Guest Bloggers--John and Tenaya

Hello, it's John and Tenaya, Ken's sobrino and his novia, visiting from Seattle. Our trip was a mere 12 days--six nights with Ken and Helen in Buenos Aires, punctuated by two nights in Iguazu Falls (in the north, where Argentina borders Paraguray and Brasil) and three nights in Bariloche (a Swiss Alps aesthetic-obsessed town in the Andes foothills of northern Patagonia).

We've been looking forward to contributing our guest post since we read Charlie's, but now that Ken and Helen have chronicled so much of their ex-pat journey from F.O.B. (or, more precisely, F.O.P.) to Porteño, we've had to think a bit harder about what uniquely to contribute!

Ken and Helen were wonderful hosts, but because they've already have done a great job covering daily life in Buenos Aires, this post will focus on our travel beyond District Federal.
Internal flights. Semi-cama or full-cama, we didn't have time for overnight bus trips, so took domestic flights to go to Iguazu and Bariloche. Friends from Seattle who are spending a year in Cordoba (Argentina) warned us away from Aerolinas Argentinas, which has a reputation for scheduling twice as many flights as it intends to fly.

We opted to fly Lan, a Chilean airline which flies many intra-Argentina routes. Lan proved to be a great airline, with three flights on time and one just 20 minutes late, a far better record than we've experienced flying between Seattle and San Francisco on Alaska and Southwest. The airplanes (brand new!), service, and food were significantly better than on domestic American carriers (see the picture of Tenaya displaying our snack boxes of cheese crackers, lemon cookies, and Havanna brand alfajor). Amusingly, on one flight John bungled drink order in Spanish and "lost" his Spanish privileges--for the rest of the flight the flight attended continued to communicate with Tenaya in Spanish and John in English! Moral: Fly Lan.

Igauzu Falls. Spanning the border between Brasil and Argentina, Iguazu Falls is wider than Niagra Falls and rival Victoria Falls. The falls are an incredible natural wonder, but they are a self-contained international tourist destination and not really an Argentine cultural experience. Iguazu National Park has incredible infrastructure brings visitors to breathtaking viewpoints at the lip of the falls, but it's difficult to do anything else! Incomplete maps and the lack of a central information center frustrated our efforts to see wildlife (including the dog-sized rodent known as a Carpincho and the Toco Toucan), but we eventually managed to figure out a rushed, but nice hike in the sub-tropical forest on the Sendero Macuco.

Bariloche. Argentina's Lake District is in the Andes foothills in northern Patagonia. Bariloche is its largest city. Beautiful mountain and lake scenery, with a few interesting physical differences from comparable beautiful mountain and lake areas in the United States (e.g., there�s bamboo in the alpine forests, and deciduous forests are located between the evergreen forests and the tree line). Like Iguazu, Bariloche and the surrounding Lake District is very, very touristy. Indeed, tourism appears to be the primary industry in those parts. But it's different from Iguazu; the tourism seems to be largely domestic travel by Argentines, so even the touristy aspects of the area seemed more genuinely Argentine than they did in Iguazu.

Driving. We rented a car in Bariloche so we'd have the flexibility to drive around the mountains and go hiking on our own. After coming to Buenos Aires and watching the local drivers, we were a bit nervous about this, but we gave it a shot. We had a reservation with Budget. At the airport in Bariloche, there was no Budget counter, so John went to the Hertz counter to see what their prices were (for whatever reason, car rental companies don't require credit cards to secure reservations). Hertz's rates were higher than what we had reserved with Budget, so we asked where Budget's counter was. The woman at the Hertz counter told us that Budget is in town, not at the airport, but to look to see if they sent someone. For those of you who have rented a car in the United States, you're no doubt aware rental car companies do not "send someone" to pick you up. But this is Argentina. Indeed, Budget had sent someone with our car, delivered to us at the airport. He gave us a tutorial on how to put the car in reverse (pull up a ring, much like the 1984 Volvo wagon John learned to drive on), wrote down his cell phone number in case we ran into problems, and made sure we have the proper papers to drive into Chile in case we wanted to (we didn't even try). So, like Lan, fantastic service--far beyond what we are accustomed to from American rental car companies. But the car? Not so much. We reserved a midsize car because it wasn't much more expensive than the cheapest model, and we thought it would get us something a few steps up from an econobox. What we got was a tiny Chevy Aveo with removable radio, ~80K kilometers on the odometer (very high for a U.S. rental car), no power steering (lots of fun pulling out into traffic from a parallel parking space), and a trunk that could cause a concussion to the unwary.

We learned by observation that parking on sidewalks is normal, that lanes were merely suggestions, and left turns are *sometimes* made from the right lane (yes, you signal left, but move right and stop to wait for all the traffic to pass....). We were feeling good until we went to go get gas on our way to the airport. We pulled into what seemed to be the last gas station on the airport side of town. The attendant came over, looked at the car, and told us that we needed a "NAFTA" station, something this station didn't have. To John, NAFTA is the North American Free Trade Agreement because he wasn't listening when Tenaya told him that gas was called "nafta". As it turned out, we passed no "NAFTA" stations before reaching the airport (with no time to spare), but the Budget guy just charged us 60 pesos for a tank of gas, which seemed fair. We're still wondering what was sold at the other fuel station--we didn't see any references to diesel.

That's our $.02 on aspects of Argentina Ken and Helen have yet to see. We've had a great time and look forward to coming back in a few years so we can see all the parts of the country we couldn't make it to in this 12 day trip.

Got a new camera--Blog functioning at full capacity

My nephew, John, and his novio, Tenaya, are visiting from Seattle. They arrived on Thursday morning and, well you know how it goes when you have out-of-country guests—not much time to update the blog. They are in Iguazu for two nights, so I’ll give you all an update. And . . .they brought me a new camera so the blog is back to full operation.

Thursday was our last tutoring session with Nieves. We had previously arranged to go out to sightseeing for our last class, and she said it was fine to bring John and Tenaya along.

We went to the Recoleta Cultural Center to see an exhibit on the Malvinas: Islands of the Memory . . . Public Images, Private Objects. It was very moving.

The war took place 25 years ago. My understanding is that the military dictatorship was growing increasingly unpopular and decided to express its territorial claim to these small islands off the southern coast. The islands are claimed by Great Brittan who refers to them as the Falklands.

Argentine troops, poorly trained and equipped, arrived on these islands, located near the Antarctic Circle, in fall as weather was getting cold. This was the first time many of these young men even knew the islands existed. They were not dressed for the weather and the Argentine military command did an inadequate job of re-supply.

The war began on March 19 with the Argentine reoccupation and ended on June 14 with the Argentine surrender. Argentina had 649 killed, 1,068 wounded, and 11,313 taken prisoner. For the British, 258 were killed, 777 wounded, and 106 taken prisoner. In the past 25 years, over 300 Argentine Malvinas veterans have committed suicide. That is more than the total of British war dead.

“Y por qué? Por nada,” I often hear. I have also heard that the 11,000 prisoners were well cared for by the British. I have also been told that the veterans have better feelings about their adversaries than their own superiors over how the war was carried out. I don’t know. It is just what I have been told. Mostly, it is just a sad thing. I believe Argentina has a legitimate claim to these islands. All the maps here show them as Argentine territory.

Argentine dead were buried quickly and only much later repatriated or placed in marked graves. The original wooden crosses that marked their graves are displayed in a moving three-dimensional array fronted by insult covered silhouettes of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.

From there, we walked to the University of Buenos Aires law school. John and Tenaya are both lawyers in Seattle. We had a good discussion with Nieves about law and political attitudes of young Argentines.


John keeps kosher. For his first night here in Buenos Aires, he had found a kosher parrilla in Barrio Once. The four of us went out for kosher asado. It was nothing remarkable, just more expensive. The most fascinating aspect of the evening was the young Orthodox Jewish family at the table next to us. A young man, his infant son, and totally beautiful wife. Tenaya pointed out to us that she was wearing a wig. Not only that, but it was actually a really good wig, and tasteful make-up, nice boots with stiletto heels and a skirt to the top of the boots. She was very fashionably and totally in keeping with Jewish conservative rules of dress.

Friday, while Helen studied, I took them out for a sightseeing walk. We walked to Plaza San Martin, then down Avenida Florida (always an adventure) to Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada. We saw the famous balcony where Eva Perone (and later Madona) made her heartfelt speech announcing she would not seek the office of vice president. Oddly, the speech is not made from the main balcony of the Government House, but from a smaller balcony much closer to the ground where people could have almost touched her.

From there, we walked to Puerto Madero—the new and trendy barrio where once abandoned brick warehouses have been refurbished into trendy restaurants and the like. I have been several times, but I have never been on the 19th century Fragata Sarmiento, a floating museum that was once an ice breaker. This is an example of what I love about Argentina. A docent in naval uniform welcomed us aboard, told us we were welcome to explore the entire ship except where indicated, to take as many photos as we like, to go below, to go above, and be careful and watch our heads. That’s it. We were left alone to negotiate the slippery decks, the steep ladders, and the low passageways. There were no nervous attendants telling us not to touch things, there was no part of the ship that someone else decided was too dangerous for us to explore. If we wanted to go below and thought we were physically capable of going up and down a steep staircase, go for. Take responsibility, make up your own mind if you can do it, assume the risk, and do it. Just don’t complain if you get hurt—he did tell you to be careful.

We headed back to the apartment in Recoleta and got ready for an expat gathering that night at Cheff Iousef restaurant in Palermo. The event was the monthly gathering of the BAExpats group. There were about 40 members and friends there that night to meet and have Lebanese food. I knew several: Pericles, Maya and Tom, Alan, Kiki, and I also met Igor who was very helpful some months back when I had computer trouble.

Buenos Aires has an active expatriot community that is valuable for newcomers. These people have been here and made all the mistakes already. That didn’t stop me from making the same mistakes, however, because I didn’t know what mistakes I was going to make until after I had already made them. This group, however, let’s me know I am not alone. We also send news of ATM trouble, where to find peanut butter, and the best place to find sushi, a tutor, or how to start the residency process.

Saturday, Helen and I took John and Tenaya to La Boca. What is there to say about la Boca? Well, like it or not, it is the iconic image of old Buenos Aires. Its colorful buildings and dilapidated wharf are symbols of a storied past. Today, however, it is little more than a tourist stop—and not a very good one. I think we spent more time in the colectivo coming and going than we did in the barrio. I did get to see the Bombanera—the Boca Junior’s home football stadium.

We got our required “pose in front of the Caminito sign” photos, watched some street tango, browsed some souvenir shops, and headed back. John and Tenaya had a much better time in Coto—the grocery store. Grocery stores are really fun. Seeing how the whole food thing works in another culture is really fascinating. While taking them through the store, I was lamenting that we didn’t have anyone to walk us through our first time: “Efectivo? Un pago? Disco Plus? Para enviar?” all these embarrassingly awkward moments could have been avoided.

This morning, we took them for a quick look at the Recoleta Cemetery before their remise picked them up for two nights at Falls Iguazu. Helen and I are planning a trip there, so John and Tenaya can return the favor and give us travel tips when they return Tuesday (for one night before they head out to Bariloche).

Our day (Ken)

Apparently, there are two routes for colectivo #37. The one we took got us nowhere near the MALBA this afternoon when the driver told us to get off because this was the last stop on his route.

We were right near the US Embassy. The flag was at half mast in respect to victims of the Virginia Tech tragedy. It is tragic news here. The story has been on the front page of both Clarín and La Nacion for the past two days. People here ask me about it and why things like that happen in the United States. I have to tell them I don’t know.

It’s not because I don’t think I have enough Spanish to explain. It is because I honestly don’t know. If I had a clue as to why this seems to be a USAmerican problem, I’d certainly try and explain it in my broken Spanish. But I just don’t know. It’s not that we have a lot of guns. Canada has a lot of guns. It’s not that we have a lot of violence. I read everyday here in the news that someone was shot because he resisted a robbery. But the rest of the world does not seem to think that killing dozens of people followed by suicide is an appropriate means of self expression. If I had a clue, I would try my Castellano-best to explain. But I just don’t.

So we finally made our way to MALBA. We passed the planetarium. (I mention that simply because it gives me an excuse to use an old photograph, as my stolen camera is yet to be replaced.) There is a new exhibition of Brazilian artist Alfredo Volpi that was interesting. But we went to see the David Lachapelle photo and video exhibit. That stuff was intriguing. They also had a showing of some of his music videos. They were live-action realizations of his photos and a bit redundant. We watched Gwen Stefani and Christina Aguilera do just about the same schtick in two separate productions.

We made out way home—on foot and (eventually) by collectivo. I used some of the spices Suzie sent us to make chicken parmesan that turned out pretty well.

Feria de Mataderos (Ken)

There are many fairs throughout Buenos Aires each weekend. We have been to Recoleta, San Telmo, and Puerto Madero, but, by far, the best we have been to is La Feria de Mataderos—the Fair of the Slaughterhouses. This fair has Argentinos in mind—not tourists—and it is a fascinating and fun afternoon.

This fair is in the barrio of Mataderos, or Nuevo Chicago on the edge of Capital Federal. It is called that because it is the former area where all the cattle were brought to be slaughtered, just like Chicago in the USA.

This fair began in 1986 as a place where Argentinos could explore their cultural roots. Unlike the other city fairs that focus mostly on Porteño culture, like the tango, this fair focuses on the culture of all the provinces.

Over the past 20 years, it has become a place for all Argentinos to gather and share their common culture. There are three basic types of culture: traditional crafts and food, artistic crafts, and Gaucho skills.

Dance groups and music groups from across the country are scheduled as featured performers each weekend. Additionally, fairgoers can participate in traditional dance right in the street—many in traditional costume, many not. Everyone is welcome to join the dance.

The most fascinating event is the Carerra del Sortija—the Race of the Ring. A strip in the center of a city street is covered with an inch or so of sand. Upon this surface, men race their horses at full gallop toward a small ring suspended from a metal frame 100 meters away. They stand in the stirrups and attempt to spear a ring—no bigger that the diameter of an American quarter dollar coin—with a pointed stick not much bigger than a pencil.

Because this is Argentina, spectators can stand as close as the wish to the action. They can experience the thrill and power of a horse at full gallop less than a meter away. When the gaucho spears the ring, the crowd cheers. He returns holding his trophy high as the boys and girls hold their hands high to see if he will give them this souvenir.

This was the first Sunday of the regular season for the Feria de Mataderos. It is a long bus ride—about an hour on the 92 colectivo from Recoleta—but well worth the effort.


Thanks for the pictures, Tom

Colonia, Uruguay (Ken)

Today, Helen and I had an expat rite-of-passage. We went to Colonia, Uruguay to renew our tourist visas for another 90 days. When you enter Argentina on a USA passport, you are automatically granted a 90-day tourist visa. Since we are here much longer than that, the most expedient way of extending the stay is to exit and re-enter the country. It is rumored that thousands of expats have lived in Argentina for a decade or more on nothing but a passport and a series of every-three-month visits to Colonia.

Originally named Colonia del Sacramento it is a city in southwestern Uruguay, by the Río de la Plata, facing Buenos Aires, Argentina. It is the oldest town in the country and capital of the departamento of Colonia. It has a population of 21,714 most of whom are involved in, benefit from, or are employed by the tourist trade.

It was founded in 1680 by the Portuguese, Colonia del Sacramento. This is still evident in the architecture of the town and its culture. The Portuguese claim was later disputed by the Spanish who settled on the opposite bank of the river at Buenos Aires. The colony kept changing hands under treaties like the Treaty of Madrid in 1750 and the Treaty of San Ildefonso in 1777, until it settled, for a time, with the Spanish. Then back to Portuguese control again, and later to the Brazilians.

Today the original part of Colonia still keeps the odd, terrain-fitting street plan in the oldest part, built by the Portuguese, contrasting with the wider orthogonal calles in the Spanish area. Between “traveling” streets are “drainage” streets were it is difficult to walk, but the protruding stones slow the drainage water from above as it makes its way to the river below. It is a walled city and the original gate and part of the fortress remain.

We took the Buquebus from Puerto Madero at 9:45 and arrived in Colonia in about an hour. The experience was interesting to say the least. In Buenos Aires, we got our tickets and headed to immigration. There, we waited in line a short time before being summoned to a desk with two people. We gave our tickets and passport to a young woman, whom we later determined was the Argentina immigration official who processed our exit from Argentina. As this was day 90 of our 90 day visa, there were no problems—thankfully. Once she stamped our passports as leaving Argentina, she handed them to the man seated next to her who examined them and stamped them indicating we had entered Uruguay. We them went through the x-ray and metal detector, and boarded the ferry.

It was a rainy, windy day in Southern South America, and the Rio de la Plata was choppy. It was a bumpy ride on this high speed ferry and Helen was all-too-happy to be on (relatively) dry land again.

We rented a golf cart and tooled around in the rain and drizzle for the better part of three hours. We returned to the ferry for our voyage back to Argentina, and the process was reversed. We checked in (and paid our port tax of $10 to leave) and headed back to immigration. The Uruguayan official processed us out of Uruguay and handed our passports over to the Argentine official who granted us an additional 90-day tourist visa.

That’s it. We walked on the ferry.

The ride back, with the wind at our stern, was fine. We exited the ferry expecting to clear customs again, but, because we had no checked baggage, we walked right out on to the street.

At first, I was a bit surprised, and then I was delighted that there are still places in the world where the people don’t see Al Quida lurking around every corner.

So, Helen and I have experienced an expat rite-of-passage: our first (and apparently last) out-and-in visa renewal.

Winning Hearts and Minds (by Chas)

Tonight, we have a guest appearance . . .

Now that the Great World Peas Summit of 2007 appears to be drawing to a close, I think it might be safe for me to tiptoe onto the scene to offer some of my embryonic impressions of Buenos Aires. I’ll try to be brief, but I will almost certainly fail.

Let me start off by saying that linguistically, my situation is in no way similar to Ken’s and Helen’s, in that they’ve have really had to penetrate this language barrier as a matter of survival. With the exception of my very first hour in country, all my encounters with the locals have been with the safety net of Ken or Helen by my side to bail me out of the inevitable jam that ensues when you can croak out some semi-intelligible noises in a foreign language, but literally lack the capacity to comprehend even one single word of the response. The Plan for my arrival, painstakingly arranged in advance by Ken, was that when I emerged from Customs, Ernesto, the remis driver, would be standing there holding a sign with my name on it. Well, apparently, checking for last-minute flight time changes is not part of the service, so when my plane landed an hour late, Ernesto had already been standing around for an hour, wondering where this inept traveler could be. By the time I got there – and I’m absolutely sure I was standing in the right place – there was no one holding a sign of any kind. Ok, time to go hire a remis on my own. When I confidently announced my intentions, in what I considered to be Spanish, the girl in the booth somehow surmised that my native language was English. To her credit, she answered me in Spanish anyway, which quickly proved futile. She switched effortlessly to English, and things went much better. Ultimately, I ended up having to pay both my driver AND Ernesto (the next day), because his service insists that he was there at the appointed time, and that he waited 90 minutes. (I have reason to believe he really was there, but if he and I were in the same place for thirty minutes, why, why, WHY didn’t I see him? Never mind, it’s only money.) I had just had my first taste of what Ken and Helen have been enduring every day of their lives for the past 10 weeks. My hat is off to these two – they’re now having relaxed conversations with waitresses and store clerks in a language that sounds way different in life than it did in my textbook back in 1971. Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure they’re saying “Please to permitting for we taking thirteen coffee please,” but they’re getting the job done, and I’m certainly not. I’ve been here four days, and I still can’t understand a word. Ken says it takes two weeks to get the ears attuned to the sound, so I better keep them close by at all times.

My Kerrs have some mad survival skills. In the two months they’ve been here, they’ve assembled a social network. Last night we had dinner at the home of Dana and Gabriel, and it was just the most delightful time. They’re both from here, but they speak English almost without an accent, as do their kids, and they seem to know more about the subtleties of life and politics in the US than most Americans I know. Much food, much wine, and much laughter – what more can a guy ask for? Ken has, I think, already expressed his desire to blend in, and not stomp around the city with his American flag flying, but I’m glad if people know that these warm and engaging Kerrs are Americans. I think we could use the positive representation. Looks to me like they’re busy spreading smiles and goodwill throughout the neighborhood.

Another impressive accomplishment of these two is that they seem to have figured out this fairly complicated bus system. (The buses, by the way, roar by at about 9000 decibels. I’ve never heard such a cacophony in my life.)

The apartment is small, but very nice. I have a room to myself, and it has one-and-a-half baths, so we’re never crashing into each other during our morning routines. And by the way, if all the above is not impressive enough for you, let me just say that they immediately figured out what the bidet is used for.

Bici parte dos (Ken)

I fixed my bicycle and headed out in a new direction today (Saturday). I went to Palermo and to the park next to the river across from Newberry Airport.



It is March now, and I find the weather this week to be similar to the beginning of September back home in Maryland. There was a strong breeze at my back on the way out that I had to contend with on my return, but it was a beautiful day to explore a different part of the city.



All along the Rio de la Plata, there were dozens of people fishing. I didn't see any actual fish, but I guess that is why it is called "fishing" and not "catching." (I heard that from a patient at the VA psych hospital where Helen worked. He was fishing at the time.) The fish in the river are not very attractive, I am told. The portero in my building told me upon my return, "Los pescos son feos." And the river is not really a river, but an estuary like the Chesapeake Bay back home. Wikipedia says The Rio de la Plata "is the estuary formed by the combination of the Uruguay River and the Paraná River. It is a funnel-shaped indentation on the southeastern coastline of South America, extending 290 km (180 miles) from the rivers' confluence to the Atlantic Ocean.

Where the rivers join, it is 48 km (30 miles) wide, and it runs to the southeast growing to 220 km (136 miles) wide where it opens on the Atlantic Ocean, making it the widest estuary in the world. It forms part of the border between Argentina and Uruguay, with the major ports and capital cities of Buenos Aires in the southwest and Montevideo in the northeast.
The basin drained by the main tributaries of the Río de la Plata (the Uruguay and Paraná, and the important Paraná tributary, the Paraguay) covers approximately one fifth of South America, including area in southeastern Bolivia, southern and central Brazil, the entire nation of Paraguay, most of Uruguay and northern Argentina. An estimated 57 million cubic metres (2 billion cubic feet) of silt is carried into the estuary each year, where the muddy waters are stirred up by winds and the tides."



The path along the river was a happy scene with Papa, Abuela, and the hijos together at the river. There are many food vendors and bait and tackle vendors. I stopped by a food stand in a pretty where families had set up for a day near on the river. I had a hamburger that was pretty close to the USA hamburger experience. Here, a haburgesa completa is a hamburger with a slice of ham and a fried egg on a bun with lettuce and tomato. I opted for la hamburgesa con lechuga y tomates.



I headed back through the Palermo parks where more families were out for the day near the pond beside the planetarium. They had it all set up for people to view this evening's Lunar Eclipse that was, unfortunately, upstaged by rain.



At one intersection there were three chicos juggling for cars stopped at the red light. They weren't having much success and saw me watching them. The light turned green and they ran over to me. I got out my camera and asked them if I could take their picture. They were all smiles because they knew that meant I was going to give them some money. The little one quickly took the money from me. As I rode away, he was figuring out how much each chico's cut was going to be.

Porteños behind the wheel (Ken)

I post this picture because it is a rare sight. And you would be as surprised as I if you could see how these people drive.

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They are crazy--and I say that with complete admiration.

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Porteños have a Zen-like "one-with-the vehicle" mystical vibe going on. The lines on the road? Mere suggestions. The double yellow line down the middle of a two-way street? That means if you pass someone, it is your responsiblity to get back on your side before you hit an oncoming vehicle. Left turns from the right lane and right turns from the left lane must be something they teach here. It even happens at traffic lights when they first turn green.

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Speaking of traffic lights, they don't just go from red-to-green. They go from red--to yellow--to green, like the light tree at a drag strip, to give these guys a heads-up for when to punch it. Sometime, they don't even wait for it to switch from red to yellow before they head out.

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By far, the most amazing traffic phenomenon is that intersections that are not controlled by traffic lights are not controlled at all. No stop signs. The rule is that drivers yield to traffic on the right. There are lots of close calls but not many crashes.

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Taxis--the Gamblers in the Neon

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There are about 40,000 taxis in this city. These guys bob and weave their way though the streets trawling for fares and getting people where they want to go. At about US$3 (AR$9) to get from just about anywhere in the city to just about anywhere in the city, these guys have to get people where they want to go, and fast, to compete with the 80 centavo (about 25 cents) fare charged by the colectivos (City busses). There is a strange headlight flashing ritual that seems to indicate "You are in my way," or "I'd like to get on the other side of you, please." Blowing the horn seems to be a signal to another driver that, "I am getting ready to do something really dangerous, so you had better pay attention."

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A word of caution: taxis here are Peugots and Fiats , not Ford Crown Victorias. These are little tin can cars. USAmericans are accustomed to really giving the door a tug to get it to close. When you do that to one of these babies, you almost crease it. Taxi drivers HATE that. I have heard of them driving REALLY crazy just to get back at the tourist who dared to close the door too hard. But my favorite mode of transporations is . . .

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The Colectivo: Kings of the Road

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I take the 110 everyday to get from Recoleta to Palermo where I take my Spanish classes. I live not too far from the start of the line, so it is usually empty when I get on, but it fills up fast. You wait at the stop and hold out your arm to signal the driver to stop--they usually do, almost always. If there is a line, he waits until the last prospective passanger has lifted his foot from the street and he takes off. You had better hang on because you still have to pay. There is a coin machine right behind the driver. And I mean COIN. Don't even THINK about boarding one of thes bohemoths without coins. You can get change back, but the machines do not take paper currency. And you don´t mess with these guys. They are captains of their ships and it is an absolute autocracy.

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You have to hang on to a pole, feed in your coins, take your ticket, and get out of the way. The next stop is two-and-a-half-blocks away and that machine better be clear.

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These guys manuver their colectivos within millimeters of each other. They whip to a stop and open the doors for disembarkers several meters before actually stopping. If no one is getting on, sometimes they just coast and you jump. Unwary taxis find themselves in a rapidly closing wedge whenever these guys pull in, or away, from a stop.

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I write this with respect and awe. There is no way USAmericans could drive like this. Not without crashes all day, every day. Porteños have to be the best drivers in the world.

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I have no desire to drive here. None. I do not miss my car one bit. What I will miss, when I come home, is this bus system.

So, I bought this bike . . .(Ken)

When I went on the bike tour of Tigre with Ana Inez, she told me I could probably get a used bicycle for about AR$100. Last Sunday, I checked Craig's List and there was a USAmerican from New York (Brooklyn) who was going home the following Wednesday and selling his bike for US$40 (AR$120).
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I contacted him and, as luck would have it, he lived a few blocks from where I go to school. I had to be back to Recoleta for an appointment right after school on Monday, but I would pay him and get the bike Tuesday. He showed up, I paid him, we met the next day, and I rode the bike back to Recoleta from Palermo.
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Traffic here is really crazy during the week. I probably told you that 3 million people live in Capital Federal, but 8 million people work here. So, it was a pretty scary ride home for a novice biker like me. The bike sat on my terrace all week until today, Sunday, when I tool it for my first long ride.
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Despite Sra. Ana´s misgivings , I headed back to the ecological reserve south of Puerto Madero. Today it is hot. It is 9:30 at night now, and it is still 84F and 74% humidity. WhenI was out this afternoon, it was over 90 with a heat index of 106.
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Things were going really well. I was exploring the city much faster than on foot and with a greater degree of personal safety in the dodgey areas. I was having a good time at the Ecological Reserve. There were lots of bike riders and joggers and families picnicing.
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I went about as far as I wanted to go and began to head back home when. . . the pedal broke. The metal just snapped. I was 3 or 4 miles from home. I began walking. By now all the sunscreen had been sweated off, and it was high noon with the summer sun as high as it could be in the diminished ozone layer of the southern hemisphere.
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I took off my shirt and fashioned a head dress somewhat akin to those hats worn by the French Foreigh Legion in the old movies. I hiked for about 25 minutes until I came to a slight decline in the otherwise-level path. I hopped back on the bike to coast. I thought I´d give the pedal nub a try to see if I could get a few more yards out of my bike when I realized that I could kind-of make the pedals work. Yeah! Things are looking up!
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It took me as long to get out of the Ecological reserve as it took me to get there from my apartment with a significant side trip near the port. And I still had to get back to Recoleta from Puerto Madero. It was not really that bad. I think I can fix the bike. There is a bike shop on Scalabrini Ortiz a few blocks from where I to school. Tomorrow, it is back to class. I guess I'd better finish my homework
¡Chau, Suerte!

Buying bus tickets (Ken)

The president of the college where I teach, Dr. Carol Eaton, was a foreign exchange student in Argentina as a girl. When I applied for sabbatical to come to Argentina to study Spanish, she was new to the college. When my sabbatical was approved, she made an appointment to meet with me to congratulate me for having been granted sabbatical and tell me that she was especially interested in my proposal because of her Argentina connection. She told me that she has kept in touch with her host family, and that their daughter, Monica, stayed with Carol’s family in the USA while Carol was in Argentina. (I think I have the story correct).

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Anyway, when I was making final preparations for my trip, I asked Carol to put me in touch with her Argentina "Sister" so that I could meet her. Carol was happy to make the introduction and we made tentative plans for Helen and me to visit Monica and her family in Córdoba while I was between classes at UBA. That is less than two weeks from now, so I had to make travel arrangements.

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Here in Argentina, the way to get around the country is by bus. For my friends in the USA, I do not mean a Greyhound bus. In Argentina, the busses do overnight trips in luxury. There are different classes of seats from semi-cama, which is a seat that partially reclines; to full cama, which is a seat that reclines 180 degrees, to a suite which is a seat large enough for you to sleep on your side with privacy curtains, a television, and meal service. The only problem is that I had to actually make these arrangements, in Spanish. My Spanish is improving, but it is not good--not even close.
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I have taken the train from Retiro, and am familiar with that part of the city (or so I thought). Several people told me, "Just go to Retiro, on the third floor there are dozens of bus companies." So, I went to Retiro. I wandered around the train station for 20 minutes or so until I gave up and asked someone where the bus companies were. A nice train attendant directed me to an office at the end of the train station. There, a confusing conversation took place where I was told there were no tickets until after March 22.
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I left and spotted a kiosk advertising bus service. I spoke to the nice man and asked him about service to Córdoba. He told me my options, but they did not include "full cama." I asked him if there were other bus companies. He said something like, "Well, yeah, there are dozens. Don’t you know about the bus station?" Terminal de Omnibus, he told me, was three blocks down and one to the left. OK, I am an idiot for the first time that day.

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I walked the four blocks and found the legendary "third floor." And, indeed, there are dozens of bus companies. After walking past each of them, I finally realized there is a color-code system. I was going to the "Red Zone" so I needed to look at the bus companies that had the red number signs. I went to one and asked for suite service. The sales agent told me that was the next window. I went to the next window only to realize that he meant the next bus company. Now I am an idiot for the second time.



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I shamefully walked to the next company, and they did indeed have suite service. I was making great progress. I told him where I wanted to go, when I wanted to go, that Helen was coming with me. It was going great until he asked for passports. Of course. Passports. Now I am an idiot for the third time. I carry a photocopy of mine, but I needed Helen´s as well. So, I headed home vowing to return the next day.
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Our friends Tom and Maya have a saying that if you don’t make a fool of yourself three times by lunchtime, you are not really trying. I probably still had 25 minutes to spare.
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The next day was yesterday, and Helen made the walk back to Retiro with me. We accomplished out goal in short order with no problems.
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That was my plan before I got here. Go out and try . . . and fail. Come home, figure out what I did wrong, and go back out the next day and try again.

Everyone says that three months of immersion is the magic number to get some skill at a language. Today makes eight weeks. In another month, I’ll let you all know if they were correct.