the next movement

So as has been the norm, I took some time off again. I’ve moved, again. This time into a place really close to the apartment so carefully scrutinized in my previous post, but unlike the last place, my roommates are laid back, cool, and seemingly straight shooters. Leo and Fer chill out, watch soccer, talk movies, girls, politics and all the other things that should be discussed in a proper pad. They are older, but this is also normal here. It takes longer to get out of the parents house in Argentina, especially after the 2001 crash.

From Left, Diego (my old spanish teacher and buddy), Leo (new roommate) and yours truly

Anyway, things are rolling along. My life is about as stable as I consider to be normal here in Argentina. There was recently a somewhat accurate article written in the NyTimes discussing these daily, weekly, yearly mores of the Argentine. LINK. It’s true that the little inefficiencies of this county tend to get under the skin of the ex-pat community here. None of them are a huge deal, but collectively begin to erode into the mindset, expectations, or routine of the average yankee (the use of ‘American’ is looked down upon as all persons living in South America are ‘Americans’ too), brit, kiwi…

For example, waiting in line at the supermarket reminds me of the DMV. People routinely forget a key product and walk slowly back through the grocery store to find it while the 10 person line grows like a feeding caterpillar. One at the cashier, folks decide to pay with cash, food stamps, and then 2 different cards. It can be unnerving. Hell, my New Yorker friends call me slow.

Other parts of this I enjoy. I have not once felt pressure to leave a table at a restaurant after finishing a meal. Even at one of my favorite restaurants that routinely has a 45 minute wait, you are never pushed or pressured to leave after your meal. It’s your time; and as long as you’ve actually bought a plate of food, they’re not gonna repeatedly ask if ‘you would like another round yet’ or if ‘your ready for the check, now??’

Really, this seems to be true in most places that are not the states and have a European vibe. Now, you can add Argentina, or more specifically BA to the list. I guess the part that is strange is that there are so many ways in which this city is or tries to be like the major US or European metropolises, and certain ways in which it is just not. It’s the disconnect there.

As we all know, when traveling or living abroad we get to experience life as others do which is the whole point, right? I got no problem with doing a little character building and having some latin good times in the process…I mean, damn…that doesn’t sound too bad at all.

Some Random Pics to Feast your eyes upon:

gabe, smiley and i from their birthday blowout

your boi and the man maradona


a lil tango action

and i'll finish it off with a little ridiculousness, por que no?

How do you spell s-c-u-m-b-a-g???

Ok ok ok. For those of you who know me (which is assuredly everyone who reads this blog), ya'll know that I am not a negative person and that I truly don´t like being negative. With that said, I must go on a little rant for this edition of my boi in BA. Here goes...

Since I last posted, I've had a small housing fiasco. To explain, a little background: I moved into this apartment in early February. It was a shared place with an Argentine guy. There was no set limit to how long I would stay there. He was a cool guy, tango musician, dancer, actor, and had an overall chill vibe. We got along well, when he wasn’t holed up in his room practicing guitar and singing loudly off pitch. We developed some trust so he went out of town for 10 days while I held down the fort. Our rapport was friendly, we talked about girls, going out, tango, Argentina. My room was large, I had a double bed, I had worked out my daily commute to an unconscious status. In other words, things were easy, rolling along.

Then, one warm morning in the first week of April I had just sat down at my computer in the office when I received a surprising text message. It said something like this: "I just found out that my best friend from Spain is coming here in the beginning of next month so you have to move out by the beginning of may." A TEXT MESSAGE!! Needless to say, I was surprised to be getting the boot in such a matter. I mean, since when do we ask people to move out of their apartment through a text message. A phone call isn’t even acceptable in my book. Can I get a little face time?…I mean damn. As the day passed, my surprise rose into anger then simmered to a low boil by the time I returned home later that night.

When Santiago walked into our apartment, I politely asked him if we could speak and discuss this bomb he had dropped. I politely told him that I really didn't like how he had handled this situation, that if needed me to leave than he should have asked to discuss the situation with me, not send a text message. He then said, with a well practiced actors puppy dog face, that he was surprised that I was surprised, and that we had never agreed on anything past 3 months. I then explained to him that the fact that he had never mentioned anything before, coupled with the fact that we were supposed to 'discuss' the living situation after 3 months, and that I had mentioned on multiple occasions that i was planning on staying for longer, created a setting in which surprise was a natural reaction for me. I then told him that I would look for a new place, but that if I didn't find something to my satisfaction by the end of April, I would stay at least through the first week of May while continuing to look. He said that there was no reason that it should take that long, to which I replied, "Well, if it does it does." So I turned on some music signaling the end of our conversation.

Needless to say, our relationship became a little rocky after this episode. I'm of the opinion that important discussions, information, news should not be delivered through text message. The more I thought about it, the more slimy he became in my eyes. My apartment search started immediately. I found some things, some nice, some not so nice. Then, one night, I spoke to my other roommate about the whole situation. She is a young Norwegian darling who had just moved in a few weeks before. She told me she wasn't so happy with her living situation and was thinking about moving out. So I told her she should talk to Santi, and get back to me...as there now was a chance I didn't have to leave. A few days later, she told me they had spoken and that Santi had told her he would make some changes to make her more comfortable. I found this a little strange: that he had convinced her to stay while I was getting the boot, but I let it go and continued with my search.

A few weeks went by and as the time passed, Mari, the Norwegian, and I became closer. My final week arrived, and I had found a place that was considerably nicer and in a better neighborhood. The price was a little higher, but fine temporarily. One night that week, I got home from the gym and sat down with Mari in the kitchen. I mentioned to her that I was going to have to delay my date of departure by a couple days while my new room was being prepared. Previously, Santi has told me that his best friend from Spain wasn’t coming until the 20th of May, so I figured this was fine. As I say this, a little grin came across Mari's face and she dropped bomb numero dos of this fiasco, "I should tell you something," she says, "There is no best friend. Santi was lying the whole time. He says you guys don't get along and didn't want to hurt your feelings so he made the whole thing up."

I'm sure you can see the look on my face: chin on the floor, eyes at the dumfounded size. At this point, I've already lost most of my personal respect for the guy for the whole text awkwardness and his lack of viable communication on the entire issue. But, Wa Wa Wee Wa. This is just too much. He'd been lying to my face for the entire month, tried to make me feel bad about even wondering why I was being asked to leave, and done it all with a big, "I'm really sorry it’s working out like this," face. Ugly.

I told an Argentine friend about this, and he wasn't surprised. All he could say was, "Welcome to Argentina." I mean, I've met plenty of Argentine men who would not have done this. But I've also met a slew who truly act like children, not that this is so different from those of the masculine disposition around the world. And I do believe that each person needs to be judged on the merit of his or her own actions, so I'll try to only pass judgment on my ex-roommate Santi. But lordy lord, this was a hell of a welcome. I honestly don't ask for much, but cowardly, pointless lying goes a little far. Well, at least I finally got the lucky first member of my BA sh*t list.

Sweet Sweet San Juan

I've taken a little time off from this massive blog and as real life cranks up down here (work, school, routine), I feel that I need to reminisce about a night from my travels in Western Argentina.

Two friends and I had just arrived in San Juan after spending a savory few days in Mendoza, the heart of Argentine wine country. The western territory of Argentina is breathtaking, mostly because it lies in the foothills of the Andes mountain range. Almost anywhere you are you can look up and find these beautiful hills, and if you're lucky, behind them will stand the ice capped peaks of the towering Andes.

San Juan is about 3 hours north of Mendoza, and is definitely not on the standard LonelyPlanet tour. We went mostly because it was close, one of my buddies was leaving soon so we didn't want to waste a day on a bus, and because my friend Jack had spent a good weekend there a few years back.

Arriving, we were met directly off the bus by a hostel recruiter, Oscar, as normally happens in the bus stations of smaller Argentine towns ready for backpackers. We were quickly convinced that his hostel was for us, probably cause we didn't have another in mind, so we hopped in a cab and were set up with a beer in hand before we knew it.

San Juan is in desert country, so the heat was dry and impressive. It reminded me of the southwestern US. As the sun set and a cool breeze comforted us, the international troupe of patrons at the hostel began congregating on the small patio. A guitar was brought out, beer passed around, and everyone spent a little time dodging the plumes of smoke that swirled from the massive asado we were all getting ready to devour.

The dinner table was fantastic. My two buddies and I were the only native English speakers present. There were folks from all over Argentina, a Peruvian family, and numerous other friendlies representing other South American states. Everyone was happy to be there, and glad to be enjoying the company of new faces. We toasted the chef, and surprisingly a new Argentine friend decided to extend me my own personal toast, complete with my new nickname, "Dandy," that he had thought up in response to my faux ray bans and gold Casio watch.



As we sucked the bones of our once meaty ribs and sipped our glasses of wine, the young and old settled off to bed. A good contingent of about 6 of us stuck around the dinner table, sharing a few stouter drinks, songs with the guitar, and I struggled to keep up with the Spanish conversation. Before we knew it, the clock had hit 5:30am. Jack, Hugh and I were all pretty well toasted, and as I was considering hanging it up for the night, the hostel's resident retired fiesta fanatic quickly convinced us there was much to do in the city of San Juan at 6am on a Wednesday night.

We jumped into a cab and found ourselves sitting in a patio area outside of a glorified gas station surrounded by a surprising amount of locals. As we sipped our cold brewskies, a few guitars surfaced at the table next to us and an absolutely fabulous local concert began. There were two main guitarist/singers. One guy had a terrific beer belly, chin strap, jolly face, and a voice one would expect out of an opera house. The other one, who sang less but just about as well, was small, skinny, and had a classic Argentine gel blow out.


Before I knew it, one of the guys at the table was waving over to me as he began the classic "before you 'cuse me" blues riff. Hugh had mentioned, or yelled, that I could sing the blues, which is at best only moderately true. However, in San Juan, Argentina, any American who can sing even a little is a expert on blues vocalizations. After a little prodding, I went and stood at the end of this massive local table, made up some words, let go a little, and sat my keester back down so the local jam session could continue.

We soon moved inside to keep the crowd noise to a minimum, and the concert moved on deep into the night. The guy who had played the blues took a liking to me and tried to translate every word of every song that the these fellas were singing. I tried to explain to him that the music was enough and I didn't really need to know the lyrics, but after the fifth attempt I stopped and assumed he was doing it for some other reason.



At about 8am, we were all ready to get home. The shop closed up, and we found ourselves a cab. It had been one of those nights that you hope for while on the road, one of those experiences that isn't readily available outside of Sweet Sweet San Juan in the desert foothills of the Andes.

and the party don't stop till 8 in tha mornin...

At the risk of sounding like a complete lush, my second entry of this little blog must be centered on the subject which I know best at this juncture. And yep, you guessed it, that subject is ‘the good life,’ put in the words of Mr. Kanye West.

While writing an email today I was listing my agenda for this week and thinking back on the past week, when I realized that at the moment my life here is completely ludicrous. I’ve resigned myself to being unemployed until the middle of March, Spanish class is going strong, and we're in those last few beautiful weeks of summer. It’s the feeling of the middle of August in Atlanta or NYC: fall is bearing down upon you, but it isn’t depressing or annoying, it’s just a reason to stay out an extra hour every night. Although I’m in a new sultry February, let me tell you, sweatin ain’t too shabby down here in Buenos Aires.

Last weekend was headlined by a Saturday night filled with my first full blown Argentine roof-top party. It was reminiscent of parties in BK, but held together by a few key differences: the later starting time (I’ve been told you never arrive at an Argentine house party before 1:30-2am), the large amount of Spanish speakers, and once again, the stunning Argentines. The liquor and beer were flowing (not quite to American standards, however), a dope djay was spinning some type of vocal-less electronic beats gritty enough to boogie to, and good looking folks were everywhere. Things were getting beautifully hot and bothered until about 4am, when a neighbor cut the power to the pad. The lights went out, people started yelling and hugging, our host, Tigre, had candles lit all over the house within the blink of an eye, and the mayhem was controlled. Supposedly, this is a fairly normal way for an unhappy neighbor to stop a party…weird but effective.

But did that stop us? You guessed it again, NOPE. A smaller but dedicated troupe of about 15 of us strolled down the street to this amazing self-serve beer bar called Bellagamba. Jokes were cracked, raving declarations made, love confessed: diagnostic of the later stages of any good night. As the pale light of dawn began creeping in through the windows, the BA signal that it’s about time to wrap the night up, the crew began to disperse. It was the 4^th night in a row that I’d been told to go to bed by the rising sun. This ‘good life’ ain’t too shabby.

the boi begins in buenos aires

10/1/08 (argentine style)

We turn a corner into the prime square of Palermo SOHO and lo and behold, the rumors are true. I find myself standing in an isle of a Parisian style patio bar, in between tables of beautiful Argentine girls that would make Henri Toulouse-Lautrec feel like he picked the wrong city to lust himself to death. This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful adventure, I say to my boy Smiley standing next to me.

I don’t want to make it sound like all I’ve been preoccupied with since I arrived in BA 2 days ago is the women, but lets be real, it’s a substantial issue.

This city is fairly incredible. Like big cities throughout the world, it has neighborhoods of varying character. I’m starting my stay in the middle of the city in between Congreso, where the National House of Congress lies, and downtown. It’s been a great place to be initially because I can walk to almost any area of the city starting from my pad. The first day, Smiley and I walked to San Telmo, the home and birthplace of the world famous tango. San Telmo is rustic and a little dirty, but sincerely so. If it was full of granite sidewalks and apartment lobbies with marble floors, the neighborhood would be lying to itself. We spent the afternoon there, so we missed out on the dinner to late night vibe that San Telmo thrives on. We’ll be back, oh yes, we’ll be back.

That first night we went out to Belgrano to visit with some of Smiley’s friends. There were about 7 Americans there when we arrived, and about 4-5 argentines. The hostess, a middle aged woman named Annabella who Smiley’s friends live with, said it best (in a luscious Argentine accent no less), “Too many Americans tonight.” I didn’t disagree, but as it was my first night and my mind was till 40 thousand feet in the air, I didn’t mind either.

The best part of the night was her house. We entered through a rustic gate, so rustic it almost didn’t open, and walked down a brick corridor with sprawling plants on all sides of us. After turning a corner, we entered into the center of the house which was an open air brick patio. Each of the indoor rooms could be accessed through this main patio/room. It was full of live greenery, and just perfect. Annabella said that the house was built in the 1920s. It was a wonderful place.

Yesterday we explored through Recoleta and Palermo, two of the nicer, classy neighborhoods in BA. Recoleta is a little like the Upper East Side or something, the granite sidewalks and marble floors fit right in. Palermo is where we spent most of the time and it was well worth it. We skipped the shops that it’s famous for, and went for the food and drink that we knew we could appreciate with a little more vitality. We stopped in that first bar I mentioned in starting this piece, sat for an hour, listened to the Rolling Stones and Bob Marley, drank 2 litre bottles of beer, and spent 10 pesos.

We left there for a traditional steak dinner at a famous Parilla named La Dorita. It was a bustle of activity, and we knew immediately we were in the right place. Dinner was wonderful, good wine, people watching, scrumptious steak, Argentina.

These first two days have been a great jumping off point. This city has more to offer than one could hope. That night in Palermo while running through the rain back to the bars after dinner, helping Smiley from slipping with his sandals made of waxed foam, giggling through two bottles of malbec, it was apparent that this should be a superb trip.