One and a half hours to Frankfurt, followed by 13 hours to Buenos Aires in the most cramped seats I’ve ever been on, with stewardesses who glare at anyone who has the audacity to go to the toilet, let alone try to keep the blood flowing in one’s veins.
We arrive in the capital early in a morning of grey skies and biting wind, at least 1000 degrees below zero. The last few months have been fraught for several reasons, Rupert getting a new job, me battling the worst depression I’ve had in years, the death of our beloved dog. And so we put some of the organisational sides of the trip into the hands of a local guide company who insisted on providing us with a transfer to the hotel they’d booked but didn’t seem to realise that we might have wanted early check in. So we drive through a landscape of lakes – “we always get a really bad storm on the 31st of August, this is usually grassland,” which eventually grows a scattering and then a mishmash of buildings; high rise blocks with iron railings like something out of West Side Story, interspersed with the spires of churches, square, industrial warehouses, sports pitches, freeways that rise and wind around each other, filled with rushing, beeping traffic – and everywhere are pictures of Messi, advertising butter and yogurt and sports gear and holidays. The buildings become sharper – elegant Regency blocks next to glass skyscrapers, black tiled Parisian monoliths – and there are more pictures of Messi, *one beautifully painted on the high walls of an office block. I am desperate to take everything in, but am also deaf from the aircraft, desperate for a shower, dizzy with tiredness and freezing cold and when we arrive at our hotel to find that we aren’t able to check in for another six hours, I just want to cry. But there’s nothing for it, but to head out, onto the streets of the city at 7am in the morning.
We head straight to the Plaza de Mayo, where we have been told to expect a flea market later in the morning, walking along not-quite-cobbled streets of restaurants (all closed of course) and shops, (ditto) squat modern buildings and older, stained buildings of wrought iron balconies and shell scalloped doorways. Paintings of skies and animals, tango dancers and, you’ve guessed it, Messi, adorn the walls. The Plaza de Mayo is a city square, complete with enormous, spreading tree and lit by Victorian street lamps and built round an towering statue of somebody. It is surrounded by auspicious looking buildings – one of which is the Cathedral and, looking for warmth, this is where we head first. As it is Sunday, I am expecting a buzz of preparation, an atmosphere of incense and prayer, but it is strangely empty, just a few tourists wandering around, dropping to their knees in a quick genuflection before posing for selfies against the backdrop of pink marble and gold pillars. There are stunning mosaic floors – yellow lilies on a blue background – and the enormous tomb of San Jose de San Martin, the liberator of Argentina, in its own chapel guarded by three scary looking marble figures – Argentina, Peru and Chile.
Unfortunately, there’s only so long you can hang out in a Cathedral, however warm it is, without feeling guilty that you are no longer Catholic, so we head out into the subzero temperatures again to find Coffee. Which is being served in a small and dingy cafĂ© whose staff and customers are looking suitably Sunday morningish bleary eyed and we have our first Argentinian empanadas, which are half hot half cold, but we are English so we eat them anyway, because what is a little food poisoning compared to being rude?
By the time we head out again, the promised flea market is waking up and we wander around craft stalls selling hand made jewellery, Mate cups and straws, alpaca sweaters and mate cups and straws, elfen statuettes and mate cups and straws. On a corner, a couple of dancers perform a tango to the appreciative eyes of a small crowd and at last I feel that I am in Argentina. For a bit.
The next day, suitably fed and slept, we head out again, on what I think is a compulsory Beanos Aires tour, where we are taken back to the Plaza de Mayo, and told that the Casa Rosada – the old seat of Government – (At least, I think that’s what the guide says but there is now a hurricane blowing and even the German couple with us are bouncing up and down with cold, teeth chattering and icicles dripping from their eyebrows) was originally painted with the blood of animals to get the pink colour (no explanation of which animals – frogs? Cows? Mice?) and that the stones surrounding another statue were put there in remembrance of those who have died of Covid – which is surprisingly touching. We are then taken to admire the training grounds of the La Boca team, before being let loose on the streets of La Boca – the slum area of the original harbour where people painted their houses with any leftover paint they could find, resulting in a now gentrified area of bright red and green – but mostly blue and gold – rows of shops and alleyways and restaurants. This is where the Tango was born - workers from around the world crammed into tiny housing, taking to the streets to burn energy and communicate in the only language they had in common - music and dance. Rupert is kidnapped and forced into a tango hat and waistcoat and a nubile young woman drapes her arms and legs over him for a photograph which he then insists was done under duress. But at least we have made a contribution to the local economy. A note about colour at this point: Apparently when they were trying to decide the colours for the La Boca team, they decided to use the colours of the next ship which sailed into port – which turned out to be Swedish. This has resulted in a tour round Argentina feeling a little like being trapped in Ikea.
The afternoon is spent wandering the streets of the city, visiting an old Theatre which has been redeveloped into a bookshop - quite a sight, though presumably only millionaires can afford to buy the books there – not that there are many for such a big space. Rupert samples his first - and best – choripan – Argentinian hot dog. Due to an internet failure we are let into the city cemetery which is somewhere we probably wouldn’t have chosen to go into if we had had to pay. But we are glad that we have in the end. It is a quite bizarre, and tragic little village of tombs, alleyways of marble and stone houses complete with weeping angels and cherubs and a sense of desperation to prove that “We were alive! We lived! We were once important to the world!” or “They were alive! They lived! They were once important to the world!” I believe that Eva Peron is here, but we don’t see her tomb and somehow, the idea of searching every inch for it seems morbid and not fair on the other people buried here.
We visit the San Telmo market - not dissimilar to the Borough markets in London. Here there are more shops selling mate cups and gem stones, but also there are food stalls, surrounded by tables at which people crowd, vying for attention to get served - there are no queues here! This is where El Hornero, a marble worktopped shop, huddles in a dark corner, churning out the best empanadas in the world, complete with a spicy tomato salsa. Roquefort and mozzarella, tripe, cheese and ham - everything we try is wonderful. Even the tripe isn't too bad. On the way back to the hotel, we pass a tiny church sandwiched between a couple of shops and, on an impulse, decide to take a look - only to discover a rehearsal going on for a performance of a Schutz cantata, with period instruments, including two violins, theorbo, trumpets, and four soloists, three of whom are superb. It is a Lutheran church - apparently the first in Argentina and we stay and listen for as long as we feel is not too rude.
In the evening we head out to a Tango show. Okay it’s very touristy, but when in Argentina…Here again, we profit from mishap – there is a problem with the show that we had booked – the earlier one – and so we are offered a tango lesson to fill the time till the next one. Somewhat surprisingly, our marriage survives and we vow to practise every day…then head into the theatre/restaurant where we are fed – steak of course. I am prepared for a touristy mix of dance and music but the whole show is, I have to say, fantastic. Rupert and I play a lot of Tangos together but I am still surprised to find that the dancing is very much secondary to the music in the show – in fact it’s the musicians I can’t take my eyes off, though dancing is usually what makes me weep. There are two violinists, a pianist, a bandoneanist, and some background cellos and basses. The violinists are superb, if a little bored looking, and a guy comes on to play a Ukelele type instrument and sing presumably Guarani inspired folk songs. There are two other singers and a dancer/percussionist/S&M type person complete with whips and astonishing sense of rhythm. The whole thing is thrilling and beautiful until the end when suddenly they put on a recording of Don’t cry for me Argentina, and the whole cast stand to attention with tears in their eyes and sing along. The audience sits, watching in baffled silence and then everyone shuffles out, a little embarrassed.
The following day, a Wednesday, we make our way to the Modern Art museum which is, of course, closed on Wednesdays. The sun has decided to come out today, so we walk, instead, to the river which has been poshed up into something very reminiscent of the South Bank in Brisbane, with al fresco restaurants and just-beginning-to-blossom trees alongside the glittering water. We pass the Catholic University where an animated crowd of Bright Young Things sit outside, chattering and flirting over cups of whatever Starbucks thinks is coffee, whilst a flock of parrots chatters and flirts in the trees above their heads. Beyond that is a newish pedestrian bridge – The Bridge of Women, named to compensate for all the streets in the city being named for men. It is a graceful white arc over the river and seems to serve mainly as a space for more Tango dancers and more opportunities for taking selfies.
Though I love London and Riyadh and Singapore I don’t think either of us are really city people however and we are now looking forward to moving on to discover the rest of Argentina. It is hard to believe most of the time, that we are in South America. Buenos Aires feels like a big European City with its Parisian and Spanish buildings, the modern glass skyscrapers. It is a relaxed and modern city. A mate and Messi obsessed city. A city of dancers and busy shops and Dulce de Leche; a city of restaurants and theatres and museums; of universities filled with chattering, glowing young people and a city where whole families forage in the bins for food. But where is the South America we have dreamed of all these years?
*I have a soft spot for Messi as he looks so like Nigel Kennedy, but after a while, I have to say that I would have appreciated a painting of Eva Peron every so often...
