I have good reason for abandoning you little people.
Just kidding, I would never do that.
But I AM writing for a REAL publication now!
!!!!!!!!!
My first story just went up and can be viewed here:
http://bubblear.com/dont-call-it-paris/
The Bubble, by the way, is an awesomely entertaining and informative ex-pat online newspaper, I recommend it to anyone who wants an inside on Buenos Aires life, culture, and politics.
Besos!
Bariloche, Patagonia (Note the Google image from an earlier post below – while the above was taken with my own camera. Patagonia is one of those places that’s just as breathtaking as the pictures promise.)
Have you ever given yourself a break from exercising that only makes you that less motivated to go to the gym when the break is over? As your motivation decreases your fears of being rusty and out of shape only grows, so that the longer you keep from exercising the harder it becomes to start again, but the louder the critical voice inside judges you for your laziness, until finally you drag yourself, miserably, back into the gym, just to stop the endless dialogue between paranoia and self-loathing?
Writing feels pretty similar (I’m only speculating, I hardly ever go to the gym).
While I can’t say my break was well deserved, it was certainly well worth it to see the Argentina outside of Buenos Aires, a land and culture apart from the bustling metropolis of porteños, crowded subways and streets clogged with taxis and colectivos.
Which is the first primary difference between Buenos Aires and the interior of Argentina – Buenos Aires is the largest and most populated city in the Spanish-speaking world, with 14 million people when you include the commuters from the suburbs, and interior is, well, empty.
I mean empty.
Aside from the small cities of Cordoba and Rosario, and the tourist capitals of Mendoza, Bariloche, and Calafate (which are mostly filled with backpacking Aussies and norteamericanos anyway), Argentina is basically empty land, sometimes interrupted by long swaths of soy crops, for thousands of miles.
Just for context, let me throw some numbers at you – Argentina has over 1 million square miles, about the size of California, Texas and Alaska combined, and a population of only 41.09 million, a measly 3 million more than California. To compare, Mexico is a little over half the size of Argentina, with three times the population.
Now, there are a lot of reasons for this, some of them being that the west is full of treacherous mountains and the south is more suitable for a penguin than a person, but it also reflects the development of this massive nation – Buenos Aires has always been the hub, not only of Argentina, but the entire Rio Plata, where the river meets the Atlantic and goods from all over South America left for the markets of Europe. Buenos Aires was mostly populated by 19th and 20th century immigrants from Europe. When Argentina grew, it was mostly within the borders of the capital city, whose residents don’t even call themselves Argentines but porteños, or “people of the port.”
All these facts can be read in a guidebook, but it’s only palpably felt when you explore Argentina – depending on how you look at it, Argentina is Buenos Aires or everything but. You’d be right to be confused, too – in the early years of the nation, there was much friction (and a civil war) between those who wanted cultural and political autonomy from the capital city, and those who felt that the only Argentine culture worth having was that which lived in Buenos Aires (I bet you can guess which side the porteños were on).
But for all the depressing nothingness and under-development that is much of the Argentine interior, they certainly have their fair share of the world’s most beautiful vistas. Which is the other feeling you get when you explore the different corners of Argentina – this is a fucking beautiful land – with the tallest mountains, largest waterfalls, largest fresh water lakes, largest glaciers, and best Malbec in the Western Hemisphere. Patagonia, which comprises the southern half of the country, is basically a playground of the outdoors, a heaven for mountaineering and hiking, a seemingly endless land of indescribable vistas.
And we just pulled over to see this on our way to someplace else.
Naturally then, it has become a hub of opposite sorts from the hub of the Rio Plata. I never thought that coming to Argentina would bring me close to so many wonderful Americans, Brits and Australians, but being the backpackers capital, every hostel and trail of Patagonia was full of new friends, inspiring stories, and adventurous folk. Bariloche, a Patagonian city in a sweet spot for many trails, was a city of the adventurous, with throngs of fresh-from-the-trail faces and 4-foot tall backpacks bobbing with exploratory energy on every sidewalk. And when you throw Mendoza in the mix, the whole region becomes a hike/raft/rappel by day, imbibe by night routine – what I would also call heaven.
All in all, I had a magical time (and I don’t use that term lightly), and I recommend implore you to spend time in Patagonia if you come to Buenos Aires – if only to know the yin to Buenos Aires’ yang that makes up the whole of Argentina.
And no, I didn’t forget. If you’ve made it this far, I do have my list of discoveries that no guidebook prepared me for, in no particular order:
1.) The art of accurate weather prediction has yet to crack the Argentine weather system, apparently, as my usually trustworthy weather apps are wrong so often that I’ve actually had better luck taking the opposite course of action when I check for the chance of rain. Yes, everyone likes to rag on weather forecasts, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that, especially when it comes to predicting rainstorms, weather forecasting is entirely useless. I’ve already taken to older methods of “feeling the air” for coming rain, or seeing if I can spy a storm cloud coming in over the Rio Plata.
2.) The land of steak and parillas seems to be giving greens a try. At least in Buenos Aires, where vegetarianism is usually met with shock if not hostility, I’ve seen more and more vegetarian markets and rotisseries open in trendy neighborhoods. It seems not even South America is safe from quinoa culture, as a new chain called “Green Eat,” specializing in overpriced organic and mostly vegetarian foods has opened three locations throughout the city.
3.) What began as a simple observation has somehow turned into a running segment: they can still do us better than we can. This episode, brunch – which, especially in the young and trendy neighborhood of Palermo Soho, is ON POINT. Endless brunch locations specializing in different cuisines, all without the added cost of novelty many American restaurants slap onto their brunch menu. My favorite is Magdalena’s Party on Thames, partly because it’s probably the only place in Buenos Aires you can find a breakfast burrito, but mostly because of the $7-a-person bottomless mimosas deal that runs all weekend.
4.) Of course, I have a bias, knowing that Magdalena’s party is owned and operated by an American ex-pat. Which brings me to my next point, ex-pat restaurants are almost too easy to find here. Numerous times have friends and I gone out for lunch or drinks at some top-rated place in a trendy neighborhood, only to find it was opened by an American and our bartender went to UCLA. I have mixed feelings about this; the wanderlust traveler inside cries for more authenticity, but the voice inside that likes chicken wings and breakfast burritos reminds me that these places are everywhere in the neighborhoods of Recoleta and Palermo, plus the porteños seem to love them – Magdalena’s party was voted Buenos Aires’ top-rated brunch place in 2011. So there.
There’s so much more I want to write – if only I could show you my list of ideas I want to share with you guys, including the odd state of sexism in Argentina and Argentina and Britain’s abusive romance. But those are for another day, hopefully soon (but probably not). Until then, saludos, chicos, keep reading and keep getting on my case about posting (you know I need it).
Muchas gracias to all who have liked, followed or commented. You all are my people. And thanks for putting up with my rants about coffee.
I want to let you know I will be in Mendoza and Bariloche next week, visiting the interior and learning more about this huge and wonderful country. And I might not be bringing my laptop. A capital sin in the blogosphere, I know, but look:
One of the many stunning vistas of Bariloche, in Patagonia.
I just wanted to show you what kind of splendor I’ll be dealing with, so as to excuse myself from my wordpress duties (for only a week), and to show everyone that there really is more to life than writing (like wine!)
I’ll be back on it the following week, with more to share.
Habla luego.
A wonderful, albeit hot, cup of Buenos Aires coffee.
Yes, I know I said “new post soon,” but as you will soon learn, dear reader, “soon” (as with all other elements of time) is a relative term in Latin America. Learn to love the lateness.
As I said before, I have a bone to pick with Buenos Aires, about an issue near and dear to both my heart and this city’s – coffee.
Before I go any further, let me state that me encanta el café de Buenos Aires – I love it. It’s like the men here – strong, dark, and easy to come by (sorry, I had to). Better yet, usually the coffee comes with an alfajor and a glass of water (catch up, hombres). For the most part, there isn’t a day I’m not satisfied by a cappuchino or un café chico in Buenos Aires.
For the most part.
Let me also state that I am a relatively easy-going person, it takes a lot to irk me, and as far as cultural differences go, I accept, if not enjoy them as unique experiences to cherish. I’ve lived in my share of places, and I know that everywhere on Earth has something quirky or unique or down right irritating about it. And that’s ok.
But here’s what’s not ok.
Imagine this: on a hot and humid day in Buenos Aires, you stumble out of your apartment to find some roasted bean – that fuel after the fiesta, the drink that keeps this city running. You weave between sweaty porteños on Avenida Santa Fe and duck into an air-conditioned café to get your day started. And what does your caffeine-seeking palette crave?
I’ll tell you one thing, it’s not a piping hot cup of expresso chico.
That’s right, Buenos Aires, we’re talking about iced coffee – café helado. I may take it for granted en los Estados Unidos, but on a hot and exhausting day in this city, the lack of it is enough to make un yankee cry.
Tell me, Buenos Aires, does hot coffee please you when it’s 90 degrees Fahrenheit and humid enough to turn the Subte into a sauna? Because if I wanted to shit a brick and die of dehydration I’d buy a hot dog from the street vendors of Avenida Calbido and run the track in Parque Belgrano. And I don’t really believe ‘cultural differences’ apply to the human gastro-intestinal system, which should not be asked to handle hot coffee on a summer day in South America.
Yet from Starbucks to hole-in-the-wall cafes, iced coffee seems to fly right over the heads of los porteños. Multiple times have I been offered ice cubes plopped into hot coffee. One of these offers came from a nice young man in a Starbucks of San Telmo, who, after looking at me like I had just said “I am an ogre, do you have any children in your tuna salad?” instead of “tienes café helado?”, came up with the brilliant idea of pouring the coffee of the day over a handful of ice cubes.
Perdóneme, but does pouring hot coffee over three ice cubes really constitute an iced coffee? Or would you be creating some watered-down monstrosity that tastes almost as sweaty as I am? I almost felt guilty for asking the barista “…lo hace frío?” (a rough translation of “…would that make it cold?”) To which he replied: “no.”
WELL THEN I DON’T WANT IT, SEÑOR.
We settled on a mocha-coca-whipped up little number, also known as a frappucinno, which I put in italics because it is, how you say, not a real thing, but more like iced coffee’s obese and ostentacious off-spring. It was also twice the price and gilded to the nines in chocolate and cream and chips and WHERE IS THE CAFFIENE. I walked in wanting an iced coffee and walked out feeling like I had bought a bejeweled cell phone case. It was humiliating.
But at least that barista didn’t try the same as the one of Avenida Callao, to whom I have to say: an Americano poured into a venti cup of tap water does not an iced coffee make. It’s actually just tepid and bitter water, now with caffeine.
Let me offer an alternative, Buenos Aires, es muy simple: when you prepare coffee in the morning, make two pots extra and stick them in the fridge. Then, when a customer comes into your shop from the hot streets of Buenos Aires seeking refuge and caffeine, pour said coffee over ice. Serve. Blow his or her mind.
And don’t tell me this is just a cultural difference that I must learn to accept. First of all, I think it’s a stretch to call old coffee poured into a cup of ice is a cultural staple of anywhere, even the United States. Second of all, how can a city this hot, this much of the time not have iced coffee? Not for my benefit, but for logic’s sake, hot coffee on a humid summer day makes absolutely no fucking sense.
I cannot fathom how this basic truth has failed to permeate the minds of Buenos Aires. This is a country that revolutionized literature in the mid-20th century, had one of the first subway systems in the world, and built a metropolis larger than anything Latin America had ever seen at the time.
And yet a chilled coffee is an inconceivable concept.
Call me a complaining yankee, but it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m hot, sweaty, and forcing hot coffee down my throat.
*UPDATE*
Rumor has it that there’s a small kiosk in the old San Telmo Market that sells actual iced coffee. I can only imagine that they’re millionaires for bringing such a blessing to this city.
They say there’s liquid gold in there (Iced, that is).
A friend offers an American tune in Plaza Vincente López
Week two. I think I like week two – it’s the first week I’ve started to really understand the shape of my immediate neighborhood, the local bus lines, which subway stations take me to my friends house or the best bar spots. It’s a week full of the first pieces of the puzzle coming together – Oh, Pueyrredón is only ten blocks down Sante Fe or So the 60 bus could get me to Plaza Italia AND school or Is that Teatro Colón, only 4 blocks from my house? Week two is the week you can walk to cafes and shops in your neighborhood sin mapa, and, at least in Buenos Aires, the week you establish yourself at the local plaza, in my case, Plaza Vincente Lopéz. Week two should really be called week one, since it’s the first week you really feel like you are (somewhat) successfully living here. And week one should just be called W(TF)eek.
What else can I say about week two – the chaos began to normalize, as the city appeared before me in a way I hadn’t understood before. I went to class, I went out to dinner, I even tried typical maté. As I had been told, it was quite bitter; a friend observed it tasted like tobacco, which was weirdly true, it had a faint sweet taste surrounded by immense bitterness, like that of a hand-rolled cigarette. Unlike cigarettes, however, maté is on the whole good for you, full of caffeine for an afternoon pick-me-up, and tastes divine with a spoonful of sugar.
Also, I was sunburned (damn that South American sun).
But I also kind of like being sunburned in February.
Speaking of pink, Valentine’s Day was last week, and in Buenos Aires, el día de San Valentin might as well be a national holiday, because they take this day seriously. Which brings me to what I like to call…
List of discoveries that no guidebook prepared me for, in no particular order.
1.) Valentine’s Day is no joke here. I often forget most Valentine’s Days in the US, even on the day itself. Meanwhile most single women in my life celebrate Galentine’s day or lament the commercialization of romance. But not in Buenos Aires – cynicism and mockery have yet to infiltrate this city of romance, as Valentine’s day is full of restaurants turned pink, bar specials for women, and throngs of men with panicked faces carrying massive bouquets down Santa Fe avenue. A friend and I made the choice to go to a bar on Valentine’s Day for some chicken wings and beer, and were party to 4 table’s (quite aggressive) make-out sesh. It almost felt awkward to not be making out.
2.) Notice the aforementioned chicken wings? Turns out I’m not yet done discovering how they can do us better than we can. OK, maybe their chicken wings aren’t better than our best, but they’re pretty damn close, and only for 50 pesos for ten (or $5). If you’re a buffalo chicken wing fan, or just want a hot date on Valentine’s Day in Buenos Aires, head to Casa Bar in Recoleta (they also make a cheap whiscola).
3.) Speaking of foods they do better than us, the Chinese food is delicioso. First, there’s a lot of it. Second, unlike most cheap Chinese in the US, sodium is not the only ingredient you can taste. It seems that no matter where you are in Buenos Aires, you’re always in a neighborhood for great Chinese food, especially if you’re in Barrio Chino (or China Town), that rivals the China Town’s of US cities in size and quality. Yes, I know Chinese food comes from China, but as a millennial who grew up on chow mein and the offerings of general gau, Chinese food is as a part of my American culture as apple pie. And I swear to god, if I discover they can make that better here than at home, I’m moving.
The steak is also ON POINT here, and, in this case, $6.50 USD.
4.) However, one thing I will cry for, Argentina, is some free tap water with dinner. First of all, get your priorities straight, BA – ordering water with your dinner will add more to your bill than a glass of wine, two empanadas, and in some cases, hard liquor. And it’s always given in small bottles that a dehydrated survivor of a Buenos Aires summer could down in a swift chug. Second of all, it rains enough here to make a drought-weary Californian weep, and, in flood prone areas, cause the occasional fatality. Tap water runs freely and often, and from what I hear, is a cheap commodity to come buy. So, why, then, in a city this hot, can we not drink any of it? Not once has any yankee I know become sick from the tap water here, but many have spent 100 pesos or more to stock up on some Bon Aqua after a hot day. So don’t give me that look when I ask for some tap water with my carne picante, I’m thirsty. And besides, I need to save my money to order another cerveza.
5.) Speaking of cervezas, a word of warning to the young traveler of Buenos Aires – the nightlife might not start until 2AM, but liquor sales stop here past 10PM. I’m assuming it’s because they want you to drink the liquor in the bars and cafes at that point, but I want you to know this, dear reader, so you don’t end up like I did on Friday night, raving like, well, a dumb American, desperately asking strangers for the nearest tienda de alcohol. I really think this one should be in a guidebook, because it can vastly affect your night if your caught dry at 10:30PM. (But don’t worry, my story ends happily, as a particularly determined friend of mine asked a pizza storeowner if he would sell 3 liters of beer to some dumb and desperate yankees, to which he graciously allowed).
6.) This city loves it’s coffee, and I love them for it. All hours of the day and night are cafes open to serve the bustling porteños. I’m assuming it’s because of the nightlife that throws caution (and sleep-deprivation) to the wind, but coffee is everywhere. As a young yankee who’s existence is made possible by caffeine, I’m enamored with the city that drinks coffee this early and this often. However, I do have some qualms (or one big qualm) about the state of coffee in Buenos Aires, but as I hear the rant building in my head, I think it deserves it’s own blog post. Check back soon for the rare experience of hearing an American complain.
Yes, I did just admit to you that I will dedicate an entire post to my thoughts on coffee. You will soon learn, dear reader, that it is often on my mind (but I probably don’t have a problem or anything).
Maybe he’d write on the impossibility of writing when Netflix releases a new season of House of Cards.
New post soon.
My first week in Buenos Aires. It is a period so full of new experiences, both real and intangible, that I find it difficult to find the words to say (that and because all this Spanish is making my English come out funny). It is a city impossible to describe, all at once European and Latin American, local and cosmopolitan, romantic and depressing. It’s history is so full of epochs in the extreme – it was once the 7th wealthiest nation in the world, and now it’s a “chronic defaulter.” It has gone through socialism, capitalism, democracy and military dictatorship, all within the last century. Needless to say, it will take me more than a week or two to really understand the heart that beats behind this city’s chaotic, confused, and wonderful energy.
I want to keep this short – partially because I’m only a paragraph in and I already don’t think this is very good, and partially because down time is a rarity when abroad in the world’s largest Spanish-speaking city. For example, I have tried and failed to start this piece five times. Only now, with a spare half hour at 8:45 on a Monday do I find a moment to get out my first experiences (and I’m skipping my homework to do it).
This first week is like riding a broken rollercoaster – there are highs, lows, and moments when you just stop and look around and try to understand where you are. Those quiet moments, that arise between the noise of new experiences, have a sweet melancholy to them – I’m all alone in a big city, I don’t know what to do or how to get anywhere, but it feels right. It feels humbling, refreshing, present. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really here, if this is all really here, or if this is all just some complex thought I’m having, but dammit if I’m not in Buenos Aires when I wake up every morning. Existing here is different than existing at home. I feel different. I think I act slightly different. I’m tested every day, and sometimes when I turn to face myself I’m surprised at who I’m looking at.
If what Borges says is right, that “personality is just a mirage of conceit and custom,” then it makes sense that my mirage would quiver when custom is ripped so quickly away, and conceit is beaten down by ignorance of language and location. I have less options in the construction of my being, I’ve been paired down from all my passing titles and circumstantial ideology to just a solitary soul, existing every day, without specific cause to do so. And that feels very human.
The other weird thing is I don’t miss home. I miss people of course, and things, and it’s not like I feel at home here, but I’m just too far away to miss it perhaps, or maybe I’m just happy to have cast off the weight of my identity. I don’t know yet.
In other news, Buenos Aires is huge. I mean HUGE. It feels like moving to New York City minus the English. Which brings me to my first point in a series of points that I call:
List of discoveries that no guidebook prepared me for, in no particular order.
1.) There is little to zero English here. It’s exhausting, and difficult, and on top of that, the porteño accent is fast and unintelligible. But it’s ultimately awesome, for I’m forced to practice and learn, much more so than when I was in Spain. And there’s no better feeling that buying new shoes or getting a haircut entirely in Spanish.
2.) Everyone has pets, but few have leashes. Almost every host family has one or more cats (except for mine, alas) and I see people walking their dogs every hour of the day. However, no leashes. Collared dogs just walk alongside their owner in a metropolis so packed it should be called Crowded Aires. I have no idea how they do it. It’s a wonder in dog training. Their owners, however, may need more training, which brings me to my next point…
3.) There is dog shit literally everywhere. When you mix a city with this many dogs and no custom for poop removal, sidewalks turn into slaloms of dog shit. I have yet to step in one, but I know one day I will, so walking to school is like a Russian Roulette game of dog crap. And one of these days, splat. I just hope I won’t be wearing my new shoes.
4.) The coffee is average, but they can do us better than we can. It’s been one week and already Argentina wins hands down on ice cream and hamburgers. Both are rich and thick, full of toppings of whatever you like. If you, reading stranger, ever come here you must frequent Burger Joint (best burgers in the Western Hemisphere, I’ll bet) and Freddo, a chain of ice cream that surpasses expectations, no matter how high they are (they even have a Malbec flavor)
behold the wonder of Malbec and Dulce de Leche Freddo.
5.) The peso changes like it’s the weather. When I arrived it was $1 = 8 pesos. Then it climbed to 1 = 11.8. Today it was 1 = 10.5. I have no idea why the recent decline, but it’s rising overall, as the government slowly admits it has no plan for Argentina’s debt crisis or inflation problem. Getting money out of the bank is a fun little gamble, if you don’t like the exchange rate that day, wait 24 hrs. It will change.
6.) And finally, holy shit the nightlife. I would describe it less as fun and more as a marathon. After a 10pm dinner, you go for drinks at a friends house until 2 or 3am, then party until 7am. Oh, and this happens every single night. For some reason, Argentinians don’t need sleep, and always operate in a hangover. For me, after my first Friday, I needed a whole 12 hours to recuperate. I don’t think I can ever play at this level. But, because of the love for dancing and drinking here, the bars and clubs are aplenty, with milongas for dancing tango, trendy bars for expensive cocktails and sushi, and dozens upon dozens of cheap Irish pubs for a cheap Quilmes (Buenos Aires beer).
There’s so much more to discuss, including the insane rainstorms, complex hand gestures, and the inexplicable popularity of Rod Stewart, but maybe I’ll write more in a week or so. I’d describe all the wonderfully unique barrios I went to, but there are photos for that. If you’re thinking sweet job Mark, you went on for 250 word about dog shit and never once told me where you went, I’ll give you this – each barrio, or neighborhood, is it’s own unique mini-city, each with their own plaza, people, and parks galore. From the bourgeois Recoleta to party-town Palermo, trendy Puerto Madero to colonial San Telmo, each corner has a story, and probably an old man to tell it for 2 pesos.
Which is why I don’t mind the anonymity here – Buenos Aires has so many distinct personalities that I’m too enraptured to think about who I am. My desire for multiple faces is fulfilled by this city, which has an endless amount of distinct worlds to escape to. As for me, if Borges is right, and my personality has been so easily taken away, then I kind of like what lies underneath – an endlessly curious, often lost, young norteamericano that just wants to know where to get un café fuerte.
OK, BA 