ElectricLawyer

Montevideo: obscure and likely to remain so

On Sunday the 17th we pack up our stuff, get our deposit back (after politely informing the owner of some of the problems in her apartment), and take a cab to the Buquebus terminal. Buquebus operates a combined ferry/bus system to various parts of Argentina and Uruguay. Our contact with it on this trip was very favorable. Modern stock, good service.

A one-hour ferry ride and a two and one-half hour bus ride gets us to Montevideo. We had made reservations at the Hotel Palacio, a well-located two-star hotel. The room is old-fashioned but very clean, and at $20 a night, we have nothing to complain about. The location is half a block from the pedestrian-only street (Peotonal Sarandí, that goes into the Ciudad Vieja. Dinner at the corner restaurant, Don Peperone.

First impression of the Uruguyans: the women are plumper. Pretty much gone are the “top-heavy stick figures” the Frommer’s author describes, which is unkind but accurate. These women are shorter, darker, plumper, much less stylish. I feel more comfortable here. Not much sign of the plastic surgeon’s knife here, either. Older women are not as scary-looking.

Every other man and many of the women are drinking mate, carrying a thermos of hot water under one arm, and a gourd full of yerba in the other, sipping as they walk and sit. They must be the best-hydrated people on earth.

The first thing we notice is the much slower pace, compared to B.A. Granted Monte’s not nearly as big, but it’s still got two million people. It just doesn’t feel like it. Hard to put one’s finger on the reason, but we’re not the first people to notice it. Everyone’s who’s been to both cities says so.

Information about the city and its attractions is hard to come by.  Montevideo’s charms, whatever they may be, are not going to be easy to discover.

Milonga eyes

Last night we finally dared to go to a milonga. I should clarify: I finally dared. B. would go to the gates of Hell if it advertised dancing.

I was intimidated by the description of the milongas, the tango dances as opposed to the shows aimed at tourists, by the description in the Frommer’s guide. I have since concluded that Frommer’s is written by wimps.

At 9:00 we arrive at the Salón Canning (Scalabrini Ortíz 1331, in Palermo). As described in the guide, the dance hall is at the end of a long corridor. After paying our AR $20, we are led by a waiter into a very large room, tables and chairs encircling a large wooden dance floor, said to be the best dance surface in Buenos Aires, and seated among other couples and singles. It is true as the guide says that men and women who arrive separately (or mostly in pairs) seat opposite each other, but that is by choice, in order to see each other’s faces.

Because this is how to see milonga eyes. Men and women invite each other by looks, sometimes accompanied by slight gestures. Then two people just rise and approach each other, sometimes without a word having been spoken. It is a most civilized way of inviting another, no embarrassment at being turned down, and the woman can initiate the look just as well.

The crowd was middle-aged, with some elderly people. Women outnumbered men, and there were maybe eight or so couples. The men were dressed very casually – no shorts, of course – but plenty of jeans. The women were more dressed up, some in the beautiful street-length flowing tango dresses, others in harem-style pants, some just in cropped or full length pants. Every woman had on the gorgeous tango shoes, some silver and gold. The shoes are very important. It is said that a man will dance with an old woman or a fat one, if her shoes are good, because they are a sign that she dances well. Seemed true. Most of the men also had on tango shoes, but they are more discreet.

I wondered how women could walk over the horrible pavement in those shoes, and the answer is that they don’t. They bring them in bags, and put them on before starting to dance.

The atmosphere was not at all intimidating. Even though everyone there danced very well, they paid no attention whatever to us. We worked on a simple series of steps, and did not feel like total fools.

We stayed until 11 and then moved on to dinner at the Plaza Sorreno in Palermo SOHO, a very trendy and young area. At midnight the sidewalk bar scene was going full-force, and we had no trouble finding a place to eat, but it was an indifferent meal, and I would not recommend the area except to those 30 and under.

At about 1 a.m. we decide to walk over to La Viruta Tango (Armenia 1346, Palermo), which doesn’t even start until midnight. It’s in the old Armenian district, and this was clearly the place to eat. We passed several very nice looking restaurants.

The dance is held in the basement of the Armenian Cultural Center, and it’s a much different scene. The crowd’s average age was about 28, they were dressed sharp (again, the women more than the men), and they danced beautifully, in a much sexier style, in keeping with their age. The terrazzo dance floor was crowded, and it was a “clubbier” scene – there seemed to be no pressure to dance. Again, we were ignored by the other patrons and not made to feel uncomfortable in any way. We got a little more daring in our moves, and by the end of the evening might have been thought to be old Argentines who did not dance often.

To bed by 3 a.m.

Con los pobres de la tierra

The trash is put out every night between 8 and 9. The trucks come around at 9 or after, and in that interregnum the gleaners come out. Some call them recyclers, I’m sure others have less attractive words.

Whole families, pulling carts loaded to the top with bottles. The Argentines do not sort their recycling from their ordinary garbage, so the men, women and children must squat on the excrement-littered sidewalks and sort through the garbage with their bare hands, extracting the precious bottles. I can probably imagine more disgusting work, but have never seen it.

The vast numbers of gleaners hint at the poverty of the country. Most seem to be campesinos, Argentines from the provinces. I imagine some are from other South American countries. I saw no one who looked like a Porteño, though I’m sure some natives of the city have fallen this low.

I suppose on one level the system works. Poor people get money to buy food, and bottles get recycled. The social cost is something else. I imagine it would be impossible to establish a municipal recycling program at this point, assuming of course that Argentines could be bothered to sort their garbage. From what I’ve seen so far (example: the dog problem) it seems unlikely.

Los gatos de Recoleta

It may seem strange to say that one of Buenos Aires’ most outstanding sights is a cemetery. But saying Recoleta is a cemetery is like saying the Roman Forum is a bunch of really old buildings – true, but doesn’t begin to convey the truth.

It’s a miniature city of the dead, where the rich and famous of Argentina are entombed in amazing mausoleums, some several stories high. We found Gothic cathedrals, black granite Art Deco structures, miniature Greek temples. Name the architectural period and it’s here, even a tiny Egyptian temple. Many contain numerous generations of a family, some seem to hold only a couple. Most are in beautiful condition, carefully maintained, and others have fallen into disrepair, the gates broken open, the interiors vandalized, the exteriors sprouting vegetation. A caretaker to whom I spoke said some families lost their money, others their interest. I suspect some lines just died out. A few tombs appear to have been taken over by other families. I imagine at some point they must revert to the cemetery authority and re-sold, though I have found no explanation of the process.

There are cats everywhere, ownerless but not wild. I saw little platters of food, and there is water available from spigots used, I imagine, to fill the flower vases, though most now seem to have silk flowers.

Most tourists were looking for Eva Perón’s tomb. She is entombed here, though she ordinarily would not have qualified for burial due to her low class, but she is in the mausoleum of her natural father. The name on the building is Duarte. I did not visit. My parents were Contreras (opponents of Perón) and my father’s ghost would haunt me forever if I visited her tomb.

Of greater interest to me was the memorial to Sarmiento, one of the few good guys in Argentine history. San Martín is not buried here either, but there is a memorial to his parents, and his wife Remedios is here.

One could probably spend a full day and a several hundred images here. A definite must-see.

The world's cutest tourist trap

I speak of El Caminito, in the barrio of La Boca. La Boca was and still is a poor district, first filled with Italian immigrants who came to work in the docks, and now with provincianos. Somebody came up with the idea of painting the old corrugated metal conventillos (slum dwellings) in bright colors, and a tourist destination was born. I read that the custom of painting the buildings comes from the workers who used paint left over from painting the ships. The bright pinks and turquoises visible now seem to come from an artist’s palette, not from the hold of a ship.

The Frommer’s writer, in typical fashion, hated La Boca. Never being one to deny my fellow human’s right to make a living, I did not mind the hawkers who hand out flyers for restaurants. Frommer’s calls it “constant harassment.” Obviously the writer’s never been in Tangier. Being chased down the street: that’s constant harassment.

True, the harbor stinks. I’ve smelled worse. Walk a block or so away and it’s not noticeable, even on a hot summer’s day. Beers at La Perla are twice as much, at 15 pesos a mug, as anywhere else we’ve been, but it’s a great location from which to watch the action.

After walking up and down the caminito – named after a tango which actually refers to a country lane in the provinces – and buying a double CD of Carlos Gardel’s music and a clever album made of colorful corrugated cardboard for my pics (make sure your battery’s charged – you’ll take at least 50 images, if not more), we walked over to the Museo ‘Benito Quinguela Martín.’ Local painter who must have done very well for himself after humble beginnings, and who left several buildings to be used for educational purposes. His studio, a large four-story affair, is now the museum. Large, vivid paintings of dock scenes, done exclusively with a palette knife, are alive – muscular and energetic, like the barrio itself. There are also paintings by contemporaries in the museum, which serve to emphasize Quinquelo’s powerful style.

Another example of the strange Argentine workforce deployment style: two “guards,” one of whom spent the whole time applying nail polish, but no paper towels in the bathroom.

The streets off the caminito are, again according to Frommer’s, dangerous. We wandered for several blocks and saw nothing vaguely resembling a dangerous person, unless one was expecting to be attacked by an old woman carrying groceries. It is said to be “peligroso” at night, according to the taxi drivers, a trusted source. We did not test it.

Tango dogs

We're meeting friends for dinner. They live in San Telmo, a slightly racier, more trendy neighborhood than Palermo. We go a little earlier and walk around. Buenos Aires, like many European and Latin American cities, group their shops, and we are clearly in antiques land. As far as I can tell, every household in B.A. must have had a silverplated service for 12, and they're all for sale. No bargains here. We stop for a drink at the main square, Plaza Dorrego, and see our first street tango dancers. Two couples, excellent. Afterwards they pass the hat (literally).

Between sets I think about the dogs of Buenos Aires. There are battalions of them. During the day many are walked by professional walkers, but in the evening they are out with their owners. Some walk around the park on their own.

They never bother anyone. Are they the world's best behaved dogs, or like the Argentines themselves, are they simply too cool to bother dealing with people? They do dump all over the sidewalks, but that's the owners' fault. Even the ones wandering on their own don't approach the tables or beg. They don't even bark or fight. I think it's because they've been listening to tango all their lives.

You cannot listen to tango and not feel that any movement, except perhaps a slight shrug and a glance to the side, is anything but gauche.

Watching the dance is absolute pleasure. I'm not talking about the stupid French imitation, the so-called "Apache" hurling his prostitute around the floor. I'm talking about a small tragedy being played out by two figures who meet, almost know each other, and then separate, perhaps forever.

The following night we head out intending to go to a tango show in a restaurant, and end up on the same plaza, eating dinner at an outdoor cafe. First comes the tango, then a flamenco show. Hell of a bargain, since the tango shows charge 150 pesos a person just for the show.

On Sunday we take the subte to San Telmo again, to the street fair. More overpriced silver, and great music. One guitarist plays the second movement of Rodrigo's Fantasia por un Gentilhombre. I could be struck dead after hearing that and still die happy. A small orchestra (four bandoneones, four violins, an upright piano) and a marvelous singer. I buy their CD for 20 pesos.

Then we run into El Indio. All fire and energy, a leopard who somehow learned the tango. In between dances, he gives a hilarious lecture on his version of the history of the dance, in rapid-fire Castellano. Only the Argentines laugh. Only they can understand him.

iPhone adventures

After 48 hours with no response to my email, other than an automated one, I cave, buy a cheap calling card (1 hour for $3), and call AT&T's 916 number. In a few minutes, a pleasant and smart agent gets network roaming going and adds the World Traveler package, which was never done the first time. She does not sell me the $24.99 data package, since she says it does not include Argentina. For $5.99 a month I get to place voice calls at $1.99 a minute, which considering what calling cards cost is a complete rip-off.

But my iPhone now works, which was the point of the exercise. No text messaging for me, since the rate the agent quotes is totally ridiculous. But since I have the laptop hooked up to the cable DSL in the apartment, I don't need it.

I've seen only one wi-fi cafe, about 6 blocks from the house, so I've not tested the Skype phone.

The bottom line: AT&T's email support sucks, and so does the 800# support (which failed to set me up correctly while I was still in the U.S.). Only the 916# support seems to work well, and you have to call from overseas to access it. So let me see -- before going to Argentina I should have gone to Mexico just to set up the service. Not acceptable, AT&T.

Stranger in my own land

I have a strange relationship with Argentina because I don't know if I'm an Argentine or not. I was born in Washington DC while my sailor father was detailed to the Naval Attache's Office. But my parents were Argentine and after his tour of duty my parents returned with me to Argentina. I lived there from the age of 18 months or so until I was 12, when they returned to the U.S. to work for the Attache's Office again. My dad had retired from the Navy, so now he was a technical translator and interpreter and my mother was the Social Secretary to the Attache (yes, I know that has an accent at the end, but I'm too lazy for look for it).

So now I'm here, talking like a Portena (the n has a tilde over it), but with the vocabulary of a 12 year old. I can understand the language perfectly, which apparently is sort of a trick since the natives of the capital speak a strange Spanish that sounds to others (not to me) like Italian. All the double l's are changed to y's. The y's are pronounced like English j's.

The city feels strangely comfortable, like recalling parts of a dream. Not that I exactly wandered around the antique shops of El Telmo or sat in a sidewalk cafe watching tango dancers as a little girl. I lived a sheltered life in the suburbs and we hardly ever went into the city, except to visit cousins in some neighborhood I don't remember.

Still, I look at the Beaux Arts houses, with their shuttered windows giving no clue at the life inside (I know there are enclosed patios in there, but they can't be glimpsed from the street), and something stirs in me. I could live here again.

Argentina update

It's Wednesday the 6th. Since Sunday we've been in our comfortable but slight seedy apartment in Palermo. Slight seediness is the hallmark of the city, perhaps a sign of the injured economy or maybe just Argentine insouciance. Last night we ate at an excellent tapa place, decorated with kitschy flea market objects, and featuring an unusual, varied and tasty multicourse tapeo, a good buy at 57 pesos for two. The restaurant is called De Olivas y Lustres, located at Gorritti 3972, up the block from the corner of Acuna de Figerao, in Palermo Viejo. PV is an edgy looking neighborhood, with handsome typical houses sitting next to garages and warehouses. Not as pretty as our barrio, called Palermo, which has nicer looking apartment buildings and restaurants on every corner.

Just as we'd been told, the action starts late in BA. We got to our restaurant at 9, and were one of the first people there. By 11 the place was about two-thirds full. The favorite mode of transport is via taxi, cheap and easy to find. You find yourself measuring distance in terms of the pesos it costs to get there by cab. Our ride last night was 10 pesos (about 3 bucks).

Real Geeks Don't Travel Light

It's all about the gear, right? So this is what I brought to Argentina. My iPhone (more about that later), a Skype wi-fi phone, a Sanyo xActi camcorder, a Pentax Optio S5i digital camera, and an older Fujitsu Lifebook P series subcompact laptop. And of course chargers and cables, which take up more room than the units themselves. I almost didn't bring the laptop, but a final look at the original ad for the apartment reminded me that it had cable DSL, so I stuck it in among the clothes in the checked baggage. Came through fine, even though the TSA left me a polite little note saying they'd searched our luggage.

I'm glad I brought the Fujitsu. It and the Optio's all I've used in two days. Hooked the Ethernet cable to the laptop, and within minutes I had access to everything I'm used to. A home's not a home without access.

The Optio's been traveling with me for about three years, and I usually don't go out the door without it. Somebody said the best camera is the one you have with you when the great shot comes along, and that's certainly true of this little guy. I brought 2 batteries, the charger, and a half dozen SD cards. Buenos Aires is photogenic, and I'll probably come home with a thousand or so shots.

As for the iPhone, I called AT&T before I left and told them I wanted to be able to make calls. They sold me the World Traveler package, which gives me a lower voice rate ($1.99/min) and 20 MB of data for $24.99 a month (no contract), but forgot to add (and I forgot to ask for, even though I'd read Anders Brownworth's blog on the subject), network roaming, so I don't have access to the wireless networks here, though I can see them on the phone, which is frustrating. I'm trying to get it put on via email, since the phone in our apartment is pretty much useless and I've lost my voice to the worst cold I've ever had (I brought it with me). It's been 23 hours since I made the request and so far all I've gotten is an automated message.

Haven't had a chance to use the Skype phone, since I have not seen a single Internet cafe. Our son, who met us down here, says there are some around the university, but they are not plentiful like in other countries I've been. Silly Argentines still seem to think cafes are for drinking coffee and chatting.