World's First Expat Blog

The last word on Buenos Aires

2008-03-31T06:23:00.009-05:00

Before I got glasses, my vision wasn't terrible by any means. But since I got them, it's certainly better. And now I can't stop putting them on and taking them off again as I turn one idea over and over in my head: How many other things in life get worse so gradually that you don't even really notice, until something happens and suddenly you see so clearly?

Probably not an original idea, but it's the first time it occurred to me.

* * *

I was trying to finish my article Saturday when I took a break to run downstairs for pizza and ice cream. I was walking, pizza slices in hand, to the ice cream shop when I felt something flash through my body and lodge in the pit of my stomach. It was a thought: "Am I doing the right thing by leaving here? Oh, God . . . what if I'm not doing the right thing?"

* * *

I worry about this country. It has a lot to offer, a lot of potential . . . and a killer boom-bust cycle that has destroyed any confidence that people might have in the future, or trust among each other.

Can you imagine being in Europe early in the last century and looking toward the Americas for a way out? From a continent wracked with war, poverty and hunger, you look out across the Atlantic and see nothing but open land and opportunity.

And that's how it worked out for a lot of people who left Europe for the United States. But the ones who left for Argentina were in for a much rockier ride.

These last few weeks have been particularly difficult — certainly not horrific by the standards of historical lows, but no picnic either. A lot of people I've talked to have told me that they feel like the revival of the cacerolazos and the brutal resolve of the farmers on strike means that all bets are off. The rules that applied during the last administration evidently don't apply in this one, and that could spell economic and social trouble.

* * *

While I probably won't update as often, I'll still be blogging here after I leave Buenos Aires and before I start working for the farm. The beauty of naming my blog "The World's First Expat Blog" is that the title was never true to begin with. So now it'll just be a little less true. It is, at the least, still a blog. It was definitely prescient to include that in the title.

Some people reading this have known me half my life, some for years, others I've met since I started writing the blog, and still others I've never met at all. Some people leave comments and others prefer to suffer in silence.

No matter, I LOVE YOU ALL.

No, I'm just kidding. I do love some of you. But come on, it would be a little weird if I loved you all. I am glad you read the blog, though. It's been really gratifying.

* * *

Living in Buenos Aires has been great and I wouldn't trade these last three years for anything. But it's also prevented me from doing other things, and now it's time to move on.

I've always tried to check the mental balance sheet and make sure the positives about being here outweigh the negatives. And they always have; they still do. So why am I leaving? Because it's important to stay ahead of the curve. And I can see the way the curve is heading if I stay.

There are definitely a few regrets. I should have started selling more stories and doing more writing earlier on. But I didn't; I had what I guess you would call a writer's block. Also, I honestly did not believe there would be a continued media appetite for stories about Buenos Aires. I am completely sincere when I say that, though obviously I was terribly — almost comically — mistaken.

As far as other regrets, I should have started this blog sooner. But I didn't because I shuddered at the cliche of the expat blogger. (I still do.)

So, yes, there are some things I'd do differently. But overall, in moving here I chose the path of fewest regrets. That's the best way I know to make decisions.

It's why I came here, and it's why I'm leaving.

2008-03-30T15:03:00.001-05:00

Me: "Two please."

Subway attendant: "You're paying in coins. That's fantastic. That's how it's done."

Me [taking the fare card]: "Thanks."

SA: "Sure. But don't use that card. Just walk through the open gate."

* * *

Street vendor in La Boca: "Wait, are you Argentine?"

Me: "No."

SV: "But you speak like an Argentine."

Me: "I've been here a while."

SV: "So you know how to cuss someone out then?"

Me: "Yeah, I guess."

SV: "Oh, well then you're practically Argentine."

* * *

I will really miss this beautiful fucking disaster area.

Providencia, again

2008-03-29T08:04:00.001-05:00

Providencia moved out of its space on Cabrera and is on Arévalo now, just half a block from where it was.

I stuck my head in yesterday. The new place is fine. It's nice. It's great.

But . . . like . . . it looks like an actual restaurant now! With tables and chairs outside. And . . . and . . . the door open!

I said hello to the woman behind the counter. When she told me what the hours of operation were, my first thought was not, "Huh, you're going to be open for breakfast?" but rather "Wow! You're going to have actual hours of operation?"

Dogs

2008-03-28T08:46:00.004-05:00

This morning I ran across the street to catch the subte, only to find no one in the ticket booth.

(Why didn't I just use a ticket machine? For all intents and purposes, they don't exist. Though there are a very few out there, the subte workers union opposes them and sees to it that even those few never work. You're more likely to see Cristina in the subte than a working ticket machine.)

A few other passengers and I milled around for a minute before we saw an open gate and just walked through.

Which I'm guessing is exactly what went down with Fido here.

When a train came, he would run alongside it and bark.

When I got on the train, so did Fido. He ran around for a few seconds but then decided to chill out for a while.

Eventually a subte employee rousted him and chased the little guy back into the station, with the help of a few passengers.

This is a good time to mention this NPR piece that aired a while back.

The guy botches the name of the Perito Moreno glacier . . . and then compares dog-walking to dancing the tango . . . and then manages to fit in the old saw about Buenos Aires having more psychiatrists per capita than anywhere else.

But for all that, he makes a good point.

For me, the report had another important message: All this time, I was trying way too hard to think of story ideas.

Es lo que hay

2008-03-27T17:05:00.006-05:00

I got glasses today. Everything is so clear now. A little too clear. The city looked better without the glasses.

If you need glasses in Buenos Aires, I highly recommend Optica LMS on Rio de Janeiro 616.

* * *

Things are happening faster than I could hope to blog about them. The farmers strike means that at least one supermarket on my block closed altogether, while the others are limping along with serious shortages.

We've now had fifteen days of the strike and now two nights of cacerolazos — loud protests where people take to the streets banging pots and pans. Protestors of the government's agriculture policy clashed with the traditional working class supporters of the Peronist administration, mob vs. mob.

Food prices have gone up 10%, 20%, 30% from two weeks ago. Absolutely everyone is talking about the strike.

I went to a restaurant yesterday for lunch and asked for a Mediterranean salad.

The waitress came back a minute later to say: "I'm sorry, we can't do the Mediterranean salad . . . or any of the salads actually. We're out of lettuce."

This is not Argentina at its best.

But it makes the civility of daily life — even if it's rote — even more surprising.

Today I asked a guy at a newspaper stand if he could tell me where the No. 65 bus to Belgrano stopped.

"A block and a half that way," he said. "Then turn and go up half a block."

"OK. Thanks."

"¡No! ¡Al contrario!" he said with a smile.

I mean, really . . . how often do you get thanked for asking for directions?

* * *

There's so little time left that some of the things I've always wondered about will continue to be mysteries to me even after I'm gone. Like the lady who works at the produce stand around the corner . . . and then on some evenings sets up cardboard boxes on the sidewalk and sells underwear by the fruit displays.

I guess I could ask her about it. But what's my question? "Why are you selling underwear?" I'm pretty sure no question would lead to an answer I would find satisfactory.

* * *

I've mentioned the "por las dudas" ("just in case") and "es lo que hay" ("that's all we got") mentality here and rarely has this come into sharper focus than in the current food crisis. You go to the store and see that there's no beef, very little chicken and milk only if you're lucky? Well, it might not be what you want, but es lo que hay. Better stock up while you can. You know, por las dudas.

La Flor de Almagro

2008-03-24T08:00:00.003-05:00

On some levels, La Flor de Almagro is an unmitigated disaster.

The neon sign chops its name to Flor de alma (poetic, yes, but not what they were going for). The interior is bathed in fluorescent flood-lighting. If you're lucky, the kids behind the counter are merely indifferent toward you.

Fortunately, it has an utterly redeeming quality, the mitigating factor: the ice cream. The banana split flavor — with large chunks of bittersweet chocolate, pieces of banana and a generous, gooey ribbon of dulce de leche — is a can't-miss.

Crema de higos con nuez (fig cream with walnuts) is another hit, with big pieces of figs.* Chocolate almendrado is fantastic as well — dark chocolate with chunks of candied almonds mixed in.

Along with Il Bombón, it's my favorite ice cream place. It's on Estado de Israel, about two blocks in from Corrientes, so it's a lot closer to me than either location of Il Bombón.

I can't state unequivocally that it's the best around because your neighborhood might have one that's just as good or maybe — maybe — better. But I'm confident that it's the best within walking distance, and my definition of walking distance is the better part of the city.

There is almost always an employee eating ice cream when I go. And the last few times I got a cuarto to go, the kid ran his finger around the lid to seal it and then quickly licked it clean — the finger, not the lid. It's that good.

I've mentioned La Flor de Almagro in passing before, but it deserves more than that. Because if you could only eat ice cream at one place in Buenos Aires, I would probably send you to La Flor de Almagro.

And then to Il Bombón for dessert.

* I once recommended this flavor and someone said to me: "Sounds kind of gross. Aren't figs kind of gross?" The only possible reply: "Figs are gross if you don't like figs."

¡Salud!

2008-03-23T09:23:00.005-05:00

For a while, I didn't know just how my last week or so here would play out. And then Thursday night I got a pretty clear idea. I managed to trick an editor into liking one of my story ideas, so I'm going to spend most of my last week working.

A friend asked me Friday if I was staying awake 24/7 to soak up my remaining time here. Not quite. But almost.

One week and many wine bars to go before I sleep.

Three strikes

2008-03-21T20:24:00.010-05:00

We have a long holiday weekend — not just Jueves Santo and Viernes Santo, but Monday's Día Nacional de la Memoria por la Verdad y Justicia.*

Banks are closed for the holidays**, but many bank employees had already been on strike anyway. The big question going into the holiday weekend was whether there would be enough money in the ATMs to withstand demand.

That question is academic if there's nothing to spend the money on anyway. Farmers in this country have gone apeshit after the government raised their taxes*** and have been on strike for 10 days. Shortages are starting to crop up in supermarkets.

Meanwhile, taking a flight in this country is always a gamble, but usually it's Aerolíneas Argentinas that's making passengers riot.**** This time, flights on LAN were delayed for hours or canceled. Why? A strike at the weather service meant they couldn't plan their flight routes.

I'm giving this country ten days to shape up or I am so out of here.

* This is the relatively new holiday that marks the 1976 military coup. It has always fascinated me, living in Spain and living here, the long shadows that dictatorships cast on the memories of those who lived under them. My friends Eli and Leo were teenagers during the dictatorship and a lot of their stories about growing up are not just about youth rebellion for rebellion's sake, nor are they about the broader horrors perpetrated by the dictatorship. Instead, they are stories of the mundane oppression and indignity of living in a military state — like how someone decided it would be a good idea to ban pinball machines in the city.

** It's curious that a country with a history of bank runs would allow the banks to be shut for five days straight.

*** The government charges farmers export taxes on the products they sell on the international market. I'm not talking a token 1% or 2% levy. Farmers now pay a 45% tax on soy they sell abroad. This is up from 20% not too long ago. There's a lot more to this, but not right now, OK?

**** Or have a heart attack . . . like when Stu and I were on Aerolíneas flight in January and a recording came on saying that cabin pressure had been lost and oxygen masks would now be deployed. I would have flipped out, except that we were still on the ground. It was less funny when it happened a few times after we took off. Through it all, the utter obliviousness of the cabin crew was priceless.

Mmm... footnotes. Full of footy goodness.

I'll get right on that

2008-03-20T17:12:00.007-05:00

I canceled my health insurance policy this morning.

My plan requires small co-payments for office visits. But you don't pay when you're at the office. They bill you for them.

I told the woman that I thought I still owed three co-payments, probably something in the neighborhood of US$15 total.

The woman nodded. "Those should show up in the system in a month or so and then we'll bill you."

Right. But I'm leaving the country on March 31. I'd feel better if I paid you. So ... if you could just tell me exactly how much I owe.

"They won't be in the system for a month or so. The bill should come in May."

By which point I'll be long gone.

"Well . . . Maybe someone else could pay your bill for you?"

Just then, a new identity — forged by years of observation and assimilation — reached its zenith.

Which is to say I smiled broadly and shrugged.

Super!

2008-03-17T15:30:00.000-05:00

I've been trying to sell myself all day. It makes me feel a little cheap and slightly dirty.

And after today, I'm not sure I wouldn't do better selling my blog by standing on a street corner in a long, pervish overcoat.

The best part of a rejection email in this case is when it reads: "Hi. Thanks for the pitch, but we're going to have to pass on your blog about fruit."

Well. Yeah. I mean, when you put it like that!

Horton hears a what?

2008-03-15T19:22:00.021-05:00

Today was a ridiculously nice day. The sun shone brightly, but not with the blazing intensity of January. It was warm, but not too warm. The sky was clear. A breeze blew ever so slightly. . . . which is more than this post will blow if I keep writing about the weather. But I'm just saying. It was frickin' awesome today.

Hey, so, as of 12:01 a.m. Sunday, we're back on our normal time zone. Two weeks ago we were four hours ahead of Chicago and now we'll be down to only two hours ahead. Crazy, huh?

Wow. I swear. The time zone here is just like the weather. If you don't like it, wait a little while and it'll change!

Right now, in order to force my computer into the right time zone, I have to set it to think it's someplace called Grytviken. I'm not making that up.

OK. Geez. You know what? I'm really sorry.

It's obvious, isn't it? I'm sort of avoiding the elephant in the room.

It's just that I don't even know what to say about the latest NY Times article on Buenos Aires.

Le sigh. The spirit is willing but the snark is weak.

Hey, speaking of elephants in the room — because I was, unless you skipped that paragraph — I saw that "Horton Hears A Who!" came out. And the first question that came to mind was how they were going to translate the movie title into Spanish. There are posters up all over the city so I didn't have to wonder for long. It's "Horton y el mundo de los quien". That's "Horton and the World of the Who."

Meh. I mean, it was never going to be the same, was it?

* * *

I want to recommend a place to get breakfast, but first I want to tell you what happened when I went this morning for a bite to eat.

The door was locked, which is not that strange because some businesses ask you to knock or get buzzed in as a security precaution. But the door to this place isn't always locked, and so I struggled with the handle before I caught the eye of a woman inside.

She walked over to the door and, failing to conceal mild contempt, told me that it was locked. Then she opened it for me.

I smiled and shrugged as if to say, "Huh! I'm such a boludo!"

I grabbed a magazine from the rack and took a seat. The young woman reached for a menu but I stopped her by politely telling her my order.

She could barely tolerate my request for a café con leche and three medialunas, and it showed in her face.

She brought out my coffee and served me three medialunas from a tray sitting in the window. I added my usual amount of sugar to the coffee cup and took a sip. It was shockingly strong, espresso with the merest suggestion of steamed milk on top. I added more sugar, but it didn't do any good.

I considered what that much espresso would do to my insides and set the cup aside. . . .

. . . which is when I realized that she hadn't brought my sparkling water. Not that I had ordered any. But café con leche normally comes with a small glass of sparkling water. Except this time.

Hey, but listen. This place is usually great for breakfast. Good medialunas. Bread baked on site. Excellent coffee. Nice selection of magazines and newspapers. Cool atmosphere. Not crowded.

You should stop by for breakfast. Maybe not for lunch or dinner. But for breakfast. It's called Masamadre es con M and it's at Olleros 3891.

Good luck!

* * *

Maybe you're wondering if there's anything that's changed now that I am down to my last couple of weeks in BsAs. I can see, say, having a list of things I want to see or do before I leave.

But I have dispatched with that whole ordeal by telling myself that I'll be back somehow or another before too long and, really, there's enough to see here for two lifetimes. So trying to fit anything extraordinary in two weeks would be a little silly. I'll just see what comes my way.

So, no. The only difference between the me of now and the me of a few months ago is that now I am spending my pile of coins with reckless abandon!

¿Que si tengo monedas? ¡Me sobran monedas, che!

* * *

Before I hit the farmers market this morning, I stopped off at Chacarita for some shots of the cemetery. I stitched together the panoramic photo at the top of this entry. It does an all-right job of giving you perspective on the place, but still falls short.

As always, you can click on the image to enlarge. If you scroll to the right, there's a woman walking in the shadow, which will give you a sense of scale.

* * *

There are different rules for public display of affection here. Maybe I should say that there is only one rule: Display as much affection in public as you can and display it with your tongue.

The idea is not new to me. I've seen it here, obviously. And it was all over the place in Spain.

But.

Today I took a crowded bus back from Chinatown.

A young couple got on the bus and then proceeded to maul each other inches from my face for the duration of the 40-minute bus ride.

I am not a prude. And I don't wish my frigid northern sensibilities upon the warm Latin peoples.

But it was making me a little nervous. Part of me wanted to turn a hose on them and scream "NO! If the bus hits a bump, you're going to bite off her tongue!"

Fibertel

2008-03-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

I canceled my Internet connection yesterday.

You have to show up in person for this. I was already at Santa Fe and Pueyrredón, so I stopped at the Coronel Diaz office of Fibertel.

The Coronel Diaz office of Fibertel looked like the place where hope goes to die. People with long, tired faces milled about. There weren't enough chairs. Agitation hung in the air.

Also, it smelled like feet.

I took a number. My number was 42. They were calling number 82.

Ugh.

I remembered Fibertel had a few offices in outlying neighborhoods, so I decided to give one of those a shot.

Score! The Villa Urquiza location, at Avalos 1910, had exactly one person waiting before me. I was in and out in about 5 minutes. It was fantastic.

I told the woman who helped me about my trip to the Palermo branch earlier that day and how I would so be blogging about this when I got back home.

"Really?" she asked. "You're going to blog about this?"

"Sure," I said.

"But how many people could it possibly interest?" she asked.

I threw my head back and my deep, booming laugh echoed across the office. "You obviously haven't seen my blog," I shouted behind me, adjusting my cape and leaping skyward in a single fluid motion.

Ñoquis

2008-03-11T12:10:00.014-05:00

Today's entry begins with a short quiz. Please do not skip it. It is "de carácter obligatorio", as they might say here.

You own a business or run an organization. You want to know how many people you have working for you. Do you . . .

1. Call human resources/personnel and tell them to whip up some numbers for you?

2. Use your high-level access to enter the corporate intranet and pull together the figures yourself?

3. Ask interns from a local university to conduct a census for you because, honestly, fuck if anybody really knows how many employees there are and what they're all doing?

If you answered (3), congratulations! You're the mayor of Buenos Aires! You don't need to read this entry. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. This city is held together by string; you really need to get back to work.

If you answered (1) or (2), you might want to read on.

* * *

Of course, the city government census is political. The relatively new mayor has already tried to get rid of some public employees, which caused a huge shitstorm.

Now, the public employee unions are contending that the census is just a pretext for being able to dismiss more employees.

One of the central questions here is how many "ñoquis" there are in city government. Ñoquis are what we would call in Chicago "ghost payrollers," only with a far more awesome name. They're ñoquis because, like the delicious dumplings, they only show up once a month — every 30 days to collect their checks.

The mayor says no register exists of how many employees there are and what their jobs are. The Clarín article notes that the estimations of the number of public employees in Buenos Aires run from 110,000 to 120,000.

I guess you could say: Hey, those numbers don't vary that widely. There's less than a 10% difference between the first figure and the second.

Or you could say: WTF? There are 10,000 people who may or may not be working for you?

You can probably guess which option more accurately reflects my sentiments.

I believe the mayor when he says no one knows the real number. But the census has only a small chance of determining that number, because politics on both sides will inevitably come into play.

They'll probably have about as much luck counting ñoquis as Cristina has had counting air conditioners.

Butcher

2008-03-08T17:39:00.011-06:00

There's a butcher not far from my apartment with an amazing variety of beasts for sale.

Llama, deer (including breaded deer cutlets), boar, frog, rabbit (including rabbit burgers), an ostrich-like bird called rhea, pig, pheasant, partridge, hare, a giant chinchilla-like rodent called viscacha, goat, duck.

Yeesh. Half that list sounds like someone went berserk at a petting zoo!

As to any of you wondering whether people actually eat these things, the answer is sure, sort of. Few of these critters are terribly common in Buenos Aires. But a lot of them are more popular in regional and/or rural cuisine.

Going out on top

2008-03-07T16:45:00.000-06:00

Maybe I should just leave now, because it's never going to get better than this.

Walking up Angel Gallardo toward my apartment, I heard sirens and saw a stream of motorcycle cops coming at me.

They were clearing traffic to make way for . . . a visiting dignitary? ¡¿la presidenta?!

No.

The Iron Maiden motorcade.

Calle Florida

2008-03-06T06:49:00.013-06:00

Usually, I avoid Calle Florida at all costs.

Pedestrianized streets are great. I wish there were more of them. But Christ on a crutch! It's hard to walk down that street without feeling ogled, marked, jostled . . . and icky.

It's crowded with wide-eyed tourists in safari hats and lined with businesses gleefully fleecing them. Not that there aren't plenty of locals there, too. Because there are.

In fact, I would say that of the city's 3 million people, at any given moment, most of them are on Calle Florida. Standing right in my goddamn way.

But the other day I stuffed my wallet and my camera deep into my pocket, steeled myself, and took a stroll down Florida.

It was a warm evening, but Calle Florida was not warm. So many air-conditioned stores had their doors open that the cool air poured onto the street. It was disconcerting.

The street is usually full of touts and street artists, most of whom I habitually ignore.

But the guys in the photo above were way too good to ignore.

They looked like hell, like they'd just rolled out of bed for this 8pm performance. (I was hoping they'd ask the crowd for requests so that I could shout "Take a freaking shower and cut your hair!")

But they sounded great — well-rehearsed, but loose. More than the usual number of jaded porteños stopped to listen for a bit. And I stopped to listen for a few minutes too. I would have stayed even longer, but I had somewhere to go.

What? You think I just spend half my time wandering aimlessly around the city?

OK. You're right. I do.

Hotel Bolivar

2008-03-05T09:44:00.000-06:00

Avenida Corrientes

2008-03-02T09:03:00.005-06:00

It is nearly impossible to shoot street scenes that capture the feeling and perspective you get from walking around the city. But the other day I was on Avenida Corrientes heading toward the emblematic obelisk that stands in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio. I took the above photo. Click to enlarge it.

I vividly remember looking at a photograph of that obelisk in a high school Spanish textbook and thinking: "Buenos Aires? Huh."

Oh crap! No, what I meant was, I remember thinking: "Buenos Aires? What an impossibly romantic place, full of mystery and wonder! O, to dance the tango and dine on world-class beef! To read Borges and wile away the hours in turn-of-the-century cafes! Someday I shall live there."

The obelisk is flanked —

Wait. Before we go on, I have to confess something. I lied two paragraphs up. I'm really sorry.

I do remember seeing that photo in my textbook in high school. But overall, my reaction was much more along the lines of "huh." I was probably a lot more worried about when class would be over and if I could finish my homework for next period by the time the bell rang.

* * *

The obelisk is flanked by two small plazas that stand in the middle of what is supposedly the widest avenue in the world, Avenida 9 de Julio.

I walked by as an honor guard was taking down the flag down in one of the plazas. When they finished, they strolled back to their waiting bus.

I love the surreal image of these flesh-and-blood toy soldiers against the banal backdrop of a crosswalk in the middle of downtown.

Cityscape: Plaza de Mayo

2008-03-01T10:21:00.008-06:00

Every time I go to take a photo of the city — not just a building, but the city — I come away disappointed. It just doesn't fit in the frame.

But I may be on to something. Here's a panoramic shot of the Plaza de Mayo, with the cathedral on the left and the Casa Rosada straight ahead.

I employed some quick-and-dirty Photoshop nerdery to stitch together four snapshots. The preview image at the top of the post doesn't do the idea much justice, so — as with all the photos on this blog — you can click on it to get a larger version.

There's an even larger version, with perspective added, here.

It's not perfect, but I'm looking forward to doing a few more of these.

La Vineria de Gualterio Bolivar

2008-02-28T16:29:00.021-06:00

It was not the best meal of my life.

There was a lot to like: The food was good. The service was friendly and gracious. The room was sleek and clean. The wines — five of them — were delicious and well paired. I roped Robert into going and we had a great time.

But the place really screwed with my head. I still don't know exactly what to make of it.

We paid just under US$60 each for the meal (including the wine and the tip) and my fear was that I would leave feeling I had overpaid. But no; that's not it. And I didn't leave disappointed either.

I just left a little confused.

Robert (whom I thank for most of the photos in this post) was definitely onto something when he said the dishes were a little muted — no flavors really popped.

It's sort of the Argentine interpretation of the foams-and-small-plates school of cooking, complete with bife de chorizo and papas — though, of course, the potatoes were partly a foam.

I wouldn't not recommend this restaurant, I just don't know who I would recommend it to.

If you're coming from outside Argentina, then, sure, US$60 probably sounds like a great deal and I think you'll probably enjoy your meal, though I don't know if you'll be blown away.

I wouldn't recommend it to my Argentine friends because, frankly, I'd be embarrassed to tell them I spent US$60 on one meal. If they could get past that, I think they'd actually be more likely than people from abroad to enjoy it, but that just brings me to another point:

None of the diners in the restaurant was a native speaker of Spanish. Like so many other aspects of the meal, I don't know quite what to make of that either.

* * *

This is not a complete rendering of our meal, nor am I going to be able to accurately describe all the plates. We practically begged our waiter for a written list of what we were eating. He said he'd write it out if we'd like, but in the end he didn't.

Working left-to-right, top-to-bottom, among the dishes were seaweed and fish-skin candy (resting in a bowl of salt); remarkably crispy deep-fried dill and basil; a beautifully buttery potato foam with a potato, egg and truffle square resting in a pool of butter; trilla (fish) sitting atop a grilled plum; duck confit cannoli with a peapod; bife de chorizo with roasted tomatoes and chimichurri sauce; a tea jelly coated with citric acid, and a dessert plate that included a pistachio ice cream, a square of warm chocolate cake, a chocolate cream and two other things that I'm quite sure I was able to identify at the time.

There were other elements, too — a shooter of ceviche; a pork cheek swimming in a deep, smoky broth; a meaty piece of pollack served alongside puffed rice in a paella reduction; a two-temperature pea soup; candied almonds; bonbons, and a lollipop that tasted like toothpaste.

No pictures of the wine, but we enjoyed two glasses of a Malbec rosé, a Viognier, a Cabernet Sauvignon-Cabernet Franc blend, a Tannat and a glass of Malbec port to wrap it all up.

I'm looking over this list and wondering (a) why is it we didn't need a crane to get us out of the restaurant? and (b) why in the world am I so conflicted after all this great food and wine?

* * *

We got to the restaurant at 9pm. It was 1am when we walked out. We covered a lot of ground — foodwise, obviously, but also conversationwise. Mostly it was me expounding on my philosophy of blogging . . . until Robert threatened to get up and leave, at which point I started talking about fruit.

We also found time to talk about the best meal of our lives and what kind of things play into that.

For both of us, the best meals of our lives had been while we were traveling. It's easy to see why this might be.

When I see tourists here, I sometimes flash to how exotic and mesmerizing Buenos Aires must seem. Seeing what I see every day and knowing what I know, it can be hard to put myself in that perfect place, but I do at least remember how exotic and mesmerizing it seemed to me — enough so that I quit my job and moved here.

Wednesday night's meal wasn't the best of my life, but I did like it. I also liked walking around for half an hour afterward and talking about the city, both as it once was and as it is now.

It's not hard for me to see how you could have the best meal of your life in Buenos Aires. And why not have at La Vineria?

La Vineria de Gualterio Bolivar is at Bolivar 865 in San Telmo.

Feed me

2008-02-27T13:14:00.009-06:00

What is among the worst things you can say about a restaurant?

"It's terrible; don't eat there!"?

Sure.

But at least as bad is, "You have to eat there! We had the best meal of our lives."

Because you know what a fan of low expectations I am. So an endorsement like that is just asking for trouble.

And yet, how can you ignore that recommendation? Especially when it comes from two seasoned travelers who make fine food their business.

What I'm trying to say is that a month ago I tipped off the Slow Food couple to a new restaurant I was starting to hear good things about, but had never been to.

They went and raved about it. Specifically, they termed it the best meal of their lives.

And, you know, maybe you think I shouldn't trust them. But I also keep reading good things about it online. And would the Internet lie to me?

Exactly.

So I'm going tonight.

Fidelito

2008-02-24T04:23:00.009-06:00

Andrew wanted to take a photo of one of the memorials that have gone up for people kidnapped, tortured and "disappeared" by Argentina's dictatorship. (There are more and more such memorials. Line of sight has photos.)

The mini-memorials are part of the sidewalk and follow the formula: "Here is where so-and-so was taken as part of state-sponsored terrorism on such-and-such a date."

It's jarring and effective. Yes, there are other monuments to victims of the dictatorship. But these work well because they're integrated into daily life. You're walking along trying not to step in dog crap and suddenly you're confronted by the fact that four people — usually named on the plaque — vanished from the spot where you're standing.

I knew there was one of these plaques on Callao not far from Corrientes. Andrew took photos while I diddled with my camera. I was still fiddling around when I heard Andrew say, "Gee, I wonder why they were taken."

He was being sarcastic. I realized this when I looked up and saw the Communist Party headquarters. They were rounded up because they were communists.

Decorating the entrance to party headquarters was an item of stencil graffiti that just became dated this week. "Aguante Fidel." ("Hooray Fidel" or "Hang in there, Fidel" or "Right on, man!")

[Digression I: This is a good time to mention again the young woman blogging from Cuba. In the latest entry, she mentions that neither she nor her parents have known any leader besides Fidel, who's been in power since 1959.]

[Digression II: At the risk of pointing out the obvious, the communists who were victimized by the Argentine dictatorship have their own little dictatorship going on down in Cuba now and are victimizing whoever they see fit. (I'm pretty sure absolute power does something. If only I could remember what!)]

Before I lived here, I knew that Fidel had a lot of defenders in Latin America. But I'm not sure I understood exactly why.

Here's the thing: Many of his defenders are hardly communists and they're not blind to the hardship and injustice of Castro's Cuba. But in a region that has often been abused, manipulated and battered by U.S. foreign policy, it's hard to sell short the enormous appeal of a single man on a tiny island who has defied the United States for decades.

No, I am not blogging

2008-02-22T06:18:00.011-06:00

I have a houseguest for a few days.

Andrew is someone I met within a week of coming down here three years ago. Now that my time here is almost up, he's back again. (Although he's not here because of me.)

He was in my apartment for only a few minutes before I sat down at the computer.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Blogging?"

"No! I am not blogging." I use my computer for other things, you know. Like reading other people's blogs. And killing time between writing blog entries.

Five minutes later we were talking about the lunar eclipse I had watched off my balcony the night before.

"Did you blog about it?" he asked.

As if I would blog about something I just saw out my window.

In any case, there is more to my life than just this blog. For instance, there is my other blog. I am still trying to figure out what to do with it. It's slow-going, but there has been a little progress and I remain hopeful that I can either get money or a little more exposure for it — ideally both.

Aside from all that: This week, when not at my computer, I have been doing even more walking around this city than usual.

I sometimes think about the idea of opening a restaurant. Sometimes I think about what I might name it. One name that never crossed my mind: Crack.

And here's an amusing name for a cheese shop. If you don't speak Spanish, you won't get it. But let me just take this opportunity to assure that anyone who does speak Spanish is unleashing peals of hysterical laughter right now. Honest.

Chow

2008-02-18T07:52:00.008-06:00

Months ago I pitched a story on Buenos Aires to Chow.com. The good news: They loved the idea! The bad news: Someone had beaten me to the punch; they already had a Buenos Aires piece in the works.

Not what I wanted to hear.

In an act of semi-desperation — or consummate pluck, depending on how charitable you're feeling — I even followed up a few weeks back with an editor there: "Say, are you guys still doing that Buenos Aires piece? 'Cause if it fell through, I'm totally available!"

Their Buenos Aires article hadn't fallen through and now the package is finally up on the web site.

The concept is that visitors should move beyond the tourist-saturated Palermo neighborhood and focus on San Telmo.

I don't know if I can go along with the idea that visiting San Telmo is likely to make you feel like you're mingling with locals — it's pretty far along the same path of gentrification (and tourism) that Palermo has followed. But I do like the idea of exploring the city's neighborhoods. And San Telmo is a great neighborhood, with just enough tourism to be traveler-friendly without being completely overwhelmed. That is, if you get here today. At this rate, it could be played out by tomorrow.

The Chow piece starts off like this:

Beautiful, decrepit, hedonistic, and temperate. Buenos Aires is a city of charming contradictions. You’ve heard about the steak and the Malbec, but you can also get arguably the best Italian food outside of Italy, and the world’s best gelato.

I probably would have written something similar.

Reading that made me remember the biggest reason I started this blog: People kept asking me what Buenos Aires was like and I never had a good answer. If you've been here or have been reading any blog about Buenos Aires, you'll recognize that's because it's a mix of the familiar and the foreign, full of contradictions and extremes.

So I don't envy anyone the task of writing a paragraph that purports to summarize Buenos Aires.

One hundred seventy-five posts on this blog and I don't think I'm any further along in that goal than when I started.

Crossing

2008-02-17T04:23:00.005-06:00

This city must be tough on people who aren't nimble and able-bodied. I know it's tough on people who are nimble and able-bodied. And it can't be easy to navigate the broken sidewalks and the intersections with no traffic lights or stop signs if you're blind, in a wheelchair, or just old.

Twice in the last 72 hours I've had elderly people ask me to help them across the street.

And of course, I helped them — after we negotiated a price.

No, no. I'm just kidding, of course.

The prices are non-negotiable.

All right. Fine. I did it for free. Now you're beginning to see why I'm flirting with financial ruin.

Now, I don't have much occasion to use the formal "Usted" form of Spanish, but if you're old enough to ask me to help you cross the street, you can bet I'll call you señor(a) and refer to you in the third person.

Today I was listening to Andrés Calamaro's double album Honestidad Brutal on my iPod when a hunched-over man waved at me. "Would you just help me to that street corner?" he asked.

"Of course," I said.

We chatted while we waited for the light to change. He told me that he had some amiguitos (little friends) waiting at the cafe for him, some of the few who were still OK in the head. They were going to talk and watch a little television. The owner of the place was a friend of his.

The light changed and he grabbed my arm while he started to inch across the street. He told me about his joint problems, and how he had just fallen and injured his knee. He said he hoped he wasn't being a bother. I told him not to worry about it. I was going to cross the street anyway, wasn't I?

When we got to the door of the cafe, he stuck out his hand and said, "¡Señor! ¡Muchas gracias!" I think that's the only time someone here has addressed me as something other than "che." I patted him on the shoulder and told him to take care of himself.

Before I put my headphones back in, my mind played back what he had said to me when we started crossing the street:

"I'm 80 years old, you know? My joints are no good. My body isn't what it was. But I still have the mind of a 60 year old!"

Gulp

2008-02-16T06:08:00.008-06:00

Lady and gentleman, I give you: The World's First Expat Blog drinking game.

Do not attempt while operating heavy machinery — not that it was ever really a good idea to read this blog while you drive a forklift.

Take a drink every time I:

Make reference to how poor I am.

Mention inflation, pizza, gnocchi, ice cream or wine.

Write about how few people read this blog.

Visit the cheese store.

Make the easy joke.

Make the cheap joke.

Make the bad joke.

Fail to leave well enough alone.

Portray myself as kind/generous/hilarious.

Lament how little time I have left in Argentina.

Reflect on X and how it makes me feel a little Y (drawing a chorus of ZZZs).

Read something in the newspaper and then rant about it.

Elicit a sigh, a groan, or a roll of the eyes.

Mine my insecurity and self-critical nature for cheap blog fodder.

End a sentence and then follow it with a sentence fragment for supposed comic effect. Like this.

Make you wish it were summer in Chicago already for God's sake so I could go back to writing that other blog.

Fugly II

2008-02-13T09:10:00.005-06:00

You thought the Hospital Naval was ugly — and it is.

But a few blocks away, the Hospital Durand practically spits in your face.

It's a public hospital. Argentina — unlike one country I could name — provides health care to everyone. Are there problems with the public health system? Yes. A lot of them. But at least it exists.

We might be upside down here, but we're not completely backward.

Sold!

2008-02-11T10:05:00.000-06:00

In the last few days I've sold off two cameras and some computer equipment.

More important: Today I finally sold that pizza idea that's been kicking around in my head for months. An airline magazine wants a few hundred words on it.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm really happy about selling the article. What kills me is that I made more money selling my dusty electronics on Craigslist.

The article does, at least, pay more than blogging.

Ugi's

2008-02-10T08:41:00.000-06:00

To call Ugi's a no-frills restaurant is really insulting to restaurants without frills.

It's a big pizza chain with rock-bottom prices, and it is sort of an institution.

Most restaurants have a menu. Ugi's? No. Ugi's has a price list.

They always have the price of a large mozzarella pizza posted in the window on a nearly unadorned page.

For a while the large mozzarella was 6.90 and then not too long ago I noticed it was up to 8 — even 9.20 at some locations.

The government should stop fabricating inflation data and just go with the Ugi's index. People might actually swallow it.

You can see from the price list above that "sodas are sold only with a straw." I think that means that you can't get a glass for your soda, but it also makes it sound like they're going to foist a straw on you whether you want it or not. (Actually, that's probably the case. Heaven forbid you drink straight from the bottle.)

Want a box for your carry-out pizza? 50 centavos, please.

The crowd is usually a mix of blue-collar types, teenagers and families, depending on the time of day and location. Yesterday I walked by one and saw a guy passed out at a table.

For as cheap as it is, Ugi's doesn't look dirty. The kitchens are open — so you can watch as the guy sneezes on your pizza. The interiors are bright, mostly white tile and plastic. I wouldn't be surprised if they just hosed down the whole place a few times a week and let it drip-dry.

Ultimately, the pizzas are the least interesting thing about Ugi's. At 8 pesos — even at 9.20 — you pretty much get what you pay for.

Swiped

2008-02-09T11:49:00.001-06:00

Finally!

I wondered how long it would take before I got pick-pocketed on the subte. I was beginning to think my money was no good.

Today I really had it coming. Honestly, I was a complete idiot. Hell, I would have pick-pocketed me.

I had come out of a shop with a lot of small bills as change and stuck them in my pocket in a hurry. They were a mess, so when I got into the subte, I took them out of my pocket and tried to rearrange them a bit.

Which is a nice way of saying: "I took lots of money out of my pocket and waved it around on the subway."

This bedraggled woman who I had seen begging for coins near the escalator was right next to me. I very rarely give out money. But here I felt a little bad, since I had just sorted through a stack of money, including a lot of 2 pesos bills. I thought to myself, "I don't even know how many 2 peso bills I have here, which means I sure as hell won't miss one if I give it to this lady."

So I gave her 2 pesos (60¢).

She took it. She didn't say a word. And she gave me the strangest look.

I thought maybe it was because I had just made her day with a 2 peso bill.

Now I realize it's because she had lifted 50 pesos off me and here I was — what? — tipping her?

Whatever. I'm not even that upset. She probably needed it more than I do.

I would have only spent that money on cheese.

* * *

I went to the cheese shop today for the first time in a few weeks. I picked up some smoked gouda with peppercorns, some fresh mozzarella and some dates (not cheese, but really good with cheese).

When I walked in, the woman was sweeping up. I asked her how she was doing. She said: "I'm good. I was starting to wonder about you, though. I asked myself the other day if you were ever going to come back."

Yikes! How will I find the words to tell her I'm leaving for good?

* * *

Before I hit the cheese shop, I stopped a few blocks away at the Italian bakery. Do you know how you know it's a genuine Italian bakery? Mmm. . . OK, yes, the woman in line ahead of me was speaking Italian to the baker. Good answer.

I would have also accepted: The sign outside depicts a man with an authentic Italian mustache.

The ideas

2008-02-08T12:53:00.000-06:00

Hey! Look! It's the Aguas Argentinas building again.

If I put that building on top of every post where I just ramble on about what's happening inside my head, I'm going to condition you to cringe whenever you see it.

Hopefully we're not quite to that point yet.

So. . . there is nothing worse than a coy blogger. And I've made references to articles I'm trying to sell without saying what they were about.

This made sense up until a little bit ago. Initially I kept mum about the stuff I was working on or trying to sell because I didn't want anybody to rip off my ideas. It's hard enough trying to push this crap as it is — I don't need more competition.

I admit this attributes an exaggerated importance to this blog. Because — what? — hordes of travel writers scour my blog for ideas? Hardly.

In any case, now that I have seven weeks left, what the hell? If you want to try to pitch and write these stories in the next two months, be my guest.

• Wine bars in Buenos Aires. I would almost think they would be a widespread phenomenon. They're not. But I do notice more and more cropping up. And if you visit Argentina and aren't able to get to a wine-producing region, you should still be able to drink some stuff you might not find at home.

• The pizza heritage of Buenos Aires. Mmm.... pizza.

• Cafe culture beyond the guidebook. I am so sick of seeing the same tired cafes trotted out as recommendations for experiencing a slice of porteño life. The city has a list of 50 cafés y bares notables that includes a few of those well-worn spots, but is also a good departure point for exploring other options.

There you go. You got it out of me.

For what it's worth, I haven't given up on the ideas yet. If you want to pay me to write them — or know anyone who might — you know how to find me.

The plan

2008-02-07T10:21:00.000-06:00

If you've looked at the photo above, you've already seen all the Buenos Aires content this post has to offer. It's the Aguas Argentinas building on Avenida Córdoba. I'll come back to it soon, because it's worth a few more shots for anyone who hasn't seen it before.

But from here on out, this post is unabashed navel-gazing.

I started selling off my things today.

My old digital camera was collecting dust, so I Craigslisted it and made enough money to pay my share of the building expensas this month. Score!

There's more to sell: a 35mm SLR camera, an iPod nano, an espresso machine, some great computer speakers, a wi-fi router and a cordless phone.

Everything must go!

Well, not everything. But I look around my apartment and realize that in seven weeks, it all needs to fit in two suitcases.

My mom asked me the other day if I had a lot to do before I left. I told her there was stuff I was trying to do — loose ends to tie up, restaurants to visit, articles to sell, etc. But if I had to, when it came down to it, I could just fill two suitcases (jeans, T-shirts, socks, underwear, Campers), call a car and hop on the plane.

That's kind of a great feeling.

* * *

I'm not a huge fan of surprises or spontaneity, so I get really nervous when I don't have a plan.

That's why I'm glad to have a timeline coming into focus for me. You may also find it interesting. Or not. Perhaps it will serve as a guide as to whether you should furiously reload this blog or delete it from your bookmarks.

Now through March 31: Buenos Aires

April 1-5: Mexico City

April 6-30: Chicago

May 1-10: Los Angeles

May 11-June 1: Japan

And then it's back to Chicago to sell fruit and look for a real job.

About that last item: I told a friend the other day that I was more anxious about rejoining the rat race than I had been about coming down here three years ago with nothing lined up.

Then I started thinking about how it would be nice if I didn't have to rejoin the rat race at all. I don't want to sound too precious here. I understand that life sometimes involves doing shit you don't love in order to pay the man, etc.

But part of me also feels like I've taken myself off that track — which is not easy — and I'm not dying to get back on it.

When the Slow Food couple was here, they asked me if I'd be staying here longer if my circumstances were different. I hadn't bothered to ask myself that question because my circumstances aren't different. But I realized the answer was yes, I would be staying here longer if I could.

That answer rattled around in my head for a few days and I felt a little rotten about it.

But why would I be staying here exactly? Because I love it here? Or because of inertia?

The answer is probably a little of both.

In any case, I felt better when I reminded myself that it's better to leave someplace before it wears out its welcome with you — while you still feel like you'd love to go back.

That is, after all, why I'm so excited to return to Chicago, even as I dread leaving Buenos Aires.

Licuado weather

2008-02-04T10:14:00.000-06:00

We've had quite a run of gorgeous weather. And then today it was a little too hot. It's not the mind-bending, brutal heat we had over the holidays, but it's hot enough — especially at mid-day.*

It's perfect weather for siestas and licuados.

You don't need me to shed any light on taking a nap, but I do have a few words to say about licuados.

Licuados are what we'd call smoothies in the States. They can be made with milk or water, and you're usually given a choice when you order. You can combine fruits or go with a single fruit.

In my mind, the single greatest measure of a licuado is weather fresh or canned fruit is used. If I order a licuado de durazno and you make it with canned peaches in February — in the freaking height of peach season! — you'd better hope you can run faster than I can, because I am going to come after you. Once I finish my licuado, obviously.

Experience has taught me that some licuados are more typically made with canned fruit than others, though of course it depends on the restaurant or cafe. Pineapple is a risky flavor — more often than not the licuado tastes as much of the pineapple as the tin can from which it came.

Peach can go either way. Melon and strawberry tend to be good bets. Banana is a good bet, too, especially if you want a licuado made with milk.

Given the spotty quality and the prices at cafes, I usually make them at home.

But I had the licuado in the photo above at a cafe in Palermo and it was good. It was made with strawberries and milk. Usually I prefer my licuados with water, but the waiter took the time to recommend the milk, so I went with it.

As I'm typing this, I realize that in the photo to the right — in the "About Me" section — I am drinking a peach licuado. (And wearing my "sad robot" T-shirt!)

OK, so that's it on licuados. I guess now's a good time to read the footnote if you didn't before.

* You know that you can type "Buenos Aires weather" (sans quotes) into Google and you'll get a five-day forecast at the top of the results, right? And you know Google will do math for you, too, right? Like, if you enter "15*39" in the search box, it will give you 585. And if you want to convert units, it will do that too, e.g. "25 gallons in ml."

Abasto

2008-02-02T16:37:00.000-06:00

I went back and stuck a photo on that post about buses. You deserve blog posts with photos and I consider it a personal failing when I am unable to deliver. Also, I used the word "astonishingly" twice in that post. Thank you for not saying anything. I went back and fixed that, too.

Isn't it marvelous to think that every post on this blog is marching steadily toward perfection? Delusional, but marvelous.

More photos of the city's colorful buses may sound like a great idea, but at 30 I feel like I'm too young to die. And a few days of attempted bus photography has me questioning the wisdom of getting close enough to take good photos. So we'll see how that goes.

Taking pictures of buildings is much safer. So walking through the Abasto neighborhood today, I snapped a photo of this great theater building.

Comedor Nikkai

2008-01-31T15:07:00.000-06:00

Because I have a blog, it's easy to fall into the trap of believing that everything I do is interesting.

Easy for me, I mean. Not for you.

You know better.

But I may have done something slightly interesting today in having lunch at Comeder Nikkai, the dining room of the Japanese Society of Argentina. The nigiri were delicious as usual. But it's the service here that always blows my mind. It's so good. Zero attitude, friendly, considerate.

The restaurant is one of those consummately Buenos Aires places that doesn't look like much of anything from the outside, certainly not like anywhere you would expect to eat. In this case, on the street you see a double wooden door — sometimes open, sometimes closed; sometimes with a doorman, sometimes not. If there's a sign posted, I've never noticed it. Through the double door is a hallway with a skylight, below which stands the sliding-door entryway to the restaurant itself, framed by two lanterns.

I've been going there occasionally for a few years, but I've really stepped it up lately.

So why haven't I mentioned it before? Principally because I am ridiculous.

I was worried that mentioning it on the blog would drive people there. No, really. I was.

But now I only have two months left here. And I am not too concerned about ruining the restaurant for myself in the space of 60 days. So go nuts, people. Tell them the guy who sits alone and reads Clarín sent you.

They're so nice there, they'll probably pretend that means something to them.

After lunch I took the bus to the neighborhood of Agronomía, home to the Agronomy and Veterinary Sciences School.

Outside the school is something of a jarring sight in the city: a field full of horses.

* * *

Every day I comb through the site traffic numbers for this blog, hoping to glean some insight into how I can trick more people into visiting. I am happy to report that if readership growth continues apace, I will have two — possibly three! — more regular readers by the time I wrap up this blog.

What else do the numbers show? Thanks to advanced Google technology, I can tell how many times you roll your eyes when you're reading this blog. I can also see how long you spend on the page before your head hits the keyboard and you wake up.

But amidst all the data, one thing always tickles me: seeing the number of visits spike on the 29th of every month, on gnocchi day.

4 crashes, 7 buses, 58 wounded

2008-01-29T04:16:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was not a good day to take the bus, as Clarín notes.

Why so many crashes lately? To paraphrase a man who has studied the issue: January is especially dangerous because fewer traffic jams means the buses can actually move, which increases the risk of collisions.

Everybody here has colectivo stories — brushes with death.

Last week I was on a bus that was so far onto the railroad tracks when it stopped that the crossing gate was hitting the top of the bus as it was coming down. The driver did not seem bothered by this, but the passengers objected so he backed up.

For those of you not acquainted with the city or its buses, here's the short version: If you took the bus system from any other major city in the western world and then stripped away the components that made sense, you would have the bus system here.

I'm not saying it doesn't work. Remarkably, it sort of does.

What I am saying is that all the buses look different and are owned by different private companies. Most make an unholy racket and belch astonishing amounts of exhaust. In rush hour, they're unbearably crowded. They're often old and in bad repair. They don't follow straight lines or any pattern, nor do they follow the same route going one way as they do going the other (one way streets make this impossible). The route signs are often missing, incomplete, outdated, indecipherable or just wrong.

The buses are colorful, though. I should take more colectivo photos.

I'd often thought it would be great to compile a book of such photos. As with most of my best ideas — take blogging, for instance — it turns out I was not the first person to have this idea.

Boedo

2008-01-27T04:23:00.000-06:00

The New York Times has an article in its Travel section about this city's Boedo neighborhood.

Recommendations

2008-01-26T09:41:00.000-06:00

I know plastic bags are evil. But when there are no more plastic bags, what will children use to create makeshift kites on breezy summer mornings?

This kid was having a great time.

I watched him as I waited near the farmers market for the Slow Food couple.

They showed up and we talked about their meals here so far.

I get so nervous when I give out recommendations. Because restaurant experiences can vary, right? Maybe the chef takes a day off, maybe the server has a bad day, etc. So I only recommend places I've been to several times. But even then there's always the nagging voice in the back of my head saying, "It might not be as good as the last time you were there, Dan."

So I was happy to learn this morning that they had enjoyed their meal at El Trapiche the other day: steak (lomo), chorizo and fries.

To help them navigate wine lists here, I had given a few pointers on well-regarded wineries, too. This also made me nervous; I don't know what kind of wine they drink at home. (I know what kind I drink, which lies somewhere above the wine I refuse to drink and somewhere below the kind I'd love to drink.)

But I got lucky here, too. They had a chance to try two Malbecs I had suggested — Luigi Bosca and Rutini. They liked them both. Given my anxiety on the subject, I was more relieved than outright pleased.

We went into the market and spent some time talking about what "slow food" and, say, "organic" mean in a place where some people grow their own food out of necessity rather than culinary fetish.

We bought plums, grapes, pears and tomatoes so that they could try them all. I also bought a jar of dulce de leche and finagled some spoons. The dulce de leche at this market is bar none the best I've ever had. They spread it on slices of pear and swooned.

The market is right next to the Chacarita cemetery, so we headed there next.

Some structures there are gleaming and others are in disrepair. This bit was interesting because wooden braces were in place to keep it intact — not something I'm used to seeing.

I don't know if I'll see this couple again before they leave on Monday. But they're regular customers of the farm, so I know I'll see them again starting in June.

Avenida Córdoba

2008-01-25T09:10:00.000-06:00

I was walking back from coffee with the Slow Food people in Recoleta when I noticed Córdoba Avenue was weirdly deserted. So at 7.30pm I stood in the middle of the street and snapped this photo.

Every so often I post photos of beautiful buildings here. The thing is, that's only part of what Buenos Aires looks like. This is the other part. I defy you to find a beautiful building in this photo. Most of them look like they've been beaten with the ugly stick. Or bludgeoned with the hideous cudgel. OK. I tried something there and it didn't work. But you get the idea: the buildings are ugly.

I talked to the Slow Food couple and gave recommendations for ice cream, for pasta, for wine. We made plans to meet up Saturday at the farmers market and then we parted ways.

On my way home I started thinking about dinner. A single thought bubble formed: "Holy crap! I've got to have pasta, wine and ice cream right freaking now!"

I stopped at Multipasta for some spinach and cheese ravioli, at the chino for a bottle of Nieto Senetiner Malbec and then at La Flor de Almagro for a quarter kilo of ice cream with two flavors — banana with dulce de leche and chocolate chips, and fig cream with walnuts.

Honestly, I don't know why I got so excited about this meal given that it closely resembles 97% of my meals here.

But it was so good.

Falklands

2008-01-24T09:04:00.001-06:00

I've mentioned the Falkland Islands before. References to these islands, over which Argentina fought and lost a war, are everywhere. There's a memorial to the war dead downtown, and most cities have a street named Malvinas Argentinas (Argentine Falklands).

It also crops up in some odd places. The ice cream shop down the street is named after the islands. And I've gotten receipts from stores bearing the slogan "The Falklands are Argentine!"

When Stu and I were in El Calafate, we saw the side of a bus painted with a map of Argentina. My eyes drifted toward where we were, toward the bottom of the map. Of course, the Falklands were included as part of Argentina.

Plotting in my above-ground lair

2008-01-24T05:23:00.000-06:00

I am going to visit Japan this year. Traveling to Japan requires money. Also, I have several articles I would like to sell before I leave here, and time is running out.

All this means that I have kicked my job search into high gear.

This blog is not about my travails as a freelance writer — joke's on you, really, because this blog is not about anything — so I won't go into excruciating detail. But let me just say that if there's anyone worse at being a freelancer than I am, I would like to meet him (though that's probably out of the question as he's likely died of starvation).

I am doing what I can.

The other day, I applied for an online writing job. (The ad requested writing samples and said that blog entries were ideal. I sent a few pages from your blog. I hope that's OK.)

I also sent out an email to my college alumni Listserv asking for help selling four story ideas. I got quite a few emails back. A few from friends I hadn't heard from in a while. A few from well-meaning strangers offering advice.

One woman wrote back and said that she loved all the ideas and wanted to wish me luck. Her last name was not Newhouse or Sulzberger, so this was pleasant to hear but ultimately not fruitful.

Fortunately, something did come of all my scheming and searching: I have a job interview today at a wine shop. It sounded great, initially. Then I called up and the woman told me the job would consist in part of distributing fliers on the street and in part of high-pressure sales.

Considering most of the pressure I exerted on people at my last sales job was NOT to buy things (Definitely don't buy those peaches; I wouldn't get those cherries if I were you, etc.), it's hard to see myself thriving in a high-pressure sales environment.

I do feel upbeat about my chances of getting the job. One of the requirements for the job is fluency in English. In the phone interview, the owner asked how my English was and how I had come to speak it. I told her I was from the United States of America. She expressed surprise and complimented my Spanish.

Wait till she hears my English!

Cuba

2008-01-19T04:23:00.001-06:00

I'm a little late to the party with this one. The blog in question was featured last month in the Wall Street Journal.

But if you haven't seen it, you should click around a bit. It's called Generación Y. It's written by an unorthodox Cuban woman, in a place where orthodoxy is everything.

She lived in Switzerland from 2002-04, but ended up moving back to Cuba. Now she posts about daily life in what she calls "Stalinism with conga drums."

The Journal notes that the $3 she pays for half an hour of Internet access is nearly a week's wage for many Cubans. And of course, in a society where freedom of expression is sharply curtailed, there's no guarantee that she'll be able to keep posting.

It's written in Spanish, though some entries are available in imperfect English by clicking on the "versión al inglés" link at the top of the page.

If you're looking for a place to start, I recommend "Un día sin mercado negro." (English version here.)

Time and energy

2008-01-18T08:09:00.000-06:00

A few weeks back, the president declared that moving the clocks ahead one hour would alleviate the energy crisis (read: persistent blackouts). One day she announced the time change, a few days later the congress approved it, and a week or so later we were all changing our clocks.

(It reminded me a lot of when her husband declared a new national holiday with about a week's notice.)

Alas, now one of the provinces says it's not happy with the time change and will be switching its clocks back. Those clock-watching surrender monkeys. Why do they hate this country so much?

Meanwhile, a rebounding economy and consumer credit have meant a sharp rise in the purchase and use of air conditioners, which has strained the electrical grid. So the other brilliant strategy for taming the energy crisis is an air conditioner census. Since the air conditioners themselves are unable to fill out the census forms, the collaboration of the city's doormen has been requested.

A survey has been sent out asking them how many air conditioners are in the building.

The government is convinced that if it could just get a handle on how many air conditioners there are in which neighborhoods it could . . . it could what exactly?

It doesn't even matter. After people pitched a fit, the government clarified that participating in the census was voluntary. If you don't want to tell the government how many air conditioners you have or don't have, that's fine.

So now we have self-selected respondents answering a meaningless question.

Such a waste of time and energy.

Protests

2008-01-16T13:02:00.000-06:00

The place I went for lunch — the place I crossed the city to go for lunch — was closed.

(Why didn't I call ahead? Assuming I could even find their number, they could easily be open but not picking up the phone. So not getting an answer would mean nothing.)

I ended up at La Americana for pizza, for the third time in a month.

I grabbed a table and flipped through Clarín. I almost did a spit-take with my grapefruit soda when I read that the city has identified 12 areas where garbage accumulates. Twelve? Really? Not, like, 13 or 14? Just 12?

OK.

But the main headline of the day was the city and national governments fighting over what to do about the protesters that choke the main arteries of the city.

The national government is far too populist to curb the protesters. It would pay too high a price in its working-class support if it cracked down on these protests over pay raises, working conditions, etc. More to the point, such confrontations have a history of getting violent and spiraling out of control.

The city government, on the other hand, does not draw its support from the working class. As far as it's concerned, the protesters should not be bringing traffic to a standstill and should have the required permits.

This may sound eminently reasonable to some people, but the rules of engagement are very different here.

I looked up from Clarín when I heard the steady beating of drums outside. A line of police was forming outside the restaurant. Protesters had cut off Avenida Callo.

Some fresh-faced First Worlders outside stopped to gawk and snap photos of the protesters.

An old woman in a purple suit sat at a table by the window. She watched the protesters for a bit, too. Then she finished off her beer and fished a mirror out of her bag to check her lipstick.

I paid and as I was leaving, a woman waved me over to her table. "Can I have that newspaper?" she asked. "I'll take it back when I'm done," she added, motioning toward the counter. She thought it was the restaurant's newspaper.

"Well, I was going to take it," I said. She looked a little taken aback.

"It's my paper," I added quickly.

"Oh!" she said.

"But, here, take it." I thrust the paper toward her.

"¡No! ¡Por favor!" she said. She wouldn't hear of it.

"No, really. It's OK," I said.

Again, she wouldn't hear of it. So I left, newspaper in hand.

I was standing on the corner outside the pizzeria, waiting for the light to change and listening to the unholy racket of the protesters' drums. Inside the bank across the street, a cop stared out the window, thumping his fingers on the glass in time to the rhythm of the drums.

This place is by turns so civil and so confrontational.

I ran back to the pizzeria, dropped my paper on the woman's table and darted back onto the street before she could say anything.

Is this a good time to mention that I'm considering keeping a parallel blog to record all the times that I'm a raging asshole? Just for the sake of balance.

* * *

I saw today that the subte is having a writing contest. First prize is 3000 pesos (US$1000). Second prize is 2000 pesos. Third prize is 1000 pesos.

This is great. If I can win first, second and third prizes, I can pay for a trip to Japan this year.

Some of you are probably scoffing at the notion of my winning first, second AND third place. And, really, I'm with you: It is hard to imagine me finishing third.

But I'm not going to be talked out of this plan.

Because you know what? They said I'd never have a blog!

Oh. Wait. I said I'd never have a blog.

Well. Someone definitely said something about a blog.

Don't change the subject.

Worlds collide

2008-01-14T06:16:00.000-06:00

An email from Paul landed in my inbox the other day.

(Some of you are thinking, "Who's Paul?" Others of you may be tempted to ask, "How is Lupe doing?" I can only answer the first question: Paul owns an orchard.)

Great news: Paul will employ me for a third season. As part of the deal, I demanded he help me find a real job. He agreed, but he had a condition of his own: I had to tell him what kind of job I wanted.

Can you believe that? The gall!

So I have to figure out what kind of job I want. Apparently "keen observer of the human condition and fruit" does not actually describe a job with a paycheck. So that's out.

The good news is that years of living with only the barest trickle of income means that money is not my top priority. Although, the job should definitely provide income. So blogging's out.

Anyway, yes, this post is related to Buenos Aires. Paul also told me that some Slow Food* honchos he knows are coming down to Buenos Aires and asked me if I'd be interested in showing them around a bit.

I have a book full of historically significant pizzerias, a head full of ice cream shops and a checklist of the city's notable bars and cafes. So I am looking forward to their visit.

* Slow Food is a group formed in reaction to the proliferation of fast food.

Summer vacation

2008-01-12T18:21:00.000-06:00

A lot of businesses reduce their hours or close in January.

Today I stopped at the olive oil store and found a sign saying they'd be on vacation from 5-21 January.

Then I walked by a convenience store with a more pragmatic sign:

"Ciao. I went on vacation until the money runs out."

Providencia and El Trapiche

2008-01-11T14:42:00.000-06:00

For Stu's last meal in Argentina, we went to Providencia.

I texted my friend Lelis with the address and told her to meet us there. She was running 45 minutes late when she called and said she couldn't find the place. I had neglected to mention in my text message that the restaurant has no sign — no indication that it's a restaurant at all, really. Just a note on the door that says "Knock hard."

Lelis came in, sat down and didn't know quite what to make of the place. After a while, she came around and said she liked it.

"Está buenísimo ¿no?" I said. "Tiene onda." (It's great, isn't it? It's cool.)

"Sí, tiene onda ... lo que no creo que tenga es habilitación." (Yeah, it's cool ... what I don't think it is is licensed.)

I grudgingly conceded that they were closed by the city for several months a year or two ago. Probably for not serving beef.

Providencia is in the middle of a move and has closed off half the restaurant. We sat on the side with large communal tables and the open kitchen. They had two plates on offer that day — a sandwich duo and a salad. We went with the sandwiches. I had seen other people getting them and they were grilled panini-style. When we got them, they were not.

But if you go to Providencia expecting consistency, you're in the wrong place.

Providencia is where this coffee came from. When we finished lunch, we ordered cortados. Unfortunately, we ordered them from a woman I hadn't ever seen working there before. I knew right away they weren't going to be the four-layered, picture-perfect cortados I'd had before. Still, what are you supposed to do? Demand that someone else make the coffee? No.

Stu took the photos of Providencia, mostly because I couldn't take my eyes off the chef, even to snap a photo. He was just so good looking. I mean, good cooking. Good at cooking. HE WAS SO GOOD AT COOKING.

Moving right along. . .

Providencia is in their current space until the end of the month.

Their location now is cavernous and unfinished, with stencil graffiti on the walls, impossibly high ceilings, and an open kitchen. It's definitely part of what has made going there a unique, unpredictable experience. Of course, the food is the other element — simple, seasonal and sometimes inventive without being pretentious. The menu changes constantly and you can tell from eating there that they're actually interested in making the food.

Restaurants have life cycles and sometimes you catch one at just the right time.

I don't know what's going to happen after they move. From what the woman told us, the new space is much smaller. I don't know if it has an open kitchen or not. I doubt it.

It might be that Providencia's arc coincided with mine here.

* * *

The relatively light fare at Providencia was all but a necessity considering the meal we had eaten the night before at El Trapiche.

We sat down to dinner at 11pm and ordered steaks, french fries and beer.

A few people reading this have known me for years and probably never seen me consume any of these things, let alone all three of them in one meal.

But I've come around to the idea that there are times for steak, fries and beer. And the last evening of a friend's three-week trip to Argentina on a hot summer night is definitely one of those times.

As we sat at a table by the window, lightning flashed, the skies opened up, and the heat finally broke.

We walked home at 1am, hopping over puddles and dodging raindrops.

* * *

Stu got on a plane the next day. I had an amazing time when he was here. We were on the move a lot, so I didn't have a lot of time to think. Now I've got nothing but time to think.

I'm moving back to the States on March 31. I'm determined to make the most of the time I have left here, but first I have to figure out what I mean when I say that.

24 flavors

2008-01-11T05:18:00.000-06:00

How do you measure the success of a trip halfway across the world?

Is it the stories told? The laughs shared? The memories forged together?

Who knows. What do I look like, the answer man?

All I know is that over his three weeks here, Stu had 24 flavors of ice cream. That's pretty damn impressive.

He kept a journal of the flavors and I've listed them below (with the exception of one lost to Stu's tummy and the ages). I've tacked on some explanations and translations where I could.

Most ice cream shops have somewhere between 20-30 flavors. Of those flavors, probably half to two-thirds are roughly the same from shop to shop. We're talking your dulce de leche (plus variations: with walnuts, with chocolate chips, etc.), your basic fruit flavors, your chocolates (again, plus variations), your vanillas and sweet creams.

After that, you get into the specialties of each shop. These can be named after the shop itself, or they can take the name of the idea/flavor/place that inspired it. So maybe "Chocolate Daniel" has pieces of my favorite fruit in it. But the problem with this is that there are NO explanations on the signs at these ice cream shops. So you have to constantly ask, "Well, what does chocolate of the jungle have in it?" Or "What does dutch chocolate have in it?"

Anyway:

Chocolate holandés (chocolate with candied orange peel)
Dulce de leche con nuez (dulce de leche with walnuts)

Crema de pistachio
?

Banana Volta
Crema de almendra (almond cream)

Crema de cereza (cherry cream)
Bacciola (chocolate and hazelnut cream)

Vainilla al malbec (vanilla with Malbec wine)
Mantecato (similar to butter pecan)

Canela (cinnamon)
Melocotón al syrah (peach with Syrah wine)

Crema portuguesa (Port-flavored cream)
Torroncino (Spanish/Italian nougat flavor)

Maracuyá (passion fruit)
Chocolate alpino

Frutilla (strawberry)
Crema rusa (booze-flavored cream)

Banana split (banana ice cream with chocolate chunks, dulce de leche)
Crema de higo con nuez (fig cream with walnuts)

Chocolate amadeus
Crema maiori

Sambayón (Marsala-flavored cream)
Mousse de limón

Serious watermelons

2008-01-10T19:30:00.001-06:00

We came across some serious watermelons on the sidewalk in front of a fruit stand in Palermo yesterday. They were larger than bicycle tires.

Bar Uriarte and Azema

2008-01-08T11:21:00.000-06:00

I can't read Stu's mind, but I thought I recognized the look on his face Saturday. To me, it read "Argentina fatigue."

I'll grant you that it could easily have been "Dan fatigue." But for the sake of this entry and my fragile self-esteem, I'm going with Argentina fatigue.

This syndrome is not limited to foreigners. Experience and my small circle of friends tells me that it affects Argentines just as much as non-Argentines.

It sounds harsh, but being here can mean a string of small disappoints that feed into a sort of low-level aggravation and battle mentality.

Getting even simple things done can turn into an odyssey.

It's the waiting in line to take a number to wait in another line, only to get to the front of the line and be told to come back tomorrow. It's waiting in one line one day and then going back the next day to wait in the same line, only to find out that the line has changed.

It's the total lack of confidence and trust that pervades the society, with everyone absolutely convinced that everyone else is out to get you and them (although not the cab driver, waiter, etc. who vocalizes this distrust to you and warns you, of course; s/he is a saint and a victim.)

Have I ever mentioned the first question I was asked by an Argentine I met in Chicago? I had visited Buenos Aires in 2001 and upon my return came across a porteño selling ice cream in Chicago. I told him I had just been to Buenos Aires.

The first question he asked me: "Did anyone try to rip you off or cheat you?"

It's kind of funny, but it's kind of not.

I don't hold the United States on a pedestal, but that would probably not be the first question I asked someone who visited my country.

* * *

Barry Schwartz, author of The Paradox of Choice, talks about how having more choice often leads to higher expectations and more disappointment. If there are 100 detergents, surely one of them must be the right one for me. If I buy one and am not satisfied, it's a disappointment because I'm sure satisfaction must lie among the other 99.

But what if there are only one or two brands of detergent for sale? Then if I buy one and don't like it, I tell myself that there's not much to be done about it because there were only one or two detergents for sale and, hey, nothing's perfect anyway, right?

So basically choice and high expectations are the enemy of satisfaction. On a very basic level, learning to live here has meant learning to live a life of fewer choices and lower expectations. That might sound miserable to the First World ear. But it's not if you recognize as true what Schwartz says about the tyranny of too much choice.

I'm pleasantly surprised all the time because I've learned not to expect much. I'm not being flip.

All that said, sometimes limited choice and dashed hopes can drive you around the bend and back.

* * *

If I were to choose the short phrase that described Argentina best, I would probably either go with "por las dudas" or "es lo que hay."

The first phrase means "just in case" and is muttered as an explanation for everything in a place where you never know exactly what's going to happen and it always pays to have a back-up, a back-up for your back-up and a little luck.

The second phrase means "that's what there is" and is sort of a shrugging acknowledgment that, hey, you might not like it but that's all there is and you're going to have to take it or leave it.

Stu and I have had a lot of fun with these phrases since he's been here, but living — or even just traveling — in the land of "just in case" and "that's all we got" can take its toll.

So I took him out to lunch at the place where I go when I want to feel like I'm in the First World. Bar Uriarte is where I went to have my first steak in about ten years for my birthday last year. From the street, you can look through the window into the open kitchen. It's a little expensive, but it's not overpriced for what you get.

We split some baby calamari for an appetizer. I had a mixed green salad with roasted pears, cashews and blue cheese for my main. Stu had stuffed chicken on a bed of barley.

It felt amazing and decadent to deviate from the national menu of pizza, pasta, beef, and ham and cheese.

In fact, it felt so good that we did it again later that night. We met up with a fellow expat blogger and his friends for dinner at Azema, in a section of town known as Palermo Hollywood (because of the production studios located there, not, as Stu theorized, for the junkies and hookers).

Azema serves French-Asian fusion food. (Or Frasian food as it was dubbed by a clever commenter at the table. Wait. That was me. Well, it's no secret that on my blog, I always get the best lines. And that one. The best lines, and that one.)

We had a great meal. Stu had the salmon. I had the fish of the day. For dessert, I had a passion fruit mousse and Stu had a dulce de leche cheesecake.

* * *

It's 39 degrees here today. For readers in the United States and Belize, that's 17,000 degrees Fahrenheit. . . if I did the math right. It's definitely too hot to do math, in any case.

I turned off the water heater in my apartment because even the "cold" water is coming out of the tap warm, which is no wonder because it sits in a tank on the roof of the apartment building baking in the sun.

The length and utterly self-indulgent navel-gazing of this entry can either be attributed to heat-induced delirium, or the liberating realization that 20 people a day look at this blog regardless of what I write — hell, even when I don't write at all!

Which might have been the better bet today.

Oops.

Change

2008-01-06T19:11:00.000-06:00

We were a little hungry at the airport the other day, so we looked for a place to get a bite.

The only cafe past security was inexplicably closed, so we walked back around to the one place that was open.

I offered to go to the counter for Stu and bring something back.

"What do you want?" I asked him.

"I'd like the ham and cheese on a croissant."

"And if they don't have that?"

"Then some medialunas."

I went off to wait in line.

I heard the guy in front of me ask for medialunas. The defeated kid behind the counter said they didn't have any. When I got to the front of the line, I asked if they had ham and cheese on croissant. They didn't.

I laughed, but quickly felt guilty. The poor slob behind the counter thought I was laughing at him.

I asked for two waters and a piece of chocolate cake.

"That'll be 21 pesos." (US$7)

I handed him a 50 peso bill.

"Do you have anything smaller?" he asked.

"I don't," I said.

"Well, I don't have any change."

"I think I have a one-peso coin and then you can just give me 30 pesos even," I offered.

"No. I don't have any change," he said again.

He handed the 50 pesos back to me and waved me away.

"Just take it. I'm giving it to you."

"What?" I said.

"Just take your water and your cake. I don't have any change to give you. But take the water and your cake."

Uh. OK.

There was a tip jar near the register, something I don't think I've ever seen in this country. I stuck 2 pesos in the jar.

It had to really suck to be working on New Year's Day, watching half the country head off on vacation from behind the counter of the only airport snack bar, which had almost nothing to sell and no change to give you if you wanted to buy the few things they did have.

* * *

I bought three figs and a honeydew melon yesterday. The total came to 9 pesos and I handed the woman a 10 peso bill.

"I don't have any coins," she said.

"Well, what do you have that costs a peso?" I asked.

She ran down the list while I scanned the display. My eyes settled on the cherries.

"Can I have one peso's worth of cherries?"

She dug a handful out and weighed them before she came back out.

I got six cherries as my change.

Part of me wants to try to convince a bus driver tomorrow to let me ride for six cherries instead of 90 centavos.

Unfortunately the other part of me already ate the cherries.

El Calafate

2008-01-03T16:54:00.000-06:00

"While you're writing a real postcard to your real girlfriend, I'll be posting a virtual postcard to the Internet!"

This is what I told Stu over ice cream an hour ago and, yes, I laughed at myself after I said it. I am at least slightly self-aware.

Hey, anyway . . . Weather's here, wish you were beautiful, etc. Hope things are great with you in your hemisphere!

Say . . . I sure took a lot of pictures of ice!

White ice . . . blue ice . . . clear ice . . . brown ice. Practically every color of the rainbow! As long as your rainbow includes white, clear and brown.

When we got into Río Gallegos at 1am on Wednesday, there was still a faint glow of sunlight on the horizon. Aside from that, the great thing about Río Gallegos — besides the bartender at the Café Central on the main drag — is that you can spend only 12 hours there and not feel like you're leaving too soon.

By 2pm, we were on a bus headed to El Calafate. We got lucky with our hostel room here. Not only was it available, but it was 10 pesos cheaper than I had been told it would be. Good thing we saved money there, because everything else here is stratospherically and almost comically expensive.

The town of El Calafate is about an hour and a half from the Parque Nacional de los Glaciares. We caught a bus this morning that had us at the park by 10am. Guess what? We saw a glacier. The Perito Moreno Glacier to be exact. It was great. How long do you think you could look at a glacier? A few hours maybe? That turns out to be the right answer, since the cheap bus that gets you there by 10am drives you back to town at 1pm.

Yes, you can see a few other glaciers if you take different excursions. You can take a boat to view the glaciers. You can hike on a glacier. But we didn't do any of this. We didn't have the right gear for some of the excursions. And it's probably also fair to say we were a little "excursioned out" after our Mendoza trip.

So ultimately I came like 2000 miles to look at something for about three hours. On top of that, we spent a lot of money and choked down some lousy food.

But we also had a lot of fun.

I'm glad I did it once — which sounds about right for a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Going south

2008-01-01T14:38:00.000-06:00

December 31 was the hottest day of 2007. Stu and I woke up this morning sweating and thinking of going to the movies.

Instead, we're going south to Patagonia. We're spending the night in Río Gallegos before we head off on a four-hour bus ride to El Calafate, near Los Glaciares National Park.

We're going because we found a cheap last-minute ticket down south and a not-too-expensive ticket back to Buenos Aires. We debated for a while before we decided to bite the bullet and go. Like Stu said, who knows how much longer there'll be glaciers to see.

When I booked our hostel in Calafate today, the woman said she was pretty sure she had a room and that we should definitely stop by. She said that if by some chance she didn't have a room, she would find one for us.

That's very nice of her, but it's hard to imagine a worse bargaining position than being homeless in high season in a town of 7,000. So I can already see this getting interesting.

Basically, traveling in the summer here is really asking for it. I think it's fair to say that getting around Argentina is a lot tougher than Stu had imagined. It might even be fair to say that everything here is a lot tougher than he imagined.

The other day I asked him outright if he could see why I have a love/hate relationship with this place. He's already seen enough to be able to answer yes.

I don't want to curse this trip before it's even started. I'm excited to go. I could not ask for a better travel companion. And what better way to start the year than to unexpectedly end the day 2000km from where you started?

Truth be told, I'm barely recovered from my last trip. I'm still sore from the horseback riding. But at least now I can look at a photo of horseshoes without wincing.

Mendoza

2007-12-30T06:05:00.001-06:00

Stu and I headed west to wine country for four days, but the trip is over now. I'm leaving Mendoza for Buenos Aires in a few hours. I'll be back home tomorrow morning.

Yesterday brought a full day of horseback riding in the foothills of the Andes. I am so sore. I have aches in places I didn't even know I had places.

I was without my trusty MacBook, so I had to forgo blogging this past week. But I'll be back in the saddle again shortly.

I've been blogging for a year now. When I started, I told myself I would give it a few months and see how it went. Then I told myself I would give it a year. I'm not sure how much longer I'll keep at it, but this blog has at least three more months left at any rate.

Happy new year and thank you for reading.

Dreams and delusions

2007-12-24T16:20:00.000-06:00

When we walked into the art exhibit on Friday, they were already dismantling it.

But Guy No. 1 couldn't have been nicer. "Take your time looking around," he said. Then he spent some quality time with a cigarette and Guy No. 2.

The exhibit was mostly comic-style panels. The guys were patient with us, but they didn't waste any time either. We'd read one panel and they would take it off the wall while we moved on to the next one.

It could have been a performance piece about the impermanence of art, but I'm pretty sure they were just closing down the exhibit . . . several hours early. If we'd gotten there even half an hour later than we did, there wouldn't have been anything left to see.

The biggest piece in the room was this. We overheard the guys talking about it. It wasn't an original; it was a reproduction done by a local poster shop. So when they took it off the wall, Stu said: "You should ask them what's going to happen to it."

And I knew he was right. I mean, this could be my big chance. Could I make off with that great poster?

When we finished looking at the last panel in the exhibit, Guy No. 1 asked us what we thought. We gave it enthusiastically positive reviews. Then Stu coyly asked a question we already knew the answer to: Was this poster an original?

"Come on, Guy No. 1!" I thought. "Shrug your shoulders, smile, and let us walk away with the poster." But, no. A small part of me was disappointed.

Then, unprompted, he pointed toward the front of the room. "Do you guys want to take home part of the exhibit up front?"

We were ecstatic. "Yes!"

We could not stop laughing. We grinned like idiots while he grabbed one of each item on display.

An inventory:

1 box, Sueños & Delirios. Consérvense en lugar fresco.
(Dreams & Delusions. Keep in a cool place.)
1 box, Pelusas. No se conforme con menos.
(Lint. Don't settle for less.)
1 box, Mini agujeros negros. Fuerza cósmica a su servicio.
(Mini black holes. Cosmic force at your service.)
1 can, Plasta informe. ¡Sin sabor!
(Formless lump. Flavorless!)

I walked away happy with my free art and very pleased that Stu was able to see one of the best things about living here: Anything is possible. Granted, that's also one of the worst things about living here.

* * *

We walked around a lot on Saturday. We saw some very cool old buildings, some in great shape and others not. Even the ones in good repair were often marred by graffiti.

The name I most covet for my blog is "Buenos Aires, City of Faded Elegance." Because it's spot on.

We saw the stately Congress building, had coffee and a bite to eat in two of the city's classy cafés notables, and stopped in (twice!) at an artisinal cheese store.

But we also walked through some slightly sketchy sections of town, climbed over trash strewn across the sidewalk, sidestepped unsavory puddles, dodged mysterious dangling wires and watched an endless parade of hawkers scraping together a living on the subte — a lot of them children.

At one point we paused on Avendia Rivadavia to take in a beautiful building that would not have been out of place on any boulevard in Europe.

That's when Stu said that parts of the city look like they've been hit with an atomic bomb. It's true. Elegant buildings stand amidst chaos, grime and squalor.

We talked about the toll it must take to know that your city, once grand, is now in so many places held together by string.

What would be worse: To be able to remember the golden age? Or, as is the case with most people alive today, just to see suggestions of it while its legacy crumbles around you?

Chacarita

2007-12-21T15:45:00.000-06:00

We got a late start yesterday. When we got to Chacarita cemetery, it was noon.

We spent a few hours there, taking photographs under the blazing sun. Stu noted the mausoleums seemed to be in better shape than a lot of the homes we had seen. It's true.

Stu said he had never seen anything like it.

Chacarita is on one end of Avenida Corrientes. We worked our way back down toward the other end, stopping for gnocchi, ice cream and coffee.

We ended up in the Plaza de Mayo, amidst the piqueteros (semi-professional protesters) and riot police.

Then it was time to go home.

Palermo Viejo

2007-12-20T04:54:00.001-06:00

Stu and I walked around the Palermo Viejo neighborhood yesterday after lunch on a picture-perfect day. We talked about the juxtaposition of well preserved turn-of-the-century buildings, their crumbling counterparts, and then the modern monsters that pop up — all on the same block.

We also came across quite the collection of stencil graffiti.

Then I found out what it's like to hang out with someone who reads my blog too much:

We saw this narrow board inexplicably propped up against a building.

We both looked at each other.

"Do you think it's holding the building up?"

Fruit stand

2007-12-18T13:03:00.001-06:00

Now that summer is only days away, the fruit stand displays are getting good.

I snapped this photo while I was running around town today. I'm not posting the photo because it's extraordinary; I'm posting it because it's not. There are stands and displays like this on practically every block.

There's an annotated version of the photo on flickr.

A break from the routine

2007-12-17T05:49:00.000-06:00

An old friend is coming into town this week and I am really excited.

Stu is coming from Japan, where he's lived for years. A decade ago, he and I were celebrating Christmas in Barcelona and New Year's Eve in Prague. Now we'll do the same in Argentina. Who could have seen that coming?

He's here for three weeks. I may post more, I may post less.

Either way, blame Stu.

Get off my lawn

2007-12-16T15:47:00.000-06:00

Andrés Calamaro is part of the history of rock and roll in Argentina.

He's been called an Argentine Bob Dylan. I wouldn't make that comparison, but he did open for Dylan in Spain, which is some sort of endorsement for the idea.

His latest album — La lengua popular — is not his best, but it's good. It has some of the best album art I've seen in a long time.

The first time I saw him in concert was eight years ago in Madrid. Last night I went to see him at Club Ciudad de Buenos Aires, an outdoor venue. The sound was not so hot — and loud on a scale that I did not even know was possible. I had to take cover in a remote corner where the volume was not ear-splitting.

This dovetails neatly into my observation that for the first time, the (vast) majority of the concert-goers were younger than me. Ugh. And, you know, I shouted at them to get off my lawn, but the show was so loud they couldn't hear me.

The good news is that I really liked the opening band — Fito & Fitipaldis. (Warning: link plays music.) I was aware of them before and had heard a few songs, but it never really clicked until last night.

Squash blossoms

2007-12-15T10:44:00.000-06:00

Squash blossoms are fragile. You should eat them the same day you buy them.

But I found some at the market this morning and I won't be home for dinner tonight, so they're going to have to wait for tomorrow. I expect to stuff them with ricotta, batter them and deep fry them. And I expect them to be freaking delicious.

Sometimes a very simple food crosses a line and becomes gourmet, and the price goes up accordingly. This happens a lot with fish. Monkfish and lobster used to be trash fish, either discarded outright or sold off for cheap. Now you'll pay top dollar for them.

Squash blossoms are a very pricey item in the States. When I would buy them at the farmers market in Chicago (back in the days when I had to pay for things there), they were 75¢ or $1 apiece.

Here, I bought them for 5¢ apiece. Yes, some things are cheaper here than in the States, but this is disproportionately and marvelously inexpensive.

And who can resist eating flowers?

* * *

I'm loath to make generalizations — even positive ones — about porteños. But I really do think that people here talk to strangers a little more than in the States.

I was coming back from the market this morning and about to cross a busy street. To my right stood a woman in her 70s.

The light changed and I strode out into the crosswalk.

Behind me, I heard a voice shout: "Wait for me!"

I took a few more steps and heard it again.

I turned around to see the little old lady galloping my way. She had been speaking to me.

"¡A los dos juntos no nos van a atropellar!" ("They won't run us both over together!")

We got to the other side of the street and she thanked me. "Please!" I said. "It was nothing."

It made me think of how I always feel just a little bit better about crossing the street with a nun. Because if you run over a nun, don't you basically go straight to hell?

Then again, maybe they'll swerve to avoid the nun and take me out.

Pesos from heaven

2007-12-13T15:16:00.000-06:00

Six months ago, a police explosives team conducted their daily security sweep in the office of the economy minister here. They found a bag containing $60,000.

What the hell was a bag of cash doing in the bathroom of the economy minister? Well, you could try asking her. A lot of people certainly did.

But Felisa Miceli kept changing her story. First the money belonged to her and was, of course, 100% declared before the tax authorities.

Then most of it was a loan from her brother for a real estate deal. She had meant to take it to the bank, but didn't have time.

One of the problems — I mean, besides the fact that $60,000 was found in a paper bag in her bathroom — was that some of the money was still wrapped in an eminently traceable bank band. And when the band was traced, neither her nor her brother's name came up.

Some of her assistants cast doubt on her already dubious story, testifying that she had never mentioned a real estate deal to them. Others tried — and failed — to explain it away: Miceli was often very forgetful, they said. Like, she would totally leave her cell phone in a meeting room. Or, you know, bags of cash in the bathroom. Whoopsy!

(Frankly, I think it's better to assume she knew damn well that bag was there. Otherwise you have to ask how many other bags of cash she has lying around where she was able to forget the $60,000 in the bathroom.)

Miceli stuck around for a month or so, but not surprisingly she ended up getting the boot. I've been wanting to mention this for a while, since I was otherwise engaged when this all went down. The news hook for this post is that she told her story to a judge yesterday — one of her stories, anyway.

Along the way, Miceli said her handling of the incident was marked by her naivete. She has also tried to paint herself as the victim.

If anyone wants to victimize me by leaving $60,000 in my bathroom, you know how to reach me.

Blogging

2007-12-12T07:43:00.000-06:00

When you consider how low I've set the bar for a post on this blog, it stretches credulity to say that there hasn't been anything worth posting for the last four days.

We did change presidents on Monday. But I was completing a wildly lucrative subtitling project, so I couldn't leave my apartment to watch the inaugural hoo-ha.

Fortunately by last night I was freed from the exigencies of my freelancing empire.

So I met up with fellow expat blogger Matt, who's in from Chile on a secret mission. He didn't say this, of course. But then, he wouldn't, would he?

He's not the first blogger I've met here.

I had a chance to meet Robert some weeks back. I think it's fair to say that he is twice the blogger I am — especially because he has two blogs.

In his first blog, line of sight , he writes a great deal about the architecture and history of Buenos Aires. His new blog AfterLife is dedicated to Recoleta Cemetery. If you've never read it, it's the best blog about a cemetery you've never read. It's particularly interesting because so much of what lies inside those cemetery walls is really about the history of the city and country outside the walls. (Robert, you can thank me later for the three hits these links will likely generate.)

Anyway, Matt and I had a good time last night. Mostly he sat quietly while I read aloud to him from my blog.

Somewhere amidst the fourth post on inflation — or was it ice cream? — he stopped me and talked a little about how he started his blog because there were really no English-language resources on his city, Valparaiso.

I told him I started mine for the typing practice.

Tomatoes

2007-12-07T07:16:00.000-06:00

Wednesday was the beginning of tomato season for me — the first day they showed up at the farmers market. The tomato crisis has faded. You can get a kilo of conventional tomatoes for around 2 pesos (66¢). The farmers market tomatoes set me back 2.50 a kilo (80¢).

Welcome to Argentina. . .

2007-12-06T08:01:00.000-06:00

Outgoing president (that makes him sound gregarious, doesn't it?) Néstor Kirchner gave an interview in which he summed up the state of affairs he's leaving his wife, who takes office on Monday:

"I'm leaving Cristina an almost normal country."

Maybe they should turn that into a banner and string it up at the airport.

"Bienvenidos a la Argentina, un país casi normal."

No es una vaca cualquiera

2007-12-05T12:14:00.001-06:00

When you think about all the chocolate milk in the world, it was almost discrimination that there wasn't dulce de leche milk, don't you think?

Meh . . . I don't really think so either. But now we have dulce de leche milk. Maybe we did before, for all I know. Anyway, it's sort of milk-flavored milk, isn't it? Well, milk- and sugar-flavored milk, dulce de leche being nothing more than boiled and reduced milk with abominable amounts of sugar added.

Anyway, these posters for dulce de leche milk are up all over town. And I keep seeing them. So I thought: "Huh, that might make for a mildly amusing blog entry. Maybe I'll say something about how chocolate milk is all over the place but you never really think about dulce de leche milk."

And then I started to think about how odd it was that the flavoring they're adding to the milk is itself milk-based, as covered two paragraphs above.

And then I visited the web site for the milk and SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP THAT CARTOON COW HAS FRIGHTENINGLY LARGE UDDERS.

That is just not natural.

I had actually planned to blog about something else today. I had planned to do a lot of things. But now I've seen those udders.

Il Bombón

2007-12-03T15:10:00.000-06:00

I was restless yesterday on a hot and sticky day, so I took the bus to Villa Urquiza to get some ice cream at one of my favorite heladerías, Il Bombón. I hadn't been to that location in nearly a year. (The brothers that own it have one other location, to which I've been back a few times.)

I'm happy to report it has maintained its high standards and unsophisticated decor. I sat on a bench just outside the door and had two flavors: rice pudding and banana with dulce de leche.

The woman on the bench across from me was scooping out ice cream from her cone and letting her dog have a lick of the spoon before scooping up some more and plopping it in her own mouth with gusto. And dog saliva. Gusto and dog saliva.

I took the bus there but walked back to kill some time and get some exercise. I found myself just outside Chacarita cemetery and decided to cut through. There's not much reason to think a cemetery would be noisy, of course, but it's amazing just how quiet it is in there even with buses and trains rumbling by just outside the walls.

They left out Evita

2007-12-03T14:49:00.000-06:00

I have mentioned my zero-tolerance policy for gratuitous references to the tango in foreign press coverage of Argentina.

This New York Times article on gay tourism in Buenos Aires manages to squeeze in references to both the tango AND beef in the lede, and then wraps up with a quote about Cher and Madonna. No, I don't have a policy against mentioning them in press coverage of Argentina, but it's pretty unoriginal to finish an article about gays with a quote about Cher and Madonna.

It's also a little baffling that an article about tourists doesn't quote any tourists.

I should say that I worked in a newsroom for five years, so I know how easy it is to criticize from the outside.

What? That's why I'm doing it.

Diego Felix

2007-12-01T08:34:00.000-06:00

The "closed-door" restaurant I blogged about way back in March is in the New York Times Style magazine this weekend, effectively throwing open the doors.

It had only been open a few weeks when I went with Joel, my erstwhile rakish dining companion and man about many towns.

I'm happy to see the restaurant succeed. Diego was a pretty cool guy. I have no way of knowing if success has spoiled it, but I suspect success has changed it. And I'm glad I went when I did.

In more personal terms, it makes me slightly queasy to think about what the writer probably made selling this piece to the Times, a piece that mentions half a dozen spots within a 30-minute walk from my apartment.

Can I just make something absolutely clear? I can be bought. I will sell out, I will sell out big-time, I will sell out cheap, and I will sell out before you can even finish your sentence asking me to sell out.

The site for the restaurant: Diego Felix.

The New York Times article. (Warning: annoying Flash presentation. Diego Felix is No. 2 on the map.)

A huge problem

2007-11-29T09:43:00.000-06:00

There is a huge problem with this blog.

No, not that.

Um. Not that either.

Why don't you let me go first?

The huge problem with this blog is that there are no photos of people.

There are millions and millions of people in Buenos Aires, but only a handful on my blog — and most of them are in my short photo series "People of Buenos Aires from Behind."

It would be great to have photos of people on this blog.

Like, on Saturday on the subte, there was this amazing magician who couldn't have been more than 20 years old. He had the whole car's rapt attention for 9 stops. It would have been great to get a picture of him. But my camera stayed in my pocket.

And the kids here will get out of school soon and some of them will be walking around with their guardapolvos — their white "lab jackets" worn as a school uniforms — inked with friends' signatures and best wishes. (Versions of "Have a cool summer!!!!" and "Stay sweet!!!!" only with exclamation marks at the beginning of the phrase, too, because, you know, ¡¡¡¡it's in Spanish!!!!)

Photos of them would be a kick, too.

And I would love to be able to post photos of the ladies who wash my clothes, the farmers at the market, the police officers in their thick bullet-proof vests, the woman who sells me cheese, the man who sleeps on the sidewalk and uses his dog as a pillow, the Orthodox Jews clad head to toe in black.

It would be great to post photos of everybody, really. . . including my doorman, who showed up at my apartment yesterday to ask me if he could borrow $300.

Although in that case, I don't know if it would have been better to get a picture of his face as he asked me, or a reaction shot of my face as I just about shit a brick.

A little sugar

2007-11-28T16:23:00.000-06:00

I am absolutely in love with café con leche.

It's about one part espresso to two parts steamed milk. And, sure, there's the buzz that comes with it.

But there's also the ritual. If I'm making it at home, there's the careful scooping of the grounds into the filter basket of the espresso machine. If I'm having it out, there are the swift, deliberate motions of the waiter as he sets down my café con leche, my small glass of carbonated water and my complimentary cookie.

And there's the taste. The first bitter sip of the morning before I add the sugar. The foamy, slightly caramelized scalded milk mixed with the espresso. The syrupy espresso at the bottom of the cup where the sugar has settled, treacly but great in small doses.

Of course, at a certain point, there's no café con leche about it. After noon, it's cortados all the way down.

I was introduced to café con leche in Spain, but in some ways it reaches even greater heights here in Argentina.

Here, café con leche is rarely served without a small glass of carbonated water and a little cookie. It just feels so damn civilized.

The sugar almost always comes in a little packet. And that's where the blog "Sobrecitos de azúcar" comes in. This 47-year-old woman has been collecting sugar packets since her childhood and has more than 1000 of them. She is sharing her collection on her blog.

Though I don't have a photo of it — what am I, some sort of Internet photo-taker and writer? — my personal favorite was the sugar packet I got one morning a few months ago at the cafe down the street. It was from LADE, the government-owned, military-operated airline.

You know there had to be a story there.

I'm picturing a cafe owner scrambling through the flaming wreckage of a LADE aircraft, emerging in tattered clothes and smelling of jet fuel, grinning as he clutches as many sugar packets as he can hold.

But I could be wrong.

Miguel Brieva

2007-11-27T11:32:00.000-06:00

The boxes of lint for 4 pesos ($1.25) and boxes of mini black holes for 6 pesos ($2) were what caught my eye.

Lint for 4 pesos? I'm kind of on a budget. Didn't lint used to be less expensive? Still, the sign promised it was the "best lint" and I suppose 4 pesos is a steal if we're talking lint of a certain ...

Wait a minute.

The lint was displayed in a handsome package on a shelf facing the street. I spotted it through a window. I had stumbled across a fantastic art exhibit. Works by Miguel Brieva were on display at the stark white gallery space of the Spanish Cultural Center of Buenos Aires (Paraná 1159).

Had I known about it beforehand, I don't know if it would have sounded appealing. But I'm really glad I found it, because I got a big kick out of it. In a city full of surprises, this was easily the best one since . . . the puppet museum.

Miguel Brieva is from Seville, Spain, and the exhibit is at one of two cultural centers in Buenos Aires funded by the government of Spain.

Besides being brilliantly drawn in bold colors, Brieva's stuff has a sense of humor that I appreciated. The comic book-style art is critical of consumerism and mass media (wide and easy targets, granted).

The piece at the top of this entry was several meters long by at least a meter high and occupied the most prominent spot in the gallery. One of the women in the center of the piece says, "The great thing about the dictatorship of the market is that it has all the good parts of that other fascism before it, but without all the marches and military parades and crap!" To the right is a woman filming her husband and child. The husband asks, "Do you think we're happy, dear?" to which the woman responds: "Yes! It says so right here in the camera viewfinder!"

Below are links to two more examples of his work gleaned from the web, with translations. (The text of the second one is a tiny bit crude.)

The exhibit is free and on until Dec. 21.

One:

"Wow, that's weird! What do you think that is, dear?"
"Who knows. ... Well, we'll find out later on TV."

Two:

"Look, dear. Look what I've got! It's the latest in balls of excrement, covered by a fine layer of organic refuse carefully chosen by the most well-regarded professionals. Its interior is comprised of an exquisite and varied mixture of deposits gathered from the most refined . . . "

"Yes, yes. Come on! Once again, they've sold you the same shit as always."

"Basically."

The puppet museum

2007-11-22T15:10:00.001-06:00

On my paseo the other day, I ran across the Argentine Museum of Puppets!

I wanted to get in, but apparently you have to pull a few strings.

Thank you. I'm here all night.

Paseo

2007-11-21T15:40:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I was getting ready to head out to a small exhibit featuring art done by kids living in the slums.

I realized the exhibit was on the same side of town as the English-language bookstore . . . and that the bookstore wasn't so far from the cheese shop and the Italian bakery.

I hit the bookstore first and made 35 pesos (US$11) selling them four used paperbacks. Cheese money!

I got to the art exhibit and it was closed. A lot of businesses here lock their doors. But there's usually someone to open up if you knock. Not there, not this time. At other points of my life, I would have found this more upsetting. But I know better now. So I moved on to the bakery.

This Italian bakery is old school. It's been around for very nearly 100 years. And you can tell. (I did not take photos inside the bakery, but there are some photos here.)

I have sworn off buying bread in Buenos Aires, not out of carbophobia but because most if it just sucks. In a place with so much European heritage, it's ridiculous that this should be so, but it is. Every bakery for miles around makes essentially the same bread and it is all insipid and fluffy.

So I'm almost down to only eating bread that I make. But the bread at the Italian bakery is one of the very few places that makes bread worth buying, so I picked up a loaf.

They've got some great-looking pastries too. The one I bought, pictured above, is the pasticciotto. It's a cookie crust filled with pastry cream and chocolate. The man behind the counter dusted it with powdered sugar before he stuck it in a bag for me.

The cheese store is only a few blocks away. It was locked when I got there. But I tapped on the glass and the same old woman who is always there let me in.

I asked for some ricotta first and then asked about the burrata. I had heard of it, but what was it exactly? She told me it was a ball of fresh mozzarella stuffed with a mixture of mozzarella, cream and basil, whereupon I informed her that one of those would be coming home with me as well.

While she totaled up my purchase by hand on a small slip of paper, we chatted a bit about the business.

"¿Sos de acá del barrio?" she asked me.

No, I told her. I live in Almagro.

I told her that good cheese was worth the trip, and she naturally agreed. I said that I sometimes waited until I had something else to do on that side of town to come, but not always. Sometimes I just enjoyed the walk to the cheese store.

"Y sí," she said. "Hay que tomarlo como un paseo." You have to treat it like a stroll.

It's true. On my way there, I had chanced upon some things I didn't know existed. (Who knew there was a puppet museum or a Lunfardo Academy of Buenos Aires?) Plus, I never spend any time in San Telmo or Congreso and they're both great neighborhoods to explore.

True, I hadn't even seen the art exhibit I set out to see. I had managed to pick up some great food, but even if I hadn't it wouldn't have mattered. Paseos are not like blog entries. Even a rambling paseo that doesn't go anywhere isn't a let-down.

Luna Park

2007-11-16T22:23:00.000-06:00

Luna Park is where Juan Perón met Evita. That's a tough act to follow, but last night I went there to see Rosana in concert.

It's a straight shot about 40 blocks down Avenida Corrientes from my apartment to the venue. It was a beautiful evening, so I walked there.

The walk took an hour and a half and was really good for clearing my head, even as I choked on exhaust fumes and sneezed from my allergies. By the time I got to Luna Park, I had reached all sorts of profound conclusions about my life!

It was a great show. The acoustics there aren't as good as they are at the Gran Rex, where I saw Rosana last time she was in town. And she was struggling with her voice.

But I still had a great time.

I was a little sad when the show was over. I don't know when I'll be able to catch one of her shows again. She doesn't tour the States, and I won't be here next time she comes around.

But how great is it that I've been able to see her twice here? And Joaquín Sabina twice! And Andrés Calamaro twice! And Jorge Drexler!

I feel pretty lucky.

I sometimes think the best part of learning Spanish is all the music it's allowed me to discover. When music connects with you it's more than the sum of its melody and lyrics. The connection is very personal.

That's why I'm passing along a video clip of Rosana, but without expectations it will do much for you. (This blog is a lot of things, but it's not quite OMG YOU HAVE TO BUY THIS ALBUM IT IS AWESEOM AND YOU WILL LOVE IT! Because if it were, I would by now have mentioned The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter, which is an awesome album that you have to buy because you will love it.)

I was saying? Oh, yes. Here's Rosana:

I just want to reach through the screen and shake you! Wasn't that amazing?! I mean, you can freaking hear her smiling when she sings!

Anyway, it was midnight when the show was over. The crowd spilled out onto the street.

As I walked up Córdoba to catch the 109 bus, I passed a restaurant half full of people. I was three paces past it when something made me go back. I turned around and stared into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the cafe.

My gaze settled on a table near the bar and I caught the eye of a smokin' transvestite hooker sitting alone with her drink. I gave her a goofy grin. She smiled back. And then my bus came.

Executive summary: Boy meets girl, they fall in love, start a legend. Too much thinking is bad, but walking is good. I see a concert of someone you've probably never heard of or don't care about. Huh. I've seen a lot of concerts of people you've probably never heard of or don't care about. Super duper! Here's a YouTube clip, because you know, there's something you don't see enough of on the Internet. Once again, boy meets girl — but this time it's the same person. And then my bus came.

At least there's no shortage of dulce de leche

2007-11-14T09:56:00.002-06:00

In my last post, I mentioned the absurd shortage of coins in this country.

With the sweat from writing that last entry still dripping from my brow, I headed downstairs to buy food.

The shop two doors down has placed the following sign in its window:

Dear Customer,

For every 100 pesos in coins, we will give you one kilo of El Puente-brand dulce de leche.

Thank you very much.

I am so hoarding coins now.

Argentina isn't a country . . .

2007-11-13T10:35:00.000-06:00

This place sometimes feels like it's one stop before the loony bin. It can be a beautiful brand of crazy. But it can also be challenging.

* * *

Out of 90 airlines sampled, two Argentine carriers ranked 86th and 87th for on-time performance. Their flights adhere to schedule about 25% of the time. It doesn't help that sometimes they don't even take off on the right day.

* * *

There is an absolutely desperate lack of change in this country. Where do all the coins go? Good question. It is a deep mystery and apparently a perennial source of fascination to foreign media. The BBC did a story on this last year. Reuters just did a story on this. And there's a video report here.

As the BBC story points out, it turns you into a liar. Because when you hand over 20 pesos for a purchase of 12.25 and the clerk asks you if you have any change, you lie through your teeth as the jingle of the precious, precious coins in your pocket echoes in your head like the beating of the telltale heart.

* * *

This video report about buying people's votes in the most recent election is a flawed piece of journalism. Why, for example, did these people cooperate with the reporter? It's not explained. Also, the voice-overs in English don't always completely match what the people are saying in Spanish. But I'm inclined to chalk this up to bad editing. There is certainly truth at the heart of this.

People in poor areas were paid to vote for candidates. And what to make of these vote-getters working both sides of the ballot? They collected votes not just for one candidate, but for the opponent as well.

It's like these vote buyers are completely unprincipled!

* * *

Last week, the sidewalk newsstands that sell all of the city's magazines and newspapers closed for a day. Why? To celebrate the National Day of the Newspaper Seller. I am not making this up. Naturally, the newspapers were not thrilled with this, since it meant they would lose a day of sales.

According to this article in La Nación, the usual arrangement is that the newsstand owners pocket about a third of the paper's cover price. To entice them not to close, the newspaper companies offered to let the newsstand owners keep the ENTIRE price of the newspaper, thereby earning them enough money to pay a helper for the day and be able to relax on the National Day of the Newspaper Seller.

The newsstand owners said no thanks and closed up for the day.

* * *

And you've got to love it when two major holidays fall in the same week. Of course, I'm referring to the fact that the day before the National Day of the Newspaper Seller was the National Day of the Banker.

Turns out, the banker and the newspaper seller honor their professions in the same time-tested way: by not showing up for work.

* * *

This all leads up neatly — so neatly you'd swear this blog entry had a point if you didn't know better — to this advertisement for a book promising to unveil the "marvels, oddities, curiosities, and mysteries" of the Argentines.

The best part is the tagline on the cover:

"Argentina isn't a country, it's an adventure."

"Why don't you shut up?"

2007-11-11T11:04:00.000-06:00

The prime minister of Spain was in Buenos Aires yesterday, after participating in the Ibero-American summit in Chile.

Having tenuously linked this post to Buenos Aires, I'll continue:

The summit in Chile wasn't exactly a love fest.

Uruguay and Argentina are in the midst of a diplomatic row over a paper mill in Uruguay that Argentina says will lead to unacceptable pollution.

And then Spain and Venezuela got into it.

Venezuela's Hugo Chávez called the former Spanish prime minister a fascist several times, which prompted the current Spanish prime minister to attempt to respond. . . .

. . . which prompted Chávez to not shut the hell up, even though his mic was off.

Which leads us to King Juan Carlos of Spain — who should certainly know a fascist when he sees one — wagging his finger at Chávez and asking him why he won't shut up.

Not really becoming a monarch, but sort of great anyway.

Cafayate

2007-11-09T19:32:00.000-06:00

The trip from Salta to Cafayate — the nucleus of the local wine industry — was about 120 miles. It took just under four hours. It might have gone faster, but the bus wasn't just the bus. It was the paperboy, too.

If you lived in any of towns along the dry mountain highway, you could flag the bus down and the driver would sell you a newspaper.

These were very small towns.

In most of them, we would stop at the first building in town and you could clearly see where the town ended up the road a piece. (Still, we'd stop three times to make pick-ups and drop-offs.)

By the time we got to Cafayate, even a town of 11,000 people seemed big.

I paid five bucks to rent a bike just off the expansive main plaza and then pedaled around to the wineries, most of which were a few miles out of town.

The area is desert. It was dry and hot, and it's only November. The heat in January must be unbearable.

Now, you may know that I am sort of a half-assed vegetarian. Increasingly, half-assed I'd say. I eat fish. I had a steak for my birthday this year. And when I was in Chicago, I ate duck at an event put on by Slow Food and the farm.

To that list, we can add the steak I ate in Cafayate.

My dining options were somewhat limited.

I picked a restaurant, leaned my bike against the lamppost and plopped myself down at a table. The waitress handed me a menu.

"We don't have everything on the menu," she said.

"That's fine," I said.

She went down the menu and named about ten things they didn't have before I stopped her.

I had seen signs for lomo a la frontera all over town. I asked for that.

It was steak and eggs over fried potatoes, with some onions and bell peppers thrown in.

Such a contrast to the steak I had six months ago for my birthday. At Bar Uriarte in Buenos Aires, the atmosphere is studied and refined, urban and sophisticated, with a carefully designed menu.

Here, it was plain and rural. Without pretense. Also, apparently, without a menu.

I finished my meal and biked off onto a dirt road into the hills.

Of course, who should I run into?

Eesh. Awkward!

I hoped I hadn't eaten someone they knew. Well, someone they liked.

Aside from the wine and the scenery, the best thing about Cafayate is that the people aren't sick of tourists. They are definitely placing a heavy emphasis on developing the tourism industry there, but you can tell it hasn't gotten old. Yet.

Mendoza is the Argentine region that everyone associates with "wine country," but I think Cafayate is going to be the next big thing — as a travel destination and as an appellation.

* * *

I got back to Salta about 11pm and collapsed into my bed.

The next day, I flew back to Buenos Aires.

Yes, I had planned to take buses on this trip. But I had already taken a 10-hour bus to Córdoba. A 12-hour bus to Salta. And then a 7-hour round-trip to Cafayate and back.

Honestly, there wasn't enough wine in all of Cafayate to make 22 more hours on a bus OK.

Salta

2007-11-08T09:18:00.000-06:00

I spent my first day in Salta just walking around.

All over Salta, entire buildings are painted with bright-red Coca-Cola ads. The vibrant advertisements, the soft pastels of the buildings, the bright blue sky, the pale purple of the jacarandas. . . They all added up to a very colorful city to explore.

As I walked around, someone called out to me.

"¡Flaco!"

I had walked past the guy, but his merchandise had caught my eye, and now he wasn't going to let me off.

"¡Flaco! ¿Probás un damasquito?"

("Dude, do you want to try an apricot?")

Clearly he had made me on sight. Readers of my other blog may remember that the Michigan apricot crop was wiped out by a late spring freeze. No apricots for me this year. Until now.

"How much?" I asked.

They were four pesos, about US$1.25 for a good-sized tray. I popped a sample in my mouth and began digging for my wallet. What the hell was I going to do with 30 apricots? I had no idea. But they were too good to pass up.

I placed the apricots gently into my shoulder bag and kept walking.

A few minutes later I walked past a scrawny kid sitting on the shaded stoop of a convenience store.

"¿Una monedita, señor?" He wanted a little change.

I said no and walked a few spaces before it dawned on me. I spun around and began digging in my bag as I walked up to him.

"¿Che, querés?" I placed four rosy-orange apricots into his tiny, filthy hand.

He thanked me and I walked another block, until another kid asked me for change. I started digging out my apricots again when I turned around and saw that the first kid had finished one of his apricots and was walking up to share the others with this second kid.

I waved him away and gave the second kid some apricots of his own.

I ate the rest of the apricots for dessert that night, left some on my night stand and found that the maid had helped herself when I got back to my room late the next evening.

Who could blame her? They were really great apricots.

* * *

Of course, I made time for some ice cream. The place I went had some unique flavors, including cayote con nuez, cayote being in the squash family and looking like a watermelon on the outside; nuez is walnut. I also tried torrontés, ice cream made from the region's star white wine grape. On the menu was té de coca, or coca-leaf tea ice cream. But they were out of it.

* * *

I knew I wanted to go to the nearby wine region of Cafayate the next day, but I had to figure out how to get there.

There were plenty of excursiones offered, where they provide a bus and a guide and drive you around. This country is absolutely mad about excursions. I think it's a sort of full-employment scheme to soak up the graduates of the tourism programs at universities.

It's to the point where if you contemplate doing something outside of a pre-programmed excursion, people look at you like you're nuts. And sometimes it's all but impossible to do things without an excursion if you don't have a car.

But I was determined to try. Because the excursions on offer to wine country all involved spending the better part of the day looking at rock formations that allegedly resembled things.

I know this because I went into a travel agency where a woman excitedly showed me pictures of these formations.*

"This is the Titanic. This is called the Obelisk. This one is called the Toad."

"Um, I'm really more interested in wineries. Is there any tour where you see fewer rocks and more wineries?"

"No, not really," she said.

Of course not. Why would there be, with so many rocks to look at?

I should mention that part of my frustration with this excursion-centric system stems from a deeply scarring guided tour I was all but forced on during a trip to Argentina four years ago. I saw nothing of interest but spent 14 hours on a bus filled entirely with senior citizens, who for at least the last five hours of the trip were drunk off their asses and engaging in a group sing-along at the top of their lungs.

So I went to the bus station to see if there was a bus that would take me to Cafayate, where I could then strike out on my own. There was. It left at 7am and took about three and a half hours to get there.

So I bought a ticket and went to bed early.

*It all started to remind me of possibly the most random tour I've ever taken in my life, into the Cuevas del Drach salt caves in Mallorca, where we were shown stalagmites and stalactites that supposedly resembled things and then treated to a classical music concert performed by musicians on boats floating in an underground lake. Naturally.

Córdoba

2007-11-06T18:14:00.000-06:00

I was conflicted about taking a trip because the only thing lower than my bank balance is my blog readership. Zing!

Shit. I just zinged myself again. Oh well. At least not many people saw me do it.

Dammit!

Anyway, I reminded myself that I won't be in this country beyond April or May, that things aren't going to get any cheaper or any closer, and that, in the end, I've never regretted spending money on travel — even though I'm still paying for my European wanderings 10 years ago in the form of student loans.

I'll get back to Salta like I said I would, but I should start from the beginning.

My trip started in Córdoba, which I reached after a 10-hour overnight bus ride from Buenos Aires.

I spent two days in Córdoba because it was halfway between Buenos Aires and Salta and because it is arguably Argentina's second city.

It was a nice place to spend a few days, but I wasn't blown away by it.

Still, Córdoba does have some nicely preserved historical architecture in the form of a cathedral (above) and some churches (below).

And the jacaranda trees were in bloom.

As I wondered the city, searching for meaning and purpose in my visit, an ice cream sign came into focus. Just like the meaning and purpose of my visit. And my propensity for cheap narrative devices.

Mmm . . . footsicle. Full of footy goodness.

From Córdoba, I took a 12-hour overnight bus to Salta, which is where I will pick up next time.

Greetings from Salta

2007-11-04T18:17:00.000-06:00

A thousand miles from Buenos Aires in the northwest corner of Argentina sits the province of Salta, bordering Chile and Bolivia.

The capital of the province, also named Salta, is one of those dusty, colorful cities you might picture when you think of Latin America.

I mention this in part because I don't always think of myself as being in Latin America when I'm in Buenos Aires — heaven, hell, Europe, the Third World, the First World . . all these things, yes. But not specifically Latin America.

In so many good and bad ways, Buenos Aires is really a world of its own.

Salta, however, is thoroughly and inescapably Latin American.

More on Salta soon.

Up next: butterflies and kittens!

2007-11-01T07:56:00.000-05:00

I don't want to say that staring out my window isn't normally rewarding, but it felt particularly rewarding yesterday just before sunset.

All this top-notch blogging and whatever else it is I do has me exhausted.

So I am taking a bus north to Córdoba, and then to Salta. (Here's a map of Argentina.)

2007-10-31T16:34:00.000-05:00

Mrs. K

2007-10-29T17:00:00.001-05:00

You have managed to live this long without hearing my take on Argentina's national elections Sunday, but why take any chances?

When consuming foreign media reports about Argentina, it is important to follow a strict "no tango" policy. Zero tolerance for gratuitous mentions of the dance as a tortured metaphor for politics, sports, the weather, etc — or as purported insight into the national character, economy, etc.

Most of the salient points were made — tango free! — in the major English-language media outlets: Cristina Fernández de Kirchner had a lock on the election from the start. There wasn't much debate or dialog. She won't have it as easy as her husband had it because much of the easy work has already been done.

Here are a few other tidbits of interest:

1. Voter turnout percentages are not a big thing because voting here is required by law. You can show up at the polling place and cast a blank ballot. You can scrawl "Evita" on your ballot. But you do at least have to show up and drop something in the box.

2. For 48 hours before the polls open, there is a gag order on the candidates as well as a prohibition on publishing polls. Also, no booze for sale on election day until the polls close. (So much for making a drinking game out of fraud allegations). Also banned on election day: sporting events and other public entertainment.

3. There is little telling what Cristina Fernández de Kirchner will do as president.

We know from campaign declarations that she is

(a) against poverty and

(b) in favor of people really pulling together to make a difference.

You can see why she got twice the votes of her nearest challenger!

The comparisons to Hillary Clinton are natural but ultimately little more than a curiosity.

The fact that Mrs. Kirchner was elected after Michelle Bachelet in Chile is great in that it means two women will be heads of state for Latin American countries. That is truly something. But beyond that, you have to look pretty hard to find similarities between the two women. Bachelet is more accomplished and did not ride in on the coattails of her husband after a lackluster campaign.

4. A prominent pollster publishes a blog, but because of the prohibition on publishing election polls in the closing hours of the campaign, he had to get a little creative in how he presented his information.

See for yourself if the depictions and percentages in the art at the head of this blog post resemble the election in any country you know.

Let's see . . . there's a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character in the lead with 45.9% of the vote; a generously proportioned Botero figure in second place with 23.3% of the vote, and Munch's the Scream in third with 14.1%.

Say, the vote totals here in Argentina lined up at 44.9% / 23% / 16.9%! What a remarkable coincidence.

Yes, this is a little inside baseball (¿inside fútbol?) . . . It means more if you know what the candidates look like. But trust me this is a laugh riot.

Just hysterical.

* * *

God, it just makes me giddy to know that when I hit the "publish post" button, the WHOLE WORLD will know my important opinions about politics.

I'm going to go eat some gnocchi.

Rice pudding

2007-10-28T17:57:00.000-05:00

Clearly, I am not afraid to tackle the big issues on this blog — the issues that other expat bloggers shy away from.

Today I am blowing the lid off of pudding cups.

I'm sorry. Did I say blowing the lid off of? It should be licking the lid of.

Today I am licking the lid of pudding cups.

Shortly after I moved here, I discovered there were no rice pudding cups in the stores.

I asked someone about this at the time and was told that every once in a while, a company would bring them on the market. They'd last for a while and then disappear from the shelves.

I am happy to say that their time has once again come, as I discovered at the local megamart the other day.

You're thinking: "What could be better?"

Well, you could add a little of that which makes everything better:

Dulce de leche.

Executive summary

2007-10-25T08:05:00.000-05:00

Behold as I succinctly summarize a 2200-word Wall Street Journal article* by highlighting one choice line regarding Guillermo Moreno, the man in charge of trying to contain inflation by negotiating price agreements ~~and directing the manipulation of government statistics~~:

"Mr. Moreno increasingly seems like the boy with his thumb in the dike."

Oh, what the heck. Here's one more line for good measure:

"The moves are often proving ineffective and ... could make lasting solutions even more difficult."

With only three days before presidential elections on Sunday, the front-runner and almost certain winner Cristina Fernández de Kirchner finally took questions from the press.

That's right: Before yesterday, she had not taken a single question from reporters for the entire duration of her campaign.

When she was told that surveys showed inflation to be among people's biggest preoccupations and was asked whether she was concerned about inflation, her answer was, to paraphrase only slightly:

"I am concerned about everything."

* Available for seven days via that link.

Pizza heritage

2007-10-24T15:02:00.000-05:00

Today I finally got hold of a book I had been after for a few weeks: Pizzerías de valor patrimonial de Buenos Aires. It's a book on 39 pizzerias that are considered part of the city's heritage, with some photos and a little history and commentary for each spot.

The press run for the book was only 2000 copies and it sold out within a week of printing.

It took all my cunning to get a copy. Plus 35 pesos. All my cunning, plus 35 pesos.

The city has some of the book's content online. There is some good information there, but the site is poorly conceived and slow. It would probably just be easier for you to come here and see for yourself.

Banana hanger

2007-10-23T08:50:00.000-05:00

I really don't know what I would do without the Internet.

I guess I would (a) still be blogging in my head and (b) have about 12 years' worth of unsent emails in my outbox.

Oh, also: I would be completely paralyzed.

My Spanish is pretty good and if I don't know how to say something in Spanish, it's very often because I don't know exactly what it is in English.

Most auto parts, for example, fall into this category.

But banana hangers do not.

If I think about it, I know what a banana hanger is. But I don't really know how to say it in Spanish.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I can think of half a dozen ways it could be said. But I don't want to end up writing something like "banana hooker" or "plantain preservation and ripening device." So I decided to send a friend here an email, along with a picture of a banana hanger and the question, "What would you call the thing in this photo?"

This all comes up because I am working on a gift catalog, writing copy for the items and translating their names.

Banana hanger isn't the half of it.

Take the "Jolly Gingerbread Man Spoon Rest."

That is to say, the "Spoon Support of the Happy Man of Ginger."

The H line

2007-10-21T13:45:00.001-05:00

For the first time in 63 years, a new subway line opened last week. . . in typical Buenos Aires style.

For a while, there were two or three opening dates circulating. Then a last-minute suit was filed to stop the line from opening. It was only minutes before the opening ceremony that a judge gave the green light to inaugurate the subway line.

The stations are shiny and new. The subway cars themselves are very old surplus from another line.

If you are a public transportation geek like me, you will find the flickr photos worth looking at.

So, let's see . . .

In Madrid, they built 80km of subway in three years. This stretch of 3.4km here took just over six years to build.*

The new mayor of Buenos Aires has promised 10km of new subte per year.

My reaction to that is an often heard refrain here:"¡Suerte!" Good luck!

* Granted, that six-year span included an economic collapse on the magnitude of the Great Depression.

La Chacarita at dusk

2007-10-20T18:19:00.000-05:00

After working all day in my apartment I had half planned to walk around La Chacarita cemetery before it got dark. Unfortunately, only half planning it means they were closing the gates as I got there at 6pm.

Fortunately, it's photogenic from the outside, too.

Dear dairy

2007-10-18T14:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, for those keeping track at home, was the first warm, truly springlike day since I've been back. And it was pretty frickin' great.

It came at a good time, too; lately I've been mired in fecklessness. I still kind of am.

But this isn't the kind of blog where I talk about feelings.

It is the kind of blog where I talk about cheese.

So I will just say that the real bright spot came yesterday after I got rejected by an online food magazine. It was actually a lovely rejection — swift, kind and inviting. They encouraged me to pitch them more ideas so I logged onto their site and started reading their forums. Buried in there was a recommendation for a cheese shop across town started by a recent Italian immigrant.

It was in the Congreso neighborhood, half a dozen blocks from the Congress building itself. (Shown above in a rear view).

San Miguel makes all their own cheese on site. I picked up mozzarella for a pizza that night and a little wedge of smoked cheese studded with whole peppercorns.

It was a great diversion and a welcome reminder that, while no one has it harder than I do, there is always cheese.

My project for today is to pitch a few more story ideas. I also need to figure out how I can make a go of giving ice cream tours of Buenos Aires. This is not my idea, but it's a very good one. You'd take an ice cream tour with me, right? But how do I let other people know that they should?

Three capers

2007-10-16T15:29:00.001-05:00

It sounds a little wrong to say, but there are some really kick-ass bank robberies here.

1. As recounted in this Clarín article: Shortly after the ATM was loaded up with cash Friday afternoon, thieves put glue on the keypad to make sure no one could take money out of it, thereby ensuring a good haul. They returned at 2am, set up a folding screen to obscure their nefarious activities, busted out a blowtorch and walked away with US$100,000.

2. Meanwhile on Monday morning in Mar del Plata, thieves made off with about US$60,000. They entered the vacant house next to the bank, drilled a hole in the wall between the house and the bank, and cracked into the ATMs. When the police arrived, they found only debris and the hole in the wall.

3. But the mother of them all is the robbery last year in a Buenos Aires suburb.

A little after noon, four thieves took 18 customers and the bank employees hostage.

The hostages were kept on the second floor while the robbers stayed on the ground floor, looting the safe deposit boxes.

By later that afternoon, the bank was surrounded by 200 police officers. Police negotiated with the robbers. The robbers asked for six pizzas and some soda, which they received. In return, they freed three hostages.

At 7pm, police stormed the bank. They found empty safe deposit boxes. But they found no robbers.

In the basement behind a piece of furniture, investigators discovered the opening to a tunnel. The tunnel connected to the sewer system and was booby-trapped to discourage police from following.

The thieves had escaped through the tunnel with at least US$200,000 with neither the hostages nor police realizing it.

Now, obviously you shouldn't rob banks.

But if you do, you should do so awesomely.

Free tomatoes!

2007-10-14T07:50:00.000-05:00

The tomato boycott (probably) worked.

What's indisputable is that the price came down in a week. Some of it likely also had to do with new crops coming in up north, expanding the supply and easing the crunch.

Even the president came out and said that the boycott was more successful than his price controls.

Of course, that doesn't mean there's not a new list of price-controlled items coming out Tuesday.

The items that fall under the price-control agreements usually get special little signs in the grocery store. You know, the ones that stick off the shelf a bit and in a serious country would say "SALE!" or "NEW!". Only here they say "PRICE-CONTROLLED!".

It's always limited to, say, one particular size of one particular kind of one particular brand of flour. Meanwhile, all the other products on the shelf go up to make up for the hit the store takes on the price-controlled items. Obviously.

The consumer group that organized the boycott celebrated its success by handing out free tomatoes on a street corner. I was too busy subtitling a "Ratatouille" promotional video to go.

Hey, look at the poverty here!

2007-10-12T12:22:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I took the subway downtown to the Casa de Cultura to pick up a book I needed. The Casa de Cultura (above) is a handsome building on a grand block of Avenida de Mayo, an avenue that stretches out from the plaza of the same name. The plaza is home to the Casa Rosada.

But I digress.

The weather this week has been craptacular. Slate gray and dank. Not the kind of weather I would want to go walking around in.

Unfortunately, the Casa de Cultura did not have the book I wanted. So the nice man behind the counter sent me to another address. I showed up, but . . . you know what? Suffice it to say that if I'm lucky, finding this book will only take all of next week.

Meanwhile, my quixotic quest had me on the subte quite a bit.

The rain must have forced a lot of the wandering salesmen underground, into the subway. Because it really was quite the cavalcade.

Competing for my pocket change today were people selling:

Band-aids
A power strip
Cell phone cards (of seriously dubious origin)
Sheets of Disney stickers
Tissues
A carrying case for my CDs
Cards with saints on them
A flashlight

There were also a few blind guys asking for coins. It was unclear what I would have gotten if I had given money to them.

Everybody was right on top of one another. And, you know, clearly if you're selling tissues or bandages on the subway, it's probably not because you had a lot of other options and decided that this was the career path for you! And a lot of the people selling this crap are just kids. So it was a little sad.

At one point there were two salesmen hawking their wares and a blind guy giving his spiel when the blind guy stopped, chuckled and said to one of the sellers: "¡Che, mirá la miseria que hay acá!" ("Hey, look at the poverty here!")

I guess it helps to have a sense of humor about it.

Mind you, this is taking place in the same subte that has installed — wait for it — Wi-Fi throughout the system.

Yeah, I can see that.

Because half the people here don't have a pot to piss in, but we need wireless broadband in the subway.

Dead air

2007-10-11T18:14:00.000-05:00

Some of you may remember my excitement over finding out that I was going to be interviewed about my ice cream article for Good Food, a radio program from NPR station KCRW in Los Angeles.

I love that show. And so it was a big deal to get interviewed. I was really looking forward to it.

And then on one glorious summer morning I did the interview.

And then they never aired it.

Do you know what that means? It means I was worse than any of the segments they've aired in the last three months!

Knowing that was bad enough. But today on the subte I was listening to a podcast of the most recent episode, in which they aired a rather lengthy interview with a shopper talking about visiting the new Whole Foods in London.

So whatever I had to say about ice cream here ranks below a woman talking about her trip to the grocery store.

Sigh. It's funny because it's me.

Tomato republic

2007-10-08T10:23:00.000-05:00

I know my posts on government and the economy are particularly popular.

Among insomniacs.

Zing!

Wait. I think I just zinged myself. Gaw!

All right. So I've mentioned inflation before. And the government lying about inflation statistics.

But it's getting worse than ever. And the government's fudging the figures is really exacerbating the problem.

If they came clean and said that inflation was running, say, 1.3% a month, that would be one thing. But since they insist it's at .8% and everyone know that's a fantasy, people are being forced to guess at what the real number might be. This generates uncertainty and speculation, which quickly leads to making inflation worse than it might otherwise be.

The latest chapter in the saga is that this week there's a tomato boycott. The official government price for tomatoes is 3.99/kilo (that's about a dollar and change per kilo). And, yes, there's an official government price for tomatoes. Because, you see, if the government just sets a price for something, then everyone will fall in line and how can there be inflation? Right? Right.

It's not uncommon to see tomatoes going for 10, 12, 14 pesos/kilo (two or three times as much as the price agreement level).

Clearly the vegetable producers, distributors and sellers have failed to succumb to the government's reality distortion field.

The boycott is actually not a bad idea.

On the other hand, so is waiting until tomato season to buy tomatoes.

Museum night

2007-10-07T08:13:00.000-05:00

La noche de los museos started Saturday at 7pm. It lasted until 2am. That's when the after-party started up. Now, I'm about 90 years old mentally. So most nights 2am finds me fast asleep and dreaming about yelling at the kids to get off my lawn. But that doesn't mean I sat out the whole evening.

The idea is an open house at more than 100 museums with special dance, music, movie and lecture presentations. There is an absolutely ridiculous number of things to do. (That page is just the events in the first hour. You have to click around to see the rest of the evening's programs.) In fact, they should probably spread it over two nights. Or do it twice a year. Because there are more than 300 events in a single night.

With so many institutions participating, there were several within five minutes' walk of my apartment. But I skipped those; too easy. And then the bigger museums of course had some interesting programming on, but I guessed they'd be crowded. (I was right.)

Instead, I figured, why not take a bus across town to a piano concert at a sculpture garden I'd never heard of? I'll tell you why not: I had no idea where I was going, the bus apparently did not follow the route laid out in the bus guide, and by the time I realized I had overshot my goal, I was in the middle of a deserted park practically in the Province of Buenos Aires.

But that's neither here nor there. (Actually, I have no idea where it is.)

The concert, somewhat predictably, started half an hour late. So despite all my hand-wringing over the bus goof making me late, I still had time to twiddle my thumbs before the guy took the stage. A little Chopin, a little Debussy. Two hours and 50¢ later (bus fare; the program was free) and I was back home making dinner.

I got an email from my friend Eli at midnight asking if I was planning to go out that night. Planning on going out? Hah! I told her to get off my lawn. I was one hour and one episode of "Dirty Sexy Money" away from being fast asleep and dreaming.

To market

2007-10-07T05:00:00.000-05:00

My vegetable delivery scheme has changed in my absence. They're not doing deliveries these days. Now they're part of a twice-weekly market, one that's not too far from my apartment.

In the email they sent to tell me of the change, they warned that the market location wasn't much to look at from the outside.

When they said that, maybe they meant that about 200m in front of their door, you'd run into this:

. . . or that it was located in the alley next to a commuter railway station, beside which stood rusted out train cars, some of which apparently were serving as living quarters for down-and-out families.

But once you get past all that, you get to the large bright yellow shed that houses the market.

It was great. I mean, modest, but great. It's early spring, so I had limited expectations. It'll be exciting* to see how it changes going into summer.

I bought two bunches of spinach, two kinds of cheese, a dozen eggs, a kilo of tangerines and some yogurt. I even had a little chat with the guy who makes the yogurt about full-cream versus skim yogurt. (He was pleased I was buying the full-cream yogurt.)

No, I did not take pictures of the produce. Please! What kind of blogger do you think I am?

There was quite a bit of English being spoken there (by the customers). And the woman in line in front of me for the yogurt was from Spain. Interesting that it should be such a magnet for outsiders. Foreign influence in Argentina has been a mixed bag, but it's nice to think it might help expand the market for sustainably raised food.

* Some of you may have to stretch your definition of "exciting." Not me, though!

Pinocchio

2007-10-06T15:48:00.001-05:00

You almost wouldn't know that there's a presidential election coming up in three weeks. Sure, there is propaganda up all over the place. But there's always propaganda up all over the place.

What caught my eye today wasn't really political propaganda. It was anti-political propaganda.

I spotted this sign posted on a tree in a park nearby. It stands out because it seems purely grass roots. It's not tied to a party. It's not tied to a candidate. It's a protest of an entire political system.

And what can I say? The Jiminy Cricket-Pinocchio conceit cracks me up.

What's wrong Pinocchio? Why are you so sad?

Jiminy Cricket, I was always famous for being the biggest liar in the world, but now any Argentine politician has me easily beat. They're such big liars that the very same politicians and the very same lies have governed the country for 40 years, voted in by the same people who have been tricked as always.