Love Boat

On Day Three, I wake up with a cold. The same one I thought I’d shaken on Sunday, but now it’s back in full force. It’s a travesty to wake up in a foreign land with a raw throat and your nose running down your face. But I soldier on, tissue in hand and feverish in the 86 degree weather, bent on exploring a new area of Buenos Aires.

This day of our Buenos Aires adventure is set in the wilds of San Telmo, an old neighborhood known for tango and antiques. We take our first subte – Buenos Aires’ subway – through the city, and I sit in my seat watching a young couple. The girl is petite, in her late teens or early twenties, and she's beautiful in a paler Penelope Cruz way with her long dark hair draped over her thin shoulders. Her boyfriend can’t seem to stop kissing her and every few minutes he leans around to tenderly touch his lips to her temple or her slightly pouty lips. He seems surprised to be so fortunate to have her at arm's reach.

We exit the train and emerge from the underground on Independencia and we’re immediately frustrated with faulty maps. Buenos Aires maps in our guide books, in the handy printed out maps our landlords gave us, and even the maps found near the subte stop, face in varying directions. Sometimes north is at the top of the map, and sometimes it’s to the right of the map, and sometimes – just to add a little flavor – it’s at the bottom of the map. I consider myself someone with a sense of direction, but this lack of orientation on our maps appears to be there to confound us. Oh, and it might be there to make us look like stupid tourists (which we sort of are some of the time). 

And with perfect timing, this day turns out to be a big tourist day for us. Sundays in San Telmo there’s a large flea market, but the weather forecast says this Sunday there will be thunderstorms, so maybe not a good day for bargains. Either way, we seem to have the magic ability to hunt down a market and, soon after walking our way down the small Bolivar calle, we discover the Mercado de San Telmo.

Now this is my kind of shopping – kitschy trinkets from the 30’s and 40’s mixed in with cafes, butchers selling sausages and cured meats, spice vendors and cheese mongers, and little ladies selling costume jewelry and pill box hats. I’m on the hunt for an old brown leather purse, a cameo ring, and a vintage seltzer bottle. I think if I leave Buenos Aires with one or all of these (and nothing else), I’ll feel I’ve scored. And soon after wandering through the halls of the mercado, I find two ornate decanters that I decide I must buy (not on the list, but what the hell!). Of course, I’m always the cautious and considered shopper, so I decide to look through everything in the market and ensure I’m not paying too much.

The enclosed mercado is truly lovely – the sun streaks through ceiling slats, and there are wings of antique shops that sprout in every direction that lead away from the main room. Many vendors are closed – no doubt waiting for big sales on Sundays – but there's still plenty to explore. I find the most beautiful cameo ring I've ever seen and it fits perfectly on my index finger. But then I hear the price is the equivalent to a staggering $500. I decide maybe I need to rethink new finger adornments. 

We consider sitting up at a funky little counter café on a stool and buying an espresso, but then we realize it’s getting late and we should really venture out into San Telmo and see more of the neighborhood. My decanter merchant is in the process of closing down shop, too, but he says, “For you, I am open,” smiling wide enough to expose crooked brown teeth set in his cheery face.

I don’t even haggle. I’m feverish and battling my cold and this seems like a good enough of an excuse to take my purchase without question and head out toward Plaza Dorrego. On the way, we find a few shops with clothes made by local designers – this typically means torn t-shirts and the odd and cheaply made leather bag that may fit in well at Therapy on Valencia in the Mission. We’re still not feeling the clothes or the leather, but the antiques and vintage show promise.

At Plaza Dorrego we’re hustled into a few plastic café chairs to watch a “free” tango performance. We order a couple beverages and get set to do a little hardly-earned people watching. Already the afternoon is waning as we watch a couple swagger across the dance floor. As the tango music blares from a boom box, a Hare Krishna sets a basket at our table begging for money, a man with a baby comes by with his hand out, and when the couple finish their dance, they come by and ask for tips.

The dancers also politely ask us where we're from, but I don’t really want any of it and I try to shove my 10 pesos into their hat so they can be on their way. The male dancer decides to try some English out on me and says, “You dance with me. Alone.” He bats his eyes and I look at him like he’s got to be kidding. And then he points at my face. “I like your eyes,” he says with a quick, nervous smile. I know my eyes are red and blurry with fever, but I figure, nice try (though he probably should have started with compliments before I gave him my tip). 

The plaza is teaming with tourists, girls with dreadlocks and street-punk sneakers, and buskers playing classical guitar to small children. As the sun sets behind the nearby cathedral, we head away from the plaza for a little more shopping before finding our dinner at La Brigada, a nearby parilla known for its neighborhood vibe and its way of doing sweetbreads.

We’re eating much earlier on this night – 8 pm, which is the equivalent of 5 pm in the US – since we have a reservation for a tango performance at 10 PM. We’re also trying to avoid going to sleep on a full stomach since we feel like we’ve been eating SOOOO much. And it turns out to be a battle of wills at La Brigada – our waiter places us in the old folks/foreigner room at the back where he tries to push all sorts of Argentinean delights on us. Yes, we each should get our own super-sized steak, some fried provolone cheese, some fries and sweetbreads, and a big bottle of Malbec for the table. Um, no. 


Instead, we insist on a few small empanadas, some sliced roasted red pepper, a green salad and a bife de chorizo (basically a sirloin steak) to share, and compromise by adding a boar sausage to the ensemble. Klover points to her gut and makes a tickling motion with her fingers. “No chinchulines, no sesos, no lengua, no cabeza. No. Por favor!” she says, wrinkling her nose and smiling mischievously. Our server gives a hearty laugh before nodding his understanding.

When the waiter leaves us alone to contemplate our seats so close to los banos, Klover notes that she’s not going to find her novio del dia at La Brigada – our waiter appears to be at least sixty and happily married and, given that I have every intention of going home early and nursing my cold, I feel bad that my health is probably cock-blocking Klover's romantic possibilities for this Friday night in Buenos Aires. She cheerfully forgives me, and though our empanadas de carne are lovely stewey beef explosions and our steak – so tender our server can cut it with a spoon – is delicious, this meal is more of an obvious sort of lump of hale than our much preferred snowflake.

We listen to the folks at the tables nearby – there’s a couple from “PHOENIX, ARIZONA!” and another family with a redheaded baby who appear to be here on holiday with their parents. There's a couple from Chile who once lived in the US and they tell their neighbors that Chile was actually voted the least corrupt country in the world and that they love it there. Their American neighbors, in cargo shorts and orthopedic sandals, are duly impressed, and I tell Klover I’m glad to get the tango performance taken care of tonight since I’m not sure I can deal with this sort of scene again.

It’s funny to think of how people travel and what they order when at a restaurant – the foreigners here are drinking Quilles or Stella Artois beers the servers have placed conveniently in ice buckets and everyone is speaking loudly in English. For us, our servers are eager but clumsy - forgetting our salad, they seem disappointed that we haven’t ordered any wine or beer. Klover and I look at each other disheartened; we aren’t going to be the favorites of the night at La Brigada. 

For dessert, I order tea and Klover orders the flan and dulce con leche as – again! – I must resist our waiters efforts to push a “light and very small” mousse on me (he says, “Diets must wait for Monday!” Um, he has no idea). I couldn’t even finish my piece of steak, let alone a dessert, but I take a small stab at the dulce con leche – when in Rome! It tastes like caramel and I’m glad my taste buds are a mess since otherwise I would’ve eaten it all. 

After dinner, and after we pay our bill, our waiter becomes more friendly. He asks us our names, which make absolutely no sense to him, and he decides to call me “Cristina.” As we exit, he introduces us to the owner, who is short, in his sixties, with dark hair that falls in a jheri curl to his shoulders. He is very glad to meet us and he smiles brightly as all the restaurant's waiters stand on the stairs like a receiving line to say goodbye. Walking away from La Brigada, Klover notes, “Who would’ve known? I think we were the favorites!”

It’s close to 10 pm and we rush through the streets of San Telmo to make our tango show reservation. When we reach El Viejo Almacen, we see a long line of tourists. Many are speaking English and most are in their sixties or seventies, sporting silver bouffant hair and the sorts of leisure suits you’d find on a cruise ship. Ugh. But we wait briefly behind a group of Eastern European men who look at us with hang-dog expressions and talk briefly with an American couple who is as confused as we are about the logistics of getting into the club to see the performance.

Once inside, we’re placed at the farthest reaches at the back of the room and behind a huddle of elderly German tourists. A waiter attempts to hoist champagne on us, but I’m feeling even more feverish and I’ve used up all of Klover’s tissues; I can’t even contemplate alcohol – I just need to survive the performance! 


As the lights begin to dim, one of our German neighbors calls for a waiter and loudly, and in English, asks, “How much to pay to sit up there in the front? How much must I pay!?!” The waiter tries to explain that the seats are taken, but the man continues to demand, “How much!?!” Clearly money is no object to this silver fox, but he eventually understands it's too late and he sits down angry and defeated.

 

Once the performance starts, we’re taken on a journey that is simultaneously cheesy, sexy, and heartening. We get a little film that tells us the history of the club – in Spanish with English subtitles that Klover whispers to me since I’ve forgotten my glasses back at our apartment. It’s actually pretty comical and Klover is a great narrator, and we laugh to ourselves throughout the entire bit of tango academia.

When the dancing starts, things get a tad more interesting. There are four couples and in my mind one couple stands out - a woman with a very short bob haircut who moves around her partner like a lusty cat in heat, her flip of hair in her eyes, her shoulders sultry and near her ears, and one hand at her hip as she lures her partner toward her, curling her legs around his hips and thighs. The men look like Valentinos – their hair slathered in oil and their postures are stiff and almost constipated. Fascinating, but I can’t see myself taking on the tango. Their outfits and moves look more like that of ballroom dancers and less like the bohemians of their heritage.

And this is one thing we learn – the tango was once an art popular with artists and the boho. Now it’s beyond mainstream and a sort of time capsule of the past. I watch a German couple in front of me – the little lady puts her head on her husband’s shoulder and pets him gently. Another man nearby has fallen asleep, no doubt with belly full of bife and head full of Malbec. The performance includes singing, solo performances on the accordion, and behind the dancers we watch a full string section. 

At one point a performer sings songs that might as well be the Argentinean national anthem, and this brings me back to the idea that not everyone in the room is a retiree from Hamburg or Bocca Raton. The woman next to me, her voice musky with years of tobacco, sings along under her breath and in my feverish state I find myself for a moment getting a tad bit weepy, wishing I could sing along, too. It seems like she’s trying to capture something from the past – a popular song that she may have sang in her youth, and the man on stage in his white coat is a sort of Argentine Frank Sinatra, sure of the smattering of applause he will receive as he introduces each new number and sings the first well-known notes.

Strange, but this makes me think of Pavement. This year I’ve seen so many reunion shows – Guided By Voices, as well as all the other bands at the Matador showcase, including Chavez and Liz Phair. I remember when all of these bands were slightly scary to me and punk rock; they were so important and no doubt whatever they were doing was risky and was going to change the world of music forever. When I was twenty-two, I knew every lyric, every song-title, every note that was wrong or right at a Pavement show. I will never know any other band like I’ve known Pavement. 

And yet it’s been odd to see the reunion shows – they’ve made me wonder what was important in my life and how something so crucial could suddenly seem sort of flat, and forced, and not as relevant. Where once the wry, sarcastic humor seemed bigger than me and smarter than anything else out there, now it just seems sad and unnecessarily cynical - its own time capsule. Also a sign of insecurity and self-consciousness in many ways, and maybe a symbol of my own insecurity and self-consciousness in my youth when I was trying to figure everything out and I preferred those things that were slightly out of reach and indisputably cool.

Now I'm different. I want the sort of art I can embrace, and that may embrace me, too. I want the sort that I can sing along to under my breath without fear that the singer would mock me or turn his back on me. And I now know that there is always something new and more important on its way - few things stay relevant forever.

That’s why I decide my favorite part of the performance at El Viejo Almacen are the guys playing the accordion. Though I have no desire to swagger across the dance floor in a tacky sequined dress, I would love to play the accordion - it's earthy and genuine and maybe a little dorky. It's absolutely not cool. There’s a little guy on stage with curly dark hair playing solemnly, and this instrument seems to hold so many possibilities – it can be sad, or jaunty. It can also be sultry. With an accordion, you can play a polka, or a jig, or a sexy tango number.

When the performance ends, we exit quickly through a small back door and hail a cab home. Once we give our driver the location of our apartment, we’re on our way through the surface streets of San Telmo and Monserrat, seeing parts of the city we missed by taking the subte - the sound of Pink Floyd blaring on the cab's stereo. At a stoplight, our driver points to two women standing on the curb. At first it’s unclear what they’re doing, though one woman seems to have her face buried in the other woman’s cleavage.

"Drunk?" I ask. Our driver shakes his head and says something that seems to be the equivalent of “kissing,” making smooch noises as he giggles and points out that here we have a lesbian couple, making love on the corner of a major street in barrio San Telmo. Of course, he doesn’t realize that this site isn’t anything new for us San Franciscans, and for a moment I wonder if I'll have to get indignant or something, but we all laugh and clap when he announces heartily, “Viva l’amour!” Of course, we shout back, “Si! Viva l’amour!” as he speeds us through the streets of Buenos Aires, ignoring the lines in the road and occasionally honking at other cabs that get in his way.

Once home, we see we've received an email from one of our favorite and best-loved “lovers” telling us that she’s been ill for the past few month and will be ill for a while to come. Of course, she’s powering through and receiving treatment and all news points to her recovery, but this news leaves us quiet and contemplative and Klover and I talk about how impossible it seems that something like this should happen to someone who is so busy living and loving life...and how arbitrary illness seems to be to age.

Before we fall asleep, I also ask Klover for the literal translation of El Viejo Almacen’s name.

“Doesn’t ‘viejo’ mean old?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, “And I think ‘Almacen’ means German.”

We think back to the scene with the German man shouting for a better seat, and we suddenly can’t stop laughing - the name is clearly too fitting - and this realization lifts our spirits for a moment. Yes, we spent the evening at the “Old German” in a weird cruise ship setting with a bunch of literally old Germans trying to capture every bit of the performance on stage, but who didn't know how to turn off the flash setting on their very expensive cameras. These were folks who were drinking cheap champagne and enjoying the buffet of life - Argentina's tango, the sing-alongs, and a few attempts to get a tad closer to the stage.

I imagine the old Germans will be me some day very soon, and I will embrace the lavender hair with the musk of gardenia and menthol cigarettes. Actually, this might be me now, or at least on Monday night as I whisper the lyrics to “Summer Babe” under my breath and demand a better seat closer to the stage.