Traveler Purgatory, the Big Bailout, and some Big Water

Wow, so today I decided to be beaver-eager, and got up with the dawn, despite my very reasonable rationalization that you can't have an oceanside sunrise (remember, east coast) without ocean access or... the sun. It's interesting, porteños (Buenos residents) are rather the opposite of San Franciscans: weather-wise, they prepare for nothing, since in the heat, it can't really hurt you, and it won't last anyway. Thus, almost no one wears sunglasses, though it will be glaring for a few minutes a day; and no one carries an umbrella, though it's constantly on the verge of spilling a few drops, and usually does.

Deal with it. My kinda people...

Anyway, after some nicely productive time blogging away, prepping the sports show you see beautifully linked at right, and otherwise catching up with the northern hemisphere, I was ready for my big date with the Brazilian consulate... check. Passport, complete with visa, back in hand. (Don't ask me about vacunas -- no, not the speedy alpaca substitute, but rather, yellow fever shots; they're preventing me from seeing the Brazilian side of the falls. But I'm getting ahead.)












{That's vicuña, buddy.}

Where were we?

Anyway, long story short, ("Too late!") I spent a solid couple hours in the AmEx office (yes, there is one -- very nice, actually, though in my case it's just a connection to an un-helpful, overly secure American system via the magic of telephone) and a backwoodsy telecentro, where I was trying to get my cash money to come when called.

Finally, I paused in front of a travel agency poster of Iguazú Falls -- I'm not gonna post photos until I have my own, so look it up yourself, but suffice to say they're apparently much bigger and more impressive than Niagara -- and ended up spending a solid three dehydrated hours in there, with a friendly, helpful ultra-rookie. (Better than AmEx? Ugh, I guess.) At this point, I'm almost too tired to tango... but when you've given yourself a lone night left in a town like this, you do your best to throw down.

So: what am I doing here in the hotel lobby, typing at you? It's once more down into Boca and San Telmo, where I hope to do better than last night (ask me about why I found myself back at the cemetery at 2 a.m., and why I had to walk home from a Recoleta juicy-girl club -- not my idea, as I tersely told the hotel desk jockey who set me up with it...) Anyway, did I say tango?

Tango.

And one last steak wouldn't hurt.

Travel tip of the week: Booking.com will take your credit info and hold your reservation, but they never run the card. So I was able to bail on the last two days of my well-located (if slightly cramped) hotel two days early, guilt free. Of course, next week's tip will be advanced planning, wherein you save time and money by flying north out of Buenos Aires once, not twice...

What do you mean, you don't eat beef?! You're in Argentina!

So, picture this, then. A wooden table, separated from the street by what appears to be a thick cellophane. A dark beer in a glass and my Mac in front of me. A woman walking by with a stroller, politely asking if I have a novia, and whether I might like to buy some kind of little pink stuffed dog…

It’s dusk in Palermo, perhaps the most famous of Buenos Aires districts, which I really haven’t seen yet. (I ran out of photocard memory entering the underground subte on the way here, and had to perform a photo dump.)

It’s typical travel: I’ve taken some very good photos, many of which I find entirely fantastic, and probably aren’t. (For more, see my Facebook album.) I love this city, though, and could easily, seamlessly live here. My Castellano, while confusing to the natives, is more than good enough to get by on, and I find the slurry accent comforting: it reminds me, as I said, of southern Spain; plus, you can mispronounce half the word and play it off, letting the end fall untouched off the table.

Why do I find Buenos so romantic? Part of it is the time. Of year, of years: it’s summer, muggy and gray like New York, but with an ocean breeze that forgives all. And it stays effortlessly light until well after 8 p.m., permitting guiltless sleep ‘til any hour. Economically, it’s neither the hard times hotel of 2001-2, nor the ritzy glory years of decades past. The vibe is cosmopolitan but grounded, with a lot of construction, and equal parts abandoned buildings, bustling streets, beggars, and tasty streetside parillas.

The life is unmistakably European, thanks to history, and despite the distance. Many smoke, and even in summer, long pants are the norm. The women are beautiful – spoiled, perhaps a little, but in the good way – and people are not nearly so standoffish and insistent as they are in Paris or Rome. It’s a confident, humble metropolis. People are living the way they live.

A word about my life back in la patria. I stumbled across a few photos of the Juma crew, embarking on the retreat this past fall. My reaction: how can you beat it? True, I had basically no opportunity for time off between February and October – though when my sister’s health was in serious jeopardy in April and I rushed together my Master’s Project in May, the clouds managed to part just enough. But, like any place or group, it’s the people that make it stand out. In the year-plus since joining Juma, I’ve worked as hard as at any point in my life – but I see my time there as stretching out, not truncating, as we move quickly into Year Two.

......................................What you got on my COFFEE?

Buenos Aires: the rubber hits the road

Touched down just after sunrise, and after a little passport roulette, caught a taxi into town. I was surprised to find out it would be $40 American -- but then, I hadn't realized it was close to an hour into town. It was worth it to get to know the cabbie a bit, refresh my Spanish (it's Castellano here, and rightfully so, given the slurry accent I was exposed to in Andalucia, and according to Lonely Planet, Italy) and learn a few tidbits.

For instance, the baseball federation's not far from the airport -- frustrating, given that I've successfully arranged a full day's tour of the greater Sao Paolo hardball scene from the VP of the Brazilian "Confederation," but had no return contact from the porteños here -- and there's a rock concert going on this weekend outside of town. Also, that cab fare is arranged on an estimated $1 ($3 pesos) per km outside the city limits, but by meter in B.A. districto federal (much like Mexico D.F. or Washington, DC).

The Brazilian visa crisis is nearly averted; I wait here in one of B.A.'s thousands of internet - coffee - alcohol - lite meal cafes, having successfully given over my passport to the Brazilian consulate (I knew I should have brought the old one as backup!) and, once the bank down the street opens, I'll be free to pay the rather hefty tourist tariff, and hit the streets with my oh-so-American-abroad backpack (I ditched the "vacation" straw hat, but was clever enough to bring non-short, non-jean pants -- they pack a European's erudition, here) to finally grab the hotel.


Yes, I decided to pass on the hostel scene -- although my fantastic $19, four-star hotel got yoinked with an email saying "sorry, it should have been $109;" can you just reneg like that? And, how do you spell 'reneg?' Even Word only has 'reneged,' I suppose because if you knew someone was going to do it, present or future, you wouldn't have agreed...

Anyway, the hotel I wound up with is perfect (unseen, anyway): just off the Rio Plata, more of a bay/harbor that extends inland from the Atlantic, separating Argentina from Uruguay. It's a bit north of the tango-themed San Telmo, and from La Boca, an up-n-coming urban arts hub whose descriptions remind me of East Atlanta; and a little south of the famously cosmopolitan streets of Palermo, not to mention the legendary Consulado Braziliano.

At present I sit a few feet off the widest city street in the world, la Avenida 9 de Julio, pictured above. My precious Lonely guide tells me I'm right in line with the locals, sitting forever over an espresso and desayuno crudo, a generous and deliciously prepared bruscetta de jamon crudo (not nearly so dry as its Spanish counterpart.) However, the bank is open by now, and I've got some settlin' in to do.

It's a fine start, and I haven't even seen what I came to see -- which is lots of chic neighborhoods, otherwise I-don't-know-what.

I've got five days to learn Portugese.

P.S. -- For those curious about my itinerary, it's Buenos and environs through Sunday the first; Sao Paolo for two days and nights, mostly for the baseball thing; and Rio Wednesday through Friday. I'm back about midday Saturday.

Any travel tips more than welcome! Not only am I traveling solo, I have zero contacts here, save the business-y piece in Sao Paolo.

J.