A quick note on a Subte phenomenon here:
Buenos Aires subway cars get very crowded, probably more crowded than anything I've experienced on public transportation. But I have been on a lot of buses and a lot of trains, in a lot of cities, and I've never experienced this: when it's crowded here, some people LEAN. I mean, they really lean, letting all their weight rest against me. If I could suddenly dart away, out from under their body, they might fall to the ground.
Oddest of all to me, they seem to think nothing's odd about it. I squirm and try to poke them with my shoulder blades and even turn to look at them, and they pay no attention.
I've had it happen three times, have seen it done to someone else, and have talked to others here who've experienced it, so I think this is a bona fide phenomenon. Both women and men have leaned and been leaned on. Sometimes big people lean on little people! And the leaners all appear to be perfectly able-bodied people who can actually hold themselves up if forced to do so (e.g., when the car gets emptier).
I've been tempted to say, "¡Señor(a), no soy un muro!" (I am not a wall!) and have been told that this would be an appropriate thing to say. I've been too chicken to try it, though.
This behavior is annoying, sure, but it's also baffling. It seems like a very strange thing to do.
Does this happen anywhere else?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Grapes, poplars, and peaks: long weekend in Mendoza
This time, we said, we were going to get the bus seats that lie all the way flat. No more of this partial-angle stuff for us. For the 14-hour trip to Mendoza, we were going to sleep at least half the time.
Oops. Otra manera de viajar indeed. We got seats called "cama" (bed) that were not in fact flat, then spent a good chunk of our time in Mendoza trying to fix that for the return trip -- quite a Spanish challenge. Still, by most measures, the trip was comfortable.
The critical difference
And inspired by our friends Blake and Rebecca, we got the seats up top and in front, with a window all the way across. (This proved a little harrowing on the way back when it turned out that the other bus company shaves an hour off its trip time by having its drivers stay in the passing lane, but that's another story.)
View from the front-row seats
Mendoza is the city at the center of Argentina's wine country, and people in Buenos Aires have told me it is "very clean." Porteños don't quite seem to mean it as a compliment, but it's true, and we found it extremely pleasant. The city's streets are wide, and more importantly to me, so are the sidewalks. (Buenos Aires has lots and lots of pedestrians, which is great, but most of the sidewalks are very narrow, and stepping into the street is a dangerous choice to make.) Best of all, the streets are lined with tall beautiful trees, mostly plane trees.
To us, Mendoza had some of the bustle of a city (except at siesta time, which they seem to take very seriously -- stores close from 1 pm to either 4 or 5!) and also enough room to stroll.
Mendocinos also take Sundays seriously. Most other days I probably couldn't have stood in the intersection to take this photo.
The city is extremely planned in a way that really works -- it doesn't feel fake, but again, very pleasant. It was more or less leveled by an earthquake in 1861, and was rebuilt with stronger buildings, wide streets and sidewalks, and many sizable plazas to provide places for people to go in an earthquake. It has many lovely old buildings, too, like this bank with an Argentine flag draped casually across its front.
We seem not to have taken any photos of this, but Mendoza has a very interesting system of waterways alongside the sidewalks, very much like in parts of Salt Lake City and other areas of Utah. These waterways are part of an ancient, pre-Spanish irrigation system that brings water from the snowmelt of the nearby Andes to Mendoza, allowing trees to grow in a place that would otherwise be far too dry.
Taking advantage of the pedestrian- and cyclist-friendly ethos of the town, we woke up early our second day to do a bike tour among wineries. And fortunately, after a grey and cold first day there, the sun came out.
Separated bike lanes
This was probably our favorite part of the whole visit -- cycling down poplar-lined streets
As we biked through Maipú from one winery to another, I looked up at the poplars and saw what I thought were enormous raptor nests. But no, there was an unmistakable noise emanating from them that no raptor would make: squawking. Instead, the nests were giant communal parrot apartments!
For our whole visit, with the fog and sun and dry air and wine and so on, Mendoza reminded us powerfully of California -- but the parrots and their nests reminded us that no, we're on the other side of the world.
Parrots in the poplars!
The wineries, and the Museo del Vino, had lots of cool old machines for us to inspect.
A bottle washer
Some slightly horrifying old wine containers... this section was from the 1500s, they said. Maybe just replicas, not sure. Next to these containers was an ENORMOUS hide stretched across a frame, from which wine would drain from some sort of probably natural hole in the hide -- it seemed too big to be a cow, but what else could it be? Perhaps were there Spanish elephant tamers and winemakers? Mysterious.
Planes -- a picture pretty much entirely for my dad
Grapes being picked over at a very small winery
The leavings of a bigger winery -- skin, seeds, and stems -- crushed and remarkably dry
And of course we sampled the wares. Yum.
We also visited an olive orchard and oil-making company.
A pity you can't pick them and eat them -- don't they look good?
We think this was used to create olive oil -- now it's more of a landscaping feature -- can't see anyone wanting to move it.
An old machine to smash the olives -- don't let our guide's strong thumb fool you -- they're heavy!
The somewhat more modern olive-smashing machinery
And oil refining technology
All these machines add up to some very nice products:
One of the best veggie lasagnas I've ever had -- light like quiche
But Mendoza is not only known for wine. And olive oil. And good food. It is also known for being near Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere (at 6962 meters or 22,840 feet). Aconcagua is a very serious thing to undertake climbing, but we took a little tour up into the surrounding mountains with a bunch of vacationing Argentines (which made for great Spanish practice).
The reservoir that holds Mendoza's drinking water
En route, we visited a little bridge at Picheuta built in 1770 along part of the Inca Trail. Here, in 1817, General San Martin and his men fought the first battle against the Spanish. We think.
A plaque dedicated to the General in a park back in Mendoza -- rub the Liberator's nose for good luck!
The Upsallata Valley is beautiful and incredibly dry, with rock that is colored red and white and yellow and purple -- clear indications of its volcanic origins. Sometimes it reminded us of Haleakala, sometimes Utah.
Seven Years in Tibet was filmed here, and it makes sense. Many parts were reminiscent of Ladakh -- especially when driving up and down this rather hairy switchback-y road.
I find these sorts of trips less alarming after India... but still kind of alarming
This twisting road leads to the border with Chile, and before that, to a big statue of "Cristo Redentor" that has a twin in Chile; Argentina and Chile erected them to celebrate having ironed out a border dispute. One would think there would be a lot more than two of these.
The statue wasn't too interesting, but the views were. It was very cold, too, as we were (suddenly) at 12,000 feet!
We descended from this high point to visit the Puente del Inca, a brightly colored natural bridge, site of a hot spring and an abandoned hotel.
Puente del Inca
Apparently the Puente, or bridge, formed from seepage from the spring -- largely sulfur, as you can see -- and the river eroded it away beneath. They say the Incas used this bridge to cross the river and may also have used the water for its curative powers.
It was incredibly cold here, with a howling wind. The hot springs, though off-limits now, seemed quite inviting. Then again, it wasn't a big surprise that after a rock slide, the hotel had been abandoned.
Many people here were selling Andean crafts -- llama sweaters and hats and so on -- and we felt as if we had suddenly crossed into a whole different region, one more like Peru or Ecuador than Mendoza or Buenos Aires. Our driver even had coca tea at lunch -- another northern Andean touch.
Coca leaves -- to aid the digestion at altitude, we were told
Our lunch stop was a bit of a change from the wonders of Mendoza cuisine. The offerings were strikingly ample and strikingly monochromatic.
Yup, those are mashed potatoes on the rice. And they were good.
You can't see Aconcagua very well here but we are clearly shorter than it is
We stopped at a view of the second-highest peak, Tupungato, which our guide said was 6,800 meters but Wikipedia says is a mere 6,570 meters, or about 21,500 feet. Its name means mirador de estrellas, or loosely translated, Star View.
A better view of Tupungato
An appealing sentiment
And we got to see mighty Aconcagua. (Sentinel of Stone)
The tallest mountain outside of Asia
After more walks, more wine tastings, and more chats with the friendly staff of our hostel -- a real high point for my Spanish practice (although I'm convinced that it's their company policy to tell everyone their Spanish is good) -- we left Mendoza on another night bus. This time it was in seats as flat as they go, hooray!
And now we're settling back into life in Buenos Aires -- starting with a morning cup of mate.
(Post by Elizabeth)
Oops. Otra manera de viajar indeed. We got seats called "cama" (bed) that were not in fact flat, then spent a good chunk of our time in Mendoza trying to fix that for the return trip -- quite a Spanish challenge. Still, by most measures, the trip was comfortable.
The critical difference
And inspired by our friends Blake and Rebecca, we got the seats up top and in front, with a window all the way across. (This proved a little harrowing on the way back when it turned out that the other bus company shaves an hour off its trip time by having its drivers stay in the passing lane, but that's another story.)
View from the front-row seats
Mendoza is the city at the center of Argentina's wine country, and people in Buenos Aires have told me it is "very clean." Porteños don't quite seem to mean it as a compliment, but it's true, and we found it extremely pleasant. The city's streets are wide, and more importantly to me, so are the sidewalks. (Buenos Aires has lots and lots of pedestrians, which is great, but most of the sidewalks are very narrow, and stepping into the street is a dangerous choice to make.) Best of all, the streets are lined with tall beautiful trees, mostly plane trees.
To us, Mendoza had some of the bustle of a city (except at siesta time, which they seem to take very seriously -- stores close from 1 pm to either 4 or 5!) and also enough room to stroll.
Mendocinos also take Sundays seriously. Most other days I probably couldn't have stood in the intersection to take this photo.
The city is extremely planned in a way that really works -- it doesn't feel fake, but again, very pleasant. It was more or less leveled by an earthquake in 1861, and was rebuilt with stronger buildings, wide streets and sidewalks, and many sizable plazas to provide places for people to go in an earthquake. It has many lovely old buildings, too, like this bank with an Argentine flag draped casually across its front.
We seem not to have taken any photos of this, but Mendoza has a very interesting system of waterways alongside the sidewalks, very much like in parts of Salt Lake City and other areas of Utah. These waterways are part of an ancient, pre-Spanish irrigation system that brings water from the snowmelt of the nearby Andes to Mendoza, allowing trees to grow in a place that would otherwise be far too dry.
Taking advantage of the pedestrian- and cyclist-friendly ethos of the town, we woke up early our second day to do a bike tour among wineries. And fortunately, after a grey and cold first day there, the sun came out.
Separated bike lanes
This was probably our favorite part of the whole visit -- cycling down poplar-lined streets
As we biked through Maipú from one winery to another, I looked up at the poplars and saw what I thought were enormous raptor nests. But no, there was an unmistakable noise emanating from them that no raptor would make: squawking. Instead, the nests were giant communal parrot apartments!
For our whole visit, with the fog and sun and dry air and wine and so on, Mendoza reminded us powerfully of California -- but the parrots and their nests reminded us that no, we're on the other side of the world.
Parrots in the poplars!
The wineries, and the Museo del Vino, had lots of cool old machines for us to inspect.
A bottle washer
Some slightly horrifying old wine containers... this section was from the 1500s, they said. Maybe just replicas, not sure. Next to these containers was an ENORMOUS hide stretched across a frame, from which wine would drain from some sort of probably natural hole in the hide -- it seemed too big to be a cow, but what else could it be? Perhaps were there Spanish elephant tamers and winemakers? Mysterious.
Planes -- a picture pretty much entirely for my dad
Grapes being picked over at a very small winery
The leavings of a bigger winery -- skin, seeds, and stems -- crushed and remarkably dry
And of course we sampled the wares. Yum.
We also visited an olive orchard and oil-making company.
A pity you can't pick them and eat them -- don't they look good?
We think this was used to create olive oil -- now it's more of a landscaping feature -- can't see anyone wanting to move it.
An old machine to smash the olives -- don't let our guide's strong thumb fool you -- they're heavy!
The somewhat more modern olive-smashing machinery
And oil refining technology
All these machines add up to some very nice products:
One of the best veggie lasagnas I've ever had -- light like quiche
But Mendoza is not only known for wine. And olive oil. And good food. It is also known for being near Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere (at 6962 meters or 22,840 feet). Aconcagua is a very serious thing to undertake climbing, but we took a little tour up into the surrounding mountains with a bunch of vacationing Argentines (which made for great Spanish practice).
The reservoir that holds Mendoza's drinking water
En route, we visited a little bridge at Picheuta built in 1770 along part of the Inca Trail. Here, in 1817, General San Martin and his men fought the first battle against the Spanish. We think.
A plaque dedicated to the General in a park back in Mendoza -- rub the Liberator's nose for good luck!
The Upsallata Valley is beautiful and incredibly dry, with rock that is colored red and white and yellow and purple -- clear indications of its volcanic origins. Sometimes it reminded us of Haleakala, sometimes Utah.
Seven Years in Tibet was filmed here, and it makes sense. Many parts were reminiscent of Ladakh -- especially when driving up and down this rather hairy switchback-y road.
I find these sorts of trips less alarming after India... but still kind of alarming
This twisting road leads to the border with Chile, and before that, to a big statue of "Cristo Redentor" that has a twin in Chile; Argentina and Chile erected them to celebrate having ironed out a border dispute. One would think there would be a lot more than two of these.
The statue wasn't too interesting, but the views were. It was very cold, too, as we were (suddenly) at 12,000 feet!
We descended from this high point to visit the Puente del Inca, a brightly colored natural bridge, site of a hot spring and an abandoned hotel.
Puente del Inca
Apparently the Puente, or bridge, formed from seepage from the spring -- largely sulfur, as you can see -- and the river eroded it away beneath. They say the Incas used this bridge to cross the river and may also have used the water for its curative powers.
It was incredibly cold here, with a howling wind. The hot springs, though off-limits now, seemed quite inviting. Then again, it wasn't a big surprise that after a rock slide, the hotel had been abandoned.
Many people here were selling Andean crafts -- llama sweaters and hats and so on -- and we felt as if we had suddenly crossed into a whole different region, one more like Peru or Ecuador than Mendoza or Buenos Aires. Our driver even had coca tea at lunch -- another northern Andean touch.
Coca leaves -- to aid the digestion at altitude, we were told
Our lunch stop was a bit of a change from the wonders of Mendoza cuisine. The offerings were strikingly ample and strikingly monochromatic.
Yup, those are mashed potatoes on the rice. And they were good.
You can't see Aconcagua very well here but we are clearly shorter than it is
We stopped at a view of the second-highest peak, Tupungato, which our guide said was 6,800 meters but Wikipedia says is a mere 6,570 meters, or about 21,500 feet. Its name means mirador de estrellas, or loosely translated, Star View.
A better view of Tupungato
An appealing sentiment
And we got to see mighty Aconcagua. (Sentinel of Stone)
The tallest mountain outside of Asia
After more walks, more wine tastings, and more chats with the friendly staff of our hostel -- a real high point for my Spanish practice (although I'm convinced that it's their company policy to tell everyone their Spanish is good) -- we left Mendoza on another night bus. This time it was in seats as flat as they go, hooray!
And now we're settling back into life in Buenos Aires -- starting with a morning cup of mate.
(Post by Elizabeth)
Monday, April 19, 2010
Post-modern labyrinth
We have finally had our first run-in with Argentinean bureaucracy.
I mean, sure, we've been to the panaderias where you buy first, wait for them to heat up your treats (if they're empanadas), then go over to the grouchy bored man in the corner to pay. Don't pay the pastry ladies. Even if you like them better than the grumpy guy.
And we've been to the heladerias where after you elbow your way up through the scrum you're informed you have to go to the register first and pay and then come back even though maybe you don't quite know what you want yet. Just assume you want a big cone and decide how to fill it later. Now you want sprinkles? Too bad. Next time plan ahead.
But that's all pretty small scale. It took a visit to the post office to get the full-value experience.
A week or two ago, Marty's mom kindly sent us a box of things we'd packed in the winter for a long-term Buenos Aires stay. (Thank you, Mary!) It arrived surprisingly rapidly. But then things got a little complicated.
The postman does not bring the package; he brings a notice about where you have to pick it up. I can understand this; he travels by foot and I don't think he could carry our box for blocks, much less anyone else's packages.
But later the same day, we got another notice. The two notices had the same tracking number but two entirely different addresses.
There were varying opinions on how to deal with this. People seemed to think we'd have to go to both, until we pointed out it was all one package, so it must be at one place. Seems logical, no? So we decided to go to the address on the notice that arrived later. It was also closer -- more or less walking distance. ¡Que buena! We left three hours before our Spanish class, so it seemed safe.
We entered the big Correo building and dutifully took a number. But no, said the woman at the entrance, we had to go to the other address. No, wait, we said, same tracking number! Ah, I see, she said. OK, go around the corner. Window 18.
We left and went around the corner. Nothing corresponded to the address on the notice. We walked a couple of blocks, then retraced our steps. We entered the only post-office-like place on the block -- which did not have the address identified on the notice -- and sure enough, that was it! Window 18? Step right over there. (There were no Ventanillas 1-17, but who are we to quibble? Ventanilla 18 was clearly labeled.)
This was all proceeding swimmingly. There wasn't even a line at the window! But then the friendly guy at Window 18 told us that no, after all, we had to go to the other address. "But same tracking number, and this notice came later!" This time, my magic incantation did not work. Sorry, he shrugged, it's over there. And, um, be prepared for it to take a while.
Hm. Well, fortunately, we had brought our trusty Guia (whose rather Byzantine method of bus-route-mapping, and the whole system of the buses, are probably worth their own post). So after much peering at the guide and flipping back and forth between pages and checking for correct change, we determined which bus to catch, crossed the 10 or so lanes of traffic, caught a bus to the Retiro bus station and found the large yellow edifice we'd been told to look for.
As we approached, we saw that a lot of people were loitering around the stairs. Well, maybe they're smoking. And some waiting is surely in order. Then we saw that inside, people were more or less smashed up against the glass doors like they were on the rush-hour Subte.
Marty took a deep breath, dived in, grabbed a number, and we retreated outside to the stairs. We went back to check what number they were on. 71. OK. We had 33. Oof. So we waited.
Sooner than I'd expected, the numbers passed 0 and started inching up toward ours. I went in and did my best intrepid-traveler-jostling-for-the-front-of-the-line impression. Because it seemed that even when people went up with the correct number, lots of other people went up to the counter and called things out and gesticulated and needed to be taken care of too.
So with my Vietnam-honed skills, I was right in the perfect position when 33 was called. I stepped up, brandished my number and notice, and my passport too (I'd been warned we'd need that). I was prepared.
The woman started to take my papers and read my notice, but a small man zoomed in at my left. Oddly, he too was brandishing number 33. I laughed at the typo. "C," he said, puzzingly. And then the woman was pushing back my papers. Sure, he could go first; I was prepared to be magnanimous. "Then I go, after him?" No, they said. This is the thing. He had number 33C. I had number 33D.
"You have to wait for 100 more numbers," they told me together.
Whoa. I retreated, shoulders slumped, and explained it to Marty. We went back outside and waited for another half-hour, then thought to ask someone how long the second stage would take. Because yes, after this wait, there was another, in another room, with another number, and what Marty called a loudspeaker announcer "speaking Burger King" that I suspect even for fluent Spanish speakers is tough to understand.
When the guy told us it would take half again as long in the other room, we left. We just barely made it back in time for our lesson. No box for us. I had to content myself with being pleased with our relatively successful use of the bus guide.
Marty, pobrecito, went back the next day, as I had to go to the yoga studio. He will have to continue the tale.
***
Day 2 -- The Rematch
We think Borges wrote about labyrinths because Buenos Aires is a labyrinth. I returned to Retiro via Subte, navigating a number of train transfers -- some planned, others not -- and once again hurried to wait.
The first hour went well enough and eventually I made it to the front of my line, signed a paper, and watched as my paper was literally pulled through a hole in the ceiling via dumbwaiter. It's one of the marvels of the digital age that one can talk over Skype with someone in Moscow for free or download copies of the Koran to your cell-phone and yet still have shipping managed in the fashion of the 19th century.
Then I went to the other room, where I sat another two hours trying to make sense of the utterances (not to be confused with real words) emanating from the speaker cone at the center of the room. Most of the time it sounded like a cross between a loud, dangerous sporting event and a construction site. (Einstürzende Neubauten playing the running of the bulls at Pamploma might be a stretch, but maybe you get the picture.)
In time I gave up trying to parse six separate Spanish numerals and simply focused on the final two. If I could hear anything remotely like "cuarento y dos" I'd be in luck. An eternity later I heard what could pass as "something-something-something-something-something-OH,"(sure, that might be it, they do drop the "s" sound a lot). So I made my way behind a secret blue door with a re-purposed subway turnstile and stood in another line.
Ticket in hand, I presented myself to the nearest postal operative and to my surprise, received a familiar brown box, the same box we'd packed four months back in Southern Caifornia. The woman behind the counter sliced through the label reading, "Possessions of Americans living in Buenos Aires," took a cursory look at the contents -- mostly shoes were visible from the top -- looked at me rather oddly, and sent me on my way.
Seven hours (spread over two days) and several kilometers of bus and train travel later I'm relaxing comfortably in a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt that doesn't look like a fuzzy dish towel. Still a little bemused, but grateful. Phew.
I mean, sure, we've been to the panaderias where you buy first, wait for them to heat up your treats (if they're empanadas), then go over to the grouchy bored man in the corner to pay. Don't pay the pastry ladies. Even if you like them better than the grumpy guy.
And we've been to the heladerias where after you elbow your way up through the scrum you're informed you have to go to the register first and pay and then come back even though maybe you don't quite know what you want yet. Just assume you want a big cone and decide how to fill it later. Now you want sprinkles? Too bad. Next time plan ahead.
But that's all pretty small scale. It took a visit to the post office to get the full-value experience.
A week or two ago, Marty's mom kindly sent us a box of things we'd packed in the winter for a long-term Buenos Aires stay. (Thank you, Mary!) It arrived surprisingly rapidly. But then things got a little complicated.
The postman does not bring the package; he brings a notice about where you have to pick it up. I can understand this; he travels by foot and I don't think he could carry our box for blocks, much less anyone else's packages.
But later the same day, we got another notice. The two notices had the same tracking number but two entirely different addresses.
There were varying opinions on how to deal with this. People seemed to think we'd have to go to both, until we pointed out it was all one package, so it must be at one place. Seems logical, no? So we decided to go to the address on the notice that arrived later. It was also closer -- more or less walking distance. ¡Que buena! We left three hours before our Spanish class, so it seemed safe.
We entered the big Correo building and dutifully took a number. But no, said the woman at the entrance, we had to go to the other address. No, wait, we said, same tracking number! Ah, I see, she said. OK, go around the corner. Window 18.
We left and went around the corner. Nothing corresponded to the address on the notice. We walked a couple of blocks, then retraced our steps. We entered the only post-office-like place on the block -- which did not have the address identified on the notice -- and sure enough, that was it! Window 18? Step right over there. (There were no Ventanillas 1-17, but who are we to quibble? Ventanilla 18 was clearly labeled.)
This was all proceeding swimmingly. There wasn't even a line at the window! But then the friendly guy at Window 18 told us that no, after all, we had to go to the other address. "But same tracking number, and this notice came later!" This time, my magic incantation did not work. Sorry, he shrugged, it's over there. And, um, be prepared for it to take a while.
Hm. Well, fortunately, we had brought our trusty Guia (whose rather Byzantine method of bus-route-mapping, and the whole system of the buses, are probably worth their own post). So after much peering at the guide and flipping back and forth between pages and checking for correct change, we determined which bus to catch, crossed the 10 or so lanes of traffic, caught a bus to the Retiro bus station and found the large yellow edifice we'd been told to look for.
As we approached, we saw that a lot of people were loitering around the stairs. Well, maybe they're smoking. And some waiting is surely in order. Then we saw that inside, people were more or less smashed up against the glass doors like they were on the rush-hour Subte.
Marty took a deep breath, dived in, grabbed a number, and we retreated outside to the stairs. We went back to check what number they were on. 71. OK. We had 33. Oof. So we waited.
Sooner than I'd expected, the numbers passed 0 and started inching up toward ours. I went in and did my best intrepid-traveler-jostling-for-the-front-of-the-line impression. Because it seemed that even when people went up with the correct number, lots of other people went up to the counter and called things out and gesticulated and needed to be taken care of too.
So with my Vietnam-honed skills, I was right in the perfect position when 33 was called. I stepped up, brandished my number and notice, and my passport too (I'd been warned we'd need that). I was prepared.
The woman started to take my papers and read my notice, but a small man zoomed in at my left. Oddly, he too was brandishing number 33. I laughed at the typo. "C," he said, puzzingly. And then the woman was pushing back my papers. Sure, he could go first; I was prepared to be magnanimous. "Then I go, after him?" No, they said. This is the thing. He had number 33C. I had number 33D.
"You have to wait for 100 more numbers," they told me together.
Whoa. I retreated, shoulders slumped, and explained it to Marty. We went back outside and waited for another half-hour, then thought to ask someone how long the second stage would take. Because yes, after this wait, there was another, in another room, with another number, and what Marty called a loudspeaker announcer "speaking Burger King" that I suspect even for fluent Spanish speakers is tough to understand.
When the guy told us it would take half again as long in the other room, we left. We just barely made it back in time for our lesson. No box for us. I had to content myself with being pleased with our relatively successful use of the bus guide.
Marty, pobrecito, went back the next day, as I had to go to the yoga studio. He will have to continue the tale.
***
Day 2 -- The Rematch
We think Borges wrote about labyrinths because Buenos Aires is a labyrinth. I returned to Retiro via Subte, navigating a number of train transfers -- some planned, others not -- and once again hurried to wait.
The first hour went well enough and eventually I made it to the front of my line, signed a paper, and watched as my paper was literally pulled through a hole in the ceiling via dumbwaiter. It's one of the marvels of the digital age that one can talk over Skype with someone in Moscow for free or download copies of the Koran to your cell-phone and yet still have shipping managed in the fashion of the 19th century.
Then I went to the other room, where I sat another two hours trying to make sense of the utterances (not to be confused with real words) emanating from the speaker cone at the center of the room. Most of the time it sounded like a cross between a loud, dangerous sporting event and a construction site. (Einstürzende Neubauten playing the running of the bulls at Pamploma might be a stretch, but maybe you get the picture.)
In time I gave up trying to parse six separate Spanish numerals and simply focused on the final two. If I could hear anything remotely like "cuarento y dos" I'd be in luck. An eternity later I heard what could pass as "something-something-something-something-something-OH,"(sure, that might be it, they do drop the "s" sound a lot). So I made my way behind a secret blue door with a re-purposed subway turnstile and stood in another line.
Ticket in hand, I presented myself to the nearest postal operative and to my surprise, received a familiar brown box, the same box we'd packed four months back in Southern Caifornia. The woman behind the counter sliced through the label reading, "Possessions of Americans living in Buenos Aires," took a cursory look at the contents -- mostly shoes were visible from the top -- looked at me rather oddly, and sent me on my way.
Seven hours (spread over two days) and several kilometers of bus and train travel later I'm relaxing comfortably in a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt that doesn't look like a fuzzy dish towel. Still a little bemused, but grateful. Phew.
Friday, April 9, 2010
No mate left behind
Cuando estudio sin mate estoy frustrado.
¿Porque no?
Cuando estudio con mate estoy tranquilo.
***
Another week of Spanish classes has come and gone. I dissected sentences, conjugated even more past tenses (there are several... sigh) and I got my head around a wide variety of pronouns. Not the most stimulating of topics, to say the least. In truth, it's just been plain difficult for me.
But midweek, Patricio (mi profesor) and I got on the topic of mate, and things began to pick up.
For some reason there's been a sudden inflation in the price of ground coffee in Buenos Aires and our wallets are feeling the pinch. In weeks past a 500-gram bag of coffee without sugar cost around 21 pesos, but all of a sudden the price leapt to over 30. ¿Porque? No one we've asked seems to know. If you can stomach coffee pre-packaged with 10% sugar, as it's normally sold here, the price has stayed even at around 11 pesos. Commodity dumping? We have no idea.
Anyhow, Patricio hipped me to all things mateada -- the ritual of mate -- from types of yerba (con palo versus sin palo (with or without twigs)) to how to heat the water (caliente, pero no hervida). As in any worthwhile ritual, there are many rules.
So now our class moves along briskly and Spanish is making more sense than before. Assimilation or simply caffeination? (Pardon me, mateination)
Whatever it is, I'm going with it.
¿Porque no?
Cuando estudio con mate estoy tranquilo.
***
Another week of Spanish classes has come and gone. I dissected sentences, conjugated even more past tenses (there are several... sigh) and I got my head around a wide variety of pronouns. Not the most stimulating of topics, to say the least. In truth, it's just been plain difficult for me.
But midweek, Patricio (mi profesor) and I got on the topic of mate, and things began to pick up.
For some reason there's been a sudden inflation in the price of ground coffee in Buenos Aires and our wallets are feeling the pinch. In weeks past a 500-gram bag of coffee without sugar cost around 21 pesos, but all of a sudden the price leapt to over 30. ¿Porque? No one we've asked seems to know. If you can stomach coffee pre-packaged with 10% sugar, as it's normally sold here, the price has stayed even at around 11 pesos. Commodity dumping? We have no idea.
Anyhow, Patricio hipped me to all things mateada -- the ritual of mate -- from types of yerba (con palo versus sin palo (with or without twigs)) to how to heat the water (caliente, pero no hervida). As in any worthwhile ritual, there are many rules.
So now our class moves along briskly and Spanish is making more sense than before. Assimilation or simply caffeination? (Pardon me, mateination)
Whatever it is, I'm going with it.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The penny drops
While walking back to our apartment tonight I suddenly realized why the hotel across the street, though in a beautiful old building, with a perfectly new-looking sign, never seems to be open during the day. All the shutters on the windows are pulled down.
But at night, on some of the rooms, they're up partway, and the reception area's open.
This all clicked as I glanced over and saw an older man standing in the tiny lobby waiting for a younger woman to make a transaction at the reception desk.
Ohhhh. It's a "telo."
The word is "hotel" backwards and in lunfardo, the Buenos Aires argot, it means, as I saw it rather nicely described somewhere, a "pay-per-hour love motel."
I may confirm my suspicions with the guys next door, who man the parking garage at most hours of the day and night. But I'm not sure I need to. After all, it's above "Eden," the "international club," whose sign displays a woman proffering an apple.
And here, in another rather fancy hotel nearby (see comment below), is the shower -- oddly set up so you can see in from the bedroom. Hmmm.
But at night, on some of the rooms, they're up partway, and the reception area's open.
This all clicked as I glanced over and saw an older man standing in the tiny lobby waiting for a younger woman to make a transaction at the reception desk.
Ohhhh. It's a "telo."
The word is "hotel" backwards and in lunfardo, the Buenos Aires argot, it means, as I saw it rather nicely described somewhere, a "pay-per-hour love motel."
I may confirm my suspicions with the guys next door, who man the parking garage at most hours of the day and night. But I'm not sure I need to. After all, it's above "Eden," the "international club," whose sign displays a woman proffering an apple.
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