Friday's and a Milonga – Reaching a Bi-Cultural Equilibrium

The end of the week left a bittersweet taste in my mouth. Not only did it mean we were we to say goodbye to our compañeros at La Universidad de Buenos Aires, but it also meant we were destined to be thrown back into the torrential sea of the English language, or, in other words, begin our CELTA course (Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults). A month well spent in intensive Castellano was soon to be jeopardized by the new bubble of native English speakers and teachers that we were to enter on Monday morning, at precisely nine o’clock. However, we decided to put off this thought for another few hours and enjoy our authentically Argentine surroundings for a “ratito” (or, a little while) more.

Now a keen user of not only the past tense, but the “pluscuamperfecto” and “imperativo” too, I went into our final exam beaming, ever so slightly due to the genuine Spanish practice I had done with the Porteño of our building and his wife the night before. As we meandered back home around eleven o’clock at night on Monday (which, N.B. is far too early an hour to be on your way home in Buenos Aires), we encountered the kind Julio and his esposa conversing outside our apartment building on Diaz Velez, enjoying the night-time breeze with their dog, Oliver. I was to thank one glass of wine too many for my fluid conversation and carefree attitude as we spoke of tango, the Spanish language and Patagonia – the distant home of Julio’s wife. However, it was at this moment that something clicked. Perhaps it was my conscience reminding me to drink water to avoid a headache the next morning, but I prefer to think it was the sound of a language-barrier snapping in half and falling to the curb.

Over the past few weeks, I had somewhat relished in the enthusiasm of my classmates at UBA. A charming group made up of nine Brazilians, one American, one Russian, one Italian and myself, we had all come together to solve the puzzle of Castellano, and had slapped it in the face by making after-class excursions to different drinking holes, historical sites and asado venues – the whole time bashing it around in conversation. It was on one of these after-class adventures that two Brazilian members of Nivel 3 had decided upon TGIF’s (or, Thank God It’s Friday’s). Until this moment, I was unaware of the vast North American chain’s presence in [quintessentially Latin] Buenos Aires. And in this moment, perhaps I wished I was still unaware of its existence here in South America. However, I plodded along with the rest of the troops, as we marched our way down the picturesque Puerto Madero Waterfront, which takes up a considerable segment of the Rio de La Plata riverbank with its modern bars, restaurants and never-ending footpath. As we piled into the restaurant the air-conditioning hit me like a wet-fish to the face and I spotted those large hat-wearing waitresses, famous all over the United States for their flair and permanently happy grins. I honestly did not know quite what to do with myself, and felt as if I were, somehow, cheating on Buenos Aires and its inherently Latin culture. “Why are you eating loaded potato skins and sipping on raspberry mojitos when you could be feasting upon empanadas and a cold chopp of Quilmes? How dare you…” My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress who wanted to know what drink I wanted next to qualify me for the “Two-for-One” happy hour special.

As we bid farewell to my classmates at the long red-and-white-checkered-table-cloth-covered-table, I knew I had to do something deeply Argentinean, to balance out the gargantuan Westernised cocktails I had just indulged in. My mind worked fast, and I was reminded of a Milonga (or, tango dancing event) taking place that very same night, in our barrio of Almagro. The subte ride was a whirlwind as I tried to contain myself: “Just a few more stops and we’ll be back in the depths of porteño culture,” I told myself, trying to push the image of deliciously disgusting fully-loaded nachos out of my head. Our stop arrived and I charged down Medrano, with Jesse, I hasten to say, six or seven paces behind me. With a puff of smoke we had found our way to Plaza de Almagro, where a large stage had been erected, and a hefty crowd stood around it, in a great circle. Listening to instructions, the crowd, I discovered, was taking part in a leisurely tango lesson, and each member was struggling to exercise his or her newly learnt moves in a huddle that got tighter and tighter by the minute, as each pareja desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the gallant tango teacher and his assistant. We quickly gave in to the fact that we were to be spectators and not partakers as claiming a stone of Plaza de Almagro now would be virtually impossible. However, the instructor soon thanked his voluntary students for their effort, and before we knew it, an area of the square had been cleared for a striking couple who demonstrated their dance moves of passion and torment to the sounds of Carlos Gardel booming on the speakers that had been temporarily dotted around for this free, cultural summertime event in the city.

As the Argentine couple, perfectly in time, twirled and pushed around the square, I was reminded of paintings I had seen on a day trip to La Boca, the old port of Buenos Aires. In the 1880s, the port had been an area of settlement particularly for immigrants from the Italian city of Genoa and much of its Italian flavor and fervor is still intact in its cobbled streets and Caminitos. As we walked down the rows of brightly painted houses, the pavements were lined with artists’ interpretations of La Boca and the tango that had given it so much of its passion and rawness as a barrio of the city. In La Plaza de Almagro, I had finally witnessed the nation’s dance which exceeded my expectations as the couple floated through the crowd – their leg flicks and kicks so quick that I attempted to not blink to be sure I would not miss a moment.

As we walked back to our departamento after the festivities, I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I had, in one night, reached an equilibrium between two cultures – that of the United States and that of Argentina. The fact that one culture had been explored through brightly colored cocktails and over-loaded plates of appetizers is neither here, nor there.

“Vivir para Comer” – The Argentine Asado, Café Tortoni and Other Ways to Eat your Way Through Buenos Aires

It was mid-week when I finally realized why the vast number of food critics in the world today choose this profession. To venture to a new place, meander amongst the crowds and take in a few sights before working your way from restaurant to restaurant, market to market, bakery to bakery, almacen to almacen (the Spanish for small shop, often specializing in cold meats for sandwiches or “fiambres”) is quite a spectacular existence. Aside from, of course, working exceedingly hard at improving our Castellano skills, we have been taking the time to not only make new friends and take in our beautiful surroundings, but also to try the things most typical of a porteño diet.

It was just this week that we were invited to a typical Argentine Asado, or barbeque, at the house of a classmate of mine. The fact that he happens to be Brazilian himself changes nothing about the quintessentially Argentine feast that he hosted this past Tuesday evening. Together after class, the fifteen or fourteen of us avid Spanish students trooped back to charming Almagro, after pausing for a moment in front of La Casa Rosada to take a touristy, yet obligatory photo. Perhaps it was more of a “Before and After” exercise, because by the end of the evening I was certainly feeling the pinch of my waistband ever so slightly more than in that moment in front of the grandiose [pink] government building. Nevertheless, a grand time was had. Thanks to the husband of a classmate who happens to be a porteño, and thus knows how to work the Parilla (or, grill) particularly well, we feasted upon mounds of fresh chorizos, two or three different cuts of prime Argentine beef and a delectably grilled helping of Provolone cheese with herbs, which was by far some of the most amazing cheese I have ever tasted. In a delightfully informal manner, the group crowded around the large outdoor table, conversing in Castellano (wine in hand) and picked at the delicious dishes placed in the centre of la mesa, one after the other with plastic forks – the serious lack of plastic plates seemed to bother no one. After the event, I was informed however that it had been a fairly ‘tame’ version of an Argentine Asado, due to the fact that it ended close to the apparantly early hour of 11pm (the “Quilombo” we at this point had no idea we would host in our living room a few days later was quite the opposite).

As a sort of intermission between different types of Argentine cuisine, we decided to make an expedition to the MALBA – El Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires. Having heard so many good things about the grand white building on Avenida Figueroa Alcorta, we ventured there after class with two friends. The museum currently boasts a large and splendid exhibit of the vast majority of Andy Warhol’s most famous and acclaimed pieces. The exhibition which runs until February, entitled “Andy Warhol, Mr. America” wonderfully lays out the different stages that the Pennsylvanian went through in terms of his art, and how his views on the United States gradually developed. We meandered through his fascination with commercial items – the infamous Campbell’s Soup collection, on to his near obsession with the matter of death that he unveils in his Electric Chair series, then onto politics and his interest in the assassination of President Kennedy in 1963 and its somewhat excessive manifestation by the media. After this dark phase, Warhol once again picked up his enthusiasm for American products and advertisements using vivid colors and famous faces once more, illustrating his sentiments voiced to Glenn O’Brian in June of ’77:

Glenn O’Brian: Do you believe in the American Dream?
Andy Warhol: I don’t, but I think we can make some money out of it.

Viewing Warhol’s most important pieces [again] in Buenos Aires was a peculiar sensation, as on other floors of the Malba one is surrounded by the great works of classically Latin artists, such as two of Mexico’s greatest treasures Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, as well as Argentines Alejandro Xul Solar and Antonio Berni, to name but a few. However, after two or three hours, we left Mr. Warhol in drag at the door of the museum and moved on to explore more of the Paris of the South.

Being consistent with the week’s motif of cultural education, we joined the waiting line to enter El Gran Café Tortoni – the oldest and most talked-about (and inevitably, most written about) cafeteria in the whole of Argentina. Opened in 1858 by Frenchman Touan, the café has ever since been a hot-spot for renowned artists, intellectuals and politicians. I delighted in viewing the walls upon walls of framed photographs of Argentina’s most celebrated writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges along with the iconic face of Argentine Tango, Carlos Gardel, both sitting in Café Tortoni on many different occasions, sipping on cafecitos and snacking on freshly-made facturas. Located on the Parisian style boulevard of Avenida de Mayo, Tortoni is not only historically popular amongst Argentines. The café boasts Spanish playwright and poet Federico Garcia Lorca and the King of Spain as some of its other celebrity customers from years ago. Hilary Clinton was also spotted having a pleasant coffee break in the colonial style Café in 1997. This Thursday afternoon however, we paused there only briefly for a cafecito and a tostado (Argentine toasted sandwich) but it was long enough to take in the beautiful surroundings and ambience of one of Buenos Aires’ most charming and historical locations. The fact that Tortoni also hosts exceedingly popular Tango shows by night is perhaps an excuse to return in the not-too-distant future.

Los Paseadores de Perros en Argentina: Kings of the Calles

For the past few weeks in Buenos Aires, I have been keeping a close eye on a particular segment of the Argentine population. This group choose a fast-paced and rigorous lifestyle. A typical day in the life of this crowd would include rising early, going from house to house in a particular barrio and then proceeding to walk a good portion of the city for the best part of the day. If you haven't already guessed, I refer to Los Paseadores de Perros of Buenos Aires: the dog-walkers of the city. Like nothing in any other city in the world, dog-walkers crowd the streets during the daytime and are a common sight for portenos. Perhaps to readers this may sound ridiculous, and almost unworthy of a whole post, let alone a paragraph. However, I can't quite seem to get my head around it. Being a dog fanatic is hard in any city - it's terribly hard to concentrate, or converse with others when there are so many dogs around. I have been chastised on several occasions for what to others seems like a case of attention deficiency disorder but what is actually a slight obsession with four-legged canines.

Here in Buenos Aires, my obsession is fed on a daily basis. According to studies there are over a million dogs in the city and that is supposedly just counting the amount of dogs kept as domestic companions - strays freely roam the streets, mingling with crowds of portenos and extranjeros. Another important fact I have learnt: just because a typical day in Argentina is longer, and later than days in many parts of Europe and the United States, does not mean that residents of the country have less work to do. Portenos retire to bed late and rise early. Thus, families here with dogs have more of a predicament and must decide how to prevent their dogs from being cooped up for hours on end. Like a saviour, along comes the local dog-walker who will pick up one's dog as he or she leaves for work, and then return the furry friend in the late afternoon or early evening when the house is occupied again.

The legal limit for Argentine dog-walkers is between 7 and 8 dogs. However, this rule is more often than not overlooked and rarely enforced. Just yesterday we bore witness to a young man walking between 12 and 15 large dogs: a delightful mixture of labradors, hounds, alsations and Heinz 57's. He, like many other paseadores, was sporting a thick banded belt tightly tied around his middle to which were attached endless metal loops for each dog lead. This hefty accessory is the Argentine dog-walkers' secret which serves a double purpose: not only will the trusty paseador be able to securely keep hold of 12 or 15 dogs at a time, he will also control much of the pack's movement, and not be led astray by boisterous labradors or mutts with wandering noses.

Whilst dog-walkers here in Buenos Aires earn three times more than the average Argentine person, like any freelance profession, income can be unstable and not always something to rely on. However, it is a delight to see so many busy peseadores now at the height of summertime in the city. Perhaps one of these days I will stop to interview the paseador that we see on our route to language school every afternoon. Well, that is if you can call asking for each dog's name an interview. Putting names to noses, is perhaps more appropriate.

"Do not talk to me like that, I am not your husband" - Important Phrases, Suitcases and a Lettuce.

The day had finally arrived to move to our new apartment (or, "departamento", in rioplatense spanish). We were sad to leave the wonderful Bea and Robo, but eager to see our new living space. Bea, our hostess (a long-time friend of my father with whom she studied at the University of Sussex and avid feminist) kindly offered to call a taxi, as, of course, we suffered from a severe case of "over-packing" and are destined to lug four gigantic suitcases around Buenos Aires for the rest of our time here. So, we waited and listened whilst Bea placed a call to a local taxi firm. The conversation began formally, and somewhat amicably until she exclaimed (in spanish, por supuesto) "Please do not talk to me like that. I am not your husband." After the phone call had ended, she explained that the lady on the other end of the phone had responded: "I do not have a husband" to which Bea retorted "Well, maybe you should find one." Forgive my reference to Spanish literature, but I was instantly reminded of Garcia Lorca's "Casa de Bernada Alba" in which I am sure Lorca wrote a similar line for one of his many female protagonists. The taxi did, an hour later arrive and all was fine. I noted down this wonderful comment of Bea's in my small book of travelling tidbits, and would save it for later - for an emergency, for when I really needed to put someone in their place, just as she had done.

The car ride was a short one from Belgrano to our new barrio, Almagro. When we finally pulled up to our departamento on Diaz Velez I suddenly remembered what I had been dreading. Three floors of stairs stood between us, our suitcases and our beautiful colonial style hogar. We stood and looked (glared, perhaps) at the first set of stairs inside the building after falling out of the taxi cab. After maybe five minutes of staring, we heard the voice of the portero of our building, Julio. In an instant, he picked up my largest case, a gigantic ugly red thing, lifted it onto his shoulders and purposefully climbed the dreaded staircase. Before we knew it, he had carried all of our cases and placed them outside our apartment. He remembered we were the extranjeros that would be staying in the departamento belonging to the american and australian artists on the third floor. Thus, our moving experience was made that one bit more pleasurable, all thanks to Julio. A bottle of wine, perhaps, should be on its way to his oficina on the ground floor.

Almagro, a neighborhood that was originally settled by mostly Basques and Italians at the turn of the twentieth century, is one of the lucky barrios in Buenos Aires that had a song written and sung about it by the iconic Carlos Gardel, who in 1930 recorded a tango entitled "Almagro." I was instantly delighted by the numerous tiendas of fresh fiambres (meats), quesos y verdaduras - the latter which we have instant access to as one is situated just next door to our building. A family-run store, it boasts many fresh vegetables un-available in the larger supermarkets (yes, Disco has flaws) and also, a delightful staff made up of a father, a lady who I expect is his wife and their two children who run around the store enthusiastically retrieving the best cucumbers, onions, watermelons and avocadoes to name but a few for their customers. I enjoyed my most recent venture there (only this afternoon) to buy a lettuce. As soon as I stepped foot inside the shop door, I was met by the two bright-eyed, attentive young girls who competed to pick me the best. Unfortunately, I had to choose only one and so ultimately, would have to let one of the young girls down. Once a decision had been made, the child whose lettuce had won smiled smugly and disappeared to wrap it up, whilst the other lowered her head and dragged her feet back to the basket where she had found a lettuce she once thought was worthy of purchasing. I felt a terrible pang of guilt as I left the store, for the unlucky lettuce, but, even more for the little girl who as I walked away, was most probably being taunted by her sister. Tomorrow, I vowed to myself, I would return and purposefully buy a lettuce from the other. The fact that I already have three lettuces in the fridge is not important.

"Ah, vives en Belgrano? Que suerte" - Mingling with the Belgranistas and Other Tales

Being a student of the spanish language is a time-consuming and important role to have. Therefore, I have been slightly relaxed about keeping this blog going. However, now that the house-moving and class-going is at a temporary halt until tomorrow, I can divulge our tales of recent adventures.

Level three, I discovered this week, is a good place to be. In level three spanish at La Universidad de Buenos Aires, we not only talk about what we like to do in our spare time but also about history, politics and current affairs. I was delighted to be handed a photograph by my profesora of Eva Peron - "Que esta haciendo en este foto?" And so I launched into a speech similar to a section of my last blog, sobre Evita y sus descamisados. "Ay, Alejandra! Que vocabulario!" I felt terribly clever. However, we soon moved on to a review of the imperfect tense and I was soon brought back down to earth and the reality of ghastly verb forms that I had yet to grasp. I felt terribly hard done by my first lesson upon discovering that two thirds of my class were Brazilian. They had such an advantage over me, I thought to myself, and yet with time I began to realise we were all in the same boat. The same sturdy boat of level three, each of us just waiting for the moment for spanish to click, register and splurge perfect verb tenses from our mouths.

Believe it or not, we haven't solely been working hard in the classroom. Taking time to stroll through calles away from the hustle and bustle of the main avenidas is something that cannot be over-looked when travelling, or staying in Buenos Aires. The amount of fantastic cafes here is also overwhelming, and (if you are anything like me) far too tempting. "Oh but the coffees are so cheap! And so delicious! Not like Starbucks which rips you off in more ways than one every time you order an extra-skinny-sugar-free-extra-hot-fat-free-latte-no-whip. AND those little complimentary home-made cakes they serve with the coffee are just to die for." These sentiments remain with you until you are seated in the fourth or fifth coffee bar you have visited that day and you begin to realise that these delightful little coffees do actually contain caffeine. Lots of caffeine in fact, and it has all of a sudden turned your hands into [salt] shakers and your eyes into saucers.

On Wednesday we had the pleasure of moving (temporarily I add, and somewhat sadly) to Belgrano, the poshest of the posh barrios in Buenos Aires, to stay with the delightful Bea y Roberto - wonderful friends of my father. Living on the tenth floor of a delectably snazzy high rise apartment building, the view from our bedroom and private terrace was just superb. Arriving from class to a wonderful dinner and great company was a great treat for the both of us, and an added bonus? Well, we were able to practice our spanish of course. And there really is no situation more comfortable to practice a second language than that over delicious food and a good glass of vino. Today, we had the delight of being taken to La Boca - the old port of Buenos Aires, famous for its tango and brightly painted, antiquated apartments, complete with wooden shutters and elaborately manipulated iron balconies, from where you somewhat stereotypically imagine a young Argentine woman, looking down at a Gaucho passing-by, before she decides to partake in a pronto tango with him on the cobbled street down below.

Tomorrow, the third chapter of our accomodation whirlwind continues and we move to a delightful apartment (complete with tango studio - a necessity here in Buenos Aires) in leafy Almagro. Though sad to be leaving Belgrano, upcoming trips to the Argentinian supermarkets (N.B. A chain which is particularly appealing and exciting - "Disco") now that we will have a kitchen of our own, distract somewhat from feelings of melancholy and sadness.

"You understand a lot. However, your grammar is [appalling]." - Mastering the art of Rioplatense Spanish.

Having had a wonderful time at dinner with the FT correspondent in her beautiful family home in Malabia, AND having disembarked bus number 24 for the very first time [in one piece], we simply couldn't help but rise from bed with confidence this morning of what, essentially, was our second day in this city of "Fine Winds." To our dismay, the rain was heavy and the sky was grey. In a typically english way, I had come prepared with wellington boots (as one does), which I was not shy about sporting as we made our way to La Universidad de Buenos Aires to enroll in a very much needed intensive spanish course.

As we passed through La Plaza del Mayo, I was reminded of Eva Peron by a string of graffiti on surrounding benches reading "Los Descamisados" or "The Shirtless Ones." Her Descamisados, as she famously called them during her husband's dictatorship, had once filled this particular plaza to hear their heroine and saviour, Evita, speak words of wisdom and kindness. Her connection to the poor of Buenos Aires is still very much alive over fifty years after her death and her image everywhere, in multiple forms from small picture cards in windows, to chalk drawings or grafitti around the city.

The final turn down road 25 de Mayo (home to La Universidad de Buenos Aires' department of "Filosofia y Letras") was a mere continuation of this reminiscence I felt for the city's past. The antiquated buildings glowered down at us as we walked in single-file through endless clouds of second-hand smoke. Finally reaching our port-of-call, the colonial style UBA building, I was overwhelmed by the Baroque-like interior: an enormous winding stone staircase with Parisian-style lanterns surrounding the bottom step. I was soon brought down to earth and into modern-day Buenos Aires by the matter-of-fact lady directing spanish-speaking hopefuls to the examination "area" where to my horror I was about to discover just how much my Spanish had deteriorated. A quick process, we turned in our completed tests to a table of lively female language assistants and waited in terror to hear our fate: would it be level three? Two? One? Please, not level zero... My name was called and a lovely portena asked me general conversation tidbits: "What did you do this weekend?" "Why Buenos Aires?" "What would you like to do with your Spanish?" I responded, shakily. "Ah," she concluded, "You understand a lot, but your grammar is... not good. I think level three would be best for you. It will be a challenge." And so my language learning fate was determined: level three it is. Perhaps as a graduate of Level Three, I will be able to decipher any phrase or word thrown at me in the Rioplatense dialect, (the most commonly spoken dialect here in Buenos Aires).

Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.

Introduction to Buenos Aires: Animales que hablan Espanol.

Now that the weariness of the fixteen or sixteen hour journey has worn off, I can begin taking in and appreciating the charm of Buenos Aires' hustle and bustle. My boyfriend Jesse and I had talked for one year about our shared hope to venture to the "Paris of the South" but things such as finishing up degrees, money and the time it takes both of us to make decisions, of course, deterred us until just recently. January 1st, 2010 was finally agreed upon as a departure date. Leaving the cold and wet in London was no hardship, however leaving behind family and great friends for an indefinite period of time was inevitably upsetting.

The first day here was a slight blur so we will wipe that. Day (pretend) one, January 3, 2010. Stepping out of our safety bubble, El Gran Hotel Argentino on Carlos Pellegrini street, we headed toward El Subte - the Argentine tube or underground. After crossing and re-crossing the same road several times, we finally deciphered which side we needed to be on to board the Subte to Palermo. Domingo was a good day to board the metro for the first time and yet a somewhat hectic day to choose El Zoologico de Buenos Aires as our first touristic port of call. Filled to the brim with families loaded with picnics and bombillas de mate, the zoo was clearly the place to be on this hot and sunny traditional day of rest. A picturesque park covering 44 acres in the Palermo disctrict is home to a total of over 2, 500 different animal species. Patagonian maras and nutrias however, seem to be the most popular inhabitants in this part of Buenos Aires. They mingle amongst the crowd, making friends with those who are lulled into buying buckets of animal feed at somepoint during their zoo adventure. We, sadly, purchased no feed and so befriending a particular nutria we encountered on the way to the gift shop was a rapidly shattered dream. The creature soon realised I had nothing of use to him and scampered off to his family in one of the little lagos.

Signs displaying the words "Prohibido alimentar a los animales" mean nothing here at the charming Argentine zoologico. I personally witnessed elephants, deer, tigers, monkeys and lamas all enjoying that same feed we should have bought a share of. So, day (pretend) one in Buenos Aires: total friends made: ALMOST 1 Nutria. Better luck this evening when we go dine with the Buenos Aires correspondent for the Financial Times and her family.