Besos

Wednesday and after one full week in Buenos Aires (not including travel time), we’re counting down to go home and leave our little vacacione behind.

The day starts something like this:

Phone rings.

Me: “Hola? Hello?”

Man with a gravely voice: “Hola. (Blablablablabla-all in rapid-fire Spanish and with barely a breath between words.)”

Me: “No hablo espanol.”

Man: (More rapid-fire Spanish.)

Me: “Habla Ingles solo, senor – Ingles solo!”

By this time, Klover is upstairs and she can’t stop laughing at me. I’m groggy, barely awake, and no doubt my hair is sticking up in all directions. I keep up with the “no hablo espanol” until, exasperated, I give up.

Me: “Ciao!”

Klover is basically crying at this point. "Solo!" she yelps, "Solo!"

I know I sound like an idiot. And she loves that here I am saying that I speak English only, but I’m saying it in Spanish. This, of course, is the story of our time in Buenos Aires – we ask waiters, cab drivers, and cute boys if they speak English and they tell us in English that they do not speak English. Likewise, we ask in Spanish if anyone speaks English. And I just learned that the way I'm saying it, I'm saying, "I speak English?" like I'm not sure I do and instead of "do you speak English?" Duh.

After this little diversion, we get ourselves together for the day. I’m definitely feeling better, though still weak, and we make our plans to visit the MALBA – finally! – and maybe go to La Castinatas in La Boca to see the colorful houses that are on every tourist postcard. Also, speaking of postcards, we need to get postage and make time for writing.

Time itself is rushing by and we can think of so many things we wanted to do, but didn’t do – we didn’t get to a futbol match because I was sick on Saturday when the game was going on and we’re leaving when another game is being played on Thursday night. We also didn’t make it to a polo tournament also due to scheduling (and because I was sick), or the racetrack that Bob N. suggested.

Shopping was a bit of a bust, too – I’m not so into the leather (nothing compares to Marc Jacobs, even that Guido place that Steve M. had recommended) and I realize I could easily get a cameo ring via eBay so why bother doing that here. Ugh – though a professional, I’m such a terrible tourista in so many ways. I hate trinkets and t-shirts and plasticy stuff you can find at the airport. Also, I would prefer to send a postcard than bring something back for people that they would just end up stuffing in a drawer. I’m too practical and anti-clutter to truly flourish as a whimsical tourist shopper. So, my one real purchase of the trip will have to be my decanters I bought early on in San Telmo and the one genuine thing I’m bringing home from this trip is the memories. Oh, and the photos – I might actually make something out of them.

It’s pretty hot outside today as we walk through the neighborhood and we notice how all the fresh spring and summer fruit is available at the little markets – strawberries, blueberries and pineapple. Klover presses her nose up against the glass at a fancy postre shop with cakes that look like small gift boxes, and she waves cheerfully at the owner inside who stands looking at her a tad confused. “Hola!” she says, so energetically they must wonder if she’s crazy. But they smile at her, charmed. It’s our last full day in Buenos Aires and we’re going to seize it!

At the MALBA, we’re immediately engulfed in cool, heavenly air-conditioned air. And, as we're wont to do, we get our tickets and make a b-line to the gift shop, mull over the odd settee made out of a quilt of stuffed animals (the guard tells us we can’t take photos, but Klover is a ninja, and she takes one anyway) and the tiny ceramic mate cups. Then we head over for a little pre-art lounge in the lovely café. Yes, every visit to a museum means checking out the accoutrements first, art second!

The café is light and airy and stark white and since it’s lunchtime, the tables are full of people enjoying fresh salads and café con leches. They sit in white Series 7 chairs (I know this because I have the same chairs at home) and Klover notices the patio outside provides a tempting plethora of potential novios del dias – there is a legitimate flurry of arty fellows! We sit on a red couch in a sunny corner and order a few lemonadas con herb made with fresh squeezed lemons, served in tall narrow glasses with round cubes of ice, and decorated with a fresh sprig of mint. They also provide, free of charge, a few little blocks of chocolate cake with a fine dusting of powdered sugar and we notice we’ve got wi-fi! Word.

Sipping on our lemonadas, and writing up our postcards, Klover has her eye surreptitiously on a guy who resembles Fabrizio Moretti (see there are stars on this trip). She point him out to me, but I’m confused when I see another guy who looks a lot like a blondish Olivier Martinez. Oh, the options. Ultimately, MALBA café is a pure slice of modern ingenuity heaven. Or we’re completely delirious.

Inside, the art on display is somewhat spare. There are rooms containing what’s considered the biggies in South American modern art, and as we enter we see a few photos of Andy Warhol sitting on a pile of corn with an Argentine artist, a reference to the trade agreements between the US and Argentine at the time and the Argentine’s valued “maze gold.” I’m not overly impressed by the art itself, but the building is interesting and I like that the art on display is actually finely curated and not necessarily overwhelming – this means we’re able to take our time and walk through the museum and get some excellent art viewing and people watching in.

I see a man giving a sort of presentation to a group of people who appear to be mentally disabled. One man keeps watching me and smiling a big, happy buck-toothed grin. Before and after the presentation, I keep coming across him as he walks along with a companion, holding her hand like she’s his girlfriend, though it seems she’s actually leading him quietly through the art. It takes a few interactions with him for me to see that he’s not necessarily like all the flirty porteños who have come before and that his smile is less lecherous and more sincere. At one point, he nods at me and whispers, “hola” and blushes, and I see that he’s dressed very neatly; he’s wearing stark white Reebok tennis shoes, shorts, and his socks are pulled up high over his calves.

Klover keeps seeing her novio, sort of flitting about – multitudes, likes butterflies, and she can’t seem to decide which one she likes best. She thinks she actually wants to spend her last forty-eight hours camped out in the MALBA, following random cute boys from the Frida Kahlo painting to the odd plant display to the film exhibit depicting a hand shewing away a fly. It may have something to do with the chocolate cake and the wi-fi, but this is definitely Klover’s happy place.

On my end, there’s one guy who I keep running into. He’s tall and handsome with dark hair and he’s dressed casually, but pretty hip-like, in jeans and a t-shirt, and he seems legitimately intent on looking at the art. At one point, he comes and stands precariously close to me, and I think – no, he can’t be flirting with me. He’s too good looking. And I see him again as I stand on the balcony looking down on the escalators. He’s slowly descending, and he looks up at me – and there’s no question of who he’s look at. But I’m a terrible flirt and despite prolonged eye contact, I quickly hide behind a pillar. I know – stupido!

My friend Dave has been coaching me on this – he told me he thinks I’m a huge flirt and he doesn’t understand how I can get shy, but I’ve explained to him, I flirt pretty easily with anyone I trust or who’s a friend (or safely unavailable), but I freeze up around those guys where there’s legitimate potential. It’s like I’m in 8^th grade, muy romantica, and I don’t know how to pass a note to the cute boy in Home Economics.

And this opening up and learning to flirt was part of one of my goals in Buenos Aires – I’m supposed to say “si!”, but sadly I keep saying “no!” It’s flattering to be in a place – unlike San Francisco – where the guys actually flirt and say nice things and approach girls, but they scare me. I was in a relationship too long and I’m still so rusty.

So, later when I see my museum novio in the bookshop talking to a girl, I convince myself that – whatever! - she’s his girlfriend. And what a slut, and who does he think he is, gazing seductively into the eyes of foreign touristas! Yes, it’s so much easier for me to think this way. And when he comes close to me, I sort of snub him, though I later see him leave the museum alone.

Typical of me, I guess. I either act like I’m walking in a landmine of hurt and respond with judgment and suspicion, or I’m completely clueless, assuming everyone just wants to be friends or talk to one of my friends. By contrast, Klover sees the MALBA as a delicious array of sweet postres. Of course, this is why Klover makes such a great travel companion – she’s open where I’m suspicious, and daring when I’m afraid.

Regardless, Klover and I spend far too long in the bookshop where she fondles architecture and design books, and I try to find out more history on what happened to the indigenous people of Argentina. There’s a brief mention in Fodor’s about how the Indians of Argentina were killed by a fascist regime after a military coup and that over 80% of Argentina’s indigenous population has been completely wiped out. Of course, I could learn more through Wikipedia, the internet, or go to my local library when I get home, but I’m really curious about how the people of Argentina talk about their native population, or if they talk about it at all.

Klover wisely notes that we don’t talk so much in the US about what’s happened to the Native Americans, and why should I expect more of the Argentines, but I’m a little concerned that they don’t discuss genocide and in a little book that’s titled, Argentina's Indians, they completely skip over any mention of the current population of Indians and where they are and how many exist. They actually say something about how the people of Argentina respect and protect their indigenous population, making it seem as if there is nothing to be ashamed of - and ignoring the fact that there really are so few around anymore. And I wonder about what Klover said about US and what we’ve done to our native population; how out of shame we may also hide what we’ve done to the Native Americans.

The idea of responsibility and owning up to mistakes is still burning through my head as I continue to look around at the faces of the porteños as I walk through the MALBA– though we’ve seen a few Asian people, it’s rare to see anyone that doesn’t look like they’re either of Italian, Spanish or Portuguese descent. Actually, when we were at Casa Saltshaker, Dan told us that some restaurants won’t serve any people with dark skin. In particular, he mentioned La Brigada, the restaurant we went to in San Telmo where the owner had a really terrible jheri curl. And as Dan told us this, we were sitting with Lily and I looked at her lovely toasty skin, and her laughing golden eyes, and it made me feel a little ill to think anyone would be anything but kind to this gracious woman.

After the MALBA, we take a cab to the Centro barrio where we plan to have lunch – it’s already 4 pm and we have so much to do before the sun sets, and therefore decide La Bocca will have to wait for tomorrow. The Centro is where all the government buildings reside and where we’ll find the plazas and boulevards where Argentine politics where born. On the way, we start reading our guides and realize Buenos Aires’ post offices close at 5 pm and there are really only a few listed about town. So, since I’m feeling weak and a tad ill, our driver will drop me off at Café Tortino with the plan for me to get a table and a jump on lunch. After, the driver will drop Klover off at the main branch of the post office not far from Plaza de Mayo so she can collect some stamps.

In front of Café Tortino, the oldest café in Argentina and a landmark, I wait briefly for a table. There’s an elderly doorman and I try my best to explain that though I am one (thumb up!), there will actually be two (thumb and pointer finger) of us. I hesitate for a moment, wondering what sort of tourist-trap I’m getting myself into, and then I’m inside and being led through the café and to my table at the back. I’m immediately and completely charmed by the heavy dark wood, the Tiffany lamps, and the marble tables that make up the interior of the café – it's as if nothing has changed in Cafe Tortino for over one hundred years. Once seated, I'm feeling dazed and sort of out of it, and my waiter sees that I'm waiting for a friend and doesn’t bother me until Klover arrives.

It takes maybe a half hour for Klover to run her errand and I'm starting to get weaker and wonder if my waiter might bring me a lemonada, or something, but soon Klover walks through the door, completely exasperated. It seems the cab driver dropped her off behind the post office because streets are blocked off due to construction. The post office building itself actually takes up an entire block and the building houses many different government offices – the cab driver also provided a little history lesson and told Klover it was a “muy importante” building. Either way, Klover ends up walking the entire block looking for the entrance until she found security guards who could tell her the building had been closed for construction for a really long time.

So then Klover hoofed it back to Café Tortino where our suddenly very attentive waiter takes our orders. He suggests Café Tortino’s specialties, two different versions of grilled ham, tomato and cheese sandwiches - and then immediately begins to get his flirt on with Klover. His first effort includes teasing her about how long she’d left me waiting and Klover, grinning along and effortlessly charming him with her southern-accented “espangliano” (as she likes to call her language of choice since she tends to mix her high school Spanish with her college Italian and she enunciates every. single. syllable). And when I go visit los banos, Klover makes a valiant effort to order uno postre (por favor!), but she's confused to receive a blur of incomprehensible castellanos from our waiter.

“Si! Chocolate?” Klover says confidently and with a nod, trying to order one of Café Tortoni’s chocolate dipped churros that we’d heard so much about. 

The waiter laughs. “No,” he says, smiling. “I want to stay with you,” he repeats in what might’ve been awkward or very direct English.

Of course Klover becomes really confused about what "staying" with her had to do with Café Tortoni’s postre offerings, but she goes ahead and tells him her name, sees from his uniform that his name is displayed prominently on his nametag as, “Nicolas,” and she ends up giving him our number for our apartment and explaining to him that we’re planning on going to dinner and dancing that night with a bunch of friends and he can join us. She also tells him that it’s her last night in Buenos Aires. Nicolas laughs at her and says knowingly that there won’t be any dancing that night – this only happens on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. But Klover pouts and insists this is what we’re doing, and he’s welcome to join us.

In the end, Nicolas is adamant that he must “stay” with Klover and he tells her he’ll get off of work at 12:30 AM. Initially, he says he’ll call her then, but she clarifies that the phone was at the apartment and we’d be out, but we’d be going to a place called “Podesta” located in Palermo by 1 AM and he could meet us there. Though he appears slightly confused, he agrees.

We take a few more photos of the interior of Café Tortoni and pay our bill, but we never get our chocolate postre (later Klover reflects that Nicolas might’ve done something romantico, like offering her a churro). But no - nothing. As we leave Café Tortoni, Nicolas pulls Klover aside and I walk out and stand on the street in front of Avenida de Mayo. She later tells me he said to her, “I do not want Cristina there – I want to stay only with you.” To which Klover looks at him as if she has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about and evades any sort of decision on the matter. 

Later she asks, "'Stay'? What do you think he means by this?"

I make a joke about how cute he is with his broken English. "Clearly he doesn't know the word for 'date' or something," I suggest.

"Uh-uh," Klover says. "I think he knows exactly what he's saying." She seems wary, but maybe willing, though she comments that she needs some sort of "romance" to liven things up.

Once on the Avenida del Mayo, we briefly continue in our quest for postage only to realize that after all of Klover’s efforts wandering around Centre and her talk with both the cab driver and the security guards, there’s a post office located right across the street from Café Tortino! Classic. 

Once we purchase our postage, we hear the rumble of a crowd of protesters making their way down Avenida del Mayo and in our direction. We can see by their signs that they’re bank workers protesting happily and waving large Argentina flags. Through our reading, we learned that large protests – this one almost like a parade – was a part of every day life in Buenos Aires, and we’re glad we have the chance to witness the Argentine “system” in action.

After sending off our cards, we start making our way down Avenida de Mayo toward the Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada (the pink house) where Evita and an entire history of Argentine leaders spoke to the Argentine people about the state of the government. We’ve seen photos of the plaza packed with hundreds of thousands of Argentineans, all cheering and waving flags, but when we arrive we find a small stage decorated with the Argentine flag and a few folk singers commenting about national finances. Every once in a while, they sing a song to the relatively small and passive crowd gathered there. And, occasionally, they stop long enough to comment; from what I could understand, they might’ve been saying something about Argentine politics, or the weather, but we observe that there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of interest or response coming from the audience – no pogo-ing or ole, ole, ole, ole - so we gradually move on. 

At this point, our destination is a sunset walk at the Puente de la mujer (“women’s bridge”) in Porto Madero. The sun is slowly going down as we take some photos of the buildings near the Casa Rosado and a few of the statues and monuments. We try to follow the map to get to the river behind the palace and beyond to Porte Madero – a very new and fancy barrio in Buenos Aires.

The space around the Plaza de Mayo is pretty large, so it’s a hike to get behind the fenced-in Casa Rosada and to the river and bridges behind it. When we’re finally behind the building, we’re met with a few large, highway-like roads with semi-trucks and bumper-to-bumper traffic that’s three cars deep in each direction and completely stopped on one side. We can’t see anything resembling a modern looking bridge that’s supposed to remind us of a harp with its strings about to be plucked. No – if anything, what we see looks like I-880 near the Oakland Airport.

We wander around for a while, our lungs filling with soot and car exhaust, until we see a couple of Spanish speaking tourists walking similarly aimlessly. We make a weak attempt to follow them – imagining they probably know what they’re doing since they at least speak the language. But then we watch as they begin gingerly crossing over the main thorough fair and figure maybe we should turn back and try to take the main avenues toward other bridges. Again, we’re confronted with fumes and industrial traffic, but we make our way across the highway and into Porte Madero in time for the sunset.

Porto Madero itself seems like a thin strip of island populated by a few modern skyscrapers – nothing all that exciting. But the Puento de la mujer is lovely, made of slats of wood and a sleek design that make it possible for the entire bridge to open like a gate so it could permit large ships to pass. We take a few photo ops there, glad to have the pink sky behind us. After, we wander briefly through the area close to the entrance of the bridge that’s not far from the Centre in reality, but miles away when trying to get past that bloody highway. There we see cafes and restaurant lined up next to each other, mostly with exotic names like "TGIF’s" and "Hooters." Of course, we feel right at home.

We’re able to flag down a cab for the ride back to our apartment with the plan to enjoy a little nap and get ready for the night. I notice our cab driver’s photo on the back of the passenger seat, and in it he has a head full of hair, but as he drives us, his head is completely bare, as are his eyebrows and his lash-line. Alopecia. And his expression is very stern whenever he meets my eye through the rearview mirror. Klover and I wonder for a moment at the cabs we’ve taken – this one’s back window is plastic and only attached to the car with what looks like packing tape. We'd heard that cabs in Buenos Aires are questionable and Mark Ibold quizzed us very intensely about how we were getting around in Buenos Aires, but we explained the cabs were easy and we didn't have any problems. This cab in particular is special and we can’t stop laughing at this janky situation with the tape and the plastic. Again, I catch our driver's eye in the mirror as he very efficiently guides the car through the heavy late-afternoon traffic and I’m happy that our driver doesn’t speak enough English to be insulted.

Soon after arriving back at our apartment, Klover gets a call from her prospective novio del dia, Nicolas. It seems he really doesn’t want to meet her at Podesta, and he’s adamant, telling her that she’s beautiful and he plans to plant many kisses all over her (!). But he’d prefer to do this in his car as opposed to the dance floor at Podesta. He also wants to change the meet up time to midnight.

“But you said you didn’t get off work until 12:30!” Klover says, a little suspicious, and Nicolas explains quickly that he might be able to get off a little earlier. Klover, growing wary, asks him, “Exactly how many tourista phone numbers do you get each day, Nicolas?”

Of coursed, Nicolas demurs and says, “No – it is not like that. Maybe it is once a month. Only. Yes.”

Of course, Klover relays their entire conversation to me by shouting it down the stairs to where I’m napping on the couch.  “He speaks perfect English, Chrissy! Perfecto!” she tells me, laughingly.

Klover must keep insisting to Nicolas that she won’t be getting in his car - she says she plans to dance, and Nicolas can meet her, but she doesn’t make any besos (kiss) promises just yet; instead she tells him very frankly that "I'm afraid you're going to carry me away and chop me up into muy pequito pieces and stuff me in a bag and throw me into the Atlantic.” She does what she can to translate, “No roofies” into Spanish, but it seems that some things really don’t translate.

In the meantime, I communicate a bit with our Casa SaltShaker friends and learn that Iris and Bobi are going to a gay milonga night, but will come to Podesta at 1 AM, as will Dave and Jesse. I also email a bit with Ignacio and Emilio, friends of friends who are Argentinean and live in Buenos Aires. These guys come highly recommended as “hothothot”, but – as usual – I was a little scared and end up being delayed in reaching out to them. Therefore, here we are, finally in touch on our final night. Nevertheless, they too seem up for meeting and our final night is coming together and set to be a complete blowout.

To be continued…