There are some things that Portenos will not eat, like peanut butter and broccoli. They seem to have replaced these things with substitutes, though, like dulce de leche and acelga(first def.)—I’ve been eating a lot of both.
Avenida 9 de Julio intersects with Corrientes and Avenida Santa Fe and Avenida del Libertador. Corrientes and Santa fe are parallel and connected by many streets such as Callao. Santa Fe and Corrientes are major shopping areas, like Florida and that street that runs perpendicular to Florida but is also a pedestrian-only street. And the closer you get to the Rio in Recoleta, the posher it gets until right before the water where it becomes a desolate abandoned port area. A lot like Retiro, which is fancy and full of amazing old architecture until right by the bus station, where it turns into favelas and guys stealing your wallets and satchels.
Some things here are inexpensive, like delicious oranges and red wine and fancy buses with super-comfy seats and steak (obvo) and housing and health care. But some things aren’t, like durable goods and nice housing and cars and fancy health care from Germany or Switzerland and poorly made clothing and everyday toiletries and cheap plastic-y things that in the US would be imported from China. I can’t figure out the system; it seems arbitrary.
As you move South from Palermo, Recoleta, the Microcentro to San Telmo and La Boca and beyond, the atmosphere moves from cosmopolitan to classical to bureaucratic to charming to full of character to a bit dodgy to dangerous.
Portenos are well-read. They make me embarrassed about what I haven’t. Every bookstore window is full of treatises and heavy nonfiction work about global politics and big issues. These books don’t have pretty pictures on the cover, these are books made to educate. And they’re in the front window—these are the books that sell. My pseudo-conversations with the 18-year olds and taxi drivers tell me that these people like to learn about politics and global issues, and that they like to discuss them.
Compared to the city I’ve been living in for the last 6 years, the per-capita percentage of runners is quite slim, but those who do run are champions. Their lungs and thighs are huge, due perhaps in part to their futbol experience.
People are friendly and willing to help those of us who exude helplessness such as myself. Everyone is nice once they hear my abysmal Castellano and almost everyone responds very well to a smile. That is not to say, however, that in a city with 13 million people you don’t have to hold your ground on the sidewalk to pedestrians and sometimes motos and taxis.
Dance clubs here disappoint. Maybe because (here I want to be judgmental instead of diplomatic, but may my better nature dominate) they don’t know how to have romantic relationships, even less than we Estados-Unidosians. Portenos seem to be incredibly insecure about romance and commitment. And courtship and love. And that manifests itself in really bad dancing to undanceable music. Diplomacy be damned.
Buenos Aires makes me want a motorcycle. Even more.
