Of the aged and odd

Today I witnessed two fantastic incidents of old people, in two different parts of the city, doing weird and awesome things.

The first: Walking on 25 de Mayo just off the Plaza de Mayo was a woman, probably in her mid seventies, who was literally and purposefully leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind her. There were no birds to feed or anything of the sort but every few steps she’d reach into a grocery bag and scatter a handful of crumbs beside her. She was walking very slowly and deliberately but the expression on her face suggested total distraction.

The second: Walking on Avendida Cordoba was a man, also in his mid-seventies, dragging a very old, bright orange vacuum cleaner behind him. There are more obvious explanations for his behavior than there are for the trail of breadcrumbs (perhaps he was taking the vacuum to be repaired, for instance) but it was still an odd thing to see on a crowded street, particularly given the garish color of the machine.

Both of these little vignettes were made all the more arresting by the drizzle that has, as of just moments ago, become an all-out rain.

May I pause to pontificate*: Old people doing weird things are so much better to watch than young or middle-aged folks doing weird things. It has something to do with the way in which we tend to attribute great wisdom and calm to the elderly and something to do, at least for me, with a strong desire to believe that the freedom to discard basic social norms afforded to the very young will resurface when we reach our twilight years. When I reach a certain age (perhaps 76) I, for one, have every intention of chain-smoking in public places (which by then will surely be entirely illegal), owning a veritable mountain of hairless cats, yelling at passersby whatever comes to mind as relevant to them or to me, drinking gin martinis at all hours and eating anything I want whenever the hell I want it. Considering today’s observations, I also think it an excellent idea to traverse a large city leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in my wake–just to see what that feels like.

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*It seems to me somewhat superfluous to write this phrase in a first-person journalistic endeavor such as a blog. Of course I’m pontificating. That’s all I do when I blog. (Caveat: that’s sort of all I do anywhere.)

Of el Tango

Last night I went to a milonga. These are a kind of party held in halls where people congregate to dance tango. Typically you see a large central dance floor surrounded by tables where people sit and drink and look out for partners to dance with as they watch those already on the floor. This particular milonga was part of a tango festival so in addition to the normal dances were a few “shows” (pronounced ‘chose’) where a well-known couple takes the floor and dances, ellos solos, for a song or two. Sometimes the music is live, and this is always fantastic–especially so if there’s a good accordion player. Last night the music wasn’t en vivo, although there was a brief interlude in which an accordion virtuoso offered a solo.

There were four couples last evening who danced for the benefit of a happy audience. Two young couples and two much older couples. All were wonderful to watch. There’s something particularly great about watching the older couples for no reason other than you get the sense that they’ve been dancing this way for decades, that they know something more about what it means to dance the tango.

For lack of a better way to describe it, the tango looks a lot like a performed interpretation of foreplay. It’s all hesitation and delivery and hesitation again. I have been watching for weeks now, trying to figure out how the women know when to move and in which direction and as of yet I haven’t a clue.  The torsos of the dancers remain very close to each other and somewhat rigid but the their legs move fluidly and there are all sorts of sweeping gestures and kicks, little flourishes that vary with each dance. Imagine the dance version of a woman lifting a single leg as she kisses a man.

What’s most enjoyable about a good milonga is the variety of people in attendance. Last night the crowd was a little cheto, which is to say wealthy and potentially a bit snobby, but there were nonetheless a sizable portion of young hipsters, foreigners and the like. These dances go all night as well. When I left at 3 a.m., it was still standing room only in the hall.

Tango originated in lower class, immigrant neighborhoods at the close of the 19th century. It was appropriated by the Argentine aristocracy and thus became a more broadly practiced dance and more commonly played music in the early years of the 20th century. But, at least according to a friend of mine, as a popular pastime it was mostly absent–which is to say dangerous and more or less prohibited–during the years of the dictatorship. It, like any folk practice, falls in and out of favor. At the moment, though, it seems a legitimately popular way to while away the night. And while I don’t know a step, I love to sit and watch.

La Boca and simulacra

Well, my dearest comrades, let me tell you of my wanderings. I took a tour this week of a little barrio in Buenos Aires known as La Boca, so-named because it is situated at the mouth of the highly polluted Riachuelo. The neighborhood is (and long has been) working class. In the late 19th and early 20th century immigrant families who labored at the docks here painted the barges which trafficked meat and leather goods along the river. The story goes that they used any remaining paint for the brick and corrugated-metal walls of their homes. While the industry which employed them has mostly vanished, the residents continue the tradition. Hence the broad range of color on any given street. It truly is beautiful.

The thing about La Boca (as any guidebook will tell you) is it’s dangerous. I’ve been advised not to stray from a few square blocks devoted to selling tango shows, souvenirs and Boca Juniors (the barrio’s well-known soccer team) apparel.

In this area in La Boca everything about the barrio is forced performance. For example, instead of allowing people to stand on the balconies of the buildings, they put grotesque statues of ‘old-timey’ porteños. Instead of hosting real milongas, or tango dances, they hire young men and women to dance for onlookers at every street cafe, all wearing somewhat ridiculous costumes that I think are meant to indicate an earlier, lovelier epoch of tango.

Despite the warnings from locals and the guidebook, my friend and I wandered (albeit a mere block) outside the designated tourist trap. It was fantastic, though the the colors on these houses are considerably faded. Stray dogs run everywhere as do children and real-live folks stand on balconies and mill about on doorsteps. There is a ‘there’ there, far superior to the bizarro simulacra that is “La Boca” as tourists see it. I do get the sense that the people that live in the barrio are perfectly happy to keep outsiders relegated to their specific square mile and relatively controlled, so perhaps there’s something to be said for the power of imitation. Certainly, given the radical politics of this particular neighborhood and the class status of its residents, throngs of camera-toting Europeans and Americans out to see what ‘real’ Argentines live like would be, in a word, repulsive.

Either way, it’s a fascinating thing about certain kinds of travel–so much of what you see is a reference to something you don’t, a representation of an original that never really existed.

Of heat and difference

According to the heat index it was about 99 degrees today as I wandered, for two hours, with little aim around the city. I walked from my apartment in Recoleta to Plaza Congreso to Obelisco to Plaza de Mayo. Meandered a bit around the latter ye ol’ plaza and then headed back home to arrive, with luck, just before the late afternoon rain began.

I had time during this fine, extremely hot walk of mine to think on the differences I note between my lovely Los Angeles and here. And, to amuse and confound you, I came up with the following list of notable distinctions:

1.) Dish soap: it’s so much soapier here, somehow, but considerably less affective at cutting grease.

2.) Wine: cheaper if you buy the local stuff and oh soooo delicious.

3.) Bidets: Porteños love bidets. I wonder if it doesn’t come from their long admiration of French culture, but I swear I have yet to see an apartment without one.

4.) Dinner: so much later. I never eat before 9 p.m. and usually it’s more like 10:30.

5.) The weekend: everyone strolls about in the afternoons, but really wakes up at night. It is not unusual to see folks in their 60s and 70s out at one, two, three in the morning. And the young ones? Up until the dawn and then some. Plenty of bars and clubs stay open until 9 a.m.

6.) The manner in which coffee is brewed: Now at a café espresso machines are the norm, but somehow the coffee is usually weaker than it should be. For the home barrista like myself I’ve seen Italian percolators for sale as well as French presses, but by far what appears the most common (and cheapest) method is a re-useable cotton filter not unlike a sock with some wire holding it open where you’d slide your foot in. For a coffee snob like myself, this has been a serious adjustment. And let’s not forget that we are in South America so Nescafe has quite a hold at the local grocery stores. Instant coffee abounds, if not at the local restaurants, certainly in the aisles of the CarreFour.

7.) Plastic surgery: Now coming from Los Angeles, you’d think this wouldn’t be so different. But it is. People love plastic surgery here. There are fake breasts and sculpted noses in every direction. From what I hear this is common across Latin America, particularly in Brazil and Columbia.

8.) Parks: In my neighborhood there are many, as in nearby barrio Palermo, but what’s most impressive? Every park has its own Facebook page. I can’t do all the confirming on this that I’d like to (because I, despite much prodding by the general public and the vague sense that I will be single forever and increasingly incapable of making friends without membership, am not on Facebook) but it appears, indeed, to be true. Perhaps parks everywhere are on Facebook these days, but never have I seen a placard in a park inviting me to ‘friend’ it.

Oh sweet, sweet Buenos Aires. How muggy and lovely you truly are!