Chow

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recommendations

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.