Puerto Madero

El Puente de la Mujer (the Woman's Bridge) is one of the main attractions in the barrio of Puerto Madero (Madero Port). It's a strange thing, this port. Until 10 years ago the area around the docks had largely fallen into disrepair through neglect, but due to an aggressive revitalization project the area has been turned around into one of the most moneyed areas in town. High rise apartment buildings reaching in excess of 50 floors loom over the Rio de la Plata and command an impressive view of the city, no doubt. The famed Faena Hotel and Universe is located here where the likes of Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith can be spotted sipping on 80 peso cocktails. If you've ever been to Roosevelt Island in Manhattan then you get the gist of Puerto Madero. They're both sort of cut off and separate from the cities in which they are located and both have an almost eery, unnatural calmness in comparison to their surroundings. In my opinion Puerto Madero's eeriness stems from these massive luxury apartment buildings that are springing up into the sky wherever you look. They are exclusive living accommodations at a price to rival their physical height, teetering on the cusp of completion, but who in Buenos Aires has the money to live there? There are rich people here, but they typically live in the gated communities of the suburbs and for security reasons are very happy to remain there. For the more adventurous wealthy who don't mind hobnobbing with the riff raff on the walk to work there are already well established areas where they reside. In my limited amount of time here I have seen a lot of stratification and not so much upward mobility, perhaps I'm way off base, but who is intended to live in this interpretation of the 'high life' and where are they coming from?

If you can see past the vacant buildings there is a lot of charm to be enjoyed. First of all, the ecological reserve is tucked away behind said buildings and during the weekends it seems to be the agreed upon meeting place for anyone interested in a little street food, Latin beats, fresh air and open spaces (a coveted item in this city). In addition, the old loading cranes still align the docks and serve as a witness to the area's history.

For further reading about the abominations coming to Puerto Madero take a gander at this.

Best Playground Thing Ever

El Gran HOLLYWOOD

Tripe, Kidney, Penis, Blood Sausage.

Those were the things that I tried last night and didn't like at the local parrilla, El Gran Hollywood. The mound of meat pictured above is the parrillado por dos personas. In case you're confused, that's two people. Incredible, yes? The table of four next to us couldn't believe their eyes either so they ordered it to share amongst themselves and still couldn't finish all of it.

Anyway, I'm not a fan of offal (except for fois gras) but up until yesterday that was based entirely on a 'yucky' factor that didn't involve ever tasting any. Now that I've tasted it I have an honest and informed opinion on the matter, and it is indeed yucky. The tripe has a chewy texture with a chalky flavour that I found slightly disconcerting. The kidney was better in overall taste but a little rubbery. The penis was awful. I've never tasted anything like it before and I don't care how culturally insensitive I sound right now, I would never eat something so foul ever again. If you don't care to know what barbecued penis looks like then I suggest you don't look too hard at the picture below. For everyone else you get a pretty good idea of what the inside of a penis looks like if you focus on the right side of the plate.

It tasted chalky like the tripe, rubbery like the kidney and uniquely very fatty. So much so that you could taste the fat congeal as it cooled in your mouth.

I regret this now, but after tasting the penis my stomach couldn't withstand another onslaught so I opted out of trying the blood sausage. However, from the look on Graham's face I don't think I missed much.

Although there were more familiar cuts of meat in the parrillado I still wouldn't recommend this place to anyone. The meat is cooked over an open fire pit for probably 10 hours based on its toughness and lack of flavour. After being brave and experimental with the offal I can't tell you how disappointing it was to masticate a piece of tenderloin that tasted like wood for a full minute.

We probably should've known better from the start because El Gran Hollywood exhibits 3 out of 3 of the tell-tale signs of a bad restaurant: fluorescent lighting, pictures on the menu and a cash register by the front door. The only reason I can give to explain why it's consistently so full is that it's super cheap and you can feed a family from a meal meant for two. If you're ever passing by I suggest you keep your pace and go anywhere else but there.

Graffiti Nation IV

A new stretch of road yields a new block of wall art. I spotted this stretch of wall across the road from some project-y looking housing and an ad hoc futbol field. After photographing it I came home and turned on the TV and coincidentally a program came on called "If These Walls Could Talk". It follows a different graffiti artists around every week and watches him or her construct a piece from beginning to end. They run a photographic montage during the opening and closing credits and to my delight I spotted all the pieces in their montage from the wall I had just finished photographing. Small world.

To see the rest of the wall and the album in its entirety click here.

Open Letter To All Area Bicycle Thieves

This is my bike and I love my bike. It's shiny and red and gets me to where I'm going in a hurry. I feel that this letter is necessary because I've been told by many people that it's only a matter of time until it's stolen. I suspect a group of my own students have an ongoing bet about when it's going to happen because whenever they see me they ask, with eyebrows raised in curious optimism, if it's gone yet. The letter is as follows:

Dear Bicycle Thieves,

This is my bike, when you see it chained up at the bus stop please ignore it. I love this bike so much, it is my life line. Without it I'd have to walk a half hour to the bus stop for work because I can't afford to take another bus down there (there's a coin crisis going on!). If you take it from me that means I will have to wake up at 6:00 am on Thursday and Friday mornings to leave enough time to get ready and be out the door by 7:00 to catch the bus for the half hour ride to work where I need to be by 8:00 am. My bike allows me a half hour's extra sleep, and at that time in the morning every minute counts.
It's such a pretty bike, I know, and it's my own fault. I should take precautions, sully it up a bit, take a brillo pad to it's shiny red paint to protect it from covetous eyes like yours. But I can't, it takes such good care of me and I couldn't bear to treat it so. So let me try to dissuade you:
First of all, it only has one gear, and yes, the city is flat, but the big money is in multi-gears, you know this. Secondly, I take great pains to wedge my bike between an iron fence and a cement block to make it as inconvenient as possible for you to steal. There's no way that you could stealthily wiggle it out of its hiding spot without attracting suspicious stares. I've also invested in a pretty serious lock to keep you away, so don't waste your time trying to steal one of my wheels.
Thirdly, you must've noticed by now that my bike is sometimes there, sometimes not. My daily schedule changes, sometimes I lock my bike up there in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon; sometimes for four hours, sometimes for two. The point is this: you never know when it's going to be there, and more importantly, you never know when I'm going to be walking up behind you as you're frantically trying to cut the lock. Not to sound creepy, but I carry pepper spray in my bag just in case I should ever chance upon you. I don't know what you call it in Spanish, but I'm sure your government has used it on you at some point or another in the past; it is sprayed in your eyes and it stings a lot. I take no pleasure in using it, but I will if you make me.

Kind Regards,

Alex

xoxo

Public Transportation: Etiquette

I realize that a lot of my posts are centered around the public transport, but let me defend myself quickly, the most interesting things happen in places where people from all different walks of life are forced to share their personal space together. Sometimes something crazy will happen and it's like everyone is being held hostage and we're all in it together and there's a certain sense of camaraderie that develops when you look at the person next to you and you both mouth the words "what the hell?" But that's a rarity.
People develop a sub-culture when they're routinely forced into interactions with strangers, however minimal it may be, and this culture provides a set of norms and behaviours that are deemed acceptable for interacting with (or avoiding) your fellow passengers. They are as follows:

"Ladies First"
For the most part, about 90%, the bus drivers in Buenos Aires are maniacs. They fly through traffic at brake-neck speeds with little care for other vehicles, stop signs, or crossing pedestrians. If you're not at the exact designated bus stop (usually a tree amongst a line of trees or a telephone pole with the bus number tacked on it) when the bus reaches it, the driver will not stop. Even if he sees you sprinting across the road, running down the block, waving your arms screaming "PARE" at the top of your lungs, he still will not take pity on you and stop out of human empathy. They don't like to waste time because the faster they get through their route the more time they have to grab a coffee and a snack at the end of it (I know this because I take #76 to the terminus and the driver frequently jumps out before I do). This time saving strategy extends to people getting off the bus as well. Be quick about it because the second you've got one foot on the ground outside the driver is already pulling away, doors open.
So how the 'ladies first' rule fits into it is like this: if a man or group is at the bus stop and they see you running down the road, they'll hail the bus for you (you also have to do this, stick your arm out to get the driver's attention otherwise he'll zoom right by), even if they're waiting for a different line, and pretend to loiter while you're catching up. Alternatively, if you (a lady) are amongst a group of men all waiting for the same bus they'll always allow you to get on first, even if you were third to join the group. This is great because the buses are often overcrowded, so being the first to get on at any given stop increases your odds of getting a seat dramatically.

"You Can Look But You Can't Touch"
Something that was quite a shock to me the first time it happened was sitting on the subway and suddenly having a sheet of bobby pins dropped into my lap. I looked up and saw a little boy, about 8 or 9, dropping them into unsuspecting laps. Some people saw him coming and escaped the pins by crossing their arm over their laps and shoo-ing him on with their free hand. I honestly had no idea what to do with the bobby pins and was afraid that I was going to have to give him 2 pesos for them as indicated by the price tag. I was quite miffed at the thought of having to buy them because I didn't see him coming, he didn't even give me the opportunity to say no and by the time I realized that he had meant to drop them in my lap he was already half way down the carriage. I looked around at everyone else and saw that one or two people had picked up their sheets of bobby pins and were eyeing them over, but the rest of them had left theirs in their laps or balancing precariously on their knees. It seemed as if they were trying their hardest to ignore them because they refused to look at or acknowledge the pins in any way. So I followed suit, thinking that if the kid came back for his money I could just ignore him too.
But he left the same way he came, casually picking up the sheets from the laps and knees he had left them on and from the few people who held on to theirs he collected 2 pesos. 'Not a bad system' I thought, and since that initial encounter I've had the pleasure of ignoring general pieces of crap and buying the odd pieces of useful crap that find their way onto my lap.

"Be Kind To Your Neighbors"
This rule of etiquette comes from a couple of friends of mine who've had more than their fair share of hairy experiences on long-distance buses. If for whatever reason you're traveling on a long-distance bus with a small child, and it becomes nauseous, and on the way to the bathroom it pukes in the aisle, it is your responsibility to clean it up. Not the person's whose shoes have been splattered, and certainly not everyone else's whose olfactory senses are now being assaulted by it. I'm sure you, dear reader know this, but for some people it needs reiteration.
Secondly, if you hear the guy sitting behind or across the aisle from you having a nice, normal chat and then say something like "Oh, it's coming on" and then slip into a seizure, it is not necessary to feel as if you should do something about it. Generally there will be someone with him who knows him and knows of his condition and is more mentally prepared to deal with it than you are. It is perfectly acceptable to pretend as if it's not happening at all and once it's over, not to ask him if he's okay. If after his episode he resumes conversation as normal, then he probably slips into seizures rather regularly and is quite used to it by now. There's no need to make a bad situation worse by making a sick man feel like he's a walking 'put-upon', just a matter of time until he collapses and puts himself upon another group of people. Instead, be kind to your neighbors and remember that all's well that ends well.

Sideways Snobbery

A big head is not a pretty thing to have, metaphorically speaking. People who posses an inflated sense of self worth and importance are repulsive to us all, but every now and then the stars will align in such a way as to give you a day of totally undeserved ego stroking and/or special treatment. In the case of me and Graham our heads nearly exploded over the latter and it couldn't have been helped.

It's always about who you know, and fortunately for us when we went to Mendoza (the center of Argentine wine making) Graham's cousin was all in the know and very generously set us up with a tour of a selection of wineries he does work with.

Firstly, I must preface this blow-by-blow account by mentioning that we were picked up by a chauffeur who we inadvertently kept waiting in the lobby for a half hour through a misunderstanding, consequently arriving at our first destination 1 hour late. When he told us when we were supposed to come down and meet him, and that we were now significantly behind schedule, I felt so guilty, almost remorseful for inconveniencing this man and the people who were expecting us, I almost suggested that we call them to apologize in advance. This was when Raul said "Don't worry about it, they can wait *chuckle*". I straightened up in my seat and began to get an idea of what we were getting into.

Our first tasting was at the Dominio Del Plata winery, headed up by an odd couple of sorts. Susanna is the meticulous, French-inspired winemaker preferring sophisticated and complex wines made in the barrel (toasted head, 195, French Oak) while Pedro is the back to basics, 'flavour of the grape born in the vineyards' type. Although they are utter opposites in the world of wine and at times (according to rumour) have to battle it out in epic arguments, they set their differences aside to collaborate on their entry level line of wines, Crios, to the drinkers' benefit. Their real creative outlets are in their respective boutique wines, Ben Marco and Susanna Balba, with which they whole-heartily embrace the things that set them apart from each other, not only exhibiting them in the bottle, but on the bottle as well. The Ben Marco line of bottles all have labels that depict some aspect or element of the vineyards (see below) while the Susanna Balba labels are more stylized in the French tradition, with elegant cursive writing and minimal depictions. Charmingly they've collaborated on another line of boutique wines named "Nosotros" ("Ours") and have cleverly created a logo that at first glance looks like child's pencil drawing of lines and squiggles that reveals upon closer inspection to depict the leaves and grapes of the vines slowly morphing into barrels, tables, decanters and wine glasses. Taking from the best of each of their own vintages they mix them up in different quantities until equilibrium is reached through a delicate balance of taste and complexity. However, call me unsophisticated, but my favourite was the Torrentes from their entry level wine, Crios.

Our second destination was the Mendel winery, with a staff of 15, about the same amount of fermenting tanks and a penchant for preserving tradition I knew we were in for a treat. Not to mention that the big give away was that the winery is in part owned by the LVMH group. Anyway, the tour of the facilities didn't take long as they encompass only a few buildings, the main one being the original structure built by Italians in 1918 that houses the fermenting tanks; massive, shiny steel tanks which contain thousands of litres each. In fact, even the vines are old, about 80 years, and were purchased when the group came in in 2004. Their love affair with the old manifests itself in the way they shun modern technologies. They employ three women to stand at a vibrating conveyor belt and pick out by hand the leaves, bugs and other debris from the grapes before they are lightly pressed. Then once the grapes are into the tanks the body of the grape eventually slips out of its skin and sinks, leaving a thick cake of skins at the top that needs to be broken up, mixed and pushed down four times a day by hand. After pointing out how labour-intensive this system is our guide explained that the quality of the wine is directly related to the amount of job satisfaction that the people who work there have, and that in order to put up with such hard manual labour they must all love their jobs very much. Either that or they haven't got any better options. The only things new on the entire estate are the French oak barrels that are used only once and then sold to surrounding wineries, but at 800 Euros per barrel plus shipping it's an expensive necessity in their eyes.

At the moment Mendel as two wines out, the Mendel Malbec and Unus which is 30% Cabernet and 70% Malbec. Although the Unus is characterized by 'softer' tannins and a 'full mouth' I really couldn't have told you any significant difference between the two because at 14% alcohol or more and the fact that I deplore spitting I was getting quite drunk and was too busy trying to hide it.

Being faced with a morning buzz and an early onset headache made it a welcome relief to escape the tasting table for a lunch table. Feeling rather pleased with ourselves we settled in for a swank lunch and guzzled as much water as possible. And then the second big ego-stroke hit when another older, American couple walked in, banker looking people from New York City. By speaking loudly I couldn't have not eavesdropped even if I wanted but I'm glad I did because sometimes an inane conversation between people who don't know you're listening is all you need to be happy that you're you and not them. With righteous indignation we balked at the way the man ordered his meal: "Bring us the grilled squid, but bring out the beers first. Then you can bring the salad out with my main and she'll eat at the same time." What a jerk! we thought and then complimented each other on being far more well behaved and gentile than them. Who exactly do they think they are?

Anyway, the coup de grace culminated in our final visit at the Catena winery. All day long everyone we talked to didn't lose an opportunity to slag it off, "it's too big and impersonal", "they push you out the door too fast", "not very interesting". And it is all these things. Catena Zapata produced the first Argentine wine to be taken seriously, Robert Parker has consistently graded many of their wines at 90 points and above and with over 80 countries to export to they have to produce almost mind-boggling quantities of wine. Like the winery itself the tour has become very efficient, cranking out as many walk-throughs as possible which doesn't really allow for an in depth or personal experience. You're first shuffled down the stairs and sit in a small auditorium where you're shown a brief video about the history of the Catena winery and family and their unique/ridiculous building:

*image via http://www.catenawines.com.ar/

Next you're shown the fermenting room, artfully lit and designed to impress, however it comes off as a little tomb-like. Then you're shown the tasting room that looks onto the fermenting room where special tastings are held for journalists, critics and people of distinction. After that you're shuffled up the stairs to the second floor to look out the windows and admire the doors of the President's office. Then you go up yet another flight of stairs to the roof/observation deck where the guide takes this opportunity to tell you the reasoning behind this ridiculous structure. Signore Catena wanted to establish a reputation for Argentine wine based on the native qualities of the land, climate and soil so he built a Mayan looking structure to highlight those unique and indigenous characteristics... even though the indigenous indians in this area were the Incas whose characteristic architecture did not resemble the Mayan. I can't help but feel that he did that on purpose to pander to a wider, Northern audience who would find his building and message 'quaint' and 'charming'.

Finally the charade of a tour was over and we followed our guide downstairs to start the tasting in the front lobby. She showed us a big bureau full of the different lines of wines, on the left only wines sold in Argentina and on the right wines only sold abroad. She mentioned they were all for sale in house and before I knew it a glass of wine was stuck in my hand for tasting. I don't remember anything about it because the next second the guide was saying that Celeste Pesce, the assistant winemaker and export manager would like to invite us down stairs for a private tasting with her. "Oh, how nice" I said with as much nonchalance as possible because I didn't want her to see that I was surprised by this. We put our glasses down on the bar and as we followed behind the guide I made sure to sneak a peak at that the rest of our group to see if they noticed that we were leaving them for bigger and better things.

And such better things! We tasted wines from Luca and Tikal, the respective lines by the daughter and son of Nicolas Catena. This turned out to be by far the most interesting tasting yet, we were provided with information on all the wines from the viticulture to the amount fermenting days and discovered that there seems to be only two types of people in wine making. Like Ben Marco and Susanna Balba, Laura is the scientific, precise, complex winemaker whereas her brother is the artist, making wine that's based in the grape. I tend to prefer simple wines without too many layers and complexities but in this instance I found myself overwhelmingly preferring the Luca wines. Is it possible that my tastes had matured so quickly in the course of the day that I now drank only sophisticated and complicated wines? I pondered this as I took a sip and tried to slurp like a serious wine drinker to introduce air into the mouth and enhance the flavours, but I quickly realized that if I tried to do that wine would surely escape down my chin in a steady stream and end up in a puddle on my lap. So no, I was not some kind of novice sommelier, I like what I like without rhyme or reason and I like being spoiled every now and then even though I totally don't deserve it. Cheers to knowing successful people.

Third World Problems

I hate mosquitoes, more than anything, and when I kill one of them I don't suffer from any kind of Buddhist bent. On the contrary, I feel like I've done my fellow living beings a favor. I get a little flushed with pride when I've managed to smash one up against the wall and I hope that all its little friends' hearts are struck with fear by the sight of me and skedaddle out of my apartment. As of today my predatory skills are in high gear because with dengue fever spreading quickly through Argentina my fellow warm blooded creatures need my prowess more now than ever.

The first hint of dengue came to me during a wine tasting with a frumpy little Midwestern couple last weekend. While regaling us with their itinerary they mentioned their plans to fly to Iguazu Falls, near the Brazilian border, at which point the winemaker's eyes went wide and asked politely if she may make a statement: "Don't go there, wait a few months, there's a dengue outbreak". Not being very knowledgeable about dengue fever I looked it up and found that it's commonly referred to as 'worse than malaria'. The common symptoms are a high fever, a rash over most of your body, pain behind the eyes and a severe headache. If you're unlucky enough to develop dengue hemorrhagic fever you can suffer significant damage to your blood and lymph vessels, a decrease in platelets, bleeding from the eyes, mouth, nose and under the skin (?!) and death. But if you're a seriously unlucky bugger and contract dengue shock syndrome then forget about it, you may hope that death comes swift after suffering from these symptoms; plasma leakage, heavy bleeding, a sudden drop in blood pressure and death. (The mayo clinic keeps citing death as a symptom but is death really a symptom? It's not like you recover from death, it's more of an end result right?) Anyway, all three varieties are accompanied by severe abdominal pain, frequent vomiting, disorientation and the recovery isn't that much better, it includes a long period of listlessness, fatigue and depression.

During the writing of this post I've spotted two more mosquitoes and I'm beginning to seriously lament the fact that I only got a yellow fever shot before I left England. As of today dengue has spread to Buenos Aires, a feat never accomplished by the tropical disease before, and it's gotten so severe in another city, Cordoba, that it's currently being fumigated... the entire city!

Parents, if you read this, maybe you could help me pay for traveler's insurance because I don't think I'll be allowed anywhere near a plane if I'm bleeding from my eyes.

All Hot and Bothered

At the top of my list of '100 Most Unpleasant Things' is standing in a steamy, hot, overcrowded subway car when it's about 100 degrees outside. Already 'glistening' from the walk to the subway station you then have to wait for the train on a subterranean platform where it is no doubt ten degrees hotter than outside. Everyone else down there with you is in quiet reflection mode, the air is thick and heavy, and the stillness gives you the sudden wherewithal to realize that you've probably just sweat through your shirt when you start thinking, 'how the hell is it still so hot?' It's as if the air is sick with fever and slinks down the stairs to lean on you while it sweats the sickness out.
If the platform is where hot air goes to be sick, then the cars are where hot air goes to die. This was the situation I found myself in yesterday, surrounded by steamy, dying air and seriously overheated people standing too close to one another. Looking into the eyes of my fellow passengers all I could see was quiet, melancholic resignation. Some people leaned against hand rails with their heads cocked back resting against the glass, seeming to be concentrating on not passing out. I looked over at Graham and saw a single bead of sweat slowly slip down his brow, he looked back at me and said "Don't talk to me right now, too hot".
Intolerable heat has a way of lowering your irritation threshold, so when I saw a man with a guitar and harmonica step into the car I couldn't help but roll my eyes and groan 'Oh God, no'. The last time I experienced a subway musician it was another harmonica player who was either delusional or plain crazy. He clearly didn't know how to play a harmonica and sang as a deaf person would, with no concern for how he sounded. I tried to prepare myself for the onslaught that was about to begin.
But then this new guy started playing his guitar and it sounded good. Then another guy, squatting on a wooden box across the aisle from him started playing the bongos, and it sounded better. Then the harmonica came in and it was really good. I looked around at my fellow sufferers and we were suddenly smiling, bobbing our heads and tapping our toes to the beat. It was an impromptu little concert and we had prime front row seats to the show. I was enjoying the music so much at this point that I felt terribly guilty for having wished them out of existance before, so I took out my wallet and grabbed as many coins as I could spare (there's a coin crisis going on) for the hat that I knew was bound to come my way.
I was sad to see them get off at the next stop, I wanted to ask them to stay, play again, let me forget my plight and lose myself in your song, but I don't know how to say that in Spanish. The thought to follow them even crossed my mind but following them wasn't going to get me home any faster. So I let them go and swore to post about them when I got home.
So what's the moral to this story? Don't judge a book by its cover? There's a silver lining to every cloud? No, it's if you like the music then fork over some pesos please.

Everyday Sceneries

I just got an amazing new camera sent to me from my ever gracious and generous parents. It's not me taking these photos, it's the camera.