The Ride Home from Hell

On my last day in Buenos Aires, I rose early to shower, pack my things, and mentally prepare for the long journey ahead. I love traveling, but it is stressful. Lisa called to arrange for a private car, or remís, to come take me to the airport in the afternoon. 

I stepped out for lunch and made the mistake of going to Kentucky Pizza one last time. The man at the window who took my order was a fat, sweaty, boorish jerk who barely paid attention to anything I said while he leaned half of his body out of the takeout window to leer at women passing on the street. The two empanadas I received were not the ones I ordered and, naturally, a flavor I didn't even like, but I didn't realize that until I got home.

I spent the afternoon trying to relax and reading science articles on the internet. A mini tractor beam had been invented! Of course I couldn't help but fantasize about life becoming like Star Trek.

The car arrived to take me to the airport. It was a nice, new red car and was cleaner than the average taxi. The sun was intense that day and, despite the air conditioner being on full blast, sweat poured from my skin the entire ride. My chauffeur drove in a rather swervy manner, like everyone in Buenos Aires seemed to do. He explained that we were taking a circuitous route due to traffic, but I didn't really think that mattered since we had agreed upon a flat rate on the phone and had set out quite early.

There was heavy traffic on the circuitous route too, and what should have been a 40-minute ride took an hour and a half. It was all fine and dandy until the driver started talking and then refused to shut up until we arrived. He slurred his words as if he were drunk and drove as slowly as possible, often trying to make eye contact and flashing me his sparse-toothed grin in the rearview mirror rather than watching the road. He would begin a sentence with a complaint about Argentina and then finish it with a statement about how beautiful and matchless it was. He uttered other brilliant things too, such as when he called me bien gringa (so white) in response to me telling him I was half Mexican, and then followed up by telling me how machista Mexicans are. When I mentioned to him that I was to be married that spring, he encouraged infidelity before it was too late, not-so-subtly hinting that he was volunteering for the job.

When we finally got to the airport, he tried to swindle me out of 50 more pesos than what we had negotiated on the phone. I refused to give him more than ten extra pesos, as a tip, even though he didn't deserve even one. Once inside the airport I had to go through three different checkpoints to get to my gate. At the second one, an incredulous little girl exclaimed to her mother (who had clearly already had enough), "¡¿Dos controles?!" (Two checkpoints?!). People around her exchanged knowing glances and nodded in agreement with the little girl's expression of exasperation.

I reached my gate, relaxed, and ate the only food I could find: ice cream and Cheetos. I prayed that my seat mate for the ride home would be a quiet person. That wish was granted, but unfortunately I got the most uncomfortable seat in the history of airplane seats and didn't sleep a wink during the 10-hour flight to Atlanta.

When the plane landed, I had my worst re-entry experience ever. It was 5:00 a.m. and still dark in Atlanta when I shuffled bleary-eyed into the passport control line with throngs of other weary travelers. When I got to the checkpoint, the tall man behind the counter asked me the standard questions: Where are you coming from? What was the purpose of your trip? Etc. Then he asked me what I did for a living. I told him that I was a Spanish translator. He paused to look at my face for a moment and then smirked. "Really?" he said, "It doesn't look like it." He continued to smirk, amused with himself as if he had just told a funny joke, and waited for me to react. I furrowed my brow at him, bewildered by all the things wrong with his statement and shocked and his level of cultural insensitivity. I mean, his job is to interact with people from all over the world, for Christ's sake, and he's having a laugh about the fact that I don't fit his preconceived notions of what a Spanish-speaker should look like?

After an awkward moment, I shrugged, not really knowing what to say to that. He drew a cryptic symbol on my customs declaration, stamped my passport and dismissed me. As I walked away I muttered under my breath, "My last name is Garcia, you fucking idiot."

I approached the next line where two men were inspecting peoples' customs declarations and either allowing them through the checkpoint or waving them into a nearby room for further inspection. It was here that I learned the meaning of the cryptic symbol that the passport control officer had drawn on my form, as I was instructed to step into the adjacent room for a secondary check.

The first part of this check was to surrender my passport and my luggage to one officer and then sit in a nearby waiting area from which I would be called. There were only two officers inspecting peoples' luggage and probably six people in line in front of me, including a large family. The longer I waited, the more annoyed and anxious I became, knowing that I needed to get to my next flight soon. 

Finally, the young man who would be inspecting my bag called me up and, before opening it, asked me a few standard questions. Mainly he wanted to know where I was coming from and what I had been doing there, so I informed him that I had just got off a 10-hour flight from Argentina. He rifled through everything, opened every bag and box, and inspected and questioned me about everything I had with me. He pulled out a bottle of prescription medication, read the label and then asked what it was for. I told him it was anxiety medication because sometimes I get nervous when I fly. His response was, "Oh that's why you're all 'lalalala'," as he rolled his eyes back in his head and lolled his tongue out of the side of his mouth. Now I was pissed. "No, I haven't taken any," I replied curtly, and then repeated, "I just got off a 10-hour redeye flight from Argentina."

Just like the guy I dealt with before him, he smirked at having got a rise out of me. Then he picked up an article of clothing wrapped around a souvenir I had bought Charlie. "That's fragile," I told him, glaring. After he inspected it, he handed it to me and said sarcastically, "I'll let you repack this." Once he finally finished his smart-ass laden task, I angrily shoved my belongings back into the suitcase and hurried to my next gate.

Luckily, the next leg of my flight was easy and I was so exhausted that I slept all the way through it. It was a good thing too. I was ready to strangle the next person who crossed me.

A few final reflections on Buenos Aires:

One of the biggest challenges I faced in Buenos Aires was figuring out what to take pictures of. Not only that, I was somewhat afraid to take pictures because I had been repeatedly told stories of thieves snatching cameras or other valuables out of people's hands while they used them in public. That fear aside, I kept looking for the picturesque in this city and just wasn't finding it. A conversation with one of Lisa's friends leapt to mind, when she translated her first impression of the city with the phrase, "Surely it gets nice at some point, right?" I can only conclude that the charm of the city must lie in the activities and interactions occurring therein.

Buenos Aires is certainly sexy. The national pastime, tango, just oozes sensuality. The women are stacked and many have long, dark hair (however, I fear for the evolution of their appearance now that the Argentine government subsidizes plastic surgery). The men are tall, dark and handsome, and have a reputation for incredible charm and lifelong immaturity; it's a nation of man-children. It's ideal if you're young, single, and like to drink, dance and don't need to sleep. The word on the street is that this is a great city for getting laid. If you're a prematurely old teetotaler in a monogamous relationship who only likes to dance to music that doesn't require complex footwork, best choose another location. 

As for the individual districts, my opinions of them were formed by short visits, observations from bus/taxi windows, or by what others told me about them, so take these with a grain of salt. Palermo and Recoleta both seemed pretty posh, but clean and quite safe. Microcentro was great for shopping but incredibly noisy. I never visited Once, but saw it from the bus and could see that it was filthy and impoverished. It also had a reputation for being very dangerous. The Chacarita neighborhood where Lisa lived had the same reputation and was seen as somewhat undesirable, but it seemed like a pretty average neighborhood to me. Cañitas was cute and middle class. San Telmo was extremely cute, probably the closest thing to picturesque I found, and it also seemed like there was a lot to do there even though everything was closed when I visited.

No area I visited seemed particularly dangerous, but I didn't like walking around or waiting for buses late at night, especially in deserted areas (common sense). After hearing story after story of robberies, I was more concerned with someone snatching my new camera out of my hands while I took pictures than I was about my personal safety.

The buses in Buenos Aires run all night, which seems logical in a city where no one sleeps. Taxis are cheap if you are a person who earns your income in US dollars. For example, a taxi trip from one side of town to the other, which can take 40 minutes or so in traffic, costs about 50 Argentine pesos or $7 USD. The Subte, or subway, is a great option for transportation, but outside of the Microcentro the stops are few and far between. There was always a decent walk involved to get to any form of transportation.

The food is good if you're willing to pay for good food, and by American standards, even the best stuff is still pretty cheap. Parillas are the way to go if you want a protein-heavy, filling meal. The beef cannot be beat and there is plenty of high-quality fresh produce to be found.

And that concludes the saga of Argentina. Up next, a honeymoon in Belize!