ARGENTINA TRAVEL LOG

By Marsh Wong

Wednesday, June 29

I Departed Houston on an MD80 at 2pm CST, arriving Atlanta at 5pm EST.

During the layover, I dined on a preflight chicken quesadilla at Chili's, my first mistake of the afternoon, and recharged by DVD player for the long flight ahead.

At around 8:30pm, I met up with Jimmy, who, shockingly, showed up for the flight in Hartsfield's international E concourse (he even arrived more than an hour in advance for once).

Jimmy engorged me further with a cinnamon roll left over from the recent grand opening of Atlanta's first IKEA store.

We boarded the 767-300ER at around 9:20pm and sipped some champagne as the remainder of the passengers boarded.

For dinner, I feasted on an appetizer of grilled artichoke with roasted bell peppers, fresh buffalo mozzarella cheese, sun dried tomatoes and Kalamata olives, followed up with spinach/mushroom salad with tomatoes and dried cherries. For the main course, I chose eggplant ravioli with pomodoro sauce, tossed with spinach, corn and feta cheese with grilled shrimp. My beverage of choice was a Cabernet Sauvignon/Shiraz from Sicily. After dinner, I asked for a cheese plate and a fudge sundae with whipped cream.

Surprisingly, we crossed into Cuban airspace at approximately 11:30 EST, just west of Camaguey, sailing straight through the center of the country without incident.

Thursday, June 30

At around midnight EST, Jimmy and I watched Evita on DVD, which inexplicably doubled in length and seemed to finish rudely at 4am.

After a nap, we awoke, fairly rested, at 7am Argentina time, at which moment we broke our short-lived fast with a toasted English muffin topped with grilled Canadian bacon, scrambled eggs, hollandaise sauce and a sweet pepper brunoise.

Our aircraft landed at around 9am. Clearing immigration was especially laborious, considering that Argentinean "technicians" had introduced a new computerized background check, while immigration officials had set aside five booths to handle Argentine citizens and residents, while only one booth was devoted to the much longer line of foreigners. We noted immediately how poorly translated were all of the official English signs, which elicited a few chuckles.

I believe that we were severely overcharged for a prepaid remise ride to our hotel, but "severely" in Argentine pesos equates to about $5 US. The ride into town from Ezeiza, which isn't even located in the official Capital district, was long and punishing. While lapsing in and out of conscious, my few glimpses of the city's crumbling housing projects, set against the depressingly dreary winter sky, did nothing but harshly dispel my preconceived notions of European grandeur.

This colored my impression of this long-awaited metropolis for the remainder of the day, but the city and its people are magnificent, and they have a way of burying deep enough into your psyche to win you over, if only little by little.

The hotel (NH Latino, of European lineage) was typical of what I'd encountered in Europe: extremely Spartan, but practical.

Our first meal was at a local café called Florida Garden. I ordered the Platinese version of an open-faced Dagwood sandwich, with ham, turkey, salsa golf, olives, ensalada rusa, pineapple, tomatoes, pimentos, and hearts of palm atop bread slices. It must admit that it was surprisingly superb.

Winding our way through the busy streets, we were accosted in English at nearly every corner and asked to buy something or donate money, especially along the embarrassingly commercial Calle Florida, which merely served to deepen my initial impression of Buenos Aires as a city in decline. At first glance, there was absolutely nothing European about it. The city's European qualities do in fact exist, however; they reveal themselves, as layers of an onion, gradually and with some effort to discover.

We spent a few minutes walking around the city center, about the towering obelisk in the Plaza de la republica, then broke North to meet Robert Wright, an American expat who researches books for Rick Steeves, but also gives extremely affordable tours of Buenos Aires and its many barrios to visiting English speakers. Robert is a veritable walking dictionary of Rioplatenese history; no trip to Buenos Aires is complete without taking in several of his diverse offerings. On our late afternoon tour of the famed Recoleta cemetery, Roberto enriched our experience with explanations about the cultural and architectural origins of the graveyard, as well as some remarkable anecdotes about many of its inhabitants. Recoleta is a virtual treasure trove of Argentinean history; in one short walk, one traverses the whole of the city's birth and subsequent expansion, including the mythic Evita. Oddly, there are a surprising number of cats walking the grounds as well, which appealed greatly to me.

After the tour, we visited the nearby Basilica de Nuestra Senora del Pilar, which sported an interesting museum with a gorgeous bird's eye view of the cemetery.

As daylight faded into memory, we strolled through a richly ornamented shopping mall as we made our way back to the hotel.

On our journey to Puerto Madero for dinner, we were nearly blasted for coming threateningly close to the ministry of defense, but our brief brush with death was rewarded with an outstanding dinner at one of Buenos Aires' best steak houses: la Caballeriza. My lomo cut was fairly good, as was our breaded provolone appetizer and ice cream dessert. However, we quickly learned that in Buenos Aires, there are about 20 different ways to prepare french fries, each disguised under another misleadingly sophisticated name.

Our late night feast lasted well into the night, finally coming to a close at 12:40am.

Returning to the hotel, we encountered our first example of stencil graffiti, an extremely popular and efficient mode of (mostly) political self-expression in Buenos Aires. One such example featured a silhouette of President Bush with the words "Disney War" beneath.

We passed out promptly in our hotel at around 1:30am.

Friday, July 1st

The cold tortilla espanola at the hotel breakfast buffet was acceptable, as were the eggs and cold cuts. I would have eaten more, but we were scheduled to meet Roberto at 10am sharp for his Microcentro walk, which effectively presents "Buenos Aires 101," exploring its origins as a city.

We arrived plaza de mayo nearly 10 minutes late, due to confusion as to the meeting place. We learned of the storied casa rosada (roughly the Argentinean equivalent of our White House, though no one actually lives there), Puerto Madero just beyond to the southeast, and the riotous plaza de mayo itself, just to name a few. Our walk wound down and around avenida de mayo, the financial district "la city" (site of many late demonstrations and tumultuous bank closings), with a stop at the famous Cafe Tortoni (frequented by intellectual greats such as Jorge Luis Borges) and featured some incredible art nouveau architecture, which enjoyed an extended reprieve in Argentina due to the country's neutrality in World War I.

Our afternoon included an excellent Spanish language tour of the Palacio del Congreso, with an outstanding view from the gallery of the house chamber.
We rounded out the afternoon with a visit to the Malba art museum, which featured an amazing collection by local artist Xul Solar. His imagery is thickly laden with quite palpable cultural implications; he quickly qualified as one of my favorites.

In Buenos Aires, sunset occurs at around 6pm during winter, so at dusk, we stopped at perhaps Buenos Aires' most popular ice cream parlor, Persicco, famous even amongst American visitors due to its frequent mention in English guide books, as well as a personal recommendation from Diane Lane, who claimed it churned "the best ice cream in the world." I was definitely disappointed, but my expectations were understandably high.

At around 7pm, we stopped at the Evita museum, which was one of the most enjoyable museum visits of my life. It boasted a fascinating anthology of period paraphernalia and painted a more complete portrait (albeit perhaps more than a bit biased) of Eva Peron, a figure that most Americans have only known through Madonna.

Back to the hotel we went, to redress in our Sunday best for a night of ballet at Teatro Colon, which may be this hemisphere's most impressive opera house. The multi-tiered, dark toned, balcony-rich interior was awe-inspiring, with a frescoed ceiling on which was enscribed names of the history's most acclaimed compositores. The Debussy, Don Quijote, and Ravel acts were ho-hum at best, at least the parts that I didn't sleep through. However, the Who Cares? (Gershwin) performance was lively and intense, though it intentionally resembled more a Broadway Show at times than a traditional ballet. The Buenos Aires Ballet's artistic leadership is nearly entirely American, and the Gershwin performance was set against a constantly morphing backdrop of the New York skyline. It was from this moment on that I began to recognize a bit of New York in Argentina's fairly large apple of a capital city.

Saturday, July 2nd

We began our morning with Roberto a final time. This day, we were privileged to be the first to embark on his new walking tour of Parque Patricios, a working class neighborhood in the famed rough and tumble "Sur" (technically, the southwest quadrant in this case) of Buenos Aires. Yes, we were venturing where practically no American had dared set foot before. We encountered an albergue transitorio (seedy, often themed hotel rooms rented by prostitutes and clandestine couples by the hour), a disintegrating jail used by the US-backed military junta of the late 70's and early 80's for political prisoners, vestiges of a yellow fever ridden past, many a country- or field-specific hospital, an interesting history book of an old man determined to recount his entire life story, a beautiful neo-Renaissance elementary school / Consejo Nacional de Educacion, and a very quaint neighborhood inhabiting but a block, one of Juan Peron's genuinely favorable legacies. All in all, Parque Patricios, in all of its dilapidated glory, was integral to my understanding of the capital and Argentina as a whole.

We grabbed a very filling lunch at Los inmortales, one of Buenos Aires' more well known pizzerias and apparently among its best. Photos of famous Argentineans lined the walls, though it was unclear whether any of them had actually eaten there. We ordered two large pizzas (one with sausage and mozzarella, and the other consisting of spinach and a delectably light white cheese sauce). Without a doubt, it counted amongst the best pizzas I'd ever sampled; we can thank Roberto for the suggestion, though my stomach was on the verge of nuclear explosion after five slices.

Afterwards, we stopped at one of the city's many "Havanna" cafes, which offer large chocolate-covered cookie sandwiches. I don't particularly long for such things, but Jimmy adores them.

We returned, exhausted, to the hotel, and took a long afternoon nap.

Awaking groggy but enthusiastic, we headed by subte to a busy Jewish-owned centro comercial, where the only kosher McDonald's outside Israel can be found. We first erroneously visited the full-sized McDonalds restaurant downstairs and were nearly booted for photo-taking, a hallmark of our trips together. Eventually, we ascended the two levels necessary to reach the food court, which contained two booth-style McDonalds, one ordinary and one Kosher! We were deeply saddened when we realized we had visited on the Jewish Sabbath, during which the eatery always closes, but we vowed to return the next day.

Next stop was the Ateneo libreria, Buenos Aires' most famous bookstore, a gorgeous multi-level depot placed in a hollowed out theater. I spent around 150 pesos on DVDs and books, which amounted to roughly $50 US, yet another classic Argentinean steal.

A walk through the Plaza de San Martin, in search of the Marriott, which supposedly possessed the ritziest bar in town, provided us a magnificent moonlit view the city's answer to London's Big Ben.

A rushed pre-concert dinner at Il Gatto consisted of some of the best lasagna I've ever tasted and the most beautiful hostess on which I have ever laid eyes. Typical Argentinean women have milky white skin and dark, wavy hair... definitely worth the airfare.

We had front row seats at one of Katie Viqueira's first concerts in Buenos Aires, after a long hiatus. Here infectious blend of tango and jazz with energized vocals left us begging for more. Jimmy and I each purchased one of her CDs. I've never been too keen on pop concerts, and found this hardly the highlight of the trip, but it definitely qualifies as my favorite concert ever (though Ricky Martin comes close).

Sunday, July 3^rd

Jimmy vowed to rise at 8am to watch a Formula 1 race (yawn), the majority of which he ended up sleeping through.

I awoke at around 7:30 and immediately took to the streets for a morning stroll in an unusually deserted city. The eerie absence of natives was only intensified by the dense layer of fog blanketing the looming edifices shortly after sunrise. The niebla provided optimal photography conditions, at the very least coating the city in a completely inimitable texture. I took advantage of the short window of opportunity on this, my final morning in Buenos Aires, making my way east along Avenida Corrientes, then once reaching the port, south to Plaza de Mayo, following one of the city's many incongruous diagonals back to the familiar plaza de la republica, right off of which lay the hotel.

In the hotel lobby, I briefly checked my work e-mail, then out of curiosity, took the elevator to the top floor, which revealed a curiously comprehensive exercise room and a fairly nice view of what would become our only full day of Argentinean sunshine.

We visited San Telmo, an old fashioned, touristy barrio with Bourbon street-like rows of artists peddling overpriced wares and street shows featuring circus freaks or painfully contrived tango dancers. However, the whole affair made for some good photos.

Next stop was la Boca, a short (though longer than expected) cab ride away. The multicolored assortment of corrugated iron houses, known as the Camminito, was as advertised, but far from inspiring, fraught with more tourist traps, supposedly spontaneous tango dancing, and constant requests for our money.

Somewhat unwisely, we spent the last of our small, breakable bills on a museum featuring expressive and extremely relevant but less-than-impressive works by an artist named Benito Quinquela Martin.

We had to cut our cab ride short to Puerto Madero, due to lack of funds, but eventually found Cabana las Lilas, perhaps the most famous and over hyped steak place in the city, recognized for its free-range Angus cattle, each raised at private family ranch, and of course a recommendation from Diane Lane. The steak was better than that la caballeriza, but also nearly twice the price. We learned yet another word for French fries and passed on dessert, saving room for ice cream at the popular parlor chain, Freddo.

But before the helado, we took a leisurely stroll down Puerto Madero, stopping to board a long-retired battle ship that had once sailed the seven seas, literally. The museum part, mostly below deck, provided a fascinating window into the Argentine navy, whose modern version was roundly trounced by the British in the Falkland Islands conflict of the early 80's. We reached the end of the port as the sun was bidding its final farewell to avid mate drinkers near the docks.

Night brought what Jimmy had been anxiously awaiting: a trip to the Kosher McDonald's. We ordered a Happy Meal, and Jimmy picked out a special toy for his sister. Due to a passage in the torah forbidding the act of "[boiling] a kid in its mother's milk," none of Kosher McDonald's many burger offerings have cheese. Each ingredient is purchased or prepared in full compliance with kosher tradition. However, the cheeseless burger (which also lacked condiments and vegetables) tasted strangely familiar. The fries, presumably cooked in kosher oil, tasted a bit different, but the difference was difficult to describe, if it existed at all. This snack was followed at once by a double scoop of vainilla and the very popular crema americana from nearby Freddo.

Argentina is the only country I've ever encountered whose malls surpass America's in grandeur and glamour. Many of them echo the opulence of the early 20^th Century, when Argentina had plenty of money was poised to join the US as an unrivaled Western Hemisphere superpower. Ornate frescoes and marble staircases adorn more than one of them, and they all seem extremely well frequented, regardless of day or time.

We rounded out the evening with a trip to a Walmart-like Argentinean superstore, with groceries occupying the first floor and clothing/appliances found on the second. It was both gigantic and very interesting to behold.

Monday, July 4^th

We arrived at the domestic Aeroparque Jorge Newberry with plenty of time to spare for our 10:30am flight to Puerto Iguazu, with premium seats at the very front of the economy cabin of the 737-200 aircraft. The snack boasted two different types of sandwiches de miga and toast with ciruela jelly, which was excellent. Aerolineas Argentinas even provides multiple, free rounds of wine and beer to coach passengers. Needless to say, I was quite impressed.

Our landing was traumatic as we barely cleared the rapidly approaching canopy of the selva below. Our 15-minute ride to the Iguazu Falls park, which included a onetime 30 peso per person entry fee, was fairly pleasant, though the sales pitch, for various Jungle Explorer ecotours, had begun in earnest. We were bombarded with a bevy of jungle safaris and speed boat rides, even after arriving at the resort hotel, at which we were greeted with delectable glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Many park-goers have mixed feelings about the Sheraton, a hotel constructed, with government permission, just inside the park to coincide the World Cup. It continues to loom over the park's entrance, an emblem of artificiality in stark contrast to Argentina's most breathtaking natural gift.

After getting settled at the hotel, we departed for a self-guided walking tour of the Circuito Superior (the upper path that provides a view of the falls from above). This trail provided some of the most spectacular scenery, making for magnificent photos at each and every step. However, Jimmy's memory card reached its capacity at trail's end, and we were forced to return prematurely to the hotel to transfer the existing photos to his laptop in order to make room for new ones.

For our final venture of the day, given the time constraints (it was nearly 4pm, leaving very little precious daylight) and estimated walking times for the other trails, we chose the tren de selva ride to the Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat), Iguazu's largest and most awe-inspiring collection of falls. We missed the 3:45 train and were forced to take the last departure of the day, on which we met some young Americans, including a pair of missionaries who had spent the better part of two years in Brazil. Once reaching our destination, we made the long trek down a raised metal path to the Garganta. However, before reaching our goal, we were deluged with a brief but powerful rainstorm, which left us soaked (but also a beautiful rainbow in the distance). The Devil's throat was amazing, but we found very little scenery between the train station and the attraction itself, which fortunately saved us just enough time and camera batteries to finish the day on time.

The sun set, and we hurriedly departed the park, resting briefly at the hotel while observing an interesting group of American teens from UNC-Charlotte also boarding there.

For dinner, we elected a bountiful buffet of Argentinean delicacies, for 55 pesos ($20 US) per person. The variety was unrivaled, and they even threw in several (very potent) margaritas free of charge.

Tuesday, July 5^th

Our final day in Argentina, we took advantage of the free breakfast buffet, a slightly scaled down version of the dinner buffet from the previous night.

We set out at 8am, determined to conquer the remainder of the park before our 1pm ride to the airport. Our first stop was the Circuito Inferior, which provided for our first up-close and personal contact with the falls. Jimmy and I were advised to proceed to a landing directly beneath several of the falls, only to succeed in drenching ourselves and our expensive cameras. When the same advisors attempted to sell us an 80-peso boat ride, perhaps we should have exercised caution, but on once-in-a-lifetime vacations, such considerations often scatter to the wind (or water). Reluctantly, we purchased their package and headed first for Isla San Martin, before returning to the dock for our 11am date with jungle adventure.

The rocky island was attractive but forgettable, and we returned to the dock at the appointed time, hastily blanketing ourselves with plastic panchos and discarding all valuable, water-sensitive items into a supposedly airtight bag.

Because of our unique departure point, we received a completely private ride in a boat intended for 30 passengers. The mariners at the helm were therefore able to tailor the ride to our preferences, which called for as little soaking as possible.

Our supplication, however, apparently did nothing to dissuade them from taking us directly under the falls, where we were completely soaked from head to toe. This ordeal was followed by an exceedingly frigid, wet ride along the rapids, in which we literally scraped along the tops of large boulders, on the brink of capsizing at each bump, on our way down a rather honest river towards a dock at which we were to catch an oversized jeep for a ride through the jungle.

The wet jeep trip was made tolerable by a very personable, slow-speaking Spanish guide, who took time to expound on the forest's bountiful flora and fauna, as well as respond to our many questions.

We ended up at the hotel just before noon, as promised, which allowed enough time for each of us to change into dry clothes for the trip back to Buenos Aires (and home).

My window seat on the Aerolineas return flight to Jorge Newberry saw a stunning approach over the now-glistening water of the port, bathed in majestic twilight. We flew anti-parallel to the runway, just off the coast at slightly farther than traffic pattern distance, at what seemed to be nearly decision height, making an awkwardly short turn for final and approaching the runway at a dangerously high speed. However, we touched down without incident, and I was proud to have survived my South American aviation experience.

Our final meal beckoned us to Cabana, the most expensive and swanky eatery of the entire trip. The food was magnificent, and Roberto called a remise for us as we finished our meal.

We were picked up promptly at 7:15 and arrived at Ezeiza shortly after 8pm for a 9:45pm departure. I had mixed emotions on the long ride to the airport, but my thoughts were mostly interrupted by the constant recitations of the remise driver, who had apparently been a travel agent in a current or former life. What's more, I felt the beginnings of flu like symptoms overtaking my body.

After paying the ridiculous airport tax, I was relieved to clear in business class, where I could partially rest my ailing body, which by departure time was aching and shivering in every conceivable spot.

Despite my illness and recent meal, I managed to eat a full dinner onboard the aircraft, which consisted of an appetizer of Italian salami with artichokes and roasted bell peppers; a roasted corn and bell pepper chowder garnished with pesto; gemelli pasta accented by bell pepper sauce, tossed with eggplant, sautéed spinach, cherry tomato and feta cheese, topped with roasted chicken; a cheese plate; and a sundae with dulce de leche and whipped cream.

Wednesday, July 6^th

I awoke the next morning in a private hell of congestion, a sore throat, and a splitting headache exacerbated by constant cold chills. It was Jimmy's birthday, and I had purchased him a card in Spanish, to be delivered upon our arrival in Atlanta, just before leaving Houston the previous week, but I failed to pack the card and offered him a magazine instead. As the hours passed, I struggled to survive delay after delay on my longer-than-expected journey home to Houston. I thought about all we'd accomplished, amid my worsening condition, and I managed to smile. Buenos Aires is one of the most unique of cities, rarely discovered but by only the savviest of travelers. Its diverse cultural influences set against a illusory ethnic homogeneity, its proud, resolute populace and rich history, with designs of world dominance, at odds with its struggles with poverty and political stability... when you get right down to it, Buenos Aires is one part Madrid, one part Paris, one part New York, and one part Mexico City. One might make such an observation of any international capital, but in no other place on earth do these contrasting elements emerge so fiercely as individual elements trapped in an infinite collision course. Buenos Aires is special.