The photos on the right are of my elder son in 2011 when he decided it was just too far to walk across the field. We were camping at the Seaview campsite in Benderloch near Oban on the west coast of Scotland. At that time it was pretty basic in terms of facilities, but the owner was very nice, the field level, good, family friendly, quiet and there is a beautiful, peaceful beach a short walk down the side of the field. It seems camping and salad has this effect on them. I was pleased I had to hunt to find photos of my children this reluctant to get on with things but by my second week in Buenos Aires I was feeling the same way.
The first week was the only week in which I did anything touristic before being pulled definitively into the world of the milongas. It was not that I didn’t want to see more of the city. I did. The whole city should be under some sort of UNESCO preservation order for its architecture alone. It is just that the milongas can get a hold of you. I was in them each of the 22 nights I was there.
I was often in the milongas until, 1, 2, 3 AM having started between 6 and 9pm, or earlier if I had been to an afternoon milonga. One night I was in Club Gricel very late with a friend, who was new to dancing tango. It was a Thursday. We had been to Nuevo Chique in the afternoon and then El Beso, altogether three very different milongas. By the time we got to Gricel it was gone midnight. I seemed to find myself there at that time not infrequently. By about 3AM the milonga was practically over but a few dancers were holding out. “What are these people still doing here?” she said. “The party’s over. It’s time to go home.” She laughed. “But they don’t want to go home.” And these milongas are long: six, eight, even nine hours in the case of Milonga de Buenos Aires, Fridays in Obelisco. It's not as though they are mean with dance time as is often the case with the three hour milongas common here in the UK. Who knows why some stay so long? For me the milongas are fascinating places all round, even just to see the very point she made. I have never outside of Buenos Aires seen the same thing, felt that same atmosphere at that time, certainly not in Britain not even in continental Europe.
If possible I would sleep til late morning or noon and the rest of the practicalities of life needed to be fitted into the afternoon before going out again. The longer I stayed and most noticeably in my last, very relaxed week, the more I felt an alarming lassitude inhabiting me. I don’t think I’m particularly organised or efficient but I still found this unnerving despite the mental reminder: this is holiday. It was so strong the smallest thing became a gargantuan effort. The thought recurred: “is such-and-such really a “necessity”? The only real “yes”: “get cash”, wash clothes, find food. I wished I was more like Millenium Dragon.
Did the heat caused such indolence? In the last week which was mid-March it reached easily 34 degrees whereas I prefer it, or at least find it pleasant and still feel I can get more done at at least ten degrees further down the scale. I reflected that perhaps I was being overtaken by the culture. I stayed in the area called Balvanera and everywhere saw people sitting in doorways, chatting or just doing nothing in particular, especially in the evenings. One afternoon I walked past a building inside which reception area a concierge or caretaker was relaxing in his chair chatting to - presumably - his friend. It symbolised for me what seemed to be the pace of life here, at least for some. On the subway as I was going out and they were coming home I saw middle class people in suits and business attire who got off in Palermo. They seemed to live a different life to most I saw and met, one which I saw next to nothing of. The disparity between shops for different markets was very clear. You could buy empanadas for 6 pesos, or for 26. There were shops with plate glass and chic displays and then there were the shops for everyone else. The area called Recoleta seemed to me to be nothing like the area called Once.
I wondered if this torpor was the night-life, though it didn't feel strenuous. Or too many nights of champagne to which I became readily accustomed. I realised the value of small shops on every block - because who would want to walk more than a block or two for food or to the farmacia or for any of life’s necessities? I made for the last time my own food at the beginning of my last week - a salad of lentils, tomatoes, olives and ham which took all of three minutes to prepare. One day Alexandra, a tango dancer who works at Maria’s tango house, took me to a parilla on Moreno/Pasco. I was staying on Moreno. She said I should have a bondiola sandwich con todo - pork with various sauces. For the next two days I gave up on salad and fruit and got takeaway beef or chicken sandwich (but what a sandwich!) for whatever you call brunch eaten mid-afternoon. It saw me through the rest of the day. With no need to cook for the family, and the heat and the new environment reducing my appetite I simply stopped cooking and lost pounds effortlessly.
One afternoon one of my previous hosts, Juan, hailed me on Belgrano. It was lovely to see him. We went for coffee at La Ochava on Alsina/Combate.
Or perhaps it was when my last host and I visited Juan and Josefina in my last week. In any case, I told him the problem. He laughed. “Soon you’ll be having a nap” he said “and that’s fatal!”
On the other hand I walked blocks and blocks to, from and between the milongas, energy amazingly restored. They have that draw.
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