Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina




I’ve been waiting for this entire trip to use this title, and it now seems fitting given it’s my last day in this spectacular country. 

The trip from Colonia in Uruguay to Buenos Aires in Argentina was interesting.  It took about an hour by Hydrofoil down and across the estuary and the whole process was as simple as could be. I was greeted at the port by Alex, the original non-stop guide. She was exactly as I remembered, but I didn’t have it in me to be rude and dismiss her. She dropped me at my hotel and left me with the threat promise to see me in the morning for my city tour. This was my third hotel in a different neighbourhood in Buenos Aires, and neither the Hotel Madero nor the Puerto Madero disappoint. This is by far the fanciest hotel I’ve stayed in on this trip, and to be honest - I’m ready for it.  The Puerto Madero is a relatively recent development near the port filled with glassy skyscrapers, posh restaurants and streets named after women (of course). They have even turned the cranes and other building machines into very trendy art (see photo). Walking around it, you feel like you have wandered into a commercial for Canary Wharf (London)  or Hudson Yard (NYC) where everyone is elegant, sipping flat whites and working remotely from their classy rooftop terrace. It makes for a very nice change from the slightly shabby locations of some previous hotels, lovely as they have been.

One of my major trip shopping goals, in addition to boots, was to buy a leather jacket.  I had done my research and identified a place called Silvia y Mario as a potential good source.  I asked Alex about it, and she hemmed and hawed for a bit before suggesting a different place that would be much better value - Cueros Antílope.  She assured me that the leather was indeed of the sheep or cow variety, not antelope, although I guess that doesn’t really matter. It was about a 45 minute walk from my hotel, and I enjoyed that immensely. I got to see a few different neighbourhoods that I probably wouldn’t have otherwise seen, and I felt 100% safe the whole time. Cueros Antílope looked very much like a place you’d see on 7th Avenue in NY, the garment district.  You have to ring a bell to get in and once you do, it’s a veritable warehouse of dead animal skins with sleeves. The sales patter could also have rivalled any NYC shmata salesperson. I must have tried on 30 jackets, with the sales assistant telling me I looked amazing in each and every one. I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t particularly like any of them, and the quality was poor, especially in light of the price which was no bargain.  I  said an awkward farewell and grabbed an uber to Silvia y Mario.  It was Bergdorf Goodman to Cueros Antilope’s TK Maxx, but the prices were the same in each. I explained what I was looking for, i.e. a fleece lined black bomber style with a zip front.  I fell in love with the first one they showed me. Although it was 28 degrees Centigrade outside, I didn’t want to take it off. It is a thing of both beauty and quality, and like my boots I expect it is the last leather jacket I will ever need to buy. Does anyone really NEED a leather jacket? Probably not, but you know what I mean.  There was another customer in there from Washington DC who, to be honest, struck me as a little crazy. She had just bought five jackets and was considering a sixth.  No one really needs that many leather jackets.  She did, however, convince me to try on a lighter jacket with a nipped in waist and a cute little peplum in the back.  I’m afraid I accidentally bought two leather jackets when I had meant to buy only one. Oops. 

I then walked back to the hotel, having chalked up over 25,000 steps before 5 PM. I was beat.  Of course, I immediately unpacked both jackets and modelled them for myself in the mirror for more than a few minutes.  This hotel is indeed fancy and has a rooftop pool and jacuzzi that I took advantage of for an hour. I don’t miss business travel and all, but it is nice to have the amenities of a good hotel now and then.  I didn’t think I could face a big, meat heavy meal so I did some research and identified a nearby Peruvian Japanese restaurant.  It was a 10 minute walk away so I meandered up at about 8:00.  Unlike my solo dining experience in El Calafate,  Osaka (the restaurant) could not not have been more gracious and seated me immediately in their lovely patio.  I had a veritable raw fish orgy that included ceviche and sushi, and I enjoyed every mouthful.  There was only one awkward moment when I went to refill my water glass and ended up pouring in soy sauce, but that wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as when I mistook tea for wasabi in Japan. The waitress didn’t even laugh, although I think I caught the man sitting next to me snickering quietly. I walked back along the river and took in the buzzing atmosphere where I hope to return tonight.

This morning, I took a deep breath and met Alex downstairs at 9:00 AM for my city tour. I decided not to stress about it, and just let her rabbit on. I was reminded of the first time I read “100 Years of Solitude”, and I really struggled to keep track of all the different Spanish names.  I eventually let them all wash over me, and I eventually got the gist. On and on she went about people I would never understand the names of and buildings I would never remember the history of.  Once, when she was giving me a lesson on history that I had already read widely on, I interrupted her to tell her I already knew what she was telling me.  She shook her finger at me and said sharply, “pay attention”! Well, that was me told. 

I did have a lovely tour of the opera house, The Teatro Colón, which apparently has the best acoustics in the world.  No performances in January, so I will just have to take their word for it.  It’s pretty amazing to think it was built in the last decade of the 19th century, when Buenos Aires was really the Wild West. Imagine the Albert Hall being build next to the OK corral and it will give you some idea. Two of the three architects died during its construction, the second when the butler who was having an affair with his wife shot him dead.  They made sure that the third architect was unmarried.  We then stopped by the Cafe La Biela where I got to have my picture taken with Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares, titans of Argentine literature. I felt honoured. 

We then visited the Recoleta  Cemetary, the VIP club for Argentina’s dead.  There are over 6000 mausoleums, each one more ornate than the next.  There are marble statues, intricate carvings, gothic, baroque and art nouveau architecture and many monuments in remarkably poor taste.  One had the taillights from the deceased’s favourite car embedded into the wall.  It reminded me a lot of the cemeteries in New Orleans, except you can actually see into some of the mausoleums here which is more than a little macabre. Most importantly, it’s the forever home of the beloved Eva Perón who, interestingly, has one of the simplest mausoleums in the cemetary. It is difficult to explain the level of respect and adoration for “Evita” that still exists in this country, at least amongst the working and middle classes.  The ultra-wealthy old families understandably loathed the Perons, and it will be interesting to see what the newest President does with their legacy.  I won’t go into a history of Argentina here, but it’s fascinating and I encourage you to do a quick study, if you can, of the past 100 years. One of the photos above is me standing in front of Eva’s tomb which is the Duarte family tomb as Juan was not laid to rest with her.  As you can see, in keeping with her plea, I am not crying.

I did, however, cry at our final stop of Plaza de Mayo. Since 1977, Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo have gathered here to demand answers about their children who disappeared during Argentina’s military dictatorship from 1976 to 1983. 30,000 people “disappeared”, having been kidnapped, tortured and murdered by the regime during their campaign of terror  known as “The Dirty War” The mothers became known for their silent marches around the plaza wearing white headscarves meant to symbolise their children’s nappies, embroidered with their names and date of disappearance. Those few mothers who remain still march in silence every Thursday.  The disappeared included babies whose pregnant mothers were abducted, with the newborn babies given up for adoption after the mothers were killed. Recent advances in DNA testing have reunited some of these children with their proper families.  The whole story is heartbreaking and a stark reminder of the atrocities that continue to happen in our lifetimes. 

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