Un prólogo --- A Preface

The purpose of this blog is not to brag by any means. I believe that if one is given the opportunity to travel they should. There is much to see in this world. I say this and I have seen only a relatively small portion of the world myself. I am merely stating what I have seen over the course of ten days in Argentina. Ten days is insufficient to pass any sort of judgment on Argentina, nor is it to make in depth observations. Nevertheless, in this blog (named for and modeled specifically after Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s Motorcycle Diaries) I attempt to show you what I have seen, heard, felt, tasted and sensed during the course of my voyage.

My father, a flight attendant, took me and my brother Steven down to Buenos Aires, dropped us off there for a week and we traveled the country. We went westward to Rosario, Córdoba and Mendoza and then back to Buenos Aires again to rendezvous with our father to come home. We saw much, loved most, and remembered all of it. Without further ado, my notes on this trip, take them as you like.

jueves 15.05 --- Una argentina nueva --- A New Argentina

After arriving at Ezezia Airport well rested from our overnight flight, we embarked on the crew bus for our Argentina journey. The bus ride was pleasant, as were the accompanying refreshments, the Hilton in Puerto Madero (our lodging for the night) is by far among the best hotels in the city and quite possibly the best I’ve ever inhabited. A quick shower and we were ready to go. Seeing how this was my brother’s first time to the country, we had to enjoy a delicacy; grilled steak (known as churrasco) sandwiches. We were joined by tens of pigeons and parrots, who vied for our extra bread. After lunching on the River Plate, we headed over to El Retiro bus station to purchase tickets for our next trip to Rosario. The bus station was rather busy, but I thought it manageable. We would make our bus the next day no matter what. We departed from El Retiro and walked through bustling Buenos Aires.

Our first steps into the big city.

We encountered a monument to the Malvinas / Falkland Islands War. For those unfamiliar, the war was fought between England in Argentina and lasted a little over three months in 1982. The islands were declared British at the end of the war. Plaques and statues are scattered through out the country. Argentina will not forget its armed conflict against the juggernaut that is Britain and nor should they. I will always refer to the islands as the Malvinas in reverence to their rightful owner, Argentina. An eternal flame and constant guard remain with this small commemoration to Argentina’s heroes.

Nuevo de julio Ave., and Across from the Malvinas Monument.

Going through San Martín Park, we made it to the famed Flórida Street. Perusing shops along the large pedestrian walkway, my brother found a shop where he could purchase a leather jacket. Argentina is famous for, among other things, exports in beef and leather. Satisfied with his new apparel, my father and I conversed with the store owners. They were from Brooklyn so we discussed sports (particularly the fates of Yankee and Shea stadiums) and the state of the American economy. We departed, browsed other shops and eventually made it to Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada.

Navigating at Parque de San Martín.

The Casa Rosada.

There is so much history in this one central plaza. From the colonial age of Spanish conquistadors, to the tomb of Argentina’s George Washington (José Francisco de San Martín), to the very balcony where Juan and Eva Peron gave there speeches and a small plaza in front where the famed Madres del mayo protest and still protest for the abduction of their children during Argentina’s Dirty War. A disclaimer to the reader. If you do not like history, I apologize in advance, but, in my opinion, a country is not represented fully without some history. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.

San Telmo was our next barrio of choice. We headed for the oldest church in the entire city, San Ignacio de Loyola. An older woman gave us a tour in full English and with much enthusiasm. She spoke of the church’s history both older and recent. It was undergoing a renovation that was to be completed by the nation’s bicentennial in 2010. She communicated efficiently, passionately, and did not expect anything in return. An early treat for our trip.

Afterwards we went to a café and relaxed. We drank Quilmes, which is the equivalent to American Budweiser, jingoistic and light. I say jingoistic because there is no other drink so ingrained in the local bars around the country than Quilmes, the same for Budweiser here. We jumped the subway or Subte over to Palermo another barrio. The subway was packed! It was nearly 7:30 and the ten stops on the subte linea verde were near brutal. We barely had room to breathe. We ascended back to the surface and even the smoggy air of Buenos Aires was refreshing. After a minor directional miscue (there would be many on my part, so I take the blame up front) we found El Trapiche restaurant. The meal, after all my father’s boasting and hyping it up, was mediocre. The palm nut salad, provoletta (a grilled provolone with oregano and oil), and lomo (steak) were good, but not the best I’ve ever had. The house Malbec (Argentina’s wine) certainly improved the experience.

We hopped a cab back to the hotel. Our driver had superb English speaking skills and this made my father very happy. The two discussed the city’s attractions, some colloquial expressions, and the night life here in Buenos Aires. Pulling up to the Hilton’s lobby I felt a sense of relief. My Spanish skills, though rusty, had improved over the course of the day. Also a confidence in my ability to navigate a South American city had been strengthened. I rest assured that I am ready for this trip and can not wait for what this trip has in store for us. Exploring further than the confines of Buenos Aires, this is will be my new Argentina.

A Late Night Protest in Plaza de Mayo.

viernes 16.05 --- Salimos la ciudad --- Leaving the Big City

We got off to a late start out of Buenos Aires. Out of the Hilton by noon we revisited Florida Street and picked up my brother’s leather jacket, which had been modified to fit him better. After that we headed back towards the hotel (because our bus was to leave at 14:15 from El Retiro. We arrived at a pizza place along the way. Argentina’s pizza is very different form that of the United States. The country is known for its large Italian population, something exemplified in its pizza and wine. The pizza is not like American pizza as we know it but rather European. It is heavier on cheese and toppings and lighter on tomato sauce. Also, for those unaware, on every other country pizza is eaten with a knife and fork, not by hand. If were to consume a pizza in the American fashion, they would be gawked at.

In a hurry, we sped back towards the hotel by way of side streets the intersected perpendicularly to the bigger Flórida Street. We also crossed el puente de la mujer. It is a bridge that crosses over from the main city to Puerto Madero and is said to resemble a tango dancer holding a woman for a lower embrace. We were packed by 13:30 and made our way to El Retiro via taxi. We had a long goodbye with our father. As we watched him from our seats atop the double decker bus we waved and watched my father disappear in the distance. Steven and I realized now, we were alone.

Our bus ride was only four hours and it went by quickly. Argentina has a remarkable bus system. We rode on the Chevallier line which is supposed to be the best in the country. We reclined comfortably in our seats, read for a bit and got lost in the infinite countryside. We experienced a typical event, a protest. The farmers have been at unrest in the country for several months now. We zoomed by a crowd of angry proletariat workers and three or four tractors that sport the Argentine flag. I could only catch one banner. It read ¿Dónde está Scioli? I would later learn the Scioli was the governor of the province and his presence was requested by these protesters to settle the dispute.

Argentina's Endless Plain.

We ventured onward to Rosario and arrived at 18:30. The bus station was much smaller and thinking it safer to purchase tickets to Córdoba sooner than later, we did. Unfortunately, Chevallier was unavailable and we took a lesser known company called Sierras de Córdoba. Our bus leaves at 08:30 on Sunday. We caught a cab to Hostel Rosarinos 938 and checked in. The hostel is pleasant and located in the direct center of the city. This would prove very convenient for Steven and I. We found a small sandwich shop and had a bite to eat.

Steven in front of the hostel.

We were pretty beat from the bus ride and willing to call it a night when we encountered some more Americans. Figuring that English speakers would be a commodity this trip, we decided to go out with them. After trudging through the downtown area for twenty minutes, we turned around and visited a bar which was right next to the hostel. It was a pool bar so we had some drinks and played a game. We chatted about our impressions of the country and all were favorable. At 01:00 we grew tired and headed back to the hostel. Retiring for the evening, I went to bed happy we made it to our first city in one piece and with ease. The adventure had only just begun.

Taking a break after the bus ride.

sábado 17.05 --- La confusión --- Confusion

Once again we arose later than intended. The night life in Rosario (or in Argentina as a whole for that matter) is well known for its ability to push into the early hours of the morning. And last night was no exception. Argentine youths crept back into the hostel as late as 07:30 this morning. Their clamoring up the hostel’s stairs served as an early wake up call, yet we were unable to move from our beds due to fatigue. This is not a complaint, solely an observation in the difference between American and Argentine lifestyles and partying hours.

We were out of the door by 10:30 and were in search of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara’s house of birth and brief residence. The guidebook said it was a must see, so the hostel worker, Martín, showed us on the map where to find it. We came to the block where it was located but found nothing. There was a small plaza with a picture of Che. Steven and I were confused and disappointed. With the warm sun beating down on us, we pressed onward towards the Río Paraná. We were met with many stray dogs (the entire country is filled with them) and a beautiful riverside view. We scaled the river and eventually came to the Monument of the National Flag.

Lounging along the Paraná.

Some 200 years ago, Manuel Belgrano (Argentina statesmen and freedom fighter) designed the simplistic yet symbolic national flag. The monument itself was a bit of an eye sore at first. It was mostly a large obelisk of unpolished marble. After surveying the grounds, however, the monument wasn’t that bad. To the rear of the towering obelisk stood some impressive fountains, sculptures and Roman columns. Underneath the columns sat an eternal flame for fallen soldiers during the country’s independence wars. We were originally fearful that the stairs would go on for ever and we’d be drenched in sweat by the time we reached the top. This was not the case as we were greeted by an elevator attendant who saw us to the top. We entered the monument, read the sacred writing explaining its history and climbed the stairs which took us to an elevator to the top.

Steven in front of the "Cradle of the National Flag"

The Río Paraná from the top.

The view from the top was breath taking, as we tool our obligatory pictures. We could look out all four faces of the monument; it required some shuffling past other tourists in a very small hallway. We came back down and saw a park, some mounted howitzers/cannons, and several artisans setting up shop along the banks of the river. We proceeded to the tourist information, still in search of Che’s house. They kindly aimed us in the right direction. We found the apartment complex which is still in use today! There is no exhibit or museum, only a small, red flag that flies over one of the windows that reads casa natal de Che Guevara, and an adjacent plaza with a small mural. We could have kicked ourselves for missing it the first time. Disappointed, we didn’t even take a picture to log our visit to the revolutionary’s house.

Steven at Che's plaza with a friend.

Instead we went to lunch. We went to a restaurant named El Mejor or The Best, which lived up to its expectations as its name would suggest. We both had entrecot (a steak) and went back to the hostel to freshen up. We picked up some warmer clothes in anticipation of the weather getting colder and headed to Plaza de la Independencia. In search of a garden we never found, we settled for a long stroll in the park which was very reminiscent of Madrid’s El Retiro (not to be confused with B.A.’s bus station). I say this because the park was a family setting, filled with football games and paddle boats in its man-made reservoir. It was as large and beautiful as its Spanish counterpart too.

We departed and sought out the city museum for some history. We did so only to be snubbed again and found no museum, nor any pedestrians who knew of its whereabouts or in one case its existence. I do not respect the city with what I am about to say, but Rosario is not a tourist friendly city. The people are friendly, but that is it. If you don’t know where you’re going, chances are you won’t find your destination. We caught a cab and drove up lengthy Oroño Boulevard and found the modern art museum that had been recommended to us by various sources.

Plaza de la Independencia.

We arrived at the museum and were impressed by its outside. It looked like an old refinery, with six tanks panted in vibrantly different colors. The inside proved to be another disappointment on the day. Perhaps it’s because I’m not a big fan of modern art. Or maybe I don’t get it. Whatever the reason, the museum did not sit well with me. I found the lack of variance in pieces boring and some pieces too droll to be called art. The highpoint for me was seeing a digitally modified shot of El Prado and a motorbike race taking place inside. This day had me thinking of Madrid and how I must go back. Even the lookout over the city wasn’t anything to write about (even though I’m mentioning it now). We left the museum and browsed the artisans fair but found nothing.

The Modern Art Museum.

We walked along the river again and encountered a myriad of football games. We found a small café, had some Quilmes and relaxed a bit. After being mercilessly attacked by mosquitoes, we retreated to out hostel. The cockroaches on ground and sidewalks throughout the city made our flight form the park a slow one. Rosario is not a very clean city, and I began to wonder what I was getting myself into. We had dinner around 21:00 and retired for the night. Tomorrow our bus leaves in the early morning and will last for seven hours. What a confusing city this is.

Dapple, Sancho, and I.