Setting Out Alone

I woke feeling very, very tired, as is to be expected when one has just traveled a long way. I took a shower and then went back to bed for a bit where Lisa had been hitting the snooze button repeatedly. That day I was going to spend the afternoon alone because Lisa had to work. Once she was up and ready to go, we walked the half mile from the house on Jorge Newbery, to Avenida Corrientes. There we would have our choice of several buses or the Subte.

Route map: A) Lisa's House; B) Av. Corrientes bus stop; C) Av. Santa Fe and Calle Florida; D) Plaza de Mayo; E) Av. Córdoba and Calle Bouchard

The vertical surfaces of Buenos Aires are covered with interesting graffiti and the ones lining Jorge Newbery are no exception. Much of the graffiti is the usual tagging you see anywhere: indiscernible in meaning and not particularly visually stimulating. But the city is also apparently filled with talented artists who take pride in decorating otherwise drab walls with bright colors, complex designs and powerful messages. As you walk along Jorge Newbery, you can appreciate an almost continuous mural stretching along the tall, stone southeast wall of the cemetery. The artwork varies in style and extends as high as the average Argentine arm can stretch. 

The rabbit is "GUILTY" and the heart says "I love you" in French.

Some graffiti is functional, taking the place of conventional signage, and I learned that you can pay graffiti artists to decorate your surfaces with something desirable so that they are less likely to be vandalized by unwanted, unattractive tagging. This was my personal favorite:

"If you park here, that's a paddlin'"

As we neared the intersection with Avenida Corrientes, we decided to take a shortcut through Parque los Andes. There we stumbled upon a bizarre dog conference where several off-leash dogs just stood still, faced mostly in one direction. As we approached they started barking, letting us know our intrusion was unwelcome.

The Convening of the Canine Congress

As we approached the strip of sidewalk where the buses stopped most frequently, I noticed that clumps of people had formed here and there at irregular intervals. I was confused as to how everyone knew where to stand because, other than the two official-looking bus stop shelters on that long block, there were no indications of other stops. I asked Lisa how she knew we were standing in the right place for the bus we wanted. She pointed to the nearest tree.

I would never have guessed this was a bus stop. This would not be the last time that public transportation in Buenos Aires would bewilder me.

The bus took us to the microcentro, or the central business district, and we got off at a triangular plaza where Avenida Santa Fe meets Calle Florida, the latter being a touristy shopping strip open solely to foot traffic a little further south of that point. Lisa pointed me in that direction and we said our goodbyes. My first order of business, and the bane of the small-bladdered female traveler, was to find a place to take a pee. The first candidate I saw was a McDonald's so I ducked in. It wasn't until I went through the doors and was hit with the aroma of cooking capitalism that I realized I was hungry. Quite ashamed of myself, I had breakfast there. If you've never been to a McDonald's in another country, they are quite a sight to behold. They are often two-storied, impeccably clean and decorated like mid-range American bistros. You will be hard-pressed to find any garish, waving Ronald McDonald and Hamburglar statues or sticky child play structures in these establishments. I sat there for a while, writing and again feeling like I had stepped through some kind of portal from Paris.

I walked south along Calle Florida and was only really interested in doing so because I needed to buy a bag. After just a couple blocks, everything looked the same: leather shops, clothing stores, newspaper kiosks and shady-looking men furtively chanting "cambio, cambio" (exchange). I don't understand economics well, but something about the falling value of the Argentine peso against the U.S. dollar had created a large black market for dollars. I had been warned to avoid dealing with these guys because if they actually paid you, as opposed to just robbing you, their exchange rate was terrible. I stuck with the conventional method of ATM withdrawal when I needed cash.

I walked slowly, trying to take my time while taking it all in. A few blocks in I happened upon an electronics shop containing a cybercafe that was blasting modern tango music into the street to entice the passing shoppers. Since Lisa's computer had gone on the fritz right before my arrival, I stopped in for a little while to write Charlie and let him know I had arrived safely. Then I continued on my way. After my slow mile-long journey (I never did buy a bag), Calle Florida spat me out onto Avenida de Mayo, just a block from the important Plaza de Mayo. This is the site where many people mistakenly believe Evita Perón gave her famous renouncement speech from the balcony of the Casa Rosada (the Pink House). She actually gave the speech over the radio.

I walked into the first important-looking building I saw on the northwest corner of the plaza, which was the Metropolitan Cathedral, built in the 18th century.

The column-laden entrance

It was a lovely cathedral. The signs all around referred to it as "baroque" and so I guess it was.

Rich colors of paint coat the walls, arches and domes.

The highlight of the cathedral was the mausoleum of General San Martin. Housed in its own domed, gilded chapel on the east side of the cathedral, it stood tall and imposing in black marble, surrounded by guardian statues and draped with the Argentine flag. It wasn't the tomb itself that impressed me, but the motionless guards bearing swords that stood at the entrance, dressed in uniforms that were indubitably military but bore a striking resemblance to those of a U.S. high school marching band. 

Time standing still

The plaza was surrounded by a few other official government buildings that were better suited to Argentina's national affairs than to tourism. It was an astonishingly beautiful day so I walked right to the center of the plaza and took a seat on a long semicircular stone bench a few feet from a large round fountain opposite the Casa Rosada. I was not particularly interested in entering that building and later found out that, much like the White House, you can't just wander in off the street. I'm sure one could take an official tour, but that's just not my style.

From the people watching perch

Fluffy white clouds in a jewel blue sky.

I sat on my stone bench a good long while, studying the people who came into view. Prior to my trip, I had met a few Argentines outside of Argentina and thought they all had a similar appearance, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly it was that made them seem so physically similar to one another. So I sat there, examining faces, trying to define for myself what the "average Argentine" looked like. Here in the Plaza de Mayo, their appearances varied greatly. Hair and skin color both ranged from very light to very dark and the only thing I could say they tended not to be was black or Asian. Those who were appeared to be foreign visitors. I never did manage to nail down what the definitive "Argentine" look was. Perhaps it had just been a coincidence.

Buenos Aires is fairly humid and this was one of the places where conditions were just right for enjoying the shine of the sun while being refreshed by the wind blowing in from the coast. It was probably the first time since my arrival that I wasn't sweating profusely. After a prolonged, comfortable sit, my stomach told me it was time for lunch. I took the long way out, circling around the plaza and passing in front of the Casa Rosada just to get a closer look. Then I chose a narrow side street, heading north toward where I would meet Lisa later on. 

I stopped into a little cafe, the name of which I did not notice, where a very nice and attentive waitress looked after me. I expertly perused the menu for a few moments and then betrayed my decent Spanish by asking the waitress what pechuga meant. To be fair, I was a vegetarian during the years that I was actively acquiring new Spanish words, especially those having to do with food, so there wasn't really any reason I would know how to say "chicken breast". This sparked the inevitable conversation about where I was from, why I was here and for how long. When I told her I had just arrived the day before, she was shocked, marveling at how I was wandering around all by myself already. I didn't tell her that I had had lots of help getting there. After a short time, my food came and it was about as delicious as a cardboard box. The chicken breast was as dry as if it had been cooked on a George Foreman Grill for an hour and the potatoes were undercooked. I had to douse the plate from edge to edge with table salt, which is something I never do. I managed to eat most of it, thanked my gracious waitress and then paid about $8.50 for the whole ordeal.

My next stop was a busy intersection where I was to meet Lisa after one of her English teaching gigs. I was early, so I waited on the corner of Avenida Cordoba and Calle Bouchard, marveling at just how ugly it was. The road was crammed with huge semi trucks, their horns wailing as they coughed exhaust, their noise and stink mixing into and thickening the air. I was stationed across from some kind of transport depot and saw several buses pull out of it, each identifying itself as an "Autobús Semirápido". I laughed at the name, which literally means "Semi-Fast Bus". Speed is a virtue in transport so I thought it ridiculous to call your vehicle something akin to a "Not-So-Fast Bus" or an "Almost Express". As I mulled this over, I was passed by several professionals in suits, all moving quickly as if time was money. I took a photo of the intersection simply because not everywhere is picturesque and that's just the way life is.

I mean, let's be real here.

Lisa appeared and we walked together to the nearest Subte stop and returned home. Lisa then had a private yoga class to teach and set out to do so while I napped. When she returned we popped out to the grocery store for provisions for our Friday night in. We had the house to ourselves so we spent a couple of hours snacking on cheese and crackers and cooking a medley of beans and vegetables. While cooking, we alternated between dancing to the Reggaeton blaring from Argentina's version of MTV and half-watching the movies Peacock and The Breakfast Club.

Then it was time for bed. As we were about to turn in, Lisa said to me, "Try to remember your dreams." Those dreams involved a house fire, fishing and crossing a precarious bridge over a rushing river. Then I attempted to sing backup for Soundgarden and sleep with Trent Reznor, failing at both endeavors.