Patience and Perception

It just occurred to me that I never explained why I was going to Argentina in the first place (aside from the fact that I just love traveling). Before we left France I had bought a ticket to go meet Charlie in Kenya while he was on a short-term work contract there... you know, the subject of the blog he still hasn't written. Thanks to some bad press and a grenade attack just before I was set to go, my anxiety got the better of me and I chickened out. As such, I had an airline credit that was nearing its expiration date. Since I had never been anywhere south of the border on my own continent, I put out feelers to see if I knew anyone living in those parts or whether anyone was interested in taking a trip with me (Charlie was permanently employed by that time and could not go). Luckily, an old college friend, Lisa, who had been living and working in Buenos Aires for a few years, generously invited me to crash at her place for the duration of my trip. So, off I went.

The plane landed, people grabbed their belongings and shoved off the plane in a much less orderly fashion than I was used to. I just figured this was the first of many cultural differences that I would note over the next couple of weeks.

Ezeiza airport sucks at customs and immigration. At passport control, we were divided into two lines: one for people from Mercosur (Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay and Venezuela) and foreigners who had already paid the $160 reciprocity fee to enter the country, and one for people like me who had not yet paid the fee. This process took forever, regardless of which line you were in. Part of the issue was that they had just instituted a new procedure where, instead of giving them an immigration form, you would have your photo and thumbprint taken. The thumbprint machine was sensitive and would not work if your hands were dry. In their attempts to capture good thumbprint scans, I saw the passport control officers grasping and pressing peoples' thumbs against the device's glass plate, sliding them around into different positions and even applying some kind of liquid to one woman's thumb. As we all waited, tired and at the end of our patience, three instances of applause broke out throughout the crowd. I listened to the chatter to see if I could find out who the applause was for. Some people said there were soccer stars present, others speculated that they were tango artists, while yet another person said that they were bullfighters. 

Finally it was my turn to be processed. The woman behind the glass partition did not even try to speak English with me, as I had seen the officers doing with everyone else. She just assumed I spoke Spanish and luckily, I did. Still, I struggled with her rapid-fire Argentine rhythm of speech and her unfamiliar constructions (using "vos" instead of "tú"). I had to ask her to repeat nearly every question. After taking my picture, she attempted to capture my thumbprint but my thumb was too dry. She instructed me to rub my thumb across my forehead several times and then try again. The thought of how many other people must have rubbed their forehead grease on the surface that I was now touching was mildly nauseating. Despite what I thought was abundant oiliness on my own forehead, it was not enough. The woman smashed my thumb against the glass, moving it right and left trying to capture my print. Finally it worked. Then, just for good measure, or maybe to make sure I wasn't lying about my business in the country, she repeated her series of questions.

It took another 40 minutes or so to get my luggage and then I had to stand in another long line where people slowly fumbled to put their heavy bags on the customs scanners. Once I had passed that final regulatory threshold, I found myself in a noisy sea of people. I began looking for signs for taxi stands but there were no clear indications of where to go. There were a couple of kiosks for different taxi companies, but I wasn't sure which to choose. Plus, there were several men standing around who, upon seeing my searching face, approached me asking, "Taxi?" I knew better than to go with most of them because, like the Paris airport, this place was full of random dudes with private cars just trying to make a buck. Not knowing where to go, I finally asked one supposed taxi driver how much he would charge to take me to Characita. He told me the price and kindly took my heavy suitcase. When we approached his car, I saw that it was an unmarked, older gray sedan. He opened the trunk to put my luggage in, but I stopped him. "You're not an official taxi," I said. "No, but I charge less. Look, I have a permit." He opened his wallet and showed me his license. "That's just a driver's license," I said, and then told him that I preferred to go with an official taxi. He seemed frustrated, but politely dragged my luggage over to a proper taxi driver whose car had all the usual legal markings. I thanked him and got into the real taxi. Even though it would cost me 20 pesos more (a measly $4.25 more in USD) I knew I was more likely to make it to my destination safely.

Since I hadn't really read much of my guidebook or looked at any pictures, I didn't know what to expect of Buenos Aires. On the taxi ride into the city my first thought was that it looked a lot like many of the European cities I had visited (low-rise buildings smashed together, narrow streets, cluttered signage), except slightly more run-down. The traffic was about as random and dangerous as it is in Paris. I laughed to myself when I saw that there was a street called "Avenida Carabobo" which, in the dialects I am familiar with, would translate roughly to "Stupid-Face Avenue".

Finally the taxi rolled up to Lisa's door across from the large, walled Chacarita Cemetery. I paid the driver and thanked him and then lugged my suitcase up to the door and rang the bell. Moments later I was greeted by Lisa's lovely smiling face and a warm hug. I felt so relieved. She led me through the metal door down a long corridor, through another difficult-to-maneuver metal door and into the lime-green painted patio of the modest but spacious home where she lived with two roommates. She had made a special trip home between jobs just to greet me and had to get back to work, so she showed me around the house quickly and then we said our goodbyes.

I was duly exhausted so I decided to attempt a nap despite being a light sleeper and the sounds from the surrounding neighborhood being extremely loud. I dozed off to a polyphony of sounds, including the speech of Argentines, indiscernible in content but tonally Italian, the incessant barking of dogs, the songs of birds yet unknown to me, and occasional eruptions of "GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!" from the soccer field next door.

The sharp, ringing rasp of a repeated doorbell incorporated itself into my dreams. Eventually, so did the amplified echo of Lisa's roommate's voice saying my name with a large question mark behind it. Half dreaming, I remembered that Lisa had left her key with me, so I shook myself awake and went to her aid. On the patio, I encountered her roommate, who had also been sleeping when the bell rang and had been having a confused conversation with Lisa about why she couldn't get in. Later I wondered why he didn't just let her in, but I suspected that, like mine, his brain wasn't totally on at that moment. By that time, a neighbor had already let Lisa into the long corridor where she continued to wait as I attempted to manipulate the inner door. After a good, pushing, pulling, hand-breaking fight against it, I was able to open it for her. This would not be my last battle with that damn door.

I was starving by then so we went out for a little snack at a cute café in the neighborhood. Then we walked to the Subte (short for subterráneo, or subway) to catch a train to one of the studios of Buena Onda Yoga, where Lisa had a class to teach. As we walked from the Subte stop, Lisa motioned toward the middle of the street we were on, Avenida 9 de Julio, and said that it was supposedly the widest in the world. From where we were standing it didn't look particularly wide and I said so. She laughed, admitting that Argentinians were a little prone to exaggeration (but according to Wikipedia, it is indeed the widest avenue in the world). I wasn't sure I'd have the energy to participate in a yoga class after such a long series of flights, but I decided to give it a go. I wasn't sorry either. Lisa is a great teacher and the class made me feel refreshed.

The class ended at dinnertime, so we went into a tiny, inviting restaurant around the corner from the yoga studio called El Refuerzo. It was a hole-in-the-wall as far as size was concerned, but clean and classy, painted a warm red and furnished with dark wooden chairs and tables. We didn't have much to spend so we opted to share a plate. There was plenty to go around and the food was delicious. Our appetizer was a dish of white beans in olive oil with salt, black pepper and a few other appropriate herbs. The main course was bondiola, a succulent hunk of tender, flavorful pork shoulder, browned on the sides and lightly seasoned. It came with roasted potatoes and a fresh green salad.

Yummies with the yogini.

With muscles stretched, bellies full and minds at ease, we sauntered back to the Subte and waited for the train home. On the platform we found a man about our age playing a guitar and singing nineties rock songs by the likes of Nirvana and System of a Down. He had long hair and wore shabby denim with patches and rivets, just like we all did back in the day. A circle of serious-faced young males had formed around him, each nodding his head rhythmically. The man sang very well and it was clear that the music was touching the angst-filled teenagers locked inside the bodies of all present.