Travel Musings

Inauspicious Start

I throw all my summer dresses, three or four pairs of heels, and belts galore into my suitcase and give the pile a good shove with my foot. Oh, and my brand-spanking-new Tod's Ballerina Dee shoes, still in their sexy little satin pouch. So cute. I know those Argentinians are clothes-conscious and I'm not about to be labeled the dorky American. No fanny packs, shorts, or tennis shoes here. So there.

I pull my bags down the stairs (scraping paint off walls as I go), stop to kiss The Boys on their adorable little furry heads, shut my condo door behind me, negotiate the outside steps, and settle into a taxi.

In the cab, I call my work voicemail.

"Hi, this is Mitzy. I will be unavailable until March 12th. Please leave a message and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you." I snap the phone shut.

Crap. I've just informed my taxi driver that my condo is vacant -- and ripe for plundering -- for the next ten days. He and his gangland friends will no doubt break in and rob me blind during my absence. I pretend to call my work voicemail again.

"Umm, hi, this is Mitzy. I will be unavailable until March 4th? ...Leave a message -- please -- and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Yup. Thanks."

Taxi Driver asks which terminal, and I answer 'international', which pretty much blows my two-day cover. And no sooner do I blurt it out then I remember that I'm destined for Houston first. Idiot. I'm such an idiot.

The Continental line is hell. Forty-five minutes after arriving, I approach the desk to learn that some local flurries have caused incoming flight delays. As a result, my Houston flight will depart three hours late and I won't make my connector to Buenos Aires. I am rebooked on a morning flight to Houston.

This bites. And hard. I take another taxi home, pay another $40. I believe in *Foreshadowing in Everyday Life, but I hope that my snazzy-named theory is a figment of my paranoid, irrational imagination.

On the plus side, I had forgotten to rid my wallet of all unnecessary cards and documents (I don't like to risk losing these items while traveling abroad.) Back at home, I empty said wallet and toss its unnecessary contents into a safe. At least I've got that much going for me.

*Yes, I'm borrowing from the brilliant Erving Goffman

Deja Vu

Back in the cab, heading to O'Hare.

"I'm flying to Houston!," I tell the driver. "I'll be back home tonight! To my husband! And our rottweilers, Killer and Maim!"

He flashes a sidelong look of annoyance at me throught the rearview mirror. "Whatever, lady."

I take an early flight to Houston, to be on the safe side, which forces me to kill seven hours in this hellhole. My dining options are limited to bad burgers, bad yogurt, bad Italian, and overpriced, bad seafood here at Shrub Intercontinental Airport.

Missing the Saturday night dinner I had booked at Casa Saltshaker disappoints me. Casa Saltshaker describes itself as an "in-home restaurant in Barrio Norte," explaining that "Locally, these places are referred to as 'restaurants with closed doors' and they are quite popular among the food and wine folk." I first encountered Casa Saltshaker in a minor article in an obscure travel magazine and not long after the New York Times article published an article describing the phenomenon of puertas cerradas. The author anointed CS Numero Uno among them.

According to the Casa Saltshaker website, I'm denied a meal of Middle Eastern, African, and French influence in celebration of Moroccan Independence Day (Dan, the owner of CS, typically plans his meals around a theme). The multi-course spread costs only $20, excluding wine.

I e-mail Dan from my Blackberry, asking if he can fit me in for the following Saturday: he's booked. He advises me to check in later in the week.

Back in the air, I order a glass of red wine and pop an Ambien. (Fun Fact 1: 30 tablets of 10 mgs cost the same as 30 tablets of 5 mgs, and they're *halvable.) Leave it to Continental to charge for twist-cap swill on an international flight. Continental is at the top of my **Crumb List, second only to Verizon (Fun Fact 2: 'Verizon' translates to 'satan's seed' in Tagalog.)

The Ambien settles in; my thoughts drift...I hope I don't miss any wacky Prince Frederic Von Anholt hijinx while I'm away...

*My new word, but you can use it

**Borrowing from Greg Brady this time

Hola Honey, I'm Casa

No visa is required for U.S. citizens visiting Argentina. Customs is efficient, my bag arrives quickly, and I'm happily ensconced in a cab, heading to Hotel Bobo. Following the advice of fellow internet posters, I'm using only radio cabs on this trip. Cab fares into the city are 60 ARS (approximately $20 US).

I round up the fare for a tip, per the guidebooks' instructions, and my driver appears satisfied. He actually lugs my bag to the steps and rings the door for me. And he smiles. Chicago taxi drivers don't smile. In fact, my driver from Friday is probably tossing my stereo equipment into his trunk as I write.

I chose Hotel Bobo ('bobo' is short for 'bourgeois bohemian') after researching and deliberating extensively. I'm too young, cool, and poor for the moneyed, dusty, 'Grande Dame' hotels, so I had ruled out the Alvear Palace. And I'm too old, uncool, and poor for the trendy, Schrageresque-type properties, such as the Faena + Universe hotel. I just want someplace charming designed for the thirty-something set.

Hotel Bobo vs. Home Hotel: the contest appeared to be a draw between frequent posters on the Tripadvisor and Fodors travel forums (forumae?). But HBb ranked on the 2005 Conde Nast Traveler Hot List, and I liked the idea of 'bourgeois bohemian'. So HBb it was, confirmed at a daily rate of $120 US.

Vanessa, friendly and competent, checks me in. She provides a map, explains the neighborhood and outlines the BA sights for me, and escorts me to my room. Where is the Argentinian Attitude I had been expecting? Nowhere, so far.

I love my room. HBb offers only seven rooms, each designed in a different style: pop, classic, techno, minimalist, rationalistic, art deco, and Argentinian. True to form, I had selected the minimalist room: all-white with tall ceilings...just like home! I'm in a rut. To my defense, the room boasts a balcony with sitting area, which did factor into my decision-making.

Yay! Chocolate squares.

Palermo Soho

HBb is located in Palermo Soho, the Southernmost Palermo Viejo neighborhood.

I freshen up, change clothes, and visit Vanessa. "Any news?" She:

-  Informs me that I will be charged for a room for last night. That's fine: HBb shouldn't be faulted for Chicago's flurries

• -  Hands me my Buquebus itinerary, which I recently lost in a laptop crash

-  Has reseved a room for me at a nearby hotel for next Sunday night (I've extended my stay by a day to compensate for my lost day)

Thanks, Vanessa!

Crap! Literally; crap. Dog crap. Not only on the sidewalk, but smushed onto the bottom of my new Ballerina Dee shoe -- not fifty feet old -- and bulging out all around the pricey rubber nubbins.

Determined to explore my trendy Palermo neighborhood, I slide/step, slide/step up Thames and turn left at El Salvador.

Boutiques and restaurants abound: Palermo is saturated with shops featuring local designers' fashions at a fraction of U.S. prices. I know that the clothing is upscale because the dresses and skirts are assymetrical: in Chicago, expect to pay double for pieces if they're off-kilter. Of course the leather purses are cheap and beautifully crafted. As are the shoes -- althought they lag behing style-wise (not a platform heel to be found). Unfortunately, many of the stores are closed on Sundays.

Not entirely comfortable with a hotel reservation booked by someone other than myself (Control issues? Check.), I visit two local boutique hotels, 1555 Malabia House and 5 Five. Both pass muster: great location, contemporary vibe, safe, and clean; but unfortunately both are soldout next Sunday.

Most everyone with whom I speak knows English, which is helpful, as my Spanish is limited to cliche, tenth-grade-Introductory-to-Spanish phrases.

I pause for a Quilmes beer and papas fritas (they do fries better here) at one of the many outdoor restaurants surrounding Plaza Cortazar, apparently where all the young BAs gather to soak up sunny weekend afternoons. Everyone in BA is is beautiful and in love. It's really quite sickening.

I'm Ready to Move Here

Back at HBb, I rinse off my shoe, shower, and indulge in a nap.

It's 7:00 and my body still operates on SNT (Standard Nerd Time): I'm ready for *supper. The restaurants here don't even open until 8:30, and even showing up at that time is the Argentinian equivalent of eagerly arriving for an Early Bird Dinner at any Southeast Florida eatery. I read for awhile.

Time to dress. What's with all the high heels? Like I feel like wearing heels after walking all day. And why all the dresses? Who am I going to run into that I know? The heels. The dresses that require ironing...they just seem like a lot of unnecessary effort. I pull-on my default black skirt; my fall-back black top; and my (now) crap-free-flats.

Todo el Mundo knows that Casa Cruz, 1658 Uriarte, is THE Restaurant of The Moment in BA. Beyond the enormous brass doors, I sink into the overstuffed, velvet sofa in the lounge, and sip an amazing blanc de noirs (for the same price as a **PBR here in The States). I peruse the menu: every dish is truffle-this and truffle-that, priced at a steal by U.S. standards (five courses for $60).

The bar, a small shrine to libation encircling a solitary bartender, reminds me of a theater-in-the-round. The show fascinates me: the drinks are mixed with such precision and care: alchemy with alcohol. I haven't been here (in BA) long, but I've concluded that  Porteños (natives of BA) -- my taxi driver, Vanessa, the bartender at Casa Cruz -- take exceptional pride in their work.

Finally, finally 10:00 arrives and I can dine without embarrassment. I head to Bar Uriarte, an established Palermo restaurant, one block north of Casa Cruz. My mushroom appetizer and glass of Malbec (wine made from Argentina's signature grape) hit the spot. Good people-watching, good people-listening (I eavesdrop shamelessly.)

Satisfied that I've explored Palermo pretty well today, I return to HBb, watching my step as I go.

*Also known as 'dinner' outside of Iowa, Minnesota, South Dakota, and North Dakota

**I don't drink PBR: it's just the funniest beverage to use in an example

Dogs & Fish & Art & a Big Flower

I awake at the edgy hour of 10:00 (I usually get up at 6:30). I am so cool. In fact, I stayed up *past 2:00 last night. Maybe I do belong at Faena + Universe.

Today I'm exploring the Recoleta neighborhood. I take Thames eastward (which appears to be southward on the BA map) to Avenue Sarmiento; the zoo lies on my right and, eventually, the Plaza Int. Seeber lies to my left. I had already gathered firstfoot evidence that BA is a big dog town, but I hadn't realized the degree to which Portenos like their pups until I pass the park. Herds of dogs run the place, and single dogwalkers handle up to thirty canines. I grin like an idiot: watching them (the dogs; not their walkers so much) cavort is hilarious, heartwarming.

I turn left onto Av. A. Berro and the Japanese Gardens sprawl before me. The gardens are a pleasant diversion, and the large koi swarming beneath the footbridges, vying for food, Totally Work It. The camera luvs ya, fishies.

MALBA, the Latin American Art Museum of Buenos Aires, was recently built a few blocks down from the Japanese Gardens on Av. Figuero Alcorta. I enter, pay admission, and view the exhibits. The building is beautiful and the art engaging, but the meager quantity of displays leaves me wanting more. I'm especially drawn to a hand-colored photograph taken in New York City. I want to play with photos.

Rather than continuing southward on Figueroa Alcorta, a loud, sterile thoroughfare, I duck down S.M. de Tours. I veer towards Juez Tedin and continue my southerly stroll through an up-upscale residential neighborhood dotted with homes (the likes of which I'll never live in): a welcome, calming detour from the main traffic artery.

Tagle returns me to Figuero Alcorta just before I reach Floralis Generica, an immense, metal sculpture of a single flower. I had read somewhere that the mechanized petals are programmed to close in the evening and open in the morning.

I continue until I reach Av. Pueyredon, turn right, and quickly enter the heart of Recoleta. A perfect walk.

*Reading a book

The Eva After

A salad and agua naturale or papas fritas and a Quilmes? Salad/agua naturale? Papas fritas/Quilmes? I order papas fritas and a Quilmes tap. What the hell: I'm on vacation. I note with approval that saltshakers are consistently delivered with the food in Argentina. This trend in the U.S. of denying diners their salt (it's only been a condiment for what... thousands of years?) and shaming them into requesting it (as if the act is a personal affront against chef) bugs the hell out of me. And don't even get me started on prententious salt fingerbowls.

I cross the greens to La Recoleta Cemetary, a walled, above-ground home to over 4,800 vaults, located in the center of one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in BA. Feral cats weave through the massive Grecian columns guarding the entrance. The archway reads Requiescant in Pace.

It's time to break-in my new iPod (obviously I'm no Early Adopter). I spent hours prior to my trip downloading my favorite songs. I select 'Music'. 'Songs.' Pretend We're Dead, by L7. Seems like an appropriate soundtrack for my explorations.

La Recoleta is stunning. Maybe it's the Quilmes. The music. The weather (sunny and blue: not a cloud to be found). Mars in retrograde. All of the above. Who knows. But I feel... euphoric? I wander up and down the tree-lined rows of elaborate mausolea (in multiple architectural styles), reading the plaques, peering inside the gates. Some memorials are decrepit, unkempt, and creepy; others overflow with fresh flowers. A crowd gathers in front of Eva Peron's tomb.

I snap away like a madwoman. Love my Canon. And I don't mean to get all melodramatic or corny on you, but -- out of nowhere (except I caught a glimpse of it today with the koi) -- I appreciate my camera as an artistic tool and not just a point-and-shoot apparatus. Yesterday I took pictures: today I'm photographing. 

I reluctantly leave La Recoleta hours after entering.

I'm a Bimbo, She's a Bimbo, Wouldn't You Like to be a Bimbo Too?

I pop over to Buenos Aires Design Center, a contemporary, indoor/outdoor mall comprised of high-end home stores. I enter the complex through Morph (stopping to buy some puffy, sparkly stickers for the nephews), work my way to the center's center, and beeline it to the closest exit. The stores sell gorgeous stuff but I can't bear to be cooped up indoors when blue skies beckon. I'll save my furnishing shopping for my return to Chicago, Chicago flurries.

My next destination is  Avenida Alvear, BA's big, fancy drag, I peek inside the Avenida Palace. Ho hum. Sure, it's nice, but it could be The Drake, or the New York Palace Hotel, or Le Pavillon in New Orleans, or... they're interchangeable: faded, burgundy velvet pillows; damask curtains smelling faintly of Grandma's attic, and unresponsive thremostats.

All in all, Avenida Alvear is a pleasant walk; no more, no less.

I return to Pueyrredon, where a large delivery truck advertising BIMBO snacks passes by. C'mon admit it: that's funny. Don't you think it's funny? Well, I do. So my sense of humor is lacking a certain degree of ah...sophistication. So much for my stint as a serious photographer.

I catch the Green Line (D) to Palermo at the intersection with Av. I've struck rush hour. I jostle my way through the thick of sweaty commuters and grasp for a handstrap. We bounce along, a mass of bodies tipping forwards and backwards as one. This is no fun. I pull out my iPod: a little mood music is in order. Under Pressure, David Bowie and Queen.

Brown no es Bueno

What to wear. What to wear? I go with my black skirt, black shirt, black flats.

El Diamante is listed in my Blackberry with an asterisk next to it, which means that two someones, somewhere -- (one for the listing, the other for the star) -- recommended it. ED is close by, so I head there for an apéritif (no supper is complete without one).

I go up, up -- keep going up -- to the rooftop deck. *The night's in diapers: this place is nearly empty. I wiggle onto one of a few stools at the makeshift wooden bar. ED so reminds me of one of the downtown Cancun bars my friend Becky and I ferreted out, one drunken Springbreak 199-something: well-pours only; neon, twisted streamers and pregnant, paper bells strewn across the ceiling; and other random decor (pictures of Jesus, Halloween masks, stray photos). Only this time, I bet I won't kiss any strangers, or don a sombrero, or puke in the bathroom.

And I don't. Instead, I order a beer, drink half, erase El Diamante from my Blackberry, and move on. I suspect that this rooftop bar hops late at night, but I'm sans hopping buddies on this trip. Plus I'm older and duller now, and I relish my eight hours of sleep. And, waking up healthy is nice. Back in the day, though...we would have turned this mutha out.

Sooner or later, I must eat steak at a traditional Argentinian restaurant, or my trip would feel incomplete. Time Out Buenos Aires recommends Don Julio, just down the street from HBb.

My server is a sweetheart (who speaks little English). He recommends the filet, and I comply, requesting it 'jugoso', which (I had read), translates to 'medium rare.'

My steak arrives, prepared well-done. "No es rosa," I explain. "Es brown. Mucho brown."

My second steak is served rare. I feel like an ass for complaining, but it's bad.

"No es rosa. Es rojo." Damn, I am really getting good at this Spanish stuff. "Y una mas Malbec, por favor." My server is still friendly, still accommodating.

Finally: the perfect steak.

After dinner: I'm super-conciliatory, flash my widest helpless-hopeless-dumb-blond-American-smile, and tip big, which, when you think about it, is no laudable gesture on my part, considering the healthy rate of exchange.

*I went on a first date with a guy, sophomore year in college, who actually employed this phrase when I begged to be returned to my dorm. Fun Fact #3: He wore safety pins on his sleeve and I wore stretchy stirrup pants and an oversized, fuzzy sweater from The Limited. My hair was very big.

Faena + Universe

I locate an internet outlet and check my e-mail. Dan at Casa Saltshaker still has no availability on Saturday, but, at my request, he has provided recommendations for other puertas cerradas:

• Almacen Secreto (no website: it's secret! Check with your concierge. E-mail = almacensecreto@sion.com)
• Caracoles para DaVinci (E-mail = caracolescatering@yahoo.com.ar)
• Casa Felix

Diego Felix replies immediately: he has an opening. Done deal.

I ride the D Line to Plaza de Mayo (not the best Plaza I've ever encountered), take an obligatory look at the big buildings, and walk down Bolivar into San Telmo. San Telmo is boring. Who recommended this? I head East towards the river, zig-zagging left until I reach Faena + Universe, the hotel darling of the hipsterscenti.

Yes, Faena is chic: but the neighborhood is still up-and-coming: it hasn't arrived yet. I walk down The Hallway. The plaques covering the walls announce that everybody, but everybody, in the music world has played here. I sneak a peak into El Bistro, the decor of which -- white on white on   on white (even too much white for me) -- with stuffed unicorn heads adorning the walls -- manages to be even more tacky upclose than in pictures. That's hot.

I duck into the dining room and snap a shot: it's pretty swanky. I would eat here. I speak with a hostess, who welcomes me with a smile (again, where is the Argentinian Attitude? I haven't encountered it yet.)

I end-up seated poolside for lunch and order...Anyone?...Anyone?... Bueller?...Bingo!: papas fritas and a Quilmes.

Afterwards, I return to the Plaza de Mayo, and explore Calle Florida. Florida is a must-walk for tourists: not so much for the quality of its stores, but for the density of its crowds, like riding a human wave. I've strolled the pedestrian malls of Barcelona, Istanbul, and (not to brag, but) Iowa City and believe-you-me, they don't compare in terms of mass bodies.

I arrive at the Plaza San Martin, dutifully stroll the circumferance like a good touron, and catch the C Line to the D Line back to HBb.