I went on a little bit of a literary adventure today...but first some fun with the gay guys I met at the cafe. For those of you not interested in aerobics and general gay-ness (oh wait, who are you and why are you reading my blog?) and only interested in the literary-ness of the day can skip to part II - Borges below.
I - doing aerobics in Recoleta
It rained in Beunos Aires today, which was a relief to me, cooling things off a bit and making me glad for carrying that umbrella I purchased in Seattle for the trip (thanks Laurie!) no longer a useless bit of weight in my bag. I sat in the cafe longer than usual this morning - watching the portenos (term for the people who live in the port of Buenos Aires) run by in the rain with no coats (summer) or umbrellas - I was about to remark that I thought it funny none of them have them when of course an old lady with a little blue and red plaid umbrella walked by as if on cue.
While hanging out at the cafe, the waitress asked me where I was from and I said America and when she questioned me further I told her I was from San Francisco. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I had 2 new friends, the well appointed men from a nearby table, who overheard and came to ask where in the city I lived. Marcelo and Serge had been there last year for pride and thought it was the greatest thing ever. I said I thought Buenos Aires seemed like a nice city too, but, well they were not swayed and regaled me with some of their pride filled debauchery from the year before.
Anyway, oddly enough in the course of talking, I ended up with an invitation to go to the gym with them and since it was raining I thought what the heck. Now I thought I'd just be lifting some weights and spending sometime on the treadmill...little did I know what they had in store for me. what seemed like an innocent trip to the gym - me thinking "this is great, before I head off on some gastronomical adventures involving too much beef, I can work some of it off" - turned into something completely different. Imagine aerobics - think circa 1980 - with ten to twelve sweating, screaming, adorable, lycra-clad, (I'm pretty sure they were all) gay men (yes one of them even wore a pink headband ala Jamie Lee Curtis) and in the center of it all me, kinda out of shape, decent dancer, girl from small town Vermont, suddenly like Madonna or something.
Like many other moments in my travels, if you had told me when I was 15 or 20 that this would be happening to me one day, I never would have believed you. Anyway, we sweat, danced, sang and generally shook our collective bootie to all manner of American and Latino pop songs ( I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd played Olivia Newton John's "physical"...but they didn't...but you can imagine the great dancing that ensued when they DID play Madonna's like a virgin) and all the while I was oddly the guest of honor simply because I hailed from that strange epicenter of the gay universe, San Francisco. Like my midnight taxi ride in London from the Iraqi Kurd who drove me - this may in fact be the highlight of this trip, and unless Deep gets on a plane to have a flashdance down here in B.A. I am not sure the dancing will get any more fun. It IS fun to be a star for a day.
II - Borges
So, now for what will undoubtedly seem like a boring adventure to many of you...especially the lycra-wearing aerobicists...but I share it because I know a handful of you might like it, plus, secretly - all the fun of the aerobics class aside - this is even more my kind of rainy day fun.
First off - I hit the largest English language bookstore in BA. It was about the size of ritual coffee (for those of you who live in the mission) and about the size of two rooms from front to back, butt interesting none the less. I went hoping to pickup a volume of Jorge Luis Borges' work, he being the best known author from Argentina, and one of the foremost writers of the twentieth century. I have never read him until now, but thought, when in Rome...
The bookstore - always a good idea to hang out in one on a rainy day - also had some wonderful English editions of books that I had never seen - all the Haruki Murakami books here have these very tasteful, arty black and white covers some with photography - and not the strange designs of all the editions I have on my shelf. Additionally, I picked up a copy of Graham Greene's the Quiet American with the most splendid cover. (yes, I know I didn't have to add any more weight to my bag, but well...I did - and what better way to do it!).
Anyway, after departing the bookstore and grabbing a quick bite (more of those yummy toasted ham and cheese sandwiches) I successfully crossed the world's widest street, Av 9 de Julio, which really does have 12 lanes to arrive at Borges last residence. I had hoped for something poetic written on the wall of a very old building - like the domicile of Camille Claudel in Paris, but instead there was just a simple brass plaque with his name and a short note on it, next to a ladies shoe store. Confronted with this juxtaposition of new and old, I continued on.
I wandered past many tourist attractions I plan to come back and visit next week - the Museum of Arms, the Plaza San Martin, Tango street performers - and reached my destination - Cafe Florida a known hangout of Borges and famous Argentine painter Perez Celis. I am sure this is not the cafe of Borges time - situated on the pedestrian thoroughfare of Florida Street - now a busy upscale walking mall of sorts with business people and lots of tourists. Whenever I picture a cafe or bar hangout of some author I always seem to think of dark, sticky floored hole in the wall places like Vesuvio in SF, but alas Cafe Florida is no such hovel. It is instead a slick, clean, well lit cafe with copper covered columns and many bustling shoppers and businessmen. That said, I can report, however, that the Argentinian cafe culture, much like that born in France so long ago seems to be alive and well, as 8 businessmen, only a couple in suits are having quite a serious discourse a few tables away. It is another moment when I wish I knew the Spanish so I might understand what they are talking about.
I sit reading Borges, from my new volume, and wonder if my science fiction reading friends (yes that's you Adrian, Liz and Deep among others ;) have read the bit about Tlon? I must admit that while he's a bit hard to read (and that's before the cerveza) with so many thoughts and ideas packed into few, and many big, words - I find his stories oddly captivating. The tidbit I like the most about him is that he apparently was more a reader and lover of books than he was a writer...not to mention the dedication of his first book of fiction, "Universal History of Inequity" is simply beautiful.
Perhaps I will read more tonight...I had hoped to find a good dj and go dancing somewhere for this my first Friday night in BA, but with my booty-shakin' friends off to holiday in Montevideo for the next two weeks I am left with no good suggestions for places to go, and frankly a little bit sore. I think the aerobics class may have been enough dancing for one day.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Estoy en Buenos Aires
So after a trip that included not one but two overnight flights I have arrived in Buenos Aires (sorry, I love E.M. Forester so much I had to borrow, and bastardize, one of his great lines from a Room With a View). The first thing I notice is that its hot, even at 5 am when I exit the airport. It is not until I get downtown and off the freeway that I realize why people say its like Paris, passing a church that looks like a replica of one near where I stayed in Paris, I am taken back in time...and place.
It has taken me a few days to get my sleeping and eating to resemble anything normal, but I have managed to get out and about, find good things to eat and drink and familiarize myself with the surroundings. I am in the land of the macchiato – except here it is called cafe cortado – and it is excellent!
I am now settled into cheap, but delightful digs in the Recoleta neighborhood. I am staying in an old converted mansion, with exquisite marble spiral staircase, old fireplaces and high vaulted ceilings, now divided into much smaller rooms, but friendly staff, firm bed and very clean. And there is a very nice – and air conditioned – cafe, cafe Pacheco, on the corner with wi-fi. They haven't quite figured me out yet, but I give them another day or so before they bring me coffee in the morning and midday, and ask me if I want an orange fanta or cerveza in the afternoon.
Its summer here and that, as much as the time change (6 hours ahead of SF) is as much a shock to the system...I keep thinking its like 5pm dusk like winter back home, when I look at my watch and realize its 9pm! Its only mildly sticky - not like the undauntingly sluggish humidity of Boston or New York in the summertime, and every evening around dinner time the wind seems to blow as if its about to rain, but until this evening it hadn't.
It is like Paris - only dingier and everyone is walking around speaking Spanish. The city is filled with many fashionistas, and they seem to have a collective shoe fetish to rival Imelda's...or my sister's. Even the older ladies at tea are wearing their little strappy silver high heels, the variety of flashy bright footwear is simply astounding!
And yes they have tea in the afternoon. I haven't figured out if its formally a leftover from the British or not, but business people and old ladies alike, can be seen at any manner of cafe in the late afternoon sipping, tea, coffee, mimosas, or soft drink alongside crustless toasted sandwiches (these are simply FANTASTIC, and no I don't think they use the George Foreman grill, but they are wafer thin), petit fours, alfajours (for those who haven't had them these are a delightful little sandwich cookie of two thin biscuits with caramel like dulce de leche inside all sticky and sweet) and all manner of other cakes and pastries.
I know most of my blog so far has been punctuated by food. Mostly I've been figuring out logistics and getting the lay of the land, figuring out how to get around the neighborhoods Retiro, Recoleta and Barrio Norte, all near where I am staying, so the one notable thing I've done so far is eat some interesting food. It is a strange mix of meat - great steaks from the ranches of Argentina - Italian - there are more people of Italian descent in B.A. than Spanish, despite it being a former Spanish colony - and strange re-formulations of french items (ala the croissant!). I am told its quite a foodie city, so expect more gastronomical adventures!
I'm off to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes tomorrow, let the site-seeing begin!
It has taken me a few days to get my sleeping and eating to resemble anything normal, but I have managed to get out and about, find good things to eat and drink and familiarize myself with the surroundings. I am in the land of the macchiato – except here it is called cafe cortado – and it is excellent!
I am now settled into cheap, but delightful digs in the Recoleta neighborhood. I am staying in an old converted mansion, with exquisite marble spiral staircase, old fireplaces and high vaulted ceilings, now divided into much smaller rooms, but friendly staff, firm bed and very clean. And there is a very nice – and air conditioned – cafe, cafe Pacheco, on the corner with wi-fi. They haven't quite figured me out yet, but I give them another day or so before they bring me coffee in the morning and midday, and ask me if I want an orange fanta or cerveza in the afternoon.
Its summer here and that, as much as the time change (6 hours ahead of SF) is as much a shock to the system...I keep thinking its like 5pm dusk like winter back home, when I look at my watch and realize its 9pm! Its only mildly sticky - not like the undauntingly sluggish humidity of Boston or New York in the summertime, and every evening around dinner time the wind seems to blow as if its about to rain, but until this evening it hadn't.
It is like Paris - only dingier and everyone is walking around speaking Spanish. The city is filled with many fashionistas, and they seem to have a collective shoe fetish to rival Imelda's...or my sister's. Even the older ladies at tea are wearing their little strappy silver high heels, the variety of flashy bright footwear is simply astounding!
And yes they have tea in the afternoon. I haven't figured out if its formally a leftover from the British or not, but business people and old ladies alike, can be seen at any manner of cafe in the late afternoon sipping, tea, coffee, mimosas, or soft drink alongside crustless toasted sandwiches (these are simply FANTASTIC, and no I don't think they use the George Foreman grill, but they are wafer thin), petit fours, alfajours (for those who haven't had them these are a delightful little sandwich cookie of two thin biscuits with caramel like dulce de leche inside all sticky and sweet) and all manner of other cakes and pastries.
I know most of my blog so far has been punctuated by food. Mostly I've been figuring out logistics and getting the lay of the land, figuring out how to get around the neighborhoods Retiro, Recoleta and Barrio Norte, all near where I am staying, so the one notable thing I've done so far is eat some interesting food. It is a strange mix of meat - great steaks from the ranches of Argentina - Italian - there are more people of Italian descent in B.A. than Spanish, despite it being a former Spanish colony - and strange re-formulations of french items (ala the croissant!). I am told its quite a foodie city, so expect more gastronomical adventures!
I'm off to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes tomorrow, let the site-seeing begin!
p.s. about the croissant (a post-script from Peru)
Again, I am not sure what they're playing at but I've had another near miss croissant...its what they brought me when I asked for croissant, but I'm not quite sure it really IS a croissant...but at least here in Lima what I got was warm, buttery and quite yummy in fact...perhaps it is just that it was served by a nice, young, smiling, peruvian woman along with a decent espresso – good service and good coffee go a long way. While I'm fairly certain it wouldn't technically qualify as a croissant (hard to tell until the FCA gets of the ground and defines what is and what is not a croissant), it was shaped more like one from France and with the accompanying jam (and coffee) it really did hit the spot. BTW - “muffin” doesn't seem to translate.
A note about the coffee – I have messed up my coffee order twice now, and am sure that I am frustrating my poor waitress – but I think I've got it figured out now, which is a very good thing. I may not be able to negotiate for a room or find the right street but damnit I'll be able to order coffee in Argentina!
A note about the coffee – I have messed up my coffee order twice now, and am sure that I am frustrating my poor waitress – but I think I've got it figured out now, which is a very good thing. I may not be able to negotiate for a room or find the right street but damnit I'll be able to order coffee in Argentina!
Adventures with Croissant
I remember my last foray abroad, I remember noting the quality of food (or lack there of) that humans would consume merely because they were trapped in an enclosed space – on a train or an overnight flight – and it was the only thing edible offered to them. One leg of that trip saw me on a train from London to Paris, where I was treated to what I thought would stand as the worst croissant I'd ever consume.
This is not meant as the definitive essay on the croissant, but rather the next disturbing chapter in my adventures with this usually, delightful pastry.
I now find myself on an overnight flight en route to San Salvador – the first leg of my journey to Buenos Aires – and as the sunrise paints a dark orange band along the eastern horizon to the left of the plane I am presented with what I can only describe as a baked good wrapped in plastic with the label “croissant.” Now for any of you who've been to France or the Tartine bakery in San Francisco you know some of the best form and flavor a croissant has to offer. What I now hold in my hand, I am sure, even before peeling back the wrapping, is sheer blasphemy by comparison. I am simply astounded at the notion that someone thought fit to label what I now hold in my hands as a "croissant."
I had thought that the British version of the croissant – which I dutifully tried on the train from London to Paris – was bad. I remember naively thinking “how bad can it be? I'm on my WAY to France. Surely they pick them up there - they wouldn't think to try to make them here.” I literally had to eat my words, when the thing I was served was more like a mere bun - shaped to vaguely resemble a croissant.
I am hoping that much like the British croissant foreshadowed the excellence that would follow my arrival in Paris - this experience will bring me the same and I will find pastry that in Buenos Aires that rivals old world quality I've tasted before, but this in my hand – well in short it is both an atrocity and a curiosity.
There are people somewhere that actually try to make a croissant and it turns out like this? What are they playing at? It looks strangely like a croissant- seeming oddly pressed in to that shape as if there was a mold in a factory somewhere that stamps the dough into their best approximation of what a croissant should be. Upon opening the package I notice there are little bits of layered dough on top that seem to defy my theory of the molded croissant, but ultimately bely what's inside.
I dutifully eat it – in part because I'm starving and it seems vaguely edible – in part because it and the jam are the only things I've been given – and well, because like I mentioned previously that bit about eating whatever you're given when trapped in an enclosed space travelling somewhere...and it was there...but please, not in the way people seek out mountains to climb. It is light, fluffy and homogeneous inside, much like a cheap dinner roll – except strangely as if it had been left out from the holiday dinner the night before – oddly stale and dry. I doubt I'd think anything of it if the package had been labelled stale dinner roll.
I'm not usually one to be so picky (ok, sometimes I am!), but seriously – don't the french have some rules about what gets to be called a croissant and what doesn't? And if they don't – well, for travellers the world over I kinda wish someone would start. I know silly idea when we have war and poverty in the world, but come on, we have the FDA, couldn't they save the world for proper croissant eating by having the FCA (French Croissant Administration)?
Alas – I hope to meet nicer more croissant-y croissants when I arrive at my destination.
This is not meant as the definitive essay on the croissant, but rather the next disturbing chapter in my adventures with this usually, delightful pastry.
I now find myself on an overnight flight en route to San Salvador – the first leg of my journey to Buenos Aires – and as the sunrise paints a dark orange band along the eastern horizon to the left of the plane I am presented with what I can only describe as a baked good wrapped in plastic with the label “croissant.” Now for any of you who've been to France or the Tartine bakery in San Francisco you know some of the best form and flavor a croissant has to offer. What I now hold in my hand, I am sure, even before peeling back the wrapping, is sheer blasphemy by comparison. I am simply astounded at the notion that someone thought fit to label what I now hold in my hands as a "croissant."
I had thought that the British version of the croissant – which I dutifully tried on the train from London to Paris – was bad. I remember naively thinking “how bad can it be? I'm on my WAY to France. Surely they pick them up there - they wouldn't think to try to make them here.” I literally had to eat my words, when the thing I was served was more like a mere bun - shaped to vaguely resemble a croissant.
I am hoping that much like the British croissant foreshadowed the excellence that would follow my arrival in Paris - this experience will bring me the same and I will find pastry that in Buenos Aires that rivals old world quality I've tasted before, but this in my hand – well in short it is both an atrocity and a curiosity.
There are people somewhere that actually try to make a croissant and it turns out like this? What are they playing at? It looks strangely like a croissant- seeming oddly pressed in to that shape as if there was a mold in a factory somewhere that stamps the dough into their best approximation of what a croissant should be. Upon opening the package I notice there are little bits of layered dough on top that seem to defy my theory of the molded croissant, but ultimately bely what's inside.
I dutifully eat it – in part because I'm starving and it seems vaguely edible – in part because it and the jam are the only things I've been given – and well, because like I mentioned previously that bit about eating whatever you're given when trapped in an enclosed space travelling somewhere...and it was there...but please, not in the way people seek out mountains to climb. It is light, fluffy and homogeneous inside, much like a cheap dinner roll – except strangely as if it had been left out from the holiday dinner the night before – oddly stale and dry. I doubt I'd think anything of it if the package had been labelled stale dinner roll.
I'm not usually one to be so picky (ok, sometimes I am!), but seriously – don't the french have some rules about what gets to be called a croissant and what doesn't? And if they don't – well, for travellers the world over I kinda wish someone would start. I know silly idea when we have war and poverty in the world, but come on, we have the FDA, couldn't they save the world for proper croissant eating by having the FCA (French Croissant Administration)?
Alas – I hope to meet nicer more croissant-y croissants when I arrive at my destination.
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