Giving in to shoe shopping & kayaking

Ana Maria feeds me flan con dulce de leche (similar to caramel, a very popular dessert in Argentina). She's a great cook!

I discovered where all the cats in BA hang out – in the Cementario de Recoleta. Next door to my language school, this grand cemetery is similar to the mausoleums in New Orleans and houses all of Argentina’s richest and most famous dead, including Eva (Evita) Peron. It is a mini city of the dead, with its own streets and parks. My teacher, guide book, and host mom warned me that Evita´s grave is difficult to locate, but all I had to do was find the one “street” that was mobbed (in contrast to the deserted, cob-webbed and creepy rest of the cemetery).

Un "calle" del Cementario de Recoleta

Los gatos


La tomba de Evita Peron

Random Observations

• I´ve never seen so many book stores and magazine stands in my life. I´ve heard that Porteños are avid readers and Argentina has a high literacy rate (96%), but I haven’t seen anyone actually reading. My host parents watch TV day and night, even during meals – which I suspect is partly because it’s a good conversational aide. I watch the TV news every morning with Ana Maria, and although it is similar to US TV news in its narrow scope (only covering the latest car crash, fire, murder, bus price hike, futbol game outcome, or random occurrence caught on tape that makes good TV), it is a window into the life of a porteño. The other night the news featured a 15-minute “Despedidos a Señor Bush,” with such highlights of George W.’s term as his questionable election (with footage of Jeb Bush), his inauguracion, his (non) reaction to 9/11, and a grand finale of footage of the furious reporter flinging his shoes at the president’s head. ¡Ciao, Bush!
• In the upscale neighborhood of Recoleta, I followed a vendor going door to door with a fat bunch of feather dusters hanging from his belt (looking somewhat like an Oscars fashion “don’t”). He peered into each window and waggled a feather duster, but no one took him up on the offer (how often do you need to replace a feather duster?), and unfortunately, I had no need of one at the time.

Friday, walking home past the bazillions of shops on my street, I finally had the urge to go shopping (this was bound to happen at some point). I passed up the chaos of a cheap-looking shoe store for personal service at a nicer boutique. I asked the young man working if they had my size (all the porteñas are very petite in body and foot). Me dijo “Claro, claro.” He talked me into a pair of flashy white heels con “espejitos” because they were only 1 inch high and more comfortable for dancing. They were not incredibly cheap, but I´m thinking of them as a great souvenir – my Buenos Aires tango shoes. And though they are much flashier than my typical style, he assured me that they are very much “de moda” in BA.

Mis zapatos del tango

En route to salsa lessons wearing my pretty new shoes, I walked with my host mom to the corner. She insisted on escorting me because last time I took the bus the wrong direction and went on a grand tour of the city, arriving an hour late and missing the tango lesson. This was my first time dressed up here, and the stares on the street were palpable. When the bus pulled up to the stop, the four men waiting ahead of me all simultaneously stepped aside and motioned for me to pass. Chivalry is very much alive – men will never walk through a door in front of you or sit down before you have a seat. But this treatment topped it all, as they looked on admiringly while I ascended the steps, asked the driver to tell me when we reached my stop, and then incorrectly inserted my coins into the machine. Of course one of the gentlemen insisted on helping me, adding money to the correct slot. I´ll take it!

Similar to my experience in Mexico, “monedas” (coins) are very hard to come by in BA. You must have them for the bus and the subway, and there is an inexplicable shortage. When I buy something that costs 4 pesos with a 5 peso bill, the vendor usually throws in something else (como peanuts) for 1 peso rather than part with change.

Saturday, the Ecela students were herded like cattle from bus to train to kayak on an excursion to El Tigre. We decided that we have passed the test – we would make good vacas on un estancia and our program coordinators would be excellent gauchos (Argentine cowboys). El Tigre is only 45 minutes by train out of BA, but it is a true escape from the concrete, homicidal drivers and air pollution of the city. With its wide pedestrian mall following a river full of row boats and covered wooden tour boats, it looks to me like a South American Stratford upon Avon.


El rio de El Tigre

I walked with Olga, originally from Ukraine but living in New York, to the put-in. I asked her the same question I ask everyone I meet: do you know a way that I could live and work in another country? Turns out Olga spent six months teaching English in China through a program called Aiesec, which I intend to research. When we reached the put-in, we decided to share a boat. Although Olga had never kayaked before, the guides insisted that she sit in the back (and steer). We commenced to tour – and get to know intimately – both sides of the river as we weaved back and forth, back and forth. Kayaking always seems like a great idea until, about 20 minutes in, my arms tell me that they haven’t used those muscles since the last brilliant kayaking excursion. Finally, the guide who was serving as the sweep asked if we were tired. No, I said, we only wish we could go in a straight line. So he attached a hook to the front of our kayak and pulled us the rest of the way at a speed of about 15 miles per hour, I swear! Luckily he unhooked us before any of our fellow students could see. Still, it was wonderful to get out in the wind, water, trees and mud, and give my legs a break from all the city touring.

¡Que lindo El Tigre!