La Policia

Coming from North America my preconceived notion of what the police would be like here was something fearsome. I imagined them taking kickbacks and bribes, turning a blind eye towards crime, prone to arrest wealthy looking foreigners for the sake of a payout. Although I haven't talked about it at length with many Argentinians it seems that I was pretty far off.
For the most part police corruption is far more clandestine than I had previously thought and doesn't seem to extend to the run-of-the-mill cops on the beat. In fact, there seems to be such an ingrained distrust of the police and authority figures in general that legislation has been passed that severely limits the power of the police force.
For example, our first Saturday night here Graham and I went out for a lovely stroll after dinner, the air was still thick from the hottest summer in 30 years and there was a cool breeze cutting through it gifting us refreshing relief. The first pangs of excitement at being in a new, exotic country hadn't worn off yet and everything was still wonderful. When we got back to our door from the sultry walk I had a little trouble turning the key in the lock. It wouldn't budge and soon I was having a lot of trouble. Then Graham tried and it wasn't long before we were in serious trouble because it was only our fifth day there, we spoke absolutely nada Spanish and all our money, identification and phones were in the apartment that we were now horrifyingly locked out of.
My heart started to palpitate as it does when I find myself in high stress situations so I went to sit on the stairs before I passed out at the thought of sleeping outdoors until Monday. Graham kept it together a little bit better than I did so I tried to pull myself up to his level but luckily a girl our age came bouncing down the stairs, and low and behold, she was American and she was studying at the University in the city and spoke fluent Spanish and would take us over to the police station herself to explain our predicament for us.
I was so grateful to her in those moments that I think I came off as a little creepy in my effusiveness, but she seriously saved us from what could've been a pretty ugly episode.
So at the station she chit chatted to the policia and he went behind his desk and retrieved a piece of paper and wrote a number on it and we were on our way. Our translator explained that he had given her the number of a locksmith that is apparently on call at all hours of the day and week because the police have no legal authority to open up anyone's door. Not even if they wanted to. I can't believe this is true but she swore that it's what he said.
I didn't really think about it again until a couple of days ago when Graham and I were sitting out on the sidewalk at a pub. There were a couple of policemen stationed at the corner we were sitting on and they seemed to be pretty chummy with the staff, yakking it up. My back was turned to them and as I was talking to Graham I noticed his face go slack-jawed so I whipped around to see what he was looking at. One of the bus boys had grabbed the baton out of the policeman's belt and was pretending to beat him over the head with it; it was outrageous! We were prepared to witness a big rumble go down but nothing happened. It was like watching the jock beating up the nerd in school because the policeman just stood there and didn't make a move to take back his baton or anything. Later on I saw the same bus boy walking by the policeman, throw his arms out wide, walk up very close to him and stick his face in the cop's and make little sideways movements with his head as if to say, "What?! What?!", like gangsters and crackers do when they want to fight. And still, not even a quick punch to nose could be elicited from this cop.
That's when I began to think that maybe that girl from our lock-out night had been right. In America if you even give so much as a sideways glance at a cop that he doesn't like the look of you're immediately questioned. Imagined what would happen if you or I grabbed the baton off a cop and pretended to beat him with it!
The only possible conclusion to draw is that there has been a serious depletion of police powers which in comparison to their counterparts around the world must leave them feeling pretty emasculated. Something about this feels so charming to me and I hope to document this phenomenon further. Stay tuned.

Graffiti Nation III

Give credit where credit is due: Graham found this stretch of street which is where all the new photos in the album are from. Between maneuvering around dog poop and avoiding the traffic in the street it was a little tricky getting these shots so I hope you enjoy. Hop on over to my album to see all the new additions.

El Collectivo

Since I've been here I've been feeling a little bit guilty about my career path, or lack thereof, and especially for not using my Anthropology degree, or the Italian one for that matter. In my last year of University I took really great classes and even considered applying to grad school for anthropology. My favorite project was my final exam; it was a semester long ethnographic study and I did mine on my fellow bus riders without their knowledge.

I was living in Providence but I went to school 40 minutes to the south in Kingston. I started taking the bus because I was having to fill up my tank every five days and if there's anything I detest more than driving it's having to pay through the nose for gas. However, if I could afford it I'd pay for someone to drive me everywhere I needed to go for the rest of my life... like a bus driver, but more individualized.

The bus was actually a lot more interesting than I thought it was going to be, there were all sorts of characters on it. All the lunch ladies from the cafeteria seemed to live in Providence and were regular chatty Kathys on the bus in the early mornings, then in the afternoons it was a lot of stoic looking grounds keepers. And then there were just overall creepos. For instance, one time I was absent mindedly staring at this guy who was fully decked out in gold chains and the light was glistening off of him in a really hypnotic way, I just couldn't help myself. When he got off the bus my eyes continued to follow him and before he had even made it all the way up to the front an older man sitting across from me started saying in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: "Yeah gurrrrrrl! You want that piece don't ya? I see you, staring him up and down like that, white girl wants that n*gger!" And he kept going on in this manner until he got off the bus. He scared me off for a couple of weeks but then I started taking the express out of necessity and luckily I never ran into him again.

I bring this up because I've found myself having to take the bus regularly again in my life. The office where I teach English is on the outskirts of the city so I take bus 76 for a half hour out there and then back again. For some reason they call the bus el colletivo (the collective) here and the anthropologist in my thinks it has something to do with their rich history of political and civil upheavals. They all pay for the buses and they all stand in the buses together, it's a collective that's only possible because they've brought about the necessity for it. I don't know, something like that.

I was feeling really miffed about having to sit on a bus with a bunch of other grumpy, sweaty people, all of us vying for open seats on the overcrowded colletivo. But then something happened yesterday that made me love the colletivo, a real verbal brawl went down and I understood almost all of it.

It all started with the woman who got on the bus before me, she put 1.20 into the coin machine to pay for her fare and the ticket didn't come out. She flicked the mouth of the machine for about 20 seconds, muttering 'que? que? que? que?' until the bus driver (and I'm paraphrasing) said "What's the problem?"

"The ticket isn't coming out."

"How much did you put in?"

"1.20"

"The fare's 1.25"

"What the HELL?! It's always been 1.20! Are you out of your mind? You're trying to rob me, why don't you just take my wallet and beat me up?!"

"Lady, I don't make the rules. The fare went up, it's not my fault."

"You people, my God, you're all thieves."

But she put the extra 5 centavos in and got her ticket and went and sat down. I paid my fare and sat down in front of her and was pleased to note that she was still fuming.

At the next stop people got on and we moved forward to wait at a red light. Then this little old lady tapped on the door, obviously wanting to get on, and being a stickler for rules the bus driver waggled his index finger 'no' at her, 'only at designated stops, no matter how much trouble you have walking."

As we started moving through the green light a woman in front of me with a baby on her lap started addressing the bus driver as 'Muchacho' in a highly aggressive tone. I couldn't really understand what she was saying because the woman behind me was saying very quietly 'how rude' and then louder 'how rude' and louder still 'how rude' until finally the bus driver broke off from his argument with the mother to turn around 120 degrees in his seat and start yelling at her too! And then all chaos ensued.

Both women were yapping at him and he was yelling at them and you could tell he was getting angrier and angrier by the second because his foot kept getting heavier against the gas pedal and we were going dangerously fast through the city, even by Argentine standards. I was basically caught in the middle of this argument between the driver and the women sitting both in front and behind me so I looked to the other passengers for some sort of reference and was relieved to see that they were all gripping the sides of their seats as well.

The mother picked up her baby and stood next to the bus driver because her stop was coming up but this didn't slow down her tirade. With one arm holding the baby and the other being used to gesticulate obscenities at him I marvelled at how she balanced herself as we bumped along and swerved through traffic. It could only have been pure rage that kept her standing.

Anyway, she finally got off and this left only the lady behind me who hadn't let up for one second. He was a cretin, an idiot, a peasant, badly educated, all these words I understood so I know for sure she was saying them. He may have been all those things but he was also a maniac because we really were driving far too fast for a bus in the city. At a red light we actually caught up to another bus 76 that was in front of us on the same route and the lady behind me took this opportunity to make her grand exit. She stood up, spat on the ground and demanded that he let her off the bus, which he was only too happy to do, in the middle of the road. She got off, still yelling obscenities at him, spat on the ground again, marched over to the bus 76 that we were now pulled up along next to and continued to hurl insults at him through the open windows.

My bus driver opened the doors again and called out to the other driver, "She's your problem now! Pass me that newspaper." To which the other driver gave a crooked smile and threw his paper through the window and into the bus.

I can only hope that the rest of my bus rides be half as entertaining as this because I have now been inspired to start an entirely new ethnography.

Paula Cahen D'ANVERS

Isn't it lovely when you find a designer, purely by chance, that you fall in love with? You walk into the store and every single thing you see you can see on yourself. Then you try something on and it fits your body and the size you are is the actual size of the clothing, nothing is sized up or down. That's how I felt when I first walked into a Paula Cahen D'Anvers store, love at first sight. And now I'm officially obsessed with her and her big, furry trapper hats. Here are some pictures from BAF (Buenos Aires Fashion) week last month of her '09 winter collection:

Click here to see her website, and if you like her as much as I do maybe we can write a formal appeal to the CDFA to bring her over to the northern hemisphere.

Gil ANTIGUEDADES

I have seen the holy grail of vintage and its name is Gil Antiguedades. And it is run by this lady.

Her name is Maria Ines Gil and she started collecting clothes when she was 15. Some years later her husband, no doubt in an effort to free up some space in their house, suggested that she should open up a shop. The result is the basement level of this antique shop, filled to the brim with antique hats, gloves, bags, wallets, purses, scarves, jackets, shoes, dresses, blouses, skirts and fabric. She has everything from no-name skirts to Yves Saint Lauren dresses, all beautifully preserved and encased in plastic wrapping to continue to protect them and make for easier perusal. The range of items she has is amazing, I found a bull fighters jacket from the early 20th century that I was tempted to try on, until I saw the price tag ($500 US), then in the same breath I turned around and there was a short sleeved mink jacket that I was even more covetous of ($550). Graham checked out the men's section, which was admittedly scarce compared with the rest of the shop, but was impressed with the dinner jackets from the 20s and 30s.

To see the collection you have to specifically ask to be shown the clothes, which I'm sure is a security measure rather than some sort of clubish exclusivity, however you can't help but feel like you've just been admitted into the hottest spot in town when you walk down the stairs and the plethora of clothes is just so exciting that you start to giggle a little. For any vintage enthusiast or someone who likes the thrill of the hunt or even anyone with a passing interest in clothes, this place is a must stop on any trip to the city. And I solemnly swear, for anyone who wants to visit me, I will take you here and make you buy something.



Maria and her husband have recently bought a historical building a couple of blocks down the street and after some renovations hope to open up another store strictly for antique wedding dresses and fabric. Suddenly I'm thinking getting married in a dress older than your grandmother would be a fantastic idea.

Click here to see their website!
Gil Antiguedades: Humberto 412, C1103ACJ Bs.As. Argentina

This Is How Accidents Happen

As I mentioned earlier there's a lot of construction going on around here, and as demonstrated by this photo, they're not the safest environments. If the scaffolding looks precarious to you, that's because it is. If you come to Buenos Aires don't walk under the scaffolding.

Pastry Shop Creeper

One of my favorite things to do abroad is to sample the local cuisine and I hardly miss an opportunity to do so, especially when it comes to amazing sweets and pastries. The downside of this obsession is that I've gained a noticeable amount of weight since I've been here and recently suffered through a week of mental anguish before I decided that I needed to cut back a bit. Yesterday was my first real day of dieting and the first day always seems to be the hardest. It's as if everywhere you look there's a new pastry shop, or ice cream store, or pasta place where the day before there had been none. This was the situation last night when Graham and I walked by this pastry shop after dinner. We walked up to it, the window was all aglow and beckoning me to feast my eyes upon its bounty. Macaroons of every color sat in the display case, carrot cakes crouched under the weight of a cream cheese icing spread fiendishly thick, packaged cookies of different varieties lined the opposite wall. My hand unconsciously pressed up against the glass and I was leaving a cloud of vapor on the window with my breath. Suddenly the shopkeeper came out from the back of the store and saw me standing there. (The moment pictured above.) Caught off guard I gasped and jumped off his door step, ashamed that he had caught me salivating on his glass window. He strode towards the door quickly and I thought I was about to get into trouble, and I think Graham picked up on this because he put down his camera and we both started backing away from the shop. The guy unlocked the door and said "It's okay, you can take pictures, would you like to come in?" Graham said sure and I followed behind him sheepishly, still embarrassed.

Inside was even better than looking in from the outside. Afraid of what I might do I stood against the back wall with my hands behind my back while Graham perused the counter, and to my chagrin/delight, he bought a macaroon in every color.

Graffiti Nation II

Click here to see my entire album of wall art

First World Problems

This is the lovely sight behind our apartment building. Because I'm done with work at either 12 or 3 pm I like to lounge by the pool, in fact, the main/only reason why I desperately wanted to live in this particular apartment was because there is a pool here. For weeks I daydreamed about how nice it'd be to lay out after a long and early morning of teaching, soaking up the last of the summer rays, getting drunk off the heat and slipping in and out of sleep.

Well, the downside of living in this particular neighborhood is that new luxury apartments are being built up everywhere you look, raising prices and forcing out the people who traditionally lived here, you know, gentrification at its finest. Where social strife leads noisiness follows. Noisiness, clamour and potential fatalities to be exact. To combat the cacophony of drills, jackhammers, regular hammers and general street noise I have my ipod set to a pretty high volume to begin with, but even that isn't even enough sometimes. For instance today, when I heard a massive crack and my eyelids snapped open just in the nick of time to see a huge slab of concrete fall off the side of the building, hit the external rope elevator and crumble into a bunch of smaller but still deadly slabs before they hit the ground in a great cloud of dust. I sat up and went "Oh my God!" certain that somebody had just been severly injured if not killed, but no. The elevator stopped for about a nanosecond, the drilling and hammering stopped for about two seconds and then everything resumed as normal. These are amazingly resilient people.

Stay Inside Or the Devil's Gonna Get You

I've decided to use my advanced English conversation classes to exploit the cultural differences and similarities between our two societies. I'm noticing that the general framework of things like wedding traditions and scare tactics targeted at children are about the same for the both of us, but differ slightly regarding their purpose and execution. For instance, in Argentina the bride will throw her bouquet to the ladies in the reception and the one who catches it will be the next to get married. Then to include the others the groom will take one (of the many) garter belts off his bride's leg and hand it to a single guy, next the bride takes off the following belt and hands it to a single lady and the two recipients are meant to make of it what they will *wink wink*. Next, because the ladies can't have all the fun, the groom assembles all the lads behind him and chucks a full bottle of whisky over his shoulder and the guy to catch it is the next to marry. I suppose they decided to do it this way because it's the only method they could think of to entice the guys to catch something that signified the end of their bachelorhood.

What made me cry with laughter however was a retelling one of my students gave about a trauma induced by her grandmother. Over in America or England to keep a child in bed you tell them that if they're out of their beds at midnight the Boogie Man is going to kidnap them. A slight variation on that threat exists here, and to understand its purpose I must first explain the importance of naps. Here in Buenos Aires people do not nap in the middle of the day because the regular work hours are from 8am to 5pm. Out in the provinces the nap is held sacred because work goes from 6am to 1pm, then people break for lunch and a nap and return to work from 4pm to 8 or 9. Dinner is eaten at 10 and no one gets into bed before 1 am. Ergo, a nap is desperately needed in the middle of the day for these sleep deprived provincial people. My student's grandmother came to Buenos Aires when she was 19 and still to this day the woman cannot eat a meal while the sun is high in the sky without passing out for an hour or two afterwards. So when she used to come over to babysit for my student she had to device a way to keep her young grandchildren in the house while she napped. Apparently the method of choice amongst sleepy grandparents is to tell the young ones that in the middle of the day, from about 1 to about 3, the devil paces back and forth in front of their house and if they set foot outside he is going to snatch them up and take them away from their loving parents to spend eternity in hell. In this way a grandparent can rest sure in the knowledge that their grandchildren are upstairs too busy cowering under the sheets to entertain any thoughts of playing outside without their permission. My student had minor panic attacks until she was about 12 whenever she had to go outside in the middle of the day.

Scar Tissue

This scar is tiny and doesn't even compare to the some of the more horrendous ones I've seen. Because men don't often wear tank tops out and about I only ever noticed young women sporting scars all in the same place, at the top of the arm near the shoulder. Some people have barely perceptible scars, but just as many have massive ones that look as if someone took a chunk out of their arm with a crowbar. Since I tend to imagine the worst I thought there was a serial mutilist, or band of them, going around targeting young women and stabbing them in the arm with a screwdriver. Graham thought that was ridiculous, it must be a gang symbol. Then we heard a rumour that it's a scar from an epidural shot, which would explain why we only saw women with it.

Then Graham asked the owner of our apartment about it and the truth isn't too far off; within minutes of being born every child in Argentina is given a vaccination shot in the arm. Depending on the type of skin you have you either get a barely noticeable scar, a small scar, or a blight that distracts everyone who comes in contact with you for the rest of your life. He also mentioned it depends a bit on the doctor, and pantomiming Jack the Ripper he demonstrated how a scar can be left if the doctor is a little brutal in administering the shot. Which worried me because what kind of doctor is being careless with a needle and a newborn baby? But the strangest part of this story is that no one knows what the vaccination is for, everyone I've asked suddenly turns pensive as if the thought never crossed their minds before. Even a woman who just had a baby last summer didn't know what the shot was for. I'm perplexed/humoured/worried for these people.

Fun Money

The current exchange rate is 1 USD to 3.632 Argentinian pesos. So our rent money suddenly turns into mounds of cash, perfect for throwing up in the air, making money angels and general revelry.

Chez PAULINE

Living in an apartment without internet is not easy, especially when you're emailing your CV all over town. For the first couple of days in our temporary apartment we'd try to rob our neighbor's unprotected wifi but his signal was too erratic to deal with, so instead we'd lug our computers out with us and sit in a park until one of us (me) couldn't stand the bugs anymore. Then we (I) decided that we had to suck it up and pay for a coffee to legitimately use someone's wifi without molestation. In the last ten days we've set up a rotation of cafes that we frequent based on the quality of their wifi signal. As a last resort we'll go to Cafe Martinez, the Starbucks of Argentina, but it's not open on Sundays and that's terribly annoying. The second choice is Nucha, but it's often busy and I had a very frustrating afternoon competing with everyone else to get any bandwidth. By far and away the number one cafe for internet out of our circuit is Chez Pauline. As an added bonus it's a 'maison de te' that makes its food with as much care as they prepare their tea. They make a mean croque madame and a tarte tatin with cream that makes your mouth tingle, amongst other delightful dulces y salados. It's not surprising that this place attracts all the French ex-pats in town, as well as the Americans, Brits and Argentines.

The girls who work there Mon-Fri are quiet experts in the field of tea and take their job seriously, carefully extricating the right tea from a wall of large tins. The floor is checkered black and white tile, the tables are marble topped and the posters are framed originals advertising the Folies-Bergere, Moulin Rouge, Peugeot and so on. The owner keeps a close eye on the place as he is always there, sitting with a rotating group of cronies in the corner table next to the window.

My only complaint is that the teapots they use don't pour well so inevitably some of your tea always ends up on the floor. But they make a pretty set.

Chez Pauline Maion de Te: Juncal 1695, Capital Federal

http://www.chezpauline.com.ar/

Caballeros Cantando

I found the Latin Lover last night and he's just like he is in the movies! Last night Graham and I were walking home from seeing Watchmen (we found out Hollywood movies aren't dubbed) and stumbled upon this little fete. God knows who the ring leader is but they sang in tune and in unison and gazed up at the lady who watched out of her window from across the road. Graham thinks he's trying to woo a lady, I think he's trying to win her back, the beauty of the language barrier is that we will never know for sure.

Jardin ZOOLOGICO

I heard a lot of things about the Buenos Aires zoo but they all fit into one of two categories: 'The best zoo ever' and 'the worst zoo in the world'. Going in there today I was expecting some sort of middle ground conclusion but I realized it depends on whose eyes you're looking through.

Through my eyes I couldn't help but be immediately put off by the grouchy old crank covered in guano who greets you as you walk in. He wields a venomous scorpion on his arm and his ape looks like he's suffered a history of abuse.

Nutria (better known as water rats where I come from) run rampant throughout the entire park, pester the birds and take food from animal enclosures and the hands of children alike as their parents chuckle adoringly. Another species also runs wild with the nutria but I have no idea what they are, some sort of cross between a dwarfed deer and a rabbit.

I never knew what a depressed polar bear would look like before today. In temperatures that reach into the high 90s and without any enrichment toys he just lays in his enclosure looking bored and defeated, occasionally sighing to turn his face away from the crowd.

Anyway, the unique thing about the BsAs Zoo is that it sells bags and bins of animal feed that are edible to almost all the animals in the park. There are two things that I object to concerning this: children immediately turn into manic depressives as soon as their parents buy the animal feed, full of love and laughing contagiously when they're throwing these pellets at the elephants, gazelles, goats, ducks, monkeys, etc. However, as soon as the parent takes them away or the pellets run out, their demeanor totally switches; tears flow like rivers and screams that can be heard above the roar of the city are thrown up.

The second thing I object to is the throwing of food at the animals, for two reasons. Firstly, I can't believe that there is a formula of animal feed that is equally beneficial to water rats and ducks as it is to elephants and camels. Secondly, there is something so depressingly degrading about watching an enormous elephant bend down precariously on its front haunches and fully extend itself to suck up some pellets. Or the way the goats protrude their heads through the bottom slat of their fence to beg for food. As you walk by you have to keep a foot away from the fence because they hear you coming and before you know it you've tripped over a disembodied goat head.
To me all these things seem like irresponsible zoo-keeping, especially the water rats. But then to a child I realize it must be the most amazing place on earth. The park is small but packs in a lot of species, there's a boat that putters about a lagoon in the Asian part of the zoo, there's an amazing play area called "Magical Children Land" and best of all you can interact with exotic animals and vermin alike. Goats clamour for a spot close to you to snatch up food, camels stare at you expectantly, monkeys look for a way to get off their island and closer to the pellets, and elephants dance for you. Through the eyes of a child I can hardly deny that this would be the best zoo in the world.

Jardin Zoologico: subte Plaza Italia

Meet Mr. G!

Yesterday was Graham's first day of school and he's already got a cool teacher name: Mr. G! Unfortunately he's been dubbed so out of necessity more so than anything else; there is no lingual flexibility or framework for Castellano speakers to pronounce "Graham", adults can't do it let alone 6 year olds. The most common reaction people have when Graham tells them his name is to smile slightly, look around the room and shrug their shoulders, but sometimes a brave soul will venture "Gra-ham?", or "Grey-ham?". So Mr. G it is, and for anyone who watches Summer Heights High, it's extra sweet.
I have absolutely no desire to work with children, but from what he's told me so far I'd give anything to sit in on a class or six. Since Graham doesn't speak Castellano the kids think it's the best thing ever to go up to him and say "Hola Senor Caca" and then beat a hasty retreat in a giggling fit. And today, on his second day, word has spread of a teacher who can't fight back. In the lunch room children stare wondrously at him until he catches them looking, and then they nervously avert their gaze. It seems the main protagonists of his career there are going to be Luna, Matias and Agustin. Luna, the wide-eyed angel child who does her work and hangs on every word he says will serve as sweet relief from the harrows of Matias and Agustin. The former has shocking blond hair and blue eyes and the devil in him; running around the class, screaming, banging stuff and causing an overall decent into chaos. However, the mac daddy of them all is Agustin, the son of a Tibetan monk, who cares not for personal space and boundaries. He attacks unwitting pupils by tackling them with a running dive while they wait peacefully in line to go to lunch. Like Matias he screams and bangs but he's in a league of his own, even certain teachers refuse to teach him. Yesterday Agustin queried of the head of the English department, Manuel, pointing to a woman in the lunch room "Didn't you used to lick her titties?" (his words, not mine). He was then taken to the principle's office, and feeling a great deal of injustice done to him, spat at the secretary. I must reiterate, he's the son of a Tibetan monk! I have the luxury of not having to deal with Agustin so by far I'm most fascinated by him, but hopefully Graham will learn how to deal with him quickly and swiftly.

Mercado de Las Pulgas

"Market of the Fleas" aka Flea Market is the most cluttered treasure trove of cast-aways, antiques, junk and gems in Palermo. From wonky-eyed dolls to pink glass and silver sets everything I never knew I wanted is here. I'm now determined to find out how much it'd cost to send a chaise-lounge back home to replace the one my cousin ruined by writing "Alex Sucks" on it. At times you have to suck in your stomach to make your way through tight corridors lined with furniture upon furniture upon furniture about to topple in on you. OSHA would have a field day here, it's every workplace safety violation under the sun, with jigsaws strewn about here and there for restoration done on the premises, vendors napping in their stalls and a mangy dog poking about. And best of all the vendors are open to bargaining, put best by the vendoress blasting opera "I bring the price down... but not a lot!".




Mercado de Las Pulgas: Niceto Vega block 200 entre Dorrego y Concepcion Arenales