CHAPTER 35
Buenos Aires is the so called Paris of South America. Broad, tree lined avenues cut the city into a puzzle of neighborhoods, each one distinct and exceptional in its own right. From the hip and trendy Palermo neighborhood with its bohemian roots, to the old quarter of San Telmo where antique stalls choke the cobbled streets, to the dangerously independent La Boca, where allegiance to the neighborhood football club is practically mandated by the local government, and enforced by prowling street gangs.
Three million people call the crowded city home, but that number swells to a claustrophobic six million during business days. With so many people coming in and out of the city every day, you would think that they would have an organized and efficient transit system… but you would be wrong. Long highways originating in distant corners of the country converge on the city from every direction of the compass, forming a spider web of concrete and asphalt with Buenos Aires, El Capital, at its center. The eight lane highway that circles the city is in a perpetual traffic jam, one that we came to know well. The city streets are no different, and though we became quite proficient at navigating our way through the crowded maze in our trusty Golden Gringo, we found that using the public transit system was a much better and safer way to get around.
Their solution to moving millions of people about the city consisted of a decrepit and inconveniently routed subway system, and, what we and most people preferred, the bus system. Thousands of private buses, or colectivos, zip around the city in every imaginable combination of routes. For the most part the buses were frequent and aside from the morning rush hour, relatively not crowded. But even these 4-wheeled behemoths left something to be desired- the $1.20 peso fare could only be paid with coins, which were in such short supply throughout the city that people and business alike horded whatever they could get their hands on. It was virtually impossible to get change from anyone; they regarded coins as more valuable than bigger denominations of paper bills. Even if you bought something from a shop, they would rather give you a discount in price, or round up your change to the next peso to avoid having to cough up those precious little disks of metal. On one frustrating occasion, Kacey and I spent almost $8 pesos at 5 different corner stores buying individual pieces of bubble gum and candy, just to acquire the additional $0.65 centavos that we needed for our bus tickets. We quickly learned to guard every coin we came across as solid gold, and contrary to my normally tight wallet, I grew into the habit of putting a $2 peso bill in the beggar’s cups, rather than the $0.25 centavo coin that was a more appropriate amount.
By some great stroke of luck we were able to secure the same furnished apartment that our friends Nick and Rochelle had used, and where we had stayed for one night prior to our trip home. Having a solid base of operations for our time in BA was truly invaluable. We spread out and made it our temporary home. We cooked, and ate on the patio almost every meal. We slept in, and lounged around reading books between forays out into the city to see the sights. And the best part about it is that it was cheaper than even a simple dorm room at the lousiest hostels in town.
We spent two weeks exploring the winding streets of the city, Kacey shopping for inexpensive, but quality, designer clothes and accessories, while I kept my eye out for anywhere that offered BA’s version of the ubiquitous empanada al horno: delicious mini calzones, oozing with melted cheese and almost any other ingredient you can think of.
We also made a point of visiting a few key sights that are sprinkled across the capital. Our first stop was El Obelisco which is over 200 feet tall and was erected to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the city’s founding, at the center of Avenida Nueve de Julio, purportedly the widest street in the world. Later, we made our way to the weekend San Telmo antique market, which stretches for over a mile through the picturesque downtown neighborhood, and is second to none in its variety and quality of old collectable things. Our hands were somewhat tied in what we could purchase by the fact that a lot of the most interesting things were either too delicate, or two big and cumbersome to realistically join us on our journey. Here more than ever, Kacey’s wise words of “Dave, I know it’s cool, but how are you going to get it home?” could be heard throughout the market almost constantly. We did end up with a few small gems though: Kacey with an old-fashioned lady’s evening purse from the 1920’s, made from hundreds of tiny interlocking metal rings, and my prize was an old silver zippo-type lighter that had the inscription “Manufactured in Hong Kong, The British Empire” etched into its base.
Another spot we were eager to see was the Ateneo Book Store. The interior of this formerly luxurious theater had been converted into a sprawling book store, with shelves upon shelves of books taking the place of the old aisle seating. Even the balcony seating on the 2nd and 3rd levels were lined with shelves. You could pick out a new book and sit in one of the private boxes to browse through it, or take a table at the spendy café that now occupies the stage, with the full red velvet curtains and rows of hanging theater lights above still in place to give you the feeling of having a part in some grand acting performance.
One of the most interesting, and peculiar sights we saw was the famed Recoleta Cemetery. This eerie necropolis covered almost 4 square city blocks, and is home to the tombs of Argentina’s wealthiest and most historically influential families. Row after row of massive mausoleums were built side by side and narrow alleyways zigzagged their way between them, giving the cemetery the distinct impression of being a city for the dead. We stopped off at the tomb of Evita, the wife of Argentina’s former president Juan Peron, who at her time was one of the most influential women in the world. She was iconized by a famous movie with the poignant lyrics of her song “…don’t cry for me, Argentina!” We were surprised by the dozens of Argentineans and foreigners alike who still flock to her tomb to pay their respects.
Many of the mausoleums did not fare as well as Evita’s though- it was astonishing to see the ghastly evidence left by of grave robbers who had broken into and ransacked hundreds of tombs. Apparently no one from these unfortunate families remains in Buenos Aires to look after their ancestor’s mausoleums, and the debris of broken glass and stone lay scattered about the bases of splintered and upturned coffins. I’m not sure why the cemetery keepers didn’t clean up the mess, or try a little harder to prevent the thieves, but some of the tombs dated back to the early 1700’s, and I guess that whatever money the family had paid for the upkeep of their mausoleum has long since run out.
Aside from seeing the sights, we also spent much of our time catching up and hanging out with some old friends of mine who happened to be making their home in BA. When I was in college I spent one amazing semester enrolled in a study abroad program called Semester at Sea. Me and 700 other students from all over the US boarded a cruise ship turned floating university, and sailed around the world. I was lucky enough to meet Amy and Hannah on this voyage of a lifetime, and even though we hadn’t seen each other in almost six years, our reunion was heartfelt and joyful. Along with Hannah’s Columbian boyfriend Filipe, and their entrepreneurial roommate Nathan, the six of us ate and drank our way through the nightlife of the Capital, with our time together culminating at a giant birthday bash for Hannah on our last night in town.
We knew we would be back to Buenos Aires at the end of our trip, so we left a few things that we wanted to see and do undone, and got ready for the final portion of our journey. Southern Argentina and Chile lay waiting for us to explore, with our ultimate goal of Ushuia, the most southerly city in the world, drawing us like a magnet towards the tip of the continent.
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