CHAPTER 45
Gauchos are Argentina’s answer to the cowboy. They are reserved, respected, and decidedly more refined then their North American counterparts. They wear berets, and kerchiefs, and they tuck their slightly billowing pants into the tops of their tall polo riding boots. Instead of a lasso, they use the bolas- three weighted ropes all connected at one end, which when thrown, spin through the air like a helicopter, and entangle the legs of their target ruminant. You will never see a gaucho swear in the presence of a lady, drink anything other than a fernet and cola, or ride something with less than four legs- their horse is like an extra bodily appendage. And when a gaucho laughs, you hear the cumulative effect of 500 years of toil, comedy, and strife, acquired by this hearty breed of man while wrangling great herds of cattle over Argentina’s endless pampas.
San Antonio de Areco is possibly the one place left in the world that a true gaucho can be found. Yes, there are countless towns and villages across Argentina where men ride horses and herd cattle, but so many of these have fallen victim to the conveniences of the modern world, to the detriment of their traditional culture. San Antonio on the other hand, is an enigma of time and space, a snapshot of history frozen in the late 1800’s. The streets are cobbled, the buildings are quondam, and if not for the occasional vehicle jouncing past on the uneven roadway, or the hum of a radio faintly drifting out of the corner bar’s window, you wouldn’t be able to tell which century you were in. The whole scene embodies a feeling of nostalgia for how simple life must have been, followed by a feeling of calm, relaxed, bliss at the thought of being a part of this forgotten time, if only for a day or two. Because of this, there is a certain amount of tourist traffic strolling the sidewalks and perusing the shop fronts, but by in-large, San Antonio has remained mostly undiscovered to the outside world, and quite frankly, I hope that is stays that way. Writing about the irrepressible charm of a place, and then posting it to the internet, is probably not the best way to keep a secret, but I hold no delusions about the extent of my readership, so I think San Antonio is safe for now- just wait till I publish a book though…
Our arrival in this small town was how it always is- we drove in and found our way to the main square, made a casual circuit of the plaza and from there picked a random side road to explore, looking for a unpretentious hotel and a restaurant full of locals. The one hostel shown in our book was full, so on an off-chance, we walked across the street to the Hotel y Spa San Carlos. Normally, any establishment with the word “spa” in its name would immediately be ousted from our potential boarding options, but we were nearing the end of our trip, had done a fair job up until now of sticking to our budget, and Kacey had that “well, it can’t hurt just to see how much it is, right?” look on her face, so I relented. Kacey, like most females, loves the idea of a spa, and when the lady at the counter informed us that a daily one-hour water spa treatment would be included with our three-room suite for the absurdly low price of $180 pesos ($45 USD) per night, Kacey didn’t even ask me what I thought. She slapped the counter emphatically and said “we’ll take it!”
The next morning I knew Kacey had only one thing on her mind- the spa- but I convinced her to delay her gratification until later in the day, so we could go out and see some of the town before lunch, come back for our treatment, and have the rest of the afternoon to laze by the pool. It turned out that the small tourist information office in the park down the street lent out bicycles to travelers for free. We have always found that the best way to see a place is on two wheels, doubly so if your ride is gratis, so we made for the office and picked out a couple of classic single speeds for our morning tour.
The day was starting off beautifully. One of those late summer mornings where the sun bathes everything in a deep golden light, and the colors of the buildings, and the trees, and the sky, are as if the saturation on the tv-screen of the world has been turned way up. We couldn’t help but smile, and once we got going, those smiles turned to laughter- a distinct staccato chuckle, which can only be made, and cannot be helped, when bouncing down a cobblestone street on a bicycle. We slowly peddled down the streets and avenues, around parks and through squares, stopping to take the occasional photo or to peek into a shop that looked interesting. We had a relaxing lunch at a small sidewalk café, cold sandwiches with chips and beer, and just when I was about to order a second round, Kacey gave me an expectant and disapproving look. I halted my order mid sentence, and apologetically asked for the check instead- there was no delaying it any longer, it was time to go to the spa.
Up until now, my notion of the word “spa” was a bit vague, but in my mind was synonymous with “uncomfortable”. I was pretty sure that it had something to do with laying on a table semi-nude while being poked and prodded by a large Swedish woman whose, in the words of Seinfeld, “man-hands” would cruelly kneed my unwilling body into a submissive ball of dough, followed by a good slathering of mud and some sliced vegetables to really make you look ridiculous. Understandably, I wasn’t rearing at the leash to start our hour of masochism, but I was resigned to my fate, if only to placate Kacey. We made for the “business” end of the hotel where a petite blond woman greeted us and showed us to our individual locker rooms. I donned my bathing suit, and emerged, somewhat sheepishly, into the entrance hallway of the spa. Kacey was already there, all smiles, and I could tell by her animated conversation with the hostess that she was thoroughly excited about what was about to befall us. She sidled up to me and whispered “You are going to love this!”, as we were led down a passageway to a bank of unquestionably welcoming shower stalls. I still had no idea what to expect, but I was slowly relinquishing my apprehensiveness. Where were the legions of hermaphrodite Swedish Helgas? the bone cracking echoes of pain? the muffled cries of agony emanating from the other patrons in the midst of their torture? It just wasn’t adding up, so I finally asked, rather bluntly, “Are we going to be subjected to any massages during this treatment?” The young lady had a quizzical look on her face. “Massages? No, this is a water spa. All we have here are saunas, hot tubes, cold bathes, and showers.” Really? A water spa, huh? Who knew?
Somehow, I had subconsciously interpreted the antecedent word “water” in the hotel’s title of the spa, as simply being some adornment to our unlucky fate: like water-boarding, or the drip torture. Honestly, I don’t know if Kacey was just reveling in my uncomfortable anticipation, or if she truly didn’t know what we were in for either, but I have never quite forgiven her for not allaying my fears when she knew how they were eating me up inside. As it was, a water spa has nothing to do with callous meat tenderizing, but is in reality a completely relaxing, supremely indulgent hour of just what our hostess had described: saunas, both dry and steam, two types of hot tubs, a cold tub, multiple shower breaks, and 15 short (too short) minutes in a coma inducing vibrating recliner. Needless to say, the word “spa” has taken on a completely different meaning for me, and both of us diligently lined up for our daily spa treatments for the rest of our stay in San Antonio.
The only thing that could top the water spa in our daily routine was our nightly sojourn to the local boliche, a few blocks from the hotel. Traditionally, boliches were general stores where the saddle weary gaucho could buy provisions for his next foray out into the pampas along with a stiff drink to sooth his tender derrière. Boliches, as markets, have long since disappeared, but their capacity as bars has been preserved in many circumstances, and in a few rare occasions, such as our favorite one in San Antonio, the establishment has been kept exactly how it was back in the late 1800’s- with old dusty bottles and boxes of long forgotten goods for sale on the shelves, wood plank flooring worn smooth by decades of boot traffic, rippled flowing glass in the window panes, and an antique brass cash register on the bar- basically, aside from modern refrigeration cleverly installed inside the old wooden ice coolers, and a few electric light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, no renovation had been done in over a hundred years.
The best part was that this antique bar on a quiet back street was still the gathering place of choice for the local gauchos. And even better was that they didn’t mind a couple of camera-happy gringos coming in and spoiling the solitude of their age-old sanctuary. Every night we ordered a huge plate of picadas– a delicious spread of meats, cheeses and olives that you eat with toothpicks- and a bottle of vino tinto, followed by the gaucho favorite of Pepsi and fernet– a bitter liqueur originally from Italy, though hugely popular in Argentina, that is decidedly un-appealing on your first try due to its herbal, almost hay like taste, but which grows on you addictively after a few glasses. The first time we had it, we swore that it would be our last. It wasn’t. We now love the stuff, and ended up bringing four bottles of it home with us to the States.
On our last night, and after a few of the aforementioned fernet and colas, Kacey finally worked up the courage (not without a good amount of unabashed goading from me), to take a photo of the small enclave of hardy gauchos. They acquiesced, as is usually the case when I send my beautiful wife to take a photo of anyone who might consider me snapping the shot as a little suspect- mainly burley men types. But this time, my burley-men-photo-phobia would unexpectedly lead to one of our best souvenir purchases of the trip. Kacey, being the ever vigilant fashion queen, had been eyeing the gaucho’s tall leather riding boots all night, and took this opportunity to ask one of the men where they could be bought…
The next day, bright and early, we were standing in the local cobbler’s shop. There was no inventory to speak of, just a few example boots on a shelf, and the young man behind the counter confirmed my suspicion that all of his wares were custom made. Again we were faced with the “go ahead, your almost at the end of your trip, just buy them” mental argument, and for the second time in San Antonio, it won out. We both took our turns picking out what style and options we wanted for our boots, and even got to pick the exact hide of leather from which they would be made. He sat us down and using a tailor’s tape, took about ten different measurements per foot to get an exact size. These were definitely going to be the most perfectly fit, coolest, and most expensive boots I’ve ever had. They would take a few weeks to finish, so he offered to ship them to us in the states when they were done. I felt a little leery entrusting our $1800 pesos to this random stranger and then leaving the country, but there was no avoiding it. I thought my uneasiness had proven true when three months passed with no packages and no responses to our calls and emails, but finally one day in the middle of July, four separate boxes, each with their own custom leather polo boot, showed up on our doorstep. Definitely one of the best splurges of the trip.
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