inescapable: My host father 'Tin is a retired cereal exporter who used to do business with a Hawkeye state company, and his son, also in the corn biz, turned down an offer to study abroad in Ames. I still can’t figure out why.
So, given the constant barrage of biofuel-fueled news I’ve read in Iowa newspapers, I was curious to hear what ‘Tin thinks about etanol (creative translation, huh?). Especially in light of Bush's voyage to these parts last week, it's all the talk down here, too. Tonight I got my wish. After our usual dinner banter about the myriad varieties of Argentine pumpkins (which appears to be a national food), discussion somehow turned toward geopolitics. And ‘Tin, who normally remains silently bemused at his wife’s English-and-Spanish-laced chattiness, piped up.
I held my breath as he tried to unravel centuries’ worth of trade agreements into a logical explanation of why Argentina works the way it does. Why this country refuses to export its plentiful oil bubbling underneath Patagonia, why it refrains from jumping too far into the sugar cane-etanol trend, why the people here are relatively wealthy and the oil-laden Bolivians aren’t. Did I mention he doesn't speak English?
Needless to say, I didn’t necessarily get everything he said (aka, it might as well have been in Arabic), but it was fascinating, nonetheless. At the monstrous gas station catering to the Mercedes crowd across from our apartment, petrol sells for about US $4/gallon. But, unlike Iowa, there’s no corn involved. Back in the ‘60s, the military made gas from the plentiful maíz gracing the Argentine landscape, but these days, they don’t bother. There’s just not enough of a need, ‘Tin said. After all, Argentina has less than 40 million people, with a third of them in Buenos Aires. So the oil seeping from nearly every region of the country works just fine. Why not just export it and use the money to buy toilets that can actually flush? Doing so would be strategically suicidal, according to my sources. Thus, Argentina was left behind when Bush made his Latin America tour. With regard to etanol, the Argentines say no gracias.
Now it’s back to futbol here, with politics left until the next commercial break. I’m quickly learning that if I’m going to survive, I have to learn to converse about the two national past-times. I’ve got the corn-politics thing down; now, I just need to figure out how to say the goalie made a touchdown…
07 March 2007
The Long Journey South
My first waft of Argentina came in Washington Dulles. Tanned and polished, the Argentines invigorated a soulless gate flooded with fluorescent lighting and a collective disgust at the thought of a ten-hour flight. I bid my Estonian plane-mate good-bye and joined the crowd, slipping in as if my blaring “A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N” status didn’t give me away. As my wide-eyed wonderment at their every así didn’t give me away. Yet on the plane, their effect obscured by an American pilot and a horrifying selection of gravy-coated gruel, I was back on American shores, figuratively speaking. The insulation of my fair-skinned study abroad comrades lasted through the flight, the airport, and even the shuttle ride.
But when the driver took the Avenida Libertador at a right angle, shooting straight across some seven lanes and cutting off some dozen Mercedes, I arrived at my home: a towering apartment building with a marble entryway and gold buttons. Squeezed into the elevator with multiple bags marinating in sweat and airplane exhaust, Graciela and I rise toward 7B. Inside, it is old-world glamour, with the worn edges (and plaid kitchen wallpaper) of a home lived in for 20 years. Parquet floors, brass lamps, parlor chairs with elaborate detailing and delicately sculpted legs, and the occasional copper tea kettle. But before I can even look around, it’s lunch. Chicken: Bone-on, skin-on, no trimmings. Then comes a banana, eaten with a knife and fork I never knew cohabitated with the humble fruit. It was the kind of dessert I’ve always heard about but didn’t think really existed. So say the guide books about obscure places in other hemispheres: “Dessert is often a piece of fruit” but I didn’t think it was more than a myth. Turns out, it’s surprisingly delightful. Who needs Toll House when there are bananas?
But enough; on to the ciudad. I would like to say it’s the streets’ fault, but I can’t. I am simply amazing at getting lost. Perhaps I should embrace it; after all, I never would have seen my first Argentine synagogue, toured the back side of the zoo (it's fragrant), or passed every doorman north of the Libertador if it weren’t for my inane ability to take the wrong turn, at every turn. I also wouldn’t have met the gangs of families sorting the trash, impeccably sorting shredded paper, grease-stained cardboard, and bottles into piles on the curb. Or the stylish couples bemusedly watching their show dog waddling about in front of their apartment.
In fact, it appears to be impossible to mind being lost here. Take a left at Paraná instead of a right? No hay una problema — there’s plenty to entertain you at every turn, be it a corner café full of porteños sipping espresso or a mid-crosswalk embrace … with tongue. Yes. As they told us at orientation, Argentines like to touch, and they like to do so at every possible venue.
Regarding the streets, they’re either cozy little tree-lined affairs buzzing with motorcycles or ten-lane mammoths. The widest street in the world, in fact, calls Buenos Aires home. I feel like I need a t-shirt that says I’ve crossed the Avenida 9 de Julio and survived. Truly, it isn’t that scary, even though it takes two crosswalks. And what sweet rewards lay on the other side. Once you’ve powered through the cars, an outdoor café is there to greet you. Umbrella-outfitted tables look out at the thick hedge of trees protecting you from the blare and glare of traffic. And to refresh is cheap (like nearly everything in Buenos Aires, provided American dollars fill your bank account) — a meager 12 pesos for a glass bottle of agua sin gas and a glass of white wine literally filled to the brim. Oh, and a tray of complimentary potato chips. Calculate in the exchange rate, and that figures out to be about … $4 US dollars.
Could be worse, no?
But when the driver took the Avenida Libertador at a right angle, shooting straight across some seven lanes and cutting off some dozen Mercedes, I arrived at my home: a towering apartment building with a marble entryway and gold buttons. Squeezed into the elevator with multiple bags marinating in sweat and airplane exhaust, Graciela and I rise toward 7B. Inside, it is old-world glamour, with the worn edges (and plaid kitchen wallpaper) of a home lived in for 20 years. Parquet floors, brass lamps, parlor chairs with elaborate detailing and delicately sculpted legs, and the occasional copper tea kettle. But before I can even look around, it’s lunch. Chicken: Bone-on, skin-on, no trimmings. Then comes a banana, eaten with a knife and fork I never knew cohabitated with the humble fruit. It was the kind of dessert I’ve always heard about but didn’t think really existed. So say the guide books about obscure places in other hemispheres: “Dessert is often a piece of fruit” but I didn’t think it was more than a myth. Turns out, it’s surprisingly delightful. Who needs Toll House when there are bananas?
But enough; on to the ciudad. I would like to say it’s the streets’ fault, but I can’t. I am simply amazing at getting lost. Perhaps I should embrace it; after all, I never would have seen my first Argentine synagogue, toured the back side of the zoo (it's fragrant), or passed every doorman north of the Libertador if it weren’t for my inane ability to take the wrong turn, at every turn. I also wouldn’t have met the gangs of families sorting the trash, impeccably sorting shredded paper, grease-stained cardboard, and bottles into piles on the curb. Or the stylish couples bemusedly watching their show dog waddling about in front of their apartment.
In fact, it appears to be impossible to mind being lost here. Take a left at Paraná instead of a right? No hay una problema — there’s plenty to entertain you at every turn, be it a corner café full of porteños sipping espresso or a mid-crosswalk embrace … with tongue. Yes. As they told us at orientation, Argentines like to touch, and they like to do so at every possible venue.
Regarding the streets, they’re either cozy little tree-lined affairs buzzing with motorcycles or ten-lane mammoths. The widest street in the world, in fact, calls Buenos Aires home. I feel like I need a t-shirt that says I’ve crossed the Avenida 9 de Julio and survived. Truly, it isn’t that scary, even though it takes two crosswalks. And what sweet rewards lay on the other side. Once you’ve powered through the cars, an outdoor café is there to greet you. Umbrella-outfitted tables look out at the thick hedge of trees protecting you from the blare and glare of traffic. And to refresh is cheap (like nearly everything in Buenos Aires, provided American dollars fill your bank account) — a meager 12 pesos for a glass bottle of agua sin gas and a glass of white wine literally filled to the brim. Oh, and a tray of complimentary potato chips. Calculate in the exchange rate, and that figures out to be about … $4 US dollars.
Could be worse, no?
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