The samba stars were aligned as it seemed like the perfect time to fly south. The US northeast was suffering a bitter winter. Beneath the equator, summer was at its glorious peak. Above all, it was the season for the grandest spectacle on the planet: the Rio Carnaval (not to be confused with Fiesta Carnival in Cubao, that other grand spectacle of the 80’s).
After very little debating, I and a couple of New York-based friends (I, Pañero and The Murse, or we three, hereinafter collectively known as “pinoy douchebags”) hopped on a red-eye 10 hour flight from JFK to our first destination: Argentina. Rather than wasting precious time getting inebriated on five dollar Coors lites or playing in-flight poker, the douchebags decided to do the practical thing – a last minute review of lingua castellano. Leveraging a trusty phrasebook, we mastered basic but vital Spanish phrases such as: “Quiero mi befe chorizo muy hecho” (I would like my Beef Chorizo, well done), “Dispénseme soy usted un menor” (Pardon me, are you a minor?”), and “Dónde puede consigo dinero de fianza” (Where can I get bail money?)
Buenos Aires, which literally means “the Good Air”, is one classy metropolis, a capital of cool, a lost European enclave in the center of Latin America. Our trendy hotel was right smack in the middle of downtown, just behind the famous Teatro Colonial and the monumental Obelisco. Smelling the good air, we trooped over to the Puerto Madera area, a new development on the Eastern side which housed the finest restaurants and bars overlooking a random rio. Like Hoboken, but not exactly. Having the case of the post-flight munchies, we, as committed gourmands, decided on the area’s most authentic Latin eatery the good city had to offer: Hooters, Buenos Aires, a place where we enjoyed the local wings and other things.
After a tonic tasting of Isenbeck cervezas coupled by the blandest pollo ever concocted by man, the taxi dropped us off at postcard perfect La Boca neighborhood. The Calle Museo Caminito in the middle of this district was wrought with cobblestones, tango dancers, gaudily colored conventillos and plastic statutes of Eva Peron, Diego Maradona and Che Guevarra. The kitsch overload struck me more as commercial than cultural but it was an amusing outing nonetheless.
Downing buckets of Patagonia and Quilnes cervezas led us to desecrate the religion of tango in front of a somewhat appreciative audience in a local tango café. A ten minute cab ride then led us to San Telmo, the oldest Barrio in Buenos Aires. This neighborhood exuded that Euro-bohemian air, sans the Euro-bohemian trash, with its old churches, quaint cafes and charming antique shops.
We gaited through Plaza de Mayo before heading back to homebase. Next on the agenda was Fodor’s choice (or as The Murse eloquently puts it: “Frodo”) as the best parilla in Buenos Aires: Rio Alba. The beef chorizo was as amazing as the best service provider in a Palermo brothel. Rio Alba, hands down, served the tastiest and most tender cut of beef my palate ever experienced. After washing down a fine bottle of Argentinean Malbec, we ended the night at the trendy Recoleta area to experience even more stirring nocturnal activities.
The morning of the second day in sunny and sultry South America was spent with the Argentinean Gaston, a trusty and personable tour guide who bore an eerie resemblance to one of my Peruvian metrosexual friends. Gaston’s free tour comes highly recommended, mainly because it was, well, free and was given with a pseudo-left wing political slant. What’s refreshing is that he looked more like a UP activist than a Japanese commercial tour drone.
Gaston led us through Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires’ focal point of political uprisings and the Casa Rosada where Evita/ Madonna/ A-Rod’s beau gave stentorian speeches to the local crowds above a pink balcony. The fine walking tour ended at the Obelisco, the symbolic city center. Gaston recommended a local pizza parlor, the El Palacio de la Pizza along Avenidad Corrientes for an authentic working-class comida before we pay respects to the tomb of Eva Peron and other Argentinean aristocrats.
The La Recoleta cemetery houses graves of some of the most influential and important persons of Argentina, including several presidents, scientists and local nobles. While we were standing in front of Eva Peron’s tomb, at least six tourists were mumbling Evita show tunes. And right across the Peron-Duarte tomb is the mausoleum of one familia Alvarez. Como se dice “creepy” en espanol?
It was mid-afternoon and we zipped across other Argentinean landmarks: Plaza San Martin and Calle Florida, stimulating an appetite for another carnivorous dinner at La Cabrera: labeled as Tripadvisor.com’s best parilla. After another sitting of South American gluttony and downing yet another fine bottle of Malbec, we capped the Buenos Aires night off back at the trendy Recoleta area to tango with the locals and chillax in divey bars.
Buenos Aires is one classy city, the cutting edge of cool with outstanding and thriving culinary and cultural scenes. It is a jewel right smack in South America, where denizens are educated, urbane and seem to be more convinced they’re more European than Latino.
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