Buenos Aires reveals itself to be more and more like NYC. Most recently with the realization that, like New York, I have a love-hate relationship with this city.
Logistically, it's not an easy city to live in. A nice place to visit and be a tourist, for sure. But her edges harden and her breeze gets fresh and whips you around a bit once she realizes you might try to stay and sink some roots. Banking and bill paying are some of the most tangible examples. ATM machines disappear overnight, sometimes making it impossible to carry around cash, the preferred method of payment. So valued that waiters often feign a broken credit card machine and some vendors offer you significant discounts if you pay in paper versus plastic. Even if you can tender cash, don't think that equals a purchase made. Some kioscos would rather turn down a sale than give you change if it involves coins, which are largely in demand and grossly under-circulated. So you have the choice of paying $4 pesos for a $3.20 pesos bottle of water, or you walk away with no water at all. The first time this happened to me, I walked away with my mouth agape. Yes it's only 80 centavos, but it just felt wrong. I've gotten around it by finding a kiosco that can see beyond the gringo opportunity. And sometimes I go back to the overcharging kiosco, tail between my knees and exact change in hand. "When in Rome" - right?
Then, like NYC, there are those days in Buenos Aires where the entire city seems to open up and give you a hug. A make-up session of sorts to make you forget about the cuts and bruises from days past. I had one of those days yesterday. It was gorgeous out. Sunny with a breeze. I started the day by helping a friend move into his new apartment in San Telmo. After dropping the bags we went out in search of neighborhood essentials - the Chinese grocery, the corner cafe with a strong cortado, an authentic parilla that serves up choripan at any hour, the wine store. We wandered upon the Sociedad Argentina de Escritores, the Argentine Society of Writers, where the likes of Borges and Fernandez Moreno wrote and lived their lives. The proprietor, Adolfo, welcomed us with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Before we knew it we were on a private tour, viewing Fernandez Moreno's extensive library and the VIP lounge reserved for contemporary writers of note. My friend, who is a writer, felt as though he'd walked into the inner sanctum. And he had. The Society has a beautiful courtyard, access to books touched by this country's literary best and a respected restaurant. With an invitation from Adolfo, he was immediately granted access to all of this. Priceless, a peace offering from our lady BA.
With a pledge to return to La Sociedad, we moved on to find a less formal place for lunch. We popped into a few cafes and finally found ourselves at Clarisimo, an Argentine comfort food spot filled with mismatch vintage furniture and ivy vines running up the walls. We sat down and ordered from what looked like a basic menu, but the smells from the kitchen quickly informed us otherwise. And so did the service. The waitress was unusually attentive, making suggestions and offering to make substitutions. Perhaps another way for BA to make good. When I walked in, I had noticed an older woman sitting alone at the front table. She smiled at us from time to time and, while watching us munch on complimentary slices of torta de calabaza, she became more and more friendly. I got up and went over to her table and we chatted about the usual - where I am from, what I am doing here, where she is originally from. And she showed me some vintage dresses and handbags for sale on one of the table tops. It felt almost Southern American, in the Savannah, Georgia sense. Comfort food in the oven, random family heirlooms for sale, a mysterious Grand Dame who you know has seen some things inviting you to her table. It became even more rich when I finally asked her name. She said Clara, pointing at the sign on the door. I realized she is Clara, as in Clarisimo. A play on the word, which means "very clear" in Spanish. She told me all kinds of stories about how Buenos Aires has changed over the years. About how the original Clarisimo is on Calle Alvear, a high rent paseo in Recoleta. She was most excited about the newly opened outpost in grittier San Telmo, where we sat, and hoped the new location would give her a chance to connect to the neighborhood and the young crowd that frequents its crumbling, designer streets. It certainly will, Clara is a dream. I returned to my table and indulged in a serious meal. Spinach and pancetta stuffed chicken in a cinnamon bechamel sauce, timbal rice, red wine and a cortado to finish. Much more than I was expecting to consume at 11:30am, but I couldn't resist. When BA decides to dispense her love, you have to embrace it.
This story ends on more love than hate, yes. But don't think I won't be refused a receipt tomorrow, or have to walk to the corner kiosco to break a small bill because the delivery guy doesn't have change. In the end, I think you'll agree that these inconveniences are a small price to pay. Where else but a place like Buenos Aires or NYC can a city reinvent itself, juust when you've had enough, and make you feel that, of all the places in the world you could be, you are supposed to be and you want to be right there.
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