Sunday was a lazy day, but ended up being a long one. The plan was to have breakfast, and then head out to check out the market at San Telmo – not too far from the hotel. What we were going to do after that was anyone’s guess? I was certain it wasn’t going to take all day to see the street performers, musicians and shops (since I had been here back in 1996 and knew what to expect - more or less,) and with Randy coming in, having never met him, I was keeping my options open.
So I met Rich at about 9am for breakfast, and too soon afterwards needed some time alone in the men’s room to, um, flush my system. Bottled water? Cooked eggs? The open pitcher of orange juice? I don’t know what it was that caused this disruption in my innards, but it wasn’t fun for a bit. Fortunately, it didn’t last long and I was up and about in a flash – or a flush as the case may be.
While hanging out in my room waiting for the stampede running around inside my intestines to calm down, Randy calls and has arrived at the hotel. Hey, that’s pretty cool. Good timing. So at about 10:30, roughly the same time the buffalos decided they had had enough of me, we all meet down in the lobby. Randy recognized me pretty easily. When you’re in a foreign country, it’s usually not too hard to locate the American tourist with a camera bag slung over the shoulder, jeans, and sneakers, when everyone else is, well, international. It may have been a good thing that I didn’t wear my green/pink spiky hairdo today, and had forgotten to bring my Stetson, chaps and spurs, but then again, this is meat country, so I may have fit in a little better wearing the spurs than the sneakers. Anyway, we head outside to hail a cab.
Just outside the hotel is a small taxi stand where one just happened to be waiting for a fare. So we head over and Randy asks if he’ll take us to San Telmo – in pretty decent Spanish! Now wait just a minute. Randy’s been telling me how little Spanish he knows, and now he appears to be talking to the cabbie in the native tongue. Hmmm. However, the cab driver won’t take 3 of us, only 2. There aren’t any other cabs around, but this one does have space for 3. But no, he won’t do it. So we go back into the hotel, and ask them to get us a cab. Now I really don’t remember exactly how it happened, but either the desk clerk called the taxi company or he went outside to check, but at some point the driver relented and waved us all to get in. Apparently when the hotel tells them to take 3 people, they take 3 people. And not for anyone else. Sheesh.
So we head over to San Telmo, about a 5 minute drive. Not bad. We get out of the taxi and across the street see the party going on in full swing. The fair is confined to a long stretch of one street that is closed to traffic. Maybe about 10 blocks or so. Not exactly the way I remember it, but interesting nevertheless. So the three of us plow headlong into the crowd.
It’s pretty much the same kind of arts and crafts we had seen yesterday in Recoleta, but a heck of a lot more of it. And since this was on a regular street, although a narrow side street, there were shops and bars along the way. So after slugging it out in the hot, burning sun of the Argentine summer, we finally decided to stop at a local watering hole to quench the deep thirst we had developed along the way, after a long haul of about 2 blocks.
Now over the past week or two as we’ve been putting this rush job of a trip together, Randy’s been telling me that his Spanish is pretty bad, even though his wife is from Venezuela, and his kids can speak the language. Now I did question that to myself when he first told me that he didn’t speak Spanish all that well, but since I really didn’t know him, I just let it go.
So we find a table and sit down, while Randy begins to order a Jack Daniels Black, speaking to the waiter, again in Spanish. Now this isn’t your regular USA high school stumbling and bumbling Spanish that I speak, or rather blurt from time to time when I have to, but it’s the kind that only one who has been speaking it for years can do. The bastard’s been sandbagging me. Come to think of it, he’ll fit right in with this crowd! And over time, he does. And that's a good thing.
After the waiter returns with our order, Randy downs his tumbler of JD Black, Rich knocks off his bottle of cerveza, and down my gullet, I pour a frozen lemonade with ginger and mint. Now what’s wrong with this picture?
Once we have satisfied our dehydration with our manly drinks (ok, so 2 out of 3 were manly) we head back down the happy trail of sightseeing and shopping goodslooking (I’m thinking that it’s time to come up with a new word for shopping, such as goodslooking, as I’m really getting sick and tired of not only hearing it, but writing it as well.)
So we meander down the street wandering through the thickets of knitted sweaters, leather belts, hand-crafted earrings, really cheap shot glasses, and other touristy goods, or bads, when we hit the end of the road. Huh? Where’s all of the music and tango dancing and face painting and other stuff we were warned about? Oh? Whatta ya mean it’s a holiday week? Yep, it’s the tail end of a holiday week here in Bs As. Go figure.
This reminds me of the time back in ’96 when I was in Rio de Janeiro for 1 day on business. My business associate and I arrived the day before a scheduled customer meeting, and we were staying at Ipanema beach. Yes, this was the most famous and (arguably) sexiest beach in the world. Skimpy bathing suits, volleyball playing, bike riding, girl people watching. My hotel room was on the 16th floor directly across the street from the beach with the most perfect view you can imagine overlooking the beach. Kids, it doesn’t come any better. Well, maybe it does. At the hottest beach in the word, it was raining and the beach was deserted. Depression and a deep bout with alcoholism with years of therapy followed almost immediately afterwards.
But back to yesterday. I purchased nothing, Rich got a baseball cap to protect his shaved noggin from the sun, as he and I were getting somewhat red from all of the shopp walking we’ve been doing. And I don’t think that Randy got anything except for a strained neck from looking at all of the, um, jiggling things that were happily bouncing around. Oh, I got that too.
After we took inventory, we headed back to the hotel to regroup.
Since I have to head out at 5am tomorrow for Bogota, I’m gonna have to shorten this as it’s now a bit after 9pm.
Our trip co-ordinator, Elisabeth, met us for dinner at a really nice restaurant that serves Parilla (Argetine Parilla - delicious grilled meats and sides Parilla is every day Argentine food served on virtually every city block of Buenos Aires…), after being about an hour late because she had to “charge her phone.” Yeah, right. But we all had a really good time and did the normal European dinner thing starting to eat at about 9pm and not finishing until about midnight. Great food, great company, and great time had by all. Not a bad day after all. Except for being sandbagged that is.
And the story for today goes like this: Woke up, had a bite to eat, went to the office, listened to a presentation, gave a presentation, listened to a presentation, listened to a presentation, went to lunch, came back from lunch, had a discussion with the locals on how to compete against our nemesis', walked back to the hotel, went down to the pool where when the wind blew the wrong way it stunk from the plumbing (or lack thereof), and then finally began writing my blog.
So here it ends for day 4, our last day in Buenos Aires. Tomorrow, Bogota, and having dinner with old friends. Can't even imagine what might happen.
Ciao.
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