Bienvenidos O Buenos Aires
It’s easy to be critical of the airlines, but Delta delivered exactly what was promised. My flights were on time and my tight connection in Atlanta was fine. And so it was that I found myself exiting the jetway at Ezeria Airport in Buenos Aires. First stop: immigration.
And then it all slowed down.
The lines at immigration was massive, and there were agents (or just men in suits) directing people in seemingly random fashion. I was sent to a line just for Argentine citizens, but they insisted that was the right place. And indeed, after snaking through stanchions for ninety minutes, I was face to face with a border agent. They asked for my boarding pass from my last flight, which I didn’t have. I offered them the info, and that seemed to be enough. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked for that before.
No COVID-19 questions, no vaccine card — nothing of that nature at all. Just one question: ¿Turista? I answered “Si” and got a new stamp in my passport.
Actually, I didn’t. Instead, I gave them a fingerprint and some facial recognition data. I am officially “in the system.” There was no stamp.
Customs was non-existent. I went through the “nothing to declare” lane and never talked to anyone. And then I was outside, communicating with my driver via Whatsapp.
The scene was as chaotic as any US airport: guards trying to direct traffic with no effect whatsoever, and cars just pulling up and stopping wherever to try to find their passengers. My guy was a bit smarter and found a cell phone lot and didn’t pull up until I was there. I took my picture and a picture of what I could see, sent them via Whatsapp, and he pulled up right in front me. And we were off, for what should have been a 45 minute ride into town.
His car was a fairly new Fiat. Small, unadorned, and with a manual transmission, which is the norm here. I rode in back as it was convenient, but I had read somewhere that this wasn’t the custom here. No concern of mine.
The driver was a friendly and tattooed young man with excellent English. It turned out he was a fellow traveler, having taught English around the world. We got along very well.
And then a mile from the airport, we stopped. Everyone did. Alan said that a truck had overturned right where two major roads merged, and traffic was a mess. He expressed his concern that locals might be blocking the road in a attempt to rescue the cargo, which was supposedly some sort of meat. The GPS apps all said it would be about two hours to get to the hotel, and they were wrong.
We sat and chatted about travel, the pandemic, how ridiculous healthcare is in the US, and climate change. I dozed off for a bit, and when I woke, we were still sitting. I looked around and noticed a number of cars and trucks, mostly older, sitting on the side of the road with their hoods open. Though it was only 74ºF outside, it was a enough to cause them to overheat. Some of the vehicles gathered under trees in the park-like median, and we joked that they might be having a picnic. Kids were playing, some people were snoozing with hats on their faces, and the scene looked much more like a peaceful afternoon than one of largest traffic jams I’d ever seen.
I noticed that the AC in our Fiat couldn’t keep up with no air flowing over the engine. I also noticed that though the temperature gauge was fine, the fuel tank was down to ¼. I hoped it would be enough.
About an hour later, the “picnic” in the median started to get more active. A caravan had formed, essentially making their own road. I should point out that this “median” was quite large, and could honestly be considered a park. Trees, grass, rolling hills… it was a pleasant place to be. And now it had a road rally.
Alan was familiar with the area and wasn’t sure where they were going. But after 30 minutes of watching, he suggested we join them and I offered no resistance.
The little Fiat is no off road vehicle, but grabbed the dust with confidence, and we were soon cruising along at considerable speed on a road that was less than an hour old. We were joined by a 1960s Ford Falcon Wagon, numerous Peugeots, foreign Chevys and Volkswagens of all shapes and sizes. We just didn’t know where we were going.
Looking at the map, there was a clear problem: a canal crossed the median in about a mile, and there was no bridge. And long before that, the topography got a bit more rough. The Fiat bottomed out, possibly leaving behind some less important parts.
Alan is a practical man and after taking advantage of this dusty shortcut, he cut back towards the road and merged into traffic, maybe ¾ of a mile ahead of where we were. Others kept going down the median. And we entertained ourselves by watching what happened to them.
Most of them turned around at some point, and tried to merge back in. As time went on, folks were less friendly about merges, but there were remarkably few horns sounding. One driver with a very long trailer made a bad move and found out that while his truck could navigate the rough terrain, his trailer couldn’t. He managed to get it wedged between two hills with none of its eight wheels touching the ground.
A young man in a 4x4 Ford seemed to enjoy himself so much that he went back and forth, perhaps finally celebrating the fact that he could put his pet truck in four wheel drive.
Back on the pavement, eight lanes merged into one as it passed the wreck, and that was the cause of the problem. Those of us who had taken the trail through the trees as well as those that simply stayed on the highway all had to pass through this point. In our off road adventure, we had done nothing more than cut in line.
I taught Alan the word “bottleneck” as we squeezed past. And he was right — it was a semi carrying sides of beef. The trailer laid on its side, blocking as much road as possible. A wrecker had chains wrapped around the box, but it seems saving the cargo was more important than getting the road open again. Men were standing around, hands on hips, looking concerned. Massive hangs of golden beef waited patiently in a replacement truck. They were in no hurry.
And then, freedom. Alan commented on how good it felt to be able to drive again, and we made the rest of the trip in the normal 45 minutes.
One thing that struck me immediately about Buenos Aires was how full of trees it was. It was no Portland (Maine or Oregon) with massive forests waiting just outside of town, but trees were everywhere — evergreens, palm trees, and something that looked like monkey puzzles took up any space that wasn’t immediately employed for human purposes.
In the US, we’ve been taught that graffiti and barred windows are signs of a bad neighborhood. Buenos Aires, like most major cities is covered with them, but there was very little litter. Cute dumpsters that looked like they were designed by William Joyce were everywhere. (I’d seen similar in Barcelona 10 years ago.) As for the barred windows, they’re pretty common in Chicago, Miami, and Albuquerque as well. For some reason, I just notice them more when I’m traveling.
Alan informed me that the normally excellent train system was on strike today, so if I’d chosen that route to get to my hotel, I’d be relating my thoughts on a completely different adventure.
We arrived, and Alan made sure I got in. He phoned the office and asked if there was someone who spoke English available, which there was. The hotel, the Clayton, is brand new, but it’s set up more like a hostel or guest house than a traditional hotel. There was no front desk, and you had to press a specific unlabeled button on the wall to gain entrance. An older man reading a newspaper sat in a comfortable lobby chair, and he rose to let me in. I learned later that he was the security guard.
But once in, I was lost. I was in a lobby, but there was no desk, no stairs, no elevator… just some chairs and a man with a newspaper. He gestured to me and spoke something in Spanish, but I couldn’t understand. He spoke louder and faster, which was surprisingly unhelpful.
I finally realized he was asking me to open a door, but it was a door unlike any I’d seen before. It was metal, industrial, and had no visible handles or hinges. He made a “pull” gesture, so I grabbed onto what looked like a piece of molding and yanked, and it opened — revealing the smallest elevator I’ve ever seen. Another door slid open. As I sidled in, my shoulders brushed the walls and I contemplated that if any two people tried to enter this thing, their relationship would instantly be classified as “intimate” regardless if they’d ever met before.
The man shouted at me “uno” and pointed up. I wasn’t sure if he was saying “press 1” or “go up 1” but I had confidence I’d figure it out. I learned long ago that the custom of labeling the ground floor as “1” was an American thing, and that in many places the first floor above ground level was actually “1.” I noticed a “0” button, and figured that was the case, so I pressed 1, and up I went.
When the elevator stopped, the closest door slid open, and I was presented with another style of door that had arrows pointing to the left, but no handles or ways to slide it. I looked for a button, and then in frustration, gave it a stiff push, which caused it to yield.
And then I was in a room, about the size of the elevator with yet another door. This one had a keypad, but it was ajar, and I pushed my way though, to find myself standing in front of a desk. This wasn’t a reception desk, but rather the type of desk you’d find in a back office where some clerk would be calculating the day’s revenues. And that’s just what it was. But it was also where I was supposed to be.
The friendly man behind the desk greeted me and apologized for his poor English, which was at least 1000x better than my embryonic Spanish. He informed me that I had to pay, which was of no surprise, but then came the question of…how?
He asked me for my phone number, but couldn’t understand the digits. “That’s a phone number?” he asked. In Argentina, phone numbers look like (54) 1234–5678, so he wasn’t sure what to make of my 10 digit number. And when I added the country code of (01), it didn’t help.
The reason he wanted the number was so he could have me pay through WhatsApp. I’m learning just how much of the world runs on this one app, owned by Facebook. It’s relatively unknown in the US, but for the rest of the world, it’s the primary source of communication and as I was learning, payments.
He then realized that I could send him a message in Whatsapp and he’d have my number (which would be the same, of course), and then initiate payment that way. He sent me a link, which I pressed, and I started to fill out the form. The form was in Spanish, but it was easy enough to figure out. And then it asked for DNI. I asked what that was, and he said ‘Your ID.” He seemed puzzled that I’d asked that question. Though my research I’d learned that Argentina has a national identity card system, and it’s used for everything. Any official transaction involving money required one to enter their DNI, of which the closest thing we have in the US is a driver’s license. But, as a foreigner, I didn’t have one.
He suggested that maybe my passport number would work, but there weren’t enough spaces for the digits. He noticed my driver’s license in my open wallet, and suggested maybe that, but in Illinois, drivers licenses have letters, and the system wouldn’t accept that. He finally said “Efectivo? Oooh, cash? Do you have cash?” Which I did, but only in US dollars as I’d just gotten there. “Ok, be right back” and he wandered into a deeper office.
Another young man emerged, and in perfect English he said he’d take care of this. He launched another credit card processing system on the web, took my AMEX, and processed the payment. Done. And he scurried back into the true back office.
My check-in person, still wearing his perpetual smile, handed me a small metal capsule. In the US, nearly everyone is familiar with Keurig cups, but Nespresso is not as common. In much of the world, Nespresso rules supreme, and that’s what he handed me — an unlabeled Nespresso pod.
I enthusiastically thanked him, and then he said “well, if you don’t want it, that’s OK.” This puzzled me and I said, “Oh no, I most definitely want it.” And his smile faded a bit. What was I missing here? Was I supposed to pay for it? Or just open it and quaff it? I had no idea.
He programmed my keycard, which surprisingly had the room number emblazoned upon it, and guided me to the room. On the way, we went through a common area with comfortable seating and a very large window overlooking the length of the polo grounds. This was not just any old polo grounds, but the home of the world cup of polo, which I just can’t maintain enough interest in to remember. But had there been a game on, I surely would have watched, rooting as always for the horses.
Alas, when we opened the door, it was clear that the room hadn’t been made up. This didn’t bother me as I knew I was there before official check in, but his smile completely vanished and he seemed at a loss. I’d been traveling for a day, endured hours of lines and traffic, and was quite ready to rest my head, so I took charge of the situation. This was an involuntary reflex, so I feel like this “happened” rather than “I did it.”
“This is OK. I’m going to sit in this chair, and you’ll let me know when my room is ready.” After a pause he said, “Yes, and this is a good time for espresso!”
Aha, I thought — there must be a machine in this room that I’m supposed to use the pod in, but no. There were at least half a dozen empty espresso cups around the room, but no machine. The pod remained safe in my pocket.
A few minutes later, he returned with a hot cup of espresso and a new room key. Apparently, he was just showing me the Nespresso pod as it was he who was going to make me espresso. When I didn’t hand it back, he didn’t know what to think — but all was well now, as I had a room key and a hot espresso. He had to carry it for me to the room as my hands were full of luggage.
He was embarrassed that my room wasn’t ready, so I was upgraded to a larger room with a full-sized bed. My original was just a twin, which isn’t uncommon here. Just like in a James Bond movie, he showed me around the room, and then bid me a good night. As the door shut, I tried the lights and… nothing. I looked for a key card slot in the wall, and found one. This type of room requires you to put your key in the wall for the power to come on as an energy savings measure. And yes, it’s easy to defeat.
The room was new, and very small by US standards, despite being twice the size of the room I’d paid for. There was a bed and bathroom. The closet was also the dresser and desk — you could use it for all those things, but perhaps not all at once. Hanging clothes blocked the desk. The electrical outlets are Australian style, kind of like US but at an angle. Australia had helped build the Argentine power grid 100 years ago. The room was very efficient, but it’s clear that this space is meant for sleeping and not living, and that explained the lovely common area we’d passed through before.
Though I was quite hungry, I decided to lie on the bed for a moment. Two hours later, I realized that I quite needed that rest. Jet lag isn’t much of a problem when flying north to south, but I’d been traveling for nearly 24 hours.
I woke up in daylight, and decided to give Western Union a shot.
Now, I’ll explain the “Blue Dollar.” Argentina is suffering from terrible inflation. I don’t mean like in the US where everyone is up in arms about 8%, I’m talking 100% or more. As such, the currency is in jeopardy, and there is more than one exchange rate. At last count, there were actually eight — but the official exchange rate that a tourist would get at a bank is roughly 150 pesos to 1 US dollar. However, there is another rate called the “blue rate,” that’s double that. It’s not officially legal, but it’s so common that it’s become the norm. In certain parts of the city, you listen for men yelling “¡Cambio!” over and over again. When you find one you like, he takes you to a cueva, a cave, and you’re given 300:1. But you must have crisp, “big head,” that is new-style $100 bills. If you have twenties or older style (or even crumped) bills, they may not be accepted or will be accepted at a lower rate. These new $100 bills have a blue line on them, which is possibly the origin of the term “blue rate.”
I’ve been assured by everyone that this is completely safe and common, and have friends who do this regularly, but it’s just not something that appeals to me. So instead, I chose to send myself money through Western Union, which offers the same rate. There’s a catch, though.
I used Google Maps to find the closest Western Union outlet, and chose one a half mile away that was open late. Though I was still tired and didn’t feel adventurous, I knew that feeling would pass as soon as I left the room, and it did. Walking through Buenos Aires was just lovely.
The streets were clean, the trees were pleasant, and there’s a quality to the birdsong that says “old world comfort” to me. I can’t explain it — there’s just something about the sounds these birds make that says “you’re welcome here”. I’ll try to identify the exact bird later.
BA is a big city, and I was walking through the Palermo district. This is known as a “happening” place, and though it wasn’t quite bustling, it was filled with people going about their business at the end of day. I walked past sidewalk cafés, numerous single-purpose businesses, and a mixture of things I recognized and things I didn’t. I am an anxious person normally, and I can’t say I was completely at ease, but I felt as confident as I do walking around Chicago, where I’ve never had a problem in over 10 years.
I found the Western Union branch, and there was a line outside, which was a good sign. That meant there was a chance they had money. But as the line got shorter and I picked up on more of the Spanish conversation I was hearing, I was pretty sure they were out of money, and that proved to be the case. I had been warned that this was the catch with Western Union. This method of money exchange was so popular, that they often ran out of money in the mornings. When I explained that I was trying to retrieve $100 worth of pesos, they scoffed like that was a ridiculous request, but not unkindly. It was clear they wanted to help out a tourist, so they offered to let me wait in hopes that more money would arrive, or suggested I come back at 11AM. I chose the latter option.
As it happens, just a couple of days before I left, Argentina changed their exchange policies, and now, foreigners who use a credit card for purchase are supposed to get the blue rate. I don’t know anywhere near enough about economics for it to make sense that a tourist should pay half as much as a local, but that appears to be the situation. We’ll see if I’m able to take advantage of that, or not.
With local currency unavailable, it was time to find some food. Given that this was a travel day, my plan was simple: find a pizza and visit a supermarket and call it a night. I passed a place with the curious name of “Pizza Pet.” Their logo was a pink Bugs Bunny-esque character holding a pie and marching forward. It seemed a bit odd, but what the heck — I went in, and asked if they spoke English. No. But they handed me a menu and I figured I’d just point.
I’ve learned enough Spanish that menus don’t intimidate me. I was hoping for my go to pizza — ham and pineapple — but I didn’t see piña anywhere on the menu. When I asked, the man behind the counter produced another menu, this one in English. I’m not sure why he didn’t hand me that one in the first place.
No pineapple, however. Nearly everything had olives. Green olives, and to me, this completely ruins a pizza so I ended up choosing pepperoni and roasted red pepper, sin oliva. ¡Claro! the man said and he shouted it back to the kitchen. It sounded right, but I wasn’t really sure what to expect. In terrible Spanish, I told him I’d be back in 15 minutes. Perfecto.
I’d noticed a Diá a block away, and headed there. My driver Alan had recommended them as an affordable supermarket. But then a Carrefour revealed itself, and I went there. This is a market by a very large French company that owns much of Latin American shopping.
After once again navigating unfamiliar doors (who knew that doors would be my bête noir on this trip?) I entered a very busy market, similar to an Aldi but maybe half the size. The shelves were fully stocked, and it was easy to believe that this market would have everything one could want, despite its small size.
I could have spent an hour in here marveling at the differences and similarities in the foods, beverages, and lack thereof. Two things I always like to do in foreign countries: eat at McDonalds and visit a supermarket. I have yet to see a McDonalds in BA, but markets are common.
I took a quick run around the store to get my bearings, and I noticed a particularly small older woman eyeing me. At that moment, I realized that not only was I dressed like a tourist, I was also the tallest person I’d seen since I boarded the plane. To her, I must have been a giant. But no matter, after visiting SE Asia, I was used to this attention.
I picked up some Bimbo artisan bread, some ham and cheese which I hoped would keep in my room for a day, and various snacks. I hadn’t seen bottles of water yet, so I circled the store one more time, and found myself behind the diminutive woman again. I slowed my pace, but it appears that she’d had enough, because she turned to me and said something in Spanish that involved the words “pass me,” but I couldn’t make out the rest. I said, in Spanish, that I was sorry I don’t speak Spanish, and she grabbed my arm and… laughed heartily.
I’m not entirely sure what the interaction was, but as I did indeed pass her, with a smile, she rushed over to the next aisle and said some things to the people there, who joined her in her laughter. I’m OK with this, as I’d rather provide amusement than the sense of a threat.
I found the water and paid for my food with a credit card. They needed to scan my passport for this. If you’re visiting Buenos Aires, always have your passport with you. I had to purchase a bag as the custom here is to bring your own, and I was unprepared.
I went back to collect my pizza saying “Tienes una pizza por el gringo?”
And they handed it to me with a “Ciao.” I was reminded of the Italian influence on the region. On the walk back to the hotel, I paid more attention to the architecture. It was a mixture of classical, modern, and post-modern making each street an outdoor museum of sorts. Some buildings went out of their way to make a statement with polygonal windows and complicated and yet plain ornamentation. Others looked like any US bank from the 1940s. The one key difference was that they were all smaller than in Chicago. No building took up more space than a lot. I’ll try to pay attention to this going forward.
And thus concludes Day 2. This was a travel day, a day where nothing interesting was supposed to happen, and yet I’ve had this much to write about it. What will tomorrow, an actual day of tourism bring?