The End of an Era

The parks here in this city are incredibly underrated. They are few and far in between, but when you stumble on them they are absolutely phenomenal. My local oasis, Parque Centenario, is a circular park right in the middle of town. It has everything, from a soccer field to a skate park to a merry-go-round (Argentines seem to have an obsession with merry-go-rounds, as I see them just about everywhere there is 50 square feet of open space, including the equivalent of the national mall) to an amphitheater to a lake. With ducks. Going to a park is the best way to get a perfect cross-reference of the population of the city. You have your families having a picnic, couples taking a stroll, jugglers and other performance arts people practicing their trade, friends sharing a mate, and several people playing various tunes on the guitar. Don't forget the local entrepreneurs trying to make a mango (buck is to dollar as mango is to peso) by selling superpanchos and ice-cream. When you stop to look around you on a busy day (just about every day the sun is out), the diversity of what's surrounding you is pretty astounding.

Multiply that by a factor of about 10 on the day of the census. A few days ago Argentina took its bi-centennial count of its population, and it was probably the most boring holiday out of them all. Everyone is asked to remain in their homes until one of several-hundred-thousand census workers come around their homes and ask the usual census questions. The entire country is closed from 8pm the night before until 8pm the day-of. Everyone is off of work, but with nowhere to go since everything is closed. I wondered what everyone would do, because those that gave their name and number early in the day couldn't just sit at home all day, this being the social capital of the world that it is. Answer: Parque Centenario. I got there early in the day since all classes were cancelled, and it was pretty empty. I looked up what felt like five minutes later, and I couldn't see the grass. It was a sea of guitar-players, mate drinkers, and guys over 65 in nothing but a speedo trying to get a tan.

The day was not all fun & games for most, however. Néstor Kirchner, the ex-president and husband of the current president Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, passed away that morning. He was quite a polarizing figure, but it didn't seem so that day. Just about everyone I saw or talked to was sorry to see him go. That was before the conservatives came out of the woodwork; a lot of them were actually happy to see him go. It seemed a little twisted and wrong to hear people talk about being happy that someone died, but they take their politics seriously here. Let the record show that exit polls, with 75% reporting, are showing that 99% of the students at UCA (Universidad Católica Argentina) don't care too much for Néstor.

That night a couple of us went against all common sense and decided to head to Plaza de Mayo to see the manifestaciones championing the political agenda and accomplishments of Mr. Kirchner. The subway itself was quite the experience, with people banging on windows and singing patriotic songs all the way into the center of town. It got to such a point that the subway operator gave up stopping at every stop and simply went straight to plaza de mayo. Popping up onto the street brought me face to face with just about every political activist in the city, which means just about everybody. I would say that every political group was represented there, with a multitude of flags, banners, drums, clapping, singing and yelling filling the night air. It was wall-to-wall people down each of the three main avenues leading away from the Plaza. We worked our way over to the barricade in front of la Casa Rosada, which was covered in messages to Cristina and Néstor. People had climbed up just about everything there is to climb. When they opened the barricade to let people in to start lining up to see Néstor lie in state the next morning starting at 8am (we got there at 8:30, so these people were going to wait almost 12 hours), it was like a stand-by free-for-all at the United Customer Relations desk. We retreated back to the border of the plaza, spent a few more minutes observing the gongshow before calling it a night before things had the opportunity to get really out of hand.

The next day was even more out of control. People were lining up in what I later found out was a 7-hour line to see Néstor at la Casa. The line probably went for about 10 blocks, winding down several streets. There were so many political parties and groups marching down la Avenida de Mayo it seemed as if a revolution was around the corner. For all I know, there was. When you cancel the league football matches for the weekend, that's going to cause some problems, no matter what the reason. As I walked down the street I couldn't help but notice all of the posters saying 'Fuerza Cristina!' (Strength, Cristina) or 'Néstor con Perón, Cristina con el pueblo' (Néstor with Perón, Cristina with the people). If they could mobilize the same effort that put the hundreds of thousands of posters up in one night to tackle some of the other city problems, like maybe collecting dog poop, this city would have an even brighter and glorious future than the one it already has.

All in all, the whole experience was pretty amazing. The closest thing I've ever seen in terms of scale of a public reaction to something political was the inauguration of President Obama. Even then, I feel like the porteños took it to a whole other level. It remains to be seen where Argentina will go from here, though. Mr. Kirchner was a key part of Cristina's administration; he was often called the power broker behind the government, the one who made the wheels turn and who kept this oft-politically unstable country together. All I can say is whoever raises the minimum height for restaurant awnings will have my vote.

Rite of Passage

Strike of the Day: Trash Collectors

Many people don’t understand just what an ordeal it is to walk down a sidewalk here in Buenos Aires. You seriously put your life on the line. Let me begin with the fact that half of the time I never know what street I'm on because either there is no street sign or if it exists it's sawed in half. So after getting excited about the fact that there actually is a street sign, everyone knows I'm a tourist when I make five circles around it just to make sure it's not bent. Out comes the 'Guia T'.

As I continue walking, it becomes evident very quickly that every dog owner thinks that the sidewalk is the perfect place for man’s best friend to take care of business. They also believe that leaving the product there must add to the overall aesthetic beauty and sweet scent of this city. The sidewalks are such a minefield that I spend no time actually looking where I’m going but rather spend all of my time feeling like Indian Jones trying to work his way through the Temple of Doom. I must mention though that the dogs are considerate; they only take care of business on one half of the walkway. Someone give them a medal!

Speaking of dogs, it is not uncommon to see professional dog walkers roaming the streets with anywhere from one dog to a number in the mid-teens. The legal limit per dog walker is the stuff of legend; I’ve heard anywhere from 9 to 14. I use the number of dogs to measure prestige, skill and overall ability of the walkers. If you’ve got double-digit dogs, you’re pretty high on the totem pole and you've earned my respect.

Before you devote all of your time to looking out for dog turds, you have to keep an eye on what’s in front of you. Especially if you’re tall. The awnings in front of stores don’t really take into account anyone over 6 feet. They generally have a metal pole run through them to hold them down in the wind, which is all well and good, but when that pole is about 6’2” off the ground it’s a little problematic. For reference, that comes square between the eyes on yours truly. I haven’t hit one yet, but if I do I think I’ll be laid out like a linebacker takes out a wide receiver running across the middle.

Once you’ve made it past the awning, the sidewalk comes back into play. The sidewalks in Buenos Aires change style with every building, as does the quality. More often than not it’s in the tile style, which is great. However, many times these tiles are loose, and stepping on one puts Old Faithful to shame. To cap it off, as I start spewing Spanish I look down and notice that I hit a mine in the dung minefield, and I just walk away defeated. I’ve shown up to class with one leg completely soaked from a shooting jet of water displaced by the tiles. No one asks any questions; I think everyone understands.

Some people just don’t even want to brave the sidewalks, and they order their coffee and medialunas to be delivered. So as I’m busily navigating geyser central, I have to avoid the waiters in full tuxedos with trays carrying fine china and croissants. They march down the street as if they were headed over to the corner table by the window. Someone give that guy a good tip, because he’s moving twice as fast as I am and getting there with clean shoes.

When I finally have time to look around (i.e. when I’m standing still at a stoplight before seriously risking my life by trying to cross the street), I notice that the sidewalks are full of people selling everything under the sun. That's after I see 5 same-line buses in a caravan go by and stop at the bus stop which is a sticker stuck to a street lamp. There are the newspaper guys who sell all of the regular dailies and every magazine known to man, the 24-hour flower shops who’s flowers never seem to go bad or wilt no matter what time of day or day of the week, the peanut roasters who make the world's best roasted peanuts, the strawberry stands that are basically just what seem like leftover strawberry crates propped up against the wall, and the people selling toys that wouldn’t make the Happy Meal Set at McDonalds next to knock-off nike socks and phone chargers. It really is a busy place with people from all walks of life. There is never a dull moment; I could walk the streets of Buenos Aires for hours.

If you can walk a block unscathed, you've successfully become part of the porteño lifestyle and culture. Welcome to the party.

Oktoberfiesta

It was about that time again to take a breather from BA city life and wade out into the country. The only problem was that the entire population of Buenos Aires had the same thought. Or so it seemed. This past weekend was a holiday weekend, and Retiro Bus Station did it justice. There were more people there than at the DNC, and they all seemed to want to get on the same bus. In other words, trying to a) find my bus and b) get on it was a serious challenge. Throw in the fact that my bus showed up twenty minutes after it was supposed to leave and was operated by a different company then that who sold me my ticket, and you've got a tall American running around the bus station leaving no doubt that he's a tourist. My bus was eventually found though, and my seat in the front row on the top deck made me forget all of my issues with finding it. About 20 minutes into the trip (that began only about 45 minutes late) we stopped in front of a random warehouse and were told we needed to switch buses. This was a first. I looked at my Argentine neighbors who I'd been talking with who simply just said, bienvenidos a Argentina! We upped and left, and the people sitting on the floor in the aisle behind us found some seats on bus #2. Seriously now, this bus company has some issues. I was out as soon as our second more luxurious luxury liner took off. I was only woken up by people talking about the car that was on fire as we passed it (the thing was burning like a duraflame, but it seemed like everyone was ok) and I went back to sleep hoping that I wouldn't be woken up again by the car blowing up and making me get up from my awesome front row second deck seat.

After all of the shenanigans of the previous night, I was surprised to find ourselves pulling into Cordoba bus station ahead of schedule. In any case, after dropping my bag and meeting up with friends at the hostel, we headed back to the bus station. We caught a local bus to Villa General Belgrano, a small predominantly German village about 2 hours outside of Cordoba, to see what their highly-touted version of Oktoberfest was like. Given the above average German migration to Argentina after WWII, we wondered if we were wandering the streets of a town where ex-leaders of the Third Reich called home. Maybe a lot of people have that somewhat disturbing thought, and the village knows it (and wants to avoid it), because the place looks like it belongs next to Space Mountain in Adventureland. The signs were all wood carved with painted curly-cue letters. I think if I lived there I might find a keg and pour it all over someone after about a week, but for a day it was great. We wandered the streets looking for a mug before kicking off the festivities.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the 'Beer Park,' which consisted of several beer company stands, food stalls and a stage. The day was spent trying the wares, eating quarter-kilos of ice cream and trying to figure out what possessed us to try straw-beer (as in strawberry-beer). Pretty much everything I tried was great (except for that fruity beer stuff). The entertainment itself was decent; it began with a parade of just about everyone in the village, including the local viking. I've never been to the real deal in Germany, but something tells me Erik the Strong doesn't prowl the beer tents. But you never know. The rest of the show, from what we saw when we were paying attention, was hoppin'. They tapped a keg and let it loose to the masses, played some traditional music, and had several dancing acts. The one part of the program that made me scratch my head though was the guy playing the harp with a guitar accompaniment. Don't get me wrong, he was very good, but a harp is really the last thing I would think you want at festival of beer. I think by that point though enough people had visited enough stands to not care too much. After a day of trying different brews and just hanging out, we called it a day well spent.

Day two saw us try to find something green to walk through, so we headed out to la Parque Nacional Quebrada del Condorito. We jumped on another local bus that was to take us to the gate. I should have known it would be an interesting day from the get-go when the guy selling us the tickets said he couldn't sell us return tickets. It's not that they were full, he just doesn't sell them. So, here we were heading out into the boonies not knowing if we would be able to get back that night to catch our bus back to BA. So what did we do? We got on the bus of course. About two hours later we're driving through some very pretty terrain when the driver pulls over in a turnout and beckons one of my friends forward, who after a quick chat turns around and tells us to get off. So here we are, out in the middle of nowhere sharing a turnout with a few people with a broken down car, staring at a dirt track across the street that looked incredibly dubious at best.

We headed down the track, seeing the very black clouds not too far away and noticing that yes, this was the entrance to the park and yes, everyone was leaving. We found the forest ranger hut, and the ranger on duty was a great guy who gave us all sorts of recommendations. We hiked through a starkly beautiful landscape for the next few hours. We hoped to catch sight of one of the park's famous condors, but I think they were the smart ones out there and went home as the sky basically turned to night. No matter- the rain never really showed up, and the park was well worth the trip. We headed back to that turnout a few hours later, armed with the information to simply flag down the bus as it came down the highway. That same broken down car was there, with the same people camped in the turnout. We didn't know if the bus would stop if it were full, but we tended to think it wouldn't. When we showed up and saw about 20 other people waiting, we weren't too confident. Especially with a guy throwing a thumb out to anything with four wheels. We eventually did get on a bus though, and made it back to Cordoba in time to grab some dinner (at a parilla of course- all you can eat salad, french fries, and of course beef for 12$. And it's open 24hrs. Could it be any better?) before heading to the bus station.

I should have known that buses would be a theme of this trip from the very first moment at Retiro on Friday night. My bus again didn't show up until about 25 minutes after it was supposed to leave. Maybe I should let someone else book my tickets, since I seem to be striking out on buses that leave on time. Sleep came quickly, until I was woken up by silence. It was dead quiet. Which was a problem. There was no engine noise. I looked around, and eventually found out that we were about 2.5hrs outside of Cordoba, in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway with a broken-down bus, at 3:00 in the morning. After being angry for about 5 minutes, I just laughed knowing there was nothing I could do and wondered what else could happen. Since trying to sleep was out of the question with the top deck of the bus basically becoming a sauna without the air-conditioning, I wandered outside and sat in the grass and read a magazine. There was what seemed like a mechanic/AAA truck behind us with flashing lights, but I got the idea that our potential savior had no idea what was wrong with the bus. The bus driver, his co-pilot and some of the other passengers were standing around smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. I guess if you're stuck on the side of the road at 3:00 in the morning with nowhere to go you might as well make the best of it. Two buses from the same company stopped by to see what was up before continuing on to wherever they were headed. Two very painful sets of tail-lights. Eventually, though, after about 3 hours, another bus showed up and we were on our way. I only got back to BA about 4 hours behind schedule. As they say, in Argentina it works out eventually, just probably in a different way than you thought. No te preocupes!

I have to say though, the stars are pretty at night down here in the Southern Hemisphere. I only had three hours to stare at them.

California Dreamin'

Rosario, Argentina played host to a horde of American students this past weekend. The study-abroad program shelled out for about 70 of us to take a weekend trip to Rosario, one of the top 3 biggest cities in Argentina. Not that you would know; Rosario feels like a small town at just about every street corner. The pace is slower, buildings are shorter and people are fewer. In all honesty, it felt like Santa Barbara with bigger buildings and more streets. Although maybe it didn't help that I came to that conclusion as I was walking along a walkway with palm trees and greenery down the middle of a main avenue with the sun shining. No matter; the sentiment was universal, with many preferring Rosario over its 12-million-person counterpart 4 hours to the south.

The city doesn't really boast any major tourist attractions, aside from being neighbors to a major river and having a large monument dedicated to the National Flag. We acted the part of typical tourists though and did the bus tour our first afternoon. The river was blue, and the grass green. At one point, we were told we were passing some of the most modern, new and large buildings of Rosario on our left. Of course, as any person would, we turn to look out the left side of the bus and there is a half pile of rubble/half group of walls that looked like it only needed a breath of wind to collapse like a house of cards. A couple of us just looked at each other and burst out laughing. Ranger Jane at the front could not have picked a worse moment to mention new and modern. We did pass some buildings a block later which I assume were those she was talking about, not to worry. The end of the tour saw us walking along the river until the flag monument, which was really well-designed. It was set-up like a boat with two streets bordering it on either side, with the flagship parting the water and leading Argentina to a bright future. Pretty clever, I thought.

Dinner was had in style, with about a third of the group following our smooth-talking charismatic program leader Mario out into the night to an exclusive restaurant. We were told we would be walking the farthest out of the three groups. That was all well and good, but about 30 minutes after leaving probably the classiest Holiday Inn Express in the world we were still no where near anything resembling a restaurant. The dark graffiti covered-warehouses and crowds of people dressed like elegant punk rockers sitting outside of these warehouses silently watching us walk by didn't really infuse much confidence. There was an eventual end to our trek, however, and the restaurant made the rite of passage worth it. We were treated to 3-course meal with wine all around (Mario dines in style - he famously takes students out after plays and movies in BA for great meals) with the first two courses consisting of various cuts of beef (surprise?) followed by dessert. I found out later that the beef from course one was an extreme Argentine delicacy; yours truly has now eaten cow lymph nodes. I really don't know what possessed the first person to eat cow lymph nodes way back in the day. I don't want to know. It was delicious, however, and I highly recommend it. That is, if you can fight the Argentines you're sitting with for it, since it is apparently the most sought-after cut of beef. And there isn't much of it.

After being about ready to take a sledgehammer to my alarm clock the next morning, I indulged in the Holiday Inn Express "American breakfast." It was basically continental, with some ham and cheese slices thrown in. It was a nice break from corn flakes, but if they had had eggs I would have made it my life goal to get that hotel a 5-star rating. We wandered over to what was, according to my Lonely Planet magazine, a good handicraft fair, but was actually a snack kiosk. It did have some computers and phone booths in the back for public use, so I guess it was a special snack kiosk. Lonely Planet, you might be a little lonely on my shelf if I try to go to Patagonia based on your advice and find myself staring at a cactus in the desert up north.

We did make it to the fair eventually, and spent a few hours walking the walk looking at everything for sale. My purchase of the day was some fresh-squeezed orange juice that was almost as good as the daily greatness Tina gives me with breakfast. Following the fair, our last event of the trip was a boat ride up and down the river. The river sees all manners of traffic, from kayaks to sailboats to windsurfers to full-blown tankers. Those kayakers better be able to paddle fast. Maybe after the paddle business at Iguazu fell through they found their way to Rosario. I didn't see any advertisements for thrill rides in Rosario to see how close you could get to a cargo ship however, but you never know. All in all it was a nice cruise; Rosario has a great skyline and the weather was phenomenal, so we spent the majority of the time outside on the bow.

We could have boated home, as the river does merge with Rio Uruguay which becomes Rio de la Plata, but those great Argentine long-distance buses just couldn't be turned down. The only hiccup on the way home was getting into a huge traffic jam/detour because communists had taken over part of the expressway and forced everyone to take an exit and get back on. All 7 of the people camping out, with hammers and sickles drawn on the hill and everything, were really making life rough for a lot of people. 7 people protesting doesn't seem like a lot; maybe the rest were using Lonely Planet to get there.