BsAs

12 hours on a red and black leather fully reclining executive armchair with widescreen TV and waitress service. That’s what £45 gets you in the Royal Suite Class on Cata Internacional Autobuses. Madness. Long distance bus travel in Argentina is brilliant. We slept pretty well and awoke on a motorway approaching Argentina’s famous capital. We were both excited, if a little tired, but I got the jolt of energy I required thanks to the free breakfast which consisted entirely of sugar in various guises, including the sweetest thing I had ever tasted: A sort of sandwich-biscuit like a wagon wheel covered in pure sugar icing. It actually made my teeth hurt. Not sure why or how I finished it. The Argentines love their sweet stuff it seems.

Caught the train to Palermo and walked to our hostel. An unimposing place with subtle signage – we nearly walked right past it. I stuttered an introduction in Spanish to a pair of eyes that peered out of a small hatch in the door. Translated thus: “i have a reservation for this night Mr Doyle”. The eyes replied: “Dabeed?”. I blank. The door remains shut. What do they mean? They repeat “Dabeed”. I don’t understand. “Dabeed?” the man says two or three times more before relenting to my ignorance and opening the door saying “dabeed Doyle?”. The peso drops, I feel stupid. I often feel stupid, mostly when speaking bad Spanish to the Spanish speaking locals – of which there are many. Still, day by day we are both learning new words, each one making us feel slightly less stupid.

Palermo is a newly affluent suburb filled to bursting with restaurants and cafes and bars and shops. A nightmare for the hungry ditherer. Selecting a place to eat or drink requires focus, or preferably expert guidance. The latter appeared in the form of David Hilton – a friend from school and local resident. Not only did he take us to a great local restaurant, but he shared his considerable local wisdom with us, imparted his knowledge of Argentine history to us, and invited us to his flat for some drinks and food, where we met his mum, step-dad and girlfriend. We also tried some Mate – the national beverage. It’s a bitter brew of dried leaves made in a special decorated cup or gourd and sipped through a metal straw. It’s a daily ritual, and you share your cup with close friends or family. A quality day spent with Senor Hilton. Dave’s character isn’t unique though – nearly every Argentine we’ve met has been friendly, warm and courteous. They seem to have a genuine lust for life, making the most of every day – and they really do make the most of those. Your typical Argentine will be up early to work, have an hour or so break for lunch, then it’s coffee and (more very sweet) pastries after work, then dinner at 10 or 11 (12, even 2am at the weekends). I don’t think they really sleep! Coffee and cakes must be the source of their energy, or perhaps it’s the beef.

The Amazing Beef.
There must be a devastating number of cow carcasses awaiting butchery in thousands of abatoirs throughout the land. Each one to be divided up into juicy cuts of various sizes, destined for the flaming coals of some Argentinian parilla (grill). And thank God for those carcasses. They produce really great steaks, and they are cheap and often massive – I’ve never eaten so many in such a short time. The best beef experience I have possibly ever had was the Asado, a national Sunday tradition where a whole beef rib rack is roasted slowly over coals, cut up and devoured. It makes British roast beef look like a dainty vol-au-vent.

Speaking of dainty treats reminds me of my exploits as a Tango dancer. Well, maybe dainty isn’t quite right…no I’m definitely not a dainty dancer, but surprisingly I did okay as we took a 90 minute Tango lesson at one of Senor Hilton’s recommended places – a dusty, very grand old ballroom in the centre of town. It was like stepping back in time. Our teacher was named (amazingly) Professor Omar. Dressed all in black this old master of the Tango was short, stockily built, and posessed an aura of mystery. He took me by the hands and walked me through the steps…”one-a, two, three, four, five…six, seven and-a-eight…” and again…and then again. I’d never danced the Tango, let alone with a stranger, and when that stranger was the mysterious Professor Omar, I was relieved to resume my lesson in the more conventional company of Siobhan. Who of course found the whole thing highly amusing.

We saw the pro’s do it properly at a classic old Tango venue called Cafe Tortoni, with live musicians and a insanely skilled drummer man with balls on string that he swung at high speed, the balls striking the floor to a hypnotically fast beat.

Our second abode in the city was another relapse into luxurious anti-budgetting. We had a two storey duplex apartment with massive windows, kitchen, cable TV and fresh towels every morning. It cost £40 a night, which was twice as much as a hostel but ten times as comfortable. From there we explored the old neighbouhood of San Telmo which has a giant Market every Sunday mostly selling antiques and random oddities but also food, cheap leather goods (thanks to all those steaks), and of course the usual touristy souvenirs and your fair share of cross-legged crusties selling beads and feathers on the pavement. We watched a samba band on the street who were really getting their audience going. We were clapping – a real party atmosphere, and then the crowd dispersed. They moved towards a strange metallic rattling and cheering that approached from the road to our right. The sound came from a hundred or more cyclists who were charging down the cobbles, waving, smiling and flying banners behind them. I have absolutely no idea what was going on. They really do have some energy these people, and, although it’s a cliche, they do have passion. We saw two street protests in two days apart from the cyclist frenzy. The people have no hesitation in expressing their anger, grief or joy in public, and demonstrations form part of the weekly routine. Every Sunday for instance, mothers of the victims of the fascist dictatorship (at least 30,000 dead or missing) gather in the city’s main square to grieve, pacing in a circle around the Plaza de Mayo. They do this directly opposite the Casa de Rosada (pink house) – the seat of government. Perhaps one day they will receive some sort of compensation from the state. Until then, they will keep on marching.

The Casa de Rosada was where Eva (Evita) Peron made her famous speeches. There is a museum of her life a few metro stops away in Recoleta. It showed how in only 5 years or so she went from actress to President’s wife, and an international ambassador for Argentina. A passionate (and radical) socialist, she instigated huge welfare reform in the country and created new schools, orphanages, rest homes and nursing colleges. She died of cancer at 33, her body was mutilated, and the military dictatorship seized power. Fearing a public uprising, her body was taken to Italy and was hidden under a false name grave. There was a third Presidency for Colonel Peron in the early 1970′s cut short by his death in ’74, The right wing military again took power and finally allowed Evita’s body to return to her beloved city in 1976, after 24 years in exile. We saw her tomb in the City cemetary, she is not beside her husband because, as the museum guide told us, together they would be like “a bomb”.

Buenos Aires was a great city, with a complex, chequered past and a tangible energy. Definitely one of those truly special places – for the people, the architecture, and of course the beef.

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