Fast race in Flores
I had been to Buenos Aires once before, 25 years earlier, in 1992. On that occasion I had been heading up a small television production team from Thailand, and we were going to create several 8-minutes long episodes for our international weird and wonderful stories segment. We attended a football (soccer) match, visited a museum to talk about dinosaurs, saw Evita’s grave, and attended a dinner/dance show, among other things, and I was looking forward to exploring the city once again to see how it had changed over that time. It hasn’t changed that much. Certainly traffic has improved, somewhat, and there are a few more tall buildings, but by and large, the city remains the same; modernized but not stale, or boring. Arriving at the central train and bus station from Mendoza, I tried to figure out the direction to the apartment where I would be spending the next few nights. I set off to the subway station, opting to take the train instead of walking the 7 kilometers (walking 7 kilometers is not a lot, only about an hour or so for me, but I didn’t want to do it with my luggage). Taking the train first in the wrong direction, then finally ending up at the right station, it was nearly noon by the time I arrived at the right address. I rang the bell, was buzzed in and entered a comfortable little apartment littered with books and magazines, all of them definitely left-leaning in their content. I had entered the world of a polyglot with a penchant for the arts, the concept of equality for all as espoused by communism, and a guide-exemplar to all things important in Buenos Aires. (I questioned the level of devotion to the communist ideals, and was told in one of our conversations that it was of course “not the goal to lower oneself to the level of the peasants, but instead, to raise the level of the peasants to that of equality with the bourgeoisie”… hmmm haha). My host for the visit had already anticipated my arrival, and that very afternoon we set off on a walking tour of the main attractions and smaller neighborhoods of the city.
Slow Down!!! I’m on holidays for …. sake! :):)
I walk a lot, and I walk quickly, and often enough I will pace ahead only to have to stop for a few moments for the other person to catch up with me – blame it on long legs or impatience or whatever, I just don’t like the slow saunter that some people adopt when they walk in shopping malls or streets; on pavements in major cities, with a sudden stop that leaves people behind them almost barreling into them full steam (this is particularly true of Bangkok, where often times a split-second step to either left or right has saved me from bowling over the person in front of me who has decided to stop dead in their tracks in the middle of the sidewalk for no apparent reason). On this occasion, however, it was I who had to do the catching-up as we moved at a breathless pace along the sidewalks of Buenos Aires from one neighborhood to the next. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk, and we visited parks, saw a few important buildings, even entered the converted post office now serving as a concert and arts facility to listen to a piano concert from an up-and-coming pianist. The weather was enjoyable, and the company and conversation very pleasant. It was nearing 10 p.m. by the time the concert was over, and I was a bit hungry. We had not yet had dinner, having stopped only for a small snack and a coffee at around 6p.m. I noticed the giant signs for the fast-food joints that seem to populate nearly every city in the world and shuddered at the thought of having to consume some greasy burger and fries to still my hunger. Surprisingly, my host turned to me and asked if we should perhaps have something to drink before dinner? “Dinner?” was my question, “at this time of the day?” I got an enigmatic smile in return, and we galloped off at the same pace we had maintained all that day, to yet another section of the city (at the pace we were going, we nearly out-ran the buses and trams).
Natural beauty…
Argentinians understand me – to bed at 2am and up at 10 – perfect
We walked around a small rotunda and came upon a restaurant that was ‘still’ open, or so I thought. Entering, I could see only a few guests there, some enjoying a cup of coffee, others a drink or two, and so I surmised that dinner, for them at least, had been good and over and done with. We ordered a drink, then surprisingly menus were brought and we were asked what we would like for dinner. I was surprised, certain that we must have arrived just in the nick of time to order something from the kitchen. Yet as I sat perusing the menu, another group of people entered the restaurant. This group dressed as though they were on their way to church. Then another group arrived, and as we ordered our food, my host finally revealed that in Argentina, or in Buenos Aires at least, dinner is not until 10 p.m. or later, and the night is still young when one goes to a bar or club at midnight. This was music to my ears – I can appreciate late nights, as long as the mornings also allow me to wake up late.
Art in the gallery…
Dinner was delightful, and by the time we asked to pay our bill, a small line-up stood outside the door to the restaurant waiting to be seated (I think I got the odd look of gratitude from some of those waiting as we were making our way outside). The restaurant was full, and it was nearing 11.30 p.m. The weather had become a little cooler, and we paced our way back to the apartment. My legs, although not protesting, were certainly letting it be known that they would be grateful for a good night’s rest before being put to such abuse again the next day. I had planned several things, and all of them would require extensive walking and an ability to move them in something that would resemble the basics of the Tango.
