Alchemy

Lisa and I woke midmorning and I told her about my dreams. We took our time getting ready and cooking a breakfast consisting of equal parts eggs and cheese, scrambled, and oranges on the side. Then we walked to Full City Coffee House above which Lisa had another yoga class to teach and I sat in the cafe while she did so.

The place was wide open, airy and full of natural light. It had a patio enveloped in climbing vines divided by trickling water features. The air was saturated with the calming smell of the warm, moist wood decking underfoot and it made me feel like I was in a spa. I sat at a low table on a cushy sofa just inside the cafe and wrote for a while. Then I ordered a small vegetarian quiche and a bottle of fizzy water. The woman behind the counter taught me that there was no such thing as agua gaseosa when, while ordering, I confused gaseosa (sugary, carbonated soft drinks like Coke) and agua con gas (carbonated water like Perrier). After my snack and, seeing that the two women who had been on the patio had vacated it, I moved my operation out there. I scanned the cafe's bookshelves for something interesting and settled on a Spanish copy of Coelho's The Alchemist, one of my favorite adventures. I nestled into the padded bench in my private little zen garden and began reading. The weather was glorious. The sky was blue as fuck.

When I was only a few pages into the shepherd Santiago's epic journey, Lisa came and found me. We exited the cafe and went around the corner to a cybercafe to use the internet. The attendants there were obviously a little worried about crime, having protected the booth where you pay and the computer area itself with heavy bars. We paid, were buzzed in through the security gate and each took a seat in a decrepit chair in front of a yellowed keyboard and a flickering tube monitor. There I learned via Facebook that my oldest friend in the world (in terms of years known, not age), Melissa, had just been bitten by a poisonous spider in Australia. She had lasted there unscathed for over a year and was nearing the end of her stay when it happened. She survived.

Our next destination was El Galpón, an indoor organic produce and artisans' market on a dead-end street, nestled next to a train yard near the northeast corner of the cemetery. It wasn't far, but it felt like miles away because as soon as we left the cybercafe, my guts decided to go into emergency mode and I broke into a cold sweat. Luckily, Lisa is a fast walker. We arrived at El Galpón in the nick of time and Lisa talked to the doorman about getting me into the bathroom which, thankfully, was unoccupied at that moment.

Both mentally and physically relieved, I walked out of the market and joined Lisa at a table in the outdoor cafe. We had come to eat, rather than to shop. The cafe was really just a few tables set up next to a grumpy old guy with a grill who would throw your meat of choice onto a toasted bun. The reluctant waitstaff would also bring you a beverage and condiments if you put forth the necessary effort to summon them.

I ordered some kind of chorizo that was split in two and doused it with chimichurri. For the simplicity of it all, it was delicious. Bellies full, we rounded the cemetery and headed home for showers and what was becoming a daily habit of an afternoon nap.

Later that evening (much later than I ever would have left my abode for any reason), we went to the home of Lisa's friend, Jessica, a fellow yoga instructor. As it turned out, several of Lisa's friends in Buenos Aires were yoga instructors. At Jessica's we dined with a few other expat women with whom Lisa had become very close during her time in the city. We sat in a circle around the coffee table in the living room, eating a vegetarian meal and sharing travel stories, many of which were just incredible.

At one point, the conversation turned toward the draw of Buenos Aires. Everyone's initial impressions had been that it was busy, loud and dirty. Admittedly, that was exactly how I had felt about it those first few days into my trip. Jessica described having wandered around endlessly, asking herself "Surely it gets nice at some point, right?" Despite the city's shortcomings and these women's initial impressions of it, at some point they all got sucked in - addicted to it - and felt like they couldn't leave. I could understand this phenomenon somewhat. I remembered Paris feeling huge, loud and overwhelming when I first arrived, but you didn't have to go far to find something really beautiful that made you glad you were there. There are as many oases in that city as there are sources of noise, grime and bustle. Plaza de Mayo had been one such oasis for me in Buenos Aires and I hoped to find more of them. I yearned to fall prey to the addictive charm that these women spoke of.

The following day I did next to nothing, which was fine with me. I'm a premature old lady and long-since retired from the barhopping, all-nighter social excursions of my college years. If I have more than two or three commitments a week, I get anxious for solitude. So I stayed at home and contemplated my navel while Lisa went to yoga.

We had planned to go to a park in the afternoon, but instead went to the home of Lisa's friend, Kristin, in the affluent Palermo neighborhood. Her apartment was a stunning, two-story, white-washed work of modern art with big windows through which ample sunlight poured. There I was introduced to a couple of new people: our gracious host, Kristin, a brand manager for a company in New York; Indi, a New Zealander who had been cycling the world and was currently on a prolonged stop and working for a digital ad agency in the city; and Caro, a financial analyst and native of Buenos Aires. The five of us spent a stationary afternoon on the floor in the upper-level sunroom of Kristin's apartment. As we conversed, she served us a light paleo-style snack that she had made, along with some not-so-paleo mini donuts. Kristin and Indy spent a good portion of the time working and having an intense conversation about marketing techniques and ideas. Caro and I were both interested in languages and discussed at length the differences between the Spanish dialects of Argentina and Spain.

Night fell and it was time for Lisa and I to head out. We were hungry again and took advantage of the close proximity of a parilla, or barbecue style restaurant, sitting on a corner a couple of blocks away. Argentina is famous for its treatment of beef and I was excited to try my first parilla meal. The restaurant was called Las Cabras and it was packed, both indoors and outdoors. After a reasonable wait, we were seated at a tiny table for two along the sidewalk.

The portions were enormous so we shared a wonderfully tender flank steak, a big caesar salad and a large hunk of rustic bread. Lisa accessorized her portion with a cold, tall beer.

Eat your heart out, Texas.