EricMBloggie

Day Four
Juan is stirred awake by the family eating breakfast. I join him out there ten minutes later. Am I dead? Did I sleep? I feel like hell. We recount the stories of the night and get some big laughs. The day is a hungover blur at the beach. I read, dip in the water, avoid the sun, and nod off here and there. We are not cut out for this lifestyle. I run again with Rudy and Sophie, this time hurting my foot. Juan and I limp around the town looking for antacid. Now we look like a seventy year old gay couple.

Dinner is amazing. We go to a new place, which features asado on the parilla, similar to family meal we had the first day. They bring out little metal chafing dishes filled with chorizo, pork belly, sweet breads, and their special sweet blood sausage. This blood sausage was terrific in taste and texture, and I can’t wait to find and cook some sweet breads (thymus gland) when I get back home. The bold Malbec red wine went perfectly with the simply seasoned meat. They provided little dishes of chimichurri, a sauce made of parsley, olive oil, garlic, and other stuff I’ll look up later. I’ll make that as well, but everyone agreed that theirs had way too much garlic. A couple salads preceded another chafing dish filled with beef ribs, steak, and chicken breast. The most remarkable piece was the chicken, salted well, with the skin crunchy and the meat moist. I had a traditional Argentinian dessert called ‘Martin Fierro,’ named after a folk legend, which is a jelly made from the fruit quince and cheese. Juan likes it better with apples, and I think I’d agree. When I get back, I plan on making this with quince, slices of green apple, thin slices of good aged cheddar, and maybe some nuts. I learned some more Spanish, mostly dealing with food, and it’s getting easier to understand their conversations without translation. Juan was trying to explain something, and asked Pili, how to say ’spicy’ in Spanish. I responded with the answer, picante. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to know that. Funny stuff. Dinner ended around one in the morning.

Juan and I were too destroyed from last night, so instead of going to the casino with his mom and grandma, we went to sleep.

Day Five
We spend half of the day at the beach, then leave for Buenos Aires. On the way to the ferry, we stop at a beautiful place where you can see Punta del Este in the distance.

El Don’s driving skills are a sight to behold. I am still alive, despite almost killing multiple drivers and pedestrians. He commands the center lane of a two lane highway–right on the white stripes. Christina, Pili, and Dave sit in the back seat alternating between making fun and clutching each other for dear life. I watch other drivers swerve around and meander the lanes with only slightly more precision, and it’s no doubt the girl is dead in the accident we pass.

Thankfully, I sleep most of the way to the ferry, relying on the smidgen of battery life left in the iPod to block out the grim reality of the drive. It sounds melodramatic, but you weren’t there. Try imagine the commotion when we narrowly missed the exit, popped up on the raised lane divider, and wondered if we were going to have to stop to fix a flat. Luckily, the tire was undamaged. We had a fine ferry trip and returned to the house in Buenos Aires.

Juan and I were in no shape to go out, both of us on the brink of succumbing to small pox, dysentery, or typhoid. We called it a night, saving energy for our big weekend.

Day Six
Juan and I wake up late, overeat at breakfast, and take a remise– a sort of trusted private taxi– to Recoleta. The shops are affluent beyond our means, but we find cafes at which to stop and have coffee, tea, wine, and empanadas. The cemetery where Evita is buried is a marble apartment complex for the dead, where I’m sure the stray cats turn to Hell-Demon Lions at night. We stop by a church where Good Friday services are in progress and feel out of place among the monotonous chanting, both of us non-religious guys. The weather is perfect on our walk through the craft market, where gypsies, hippies, and artists peddle wares that I have no interest in buying. A cool breeze quickly turns into a harsh wind, kicking up dust in swirls. We turn to see the end of the world approaching. In no time, a beautiful day turns rainy, windy, blue skies giving way to mean, dark clouds. Not to worry, though. We wait under an awning, and the remise picks us up a half hour later.

Another long, gratifying night was under way, Juan and I ready again for an extended party. We drove to Puerto Madero for a tango show. The remaining seats off to the side of the main stage were obstructed by a big column, so we upgraded to the balcony seats, overlooking the besuited diners below. As always, there was various kinds of ham, cheese, and wine at arms reach.

Tango is full of emotion, at times so charged with sexuality you can feel the tension in the audience, then switching to deep romance, and stinging sadness. Tango is all of the highs and lows of love, the music tinged with sadness. The show was inspiring– I’d love to take lessons. We might, since one of the dancers gave Juan and I her card after the show. She teaches during the week. After the show, which was geared more towards tourists, veering away from tradition in favor of pizazz, we hit up a local tango spot in center city.

The club was a dance floor surrounded by tables with a bar at the back. Most of the clientèle was pushing sixty, but a few twenty and thirty somethings were cuttin’ rug as well. It’s a pleasure to watch the dancers. I wish we had this in America. Oddly, between each set of four or five songs, the dance floor would clear out and Elvis’ “Hound Dog” would play. It was always “Hound Dog.”

We left the club and walked to the main branch of Saverio, Juan’s uncle Roberto’s ice cream shop and factory. I had two scoops of peach. And another coffee, which is the only way to fuel these long nights.

Rudy drove Juan and I to find a dance club, before he took Sofia and Consalo home. We tried a couple, but they were closed, since most city dwellers were at the beach for the long weekend. We pulled up next to a store, where a couple of unsavory gentlemen stood. Consalo made a half-hearted attempt to tell Rudy to keep driving. These guys didn’t look like they were handing out Meals-on-Wheels during the weekend. One faced the store, which I think he was pissing on, and the other seemed startled that we were stopping. Rudy asked him something about the clubs. I peered at his right hand. Were those brass knuckles? I’m pretty sure, unless he had a lot of big, connected rings, that they were. Brass Knuckle Guy pointed Rudy in a direction, and we were off, joking about them for the next ten minutes. Finally, we found an active club.

The main room pulsed electronic dance music, the second and third rooms were outside, overlooking the river and played Latin stuff. Juan and I danced and talked with a group of girls for a long time. They might have thought my name was Martin “El Challenger” Fierro. Close enough. We left the club at around 4, 5, or 6. Without a watch, it’s hard to tell. A taxi brought us back home, where we struggled with the locks before finally getting to sleep.