Below the Belt...of the World: Buenos Aires

We arrived on a jet-lagged, sunny morning. A whole new continent. Our flight path had been Bangkok—Qatar—Berlin—Madrid—Buenos Aires. Which means since leaving the U.S. last year, we’d officially curium navigated this marble. We swapped some euros into pesos, studying a new next exchange rate. It was fall in Argentina. The air was crisp and the leaves of big birch trees were starting to rust. In Thailand, there are two seasons; hot and hotter. I spent Christmas in the shade of a 100 degree day and New Years with sweat running down the backs of my legs. In May, Kaysha and I flew to Berlin. Spring was bursting and people were awaking and excited. Grass had that electric green; new growth. Two weeks later, below the equator, winter was beginning. My inner clock sat down and gave up. I’ve been quite confused ever since.

Because our jobs come with us, we came here to play normal life in an abnormal setting. Kaysha and I rented a small apartment for three months in Villa Crespo—a residencial neighborhood in the heart of Buenos Aires. Our two room abode is perched on the 8th floor with three big windows that peer at Buenos Aires’ utilitarian apartment buildings. Old men hang laundry on the rooftop lines. You can hear collective yells at the TV when a fútbol goal is scored. It is not a beautiful city. But it has the sexy grit of Rome. People speak Spanish with an Italian accent that makes you want to loiter and swoon. The sidewalks are a landmine of dog shit. Platform shoes have made a strange peak in popularity. 

Our windows lookout

I’d been traveling for 8 months, eating street food, continental breakfasts, and takeout. Our first few weeks in Buenos Aires, with a bit of shame we watched movies and cooked in our apartment. Homebodies of the Century. Even mundanes become sweet again when they’ve been absent for a long time. I wanted to do laundry and sweep my floor and buy condiments and stay in my underwear all day. We couldn’t be bothered to visit the museums and tourist attractions. Kaysha said “I’m glad we came all the way down to Argentina just to eat in and watch Netflix.” (Finally, we were able to break through to the other side. I am proud to say we’ve now visited two museums and eat out almost every Sunday.) 

Making art in the down time

We were surprised by the simplicity of Argentine cuisine. Real simple. Meat is grilled and often unsalted. Potatoes come with a sprinkle of oregano if the chef is feeling frisky. Vegetables are omitted completely. Empanadas are filled with boiled chicken or beef and onions. Pizza is thick crusted, usually with a solo topping of cheese (unless the same cheeky chef gets wild with the oregano). Because of this and, because we miss noodles, we’ve been making weekly pilgrimages. There is a small Chinatown in Buenos Aires with a popping asian grocery store. Kaysha and I have been going to stock up on fish sauce, rice noodles, shitalkis, and cilantro. We’ve made huge batches of our Thai love, Pad Thai and our Vietnamese addiction, Bun Cha. 

Bun Cha just like our Vietnamese Mama taught us 

Argentine Chinatown

Argentines generally don’t eat dinner until 10 or 11pm (thats a crazy person thing to do!) Most restaurants don’t even open till 8 or 9pm. When Kaysha and I go out, often we are in an empty restaurant…because people haven’t gotten there yet. And when we go out for a drink after, the bar is empty because people are just beginning to eat dinner. And when we walk home at 2am people are just meeting up for their first beer of the night. Boliches or nightclubs will stay open till 8am. You might be wondering how anyone could maintain that schedule, and well I think most people here are just so damn caffeinated. 

Yerba mate is a dried crushed caffeine rich leaf; a bombilla is a stainless steel straw; Calabaza mate is a small gourd used as the mug. It is quite a set up and an impractical beverage to take with you. But you see it EVERYWHERE. South American’s joke that Argentine’s only have one arm, because the other is holding all their mate gear! The average Argentine drinks 3-5 liter of maté everyday—no wonder they be kicking it till the light hours. Maté not sold in restaurants or cafes, its something you bring with you to class, the office, or the park. The ritual of mate is lovely and intrinsically social. Someone is in charge of preparing the mate. They fill the small gourd with dried mate, tuck the straw into the bottom, add hot water, and pass the cup in the circle. You drink until the gourd is empty and pass it back to the preparer. They refill the water and pass it to the next person. There are small stands on the sidewalks selling snacks and hot water for maté. Parks fill with friends, lovers, and families huddled on blankets and benches sharing maté. It’s an unsuspecting, grass flavored tea that does this heavy lifting of foster national community.

Fútbol is another thing that brings this country together. The whole grocery store staff takes pause to watch the game.

Street art

To try to be the cool kids in the maté circle, we began Spanish classes at Vos Language school. I started class knowing about ten words in Spanish (five of those words were how to count to five). At Vos, the whole lesson is taught in Spanish, to learn Spanish. Three days a week, in three hour chunks, I would squeeze every drop of focus I could find. My professor would ask me a question in Spanish, I would looked at her not understanding anything, she asks again. 

I say “How do ‘I say I don’t understand the question’.” 

She says, “No entiendo la pregunta.”

“Yes! Sí, ok, no entiendo la pregunta! Sorry.”

“Lo siento.”

“Yep, lo siento.”

It was painful, it still is. But we just finished our 9th week of classes. Last week I gave a 10 minute presentation to the whole school, in Spanish… I mean it was basic, but playful and maybe even comprehendible. 

Our lives in Buenos Aires are a delightful mix of work, wine, socializing, and exploration. The sky over this city appears as delicious as a swimming pool. Kaysha and I crack each other up. We made a rough calculation that we’ve spend over 900 hours talking to each other in the last five months—now we walk down the street trying to carry on a conversation in Spanish. For all the fun nights we’ve had chatting with strangers, learning to tango, or popping a bottle of champagne in a boliche, the most fun seem to be when we stay home and drink a bottle—or two or three—of good, cheap, red wine, listen to The National, and help each other life plan. She’s my right-hand-man and I’m honored to share this adventure with her. The substance of a good life. We’ll remember with disbeliefs and belly-laughs.