Landing

In flight, they show the American version of The Office. I don’t put my headphones on. Instead, I read lips. This is one of my first efforts to change my connection with TV, movies, phone. I’m no longer connected. I've left town, and I’m taking a short break from American pop culture. At least for this flight and until I publish this post.

Yes, I’m on vacation, destination Buenos Aires. The little lady sitting next to me on my flight to Dulles seems to be on vacation, too; she’s ordered a double vodka to go along with her Mott’s tomato juice and she keeps switching my reading light on and off in error. I eat my pretzels and crack open my copy of Best American Travel Writing and immediately sink my teeth into a guy’s story about his time in the tent camps of Fresno juxtaposed against his own life back in San Francisco’s Tenderloin – a place where during the height of the recession (something that mysteriously seems to be morphing away from our present) he hangs out at Whiskey Thieves. Best part: in an effort to get closer to the people, he lets a friend coax him into doing crack – “if you’re going to be writing about the TL, you need to live it.” My head is back there, at Hyde and Turk. For a moment, I’m back in San Francisco with the scent of steaming bowls of pho and the image of men standing on corners with questionable luggage, selling the entire contents of someone else's life at a “low-low” price.

I’m supposed to get some writing done on this trip. This is the plan, at least. And I’m also supposed to learn a little tango, eat mucho bife, watch a football match in La Boca, and observe Pavement’s last reunion show at La Trastienda Club in Buenos Aires (but more on that later). Before this, I have to survive an inconvenient flight from SF to DC, results of a free flight booked with miles, and then from DC to Buenos Aires to meet dear Klover at the airport for a ride to an apartment we're renting in the Palermo neighborhood.

All done, and with little effort and some adventure that includes sitting next to fellow San Franciscan, Ted, on the ride from DC to Buenos Aires, quickly sharing our entire life stories and making plans for drinks and dancing in the clubs of Palermo, a restless sleep that includes The Sorcerer’s Apprentice playing circuitously on my personal video screen (and a wretched Nicolas Cage and his long mangy locks invading my dreams), a janky window curtain that won’t open so I can see the splendor that is South America, and (!) a long wait in a customs line that includes an unexpected $140 fee to enter the country.

As we enter the terminal, Ted and I immediately note that Buenos Aires smells different. We’re in a foreign land and even the tarmac smells exotic. It makes me think of landings in other places – the scent of Vietnam, Cuba, St. Petersburg, and Rome. Oddly, these were all places I entered alone; adventures and memories I share with people who live far away and in many cases mostly don’t know anymore. And, though I have my new friend Ted nearby, I’m really alone for a moment in Buenos Aires, breathing it in, humming "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" pathetically under my breath. That is until I see Klover’s wry smile outside of baggage claim...and I realize this is going to be a different sort of trip. 

During the makings of this voyage, I heard tales of cab drivers at the airport in Buenos Aires driving their fares in circles before taking them to their final destinations. These drivers “aren’t to be trusted” - so is the word on the street. Therefore, I booked a VIP car service. A young porteño with two small stud earrings and a flop of curly hair takes my suitcase and leads me and Klover to our VIP car. He loads the trunk with our heavy bags and before leaving us with the driver, announces, “I am the porter!” while looking at me expectantly. I see. Tip? Of course. So graceful, we note, and I hand him the equivalent of a few dollars and giggle at this awkward bit of travel detail.

Once en route to our apartment in Palermo, our driver quickly notes that we know as much Spanish as he knows English and that we’re no doubt utterly useless in assisting him in navigating our way to our destination. But with my fumbling knowledge of romance languages, I understand his questions about the address and after observing him as he stops a few cab drivers along the way for directions, we realize that this particular driver would be driving in circles not so much to cheat us out of a few pesos, but because he genuinely has no idea where he's going.

“Is this your first day on the job?” Klover demands, half joking.

This is actually the question Klover has come to ask most of our cab drivers wherever we travel. We consider it a sort of a conversation starter. Our driver doesn't respond, oblivious that we're talking to him. And, as witnesses to his confusion, I attempt to show him our rental apartment's location on a map. I’m actually tempted to ask him to let me drive, too, but I’m clearly delirious with jetlag and I resist the urge as he suddenly nods with comprehension and plunges onward into traffic.

We drive through shady streets reminiscent of the Côte d'Azur – tall modern buildings with small patios, French architecture laced with Italianette flourishes. We see graffiti splashed across murals on schools, and at a stoplight a man tries to sell us a vanity mirror or a bike light – either/or, you know? Another man is selling a small whiteboard where he’s listed a few menu items, conveniently providing suggestions for usage. Klover complains that they’d get more business if they were offering shoes to passersby. Clearly they should see we’re in the market for shoes.

We drive past a small park with families picnicking and stop in front of our apartment building. It’s surprisingly lovely and modern with sleek wood and contrasting concrete. Klover nearly passes out with exhaustion as I walk through the rules of the rental with the apartment manager. We have a two-level pad with a deck and a rooftop pool. The interior is crisp and clean with all the necessary details for making breakfast or even baking a pie (rolling pin?). There’s wi-fi and 90 channels on the TV, a bath and a half, and a rear-view panorama of life in Argentina – clothes hanging out to dry across back balconies, herb gardens and satellite dishes, and the clouds overhead are bright white and ominous in the cornflower blue sky. 

After a short rest, we head out to forage for food and have a sad sort of utilitarian lunch at a restaurant on a busy street in Palermo. The details are unimportant, but the gazing out the window at men in business suits, marveling at their neat leather shoes and their playboy wavy hair, and the women in their colorful, whimsical ensembles – we decide purple is the color of Buenos Aires, and no item of clothing needs to match – is crucial. We also note that Americans (or as Latin Americans would say, “Norte Americanos”) are so easy to spot – their jeans and sneakers setting them apart, and sometimes their faces that are set in certain expressions that reveal an eagerness or bewilderment or complete oblivion that make them distinct.

Thus far, day one, my favorite part of Buenos Aires is the super mercato. I love a good market in a new country – learning how people store their eggs, marveling at the different yogurts in the cooler, and comparing teas and honeys. At the back of the market, I stare at big slabs of meat, cuts that would never be found in supermarkets in the US. And the cheeses, looking lonely and forgotten – I’m convinced the porteños may not love their cheese as much as their Italian or Spanish forebearers. When it’s time to pay, we’re at the counter, looking into the face of a man of Chinese decent. The market appears to be populated by other younger Chinese men and women, and he speaks to them in what appears to be a combination of Spanish and Chinese. He smiles at us broadly, a bit of a surprise. We take our large bottle of water, our Argentinian bananas, and our mysterious leche  and naranja (is it light? And can there really be 0 kal?), and head home for an afternoon nap. And I’m left delirious with the possibility for adventure that awaits.