Tango and the City

In less than 48 hours, Bling will be on board a flight bound for North America. A hemisphere away, but another reality awaits.

Buenos Aires is a magical city. As with other cities which cast a spell in this manner, it is one of extremes: black, white, gray, and every colour you've ever seen, and many you have yet to dream of.

Yesterday I spent the type of afternoon that I love in Montreal. Summer (or Fall) day, walking around in the sun, along St-Denis close to home, or around in the Old Port. Exploring, discovering the secret haunts that hold treasures yet to be discovered. Palermo Soho is one of those idyllic places that reminds you of most of your great summer memories: everyone is full of life, walking, laughing, enjoying a perfect afternoon. Useful information: Mark's, I was happy to learn, will provide a limonada to go. I had my second ice cream nirvana... for one who is not much of a fan, the way some others are (C), I can definitely see why it is a source of national pride. Give it up for helado! Basically, anything cow related, they've got down to a science : steak, leather, hides, ice cream, dulce de leche.

Today, I got lost in a book. I read, once again, The House of the Spirits. I read at my breakfast table in the middle courtyard, I read in the garden by the pool, I read in the pool, I read at a bustling restaurant in San Telmo. It was strange to be in San Telmo without the Magnificent Seven (well, technically it was only the six of us who met there, but still) - our adventure began there a Sunday afternoon three weeks ago. In some ways I am looking forward to going back, because it feels almost like a cruel joke that our adventures are over if I am still here.

San Telmo is fascinating. It's a human spectacle, live comedy, dancing, singing, everything unfolding in front of you. Antiques markets and vendors, street performers, fresh orange juice stands, avant-garde designers, penultimate hipster-chic boutiques, hundreds of artisans on a seemingly endless street. Graffiti on some walls, murals on others, where children played three weeks ago is now another vendor. And you know next week it will be entirely different, but the same.

Lost in a book is really lost in someone's words. Isabel Allende is one of those writers who tend to capture your imagination with the first sentence. I've never considered why. The book in question takes place over a long lifetime, in Chile. It is fascinating for the layers of human nature it exposes, but moreover, for the story of the country that it tells - the collision of politics and people, families, stories.

In a sense, I think I have been lost here especially these last few days. I mean this literally and figuratively. Literally because Buenos Aires is the tango in a city. Streets which seem to be in a standard grid suddenly bend at an 130 degree angle. The tango steps which seem basic are entirely different when your partner is changing your very direction at every second step. It can be mildly disorientating when, while walking along a same street, you come to cross the street you were parallel to. I'm stubborn and I love to explore, but I would be lying if I didn't admit to once in a while sneaking out the book and confirming a few blocks later I am in fact going the exact opposite direction that I intended to. Generally, though, I manage to walk until I know where I am without needing the book although never entirely positive that I'm going in the right direction until I am.

On your own, you tend to see things in a much different manner than with a group. More as an observer in some ways, less so in others. Less because you can blend in. More because you walk through.

One minute you are driving along an avenue with breathtaking architecture that speaks of grandeur, opulence, wealth past and present, and the next, on a dirty, desolate block with unmemorable structures, with people collecting recyclables out of the garbage with improvised trolleys or carts, to return for the money. A lifetime away, others sort through my own recycling for the returnables, on my own architecturally-interesting street. The difference, I think, is that here it is another example of the poverty which is as common here as it is rare at home.

This isn't a safe city. That isn't to say it is all-out dangerous, but it isn't safe. It takes time to adjust to taking precautions that are the norm here. In a group, less to worry about. For example, locals never take a cab at night if it wasn't called from the radio taxi service. Even in the day, radio taxi is preferred. Doors are locked by a series of locks, windows barred, purses held close at all times. Soho is a bit of an exception, but it's certainly not the norm. Certain neighbourhoods are safe enough to walk around in after dark, others are frankly frightening. Nothing unusual but not something you get used to. I think it's not nearly as easy to lose sight of the fact that this city defines lives between the haves than the have nots than it is at home. You see that is is more than a question of choices and opportunities.

Part of what makes Buenos Aires is that it is familiar and exotic at once. It wouldn't be much of a challenge if everyone spoke Spanish I understand perfectly, if the streets didn't tango, if I was perfectly at ease although I feel quite at home. Suffice it to say, we've scratched the surface and we're hooked. They say it takes ten years to even begin to master the tango...