Last Tango in Buenos Aires
It's my last week in Buenos Aires. I just had my last tango lesson, and I'm making the final rounds saying au revoir to my friends.
I've had people ask me if I'm sad to leave. Oddly, I'm not. I'm excited. Don't get me wrong—words can't describe what the months I've spent here have meant to me. But it's time to move on to the next adventure. I'm looking forward to the future. There's more travel involved, and just a little bit of intrigue. You'll have to stay tuned for the details.
Sneaky of me, isn't it? But it's not like you're surprised.
But first, I'm returning to San Francisco. The main reason: I'm speaking at the San Francisco Writers Conference. To say I'm looking forward to the gig would be an understatement. I attended last year's conference as a speaker and it rocked.
The conference goers are a mix of fiction writers of various genres as well as nonfiction. The speakers are diverse and interesting, and it draws a number of big name editors and agents, who are totally accessible the entire weekend. For example, last year, I met Donald Maass, who, contrary to what I'd believed, isn't seven feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from his eyes.
My favorite part of the conference: the cocktail parties. Okay—the cocktail parties are my favorite part of any conference. I can't help it. I love to schmooze, especially martini in hand. Yes, recess was my favorite subject in school too.
The conference itself is sold out this year, but there's a pre-conference day of workshops if you're in the area and interested. If you're there, find me and say "Yo." I'll be the jet-lagged one who keeps slipping into Spanish.
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.
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.
Christmas in Argentina
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Bartolomé, Argentinian marketing representative of Claus International.
Well, my title doesn't do my actual job justice. I'm more of an elf-of-all-trades. I do marketing, PR, and update the company website. I also step in to help support when they get overwhelmed by the volume of correspondence to the Big Guy. And, in the off-season, I help in the stables. Rudolf requires a lot of, shall we say, attention. Champagne baths, massages with walnut oil (for a shiny coat), hot toddies twice a day for his voice... He is such a diva.
But you don't care about all that. You're wondering if Christmas is going to come to Argentina. Let me assure you, Papá Noel will make it all the way down south.
Maybe it'd be best if I referred you to some of our propaganda literature for further clarification.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Does Mr. Claus actually make it all the way, like, to Buenos Aires even? It's pretty far from the North Pole.
A: Yes, it's a long trip—Buenos Aires is far south—but we at Claus International are committed to excellence.
Q: Isn't it hot in Buenos Aires? That's so un-Christmas-like.
A: We realize that 80F weather makes for a different Christmas, but the essence is still there.
Q: Only won't Santa be hot? He wears all those layers and, let's face it, he's got some insulation on him.
A: Please don't be concerned for Mr. Claus. His sleigh is fully equipped with ventilation.
Q: But what about heat stroke?
A: We assure you, Mr. Claus will be fine. Really.
Q: Does he speak Castellano? Because they don't speak normal Spanish in Argentina.
A: No, but Donner is quite the linguist.
So if you're in Argentina, don't worry. If you've been nice, you're good to go. If you've been naughty... Well, there are certain exemptions south of the equator. Email us—we'll see if we can work something out.
The Super Pancho
Friday I decided I was going to go on an adventure. In the morning, I trekked to Retiro (a forty-five minute walk) to have breakfast with a friend. After breakfast, I'd planned on going to a nearby café I'd spied the previous night on the way to dinner. I was going to write and then go into uncharted Buenos Airean territories.
Nature, however, thwarted me. Picture torrential rain and thunder so violent you could feel the sound waves through your body.
So I tried again Saturday. Only this time, I had a specific destination in mind: the Super Pancho stand in Recoleta, outside the cemetery.
What is a Super Pancho? you ask. Frankly, I have no idea.
Okay, that's a lie. It's a hot dog. Only it's not just a hot dog—it's a super hot dog. I'm not entirely certain how it becomes a super dog, but I'm sure it's a fairly impressive metamorphosis. This is Buenos Aires, after all.
But, Kate, how can you not be sure when you went to investigate? you ask this time. Because, dear reader, the Super Pancho stand I trekked across town to try was deserted when I got there.
I wandered around, lost and confused and without purpose, for a while. But then I spied a bakery, which isn't hard to do since there's one on every block in this city. (I'm not exaggerating.) I walked in and bought two sandwiches de miga and an alfajor the size of my palm.
Sandwiches de miga: a crustless sandwich with three layers of bread and an assortment of fillings. I got one with ham and egg, the other with salami and cheese.
Alfajores: Argentinian Oreos. It's two cookies sandwiching a dulce de leche center. The traditional alfajor is dusted with powdered sugar and edged with coconut flakes.
I also bought two apricots from a fruit stand and then took my picnic to a park bench, where I sat and ate and flirted and listened to music. Not quite the adventure I'd planned, but I wouldn't change a second of it.
Well, maybe I'd change the part where the guy followed me for eight blocks, trying to get me to go to a movie with him on Sunday. But even that wasn't so bad. Especially since he kept saying, quite reverently, that I was so beautiful.
BTW, if anyone knows how to say Bugger off, dude in Spanish, please email me.
Sunday, Lovely Sunday
Everyone's been emailing me, asking for pictures. So... photojournalistic essay time!
Really I'm killing a few birds (so to speak) and giving people what they want. Some of you will be able to live vicariously through my vicarious living. The rest of you will (hopefully) get your entertainment fix for the week, in the form of my blog.
See how good I am to you all?
Sunday morning started with a writing session at Bar de Cao, the café across the street.
I've been going there most days to work. It's quaint inside, the waitresses are friendly and leave me alone, there's plenty of seating, and the doors aren't tricky. All pluses.
After a couple hours at the laptop, I decided I'd walk to the Feria de San Telmo to see what was going on. Mostly I just wanted to work off the medialunas I ate.
The walk is roughly twenty blocks I'd say—twenty-five minutes if you trek like I do. At one point, I had to cross Avenida 9 de Julio:
I've been wondering what happened on the 9th of July that warranted having such a big-ass street named after it. The picture doesn't really show how huge it is—the sucker is twenty lanes across (ten each direction). Yeah, I could look up to see what historical significance the date has, but I've been having too much fun speculating each time I cross the road. (Today I theorized that it was named after the day the first Starbucks opened in Buenos Aires.)
Anyway, I walked on to the Feria. A feria is basically a street fair. The one in San Telmo is each Sunday and the largest one in the city.
Lots of artisans selling their wares. Also lots of musicians and tango dancers, though the dancers didn't impress me (my sister has raised my bar). There were a couple flamenco guitarists who were awesome though.
To the left, there's a square where people have strange booths set up, selling not just antiques but weirdness. Like there were these two old women dressed up as babies or dolls or something. What was up with that? And there was a man dressed as a big eyeball. (I'm not clever enough to make that up.)
See the hordes of people? It's like that for blocks and blocks:
But there's plenty of opportunity for respite. You can pick up a cold beverage and grab a curb, like the people above.
Jugo de naranja (fresh-squeezed orange juice) is very big here. There's an orange juice vendor every five feet. So if you have a thing for OJ, Buenos Aires is the place to be.
And lastly...
Me, happily disheveled at the end of the day, looking forward to the next morning's medialuna fix.
The New Office
The first thing I did when I arrived in Buenos Aires was to look for a café.
Actually, the first thing I did was join a gym. The national food here is pizza. And meat. And pasta. And bread. So unless I wanted to gain twenty pounds, it seemed prudent to find a gym pronto. I may still need a triple bypass from all the steak and cheese, but at least I'll look good under the knife.
The next thing I did was look for a new café (or two) to write at. I decided I wanted one close to home and one further away, because sometimes a girl feels adventurous.
I found the close-to-home one on my way to the Microcentro (the downtown area). It looked perfect: light and appropriately studious with a few women and half a dozen men in suits working on laptops inside. I thought I'd try it to see if it had bueno ondo (good vibes, as they say here). I walked up to the door and pulled on it.
It wouldn't open.
Figuring it opened inward, I pushed on it. Nothing still. I stood back and stared at it. Then I looked at the store hours, wondering if they closed for siesta (though cafés don't typically). Nope—they were open till 8pm.
I did what any normal person would do: I shoved on it, and then yanked back for good measure. Accomplishing nothing except attracting the attention of every patron inside.
I have, of course, not been back since. When I do go back, I will be appropriately disguised.
But I did find another café—one that has an open entry so I didn't have to mess with the door. The waiters are forgiving of my awful French-accented Argentinian Spanish, and it's a lot of kitschy fun inside.
So you can picture me spending the late morning/early afternoon at one of the little tables in front, drinking a café con leche, eating medialunas (the Argentine answer to a croissant), and hacking away at my laptop. Note: I reserve the right to order a Coca Light every now and then. Gotta follow your whims, you know.