Urban flower power

Naming this city 'good airs' was just clamouring for a hippie invasion. From good airs to good energy, passing by good vibes... A few snaps of this funky, laid-back Buenos Aires:



On their way back from Woodstock.



I will never complain about dog-walking again.



"I love my bicycle."

Lost in translation

Me, trying to hurriedly thank someone on the phone: "Me agradezco muchissimo."

Te agradezco muchissimo: Thank you very much
But me agradezco muchissimo?: I thank myself very much.

The writing is one the wall

"Prisoner of my hope/illusion."



"Don't think. Repeat what I say."



"Hunger is a crime."

Vocabulario

Some inpenetrable, totally Argentine slang:

FULL-- Full.
LUNCH-- Lunch.
FREAK-- Freak.
TICKET-- Ticket.

But the bizzare pronouncation (think 'frrrrik') renders understanding a little more tricky that one would assume.

San Telmo

When I first arrived to Argentina, a rainy Saturday night after more than 24 hours of travel, I was pretty dismayed by my hostel. It's not that I'm that picky-- I simply like moderate cleanliness and, if possible, a little heat. But the neighborhood of San Telmo, where the dodgy hostel is located, is lovely. And so although I bid a gleeful farewell to my first hostel quite quickly, I didn't quite leave San Telmo. I now have a very cool apartment in the "bad" part of the neighborhood, but no matter. San Telmo is noisily, witsfully, ridiculously charming. In addition to the crumbling balconies overlooking the busy streets, there is a wealth of artisan markets, including the famed Sunday feria. On that day, the Plaza Dorrego comes to life, as chic, tango-dancing pairs waltz around and antique-sellers set up their quaint stalls. You can find anything you want, with a little patience. Evita Peron memorabilia? Check. Old typewriters? Check. Mounds of irresistible jewellery? Check, unfortunately for my wallet.



An Argentine flag, an attractive building from another era and a church-- welcome to Buenos Aires.



Take your pick and bargain hard.



Tango dancer, who picks his partner from the crowd of admirers-- beware!



The feria's regular band, but with an uncommon passion in their music playing.



Pretty yellow church whose name escapes me.

Overheard in Buenos Aires

Waiter, a few minutes after I ordered: "I'm sorry but we can't make you the vegetarian calzone... we actually don't have any vegetables."

Futbol. What else?

And the fever mounts. In Argentina this month, football trumps life just as powerfully as the national team trumped Mexico today. Clearly, the entire country is riveted when it comes time for Lionel Messi and his buddy to play. But what is equally amusing is what happens after the day's sacred game is over. Honking continues for hours. The goals are incessantly replayed. Mothers of the adored players are interviewed on every channel. And when I say interviewed, I actually mean: they are lauded for their divine offspring. Last week, I (distractedly) listened to a radio program, wholly devoted to Diego Maradona, that lasted a good two hours. Various listeners called in to vociferously voice their opinions of the man. The commentator, who has clearly been thinking about 'El Diego' for a long, long time, had some sharp insight. Maradona acts as a mirror for the country, he said. Both triumph together; both come tumbling down together. And right now, the Argentine coach is worshipped once more-- but who knows for how long? Though the country's excitement regarding the World Cup is tangible in every Porteno street corner, there remains a historically-rooted nervousness. Only Saturday will tell where Maradona and the country head.



A fervent mannequin-fan in front of a shop.

Robin Hood, Argentina style

This weekend, I was explained the myth of Gauchito Gil, a bandit who is Argentina's equivalent of the legendary Robin Hood. He stole from the rich to give to the poor, and his heroism continues to thrive. Taxi drivers especially worship him, and many tout red ribbons in their vehicle as a tribute to the man many consider a saint. This weekend, another kind of devotee manifested himself. I visited a fantastic art exhibit where one of the braver artists has dressed himself up as the famous Gauchito Gil, and apparently spends eight hours, basically immobile, in his reenactment of the hero. Admirable, and also a little weird.



Yes, he is a real man.

The writing is on the wall

"Plants do not sin."



"To obey is not to live."



"Between us all, we know everything."



"And where are you from?" I answer this question an average of 3.4 times per day.

Overheard in Buenos Aires

Little boy in a cafe, following the Argentina-Mexico game that every single Argentine was huddled around a screen to hypnotically watch: (pointing out the window): "Look cars are out in the road again!"

The happiest cafe in Buenos Aires...

... or perhaps just the most schizophrenic one. On Saturday, I dined in a restaurant where every room boasted its own distinct, vibrant colour. There is the velvety red that welcomes you in, the warm yellow strip that surrounds the kitchen, the soothing blue in the back. Picasso would adore it. As did I.

Lost in Translation

After flagging down a cab:

Me: Hello, to Eduardo Madero avenue please, number XX.
Taxi driver: United States:?
Me (mildly horrified): No! I'm from Switzerland!
Taxi driver: What? I was talking about United States street, that crosses Eduardo Madero avenue.
Me: Oh.


Yo: Buenos dias, a la avenida Eduardo Madero numero XX.
Taxista: Estados Unidos?
Yo : No! Soy suiza!
Taxista: Como? Estoy hablando de la calle Estados Unidos, que cruza la Eduardo Madero.
Yo: Ah.

The writing is on the wall

"Wins whoever wins and the people lose. Don't vote."



"Who remembers us?" They're very appeased that I've arrived.



Just cute, don't think a translation is required.

VOCABULARIO

LAGRIMA-- A tear. But, chiefly a mug filled with warm milk and just a drop --or a teardrop, to be more precise-- of coffee. In my full-fledged caffeine addiction, I seem to speak of tears far too frequently.

MANDAR A FREIR PAPAS-- To order someone to fry potatoes, literally. But an expression signifying that you're rejecting a person. Who should then tend to frying fries, claro.

Horses, gauchos, pampa, oh my.

Last weekend, I had my first foray in the famed Argentine pampa, celebrated for its gauchos who gallop over endless stretches of gorgeous flats. Well, it was pretty much exactly that lovely. Save for the fact that my horseback riding skills prohibited any wild galloping, but gentle trots were pleasant enough. A few shots of the beautiful estancia, near the town of Lobos.

Overheard in Buenos Aires

Argentine (possibly with some grudges against big neighbor): "I would rather see Argentina eliminated in the first round than see the team reach the finals only to lose to Brazil."

Boca watering

If you've ever received a postcard from Buenos Aires, I'm willing to bet a few pesos it featured a gorgeous couple engaging in a passionate tango in front of a flashy yellow, orange or red building. Understandably, you focused on the gorgeous couple. But the backdrop, the famed Boca (mouth in Spanish) neighborhood, is also fantastic. It was originally a hub for Italian immigrants, then the root of Maradona's ascension and now an unmissable tourist trap. That said, it has thankfully conserved it's funky, grungy style-- if you slalom past the terrace restaurants, street mimes and throngs of visitors.

Falklands... oops, I meant Malvinas.

The short and brutal Falklands/ Malvinas (I'm going to play it safe) war occurred in 1982 but is definitely not ancient history-- quite the contrary. As these Argentine veterans protesting at Plaza de Mayo would gladly confirm.



Their camp at Plaza de Mayo, in front of the presidential palace (la casa rosada).



They stood up at one point, so I got a snap of the inside of their makeshift camp.



"The Malvinas are Argentine."