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.
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