I checked last night with the hostel attendant to see what an appropriate time would be to leave for Plumerillo, Mendoza’s airport, if our flight left at 09:50. We were told a half an hour would suffice. To be on the safe side, we planned on leaving the hostel at 08:50. So we checked out exactly then and asked if they could call us a cab. Celeste, Mike’s wife and co-owner of the hostel informed us that the entire city’s bus line was inoperative (I assume due to one of Argentina’s famous strikes), and that obtaining a taxi would be near impossible. We informed Celeste of our situation and she called four different companies trying to get us a taxi. Finally, at 09:20, one came. The traffic infested roads did nothing to abate my stress, at this point beyond their normal limits. We arrived at the airport at 09:35, and bolted for the check in desk.
The Aerolíneas Argentinas’ desk was without line and for that we were very grateful. The agent made a joke about us showing up early and I left out an out of breath laugh. We passed through security with great ease, calmly walked onto the tarmac and into our plane. We were buckled in at 09:45 and in five minutes were in the air and off to the capital. The duration of our trip spanned no more than an hour and twenty minutes. I smiled, thinking how difficult it could have been to get to Buenos Aires by other means. At that point Steven and I had traveled from the capital westward to Mendoza for a combined total of 22 hours. Surveying the broad plains and the pampa, I have come to realize that this truly is a wondrous and beautiful country. A week in itself is in no way a sufficient amount of time to pass judgment or to see everything. However, I’m doing it now anyway. Argentina will command a small piece of my heart, and I will always long to revisit her.
We landed at Jorge Newberry Airport at 11:20, jumped the bus to the terminal, got our bags and left by taxi to our familiar Hilton in Puerto Madero. It was good to be back in the Big Apple because in a few minutes we would reunite with our father, the man most responsible for our exploits this past week.
Bridge in Puerto Madero that looks like a female tango dancer.
Before I describe our heartfelt meeting, I would first like to make a brief commentary regarding the nature of Argentine drivers. I should have disclosed this earlier, because nearly every experience I’ve had in a taxi fits this description. Many people are well acquainted with the European driving style. And to assume that Argentina’s style (due to its European sphere of influence) was the same would be committing a grave injustice. The lines painted on the roads in yellow and white that serve as dividers in our country are to be abided by. Our neighbor to the south, however, does not care to mimic such patterns. Often, on a road where there should be only four cars abreast at the same time there are five or six. These lines that we are so accustomed to never crossing are regarded as simple graffiti and are to only be used when making a left hand turn at a busy intersection or light. This not only applies for residential streets but also in Nuevo de Junio, the city’s (and world’s) largest avenue, which is 16 lanes wide.
This, however, is not the half of what makes the Argentine style so interesting. What makes the ordeal so fascinating (if not terrifying) is that the Argentina will not so much as blink when he is cut off by a 16 wheeler. Turn signals are completely optional. Should the driver choose to use his blinker it is a miraculous act of courtesy, or just to get pedestrians out of the vehicle’s way. There is no honking, swearing or road rage, unless the driver wishes to harass a protest that is blocking his current route. Most drivers are serene, relaxed in their seats, tranquil and calm as a human being could be. Driving in this country is not just a skill, it’s an art form. Our bus rides to Rosario, Córdoba, and Mendoza were all in a similar manner. Even with the hulking chassis if a commercial bus, the drivers are graceful and adroit in their task. This was something completely strange to me. And there was no threat of tickets for speeding, illegal turns or reckless driving. Everything was understood and moved in a systematic manner between Argentine drivers, pedestrians and police. It may seem chaotic but there was a sense of order to it all.
Our taxi ride form the airport to the hotel fit all the criteria for the ride, and was actually the impetus for this side explanation. We came upon the hotel and checked in to find out where our father was. After a slight mishap in communication regarding billing, we ascended to the fourth floor and were greeted by an ecstatic looking man, with a boyish grin and arms spread wide open for a long embrace.
We retold our adventures to our father. He was happy to hear that we had a good time, but I could tell that he was even happier just to see us back safe and sound. With great pleasure we left out little details to the man who made it possible. Afterwards, we set out to see Buenos Aires again.
The bustling commercial area of Flórida Street kept us shopping for a long time. Eventually we caught a cab to Recoleta, the barrio where Evita was laid to rest. The cemetery was an impressive sight, even for my second time. We browsed through hundreds of mausoleums, found Mrs. Perón and paid our respects. We entered the cemetery’s church which was equally as impressive.
Cemetery at Sunset
We stop for ice cream at Aroma, a high end frozen dessert shop. Back again to Flórida Street for much needed souvenirs. Finally we were back in the hotel and after freshening up, we went to the Hilton’s lounge for some wine and cheese. We met up with some of my fathers co-workers, some very familiar to me and it was good to see them. We though of visiting El Trapiche again, but instead tried a new restaurant, El Primo en the barrio Las Cañitas. This turned out to be dinner and a show.
Steve and I at the cemetery with a friend
The food was to die for. And even though I had sworn off steak for the rest of the trip after Don Mario, I indulged one last time. About halfway through the meal, a large congregation, who I mistook for a parade, unloaded from a bus and waited in front of the restaurant. Soon they started banging drums and shouting. Shouts and unified chants soon indicated that we were being surrounded by a protest. Then suddenly, without warning, a barrage of eggs came and the entire restaurant was covered in yolk, egg shells and fliers from the protesters. The waiters drew down their iron gates for the windows, but the unruly mob managed to break a window in the process. The patrons grew restless and slowly moved themselves away form the windows, thinking theirs could be the next to break.
The tourists, namely us, could only watch in amazement of the events that had unfolded before us. The crowd dispersed when the police arrived. This was after one of the protesters got herself into the building and there a fistful of fliers onto the immediate tables and floor. Something like this could not happen in the United States, at least, not anymore.
After a very fulfilling meal, Steven and I had coffee and to our father’s surprise we went out with one of the pilots to meet another pilot in a bar for some drinks. By this time it was midnight. We visited several hotspots with the pilots and had many drinks. We met many people and I got to practice my Spanish more than I had to entire trip. It was a good last night in town. Nearing 05:30, Steven could bear no more and we retired back to the hotel as the sun came up. From then, until about 13:00, we were both dead to the world.
Some late night tango dancing on Flórida Street
The next day we did our obligatory shopping, and I found myself a nice pair of leather boots. The day passed swiftly and before we knew it we were in our flight home. Watching the lights of the big city disappear in the distance, I knew that even though we were still traveling, our trip was now over. And what a trip it had been.
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