I didn’t wake until midday today. Last night I attended my second Tango lesson. Boudjaka, as six degrees of separation goes, made contacts in the Tango scene though his film. To give some background, I’ll explain the connections.

The day we were shooting the film at the Hotel Elevarge I moved from spectator to participant. Originally I was given boom mic duties. A sub plot had the ex lover of the Scandinavian guy in the Hotel bar with her current fling. This current fling’s character was a rich guy who was showering her with gifts she was happy to receive but her heart still lay with the Scandinavian guy, although he was too poor to satisfy her wants.

An Argentine guy was to play this part but the shoot ran over time and he had to leave. Enter Mick White. The scene changed from Spanish to English and we had to improvise the lines but it went well.

The lady acting as the ex lover, who is needless to say typically attractive, works for a non-profit organisation that places people who want to volunteer with organisations that require assistance. She manages the Scandinavian volunteers.

Her good friend, Felipe, is the Tango teacher and holds the lessons in his apartment in San Telmo, very close to the Hostel.

So taking into account these connections I arrive at the apartment to find, as if a wish list had been hand delivered by god, half the females, dark brooding Argentine beauties and the other half golden blonde Nordic goddesses.

Now, you may say, wait a minute it couldn’t have been that good. I can assure you it was better until, after going through the introductions I found out to my disappointment that 90% of the females had their partners there.

Holding the lesson in the apartment had the advantage of being intimate but it also meant there was no where to hide. Thankfully a young lady from Norway, Sandra, took pity on me and lead me to the floor when the teacher called us to begin. She spends four days of each week volunteering for a variety of welfare organisations. A kind person that must have a soft spot for those less fortunate. When it came to the tango I was as a deaf, dumb and blind beggar to her. As the class would prove, I may also have had a limb or two missing, in the least a missing right foot replaced by a left. The poor soul didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

To enhance the suspicion that she was the result of Mother Theresa’s Immaculate Conception, I again discovered after the event, her boyfriend was in attendance all night but, despite being a capable dancer herself, she laboured alongside my best impression of Frankenstein’s monster.  Sainthood would be her just reward.

After the class most of us had a meal not far from the hostel. My lack of Spanish put me on the periphery but it is comforting to sit back and just observe people interact.

Following the meal was the milonga. This time I was purely a spectator. I walked one of the Norwegian girls, Mui, to her apartment before reaching the Hostel at 4am.

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole night.

All this is not the main point of this post but a preamble to explain why I woke late but in a fantastic mood. Shortly this would change.

Showered then left for the café. Normally I can sit and read at the café without distraction. Today at the table next to me, two American men and an English women were sitting and talking, naturally, in English. Because I could follow the conversation part of my attention was diverted and I couldn’t fully immerse in the story. For twenty minutes their entire conversation was about how they were maximising their wealth here in Argentina, who their accountants were, which lawyer they were using etc.

An elderly lady approached their table offering for sale a strip of paper with small flower petals glued to the paper. While I thought the pieces were intrinsically beautiful, it was primarily used as a tool for begging without being so blatant. They waved her away.

My blood boiled instantly. She came to me next and I chose one and gave 5 pesos for it. Nothing for me but it would be lunch for her. I couldn’t concentrate afterwards so I went inside and paid for my coffee. All the while a tirade was building that I didn’t think I could hold back. I still held the paper in my hand when I came outside. Almost involuntarily I made straight for their table. One step away, when all three stopped talking and looked at me, a wave of calm washed over me. Instead of firing both barrels, I gently placed the paper in the middle of the table and slowly offered each, in turn, a look of pity I hoped they would feel. They said nothing and I went on my way.

I am no Saint. I am not about to cast the first stone for I have been trying to use the financial system for gain. But there is a difference between trying to build a home and buying a second summer house in Malibu.

I am still angry as I write this.

I have not had the need to quantify the times I have been immersed in a book, unaware of my surroundings, only for some stimulus to cause me to switch from imagination to the here and now. If pressed I would hazard a guess that it would be in the tens of thousands. Of all these occasions I cannot recall a moment like I had today.

Returned to The Walrus Bookstore and purchased The Kite Runner, for I sought a less difficult task than the one set by Jorge Luis Borges', The Aleph. Made my way to Plaza San Martin and sat down to read. I was away with the story, dream like, when I had cause to lift my gaze from the page and regain a sense of my surroundings.

Before me was a lady walking across the Plaza. She wore dark brown boots with black pants over the boots, not contained under knee high boots as seems the standard. A fitted waist length black velvet coat, her dark brown hair worn up and a pearl for each ear set against her olive skin. To say she was beautiful would not be contradicted by anyone seeing her, but the fixation for me was that, one moment lost in a story and the next given this sight, for she walked without ostentation, I felt an overwhelming joy.

I projected nothing on her, no desire to possess her or even know who she was, it was simply a delightful moment.

A Day in the Life

Plaza San Martin, Central Buenos Aires

A vastly different week from the first.

Having covered the notable areas and sights of Buenos Aires during the first week here, I have now settled into a very casual routine.

I wake about 9 and have the breakfast the Hostel provides. I retire to the Café Origen where, having visited the place twice daily since my arrival, I can sit and a café con leche is made and placed at my table without having to order. I let the rush hour pass (9.30 - 10.30) and return to the Hostel to check the news.

Set off for a stroll which is interspersed with periods of reading if I pass a nice place to sit. Find my way back to San Telmo, I have now ditched the city map, and buy a lunch of empanadas de pollo, carne or a tortilla.

Exercise consisting of push ups and sit ups to which I have recently added skipping takes me to siesta from 3 - 5pm.

Wake, shower and again to the café for a long period with a book.

Evenings I leave to fate.

The El Eteneo Bookstore, Buenos Aires.

I sit in an ante room of the Hotel Elevarge. My purpose for being here is to view the final day of shooting on a short film directed by my room mate, Bujaka of Cameroon. The film will portray the love story of a Scandinavian man's fall for an Argentine lady, Dora. Bujaka wrote the script for one of the receptionists at Hostel Carlos Gardel. Broadly the plot has a foreigner falling in love, through the tango, with a lady called Dora. By coincidence the male lead of the movie fell in love with an Argentine, through the tango, called Dora.

This week I have…

Seen the Argentine National Orchestra perform in the vacant Harrods Building on Avenue Florida at the end of a day that included visiting El Eteneo, rated by the BBC as the second most important book store in the world. Viewed, due to the curiosity of Silvia, a fetching polish lady now living in London, the recreation of the history of Argentina from independence in 1810 performed by the Argentine military in period costume complete with musket fire and cannon blast. A lunch under glorious sunshine in the swish barrio (suburb) of Palermo and a tranquil stroll through Japanese gardens.

Had the pleasure of reading Jorge Luis Borges in his native country but sadly not in his native tongue.

Attempted without success, but through no lack of effort, to watch Boca Juniors play and in the process gained an insight into just what the team means to the down trodden residents of La Boca.

Had the privilege to see the tango danced in the milonga (dance hall) Cathedral. This gathering place is where the tango is danced by portentos (residents of Buenos Aires) for pure pleasure and not as a performance. I would not have had this pleasure if not for the good graces of the Mexican, Eduardo. After seeing the tango danced in this way I now realise that any attempt by me to dance the tango would have the same result as an Elephant trying to tip toe through tulips. Despite the best intentions it would end in disaster.

I have heard a German sing and play the blues as if he was born and raised in Mississippi and I have heard a Chilean trio play jazz as if it was a natural as breathing. Both of these events occurred in the common room of the Hostel.

With distress I have seen people attempt to scrape together a living by any means they can in a country that has no social security and felt helpless that any assistance by myself would only provide a temporary respite.

At every corner I watch in awe at the feminine beauty the passes me by.

A great deal more has happened…but I would spend all my time relating it so that I would not have time to experience more, therefore…

All is well.

 

I sit on the mezzanine level of the Hostel Carlos Gardel, San Telmo, Buenos Aires. I am winding down after my first full day here.

I arrived yesterday afternoon after a faultless journey from Brisbane. I had the good fortune to spend my last week in Australia on the Sunshine Coast indulging the hospitality provided by Josh Williams. Josh’s sister extended the send off with digs in Brisbane and a lift to the airport. Mucho gracias.

The horror show I anticipated from Aerolineas Argentinas could not have been further from the truth. I could not have asked for more. The surprises continued when the bus ticket from the airport to the city included drop off at your desired accommodation. From my glimpse the city takes pride in the provision of services. I am embarrassed by my reliance on English. I had ample time to gain some basic Spanish. I will rectify this.

The scope of the city is extraordinary. I walked with only minor breaks from 7am until 3pm and only covered a small portion. During this period the city’s arteries pumped with a solid steady beat. I don’t know yet what regulates the pulse, but café culture, pride in appearance, heavy smoking, both residents and their vehicles, and a barely covered passion help  push things along.

My first attempt at drawing money was an abject failure. The machine ate my card. The bank representative managed to convey to me that I would have to return tomorrow to collect my card. A gentleman who was watching proceedings had a quiet word to the lady, then I was told to wait. In a few minutes she returned with my card. After using my passport to confirm I was the person named on the card she handed it to me. I not sure what he said but I thanked him for his intervention.

I tried the card again and it worked although, only a small daily limit is available. While food seems to be cheaper than Oz, many consumer items are comparable or dearer. The hostel is clean and the other travellers considerate. I have just returned from a small Café/Bar just down the road where I watched The Argentine National Team defeat Haiti 4-0 in a friendly. All is well.