Hop Top

Follow Me Around

2010-06-17T10:42:00.002-02:00

Thanks for coming by my website - if you liked it please click on the link above to see my latest project- the tube riders. I don't know if it's technically legal to be taking photos of people and publishing them without their consent but let me know what you think if you like it.

Cheers,

Alex

I'm Not Dead!

2009-10-09T18:54:00.008-02:00

To everyone who has been reading this blog in my absence I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate it. I just so happened to reopen my blog out of curiosity today and was astonished to see that almost 20 people a day from Argentina and around the world have been checking in and reading my stories- clearly not an astronomical number but I was expecting something closer to 0 and definitely no Argentine readers!

It means so much to me that people in Argentina would read my blog and I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading what you're country looks like from an outsider's perspective. Even though at times I found it difficult and emotionally distressing (teaching English to a bunch of unappreciative grammar fiends for instance) I truly loved my time in your country and I grew so much from it. Additionally, I only wrote from my own experiences, and I'm the type of person who is attracted to oddities and eccentricity, so if I have offended any Argentines in my retelling of anecdotes or my personal opinions on cultural and political topics (such as the BuenosAireselections that took place last winter) I meant no disrespect. Everything I've ever said aboutBuenos Aires and Argentina has been from a good place and hopefully with a sense of humour.

So, before I bid adieu I have to let you all know what happened after we got off the bus inBariloche:

1. After getting through all the hassle of renting the clothes, the gear, the equipment and buying the passes we finally got to the top of the mountain only to discover that one of us (hint: not me) wasn't so comfortable on a pair of skis. So we edged our way back down, and set out about finding different ways to amuse ourselves.

We went to some neolithic caves (which were honestly awesome), ate lots and lots of chocolate, took a gondola ride up Cerro Otto, dined at a great vegetarian restaurant and in the end hopped a 23 hour bus to Santiago, Chile.

2. Santiago was awesome, and surprisingly hilly. Actually, much of this trip was marred by very steep hills when I think about it. The Andes seemed to be screaming their prominence at us every where we went, they were completely inescapable!

-Interesting side note: as we were passing through the Andes from Mendoza to Santiago I was completely captivated by the ruins of the old rail system. It was like driving through an old Wild West movie set, the way the rails were partially covered with corrugated iron tunnels and the switch lights hung and swung in the wind, surrounded by complete desolation. It made me deeply wish that the rail was still in use because I'm a sucker for that sort of romantic imagery- riding through snow covered mountains in a dark mahogany dining cart is right up my alley. Two days after we left Santiago my mom informed me that a family member was actually responsible for building most of the Chilean rail way system (awesome!) but that he was largely despised by the locals for using slave labour and eventually, his offspring were basically run out of the country (not awesome). Small world huh?

3. Valparaiso. Another town plagued by hills, but worth it for the views that they command. Additionally, I had one of my favourite meals at a restaurant called La Concepcion- starting with ostrich carpaccio, a lamb chop main with a risotto side and something yummy for dessert that I can't remember anymore but I remember that I loved it.

4. La Serena- not fun. If anyone ever suggests a quick pit-stop in La Serena tell them to get bent. There's a funny looking lighthouse, about a mile and a half outside of town and that's it. Honestly, that's it.

5. San Pedro de Atacama. Amazing! Yet again, we were plagued by hills, even in the desert. We rented some bikes and dune boards and using the map that the rental lady drew for us we proceeded to get horribly lost. We spent an hour biking up and down an amazingly precipitous mini-mountain on a wild goose chase looking for dunes that never appeared. However, common sense eventually prevailed and we found a very clear sign that we could've spotted from the beginning. The dune boarding was hard, but we got some great photos that made us look really cool and bad-ass, so obviously it was all worth it.

6. Arica. Sort of a let down. We were thinking it would be a town full of amazing world renowned architecture but it was really only the two buildings that we read about, the Customs House and the Church, both made by Gustav Eiffel of the Eiffel Tower fame. We did get sucked into a tour around the Customs House though, which was a little comical. The guide just seemed so sincere and eager to deliver his spiel about the history of the place, and after having seen him turned down by two other couples, I was happy to pretend I understood him. And that made him happy, so that was my good deed of the week.

7. Lima. CHIFA! I'm a big fan of the Chifa movement, mainly because I like the way it sounds, but who can say no to mounds of good, cheap Chinese food? Although I would suggest sprucing up on your Chifa lingo because out of ignorance I ended up ordering three different types of thick rice soup- all of which were probably the least tasty things off the menu, and which I found personally distasteful.

From Lima I flew back to London via Mexico City, New York City and Dublin- a thirty hour trip. I had a plan to sneak onto first class on the last major leg of my journey but I got violently ill instead and the best I could manage was to throw up in the first class bathroom before the plane took off. An unfortunate low point during my travels but memorable nonetheless.

I'm now starting a new blog about living in England and studying in London, so if you're interested you can see it here are www.hoptopvol2.com or www.hoptopvol2.blogspot.com

Happy travels to all of you and tons of love!

-Alexandra Henson

ashenson86@gmail.com

p.s. here are a few pics from my whirlwind tour of lower South America, enjoy!

Bus to Bariloche

2009-08-02T16:49:00.004-02:00

Air travel within Argentina and the rest of South America is prohibitively expensive, it's absolute lunacy that a 2 hour plane ride can cost $500 or more. For this reason a lot of people travel by bus which is infinitely less expensive, and since most bus companies have fleets of new luxury buses, it is in most cases a more comfortable form of travel. The one draw back is that it is illegal and dangerous for these double decker buses to travel faster than 90 kilometers an hour; thus, a long distance trip can take a seriously long time. I just took a bus from Buenos Aires to Bariloche, a distance of 1,571 kilometers, and it took a little under 20 hours to complete the journey. Here's a break down of how I handled it.

Hour 1: Just got going- the novelty of staring out the window hasn't worn off yet. So far so good. Graham is feeling a little hungover so he ate a bag of chips and shut his eyes for a nap. I want to listen to my iPod but I've got to conserve the battery, I wonder how long I can hold out for?

Hour 2: My butt is getting numb. There's a movie on right now that I've been wanting to see but it's dubbed in Castellano and subtitled in Spanish! What's the point of that? I took my iPod out to play Scrabble with Graham because the scenery got old quite quickly. The pampas are completely flat, sparsely populated and kind of uninteresting to look at for any length of time. But, if the scenery changes before nightfall I will gladly return to it.

Hour 4: Only 16 left! They've finally put on a movie that isn't dubbed but I've already seen it, typical.

Graham scolded me for talking to the bus attendant in English, however, I only asked for coffee or tea, which isn't that difficult to figure out considering the Spanish is cafe o te. He's clearly a bit dense and I'm not to blame.

*I wonder if bus attendants ever dream of becoming flight attendants?

Hour 7: Just finished with dinner- even on long bus journeys Argentines insist on eating late, now there's a line for the bathroom. I'm hoping to get another little bottle of wine to help me go to sleep but I'm not sure if they've got a one/customer policy going on here. I'll bribe that dense bus attendant if I have to, I need something to put me to bed so I can escape this misery- the dubbed version of Australia just came on and the only thing more annoying than Nicole Kidman's voice is her voice dubbed in Spanish.

Hour 13: Graham just woke me up because that's what he does when he can't sleep. He sees me sleeping peacefully and somehow it gets into his head that if he wakes me up he'll be able to go to sleep, as if sleep is a physical thing that he has to steal from me so he can get some. It's so hot in here, my arm is right next to the radiator and it's en fuego, and my mouth is dry, I'm so thirsty. I hate Graham for waking me up. I'll smother him later for this.

Hour 19: After a fitful night of sleep, being jolted awake by the swaying and stopping of the bus and bad dreams I actually feel quite well rested. We're pretty far south now and the sun is only just rising right now. We're definitely in Patagonia as we've reached some mountains and we're driving through a string of lakes. It's really beautiful scenery now, a pleasure to stare at, and it's somewhat ghostly. We must be at a high altitude because every now and then a wisp of cloud flies by my window. The fog is heavy in some places but it only sits on the water, you can see it so clearly defined that it looks like a glob of white, impenetrable, fluffy cotton, plopped down by some unseen hand.

And Graham doesn't remember ever waking me up, how nice.

I didn't bother to write down what I did at Hour 20 because it was more of the same, but my legs weren't as stiff as I thought they'd be and six hours later I'm still feeling good. But sleeping in a bed tonight will definitely be very nice.

MATILDA'S

2009-07-30T21:26:00.007-02:00

It's hard to find a really good cafe latte in this city. Even though the ingredients are the same, the cafe con leche just doesn't hold up in comparison. In fact, cafe lattes aren't the only things I've been craving; bagels and bagel sandwiches, salad wraps, carrot cake, cup cakes and muligatawny soup have all been the objects of my desires at one point or another over the past six months. Never in my wildest cravings did I ever imagine I'd find a place that has it all, but I did and my only regret is not having found it sooner.

Matilda's is a tiny cafe, about the size of a walk-in closet that always seems to be full of people. The seating is limited to a banquette and a couple of stools but that doesn't dissuade people from standing around and soaking up the atmosphere. It's hard to put a finger on Matilda's style, the walls are papered in red, white and blue florals and stripes that give the impression of 4th of July Americana, but the presence of muligitawny soup... its got to be English.

The proprietors set out a new batch of cup cakes, cookies, muffins and cakes every day, as well as make fresh sandwiches, wraps and soups to order. Their coffee is divine and anyone feeling a little homesick, whether home is America or England, would feel well satisfied after a visit to Matilda's.

Matilda's

Chile 673

San Telmo, Buenos Aires

San Telmo

2009-07-26T10:53:00.007-02:00

A few pics from around the neighborhood.

Virtual Walk-Through

2009-07-12T20:53:00.015-02:00

We just moved into a great new apartment in San Telmo for our final weeks here in Argentina. A new area, a new attitude. Here's a walk-through:

Through the front door into the inner atrium

Nice tiles

Through the next door

Through a courtyard

Under a couple arches

Past the stairs and the elevator shaft

Past the old bathtub full of rocks and some plants

Under a couple more arches and past the garbage cans

Up a few stairs

To the left through the garden

Down the path

Up the stairs

More plants!

This is our high-tech security system

Through the front door

And there it is!

10 Things That Would've Been Good to Know Before Moving to Buenos Aires

2009-07-11T10:48:00.002-02:00

Here's a little list of some things that would've been good to know prior to moving here. If you've ever lived here you'll know what I'm talking about, and if you're ever planning on coming here this list will probably help you out too.

1. As a non-citizen it is technically illegal to rent an apartment without an Argentine, land owning cosigner, so you are forced to rent "vacation" apartments which are priced in US dollars.

2. When you buy a cheap cell phone on a pay-as-you-go contract, the money you put on the phone expires within a month. So don't keep putting 100 pesos on it and think that you're just talking a lot.

3. If you eat red meat multiple times a week it's going to change your body.

4. Coins are special. When your grocer asks you if you've got 20 centavos, say no, always.

5. Instead of spending hours trying to decipher the Guia T, use the website www.comoviajo.com.

6. The summer is hotter than hot and the winter is not that cold, despite what the Argentines say. Unless you plan on traveling far south it's not necessary to pack for two opposite seasons.

7. Always kiss on the cheek- even if it's your first time meeting and there's a swine flu pandemic running rampant. Otherwise you risk the chance of probably seriously offending someone.

8. When you're earning pesos and paying your rent in US dollars, you're probably going to lose some money

9. Maradonna is the best footballer ever. Period.

10. Don't call them the Falklands!

The Worst Place In The World

2009-07-03T19:52:00.008-02:00

One of the annoying things about travel writing and travel writers in general is that there seems to be an unwritten rule: if it's new to you and if it's not American then it's got to be the most amazing thing you've heard/seen/done that day. Well no, not always and sorry if this offends some but I've seen Hell and it's called El Caminito, and you can find it in the La Boca barrio in Buenos Aires.

Do I regret going there? No, because I'd heard so many other traveler's tales (traveler's like the ones described above who love(!) everything indiscriminately) about how interesting it is, how it's a must-see, you can't leave without stopping by. If I hadn't stopped by I always would've thought I'd missed out on something fantastic. It may of taken many years, but that sort of stuff irks me so I would've made a concerted effort to go there again, and imagine how pissed I would've been! I would've spent years being bothered that I'd never gone there when I had the opportunity to and all for nothing because it's not even worth driving by, much less walking through! I can't express how relieved I am to have avoided that scenario.

Anyway, let me explain to you what El Caminito is. It's like an attraction at Epcot that ran away from home in Florida knowing that there was something bigger and better for it, a whole wide world for the taking! But then it got in with a bad crowd, one thing led to another and before Caminito knew it she was hooked on the bad stuff and started turning tricks to make enough to get the next fix and keep her pimp at bay. It has that kind of a seedy, desperate, heavy veneer to it.

The buildings in this 4 block area are all painted in different vibrant block colors, and in photos it does look rather endearing. In photos. What photos don't capture is the line of waiters that lay in wait on either side of the street, literally ready to pounce on you as soon as you step into their territory. As you wander down the center of the street looking up at the buildings people swoop in on you, thrusting flyers in your face advertising this bar or that restaurant or heckling you: "AMERICA!!! Come have a coffee here! Nice tables! I love AMERICA! Or are you English? ENGLAND!"

Once you successfully weave your way through the vulture-esque waiters you start to notice these creepy looking mannequins on all the balconies and in the windows (see the picture above). I took a closer look just now and I'm pretty sure most of them were dressed as old-timey prostitutes.

Then, to make matters worse, you soon notice that the majority of store fronts are all souvenir shops of the worst sort. They sell the crappiest stuff, stuff that only appeals to people who grew up in transportable houses. Shot glasses, thongs emblazoned with "LA BOCA" in gold letters, mugs/mini license plates/dog tags with the Spanish version of your name, clay ashtrays and other things that really have nothing to do with Argentina other than that they have "Argentina!" written on them.

The area of El Caminito has a genuine history behind it that is completely lost and forgotten in this tourist trap from hell which only makes the entire area even more depressing to visit. If you ever go to Buenos Aires, please, save yourself the hassle of getting to El Caminito because it sucks.

The Silver Lining

2009-07-03T15:15:00.004-02:00

image via www.nytimes.com

Swine flu is hitting Buenos Aires in a big way and although some people seem unfazed about the whole ordeal, there are just as many people up in arms and railing against the government for having put the nation's health at risk.

The Argentine government has a history of thinking it knows better than everyone else, so when the Health Minister warned the Kirchners that there was not enough Tamiflu stockpiled in case of an emergency she was dismissed. Now, with the cases of swine flu mounting into the thousands, the death toll now at the third highest in the world behind the US and Mexico, and schools shutting down for 3-4 weeks minimum, the Health Minister was forced to resign and people are spitting mad.

Probably because, in addition to not taking the pandemic seriously enough to stockpile medications just in case, the government has also been suppressing facts and figures until after the Congressional elections were concluded in the hopes that their mismanagement of this situation wouldn't lead to their party being voted out. Fortuitously they lost anyway, so all that hard work of keeping people quiet came to nothing.

But there's a silver lining to every grey cloud, and for me it's this: I don't have to work on Saturday mornings anymore! And Graham doesn't have to work at all! And he still gets paid! Hooray for school closings!

UPDATE: Now my big, multinational company has cancelled all their English lessons until further notice. I think we're headed for a Mexico type shut down.

In the News

2009-06-27T12:51:00.004-02:00

Just thought that I should mention that while South Carolina was looking for its governor he was here, not just in Buenos Aires, but in our neighborhood- Palermo! We're relevant!

Colonial Living

2009-06-26T21:05:00.005-02:00

My grandmother was born in India in the early 1900s and enjoyed all the perks and privileges of a daughter of a colonial general. I've always imagined her life like that of the little girl in "A Little Princess" before she (the character) became an orphan, and as far as I've heard, it's a pretty accurate comparison. I've always wondered how wonderful it must've been to live in an exotic country with servants to wait on you, to lord over a manor, or better yet, be the child of the lord of the manor.

No more anymore. This era of ours is not an era of colonialism, and anything that faintly whiffs at colonial overlord makes me squeamish and overly apologetic for being born to upper middle class parents.

Our very comfortable apartment here in Buenos Aires comes with a pool in the back, a portero who washes the floors of the building (including the sidewalk) everyday, heated floors, American appliances and two cleaners who come in once a week, Lidia and Daniela. We have been living more comfortably than most Argentines and for this I feel a pang of guilt, especially when the cleaners come in to clean up after us. Neither of them speak a word of English and in my rudimentary Spanish I've pieced together that Lidia, who is in her 40s, is from Bolivia, lives here on her own and sends money back to her family dutifully. Daniela is a mystery to me. She is probably in her 20s, helps Lidia out ever since she injured her thumb, shows up here sometimes two hours before Lidia does and watches TV on our bed until she does. When she's not watching TV they're blasting Argentine pop radio stations which must irritate the upstairs neighbor.

I certainly appreciate that we have cleaners who do a good job of cleaning our apartment but I can't stand to be here when they are because it makes me feel like the colonialist, living better than any of them may ever, exploring the world while they clean houses for (what must seem like to them) fat-cat Americans. I feel like if I'm not there then it's less of an affront to them. So as soon as Daniela shows up I grab my gym bag or work and head out for a few hours.

Yesterday she caught me right before I was out the door and asked me what I wanted to do with these clothes that were on the floor. I always clean up before they come around but I missed this pile of clothes because they were hiding on the other side of the bed. I picked them up and put them in a pile on the bed and made large arm motions over them trying to communicate to her "Don't worry about this, just leave them here, I'll tidy them up when I get back". And with that I left.

Two and a half hours later I returned and was dismayed to see that Daniela was still there and that the only thing cleaned was the bathroom. I wasn't upset because she'd been watching TV the whole time, but that I had exhausted all my tasks to occupy me while I kept out of sight. Worst of all, I noticed that she had folded every single article of clothing in the pile and put them neatly away in our drawers. I was suddenly twisted with guilt for not being more clear because she must've thought I actually told her to do that. Feeling a little shame-faced and with no other excuse to leave the apartment, I just picked up my book and hid on the balcony.

Thirty minutes later Lidia came in and then they really got down to work. Lidia came out with a bucket of water and a mop to clean up the balcony floor and asked me to move out of her way and I blushed with embarrassment for feeling like I've affronted them again with my presence. I hid in the bedroom and tried too hard to ignore Daniela when she came in to mop up the floor in there.

I think Lidia likes me but I'm not too thrilled about this. Last time I got caught in the apartment with her she started asking me how much house cleaners make in America and it went quickly down hill from there. Having some foresight I purposely gave her a conservative figure at $10 an hour and she almost fell to the floor in disbelief. "American?!" she asked with eyes wide in disbelief, I nodded my head slowly and she went on to say how rich she would be in Bolivia if she was making 10U$ an hour here. She could be retired already!

A little later on she asked me where Graham and I were going after this and I told her the itinerary of our trip, but she didn't mean that, she wanted to know where we'd be living. With a little bit of hesitation I told her that I planned on going to London for awhile and Graham would probably be going back to New York. New York City?! she asked with eyes wide again and again I slowly nodded my head yes. I have to give her credit though, she didn't waste anytime, she started making plans to move to New York City in the fall and Graham and I would help set her up, yes, sounds good? Partly because I couldn't believe my ears and partly because I felt excruciatingly awkward, I started pretending I couldn't understand a word she was saying, 'like a true colonialist' I thought to myself with sheepish shame. She lapsed back into talking about how alone she is here and how much she misses her family and I wanted to jump out the window when I saw tears well up in her eyes. Instead I just nodded my head, yes. She's a spry thing though and quickly laughed it off and went back to cleaning, leaving me home free for the moment.

When she caught up with me yesterday there was our regular awkward banter, You teach me English, yes? Yes you teach me English and I teach you Spanish. To which I have to respond that I work all week and my only free day is Sunday (which is true) and I just don't have time for another student. She laughs and shakes her head every time I say this.

She saw my bike out on the balcony when she came to out clean and asked me if I'd be selling it when I left. Yes, I would be, and she asked how much I bought it for, and I told her 450 pesos. I'm not sure if she made an offer but she told me to sell it to her, which again sent me looking for an escape route because I had intended on selling it for 350 and doubt she wouldn't have balked at that price. I said I had to think about it and that seemed to appease her for the time being.

She knows when we're moving out of this apartment and I'm a little worried at what she may ask from us before we leave. That may seem a little pretentious but I'm certain it's a valid concern. The last time I was in a spot like this was after I'd gotten back from a safari in Kenya with an old boyfriend. We were at home, getting ready to go out when a ridiculously long number came up on his caller id. Our guide from the safari was calling and asked Matteo for a large sum of euros for a loan because his wife had been taken into hospital and in all likelihood would die there without the money needed for medicine. We were with this man for three days and neither of us had ever heard him mention a wife so Matteo told him no, to which the guide responded by begging him not to tell his boss that he had called us.

It was a ruse, clearly, but I still felt cold and callous, and more so when I got angry with him for putting us in that kind of spot. We gave him and his boss a great tip when we left, so what the hell? This is the situation I'm worried about entering into on Lidia's last day with us because we won't have the luxury of having thousands of miles between us, I'm worried she's going to watch TV until I run out of things to do in the cafe and have to come home.

Hoof

2009-06-26T13:45:00.003-02:00

Just in case you didn't believe me when I mentioned it before, there it is.

Politicos on Parade

2009-06-25T19:40:00.014-02:00

Congressional elections are coming up this Sunday and for the past two weeks the city has been literally littered with political campaigning. I guess we're not so heavy into campaigning through posters in the US or the UK because those are what struck me the most about these past two weeks. It must be because I'm not used to them, but I find them utterly hilarious and sometimes ridiculous. Because of the heavy poster campaigning that's been going on I've gotten very interested in this election and have grilled some of my students on the particulars.

For instance, did you know that congressional elections in Buenos Aires are supposed to be held in September, but this year the government has moved them up to June without a clear explanation. Speculation states that it's because Argentina has been relatively untouched by the global economic crisis and that the incumbent government wants to take advantage of this fact so that they can get voted back in while the people are still thinking of them favorably. Which begs the question: What does the government suppose (or more likely know) is going to happen between now and September that will likely change the way the populace views them? Fishy stuff, but this is Argentina so no one seems too upset by the government's subversive tactics.

Secondly, it's illegal not to vote in Argentina for everyone over the age of 18. Although no one ever has, you could be thrown in jail for years if punished to the full extent of the law. However, the typical punishment is just a ticket (boring). The only people who are exempt from voting are those over the age of 80, those who are seriously ill or mentally handicapped, and anyone else who lives more than 500 kilometers from the nearest polling station in a major city; bad luck to everyone else who lives 499 kilometers away.

Thirdly, to ensure that everyone makes the right decision, the government forbids all campaigning to continue once the elections are no more than three days away. This allows the voters to really think about the content of the politician's ideas and their message, not just how attractive or unattractive he or she may be. And to make sure you don't get drunk the night before and sleep through the elections or drunkenly tick the wrong box, restaurants and stores are not allowed to sell or distribute alcohol Saturday night starting at midnight. Clearly the government really, really wants you to make a well-informed and clear-headed decision since you're being forced to anyway.

Although I appreciate the freedom of choice you're granted in the US and UK not to vote I've decided to hold my own elections based on the campaign posters (which is consequently how I used to vote for student government in high school).

MOST AMBITIOUS:

For obvious reasons; because his name is Prat Gay! Although 99% of Argentines probably have no idea or care about how ridiculous his name is, I still think 'Good on him for not being crippled by the cruelty of his parents'. However, he is a bit of a creeper, he's the one with both hands on Gil's shoulders. He's an ambitious creeper.

MOST DIABOLICAL:

Clearly this man does not have an image consultant, or at least someone close enough to him to tell him that by cocking his chin down he's making his balding forehead appear bigger and projecting a menacing look. I included the party group shot because I particularly like how everyone else is linking arms and it appears that he has just busted into the middle of the chain and stuck his arms through the other two's. I bet the rest of the group don't even like him.

MOST CROTCHETY-LOOKING:

Pino is a famous Argentine director, and I don't know what his deal or his party is about but I love love love that in his solo shots he couldn't break a smile! His wrinkled forehead, bushy, arched eyebrows and thin mouth all communicate to me that this is a man who doesn't like his tea too hot, his meat too chewy, or his women too chatty. I included his group shot because he has a horrendous smile that kind of makes him look like Wallace from "Wallace and Gromit".

BEST GROUP SHOT:

I like this group shot the best because in all honestly, I probably could've made it, and I only know how to use the crop tool. Plus, the guy standing behind and to the left of the main guy in the center front is so pissed to be there and he doesn't care who knows it. Me gusto mucho.

BEST POSTER CAMPAIGN:

These were the first posters I started noticing around town because they were everywhere and I had no idea what they were for. The play sign made me think she was a recording artist with a new album out and it almost made me do a search on Google to see if she was any good. Points for intrigue.

Then these posters came out last week and finally, a face to a name! I don't mean to sound catty or overly critical, but I figured out pretty quickly by her looks that she wasn't a recording artist. But for a political campaign I thought this was immensely clever, introducing first her name, then her face, putting a face to a name, it's something subtle and it sticks with you. I get a kick out of it every time.

Then this poster came out a few days ago and I don't have a clue to who the hell he is. Clearly he's not Gabriela Michetti so what's his face doing on her poster? In all likelihood he's probably a part of her party so why not put his name next to his face? This has been really bothering me but I'm still giving her the Best Campaign title due the fact that she's been able to cause me so much irritation with her posters. This is far more reaction than any of the other poster campaigns have elicited from me, so kudos to the Michetti campaign manager.

This picture is just intended to demonstrate the fervor with which posters have been going up, being pulled down and pasted over. There's much more where this came from.

The Mobility of National Holidays

2009-06-17T17:18:00.007-02:00

image via www.buenostours.com

Since I started working here in Argentina I haven't gone more than two weeks in a row without a long weekend due to a holiday. In the beginning I didn't really pay attention to what the holidays were for because I was too busy enjoying my days off to really care. But with the passage of time the novelty eventually wore down and soon I found myself curious as to how businesses could cope in this country considering the fact that their partners in the rest of South America are hard at work while they're grilling on the barbecue. One student told me that the day off almost isn't even worth it because partners from Brazil, Chile and the rest of the continent, knowing that you're about to be out of the office for an extended period of time, start flooding you the day before in an effort to get everything they need from you before you become unattainable.

We celebrated Flag Day this past Monday and it's a day that commemorates the creation of Argentina's national flag. If you look it up you'll notice that Flag Day is officially listed as occurring on June 20th..... and I'm writing about it today (June 18th) because yes, you read right, the entire country celebrated it on Monday, June 15th.

Apparently the government finds it really annoying when national holidays fall on weekends (don't we all?) so they've decided that it is their gubernatorial right and obligation to move national holidays around at their discretion so that they fall on weekdays. The official justification for this is that it encourages tourism.

But what is their exact criteria when choosing a day to move the holiday to? I would've thought that proximity to the official date would be the main idea here, but if I were right Flag Day would've been marked for public celebration this Friday, the 19th instead of the 15th. Or, if they wanted to keep it to a Monday, then why not the 22nd which is still closer to the actual holiday than the previous Monday?

In a country where corruption is semi-accepted as a part of government I like to imagine a bunch of old men sitting in a dark library, drinking scotch and smoking cigars with their diaries out on their laps, figuring out which weekend they can all agree on to take a group trip, a boys only weekend, down to the beach together.

The next holiday is Independence Day (the second of two in fact), and much like our own American Independence Day it is so intrinsically linked to an actual date that to move it would be almost blasphemous. This year Independence Day falls on a Thursday, so it seems highly probable that the government will either declare Friday a day off as well, to promote tourism, or 99% of the population will just take the day off anyway.

Here is a list of all the national holidays for 2009 in Argentina:

1 Jan New Year's Day
24 Mar Truth and Justice Day
2 Apr Veterans' Day (Malvinas- don't call them the Falklands!)
10 Apr Good Friday
1 May Labour Day
25 May National Day (Anniversary of the 1810 Revolution).
15 Jun National Flag Day (Belgrano Day)
9 Jul National Independence Day
17 Aug San Martín Day (Anniversary of the Death of General José de San Martín)
12 Oct Race Recognition Day
8 Dec Immaculate Conception Day
25 Dec Christmas Day

Race Recognition Day has got to be the most creative reason for a national holiday I've ever heard of.

Blowing Up

2009-06-15T21:37:00.002-02:00

In case we haven't told you personally yet, Graham and I are blowin' up. Pardon the self-congratulatory tone, but it's kind of true. Graham is now an unprecedented third-time 'Photo of the Week' winner at the South American Explorers Club and is entertaining an invitation from another photographer to put his works in an exhibition. His album of doors has also received some laurels over at Argentina's Travel, a website dedicated to the promotion of Argentine tourism.

As for me, I just signed a freelance contract with Propel Media, Inc. to do some travel writing for the blog on a budget travel website, and was thrilled to have an article written on my favourite subject ever, the public transportation system, published on the local expat newspaper's website, The Argentimes. If you're feeling charitable and have a moment, visit these websites and leave a comment so that these organizations know how lucky they are to have us. Just don't mention I told you to do it please!

Cafe TORTONI

2009-06-15T13:24:00.010-02:00

In every guide book you come across, a visit to Cafe Tortoni is at the top of every 'Must-Do' list. I don't like being told what to do but this historical cafe has been around since 1858 and holds the title of the oldest cafe in the city. It was the favourite stomping grounds of such Argentine notables Carlos Gardel, Jorge Luis Borges, Luigi Pirandello, Federico Garcia Lorca, Arturo Rubenstein and Julio Cortazar whose images are immortalized in bronze busts scattered throughout the cafe. But don't ask me who they were, I only recognize two of their names because they're subway stops I have to use.

Regardless of the historical importance that this cafe probably represents, it is, in my opinion, worth the visit for the quality of the coffee alone. Having been spoiled by a year of Italian espressos I have found the coffee in this town to be a disappointment, oddly thin and watery considering the delicious richness of their milk. Tortoni's espresso tastes how espresso should, and the Italian cappuccino (although not slightly Italian at all based on the cinnamon, chocolate shavings and chantilly cream) was scrummy. The waitstaff is a tempered cross between formal and fed up; they walk around in dark suits with starched, white napkins over their forearms and when they think no one is looking they roll their eyes and bang their trays in frustration. A good mix of surly and sincere is crucial at any tourist trap destination. Oops! Sorry, tourist trap is too strong, but if it makes one more "Top Ten List" then I doubt it will avoid that moniker much longer.

What Tortoni needs the most to preserve its genuine and historical character, and therefore shirk its growing image as 'Tourist Trap', is to foster its older clientele who normally range in age from 60-85 years old. Not surprisingly this demographic finds themselves disgusted by the lines outside waiting for a table and too old to be waiting around for a cup of coffee. Instead of sending them to the back of the line, and therefore basically turning them away, Tortoni should usher them right in, front and center. With its polished brass, mahogany wood, high ceilings, marble tables and cushioned seats the cafe looks too distinguished to be overrun with tourists in their sight seeing gear. What's missing at Cafe Tortoni are the older ladies in fur coats and muffs and men with monocles. Anything else looks like plebs playing make believe.

In summation, the coffee is great, the pastries aren't much, and the austere atmosphere illuminated by fluorescent back-lit stain glass on the ceiling reminds you that Tortoni's heyday has long since passed.

La Fiaca

2009-06-11T21:32:00.007-02:00

image via Treehugger.com

Fiaca (pronounced Fi-A-Caah) is the Lunfardo word that describes a sense of sluggishness, tiredness, reluctance to do anything and proneness to illness. Since I've been in this city I've had three colds and experienced uncommon laziness. I'm not trying to say that I'm the epitome of health or an 'early-bird-gets-the-worm' kind of person usually, it's just very strange for me to come down with three colds in a row and rue the moment of waking up as much as I do sometimes.

As I was running for the bus one day I happened to dash behind another bus just as a cloud of exhaust fumes spewed out of its backside. I instantly felt a strong urge to vomit. When walking down the sidewalk it's not unusual to have to hold your breath every other block or so to stop yourself from inhaling bus fumes. By the time you get home from a day out and about you're typically dying to take a shower because the layer of grime all over you is starting to seep into your pores. Sometimes I seriously worry about the damage I'm doing to my lungs just by breathing the air here and the years it could be reducing my lifespan by, the tragic irony of living in a city named "Good Airs".

But this affliction isn't just the blight of the un-acclimated immigrants. They have a cultural-specific word for the symptoms that I (and it seems almost everybody else) routinely experience, so obviously this is a fairly common state of being that's been around for some time.

However, if you try to convince the Portenos that fiaca is possibly brought on by the poor air quality they are simply opposed to the argument. Never mind the deductive reasoning behind why, when they get out of the city and into the mountains they suddenly have enough energy to run up and down hills all day. Or why, once they come back to the city, they want to curl up in bed and watch TV all day. I tried bringing this up with one of my classes this morning and true to form they denied any connection between the state of the air and the health of their bodies. They said that fiaca is simply a cultural characteristic of the city-dwellers, a side affect of living in small spaces with too many people around, something that is really rather quaint and charming if you think about it. A persistent cold is actually just allergies, and in this city 'allergies' are as common as parrillas.

For me, I can't stand the poor air quality so it's not surprising that since coming here I've developed a deep appreciation for mountains simply because they look like they're surrounded with cool, crisp, untouched-by-diesel-fumes air. As great as Buenos Aires is, I'll never live in another city that doesn't have some kind of law imposing mandatory emissions testing.

To read about someone else's first encounters with fiaca click here.

Best Business Cards

2009-06-08T19:48:00.004-02:00

Just a picture of some of the more visually interesting business cards I've picked up here. They've inspired me to start a collection... if only I could find a practical use for them.

Get Out of the Trees!

2009-06-08T17:14:00.006-02:00

Some of the trees here in Buenos Aires are so beautiful, this type is my personal favourite, with dark spindly branches that twist and turn up into the sky they jump out against the screen of blue and green above your head.

Other times, it's just amazing what you find in the trees. For instance, me.

Or somebody's bedroom.

Or a massive tumor.

Or another tree.

Or a house. Or is the tree in the house? Which came first?

Or a pregnant-looking bird.

*All images via Graham Newhall over at The Reef

Noquis Del 29

2009-05-29T19:36:00.012-02:00

I think my favourite food holiday ever has to be the 29th of the month, Noquis Night. Here in BsAs they promote the celebration of food, specifically noquis (or gnocchi), on the 29th of every month. Every where you go in the city on the 29th you're bound to see signs up in the bars, restaurants and of course, the pasta fresca shops, advertising special meals and deals for noquis. The tradition follows that by the end of the month you were most likely pretty low on cash, so flour and potato (being the cheapest foods around) are combined to make a delicious meal you can't shake a stick at. Traditionally you're supposed to put your last 100 peso bill under the plate to make your money last as long as the meal, however I've only got about two pesos left to my name at the moment so I'll be skipping out on that part of custom.

Despite being dirt poor I'm on board with any holiday that promotes and celebrates good food (ie Thanksgiving, Boxing Day) and will happily shell out for a good meal, but I'm especially zealous about a holiday that celebrates good food every month of the year! Feast your eyes on this and eat your heart out:

Worst Name Ever

2009-05-28T20:03:00.004-02:00

*This is not a joke

No Patience

2009-05-28T19:10:00.005-02:00

This photo does not do justice to the heavy sludge of traffic that is now a permanent fixture outside our balcony. I call it a sludge because it does not flow in the way that typical city traffic does. The cars behave more like sludge in that they inch painfully forward until gravity (or the blare of horns) finally forces the buildup to burst forward in a sudden and jerky plop... and then a red light again. The buildup resumes and the horns blare, the entire routine repeats every 3 minutes and all the while I go slightly more mad with every red light. These Portenos do not believe in a single "Hey you!" or "Get going!" honk. They prefer to communicate their dissatisfaction by leaning against the horn of their cars until their wrists hurt from pushing too hard and display no regret or concern for the people who live in the buildings around them, i.e. me.

Here is further evidence that there are too many people in this city:

Rush hour on the subway makes you feel like this:

*I asked the woman facing me (in Spanish) "This is normal or this is crazy?" She answered with defeat in her voice "It's always like this."

The GIBRALTAR

2009-05-24T21:11:00.006-02:00

The Gibraltar is probably the nicest English pub in San Telmo, with it's dark wood, draft ales, plethora of whiskeys and traditional English grub. But like so many other impersonators, The Gibraltar just falls short of the originals it tries so hard to replicate. However, The Gibraltar cannot be blamed entirely for its shortcomings because (although I know a lot of people who would disagree) the English cuisine is a delicacy that needs to meet exact specifications in order to be recognizable. Beans on toast? Only if they're Heinz. Binoffe pie? It better have a thick layer of gooey toffee in the middle.

It was nice to order these things, and if I had no prior knowledge of what an English breakfast or a binoffe pie is supposed to taste like I would've still loved every bite. It's just that if you go to The Gibraltar looking for a piece of England, remember that the real thing is far better than the knock-off.
One thing that was an exact tranferance was the Manc-y bartender whose idea of a good joke is this:
"I've been married three times you know."
Me: "Oh wow, really?"
"Yeah, my first wife died from eating poisoned mushrooms."
Me: "That's bizarre."
"Yeah, then my second wife died from eating poisoned mushrooms too."
Me: "Oh my God, what?"
"And then I beat the third wife to death because she wouldn't eat the poisoned mushrooms"
Me: (I didn't understand a word of his punchline through his heavy accent, but he was laughing so I figured it was a joke I hadn't picked up on. Graham later told me the punchline and I swallowed the last quarter of my cider in two gulps and booked it out of there).

The Gibraltar, Peru 895 y Estados Unidos, San Telmo, Buenos Aires

Graffiti Nation V

2009-05-24T14:03:00.011-02:00

All these images were photographed at different times and in different parts of the city. You know that you're really getting to know a city when you can spot the work of individual grafitti artists around town. Whoever is responsible for the last three walls must be quite well known because he has painted the outside of the Cultural Gallery on Sarmiento in the same vein. Check out the rest of my ever-expanding album on the city's finest wall art (or grafitti if that's your kick) and see if you can spot the distinctive artists through their work.

Inspiration

2009-05-19T17:21:00.005-02:00

Inspiration comes in all shapes and sizes. It's been more than a week since I last wrote anything and I have to admit that I've been lacking inspiration. I'm trying to hold this blog to a high level of integrity, I won't write about just anything, only those things that I think are worthwhile or that I'm truly passionate about. So as I was standing in the kitchen, trying to think up reasons not to go to the gym, it struck me when I needed it most as I was drinking chocolate milk out of the carton. The milk! I love the milk here. I've been meaning to actually talk to somebody about it since I first got here but it's one of those things that unless it comes up in conversation you don't really remember to bring it up yourself.

"Hi mama! How are you?...I'm good thanks, just got back from work.... yeah it was the class with the jerk in it... no he wasn't mean to me today.... I will.... thanks....oh by the way, have I told you how delicious the milk is here?" - Not likely. So I'm taking this moment of lightning bolt inspiration to put down into words how wonderful said milk is.

Luckily for me I read a book before I came here that pointed out that while you may think you're doing a great thing for your health by drinking low-fat/skim/partially skimmed milk you are in fact doing your heart a disservice as the fat that's taken out of the milk has to be replaced with something else to maintain a cohesive chemical composition, and that something else is hydrogenated oxygen. And in actuality hydrogenated anything clogs your arteries far more effectively than the natural fats which occur in milk. Sorry for sounding like a bible-thumper but I had to mention that backstory to explain why I'm only drinking whole (entera) milk here. I like the whole milk in England and America, it's good. But you know what's even better than whole milk? Half-and-Half. Sometimes when I'm sad that's my comfort go-to, straight from the carton, and my decadent indulgence in coffee and white russians. It's a special treat and it's delicious. So you can only imagine my unbridled pleasure at discovering that the whole milk here tastes exactly like half-and-half! As the Italians would put it, it's squisito! I never do this at home, but here I find myself craving and drinking full glasses of milk. If only I had had milk this delicious as a child, I may have grown a few more inches before coming out of adolecense.

The chocolate milk is great too. But I find the carton detracts from the flavour if you look at it while drinking. That cow's udder is about to burst and he's giving you a thumbs up as if it's all okay. It's gross.

Bad Teacher

2009-05-10T12:18:00.015-02:00

I am not a natural teacher. I'm pleased when my students come in late because it means there's less time that I have to teach for and I get annoyed with them when they come back from break actually on time. I find it nearly impossible to come up with a smooth transition between topics, can barely keep a group discussion going for more than a couple minutes and I am too sensitive to a group's collective bored sighs and blase looks. The one time I had to teach a pre-intermediate class (which was really beginner but called so to make them feel better for not being able to advance higher despite the years they've spent at that level) I almost had to choke back tears when a student interrupted me midsentence with a finger in my face "Excuse me!", then he turned to the class "Does anyone understand her?". There was a ghastly silence and blank faces stared back at me. He turned to me again, "We don't understand you, so you have to speak more slower and more clearer" in an accusatory tone, hate seething out of his eyeballs as if I had been sent there at 8:00 in the morning to ruin his day and was personally responsible for all his linguistic failings.
I specifically chose to teach adults, I wouldn't even consider children, and now I'm wondering if that may have been a mistake. The adult mind has a harder time learning a language, this is a fact, so inevitably in every class there is someone who demands to know 'WHY?!' the verb becomes pluralized when talking about the first person in the present tense, WHY?! it is necessary to drop the 'who' when making a reduced relative clause and HOW?! are you supposed to know when the word ends in -ence instead of -ance. Children just accept that your word is golden. They don't question you but on the occassion that they do "Because it just is" is an acceptable explanation. Tell that to a frustrated 40-something and they throw their hands up, they roll theirs eyes, they slump in their chairs and they say something in Spanish that I can tell would be mildly offensive if I knew what they were saying.
Needless to say, teaching adults is strange, especially when you're markedly younger than your students. There's a dichotomoy of how much respect I should expect from them and how much I should give them. For instance, I can't tell if they're trying to be respectful or if they just can't remember my name, but I find it uncomfortable when they call me 'teacher' and no matter how many times I ask them to call me Alex they don't. On the other hand there are some students who give me no respect and it's really awkward when they're talking over me and the rest of the class is straining to hear me.
Even more strange, I have some classes that once congregated, quickly descend back into childhood. An example:
"Teacher, may I go to the bathroom?"
"Yes, of course, you don't have to ask and please, don't call me teacher."
"Okay, I'll be right back."
"While we wait for Estevan to get back why don't we talk about what we did this past weekend."
(Sustainable chatter for about 8 minutes, then Estevan walks back in and another student asks)
"Estevan! You were gone for so long, did you go number 2?!"
(Class descends into raucous laughter, borderline hysteria)
"Yes I did! I went number 2! Teacher, do you know what number one and number two is?"
"Yes, we have the same sayings in English."
"I had to sit on the toilette for so long!"
(People start gasping for breath from laughing too hard) .

I get the sense that the people who worked a little too hard during highschool are the ones who throw fits and huff and puff their way through my English classes because they can't stand not knowing the ins and outs of something. While the students who took it a bit easier are today's jokesters, and they're just so much more fun to be in a room with for a couple of hours.
So even though I'm not the best teacher I probably don't give myself enough credit. The hours are rough and the planning takes forever and sometimes I feel uncomfortable, sometimes my feelings are hurt and sometimes I just couldn't be bothered but I care about keeping them interested and I care about their progress. If that's not good enough for them then I'll just make fun of them on my blog.

Baked Goods

2009-05-03T17:08:00.015-02:00

Baked goods are near and dear to me in my life. When my family and I first moved to Bermuda I had a lot of trouble adjusting to life there so my mom would take me and my sister every Friday after school to an amazing bakery as a treat. Perhaps I am remembering it inaccurately but I recall this bakery as a little, limestone, square building occupying a spot in the fairway that divided the east and west flowing traffic of the only highway on the island. Without fail I always got a bottle of orange Crush and an apple tart and it was pure bliss. I savoured every crumb of that apple tart, licked every sticky finger and always lamented the fact that there wasn't more to enjoy as soon as it was gone. In the absence of an energetic social life at the age of 10 I looked forward to 'Bakery-Pit stop-Fridays' in the same way that I now look forward to happy hour after a long day at work.

This is probably why I have trouble walking by a bakery without pressing my nose up against the glass in my adult years. I had been resisting stopping in at the bakery located one block away from us, knowing that it would be a Pandora's Box of sorts, unleashing a flood of uncontrollable cravings. One Sunday afternoon the smell of fresh baked goods was just too powerful to resist and I found myself in there, mouth agape and eyes darting from shelf to shelf trying to mentally process the plethora of baked goods that rested on every available space. Heaps of croissants, buns, strawberry, ricotta, and marmalade frosted danishes, tarts and tartlettes, dulce de leche cookies, donuts, fried dough, chocolate, vanilla, assorted fruit and cheesecakes as far as the eye could see! I didn't get anything that day because it was too overwhelming, like someone who goes from having nothing to everything in an instant, I just didn't know what to do with myself so I left.

Unluckily for me I work very early in the morning, every morning, and must be confronted by the waft from the bakery almost everyday as the pastries start coming out of the oven. Like sailors to the siren's call it wasn't long before I found myself shipwrecked in there again, but this time with a plan. I bought an assortment of nearly everything and took them home to devour with Graham, and devour them we did. Since that fateful first day one or both of us have been in there almost everyday to pick up a little pick-me-up, and the rate of days I go to the gym has increased proportionally. One of the bakers even knows us by sight now, and although I can't exactly understand him, I'm sure he looks forward to seeing us as much as we look forward to buying from him, like the relationship that exists between addicts and their dealer.

A Good Picture Day

2009-05-01T17:53:00.010-02:00

*certain images stolen from Graham

Puerto Madero

2009-04-30T18:41:00.006-02:00

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

2009-04-27T14:55:00.010-02:00

El Gran HOLLYWOOD

2009-04-26T21:25:00.007-02:00

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

2009-04-24T14:13:00.009-02:00

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

2009-04-21T18:45:00.006-02:00

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

2009-04-21T15:47:00.006-02:00

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

2009-04-16T22:00:00.023-02:00

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

2009-04-16T19:52:00.005-02:00

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

2009-04-08T18:55:00.005-02:00

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

2009-04-04T19:18:00.005-02:00

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.

La Policia

2009-03-31T17:59:00.004-02:00

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

2009-03-29T17:39:00.003-02:00

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

2009-03-26T18:55:00.006-02:00

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

2009-03-25T22:36:00.012-02:00

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

2009-03-22T21:29:00.009-02:00

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

2009-03-21T19:00:00.002-02:00

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

2009-03-21T11:10:00.007-02:00

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

2009-03-19T18:53:00.007-02:00

Click here to see my entire album of wall art

First World Problems

2009-03-19T16:16:00.006-02:00

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

2009-03-17T17:30:00.007-02:00

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

2009-03-13T13:55:00.004-02:00

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

2009-03-10T17:52:00.003-02:00

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

2009-03-09T17:25:00.010-02:00

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

2009-03-08T13:30:00.004-02:00

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

2009-03-07T18:19:00.020-02:00

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!

2009-03-06T16:43:00.005-02:00

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

2009-03-05T16:24:00.010-02:00

"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

Buenos Aires Flooded with I-Bankers

2009-03-05T14:48:00.005-02:00

I found an interesting article on gawker.com claiming that Buenos Aires has been ruined by i-bankers. I personally haven't bumped into any, but maybe it's one of those things you don't notice until someone else mentions it. So from now on, I'm keeping an eye out and will be documenting and cataloguing them for your viewing enjoyment. Just don't hold your breath.

Here's the website if the link won't work: http://gawker.com/5164142/buenos-aires-ruined-by-i+bankers

Yerba Mate

2009-03-04T14:22:00.004-02:00

One of the things I've been trepidatious to try is the yerba mate. It's a type of tea indigenous to the area, similar to green tea in flavour, but the main difference being that it's steeped in hot water instead of boiling water. It's drunk out of a gourd, which is the source of all my aversion, not because I've got anything against gourds in general, but during our first days here we walked through a market and found mate gourds which were made from hollowed-out animal hoofs. Hair still clung to them! Ever since mate has been associated with animal feet; however I made myself get over it today. Every where you look down here people are walking around with big thermoses hanging from their shoulders or necks, drinking out of the caps. At first we thought it was alcohol, because why else would you go to the trouble to drink out of a thermos? It turns out it's mate, people love it so much they need a constant supply of it on-the-go. Even the bum on our street was obsessed with it. Every time we saw him, sitting or lying down, he was sipping out of a new container of unstrained-mate, which looks totally gnarly:
Except his was in a Dixie cup.

Anyway, it's good. It tastes like grassy green tea. And as I'm writing this I can vouch for its caffeine content. I'm feeling more jittery than I do after an espresso, but there are no heart palpitations so I think it's safe to say I'll drink it again, just not out of a hoof.

Graffiti Nation

2009-03-03T16:42:00.007-02:00

Something I've noticed since I've been here is that Buenos Aires is so colorful. Not in the "the people are so vibrant and varied" way, which they are, but literally the colors of the leaves are greener, the sky is bluer, the reds are redder and the yellows almost blinding. It's hard to say whether that's why graffiti is so prominent, or if it's the graffiti that gives the city it's colorful ambiance. Regardless, street graffiti is art here, meant to be appreciated by everyone for free. Many shops and restaurants commission graffiti artists to adorn their outer walls, and graffiti artists will often times attach their email addresses to their murals.

I'm lucky enough to have a boyfriend with a good camera and an even better eye for art, so if you're interested in taking a gander at some appealing street art click on the link and head on over to his blog.

Papelera PALERMO

2009-03-03T15:49:00.012-02:00

Papelera Palermo is easily the most impressive paper store I've ever been in. They specialize in hand made paper and paper products, but they don't stop there. They've extended their range to boxes, stationary, book binding, wrapping paper, journals and leather goods and right now Graham is seriously coveting one of their slim red leather computer cases. Anything that's related to writing, drawing or involves paper in some way they do it, and they do it beautifully. The shop is the size of a small warehouse and they've filled the entire left wall with sheets of hanging wrapping paper: block, pattern, grainy, cut-out, graffiti, any style you can think of they've come up with it.

They're masters of paper and they know it. They were kind enough to open a school to the public to teach their ways in paper making and book binding and my number one reason for learning Spanish right now is to get in on that. For now I'm contenting myself with a sheet of hand made paper every now and then.

Click here to check out their website!

Little ROSE

2009-03-02T15:29:00.003-02:00

In the Land of the Parilla (Argentine grill) meat is king. You can be hard pressed at times to come by food that wasn't once munching on grass, even harder still to find food that grew in the ground if you're not making a conscious effort. As I'm experiencing right now, too much meat and not enough vitamins results in sharp abdominal pains. This is what makes Little Rose sushi restaurant so special to me. Up a fairly innocuous flight of stairs you ascend into what looks like a goth-inspired Victorian parlour. The walls and decor are painted black, only the table clothes remain neutral and pictures of 'little roses' reflect down on you while you eat. It's dark but not foreboding and the lunch menu is the best sushi deal this side of the River Plate. For less the US $10 you get: water sin o con gas, the best miso soup I've ever had, five salmon nigiri, one piece mango-cream cheese (surprisingly tasty), one salmon-cream cheese, one salmon-avocado-cream cheese, one salmon roll, your choice of delicious ice cream, and espresso.

*note: in the above picture I asked Graham to pose looking "longingly" at the ice cream. He's not disappointed as it seems, he was in fact well-pleased with his dessert.

Coin Crisis!

2009-03-01T16:13:00.000-02:00

The bane of my existence is trying to break a 100 peso bill. Taxi drivers suddenly wish they had pushed you out into oncoming traffic when you had them a 100 peso bill. Cashiers go squeamish at the sight of one. They'd honestly rather not sell you anything than give you their change. What makes the situation even more maddening is that ATM machines only spit out denominations of 100s.

Coins are even harder to come by than a 20 peso bill; we've already been warned by a local to guard any coins we get a hold of with our lives. Her words exactly: "Don't use them, put them away and hide them." There's a coin crisis going on!

The bus system in Buenos Aires is comprehensive and the main source of transportation for many, millions rely upon it. However, to ride the bus you need to put 80 centavos into a machine on the bus, coins only, no paper bills accepted. So what people used to do was go to the bus companies with a 100 peso bill and change it into 100 pesos worth of coins. Then the bus companies started charging 12 pesos for this particular service and shortly thereafter people started noticing that coins were becoming harder and harder to come by. Last year authorities found gigantic drums in the basements of the bus companies full of millions of dollars in coins. The bus companies had been hoarding all the coins that had been paid to them through their machines, thus propagating the coin crisis, leading more people to change their bills with them and therefore pay them an extra 12 pesos to give them all their money anyway.

My favorite part of this story is that people now know that the crisis was started through hoarding, and yet their solution is to hoard the coins themselves. There's something so undeniably charming about that.

Hotel CRAFT

2009-03-01T00:30:00.003-02:00

For anyone reading this that is looking for a hotel to stay in during their visit to Buenos Aires I highly highly highly recommend Hotel CRAFT. If you're into boutique hotels then this is your jam. As mentioned earlier it is a big block red building that somehow manages to stay inconspicuous despite its location on the periphery of one of the most bompin' children's parks in Palermo. The rooms are modern and chic, and the ambiance extends to the roof where the rustic breakfast room with bins of complementary apples morphs into slick looking outdoor lounge area, suitable for roasting in the sun while maintaining a chic deportment.

For a one night stay on a Saturday night it wasn't expensive as you'd expect and the concierge has a gentle 'No no, no trouble at all!' demeanor. We showed up for a one night stay with 6 months worth of luggage, and not only did they let us check-in early but they carried all our suitcases up a flight of stairs without any sideways glances. And they've promised to carry them back down for us tomorrow! Heaven!

Click on Hotel CRAFT to check out their website.

Progress

2009-02-28T15:53:00.001-02:00

My level of Spanish is laughable, but regardless I'm exceptionally pleased with my progress. Today was our move-out day and as we were standing on the side of the road with three massive suitcases and four smaller but sizable bags no cabbie would stop for us. One passed by giving us the "call me" signal with his thumb and pinkie held up to his face. I don't know why, but eventually I got one to stop for us and I managed to convince him (in Spanish!) to take me to the hotel despite his protests. This is a rough translation of what transpired between us:
"Armenia and Costa Rica?"
"You mean you're going to the airport."
"No, hotel. Armenia and Costa Rica."
"With all those bags? No way, there's no way I can take you both and all that stuff."
"No only these two"
"No lady, the car is too small, I can't fit it all."
"No man, only me and these two bags (I said bags in English b.c I have no idea what that is)"
"Uggggghhhh, okay I'll show you it won't fit." He gets out and opens up the trunk.
"See, it's too small. There's no way you're stuff is going to fit in here."
"It's okay, it's okay." We put the biggest bag in the trunk and stuff all the smaller ones and the printer in the front seat. He begrudgingly gets in the driver seat and takes me to Armenia and Costa Rica.
"Okay, this is where you want to get out?" I realize that the hotel is one block further up.
"Uuuuuuhhhhhh, one more!" I make a shoo-ing motion forward and he drives up the block.
"Here?"
"Yes, the building red! Hotel Craft." And success! He parks right in front of the doors and even lifts my bag out of the trunk which easily weighs about as much as him.
It's the moments like these that make me feel the best about myself.

The Saddest Little Bistro on the Block

2009-02-27T17:28:00.001-02:00

Ciska Bistro opened up a little over a week ago a couple of blocks down the road from where we live. We walk by it everyday and have watched its build-up to opening day since we've been here, therefore we both feel a little mater/paternalistic towards it. We've been there since the beginning and now we're watching its first forays into the world of dining. It's just so sad that it can't be taken seriously. They're obviously looking to attract some American coin, as evidenced by the American flag they've stuck up in the window next to the menu, but they've made the kiss of death mistake. They've stuck up photos of their food! And the food doesn't even look good! No self-respecting eater would stop by, see the American flag, look at the food, and think, 'I need to eat a meal at this establishment'. So like the laissez-faire type of parents, we cringe every time we walk by and hope they'll grow out of the tacky phase before they go bankrupt.

Pounding the Pavement in BsAs

2009-02-27T14:17:00.001-02:00

Buenos Aires is far larger than I ever gave it credit for before I came here. So far I've already worn down a pair of sandals and a strap on a bag broke... from swinging too much when I walk. There's Capital Federal which is pretty enormous, and then there's greater Buenos Aires which encompasses all the suburbs. Just to walk to the subway takes 20 minutes and then depending on whether you're going north or south you're journey could potentially be extremely time consuming. There are 4 lines that run east to west and all meet up at about the same point on the only line that runs north to south. So the average round trip includes two line transfers at the terminus of whichever lines you're riding on. Therefore I travel by cab. And luckily they are very cheap, but sometimes I think some cab drivers take the long way to make up the difference. But whatever.