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.
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