Home away from home

Every time we take a walk in our temporary neighborhood, we discover something new. (The photo above is a view of our street.) Today, on our way home from a 5:30 p.m. ice cream run to Persicco (today's flavors: melon and tiramisu...the first a delicious accident that happened because J didn't pronounce "mango" correctly, the second because it is heaven in a bowl) after a long, hot day of shopping at the Palermo Viejo weekend market, we found a large supermarket, a mouthwatering meat and cheese shop, and an equally droolworthy bakery. 

Truly, the neighborhood we are staying in is delightful. We would gladly transport it back to Seattle. When I say you can't spit without hitting a cafe, restaurant, small grocery store (supermercado), pharmacy or laundromat, I'm not being gross...I'm being serious. 

Being able to walk a block to pick up essentials has really made us turn up our noses at the notion of "bigger is better." We went to the Jumbo supermarket yesterday, and it has really lost it's luster. There's a supermercado about a block away that's perfect for picking up cold beer, bottled water, and other non-perishibles, and we just need to walk a few more blocks to find a bigger market with a better produce selection.

Our apartment is delightful, too. On the third floor of a building on the dead end of a street (butting up to the city's polo fields...sadly horseless, since it's not polo season), it has a street-facing balcony that looks straight into a leafy tree canopy. This evening, we enjoyed watching two yellow labs frolic in the cobblestoned park and two twenty-something guys get a gym-free workout (situps, pushups, sparring). People watching is so fun!

It's February, and...

...I'm wearing a tank top (while blogging at our favorite morning cafe)...

...and the roses are in bloom (at Parque 3 de Februaro).

This park is just beautiful, and an easy walk from our apartment. Here's another photo:

Oh, and I'm sunburned, too. I bet that wouldn't have happened in Seattle this month.

A Dog Day Afternoon

Dogs rule in Buenos Aires. 

There are no laws saying that anyone has to pick up after them when they do their business, even if it's in the middle of the sidewalk.

When dogs are trotting along with their people, they are not always on a leash. Yet they seem to know not to run into traffic or bother people eating at the sidewalk cafes that exist everywhere. J believes this is an example of Darwin at work: the stupid dogs have simply been culled by now.

J took the above photo Friday afternoon downtown on busy, bustling Ave. de Mayo. Now, while we have seen many, many dogs in a similarly prostrate position on the city's sidewalks, they usually are not in the middle of the sidewalk. To be fair, Friday was quite sizzling, with temps in the low-to-mid 90s. Poor fella, can't really blame him.

A little R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Even though the Buenos Aires cemetery (aka the one that all the guidebooks say "you must visit") is in the Recoleta neighborhood, our first brush with the dead came Wednesday in the Chacarita Cemetary, since we were already just a few blocks away at the farmer's market, anyway.

Created in the early 1800s as a final resting place for the masses of victims from a yellow fever epidemic (mostly from the San Telmo and La Boca neighborhoods), this cemetery is less exclusive than Recoleta's, yet the best of Chacarita's tombs apparently rival Recoleta's best.

First, a description. Most tombs have above-ground space (on shelves) for two or three caskets, plus assorted containers for ashes, vases of flowers, photos, etc. The floor of the tomb (often covered with beautiful black and white or marble tile) generally has a large square opening, covered with an ornate metal grate. In most tombs (based on the ones I was able to see into), there is also a very narrow staircase spiraling down into the depths of their "basements." I counted as many as eight layers of below-ground shelving in one tomb, each shelf (16 in all) occupied.

This was our first experience with a cemetery of this type, and the first thought that came to mind was "city of the dead." Indeed, the streets and streets of ornate tombs look like a miniature of some of the streets of ornate homes we've come across. Like many neighborhoods, there was quite a variance in the level of upkeep.

Some of the tombs are lovingly tended. Outside, they are spotlessly clean. Inside, vases of fresh flowers sit beside framed photos and other mementos. Pressed linen cloths, embroidered or plain, are draped over the above-ground caskets. Small throw rugs soften the floor.

Others are covered with a film of cobwebs, skeletons of long-dried-up roses stuck in the ornate metal work on the doors, which at least are securely locked.

Sadly, the reason I could count caskets was because some of the tombs have been badly vandalized, their windows broken, doors unlocked and open, ornate plaster smashed into dust, metal grates long gone. Empty beer bottles, plastic cups and other trash lie scattered all around. Talk about lack of respect for the dead.

Beyond the tomb city lie its gardens: a huge area filled with trees, flowering shrubs and plant-covered plots. I love cemeteries, because although death does bring sadness, happy memories of loved ones never die. I can't wait to visit the Recoleta Cemetary next week (and not just because Evita is buried there).

Heaven: in or out?

We died and went to steak heaven tonight. We ate at Campobravo (Baez 292) a few blocks from our apartment.

We chose to be unfashionable (heading out the door at 8:15 p.m.) so we could get a sidewalk table. We ordered martinis instead of wine (a mistake we won't repeat...see the previous post), a roasted red pepper with olive oil as our (delicious) appetizer, then shared a quite large bife chorizo (sirloin steak) and a platter of grilled vegetables.

This steak was so good, I can't even begin to describe it. But I'll try. It was thick, and tender, and juicy and perfectly cooked (seared on the outside, and evenly rosy throughout the inside). The flavor was...beefy. Delicious.

Anyway, imagine my surprise when, as we began to walk away from the restaurant, J says to me "We're never coming back here."

WTF?

Turns out, the bill included a 10 peso (5 pesos each) cubierto fee. AKA, a silverware charge. This was two nights in a row we saw this on our dinner bill (Wednesday night it was 7 pesos each, and for a mediocre meal at that). A little Google search revealed that this charge used to be common in Buenos Aires, went away for a while, and is now back. Some restaurants charge it, some don't. The fee tends to range from 2 to 10 pesos. It allegedly covers "extras" like silverware, napkins and bread.

I guess the question becomes, what price are we willing to pay to go back to heaven?

Lost in translation

We've found many things to love in Buenos Aires so far in our few days here (beef, ice cream, cafes, sidewalk seating, architecture, the subway system), many things we don't like but can tolerate (dodging dog poo on every sidewalk, the abundance of mullets, insanely crazy drivers), but let us state for the record that there are two things here that are awful beyond compare: toilet paper and martinis.

The "softest" toilet paper is a few cuts above sandpaper, and the martinis we ordered tonight were so strange that we couldn't figure out what the deal was with them. Sweet vermouth? Olive juice? Lemon juice? Cheap gin? So very odd. Plus, they cut a straw in half to use as olive picks...need I say more? I think we'll stick to wine and Quilmes from here on out, thank you very much.

What a dollar can buy

After Tuesday's rainfest, Wednesday delivered a picture-perfect morning. The birds were singing, the sun was softly glowing, a breeze was gently blowing. You get the idea.

The day turned out to be fiscally fine, too. While not everything in Buenos Aires comes with a rock-bottom price tag, we did very well for ourselves on this glorious day, starting with breakfast at Ocio, the cute cafe around the corner from our apartment:

• Cafe con leche (a latte, in Seattle vernacular) with three medialunas (small croissants), the most traditional of Buenos Aires breakfasts: 10 pesos ($2.90 US).
  
• Cafe con leche with tostadas (aka three thin slices of toasted rustic bread) served with tiny ramekins of soft, spreadable cheese and strawberry jam and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice: 12 pesos ($3.48 US).
  

Priceless extras: whenever you order a cafe at a cafe, it comes to you with a small glass of mineral water and a tiny plate of a few tiny cookies. Lovely anytime, but especially when you need a little between-meal pick-me-up.

We walked off breakfast by hoofing it a few miles to the la Chacarita neighborhood, primarily to check out a weekly farmer's market we had heard about. Located in a small, brightly painted building next to a rail yard, it offered up a bounty of Argentine grown, Argentine-produced items. Fresh local produce, baked goods, olive oil, wine, soap, dried fruits, nuts, etc. We walked away 53 pesos ($16.37 US) poorer, but so much the richer, because those few dollars bought us:

• One bottle of Malbec wine from Argentina's Mendoza region.
  
• Two adorable fruit tarts with lattice-top crusts.
  
• Five tomatoes.
  
• Small bag of dried whole peaches (which are delicious beyond compare).
  
• Small bag of dried pears.
  
• Small bag of mixed dried fruit (figs, grapes, etc.).
  
• Small bag of the most almondy almonds we've ever tasted in our lives.

We dropped off a bag of dirty clothes one of the several laundries in our neighborhood and picked them up clean a few hours later for 12 pesos, or $3.48. A stop at one of the several neighborhood supermercados got us two 2-liter bottles of water, a large bottle of Quilmes Stout and toilet paper (since our apartment came with less than two rolls!) for $3.70.

We learned a hard lesson when we visited the Alto Palermo mall (We're officially sick of malls,  in any hemisphere) and went to a touristy, so-so, overpriced restaurant. Ugh. Never again...we have learned our lesson (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me!).

Our luck turned for the better after that, ending on a sweet note when we stopped at the original outpost of Persicco for the best ice cream ever in this world or any other. We shared a small (ha!) cup of half tiramisu and half mousse de chocolate. Yum! Since there is a newer branch near our apartment, we will be going back often, I'm sure.