I arrive in Buenos Aires this morning at 9:00, having managed maybe three hours of bad sleep in the 9-hour flight from Miami. Ezeiza Aeropuerto, despite being an international airport, is the size of a small regional airport in the US. I must have looked respectable (or else they already were looking at the luggage of enough people) for I am waved through customs.
First I must change $200 into Argentine money. I am nervous, because this is the first time I get to try out my limited Spanish. Thank heaven there is a one-to-one dollar-peso exchange rate: no annoying mental arithmetic converting back and forth. I survive my experience! Next a remis to my hotel, about $40. Again no problem with my Spanish. And the driver has some limited English. We make halting conversation.
We go North then curve toward the East under a cool, grey cloudy sky. The countryside is Spring green and no different than any rural area. It seems strange that "exotic" Argentina looks and feels so familiar.
I begin to see the city proper. There are a few suburbs that look modern, but further along I begin to see dozens of what look like housing projects. Except they are usually organized in one- or two-dozen story buildings, four around an inside play or social area. The taller buildings have covered walkways between towers a dozen stories from the ground. All very modern-looking in design, but the facades are worn, grey concrete.
Now we are heading directly East. I begin to see the true city. The buildings are mostly high-rise and appear to be very old. The streets I see from the elevated highway look very narrow. I get the impression of a city too-little cherished in the last decade or three. Everything looks like someone long too tired to take a bath or comb their hair.
Checkin at the Hotel Castelar is no problem. I get an English-speaking clerk when I ask for one in Spanish. (How often have I rehearsed this phrase!) I ask for a non-smoking room on the top floor. Away from the nicely done foyer, the Castelar continues the antiquity theme. The bathroom is small, everything is old, there is no medicine cabinet to stow toiletries, and the toilet requires you to hold down the flush button until it finally decides you really mean it to flush. There is no air-conditioning, just a noisy fan and a balcony window that you can leave open. The air is a bit humid. However, the non-smoking room is as advertised.
I open the window and look out. The tops of buildings show even less care than their fronts. The people, however, bely that overall impression. The economy may be depressed, but the people do not seem to be. This Sunday afternoon they are out in the streets, strolling, busy, seemingly happy and full of energy. They are all ages and sexes, casually but often very nicely dressed. Perhaps Paris was very like this a few years after WW2.
The bed is comfortable. After settling in I crash, leaving the window open for a cool, light breeze. When I wake at 3:00 in the afternoon I feel amazingly good. I clean up, dress, go downstairs, excited at my first free moments in Buenos Aires. I put my valuables in the safe at the lobby then go outside. There is sun coming through the clouds and the temperature is perfect. Just walking outside onto the sidewalk is thrilling. I am here!
Across the street is a little convenience store. I buy just a snack and a drink, though I am very hungry. I am eager to see the city. I go a half block East, walk North on Nueve de Julio. This street is so wide (20 or more lanes, a full city block in width) that it is like walking in a canyon. The cool breeze rushes down 9 de Julio, ruffles my hair, bathes my face, just as it would in a desert canyon.
Four blocks North I come to Corrientes, a major East-West street, several blocks wide. There at the intersection with 9 de Julio is the Obelisco, seemingly just like the one in Washington, DC. I cross 9 de Julio, go a block further East, then a half-block South. There is the Confiteria Ideal tucked into one of the narrow streets, very old, like something out of the 1930s or earlier.
On the second floor there is a matinee milonga going on. I pay my 5 pesos, am escorted with some ceremony to a tiny round table already in use by another man. I order a bottled water from a waiter, leave my shopping bag with a couple of magazines and the truly excellent "Lonely Planet" tourist guide in my chair. I stand near the table but back behind everyone else. They are all sitting, so I feel a little awkward, but I can see the room.
The floor is granite, the dancers mostly casually dressed, so I in my tennis shoes am not too out-of-place. Anyway, the tennies are clean and a bit costly, never a bad fashion statement, and my clothes are nice if casual - like a lot of people here. The crowd is mostly my age (50ish) or older. Several young women are here but only a couple of young men. They do not seem to be zeroed in on their age group. They dance with everyone.
Everyone smokes, but if you sit down (rather than stand as I did) the high ceiling and the numerous fans protect you from most of it. There is no airconditioning but the temp is not too bad. The place is well lit. This makes dance invitation and response with the eyes easier, but not easy. A woman may have her head turned square on to me, but often when I look closely I see she is not looking at me.
Nevertheless, I take some chances and have some good dances. Like everyone else I do simple things, only an occasional barrida or gancho. I follow the line-of-dance, but once when I forget myself and stay in one spot more than a few seconds I get a firm but gentle nudge in the middle of my back. The music is traditional, clear but only once or twice with a strong beat. Embraces are middle distance, few very close ones, none far out. Lots of molinetes. I get fancy a time or two with some footsweeps; I have seen others do them and this partner is nicely on her balance. Later I get a very nice compliment: La musica es el primera para voz. By now I am feeling a bit bold, I reply No, la mujer is el primera para mi.
By now I am really hungry. It is 8:00 pm. I thank each woman I danced with (except one who is on the floor), kiss the hand of one who asked me to dance after I had spent a tanda with her. I go to the Galleria Pacifica a few blocks to the North-East, at the edge of the ritzy part of downtown Buenos Aires. No mall in America could better it, and the architecture is old but gorgeous, perfectly kept, beautiful. I eat a pizza, window shop a bit, watch the crowd.
When the mall closes at 9:00 I discover a queue of taxis right outside. Every one is orange-over-black. I take a $3 taxi drive back to the Castelar. I notice that every third automobile is a taxi. I have heard that there are 50,000 taxis in Buenos Aires; I can believe it. I also notice that the canyon-like street 9 de Julio is gorgeous with the lights, the signs of age and lack of care invisible.
I buy a copy of the magazine "B.A. Tango" from one of the frequent newstands, this one in front of the Castelar. I also drop in to a locutorio next to the newstand to get email. In my room I study the locations of Sunday milongas posted in "B.A. Tango," marking them on my street map, then transferring that to the easier-to-use maps in the "Lonely Planet" tourist guide. By the time I finish, it is clear I can not go anywhere tonight. I leave the window open, leave the comfortingly noisy fan on, and go instantly asleep.
Day 2
