At home in Buenos Aires park...
I am at home in Buenos Aires where I lived as a child from 1950 until 1957. “Home” was a house in suburban Acassuso, and my school was Lincoln School in La Lucila along the Rio de La Plata. Downtown Buenos Aires, just 10 miles away, seemed another world. My father went to work at the American Embassy downtown every day. I only went into the city when Mother and I shopped at Harrods department store, and when I was taken to see the ballet at the elegant Teatro Colón.
Galerias Pacifico on Calle Florida
As soon as we arrived in Argentina, just a few weeks ago, my long dormant Argentine Spanish came out as I listened to people talking around me. Argentine Spanish is a result of the Italian immigrants who began migrating to Buenos Aires at the end of the 19th century. It has a distinctive sing-song rhythm like Italian. I heard che´, which means “Hey”. The popular slang for Chau, which means “see you later” comes from the Italian ciao, and is used by porteños, the Buenos Aires natives. My Spanish came back to me as if it had been waiting for an opportunity to be used. I liked noticing what people would say to me, a gray-haired, blue-eyed, fair skinned 70+ year old woman, confidently speaking Spanish fluently with what I hoped was an Argentine accent.
During our 3-week stay in Argentina I had conversations with everyone I came across, taxi drivers, store clerks, waiters, tour guides and people on the street whom I might ask for directions. I could not get enough.
Knowing we were foreigners though not sure where from, waiters would say, “do you prefer the English or Spanish menu?”
“Español para mi,” I’d say but English for my husband.
Usually halfway through a conversation, the person would ask, “De donde es usted?”
I replied that I was born in Santiago, Chile but grew up in Argentina, and now live in the United States.
I waited for the familiar response, “Habla muy bien el español,” which stroked my ego in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. Feeling “at home” in Argentina had much to do with speaking the language fluently but on a personal level had everything to do with being familiar with Argentine culture.
“I could live in this city,” I told Art. We were settled in Buenos Aires in a third-floor rented apartment in Recoleta, an historical and affluent residential neighborhood. We had changed our life completely by temporarily leaving behind our quiet suburban North Carolina existence for one in the middle of Argentina’s capital city. Every morning Art would go to the corner newsstand for the La Nación newspaper. Then he’d stop to buy media lunas (croissants) to eat with our homemade coffee.
“We could easily get used to this, ” we said, remembering that this was not how we started our mornings at home.
Though small, the apartment was sparkling clean. Marisa, the landlady, had thought of every detail a traveler might need from adapter plugs to hairdryers to bandaids. She spoke English but I insisted on speaking Spanish with her. From the first day I liked being in the center of the city where there was a constant sense of energy and things happening. The corner apartment had a balcony and windows from the kitchen and two bedrooms. Luckily the double paned windows kept the noise out. I was drawn to looking out to see what was happening on the street. With a constant flow of pedestrians going up and down Peña and Uriburu Streets, crossing the four-way intersection, there was always something to look at. The #101 and #95 colectivos (city buses) stopped at the corner all day long while the yellow roofed black taxis slowed down looking for customers. Every day I checked on the gray haired portly man rearranging bouquets at his flower stall across the street until he closed,which was close to 10 p.m. “Do you realize how many hours a day that flower vendor works?” I’d say to Art.
Our balcony had planters with green plants which were kept alive by occasional rain showers and the humid climate. It was spring in Buenos Aires and the tall trees that line the city streets were bursting with fresh leaves. The city parks all around us showed off the many spectacular purple
jacaranda trees which only bloom in spring. I watched a dove settle to lay an egg in one of the balcony planters. A few hours later she laid a second egg and from then on sat serenely waiting for them to hatch. It was a reminder Nature follows its own course even in the big city.
Jacaranda trees in bloom
Leafy green parks
Across the street, I saw people come and go from
La Argentina bakery. Argentines take the time to stop and have morning or afternoon coffee and tea. Often they are with friends but also solo. Taking breaks is part of how Argentines live. City life seems to encompass people eating all the time in the many small cafes and restaurants. A half block from the apartment on Uriburu, I noticed a security guard standing at the door of
El Burladero Spanish restaurant, letting people in at lunch and dinner. I wondered why they needed a guard except perhaps because it’s considered one of the best restaurants in Buenos Aires. A guard lends some importance to the charming entrance of tall, carved wooden double doors with brass handles.
La Argentina Bakery
An early morning ritual in our neighborhood was scrubbing sidewalks and entryways with soap and water. ( I remember this from my childhood, when the maids paid more attention to cleaning floors than anything else.) We concluded that this is a health precaution because there are so many dogs who are walked on city sidewalks only.
Dog walkers in Buenos Aires
Living as expats in Recoleta, we had no itinerary, only round trip airline tickets and a carefully chosen apartment. We had done this once before in 2011 when we rented a Recoleta apartment for a month in the fall to escape the cold Vermont winter and wished we had stayed longer.
On a tour of La Boca , a reminder of Argentine politics
“What shall we do today?” I’d ask Art once we’d perused the morning newspaper and had coffee. We’d check weather by what people were wearing on the street and by looking above the surrounding apartment buildings to see what the sky looked like. We might choose a museum to visit or a free walking tour to join. I had to return to the Ateneo bookstore on
Avenida Santa Fé , which was once a large theater built in 1919. Having coffee and a pastry “on stage” surrounded by shoppers browsing through books is something I will always remember. Shopping on the familiar
Calle Florida, was an option. Sadly what used to be Harrods department store still stands empty has it has since it closed in 1998….a reminder of another era when I was a girl.
Walking tour of La Boca
We quickly adapted to the custom of eating a leisurely late lunch of several courses. I would ask for the Menu del Dia. For a fixed price we chose an appetizer, a main course, a dessert, a glass of wine and sometimes a complimentary liqueur. Argentines take a long lunch time and restaurants are full of people enjoying wine with a meal. Sometimes service can be slow but one waiter told me nothing is prepared in advance until someone orders it on the menu. That sounded plausible and perhaps why all food in Argentina tastes so fresh.
On Thanksgiving Day in the US (which is a regular work day for Argentines) we went to the Alvear Palace Hotel for afternoon tea. The Alvear is the oldest and most elegant hotel in Buenos Aires built in the 1930's. Afternoon Tea in the Orangerie Restaurant is a gastronomic experience served elegantly and slowly as it should be. My only disappointment was that the waiters were not wearing white gloves as they had been the last time we were there. When I asked the waiter in Spanish where his guantes were, he smiled and said it was too hard to serve the food with gloves on.They no longer use them. I consoled myself with the thought that nothing in this world stays the same.
Waiting for tea at the Alvear Palace Hotel
Box seats at the Colon Theater for the full three-act opera, Offenbach's “Tales of Hoffman” was the most memorable event of our stay in Buenos Aires. Our first day we walked several miles to the theater and waited in line at the Box Office. The season had not ended and there was to be one more opera our last weekend in Argentina.
“Hay algunos asientos de taquila para el primero,” the friendly young girl behind the ticket window told me.
“Box seats on December 1st?” I turned to Art.
“Si,” I told her before he could answer…
“4,500 pesos cada uno,” she said.
“Si,” I reiterated not having a clear idea of how much money we were spending but handing over my Visa card. I knew this was something I must do.
Clutching our newly purchased tickets I suddenly experienced a thrill of anticipation I hadn't felt in years. I was going back to the Colon Theater one more time, something I never have imagined would happen.
On the afternoon of December 1
st, Art and I dressed up for the theater. We took a taxi to the grand front entrance of the Colón. A line of well-dressed Argentines had already formed waiting for the doors to open. As I listened to the conversations around me, I felt butterflies in my stomach. The doors opened and we surged forward up the red carpeted marble stairway to “box level” and found Box #16. We were first to get there and secure two seats in front with view of the entire stage and the orchestra seats below us. Four other people then entered our box and sat behind us.
Elegance of the Colon
Box seats at the Colon Theater
As I looked around me in awe, I felt tears of emotion coming. I remembered myself as a child sitting in this very same opera house waiting for the ballet to start, thrilled to be there. Next to me would have been my father who might have come from his office, and my mother in one of her Chanel suits Now, it was nearly 65 years later but I was looking for the redheaded, freckled girl in her turquoise party-dress and patent leather shoes waiting for it all to begin.
Red haired, freckled Kristina in her school uniform
How have I managed to carry through the threads of my life in Argentina when I have been gone so long and lived so many other lives in other places? Argentina resonates strongly with me and always has. I have always felt I come from two worlds but have lived one life. I want to claim Argentina as home but I have been raised American.
Argentina feels like home each time I visit. When I am there the smells of the river, the sounds of the tango music, the big trees everywhere, the passion for
futbol, and the nuances of Argentine Spanish are part of me. The happy childhood memories in Acassuso come back…even the political turmoil and epidemics I lived through. I’m comfortable with the Argentines and admire their sophistication, their love of family and their enjoyment of life.
Passion for the tango...
Futbol fever for all ages...
Sounds of the bandoneon....
I am home now in my quiet North Carolina suburbia but am enriched by our recent stay in Buenos Aires. Art and I easily settled into the Recoleta apartment, the neighborhood, and a city we have been to many times….the city where I grew up. I am reminded that we are “veterans” of life abroad - moving often, settling into new places and lives. We have done this for 45 years and thrived on it. Now that we are retired and settled in the US, we look for that excitement in short-term stays as we have just done in Argentina.
My special travel partner for 45 years...
Along the Rio de la Plata
The Argentine flag I saluted every morning in school
in Buenos Aires...
Bring out the presents...we're ready!
