A Mexican Invasion Part 4

Saturday presented us with a problem specific to Argentina. The country was having their version of the midterm elections on Sunday so, as a precaution, all bars and clubs were forced to stop serving alcohol at midnight, Saturday. This was yet another safeguard put in place to prevent the Argentines from committing murder. Whether it's soccer or politics, these people can always come up with a reason to beat the shit out of one another. So it was looking like the most exciting night of the week to be in the city (Saturday) was going to be cut short.

(note: due to the fact that I normally operate in a booze-induced haze, I can't seem to remember if the events of Saturday afternoon actually took place on Saturday afternoon. For all I know they could have occurred Friday -- or even Monday. Either way just go along with the notion that the events did actually occur some time during the weekend... probably.)

Saturday afternoon we went to the posh cemetery in Recoleta that is home to some of Argentina's most landed, albeit deceased, gentry. For a shitload of money you can stow your loved ones in a tomb or mausoleum so large and gaudily decorated that it could easily pass for an upper-middle class apartment in Paris. The caretakers of this thriving tourist attraction are the families of obese cats that roam the interior. I was never a cat person anyway, but walking amongst the remains of dead Portenos while these things stare at you with the cold, calculating eyes of feline serial killers, is more than enough to loosen the bladder.

We saw the Duarte family tomb, home to Evita Peron, who, as everyone knows, is Madonna. Other than that she was the damaged wife of a dictator in the forties and early fifties. She had a god complex, built a tiny amusement park for children and dwarfs, got cancer, died of it, and now lies in a cage where locals leave flowers and tourists take pictures. After that we continued our stroll, stopping occasionally to admire the masonry, artwork and actual human skulls that make up the tombs. The masonry and artwork I can get behind, the skulls, on the other hand, tell me a spring cleaning may be in order.

That night we had dinner at a restaurant across from the cemetery and nestled in between the upscale brothels called Puerto Zuelo. It's very nice with good food, but is popular with North Americans, which is an obvious drawback. After the steaks and pork chops were devoured we lingered at the bar for a while. Juan ordered a twenty dollar snifter of absinthe. They just legalized absinthe in the states but don't allow the addition of wormwood, the active ingredient in the potent liquor. Without the wormwood, the absinthe they now sell in the U.S. falls under the category of most things in my native country: pointless.

I tried a sip of it and immediately got the sensation that someone rubbed smelted metal in my eyes while simultaniously pouring battery acid down my throat -- with a minty aftertaste. After that I decided to stick to my rum drinks. I thought I would try something new that evening and the bar had a happy hour special on two for one strawberry daiquiris. Sergio informed me (multiple times in the course of five minutes) that the reality of me drinking the daiquiris was twenty times gayer than just the idea of it. But what the hell, they tasted good. Although I did switch to beer afterward.

Later we went to the Irish pubs in downtown and quickly found out that, although bars couldn't legally serve alcohol past midnight, they could easily circumvent that little inconvenience by bribing the cops who stopped by to make sure they weren't selling. But even though we could find booze after midnight, there were so many places not selling that hardly anyone was out. After a few pints of Heineken we packed it in and headed back to the loft. For a city that is alive when the sun goes down, trust me: there's nothing more soul-crushing than a quiet Saturday night in Buenos Aires.

The next day I lied in bed like a wasted sack of shit while the guys went to the Sunday afternoon street fair at Plaze Dorrego in San Telmo. I would have gone too but the marathon drinking sessions over the last few days had left my alcohol-soaked body in need of a brief respite. I had to nurse myself back to health, mostly because we were going out again that evening. So around ten we headed back to San Telmo.

Every Sunday night, during my first month in B.A., I would go to Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo, sit at an outside table drinking a Quilmes, and watch the locals who would come out to dance tango in the open air of the courtyard. It's one of the most relaxing and fulfilling ways to spend an evening in this city and the fact that there are people from my country who live here for close to a year and haven't experienced it is infuriating. I hope they all get Hepatits C and die.

Unfortunately Cris, Sergio and Juan wouldn't get to experience it either. It was raining and most people were at home watching the election results anyway, so the courtyard was empty. We went to a jazz bar across from the plaza and had a few beers while we listened to a trio of locals bust out the standards on a tiny stage. Afterward we headed down the street to a dark and moody milonga called Tasso. It's my favorite place to drink Malbec and watch people dance, and every Sunday night around midnight they put on a show with a couple of professional dancers. To see it is to truly experience the history and beauty of the Tango. 

Of course, because of the election, there was no show. Looks like the guys picked the perfect weekend to spend in B.A.

We had dinner there and then headed back to Puerto Zuelo where we lounged, drank and chatted with a couple of Brazilian girls about the merits of putting ketchup on French fries (the Argentines, like lunatics, prefer mayo). We went home late and passed out. When I woke up the next afternoon I promised myself I would never drink like that again. A promise I think I broke around eight or nine hours later when it was time to go out again.

The day the guys left we had lunch at Cafe Tortoni, that musty old relic down the street from the Casa Rosada. It was a nice enough meal but a relatively bittersweet experience as the guys had to leave for the airport at five. When five did roll around they got their stuff together and we all said goodbye. I'm sure they had a good time but could have used at least an extra week to really get the city. Trying to see Buenos Aires in five days is like trying to beat off in a bathroom your entire family is waiting for: It's just better when you have more time.

When they left I guess I was sad. There isn't much I care about back in the U.S. There's no culture to miss and I have no roots that pull me back. The only thing I would like would be able to see friends again...

To spend more time with them...

To have more weeks like that one....

And to never have to see Sergio naked ever again.