Buenos Aires Karma

Before the sunshine and parade awards are handed out, there is always a little dung to clean up.  In today's case, it was a four hour flight from Seattle to Dallas, a three hour layover, and then ten more hours to Buenos Aires.  Then the Argentinians cleverly lightened my wallet by $140 for a "transit" fee just to pass through their Pampas.  And everything was more expensive than originally explained or budgeted for.

Small price to pay though, for the beautiful karma that followed.  Got plenty of help going through customs, getting the baggage, and obtaining the daily double of bus and taxi rides the 35 minutes into town from the airport (about $14).  And no jet lag!  Discovered the city is 12 million people out of 40 million in the country, and not a single malcontent was showing his stripes.  My stay for the next two nights, The Hotel Bolivar, was rather like a dowager who kept trying on new outfits to make up for lack of a working infrastructure (like really secure locks, for example).  But you just hide the laptop and carry valuables with you, so ... what me worry?  While normally in a huge hurry to hit the road, I took in a leisurely shower (muggier here than the South Side of Chicago, since it is now summer in South America), laid out my things, started a for-memory-only list of what things cost so far, and went down to the concierge for advice on local attractions.

Apparently while in Buenos Aires, you are supposed to see the Obelisk (which dominates the primary thoroughfare, Ave 9 de Julio, go to the Teatro Colon, see Evita Peron's grave, see the Boca Juniors soccer stadium, have a Argentinian style beef all-you-can-eat carnivore bacchanalia, drink their fine quality red wine without counting, drink some Mate' (strong -- which is to say STRONG -- herbal tea collectively drunk through a special filtered straw), and attend a tango demonstration.  Maybe even do the tango yourself?  What better way to plan some logical order of all this -- given that the whole world knows I HATE backtracking -- than to saunter over to the Gibraltar Pub for a pint?

While there asking directions and recommendations of the bartender in broken 20+ year Spanish, someone overheard me mention a particularly famous steakhouse along the waterfront -- La Cabana Las Lilas.
  "Going there, or already been?"  He looked like Jude Law.  Attitude was helpful, not the 'I'm bored already and need to direct you to stay motivated' saccharine drivel one finds occasionally on such occasions.  His girl friend motioned me over.
   "Going.  Have taken to eating pretty much only seafood lately.  That's what we do in Seattle.  But when in Argentina ... "
    Whereupon, I was pounced on by these two Danes,  late 20 somethings (?) who had just completed medical school and were rewarding themselves -- like me -- with 2.5 months in South America.  They had gone many places I was intending to go, and thus had rank on me.  It would have been gauche of me given my immediate inferior social standing, to refuse them.  Meet Jude and his muse.  As in Jon Diernaes and Charlotte Madsen.  From the second largest city in Denmark (don't ask me to spell it, not even GOD can spell it).
   For the next two hours, we went over every guidebook available on Buenos Aires.  Then we started a draft of our own.  Mind you, I'd not even hit the streets yet.  But I felt like I could write a guidebook, after they were done with me.  They have been in-city for two weeks, and just came back from a grueling 20-hour bus ride from Iguazu Falls.  We agreed to go over to The Teatro Colon & Gran Cafe Tortoni, for wine and dessert (yes, we ate it first) and a first-class tux and tails vocal and tango exhibition.  Good wine was about $5 a glass, higher than expected, but better pricing by far than Seattle.  The menu was lengthy, and unimpressive.  But the singing and constumes were outstanding.  Seeing the lead dancer wear a Gaucho costume, brough back fond memories of my youth in Santa Barbara, Calif.
  
   Then the Tango.  "The vertical expression, of horizontal desire."  All whirl and smoke and passionate pas de deux.  An intricate cat and mouse game, of alternate turns boring in on your partner with intense visual emotional longing accompanied by dance card gymnastics only an acrobat would love.  Then, a demure retreat on the part of the most focused partner, at the precise moment their other half starts to reciprocate this longing.  Rarely are these two emotionally on the same page, in vivid contrast to their perfectly synchronized a la passionaria steps.  Up until the end, that is ... when something seizes the pair and they suddenly breathe fire from their eyes and up the dancing frenzy into a crescendo.  The end is sudden and in synch in an uplifting emotional and physical catharsis.  It seemed to be a metaphor of sorts.  Could not figure out for the life of me what this sequence represented though !
   Yes, watching Luciana & Jose swirl and writhe in tandem was like watching the prelude to B flat of Liz & Dick, Scarlet and Rhett, and Burt and Deborah all rolled into one.  Without the pounding surf, of course ...
   Then the two of them called members up from the audience.  We sat in the back, so it seemed safe.  No stories to tell.  Right up until Jude ... er, Jon, stood up and egged Luciana to glide clear back to the back of the theatre and tantalize me and lead me by the hand up onto the stage.  Could not help thinking, on the way up, how I wish my sons were there so I could embarrass them.  They say -- or at least Andy Warhol famously did -- that everybody gets their fifteen minutes of fame.  I was alternately relieved, therefore, to know I would be ... uh ... "dancing" with such an exotic creature ... but that for the benefit of the audience it would last only 30 seconds.  And nowhere in my soccer goalie training, does it require any moves remotely resembling what a tango artiste must effectuate.  But I managed to get out cleanly, leave the audience laughing for some attempted boldness, and receive a parting kiss from Luciana at the same time.  Better than the crap they hand out on The Price Is Right ...
   Next stop, La Brigada, recommended by several cabbies, and conveniently right around the corner from our two hostels (that is h-o-s-t-e-l, not "hostile," which is what I was assured had been individually selected particularly with me in mind).  Of course the menu was Argentine beef.  Of course I overindulged.  I even shared.  To no avail.  No room for dessert.  Despite the world's largest dessert menu.  And all the while, we were unwittingly seated next to the #1 paella chef in all of Buenos Aires, who heard me waxing poetic and spinning off bad toasts and demanded a security summons.  With some quick comparisons of what was remembered best about his hometown of Valencia, Spain, however, we cadged an invitation to his restaurant for the morrow.  What a shame.  Paella, for a seafood afficianado.  Pobrecito !  And back in the saddle with Jon & Charlotte for at least one more evening, before I head out to Montevideo.
   To continue the unfortunate tide of events, the Sao Paolo couple who sat next to us at the tango performance, heard I was going to Carnivale! in Rio in March and provided some much needed scouting info.  So now I have about 25 e-mail sites (all conveniently located on napkins, such that there is no longer room for things like actual reservations in my travel folder) directing me to social success at the best beaches and the best bleachers and best siting at the world's biggest party.  That is about seven weeks away, still.  With so much opportunity remaining ...  As James Bond use to say, "The things I have to do for God & Country."

Next: Pilgrimage !