I would describe Buenos Aires in the same way that you might describe an unalluring woman that you are trying to set your friend up with: She’s got a great personality. I’m not saying that Buenos Aires is ugly—there are parts that are quite attractive. However, the charm of the city doesn’t come so much from its exterior as it does from its vibe.

The apartment that we rented here is right outside of Plaza Dorrego in the district of San Telmo—a happening place. Every day the plaza is full of people frequenting the many outdoor cafes and buying trinkets from the numerous vendors stationed around the square. At night, especially as the weekend nears, the plaza fills with musicians and tango dancers and crowds taking in the spectacle. Several times we have gone out to the plaza to have dinner under the stars and sip sangria while we are entertained by a flamenco show or a blues performance.

Continue reading “The Two Faces of Buenos Aires” →

““That is not what I meant at all./That is not it, at all.””

“It is impossible to say just what I mean!”

– T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

I’m looking for Q-tips in the grocery store in Buenos Aires, but I’m not finding them. What in the world do they call Q-tips here? How do you say “cotton swab”? If I say “cotton swab” will they know what I’m talking about? I know that if I really want to find the Q-tips, its time to play my least favorite game—the riddle game. It works much like the old 100,000 Pyramid show and goes like this: I describe the item in as much detail as possible without actually saying the name of the thing. The person at the store/restaurant/other service facility guesses what it is that I’m describing. Admittedly this game is difficult because most of the time I don’t know when the person has guessed correctly. I win the game if I succeed in actually obtaining the item and I lose if the person just gives up and says that they don’t carry such a thing. Continue reading “Trying to Say Just What I Mean” →

Flashback: My sister and I are sitting with our parents at a table in a restaurant in Mexico. The waiter comes up to take our order and even though he can tell that we are a table full of gringos, he asks, “Hablan Espanol?”

Our parents point to me and my sister and say, “They do.”

I glare at them and exhale heavily.  I DO NOT speak Spanish. I never have and I still don’t. I’m not sure if I ever will. But the waiter has to see for himself. He says something that we only half comprehend. We try to construct a coherent sentence and fail. The waiter gives up and asks us for our order in English. Continue reading “No Hablo Espanol” →