Buenos Aires was a shock to the system. I found myself avoiding going out doors to the point that I've lost a significant amount of weight from not maintaining my normal eating habits. When I finally did take a breath and cross the threshold, I would roam for miles (or, should I say kilometers) down what I considered secure corridors without ever going inside a cafe, restaurant, or shop. Picture me walking for 4-5 hours while constantly trying to ascertain if the street is safe, if there are women and children on the sidewalk, if the men are old or young. (I partially blame the countless "be safe!" tidings bestowed on me; while well-meaning and technically good advice, they tend to promote a paranoia that makes it hard to for me to enjoy myself.)
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Self portrait in double reflection: the balcony window and the mirror
above the dining room table in the first apartment I stayed in. |
Speaking to people terrified me because people in this region speak
Rioplatenese Spanish,
the sound of which I can best describe as Spanish with the inflection
of Italian and the suaveness of French. The double L, which I learned to
pronounce as a "yuh" sound, is pronounced as "zh," and Y is the same:
Yo (I) becomes Zho; the street I first stayed on, called Gallo, is
pronounced "gow-zho," not "gow-yo." Turns out my already bad Spanish was
in effect useless.
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| This shoe shop's styles caught my eye, then I realized those are heels for dancing tango. |
I suppose the biggest surprise was that folks didn't really speak
English, and it seemed like few were willing to work with me. I became
extremely embarrassed of being found out; I constantly wondered what
happened to the girl who was happy to point and gesture in the pastry
shop to buy a box of macaroons last summer in Europe. I toured museums
constantly wondering where to get a map and why the second floor wasn't
open, yet I wouldn't be caught dead asking a question to the staff or
even to the people in whose apartment I was staying. I suppose part of
that can be reduced to haughtiness, or self-consciousness to the point
of conceitedness. But mostly stubbornness.
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| This somewhat sepia-toned floral pattern was very popular in all types of shops for clothing and accessories. Even vendor booths in street fairs had this styled of pattern available. |
My discovery of the difference in pronunciation (and even vocabulary, to a certain
extent) was perhaps the most disappointing when applied to my love for
Alejandra Pizarnik's poetry in its native form. I realized I would never
fully grasp the music and prosody of her work without living here and
actively learning the language for a couple years. My stupid
pie-in-the-sky dreams of seriously translating her work were dashed.
And, because of my trouble with the language and culture, I never inquired about her
anywhere, I never went searching for her in libraries or bookstores, I never made the trek to the suburb where she grew up.
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| Funny window display of a sea of reaching mannequin hands in a fabric store in Recoleta |
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| Portrait of Buenos Aires apartments in reflection |
Grocery stores often have a person specifically assigned to the produce
section, that will bag and mark your fruit and vegetables for you. You
don't tip taxi drivers. No one ever has change for a 100 bill, which is
about the equivalent of a $20 bill in the US. Having change is important
and you can get it at most banks (during my first foray into this at
the local HSBC branch, I literally got a rush of adrenaline when it was
my turn with the clerk and I think I visibly blushed).
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| A particularly artsy and well kept apartment facade near Recoleta. |
Eventually I learned some tricks and employed them when I came to my
wit's end, faint to the point I was worried of passing out on the
street: when you go in a restaurant in Buenos Aires, you sit down
wherever you want. Even in cafes you sit, and you are waited on. You
always have to ask for your bill (that's one thing I remember from
Barcelona 2001: the night Elizabeth and I waited for about two hours for
our bill from a waiter who refused to bring it unless we asked for it
in Spanish:
la cuenta, por favor), and in fact I eventually
amused myself by watching the Spanish speakers around me grow shifty and
flag down their server to get their bill. You tip 10% usually (although
many were very thankful when I did so, leading me to believe perhaps
Porteños are actually not that generous...?) and there is a customary
cubierto fee, which is a charge for using silverware, of about 4 to 8
pesos. While we're on the topic, Argentine people usually eat dinner at 9, 10 o'clock or later, and when they go dancing at clubs, they show up at 2 or 3 a.m. Apparently the business day still starts at the same time as the rest of the world (9 a.m.), yet somehow the life expectancy of Argentines is about the same as the US, according to my guide.
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| La Casa Rosa at night; this is that famous building from whose balcony many presidents and dictators made speeches, and from where Madonna sang "Don't cry for me, Argentina...." |
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| Detail of wet footsteps on the plaque beside the Belgrano Monument in Plaza de Mayo |
All this having been said, I survived. I got exercise. I stayed alive. I
went to some museums. I went to some parks. I found the Russian
Orthodox Church; I found the Jesuit Church (yes, it's freaking called
St. Ignatius!). I had a couple English guided tours. I weaved my way
through the packed Peruvian Pride festival in downtown Buenos Aires on a
Sunday. I drank some dang good hot chocolate and I drank Fernet the
Argentine way: with Coca-cola, as a mixed drink (they like Fernet a lot
here). I don't regret my problems with the language and the culture and
the things that it prohibited me from doing, although I did feel a
constant bearing down from the people I stayed with or others to have a
more vigorous experience; the thing is, I don't do tourism vigorously. I
like to sleep in. I like to fart around in my pajamas. I like being
comfortable. I like walking around somewhat aimlessly. I do slightly
regret not preparing more, and not actively prepping myself with vocab
or pronunciation as the experience was happening, but in the total sum
of the way my life has changed in the last 4 weeks, I think I'm doing
OK.
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| View of Torre Monumental, which used to be called the British Clock Tower before Argentina got pissed enough at the British to change its name in 1982, on a crisp sunny day. View from San Martin Plaza. |
On one of my better days, I gave up my trek to some museums on the water front of La Boca when the sidewalk literally ended in train tracks and turned into a large thoroughfare underneath a highway. I retraced my footsteps and went back to Bar Britanico on the corner of Defensa and Avenida Brasil, across from Parque Lezama and down the block from the Russian Orthodox Church. I marched straight in, grabbed a table with a good view, and banished any weird feelings I had about attempting to order a hot chocolate from the unamused waiter. I stirred the bar of chocolate into my hot milk, sipped, and wrote a poem about Alejandra and the crazy, noisy, smelly streets of Buenos Aires. That day I truly accomplished something and I found myself whistling down Tacuarí as I returned to my apartment near San Martin Square.
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| Detail of a pool of water underneath the skeleton of a large derelict building past Retiro Station and on the way to the port. |
Above all, I opened my eyes, ears, nostrils, and feet to Buenos Aires and in that way I absorbed the city in raw sensory perception. I know in 6 months from now, even in 5 or 10 years from now, some vortex of Buenos Aires will come back to me. Perhaps a certain smell or sound will trigger it, but in my experience cities just return to mind at random times, like a zeitgeist with a strong emphasis on the ghost part of the untranslatable concept. And a tinge of longing or unease for Buenos Aires will remind me that I did something difficult, I survived, and I'm living a worthwhile life.
