Buenos Aires, Argentina - Part 1

I'm not going to mince words here. Buenos Aires is outstanding.

Very much a city of contradictions, which isn't surprising considering it's history. They're very proud of Argentina in this town, and relatively convinced they're a cut above the rest of South America (and the rest of the country, for that matter) but just like in the U.S., nobody's really a native. They exterminated most of their Indians and the majority of the population came over from Italy, Spain, and Wales less than 200 years ago. B.A. was mostly a smuggler's paradise (like that planet where Han Solo blows Guido away) and when the Spanish Crown, way back in the day, declared that it was going to compliment the major port of Lima with an east-coast counterpart, the naming of Buenos Aires was akin to the U.S. declaring Las Vegas to be it's second capitol. Before that, the favorite pastime around here was trapping stray cattle and skinning them for the leather, leaving all the meat to rot in the fields and feed the stray dogs (which I'm guessing was the genesis of *that* whole problem.)

Not only was today the feast of the Immaculate Conception, but it also marked the 25th anniversary of the assasination of John Lennon, a wound from which the world of music still bleeds. I celebrated at the esteemed Jorge Luis Borges Cultural Institute by viewing two exhibits. One was a collection of sketches, paintings, and sculptures by Dali, taken from the period of time when he was obsessed with Don Quixote, along with his series of Tarot Cards, the Twelve Apostles, and the Ten Commandments. It was pretty austere and incredible. The other billed itself as a tribute to John Lennon: His Birth, Music, Art, Life, Politics, and Death. This turned out to be a poorly edited VHS tape illegally cobbled together from various sources (Anthology, Imagine, The Complete Beatles, Magical Mystery Tour, etc.) and projected from a portable machine onto a small screen. The quality was so bad that those little rainbow lines appeared between many of the cuts and several scenes were completely repeated. I paid the exact same entrance fee for these two exhibits.

I went to the Plaza de Mayo this afternoon to watch the Mothers of the Desaparecidos conduct their weekly march. In the late '70s and early '80s, Argentina conducted a little-discussed operation now known as The Dirty War, during which 30,000 intellectuals, students, and political dissidents vanished into the backseats of large black automobiles, never to be seen or heard from again. Most families never found the bodies and were never informed as to the reasons for the disappearances. This was a pretty moving spectacle, with the mothers, siblings, and children of the Desaparecidos marching, chanting, singing, and carrying signs, but was also a bit of a party, with many supportors turning out to cheer them on, sell and buy food, and gather with friends to read, talk, and sleep on the beautiful lawns that make up the plaza. A very odd combination of mourning and celebration.

Two nights ago, I went to the opera dressed in the same cords and shirt I've been wearing for the last three months. The general appearance of most of the people there, not to mention a sign out front, suggested that the appropriate attire for gentlemen was a coat and dark tie. I later learned, however, that in addition to catering to Buenos Aires' social elite, the opera house also sells standing room only tickets in the upper balcony to anyone who wants one for the equivalent of about three U.S. dollars.

I sort of split the middle by scalping an upper deck reserve seat off a woman who turned out to be a government official and college professor. She worked a neat little scam where she sold me her ticket for $10 and then bought a standing room ticket for $3, claiming that she "was not so much liking Strauss" and figured she "might be leaving early." A few minutes after I sat down in her seat, she followed and plopped down next to me.

"It seems to me," she said. "That the lady who usually sits in this seat very much likes Verdi and Puccini, and does not so much like Strauss. It seems to me she is not coming."

She was right. The lady never came, and my scalper saved herself $7.

I have a feeling that's more or less the way the Argentinian government works.

Need to get going now, as it's nearly midnight, which means dinnertime.

The computer I'm writing this from, by the way, is a Commodore.