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| ARGENTINA Like a race car screeching away from the pit at Indy, my taxi vacated the curb at Buenos Aires' Aeropuerto Internacional and rocketed toward the death-defying autopista. Though I wasn't in a hurry to reach my hotel, and tried, in ruptured Spanish, to make my driver aware of this fact, he gunned the engine, shot between two cars attempting to converge on our lane, then broke left behind a bus that bathed us in a current of thick black exhaust. As if Argentine taxi tips are based upon the number of times a driver changes lanes and the proximity upon which disaster is averted, he then weaved the car through a clash of highway traffic, his head whipping ceaselessly from side to side, lips pursed, brow creased, eyes gleaming with vehicular insanity. Some 40 minutes later, after we leapt on an off ramp and cruised toward the metropolis, I managed to breathe again. No thanks to the atmosphere, mind you. Although Buenos Aires literally means "Good Air'" there is precious little of it on steamy summer days like the one on which I arrived. Because the taxi's air-conditioning had malfunctioned, I felt compelled to open the window and join 13 million denizens who simmered in a broth of heat, humidity and auto exhaust. Still, Buenos Aires has a stately European charm. We drove along wide, spacious avenues lined with ornate 19th century buildings that reminded me of Paris and Madrid. I half-expected to see hordes of people blocking the intersections, shouting for justice and banging pots and pans. Such political protests, or cacerolazos, occurred on a daily basis last year during Argentina's worst economic disaster. In December, 2001, after the government slashed jobs, commandeered pensions and devalued the peso in a futile attempt at balancing an enormous foreign debt, rioters took to the streets. Dozens were injured and at least 20 lost their lives. But during my month-long stay, the city seemed relatively calm. The only grim reminders were long bank queues where hundreds waited patiently each day to trade pesos for dollars. After stumbling from the taxi in the prestigious neighborhood of Belgrano, I checked into Caseron Porteno (www.caseronporteno.com), an immaculate 4-room guesthouse owned by Argentine tango lovers Daniel and Cinthia. The couple met a few years earlier at a melonga (dance). They tangoed all night, fell in love and later opened Caseron Porteno which caters to foreign tango enthusiasts. The property's centerpiece is a flowery courtyard, at the back of which lies an open-air dance studio where guests are given free tango lessons. I took just one lesson with Cinthia. Having stepped on her feet repeatedly, I hung up my tango shoes and left the floor to the professionals. One such pro was Gerda Milpacher, a pink-haired German dance producer who occupied the guest room next to mine. Gerda had come to audition tango dancers for "Latino Classics'" an annual summer extravaganza in Berlin. For two days I sat in the courtyard sipping tea and watching Gerda audition dozens of Argentina's finest Tango prospects. The female dancers wore high heels and sultry black skirts with the traditional split up one side. The men donned black suits and wore their hair slicked back. Compelled by the rhythms of dramatic tango music, one couple, Johana Copes and Maximiliano Avila, flung each other around the studio like exasperated lovers. They spun away, embraced, displayed a flurry of rapid between-the-leg kicks, then looked into each other's eyes as if life itself depended on their next move. Johana is the daughter of Juan Carlos Copes, a world-famous Argentine tango dancer and choreographer. His soon-to-be famous daughter eventually got the part and will be performing with her partner in Germany this summer. A few nights later I met with Sandra Suppa. A friend of a friend, Sandra introduced me to another Argentine pastime: asado (barbeque). Along with 15 of her friends, I dined at Ramona, a legendary steak house. In 1996, when Madonna came to town to film "Evita'" she asked the owner to close the restaurant and accommodate her entourage for one night. The owner refused. At Ramona, regulars like Sandra carry as much weight at music divas.
The next afternoon we attended Argentina's most coveted sporting event: a soccer match between hated rivals, Boca Juniors and River Plate. As Sandra and I approached the stadium, it seemed as though we had bought tickets to a riot instead of a soccer game. Fifty thousand fans streamed toward the gates and were scrutinized by a phalanx of policemen on horses. Police helicopters flew overhead. We were eyed by hundreds of policemen with dogs, tear gas launchers and shotguns–a testament to the violence that has marred nearly every meeting of these two teams.
I took my seat, watched the players spill upon the field and fell in love with soccer. click here for more images of Argentina Next
stop: Papeete, French Polynesia. |
