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?