Don't Cry for Me, Argentina

Don't Cry for Me Argentina

I am home and more thankful than ever for the fabulous life I have
here. So, even if my poorly planned vacation (not enough time before
I head back to work, and not thinking of the point of going to
somewhere that too closely mirrors where I am), it has given me a new
appreciation for all that I have in my life right here in my own
backyard (aka Southern California).

I don't know why I feel so frustrated that I don't feel inspired to
write more details of this trip; I guess it is a sort of obligation
to myself, a habit since I started blogging, to turn my travels into
mini stories of reflection, adventure, and, maybe at times, insight.
But I have none of that to say, just a recounting of incidents.
Moreover, I fear I will be too harsh on the Argentineans, who are not
bad people if a bit reserved and more willing to lie than have a
confrontation or admit they do not know something about the city.
They will be super polite when answering questions, but you can never
rely on the answers. But then, do I have the right to except more
from folks who are just going about their daily business? Am I
secretly a tourist who expects to be catered to and entertained by
the locals? Or am I realizing that just because it is out side the
familiar walls of the U.S. it is not necessarily other, exotic,
adventurous, or inspiring?

So, here are the events, more or less. .

The synagogue visit fascinated me in once again confronting the
seeming never ending reaches of the Holocaust, here contrasted
sharply with the fact that Argentina was a haven for Nazi's fleeing
Europe after WWII. The rise of anti-Semitism in the world was
evidenced by the prominent police presence that prevented us from
taking pictures of the outside. To get in, we were interrogated at
the door about where we were from, why were in Argentina and why we
wanted to see the synagogue and its museum. Then, we were made to
wait in a café while they verified our passports. Inside, we learned
the story of how this synagogue started -- a man who fled to
Argentina, went to the park to practice his daily prayers. He
noticed others doing the same, and invited them to join him. They
started with a few families meeting in homes and eventually built the
community and the synagogue. A simple, beautiful story.

La Boca and San Telmo -- two more 'must sees' of Buenos Aires. I now
we've seen them. The photos say all of La Boca, more than I could
try to contrive into a story. The museum, the painted buildings,
Tango, and a beer. San Telmo -- more small cobble stoned streets
and artists selling their stuff in the main square. We were happy to
go back to peaceful, hip, trendy, and comfy Palermo Viejo for a good
dinner. After that, I headed to a Tango lesson and show (or so I was
told) at the Armenian Cultural center. I arrived to watch the end of
the very popular swing dance lessons. It was a non-descript
community hall in a basement packed with locals. It was fun to
watch, but I grew tired as I waited for the Tango lessons I was not
sure would happen, as it was 30 minutes past the time. They did. I
took a beginning lesson with a mixture of locals and tourists, much
like the one I took in downtown LA. Then, I was given a quizzical
look when I asked about the tango show . . . I sleepily walked back
to the Cypress In and enjoyed some time on the balcony practicing
salsa to my ipod, not really caring if the neighbors were gawking a
the American gyrating strangely in silence.

The Buquebus and Colonia. Despite the fiasco of trying to get
tickets on Wednesday, we now had our tickets for Friday and looked
forward to a lovely ride on the ferry and lunch in the quaint
waterfront town to escape the heat and pollution of Buenos Aires. I
imagined something like the Staten Island ferry -- simple, not so
comfortable, but plenty of places to wander on a deck and enjoy the
ride. Instead, we were shuffled into airline seats all in rows facing
the snack bar, tempting you for the hour with beer, alfajores,
empanadas, soda and coffee. Everything either loaded with meat or
sugar. Once in Colonia, we strolled around the cobblestone streets,
found the one waterfront restaurant, and ate very bad, very
overpriced food. Thankfully, we each had about four glasses of wine
so the rest of the day I stumbled around a bit drunk and took too
many pictures. Just look at the number of pictures in Colonia. We
got back, tired and hot. I then hiked back through downtown to pick
up my new, custom fitted salsa shoes (which I just looked up on line
and found that I saved nearly $90 on these beautiful shoes).

Thankfully, I did get to leave Argentina on a high note, out last day
in Buenos Aires more the pace and mood both Amy and I anticipated. A
lounging morning, Amy finally got up and we headed to Recoleta. The
cemetery was incredible. I expected a cemetery, not this little city
of sepulchers. Again, the pictures say it all. We then had lunch,
shopped for gifts in the extensive Saturday artists' fair, had our
final delicious dinner at Olsen, then prepared for sleep, only to
have the party in the house next door start, with music wafting up
through the open skylight into the echo chamber of the concrete
patios, lasting until my alarm rang at 7:45 am.

In proper Argentine fashion, we were hurried through security in
record time, but it took two people over ten minutes to order and pay
for breakfast at the café, so that I never did get my final medialuna
(crescent roll) before having to board the plane.