A Romance Ignited

Wednesday, I vowed to learn how to love Buenos Aires. Thursday, Buenos Aires began learning how to love me, and viola! A romance ignited. It went like this:

Katie and I shared an umbrella on a street corner while colectivos (buses) and cars splashed trashy water onto our flip-flop/tan-lined feet, and the guy under the umbrella next to us chuckled at our misfortune. As our two umbrellas crossed the street, we began a delightful but awkward conversation; it could be nothing but awkward with three people and two umbrellas squeezing through the crowded and under-repair sidewalks of Buenos Aires. The 5’7, mid-twenties, earring-wearing, mullet-sporting porteño was Buenos Aires personified: unabashedly friendly, chatty, animated, and passionate without measure. We quickly learned that Cristian writes and plays tango music, and that the underground language of Buenos Aires, lunfardo, is part of his normal vocabulary. (Can you get anymore porteño?) At one point, we were suddenly being serenaded. From under his umbrella, Cristian serenaded us with a tango. In the rain.

Later we asked if he liked Buenos Aires rock, he told us, “No! We have to get back to our roots!" (roots being tango) To emphasize his point, he jumped into the street and, stomping on the ground, continued, “This is just land! Land! Nothing else! We have to know our roots!” His passion almost caused his death (refer to previous blog entry Ways to Die) but he made us understand the power of societal roots. Sounds crazy, I know, but the depth and passion with which he spoke about life was brilliantly intellectual. When we parted, we walked one block and realized we really wanted him as a friend. We turned and took off running through the muddy sidewalk puddles to catch up to him five blocks later. We asked when his band was playing (we needed somewhat of a reason to return) and if we could go listen. He excitedly wrote his email and phone number, invited us to go bike riding through the city and out in the country if we would like, and invited us to go have a beer with he and his friends. Oh, Buenos Aires…

But that is not all, friends. The day continued as we waited out the storm by hiding in an antique bookshop, chatting with the old bookseller about sociology, poetry and history, while he smoked and introduced us to his “cueva de amigos muertos” (cave of dead friends… aka: the books that crowded and fell in piles off the shelves). We later met Katie’s host mom and her bf to listen to an Argentine guitarist play folk music, eat homemade empanadas, and drink red wine. It was El Día Internacional de la Mujer (International - in all but USA apparently - Day of the Woman), and Victor (the bf) treated each of us to a fourth kilo of helado.

As I got off the colectivo and began to walk six blocks to my house, hoards of fútbol fans crowded the streets, having just left the stadium of River – one of the two biggest teams in Buenos Aires. They were adorned in jerseys and smelled like beer and fútbol excitement. I was in heaven. I arrived home to find flowers and a card from my mom and sisters in my room, wishing me a “¡Feliz Día de la Mujer!” I climbed into bed smiling, and told Buenos Aires that perhaps this relationship would work out after all, and fell asleep.