La Misteriosa
He's late. Again.
Annoyed, she leans forward on her tiptoes. No man has ever dared to keep her waiting. No man until him.
She searches for him amongst the hordes of adorers at her feet. She sees Tomás, who pledged to bring her a finch for every kiss she bestowed on him. True to his word, he has one in a cage, at the ready. She wrinkles her nose. After two she decided they were too messy—the birds and his kisses.
There's Ramón with his notebook and pen, scribbling. As always. She would give him a fond smile if she weren't so peeved. Ramón and his sweet imagination, writing poetry to her beauty. A man of words, but not so much of action. And she definitely likes action.
Ah—dark, brooding Carlos, partially hidden in a corner, separate from the rest. He watches her with that gaze that used to make her shiver in anticipation. But that was all he did: watch, smoldering in her general direction.
In the center, there's José Christian, with his paintbrush and steady hand. She can tell that he paints another fileteado sign dedicated to her, like the one she stands over. She remembers one time when he used her body as the canvas. He still claims that was his masterpiece.
But of him for whom she waits? No sign.
She exhales, expelling her irritation. How many times has he kept her waiting? Three? Eleven? Twenty-seven? Once is too many. What will he bring this time to make up for his inattention? A trinket? A shiny bauble to dangle from her neck? She has plenty of things. What she wants is intangible and much more precious. Is he the one to give it to her?
She has doubts.
But still she waits, because the doubts are entwined with hope. And for hope, she can be patient—at least for a few moments longer.
Finding Perfection
This is the week.
Which week? you wonder. What's happening?
I'll tell you what's happening: I'm buying my first pair of tango shoes.
This is the part where you scratch your head in wonder. You didn't know I danced tango. You thought I did kung fu.
I've been holding out on you. Unless you follow me on Twitter—then you've seen a couple random tango references. But I'm telling you now: I've been taking tango lessons.
Tango isn't so different from kung fu. Same principles, different application. I'm using the dance to work on the couple ideals I was trying to perfect in my fighting (like being in the moment, and feeling a person's energy). Plus, I'm in Buenos Aires—you'd have to be crazy to come here and not take at least one tango class.
But you don't care about all that. You want to get to the real important issue here: the shoes.
There are several well-known tango shoe store in town, but the most famous are Comme Il Faut and Greta Flora. Handmade, beautiful, unique shoes.
I've been to both stores so many times in the past couple months that they know my name, my preferred heel height, and the colors I like. I don't have to do anything anymore—I sit down and they bring me shoes. The shopping experience is very 50s/Doris Day-esque.
Only so far I've just bought shoes for my sister. Three pairs—who's the lucky girl? But now it's my turn.
This is the week. The perfect pair is waiting for me to claim it as mine. I can't wait to meet it.
Wanted
They say she's a thief.
They say she steals hearts.
She would disagree. She'd say that she didn't take anything that didn't want to be taken. She'd say those hearts were given to her, free and clear. Then she'd give you her wide-eyed, innocent look, and you'd eagerly agree that "they" must be delusional.
She's a creature of the night, but never in the shadows. She's sweet. She's crafty. Beguiling and bewitching. When she struts onto the dance floor, you know she owns it. She crooks her finger and her chosen partner comes running, desperate to lead her, even if it's just for one song. Her attitude captivates, her grace mesmerizes. One song, and you're lost.
How do I know? I've been there. One song, and she had me. She knew it too. She graced me with that little smile—the one that feels like it's aimed right at your heart—and I haven't been the same since.
Then the song was over and, with a flick of her saucy heel, she walked on, leaving me alone in the crowd, helplessly watching her select her next victim.
If you see her, be wary.
If you see her, tell her I miss her.
New Year's Adventure
I had vowed I would never go to Café Tortoni.
Why? It's the most famous café in town¹, ergo a tourist trap. Tortoni is the type of place where they dump busloads of Americans for an expensive, mediocre lunch. The first day I was here in Buenos Aires, I could feel the rip-off vibe as I walked by it. Plus the people manning the front looked belligerent, as only those who deal with tourists all day do.
But I broke my vow.
On New Year's Eve, I opted to walk down to the waterfront area, mostly because I miss the ocean, and the river is the closest thing I have. I sat on a bench and watched the young and drunk saunter by, marveling at the women in their super short skirts and four-inch heels. On cobblestone no less—ouch.
A little before midnight I left to walk back home—it was cold (around 75F) and the walk was long. It struck midnight as I reached Avenida de Mayo, a main thoroughfare.
There were very few people on the street², so the two guys loitering outside the closed-for-new-years Café Tortoni stood out. I smiled at them and wished them a feliz años. Conversation ensued. Then one thing led to another, and they invited me into the café to help them celebrate the new year.
Lukas opened a bottle of Chandon, and Ricardo broke out the alfajores. Champagne and alfajores are heaven separately, but together they transcend.
We sat around a small table, happily sipping and nibbling. Conversation flowed late into the night³. If you knew how limited my Castallano is, you'd know how amazing that was.
I couldn't have planned a better New Year. I couldn't have asked for a better way to kick off what's going to be the best year ever.
¹ Café Tortoni first opened in 1858. A lot of famous people have gone their over the years, including Carlos Gardel, Albert Einstein, Hillary Clinton, and me. I bet Hillary didn't have a private New Years Eve party there in her honor though.
If you're really interested in its history, check out Wikipedia.
² When I walked out of the house on New Years Eve, there was hardly anyone on the street—people or cars. Everything was closed also, including all the cafés and restaurants. It was the strangest thing ever. I felt like the entire city went underground. Or that there was a secret party but no one had bothered to invite me.
But once midnight struck, people poured into the streets, cabs and buses began running again, and general Buenos Airean insanity continued as normal.
³ Topics ranged from travel to writing to what great boyfriends Argentinos made.