Good Winds: Part I

Ok where to begin? I guess I will start by stating the obvious: Buenos Aires is AMAZING. As one of my friends warned me before leaving, traveling to Buenos Aires is dangerous, because you might never leave.

Fortunately (sort of), I left behind a lot of responsibilities (not to mention a home and all my personal belongings) in Santiago. But when I am done in December.... Who knows?

Context: As I had mentioned previously, I currently don't have classes on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and I don't have to work until 9pm on Tuesday. In case you weren't paying attention, that basically amounts to a 4-day weekend. Before I run out and get another job to help me fund these little adventures, I figured I might as well take advantage of the free time while I have it. I found a cheap flight ($110 rt, including taxes) from Stgo to BsAs (official abbr.'s) that would enable me to be there from Saturday afternoon until about midday on Tuesday, packed my bags, and next thing I knew I was rocking out to Shakira somewhere over the Andes.

Well, that's not entirely true... First, I got pretty sick (great timing). Then I went out with Simon, the Aussie, and the other TIPS from my school on Friday night (really good way to feel better: drink beers with friends until 2 in the morning when you've got to get up at 6:30 the next day). So after class, we all went out to this really noisy and smoky bar. Apparently when it's someone's birthday here, it's customary to get a bunch of noise-makers, police whistles, and bottles of wine, get together and rather than talk and laugh, just yell onomatopoeias at the top of your lungs until every table around you leaves the bar (because that's what one group of about 15 middle aged folks around us did). Rather than deal with them all night, I cowboyed up and walked over to some random Chilean sitting alone and asked him if he would mind if a bunch of gringos came and sat down with him.

He told me it would be fine, so we packed up our litros and got cozy with our new friend. Moments later, his girlfriend came to join the party, and we all just sort of sat and chatted it up (between their sporadic makeout sessions, of course)... They didn't seem to mind, and I was relishing the awkwardness of it all. They left us, amicably, and we followed suit shortly thereafter, but not before taking the obligatory group bar shot (picture, not drink - featured above).

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, and I left feeling surprisingly better than I had while I was teaching earlier that day. I woke up about 4 hours later, and in a drowsy and tipsy stupor, I threw some stuff into a bag and made my way for the airport.

I managed to borrow (read: pilfer) an Argentine guide book from the CIEE office before I left, so I spent most of the plane ride plotting my plan of attack. I landed, changed some money, and missed my bus. This wasn't too bad, though, because while I wouldn't get to my hostel for a little while, it gave me some more time to study the guide book. A bus ride, short walk, and cab ride later, I was at my hostel.

Once I got situated, stored my valuables in the impregnable fortress that is my unlocked backpack (cleverly hiding my iPod in a pair of socks to thwart would-be petty theives), I grabbed my camera bag and flew out the door. My first stop was the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. Before I could even make it 5 blocks, I was stopped by a couple of police officers, asking me for my documentation. Stories of corrupt Argentine cops flying through the annals of my cerebrum, I hurriedly handed them my Chilean ID (I left my passport in the hostel). Disappointed, one turned to the other, showed him the card, and said "Es Chileno. Pasa." I literally have NO IDEA what that was all about, but I can't help but think that the result would have been different had I presented my US passport.

On the way there I was distracted by a sort of open-air market on the parks and lawns nearby. Resisting all temptation to buy interesting but completely unnecessary trinkets, I finally took refuge in the museum.

The museum itself wasn't incredibly large, but I really enjoyed it. There were a few Cezannes, Monets, Vangoghs, and no doubt a number of other famous artists that I know nothing about. What I liked most about the museum, though (other than the fact that it was free), was the lighting. The place was practically empty as it was, but all the rooms were incredibly dimly lit - a sort of intimate, encompassing darkness, that was broken only by the soft warmness of the spotlighted artwork - the end result of which was to leave you feeling like you were the only person in the entire place.

After about an hour or two at the MNBA, I strolled around for a bit before heading over to "La Recoleta" an incredibly famous cemetery in Recoleta where many of Argentine's war heroes, important figures from history, or just the super-rich lay in wait. While it is far from the most impressive plot in the cemetery, I had to make a stop to see the grave of Eva Peron ("Evita" - at right).


The cemetery closed about 45 minutes after I got there, but I managed to snap a couple more pictures of the place all but abandoned before the police escorted me out. With the sun going down, I didn't have much else on the agenda for the day, so I just wandered around the market area outside the cemetery. I found a bunch of people hanging out on a lawn nearby, chatting and listening to some guy on his guitar, and decided to take a load off.

When I could no longer ignore the sweet smell of churros, empanadas, and chorizo any longer, my hunger got the best of me, and I settled on a little sandwich of jamon crudo to help me make the journey back to the hostel. Now dark, and getting cold, I dropped off my camera bag, changed into some warmer clothes, and headed back to the city outside; grand total so far at the hostel, 15 minutes.

As this bird was flying solo, I had to find a way to explore the city's nightlife, without being a complete sucker, paying a ridiculous cover to an empty dance club, or the creepy guy with a mullet that sidles up to groups of twenty-somethings, laughs at their jokes, and then tries to dance with their girls. Instead, I ducked into a pastry shop, told the nice older lady my story, and asked for her recommendations. Somewhat concerned that perhaps a 50 year old pastry-chef wouldn't have a the greatest insight into the Argentine nightlife, I looked to her much younger, far more attractive colleague for confirmation. Their stories checked out, so I made my way back to Recoleta (where they told me to grab dinner).

There, I approached a couple of younger women dining alone in an outdoor cafe (they were probably 25-27). They recoiled as I fumbled for the right words (any time you start a conversation with "I don't want to bother you, but" people are bound to be a little suspect), but immediately softened when they realized that I wasn't going to ask them for money. They directed me to a Plaza in Palermo and politely declined my invitation for them to join me, citing a late night before as their excuse (doubtful, but plausible).

Not wanting to eat alone, at Plaza Serrano, I carefully surveyed the clientele making snap judgments based on nothing but looks as to how I would be received if I approached a couple of complete strangers. Like Indiana Jones, I chose wisely, and joined up with a couple of guys drinking beer and eating pizza. They were super cool, really friendly, and of course, busy with their girlfriends for the rest of the night.

When they left after dinner, I had little choice but to start my search again. This time, I sat alone at a cafe, about 20 feet from a table of 3 pretty attractive young ladies eating together. My waiter brought the three of them a dessert from me (at my request) and moments later, I was sitting with them, asking their plans for the night. All three of them were nurses in their residencies, and they wouldn't be able to come out as they had to work from 8am Sunday until 8am Monday. They gave me their email addresses and told me that they might join me on Monday night, but that still left me without plans for Saturday.

"C'est la vie," thought I, and planned to grab a cab back to my hostel (at this point it was already about 12:30). The girls closed their tabs and left, while I stayed to take care of my check. Just before leaving, I received a text message from Marcelo, who just happened to be in BsAs too. It took 2 unnecessary cab rides and a whole lot of walking to get me basically right around the corner (due to poor communication from Marcelo) where I met up with Marcelo, Jorge, and a couple of their friends. In the whirlwind of activity that followed, what would have been a quiet night's sleep at the hostel turned into a few stops at bars and a night of dancing at Opera Bay, one of the big clubs near the harbor at Puerto Madero. Much to the chagrin if Marcelo and company, I called it an "early night" at about 6am, and headed back to the hostel, hoping for another big day of touring BsAs on Sunday.