Location: Buenos Aires
Miles from Home: 23,168
Days on the Road: 365 (as in one year...)
One year ago today, I left Santa Fe at 2:30 pm heading south for the Mexican border. It was a chilly afternoon ride, and I only made it as far as Truth or Consequences. The next morning, Zelie and I crossed the border into Mexico, and the adventure began.
Although I've seen an done SO much in the last year, I can honestly say that some of the brightest highlights are still from those first six weeks with Zelie. I miss you, Z.
For those of you wondering where I've been for the LAST few weeks, the stories in this entry may give you a foggy idea. The truth is I don't even know where I've been. Floating somewhere above the din of the streets and alley ways of Buenos Aires, there is a soft rhythm that carries you away.
Whether it's all night Tango clubs, insane Boca soccer (fútbol) matches, or just quiet moments in a cafe watching the world go by, each moment in Buenos Aires is filled with a colorful energy. For a while, I've given myself into that rhythm and fallen in love with the city that has always called me in some strange way -- enough so that I would seriously consider living here full time for a while. That is, if I could actually found work that could support for my "lavish" lifestyle.
I know some of my loved ones feared losing me to a lifelong search for the perfect hidden beach, that endless stretch of highway, or the ideal mountain hideaway, but life is more that that. All the grand vistas and all night tango clubs of the world can never replace the love I have those I miss most: my partner, my family, and my friends.
As I mark one year today, I'm beginning to plan my exit strategy. A year on the road has taxed my wallet and my will, to be honest. Not that everyday isn't still an exciting new page waiting to be written, but a year is still a year!
As you may have guessed, riding all the way home is out of the question by now. It has been for a few months, actually. At this point, El Cab and I are headed south again -- this time to the end.
Before Christmas we are going south to the end of the highway at Ushuia, and then we'll take Chile's Carretera Austral back through the tailend of the Andes north to Bariloche once again. From there, it's a straight shot into Brazil and out to the coast once more for a final stint on the beach before catching a plane back home from Rio. Well, at least, as always, that's the plan right now...
Might seem crazy to skip most of the continent's most famed beaches along the northern coast of Brazil, but that will have to be saved for the next time EdGoesSouth!
Happy Holidays to ALL!!
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A City and it's Dance
Plaza Dorrego, San Telmo -- One of the bulbs is out. I think it must have been a purple one. Maybe orange. Well, at least those are the only two colors missing in the string of lights spanning overhead, strung between two posts in the southwest corner of Plaza Dorrego in the heart of Buenos Aires' ancient cobblestoned neighborhood of San Telmo.
Beneath the soft, colored bare bulbs, forty or more couples glide effortlessly through the cool night air a few inches above a makeshift dancefloor to the scratchy sounds of recordings long forgotten. It's 1 AM on Sunday night in Buenos Aires, and here in the place where it was born over 100 years ago, the Tango is alive and kicking.
When I arrived in Buenos Aires, I expected to find a handful of over-priced Tango shows, people dancing for coins in the street, and other overdone spectacles of the city's famed vertical expression of a horizontal desire. But after a few weeks of asking around, I've found the city's Tango scene is more than another roadside attraction; for many it is an obsession.
On any night of the week, one dance hall or another comes alive with hundreds of well dressed (and well practiced) tangueros looking to strut their stuff. Once inside most of the milongas (dance halls), it's as if you are stepping back in time.
Men and women of all ages dance softly and sweetly together as if they have been a couple for ages, even through they just met at the beginning of the song. The men wear faces of concentration, while the women seem to be somewhere between meditation and ecstasy, their eyes closed and their bodies lovingly led about the floor by a complete stranger.
The essential sensuality of the Tango is lost on no one. Young and old, the couples engage each other at a level most people reserve for their private time, although there is nothing inherently sexual about it. Well, that's to say, you'd never tell a couple to get a room after watching them dance Tango (although you might not be surprised if they do anyway once the dance is over). They are too classy for the hip grinding and public groping that has become so common in most discos and clubs.
I'm afraid, however, that despite my one month of lessons and my growing obsession with being a proficient dancer, I'm still terribly unqualified to even step out on to the floor in most any milonga in town. The few times I have with other students in my class, it's been a disaster. And the one time I asked a stranger to dance, I was politely dismissed after one song (it's tradition to dance all the way through a four song set before changing partners.) Ouch...
"The milonga is for displaying your ability, not practicing it" says Gustavo, my instructor. But I must say that even just sitting and watching, you feel a part of the soft parade.
So, here I am on the Plaza in San Telmo, watching generations of Porteños (residents of Buenos Aires -- literally: people of the port) display that passion and elegance that has won them recognition the world over for over one hundred years. And if it weren't for the pesky guy that needs to take back the rented roll-up dance floor before 2am, I probably could watch all night.
Boca Juniors -- An Obsession of the First Degree
La Gancha de San Lorenzo, Belgrano, Buenos Aires -- "Boca Juniors, I love you. I only ask that you go balls out. This passion carries my heart."
That was the only part of the twenty or so Boca songs sung at the match against San Lorenzo I was actually able to understand and memorize. But with a few tens of thousands of bare chested foaming at the mouth Boca fans pressed against me and singing at the top of their lungs, it didn't really matter much if I didn't know the words; "bladdy blah, blah" seemed to suffice as long as it was sung at full volume.
Not being much of a soccer (uh...I mean...football) fan, I must admit I didn't know much about the global obsession with the sport before coming to South America. Although I had heard of Pelé, somewhere in Venezuela someone had to explain to me who Maradona was (the Aregentine Soccer GOD of the 80's and early 90's). If you know me, however, you shouldn't be surprised. I can't even tell you who won the last Superbowl...
Growing up in Philly, my dad took me to quite a few football games (of the "hut one, hut two" variety, of course). During that time, I thought I had seen some dedicated fans. People with their faces and chests painted in sub-freezing temperatures. Grown men in green felt eagle costumes. Lot's of "We're number one!" foam fingers. You know...the typical American Football fanatic. But NEVER was I prepared for the level of fanaticism I found in the Boca fans.
La Boca is one of the poorer areas of Buenos Aires in the old port area south of downtown. It is known for being a little dangerous at night and for having a world class soccer team, and that's about it.
Upon arriving at the stadium TWO HOURS before the game begins, the crowd is already at it. Singing. Dancing. Jumping. Crowd surfing. Most have tattoos with the team logo, and the rest have a jersey on. Being that no alcohol is served at the games anymore for "security" reasons, most have been busy tying one on since breakfast and it shows.
The amazing thing is really not the rauchous behavior and the drunkeness, it is the incredible unity and ceaseless energy of the crowd. When they sing a song, it's not just a few people half-heartedly humming along. EVERYONE is one their feet, jumping to the rhythm, and singing on time and in tune -- well, kinda...
These aren't your run of the mill "we've got spirit yes we do" numbers either. These are dirty, biting, witty, punny, insulting, and political songs. I only know a few of good Spanish curse words and they were all in there, and in creative combinations too! And as I said before, EVERYONE knows the words. One friend who ended up in a less welcoming of strangers section nearly got jumped by a gang of Boca thugs because he wasn't singing along.
When Boca scored their first goal, it was if an atomic bomb had gone off behind me. The crowd surged forward with such ferocity I could have lifted my feet off the crowd and been carried down the concrete steps with no problem. Men cried. Others poured coca-cola on them selves. One with wild eyes tore his shirt in pieces and twirled it over his head. A few rows over, a fat man was crown surfing.
This isn't soccer; this is a cult.
In the end, Boca won and cinched the Argentine national championship. The following week, they took on the team from Milan, Italy in a match in Tokyo and ended up winning the Inter-continental Championship. Unlike U.S. sports teams, when soccer teams win "World Championships" they actually play against other countries for the title.
When Boca defeated Milan on Sunday morning at 9:30, the entire city erupted in celebration. Notice I didn't say awoke to celebration. Most people were still awake from the night before and were in a bar watching the game on satellite TV when it started at 6:30AM. By 11:00 most of downtown was shut down by the impromtu parade encircling the Obelsik on the main avenue.
I must admit that the mania is quite contagious. El Cab now sports a lovely Boca Juniors sticker on his panniers. ¡Que viva Boca!
A Question of Time
Everywhere, Argentina -- Argetinians have a reputation for being European wannabees. It's not a bad thing, it's just the truth. It seems like everyone still has grandparents across the pond, and being just one or two generations removed, over half the country totes an Italian passport "just in case."
The European influence is everywhere. In the food, the accent, the clothes, the skin and hair, and not just the expensive lotions and dyes. But no where was the influence of Europe so obvious as in the Argentine sense of TIME.
If you've ever been to Spain, you know most people don't eat dinner until 9 or 10. In France, you can stop in a coffee shop at midnight, and if it's not packed, you are at least not alone by a long shot.
In Buenos Aires, on the other hand, they've taken this concept to new heights. Dinner is often at midnight. Milongas are packed with older, working couples at 2 on a Tuesday, just as most younger people are JUST motivating to leave to go out for the night to a club or bar. Coffee shops are filled at 4am.
Conversely, try to eat dinner at 7pm and you will likely be the only person in the restuarant.
To a guy who has spent the great majority of the last year in poor countries where entire towns shut down at 8pm, this was a complete shock to the system. The few times I did allow myself to be toe-dragged to a club at 2:30, I was pouring myself back into a taxi at four half asleep. Maybe it's the late-twenties thing kicking in, but all nighters are just not in the books anymore.
The amazing thing about all of this, however, is that all of these people actually work. They FUNCTION during the day, unlike the slacker travelers that sleep until 10, 12, or 2 in the afternoon. This is a nation surviving on red meat and caffiene, and it seems to be doing ok. One American I met who is living down here now said it took his body a full year to adjust to the schedule.
I believe it, too. After six weeks in BA, I'm still getting hungry at 6pm, tired at midnight, and I wake up to pee at 6am. How's that for an American clock?
Dirtball Invasion
Mendoza, Argentina -- Four of us waltz into a four star restuarant in shorts and sandals, and order four Filet Mignoins and a few bottles of wine to wash then down with. We all get fresh ice cream for dessert, and brag in English to each other over cappuchinos before leaving about how incredibly cheap everything is. As we are leaving, I catch an older gentleman in a sport coat giving us a dirty look.
Three years ago that meal would have cost each of us US$25 easily. Today, it's maybe $8, but to Argentinians, it's now more like $30. Confused? Here's how it works:
Years ago, the Argentine government decides to peg their exchange rate one-to-one to the US dollar. Great idea for having a strong currency, right? Well, not when your economy suddenly collapses, your currency falls to a rate of four pesos to one dollar, and you suddenly realize that all of those lovely imported items you had been depending on for years now cost four times as much. Add to that out of control inflation and your filet is now worth $20 to you, but $6 to the rest of the world.
Thanks to the desperate economic situation, however, tourists are flooding into Argentina. In Buenos Aires alone there is something along the order of 8 new backpacker hostels. In other parts of the country, the industry is similarly exploding.
It's not just dirtball backpackers taking advantage of the exchange rate. One friend said he knew someone who was working for a NY real estate broker buying up cheap properties in downtown Buenos Aires. When three bedroon apartments right in the hippest section of town are going for less than $60k, who can resist?
All this sudden attention for being one of the cheapest places to go in South America is having a heavy toll on the infamously enormous Argentine ego. Although we tip better than most of the rest of their customers, waiters here are not used to pandering to t-shirt wearing Americans.
But aside from the truly snotty and wealthy, most Argentines I've met seem to enjoy the new contact with the outside world. Good thing too, because I've taken a special liking to the REALLY good food here!
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More to come soon. I almost had some photos loaded, but it all got flubbed with this ancient computer. Ugh...
Happy Holidays!!
Posted by Sully at December 13, 2003 10:39 AM