I’ve been back for a little over a week now – it usually doesn’t take me this long to write about my trips, but I’m a Virgo and Mercury was in retrograde until recently, so cut me some slack. To sum things up, this was another great trip, which continues an historic run of amazing travel for me over the past three years. I’ve never traveled this much or this often–six new countries in a year–and now I’m addicted. I’ve been fortunate that I’m doing well enough financially and am at the point in my career where I have the freedom to do this. It’s all about taking advantage of the opportunities life is showing me. If I owned a house and had to spend $5,000-$10,000 in upkeep every other month like some of my married friends, I might not be able to afford these trips. So even though I may be stuck in a rental forever, I’m taking what life is giving me and plan to keep doing these trips as long and often as possible.
I have 200 photos to get to, so I’m just gonna bang this one out.
If you thought I was kidding about the retrograde thing, I wasn’t. If you follow astrology at all like I do (tongue planted firmly in cheek), you know that Mercury going retrograde really fucks with Virgos and other signs that are ruled by that planet. When it happened before my trip, I knew I had to prepare for the unexpected because there was a high likelihood that something was going to get fucked up. So when I went to JFK for my flight and sat at the gate for three hours due to a thunderstorm flight delay, only to be told around 11:30 p.m. that our flight was canceled until late the next day, I was pissed, but not surprised like so many of my irate, Argentinian fellow travelers, who were freaking out that they were going to miss Argentina play in the final the next day. I was hoping to be in Buenos Aires for the game myself–it would have been incredible to watch the game outside with all these Argentina fans–but the Fates said no. Once I realized it was a fait accompli, I left JFK around midnight and took another expensive Uber back home. Things like this used to make me go crazy, but I’m at the point now where if you’re going to travel anywhere, especially during the summer or winter, you have to leave room for the possibility of unexpected weather fuckery on travel days. Still, it wasn’t the best way to start off this trip.
I wasn’t loving BA the first couple of days. Maybe it was because I was tired. Maybe it was the weather, which was overcast, drizzly, and uninspiring. Maybe it was a come down from the insane natural beauty of Rio, which I still can’t get out of my head. But mostly it was because we stayed in Microcentro, which was most central and where most of the historic buildings are located. The hotel was nice, but the surrounding area was busy, loud, and not that scenic until you walked to the sites. It made sense from a logistical perspective, but it just wasn’t consistent with what I’d heard from people about Buenos Aires. The entire time I was like ‘What the hell were they talking about? This is nice, but it’s just like any other city.‘ I would soon discover way nicer neighborhoods that would snap me out of my early judgments about the city.
BA validated my belief that it’s important to spend 4-7 days in any large city to get to know it well. Some people don’t like to spend more than a couple of days in one city. They prefer to bounce from place to place and see as much as possible in the week or two they have for their vacation. I’m not one of those people. I’ve done my share of traveling in life, and whenever I’ve done The Bounce, I’ve usually regretted it. It works if you have two weeks and only go to one or two places. It’s exhausting if you try to cram three or four places into that amount of time. You’re packing and repacking and training or driving somewhere new every couple of days. It’s just not for me. Plus, I like experiencing new cities and really getting to know them in-depth when I travel.
Buenos Aires is one of those places that you really need to take time to explore. It doesn’t look that big on a map, but let me tell you, it is sprawling. It’s huge. It’s walkable, but you can’t walk from one end to the other, i.e., from San Telmo to Palermo without it taking hours. So when we finally left Microcentro and started exploring other neighborhoods, that’s when I fell in love with the place and thought I could see myself living there. In particular, I loved Palermo, which reminded me so much of Brooklyn and Williamsburg. It had all these amazing restaurants and was both beautiful and gritty, just like the Williamsburg I remember when I lived there, which probably doesn’t exist now. It also had these amazing graffiti murals everywhere, which I took so many pictures of and can’t wait to post. The sun finally came out when we were there, so that helped too. Palermo is definitely the neighborhood I would stay in if I ever go back to BA. Recoleta was also beautiful and so different from Microcentro–you can tell it’s where the rich people live. It looked like an Italian city there.
I soon felt stupid for initially thinking the entire city was like the busy area we were staying, instead of just like New York, Milan, and every major city, full of tiny enclaves that have their own life, energy, and vibration. The West Village ain’t the Upper East Side or Murray Hill, for example. I just hadn’t seen enough of it yet. Once I did, I woke up.
There were tributes to Messi and Maradona everywhere. Everywhere. You couldn’t turn your head without seeing a picture or graffiti of one of them on a wall or hanging off a building. They are worshipped as heroes who brought glory to Argentina in the only sport the country cares about: futbol. Maradona died six years ago at the age of 60, which is way too young, but it was beautiful to see how beloved he still is, especially in Caminito, this colorful neighborhood located near the La Bombanera, the stadium where Maradona made a name for himself playing for Boca Juniors before he became a legend globally.
Relatedly, when Argentina lost the final, I thought I’d see more people upset or angry or emotional about it. Not so. At the gate the next day, someone got a big clap going for their team and the run it had after winning the last World Cup. In BA, I saw signs thanking the team for its performance even though it lost. It was pretty impressive, especially when compared to how American fans get about their own teams when they lose. If the Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, or Raiders lose in the playoffs (not recently applicable to the Raiders, of course) I’m a miserable bastard for days. Not so with Argentinians. They were proud regardless.
Tango, baby. Tango. If you’re visiting Buenos Aires, it’s the law that you need to experience tango, so we got tickets to Señor Tango, one of the longest running tango shows in Buenos Aires. We toyed with going to see one of the more risque adult tango shows that have sprung up in recent years, but opted for something more traditional. It did not disappoint. The venue was amazing, this small intimate theater surrounding a stage where the dancers came out into the crowd. We also had dinner there, which was surprisingly good considering the kind of food and show deals you get in the States, where the show is amazing, but the food usually sucks. Not so in this case.
The performers were amazing: passionate, intense, and like… really good at tango. A male singer came out during costume changes, this barrel chested, bearded guy in a tuxedo, and his voice was so incredible, he sounded like Andrea Bocelli. M. and I had fun pointing out the dancers we thought were the hottest. A good time was had by all.
I ate like a pig again. M. is a foodie, and she did a lot of research before our trip so we would find decent places to eat. I’m pretty lazy about this type of thing, so it was much appreciated. We had amazing steak, empanadas, even pizza was incredible down there. We went to Güerrin, a famous pizzeria where we tried the fugazzeta, Argentinian stuffed pizza, which has two layers of dough, a heavy filling of cheese, and topped with lots of sweet onions. Totally delicious and a lactose-intolerant man’s dream! In San Telmo, an Italian immigrant neighborhood that puts Little Italy to shame, we bought La Vaca Lechera alfajores, these small, pyramid-shaped, thick chocolate wafers that look like ring-dings, but they’re made from scratch and have these rich dulce de leche centers that you can buy in different flavors. I brought nine home, let M. try two, and inhaled the rest myself. I love chocolate and those things are like crack to me. I need to see if I can find some here.
Un baño de realidad. As previously mentioned, maintaining a long distance relationship across a continent is not easy. It’s hard not being with someone you want to be with and mostly living two separate lives. After making a second long flight in 3-4 months to see M., it’s definitely starting to hit how far we are from each other geographically, despite how connected we are to each other through WhatsApp each day. The other reality check was you know, getting to know someone in and out by spending more time with them in person, both of you deciding what’s tolerable and what isn’t as you get to know each other in a real way. We’ve been together seven months now, but only together in person for less than two weeks. Anyone who’s been in a long distance relationship before understands that these things are not the same. On the one hand, it’s crazy how well we get along already in spite of all of this, how well we communicate, and how intimate we are with each other already. On the other hand, the more time we spend together in person, the more we see every side of the other, and not all of it is pretty, especially when it comes to me, as any of my ex-girlfriends will attest. I’m not a morning person, she is. I could get to 11:00 a.m. without saying a word to anyone. She hits the airwaves starting at 8:00 a.m. I like to wander and get lost in a city with no pathway and no agenda sometimes. She likes to map out pathways with A, B, C, and D pitstops on Google Maps so we know where we’re going and don’t waste time. I could eat a pizza with mushrooms and olives and prosciutto no matter where the fuck I am. She’s determined to make sure we try the local specialty in any place we go because you can eat the same shit at home (there’s strong logic for this). I don’t share my food. She shares everything. I’m a reforming introvert who mostly minds his own business. She’s an extrovert who will talk to anyone.
But you know what? All of this contrast is good for me, and I love it. (I can’t speak for her. I may be driving her nuts.) It’s healthy because it’s exxxxxpaaaandddinnnng, not constricting. We are very similar people, crazy similar, but if we were too similar and agreed on everything, we’d be running in place on hamster wheels, which is not conducive to growth and self-examination. That said, what really makes this work is how we communicate and repair when we disagree on something or hit a pothole. Neither of us are wilting flowers, but I’ve never been with someone who is so open, clear, and consistent with me about everything. I’ve also never been with someone who makes me feel so cared for and desired even when we conflict. On this trip it dawned on me that what makes someone so compelling to me in a relationship is not just how attracted to them I may be, or how much they make me laugh, etc., but how desired and appreciated they make me feel. M. is really good at making me feel wanted and valued in the things she says and the way she acts. And it’s not love-bombing or anything, it’s authentic and genuine feeling. This is new for me, and the impact of it is hard to put into words. It feels like I unlocked another level in life. And god damn, I don’t know if it’s cultural or what, but her passion and commitment and unfiltered honesty about both are things I’ve never experienced before.
I don’t know how articulate any of this is. I’ll just say that it never ceases to amaze me how one can have experienced love before with one special person, or with several different people, and yet find it possible to feel it again with someone new in a way one hasn’t felt it before. There are so many layers to this emotion, so many different ways of expressing it and having it expressed back to you, it’s just surreal to me. For all of my failed relationships, this is a unique human experience that I don’t think many people get to have, and I’m grateful for it, no matter what happens between us.
The “Disappeared” were firmly in my thoughts the entire time. My first real introduction to Argentina occurred in college, when I took a Poli Sci class on authoritarianism in Latin America and learned about the “dirty war” conducted against the Argentinian population by the military dictatorship in Argentina between 1976 and 1983. To impose control and perpetuate its own power, the junta abducted people, mostly young people in their teens and twenties–students, teachers, union activists, and “leftist” opponents who were critical of its fascist rule–imprisoned them, tortured them, and killed them. After murdering them, the junta threw thousands of the victims’ bodies into the Rio de la Plata, dropping them from planes and helicopters that took off from a military airport located next to the river. The victims were never seen or heard from again and became referred to as “The Disappeared.”
In only seven years, those fascists murdered 30,000 innocent people as young as 14. The most horrific aspect of this terrorist war on a civilian population was how the military even murdered pregnant girls and women. Before killing them, they allowed them to give birth, or had military doctors remove their babies from their wombs, and gave these newborn babies to their friends and relatives who wanted children. Horrifically, these children grew up not knowing that friends and relatives of their adoptive parents had ruthlessly murdered their own birth parents. The complicity of the only parents they’d known their entire lives in the murder of their parents and their own kidnapping was a dirty secret that went with the military’s Dirty War.
Many of these children discovered this horror as adults, only after a full human rights investigation took place, long after civilian rule was restored in 1983. Can you imagine?
What led to the downfall of these fascists? Among other things, losing the Falkland Islands War to England, which discredited the dictatorship, as well as skyrocketing inflation and the slow release of information concerning its mass murder of 30,000 people.
I learned all of this in college, where fascism can lead. I also read the book Mothers of the Disappeared, by Jo Fisher, which documented the courageous mothers and grandmothers of the junta’s victims, who wore white kerchiefs and courageously protested the dictatorship in Plaza de Mayo day after day during the junta’s peak power, demanding to know where their children and grandchildren were. This was a powerful, brave, and women-led movement against one of the most brutal dictatorships in recent history. Those fascist pigs didn’t dare touch these women, who utterly shamed them with their bravery. It is thanks to them and their oral histories that we finally got the truth about what happened in Argentina during the 1970s and 80s.
I thought of these mothers and the victims of the dictatorship the entire time I was in Buenos Aires, but especially when we visited the Playa de Mayo, and when I visited the Parque de la Memoria, a massive, beautiful memorial park dedicated to the 30,000 victims of the military dictatorship’s Dirty War. It is located right next to the same Rio de la Plata, where thousands of victims were thrown, never to be heard from again, and just north of the military airport that the Argentine military used for their “flights of death.” Among the many moving sculptures located in the park are a series of gray concrete walls with the names of victims, which resembles the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C. On wall after wall, each of the victims are listed in chronological order according to the year of their murder, along with their age, and the word “embarazada,” if the victim was pregnant.
When I was in the park, looking at all the names, disbelieving the ages of many of the dead–16, 18, 22, 24, 28–I felt a personal affinity with them because many of them were targeted because of their left-wing political beliefs (or the beliefs of their parents or relatives) and their outspoken opposition to the military dictatorship. I think like them. I believe some of the same things they did. I kept asking myself if I had been with them back then, would I have spoken up too, or would I have kept my mouth shut out of fear of being disappeared? Probably the latter. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered because they killed people who didn’t speak out too, based on their own arbitrary definition of “subversive.” With fascists, once they decide you’re a problem for any reason, you’re done.
(Remember this when people like Stephen Miller and Donald Trump start trying to define who is a “terrorist” or “Antifa” or a “political criminal.”)
Parque de la Memoria was an incredibly sad place, and also one of the most moving and beautiful places I have ever visited in my life.
Ending with some final rapid-fire highlights:
- Recoleta Cemetery – I love cemeteries, especially dramatic ones with history. We went to Recoleta Cemetery on a gray and overcast day, which was perfect, and I took lots of photos there, including the mausoleum where Juan and Eva Peron are buried.
- Dancing Queen – One night, after a long day of walking, we decided to go to Palermo and visit one of the hidden speakeasies located there. We went last minute and had trouble finding two of them–they are totally hidden off the street, and you only get the password and directions if you make a reservation. We decided to cut our losses and go to The Hole, which has an Alcatraz theme and was easier to find than the others. It was a bit touristy, but fun. I ordered a flask of mixed cocktail with Al Capone’s face on it. When we left, M. was a bit tipsy–she’s tiny so it doesn’t take much. While we were waiting for the Uber back, she goes into the deserted street and starts singing
Any-bod-y could be thaaaaat guuuuyyyy…. from Dancing Queen, laughing her ass off. Now, I love ABBA, so I pull up Dancing Queen on Spotify, and we start doing this impromptu dance on the street. In spite of the lyrics, I keep pointing myself and saying Any-bod-y could be thaaaaat guuuuyyyy…. which made her laugh even more.
It was one of those special life moments I won’t forget, and I’ll never be able to hear that song again without thinking of it and her. - Showing off my prison PJs – when we got back from The Hole, which again, was prison-themed (there were jail cells above us and waiters were dressed like prisoners in orange jumpsuits), I broke out these horizontal striped pajama bottoms when M. was in the bathroom. I bought them from the kid’s store Hanna Anderson a few years go when I was buying PJs for M – just the bottoms, not the tops.
She comes out of the bathroom, sees me with these ridiculous PJ bottoms on, and starts laughing her ass off because I look like an “American prisoner”. Emboldened by the attempted humiliation, I start dancing in them like a Chippendale’s reject, and I’m not gonna lie, it got a little pornographic.
Here’s what they look like:
- A mad rush to Colonia, Uruguay – due to my delayed flight and other things we did, we didn’t think we were going to make it to Uruguay as we had planned. We delayed getting tickets for the ferry to Colonia until the last minute to give ourselves the most flexibility. The second to last day there, we both woke up pretty tired and went back and forth about whether we should try to get to Uruguay that day. We finally decided to do it at the last minute, rushed to get dressed, and got an Uber to the ferry station, which was about 15 minutes away. When I tried to order tickets online for the next ferry, they were sold out. M., ever the optimist, said ‘Let’s go anyway and try to order the tickets on site. Maybe we’ll get them.’ I went with it, but inside my head, my eyes were rolling. I didn’t think we had a chance. We get there, M. does her thing in Spanish with the ticket agent, and we got two tickets to Colonia. Oh, how proud of herself she was! See how it pays to be optimistic!
So thanks to her, we got to Colonia about two hours later, and I got to put my feet in Uruguay for the first time. It was a cute little town with a lighthouse and these old buildings and restaurants, all walkable from the ferry. We had a nice glass of wine waterside at sunset and then made our way back to the ferry. When we got there, there was this huge line because buses and ferries were leaving from the same place at the same time. After we got through passport and immigration control, there was another, even longer line. We asked the guy in front of us if it was for the ferry and he said yes. A few minutes later, about 10 minutes before the last ferry of the day was leaving Colonia, he went to check, came back, and told us that no, there was a separate line for the ferry that was totally empty. All four of us, him, his wife, M., and I ran to the other line and got our asses on the ferry just in time. If it hadn’t been for him, God knows what we would have done if we missed the ferry. I thanked him profusely in broken Spanish before we got on.
Then M. and I are sitting in the ferry for like an hour, and it’s not moving at all. It’s pitch black outside and we’re like, oh, maybe they would have waited for us–I wonder when it’s leaving? We’re not getting back until 10:30 at this point! Five minutes later, they announce we’re arriving in Buenos Aires. Lmfao. We didn’t even feel the ferry leave Uruguay, so we’re totally surprised and start laughing like two fools. - Teaching lyrics to an Uber driver – everywhere we went, Argentinians were really kind and welcoming. Every time I asked them if they spoke English, they would say mas o’ menos. They really didn’t speak much English in Buenos Aires, and I’m not sure how many English-speakers go there. Fortunately, M. speaks fluent Spanish, so it wasn’t an issue at all. The day she left, I was Ubering alone back to the hotel, and the driver asked me in broken English if I could explain a lyric of a song that was playing on the radio, Candy, by Iggy Pop and Kate Pierson of the B-52s. Finally, a chance to pay it forward, I thought to myself. The lyric was”
I’ve had a hole in my heart for so long
I’ve learned to fake it and just smile along
Down on the street those men are all the same
I need a love, not games, not games
“What does ‘down on the street’ mean?” he asked. “Does it mean literally down on the street? I don’t understand.”
I gave him my interpretation, which may not be correct, I told him. I said that to me, “down on the street” refers to prostitution, or someone who was working on the street and then met someone who is different from those men. Also ‘Candy’ is her name, I mean, come on.
He smiled and a light went off, and then he thanked me. Google AI is now telling me I got it wrong, and the song has nothing to do with prostitution. I think that’s bullshit and I stand on my interpretation.
