Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.

<prior or next>

Sunday was our last full day in Buenos Aires; not enough time to get to everything we hadn�t managed to do yet, but it was enough to see the Casa Rosada, which it turns out is actually the Casa Beige.� The building�s only a nice healthy rose pink on the front fa�ade, everywhere else, it is a dull government gray-beige.

I was tired and vaguely grumpy that morning so while John played photographer tourist shooting buildings, balconies, and guards marching about, I sat on a bench in a small plaza in front of the Casa Rosada trying to ignore everyone around me.� Since it was a Sunday morning, the only folks there were tourists and one other man sitting by himself on another bench that I jokingly decided was a hustler for no reason other than that I found him attractive in a scruffy I�ve had a had a hard night as evidenced by my still wearing last nights clothes on Sunday morning kind of way.

I closed my eyes, listening to folks walking by speaking in English, German, Spanish, and Japanese, and when I opened them again, Mr. Scruffy was gone.� By then John had satisfied his photographic urges and we started walking again.

We had been forewarned by the guesthouse hosts to check out the back of the Casa Rosada because there is an archeological dig there. Apparently during construction to widen a road or something, workers discovered the remains of one of the early Spanish outposts.� The dig consisted of a huge hole with the uncovered remains of centuries old brick walls.

Behind all of this was a park with a tall statue dedicated to Columbino (Columbus), with him standing atop a tall tower.� The base was covered in figures from history and mythology all working/stretching forward to the discovery and conquest of a new land.� Despite my somewhat snarky description, it�s a cool tower, and from it, there is a good view of the back of the Casa Rosada.� There were ornate statues lining the roof, what I assumed to be Queen Isabella surrounded by Roman gods giving her gifts.� You could also clearly see the plants and moss that are slowly eating away at Isabella and her heavenly cohorts.�

After government buildings and statues, we used one of the older, grimier subway lines to go to San Telmo, a barrio tour books advise to visit on a Sunday for a famous antique fair.� It was crowded, and the small plaza it�s held in was filled to bursting with vendors and tourists.� The streets and alleys outside the plaza had different street performers competing for money, which was odd because the performers all seemed to specialize in standing very, very still.

There�s a whole cottage industry in Buenos Aires devoted to that art of standing still for spare change.� It�s a bit more energetic in Santiago, where street performers tend towards jugglers.� At night they toss fire while walking around cars stopped for red lights, but we didn�t see that until a few days later.

A couple of antique store filled blocks away from the fair was the Museo de Arte Moderno de Buenos Aires, which was dedicated to temporary exhibits of contemporary art.� Interesting, but also somewhat lacking in a way.� I tend to appreciate contemporary/modern works and installations, but after seeing the national art museum a couple of days before, the works featured here seemed lacking in depth, strength, and heart.� The exhibit I enjoyed the most was not exactly �art,� since it was an exhibit of contemporary Argentine Graphics and illustrations.� Eye catching, brightly colored ads selling you things you don�t need and bold aggressive subway signs may not be �ART,� but at least they are easily understood and don�t wallow joyfully in disturbing images screaming out � I�M DEEP! TRUST ME! I�M ART!�

Not that the other exhibits were screaming�it was more of a mutter.� The easiest understood, or perhaps obvious of the works from the �real art� section of the museum was a piece consisting of a plastic model of an airplane, un or rather dis-assembled, and visually exploded.�� Individual pieces were suspended in air by wires into an overall mushroom shape.� For a work on post 9/11 fears (or 11/9 fears if you prefer), of violence, and Armageddon, it was kind of cold and calculating.� For me it was more interesting to ignore/remove the attempt at symbolism and just consider the time and effort involved in making it.

The rest of the pieces were largely video installations, projecting on to walls images of blinking eyes, morphed body parts, computerized maps/plots of the body as computerized maps/plots of community, and people rolling across floors solely and in gangs as symbols of isolation and human interaction. It was worth the entry fee, but then again, it only cost us about a dollar to get in.

Lunch that day was in Palermo, a �hip� neighborhood that if/when we go back we�ll need to spend more time in, or at least not visit on a Sunday since that�s when all the shops are closed.� We went there in search of a vegetarian restaurant that got raves in various city guides, but like trendy places occasionally do, it had gone out of business, so we ate at nearby caf� instead.� The caf� owners spent a lot of effort in making the place �cool.�� If we had been back home in Los Angeles, it would have been somewhere in Santa Monica, and it would have been filled with artists and people pretending to be artists.

�The food was good with John having a vegetarian sandwich, while I had something that translated as chicken perfumed with the scent of orange.� Perfumed chicken turned out to be a vaguely Asian dish, and while interesting, was not as tasty as it could have been.� Part of the problem was that the quality of chicken wasn�t that great.� None of the chicken I ate in Argentina tasted overly good.� Even beef, which supposedly is the entirety of cuisine of Argentina, tended to vary a lot in quality.� Though their reputations food wise are reversed, overall we had much better meals in Santiago.

That night we went to Puerto Madero, a touristy spot which is undergoing the urban renewal thing, turning from empty unused port, to a mess of restaurants overlooking the water.� I wanted to cross the Puente De La Mujer (The Woman�s bridge), just to say I did, but it was closed for repairs.

Dinner was at Asia de Cuba, a psuedo-Chinese/generic Asian restaurant by way of a country enthralled with grilled beef (Most Asian places I�ve eaten at don�t have menus reminiscent of steak houses).� The restaurant looked to be able to convert into a nightclub at the drop of a hat, and was very concerned with decor, with padded couches to lounge around and look good in, although so dimly lit seeing anything was difficult.� We had to hold our menus up to the candles in order to read them.� I prefer being able to clearly see my meal, which is probably why I don�t spend too much time in trendy restaurants, and boy was this place making an effort to be a popular hot spot dujur.

There was nothing meat free on the menu, which almost made us leave, but the waitress assured us that the chef could easily make a fried rice dish sans meat for John.� I ended up ordering a white fish in quatro salsas (four sauces: olive oil, some type of roe, miso, and soy).� When I told folks in Chile that I ordered the fish, they were convinced that I had made a huge mistake, �cause Argentines �Do not know how to properly cook seafood.�� They were surprised when I said that the fish was very good; fresh, moist, and an excellent base for the sauces, although there was one big problem.� It had not occurred to the cooks to remove any of the bones.� Picking out teeny fish bones in a near pitch black lighting did not exactly enhance the dining experience.� I was assured that this would never occur in Chile.� For dessert, we split something called Hindu Passion, a chocolate souffl� with a warm heart of chocolate syrup served with Helado Americano, that is, American style ice cream.� It was vanilla.� It was North American in texture and flavor.� It was the worst ice cream we ate in South America.

The next day was Monday and was our last in Buenos Aires.� After a leisurely morning and afternoon, spent doing nothing much in particular, we said our goodbyes to our host and had a panic-inducing ride back to the airport.� It was the same driver who took us from the airport to the city and his nonchalant attitude towards road safety had not changed.� He did things like making sharp right turns from a left lane directly in front of large buses and I spent a lot of the trip with my eyes closed.

Even though we arrived at the airport hours early, there were so many lines to deal with that I started worrying about missing our flight.� First there was the line to check in, then a line to pay the airport usage fee (which no one bothered to mention even existed until we were there), then a line for someone to check your receipts for possible tax refund, then a line to get into line for security, then a line for customs.� Once through all that, you get dumped into the duty free shop, so making your way around lines of people buying stuff, you walk to the actual terminals, so you can get into line to board the plane.� Unless you want you money from the tax refund thingy, in which case you have to wander round for a bit, then get into another line in front of a half hidden kiosk.

Assuming you�d remembered to get the proper stamps and approvals from the proper kiosks in the previous lines, and if not, to bad since that means getting someone to let you back through customs, which they ain�t doing.� After all that, you get told that they can either pay you now in Argentine pesos, or you they can mail you a check in American dollars in oh, say, three or so months.

We took the pesos and fled the country.

more later,
nico�

<prior or next>

� 2000-2007