Malbec and Antelope
Wanting to get far away from NYC for a little while for not too much money, I booked a trip to Buenos Aires for my mother and me. My friends and acquaintances screwed up their faces when I mentioned it, “WHAT?? WHY would you want to go THERE?” Although none of them have been to Argentina, they were certain travel to Brazil or Cuba or Peru would be much more worthwhile. Unless you are camping in Patagonia, Argentina doesn’t seem to appeal to most North American tourists I know.
Buenos Aires was a very strategic choice – I had my mother in tow (she kept telling me to find something for us to do on Mother’s Day, and was pooh-poohing the more-convenient idea of a 2-day spa retreat in Connecticut), I knew the city fairly well from previous travels and it’s easy to get around there on public transport, and my friend has an apartment smack in the middle of Recoleta that I could rent for cheap (check it out for yourself: www.vrbo.com/59534). My mom is Puerto Rican and therefore wouldn’t be intimidated by language issues. American Airlines offered round trip tickets for just 40K points each. It was a no-brainer.
The porteňos weren’t as well-dressed and good-looking as I remember, but then again, the last time I had been there I was a raggetty college student, and impressions are always relative. I landed at Ezeiza in 1991 a couple of years after a harrowing bout of hyperinflation, but I think their most recent devaluation drama (Argentines saw the value of their peso-denominated savings drop by over two-thirds in 2002) a couple of years ago really took a toll. They also seemed a little tired and fed up with some serious air-quality and political-corruption issues – our flight down there on May 8 was actually cancelled (we were able to reschedule for the following day) due to the cloud of volcanic ash that had drifted east from the eruption in Chaiten. But then again, even at their best, the Argentines always look and sound tired and fed up. That’s just the way they are, and I love them for it. I might stick out like a sore thumb in Buenos Aires with my curly hair and American sensibility (I swear I think I might have seen maybe 5 black people the entire time I was down there, and they all looked like they were from Senegal or France), but there’s something about the bizarre attitude, worn humor, and general dissatisfaction of its population that makes a cranky New Yorker like me feel right at home.
My first order of business was to wander around the cemetery. The apartment has a terrace that looks right out over it:
Mom was psyched to see Evita’s crypt. The cemetery was just around the block, and right across the street from the entrance there’s a great place for coffee (La Biela, which is totally overpriced, but at certain times of the day is filled with great neighborhood locals like men in their eighties wearing cravats and old suits, and is therefore a worthy place to stop and refuel and look around), so I figured it was a good place for my mother and I to see our first sights in the city.
I got a map and tried my best to point out the final resting places of the larger-than-life characters of Argentine history, but my mother just frowned at the elaborate marble mausoleums and complained about how dirty and unkept everything looked. I quickly reminded myself that it was pure folly to make an attempt at being a tour guide – my mom doesn’t really care about any of the historical facts, and I don’t really care to narrate them. So we high-tailed it to Evita’s crypt, took a few pictures, and went to lunch. On the way there, I saw the funniest cobwebs I have ever seen in my life. I really don’t know what breed of spider lives in Argentine cemeteries, but to me they give a nod to the overall Buenos Aires character of bygone grandiosity and ornate, disorganized ridiculousness:
The next day, we went to San Telmo to visit the townhouse of Frank Reinelt, a designer from Las Vegas who undertook one of the most elaborate renovations one could ever witness in South America (http://www.viviun.com/AD-59410/). He also happens to manage bookings for my friend Valerie’s properties. He and his partner Osvaldo very graciously showed us around the house (which possesses some of most beautiful stained-glass-window installations one could ever hope to see), treated us to the best pizza in the city, and dropped us off at the reknowned Sunday antiques fair. My mom was not in a buying mood and antiques are not her thing, but she did seem to enjoy the weather and tango exhibitions. I didn’t say much, except to exclaim, “Look ma, my twin!” as I grabbed a copy of the latest Mafalda comic (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mafalda) at a local newsstand and held it next to my face, sending the newsstand attendant into a fit of laughter. The attendant quickly composed herself, stared at me, and said, in a horrified tone of voice, “But you are MUCH prettier than Mafalda!” This comment made the whole thing even funnier. I don’t think my mom got it, but it really made my afternoon.
A few days later, we took a trip outside of the city (2 long hours on the #57 bus from the Plaza Italia), to the Basilica of the Virgin of Luján: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires). I had given Mom the task of organizing a day outside of the city, handed her my dog-eared Lonely Planet guide, and this is what she handed back to me. Luján.
No one goes to Luján except Catholic pilgrims and young children on school trips. I tried to direct Mom's attention to the other excursion listings ("C'mon Mom, wouldn't a boat ride to the artists' colony in Uruguay be more fun?"), but she insisted everything else sounded too complicated to her.
So after a hellish, endless bus ride with no air conditioning and standing room only, we got off in this dusty old outpost. There literally is nothing around, but you knew when to get off because out of nowhere there is this honking gynormous cathedral that could rival Notre Dame: the Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Luján. I could try to type out the story behind this little statue of the virgin and this miracle in the seventeenth century of a wagon that was trying to transport the statue for some rich, self absorbed rancher that used to own the land, but you can just Google it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires).
Anyway, we get all the way this place, and then Mom's just standing around, looking at the ceiling, about to walk back out of there and get on the bus to go find somewhere to eat, as if to say, "OK, I chose something to do, and now we're done." I was ready to bash my head against the wall, or jam one of the burning devotional candles down my throat and end our trip right there.
"Jesus H Christ," I thought desperately (and rather blasphemously) to myself, "Why the fuck have we come to this godforsaken place, Goddamnit?"
I looked around the cathedral for something to do, and saw a few people standing on a line beyond the pews. There was a little white sign with an arrow pointing to the priest on duty.
"Mom, get in that line. You're going to confession."
"What?"
"Confession, Ma. See there? When's the last time you confessed, and in a foreign country, no less? Here's your chance to be absolved by a priest in the Argentine outback. I'm going to have a look around, and come by when you're done."
I left her there and strolled around the cavernous basilica, reading the inscriptions.
There was even a little exhibit with letters written by sick children to the Virgin of Luján for help, and notices from people searching for relatives who have gone missing. I felt pretty bad for being so resentful.
About 20 minutes later, I spotted Mom emerging from the confessional, and trotted over.
"Well?" I asked expectantly.
She was wiping her eyes. "It was good. But before I even opened my mouth, I started crying!"
"Crying? Why, what happened?"
"Nothing, I just started talking, and I was crying. He listened to everything I said. He was very nice."
She dried her eyes, and we walked around the church. I showed her everything I had seen, and asked her to translate what we read.
Then we left, got on a bus back to the city, and had a nice steak dinner at a parilla in Palermo. But not before we stopped at a junky souvenir shop so Mom could buy 30 pesos' worth of keychains and other accessories that say "Luján" on them.
We spent much of the rest of the trip this way, within the city limits, seeing a site or two, eating steaks and French fries, drinking coffee, and attempting to shop. I tried not to tear out my hair attending to my mother’s obsession with getting the best price for t-shirts, refrigerator magnets, and personalized genuine leather cigarette-lighter-holders to take back to her sisters in the Bronx.
On our last full day in Buenos Aires, we were wandering around Recoleta, wondering where to eat lunch. I had in my pocket several suggestions for cute Italian places in the neighborhood, but I really wanted to be distracted from the plan, and my mom really had to use the restroom. Then I saw the sign, just as we were stumbling along down the street from a shopping mall: a somewhat-touristy place called El Sanjuanito, at Posadas 1515. It was only a few minutes after Noon, and it was already filled to the brim with hungry lunchers.
I steered my mom into the area, we went down the stairs, and sat down.
This particular restaurant specializes in food from Northwestern Argentina. The menu emphasized empanadas, but my mom decided to order the grilled chicken. I ordered antelope. I also ordered some wine. It was served in a white ceramic penguin.
Antelope is not the menu item to order at El Sanjuanito. It was prepared as a stew, tough and gristle-y. If I go there again, I’ll get empanadas, but at least now I can add “antelope” to the List of Things I Have Eaten. Check, please.
The flight back to LaGuardia was uneventful, thank the Lord.
I now know two things: I love my mother dearly, and I will go back to Buenos Aires.
There’s a footnote to that second thing: I’ll go back by myself.
That’ll be GOOD.
Buenos Aires was a very strategic choice – I had my mother in tow (she kept telling me to find something for us to do on Mother’s Day, and was pooh-poohing the more-convenient idea of a 2-day spa retreat in Connecticut), I knew the city fairly well from previous travels and it’s easy to get around there on public transport, and my friend has an apartment smack in the middle of Recoleta that I could rent for cheap (check it out for yourself: www.vrbo.com/59534). My mom is Puerto Rican and therefore wouldn’t be intimidated by language issues. American Airlines offered round trip tickets for just 40K points each. It was a no-brainer.
The porteňos weren’t as well-dressed and good-looking as I remember, but then again, the last time I had been there I was a raggetty college student, and impressions are always relative. I landed at Ezeiza in 1991 a couple of years after a harrowing bout of hyperinflation, but I think their most recent devaluation drama (Argentines saw the value of their peso-denominated savings drop by over two-thirds in 2002) a couple of years ago really took a toll. They also seemed a little tired and fed up with some serious air-quality and political-corruption issues – our flight down there on May 8 was actually cancelled (we were able to reschedule for the following day) due to the cloud of volcanic ash that had drifted east from the eruption in Chaiten. But then again, even at their best, the Argentines always look and sound tired and fed up. That’s just the way they are, and I love them for it. I might stick out like a sore thumb in Buenos Aires with my curly hair and American sensibility (I swear I think I might have seen maybe 5 black people the entire time I was down there, and they all looked like they were from Senegal or France), but there’s something about the bizarre attitude, worn humor, and general dissatisfaction of its population that makes a cranky New Yorker like me feel right at home.
My first order of business was to wander around the cemetery. The apartment has a terrace that looks right out over it:
Mom was psyched to see Evita’s crypt. The cemetery was just around the block, and right across the street from the entrance there’s a great place for coffee (La Biela, which is totally overpriced, but at certain times of the day is filled with great neighborhood locals like men in their eighties wearing cravats and old suits, and is therefore a worthy place to stop and refuel and look around), so I figured it was a good place for my mother and I to see our first sights in the city.
I got a map and tried my best to point out the final resting places of the larger-than-life characters of Argentine history, but my mother just frowned at the elaborate marble mausoleums and complained about how dirty and unkept everything looked. I quickly reminded myself that it was pure folly to make an attempt at being a tour guide – my mom doesn’t really care about any of the historical facts, and I don’t really care to narrate them. So we high-tailed it to Evita’s crypt, took a few pictures, and went to lunch. On the way there, I saw the funniest cobwebs I have ever seen in my life. I really don’t know what breed of spider lives in Argentine cemeteries, but to me they give a nod to the overall Buenos Aires character of bygone grandiosity and ornate, disorganized ridiculousness:
The next day, we went to San Telmo to visit the townhouse of Frank Reinelt, a designer from Las Vegas who undertook one of the most elaborate renovations one could ever witness in South America (http://www.viviun.com/AD-59410/). He also happens to manage bookings for my friend Valerie’s properties. He and his partner Osvaldo very graciously showed us around the house (which possesses some of most beautiful stained-glass-window installations one could ever hope to see), treated us to the best pizza in the city, and dropped us off at the reknowned Sunday antiques fair. My mom was not in a buying mood and antiques are not her thing, but she did seem to enjoy the weather and tango exhibitions. I didn’t say much, except to exclaim, “Look ma, my twin!” as I grabbed a copy of the latest Mafalda comic (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mafalda) at a local newsstand and held it next to my face, sending the newsstand attendant into a fit of laughter. The attendant quickly composed herself, stared at me, and said, in a horrified tone of voice, “But you are MUCH prettier than Mafalda!” This comment made the whole thing even funnier. I don’t think my mom got it, but it really made my afternoon.
A few days later, we took a trip outside of the city (2 long hours on the #57 bus from the Plaza Italia), to the Basilica of the Virgin of Luján: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires). I had given Mom the task of organizing a day outside of the city, handed her my dog-eared Lonely Planet guide, and this is what she handed back to me. Luján.
No one goes to Luján except Catholic pilgrims and young children on school trips. I tried to direct Mom's attention to the other excursion listings ("C'mon Mom, wouldn't a boat ride to the artists' colony in Uruguay be more fun?"), but she insisted everything else sounded too complicated to her.
So after a hellish, endless bus ride with no air conditioning and standing room only, we got off in this dusty old outpost. There literally is nothing around, but you knew when to get off because out of nowhere there is this honking gynormous cathedral that could rival Notre Dame: the Basilica de Nuestra Senora de Luján. I could try to type out the story behind this little statue of the virgin and this miracle in the seventeenth century of a wagon that was trying to transport the statue for some rich, self absorbed rancher that used to own the land, but you can just Google it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luj%C3%A1n,_Buenos_Aires).
Anyway, we get all the way this place, and then Mom's just standing around, looking at the ceiling, about to walk back out of there and get on the bus to go find somewhere to eat, as if to say, "OK, I chose something to do, and now we're done." I was ready to bash my head against the wall, or jam one of the burning devotional candles down my throat and end our trip right there.
"Jesus H Christ," I thought desperately (and rather blasphemously) to myself, "Why the fuck have we come to this godforsaken place, Goddamnit?"
I looked around the cathedral for something to do, and saw a few people standing on a line beyond the pews. There was a little white sign with an arrow pointing to the priest on duty.
"Mom, get in that line. You're going to confession."
"What?"
"Confession, Ma. See there? When's the last time you confessed, and in a foreign country, no less? Here's your chance to be absolved by a priest in the Argentine outback. I'm going to have a look around, and come by when you're done."
I left her there and strolled around the cavernous basilica, reading the inscriptions.
There was even a little exhibit with letters written by sick children to the Virgin of Luján for help, and notices from people searching for relatives who have gone missing. I felt pretty bad for being so resentful.
About 20 minutes later, I spotted Mom emerging from the confessional, and trotted over.
"Well?" I asked expectantly.
She was wiping her eyes. "It was good. But before I even opened my mouth, I started crying!"
"Crying? Why, what happened?"
"Nothing, I just started talking, and I was crying. He listened to everything I said. He was very nice."
She dried her eyes, and we walked around the church. I showed her everything I had seen, and asked her to translate what we read.
Then we left, got on a bus back to the city, and had a nice steak dinner at a parilla in Palermo. But not before we stopped at a junky souvenir shop so Mom could buy 30 pesos' worth of keychains and other accessories that say "Luján" on them.
We spent much of the rest of the trip this way, within the city limits, seeing a site or two, eating steaks and French fries, drinking coffee, and attempting to shop. I tried not to tear out my hair attending to my mother’s obsession with getting the best price for t-shirts, refrigerator magnets, and personalized genuine leather cigarette-lighter-holders to take back to her sisters in the Bronx.
On our last full day in Buenos Aires, we were wandering around Recoleta, wondering where to eat lunch. I had in my pocket several suggestions for cute Italian places in the neighborhood, but I really wanted to be distracted from the plan, and my mom really had to use the restroom. Then I saw the sign, just as we were stumbling along down the street from a shopping mall: a somewhat-touristy place called El Sanjuanito, at Posadas 1515. It was only a few minutes after Noon, and it was already filled to the brim with hungry lunchers.
I steered my mom into the area, we went down the stairs, and sat down.
This particular restaurant specializes in food from Northwestern Argentina. The menu emphasized empanadas, but my mom decided to order the grilled chicken. I ordered antelope. I also ordered some wine. It was served in a white ceramic penguin.
Antelope is not the menu item to order at El Sanjuanito. It was prepared as a stew, tough and gristle-y. If I go there again, I’ll get empanadas, but at least now I can add “antelope” to the List of Things I Have Eaten. Check, please.
The flight back to LaGuardia was uneventful, thank the Lord.
I now know two things: I love my mother dearly, and I will go back to Buenos Aires.
There’s a footnote to that second thing: I’ll go back by myself.
That’ll be GOOD.
posted by Clown Hair at
4:13 PM
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