I've discovered two delights of Argentina. Empanadas and dulce de leche. They are local delicacies and available at every corner store it seems. And I'm taking full advantage. The empanadas are like little calzones; pastry folded over containing different delights such as tuna, vegetables, meat, jamon y queso etc. The dulce de leche is like creme caramel and comes in helado (ice cream) and in tubs at the supermarket. M and I bought a heavy duty batch last night. It didn't last a day.
Today's adventure took us to Recoleta Cemetery; the place where the wealthy and famous of BsAs and their families are laid to rest. Our plan was to walk up to Plaza de Mayo - about five blocks - then jump on the Subte to head to Plaza Italia and walk down to Recoleta. But the Subte lines were down all day today, on strike because of negotiations between the Argentinian president and the BsAs Mayor. So we decided to walk. Armed with our trusty laminated map, a hat and comfy shoes, we headed off. Roughly a two kilometre walk, we happily wandered down side streets and stopped at shops and sat in parks, so it turned into a longer meander. We walked through the leafy streets of Recoleta and Plaza San Martin, past designer homeware stores and shiny hotels. Finding the cemetery walls finally, we wandered the perimeter searching for the entry gates. It wasn't hard to find, we followed the street stalls selling jugo de naranja and ponchos (hot dogs). The cemetery was magnificent, in a sombre sort of way. It was weird to see hundreds of tourist walking through the cement sanctums, clicking away and having photos taken in front of peoples' burials. M saw a Japanese man walking along whistling 'Don't cry for me Argentina' heading towards Evita's grave. He likened it to a little empty city, and we were walking through streets of abandoned houses, with only the ghosts of the people who used to live there present.
After the big walk, we had a need to up the blood sugar again, so munched on ponchos outside the cemetery and chatted with in Spanglish with the street seller. We then made the long trek home to San Telmo, via a shop for empanadas. I had found a yoga school and just got home from my class. Was a great class but not good doing twists with empanadas in my belly.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Monday, 9 November 2009
the melancholic city
'Melancholic' is a word I've heard often when reading about Buenos Aires. There is definitely an air of seriousness about the place and the people.
M commented that he hadn't noticed many people laughing. And the tango is danced straight-faced in an almost sombre manner.
With the devaluation of the Argentinean peso, there are now many displaced Portenos living in poor conditions. Los Cartoneros (The Cardboard Men) work by rummaging through residents' rubbish to find food but more importantly recyclables which they sell to recycling companies. The BsAs residents are in turn very proactive in the separation of their rubbish items. Residents have to put their rubbish bags on the streets between 8pm and 9pm for collection. There are carefully cleaned bottles separated from flattened cardboard neatly arranged by doorsteps, ready for collection. Walking the streets you can see los cartoneros rummaging through bags, taking out and organising items, or pushing shopping trolleys with bits of metal.
As we flew in, we could see big blocks of square shaped patches of land with large houses surrounded by trees. They were estancias, or ranches, which have been opened up to tourists to experience the gaucho lifestyle. These wealthy-looking farms were interspersed with pockets of old ramshackled houses on the outskirts of the city.
I'd like to do a story on them, but not sure if my spanish is up to it. Am looking for lessons today. Have found a school which Francis Ford Coppola studied at when he was here....
M and I dropped in to El Rufian Melancolico yesterday; a book shop that I had been lusting after ever since I read about it in Qantas magazine... It is a little hole in the wall place, with stacks and shelves of old books, magazines, postcards and photos. The owner makes paper mache beings and these are sitting throughout the store. A little fluffy cat greets you as you walk in and jumps up on the piles of books as you flick through them.
The owner spoke a bit of English and we told him about the magazine article which was the impetus of our visit. He was very impressed and I gave him the ripped out pages which I had my handbag. I might go back and see if he has any ideas on local intercambio/ language exchanges.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Estamos aqui! or is it 'aca'
Today is day three of the Buenos Aires holiday. So far its been blissful. We've rented an antiquiated bohemian apartment in the old town of San Telmo, around a corner of cobblestoned streets to the famous San Telmo markets, a treasure trove of antique stalls selling old typewriters, vintage clothes, leather and faded photos. It is so inspiring to be here.
Yesterday we did one of those touristy bus rides around the city, just to get a sense of the place and our orientation. The buildings are so elegant and old and the city is simply amazing. There are large patches of green spaces (the lungs of BsAs)and fabulous street art everywhere.
One of the best things about this is the chance to practise my spanish again. Although many of the words are different, eg 'aqui' is replaced with 'aca' and the accent is a little confusing. But I'm bumbling through. And communication happens.
I love a city that kicks off at 10.30 at night. We're slowly getting into the rhythm of the place. Tenemos mucho tiempo.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Deadline day and lists
My last post was so cheerful and upbeat. This optimism has slowly diminished over the course of the last week as I 'pump out' another few thousand words. Copy deadline is today (!) and I am a tad exhausted. As I was telling M last night (when we collapsed into bed and had five minutes of proper time, not diluted with writing and work distractions) - I feel like I am writing the pieces more quickly now but it feels that the quality has diminished. He said that its just because I've become better at writing them and knowing the style and what is required. (he's v wise)
With 'proper job'and additional freelance, it has been v busy. But today was the last hurdle to jump (we also had an outside broadcast for work) so we've now reached the top of the downhill slide!
Am starting a list tonight of things to do before we go. Top of the list is to de-stress and relax. I'm taking an early mark this Friday and have booked a delicious body wrap and full body massage. Tick!
With 'proper job'and additional freelance, it has been v busy. But today was the last hurdle to jump (we also had an outside broadcast for work) so we've now reached the top of the downhill slide!
Am starting a list tonight of things to do before we go. Top of the list is to de-stress and relax. I'm taking an early mark this Friday and have booked a delicious body wrap and full body massage. Tick!
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Words, words and more florid words
After my stoically cheerful approach to my burgeoning workload on Friday, I have just been offered another 1200 words to write as part of my latest freelance gig, which I have accepted with glee (and just a hint of underlying panic). It seems a bit insurmountable, but I'm sure I'll get through it all. It'll just mean writing right up until M and I jump on the plane bound for Brisbane and Buenos Aires. It'll make the time fly!
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Those darling downs
Rewind.... 6 March 2009
We left Brisbane late. Despite best-laid plans to get away before lunchtime, it was two o'clock by the time Grandma, Jen and I crossed the Story Bridge, heading to the west.
The petrol tank was full; we had a stack of CDs, written directions and bellies full of anticipation. We were giddy with excitement at the prospect of the journey ahead; a trip to the family farm in Queensland's west for dad's 60th birthday party.
I was looking forward to six blissful hours gazing at the browning landscape, contemplating the future and spending some much-needed quality time with my beloved grandmother and mate.
I used this precious time to catch up with Jen before arriving at the party where our alone time would be scarce and shared with many others. After living together in a flat in West End for over two years, we are now based in different cities.
There was much to say. I animatedly told her about the new house I was living in and she talked about her job. I heard an account of a recent break up compressed into ten minutes and barely scraped the surface when telling her all about my new love. That's the thing about not seeing a good friend all the time; you only hear the abbreviated versions of important moments in life.
As we slowly ascended the lofty heights of Toowoomba's ranges; car weighed down with overnight bags, pillows and party goods; it was time to stop to buy Icy Poles and let the dog out for a pee.
We tracked the long stretch of road between Dalby and Miles, facing a relentless western sun. The grassy plains seemed infused with the pinkness of the sinking light, sunkissing the entire landscape with a rich crimson glow. Telephone poles lined the highway, leaning so far sideways into the black soil, it seemed as if the tension of the lines was all that held them upright.
We marvelled at the Downs which are called Darling for a good reason. Jen told us she had never been this far west before. The dog snored gently on the floor in the back. I drove on, squinting.
At about the half way mark, we started short bouts of Simon Says and I Spy to punctuate the journey.
Grandma dutifully regaled me with stories to keep me awake. She told me how when I was a little girl, I learnt to drive when I was only five in our old diahatsu van. She made me laugh, telling me tales she'd told me a million times before, but I never tired of hearing.
Jen snoozed now and then in the back, her head gently bumping on a pillow pressed against the car window.
We wanted to get to the farm by 8pm, so not to miss too much of the birthday dinner celebrations. But arriving in Chinchilla, we couldn't resist the warm glow of The Commercial hotel and its promise of a cool drink and a snack to tide us over. We all needed a bit of a break and my heel hurt from being perennially poised over the accelerator for so many hours.
While Grandma and Jen went inside to buy drinks, I took the dog for a walk in the dimly lit main street to stretch our legs. On returning to the pub, we joined Grandma and Jen sitting on plastic chairs in an empty outside beer garden. I noticed Grandma had applied lipstick in preparation for our arrival at the party. I ate salt and vinegar chips while she sipped from a small plastic glass of chardonnay and Jen smoked a cigarette and drank lemonade.
Satisfied and well-hydrated, we headed off on the final leg of our journey. From our instructions, the property was another hour from Chinchilla, following half-hidden sign posts along dusty, dark side roads. We drove in silence for the final fifteen minutes, eager to finally arrive.
Eventually, we saw the lights of the homestead twinkling erratically in the distance. I drove slowly through gullies and creek beds so not to scare the nearby horses. We could hear the rise and fall of laughter and music of a party in full swing. Yawning collectively, we prepared to meet the plethora of family and friends awaiting us after our long drive.
We left Brisbane late. Despite best-laid plans to get away before lunchtime, it was two o'clock by the time Grandma, Jen and I crossed the Story Bridge, heading to the west.
The petrol tank was full; we had a stack of CDs, written directions and bellies full of anticipation. We were giddy with excitement at the prospect of the journey ahead; a trip to the family farm in Queensland's west for dad's 60th birthday party.
I was looking forward to six blissful hours gazing at the browning landscape, contemplating the future and spending some much-needed quality time with my beloved grandmother and mate.
I used this precious time to catch up with Jen before arriving at the party where our alone time would be scarce and shared with many others. After living together in a flat in West End for over two years, we are now based in different cities.
There was much to say. I animatedly told her about the new house I was living in and she talked about her job. I heard an account of a recent break up compressed into ten minutes and barely scraped the surface when telling her all about my new love. That's the thing about not seeing a good friend all the time; you only hear the abbreviated versions of important moments in life.
As we slowly ascended the lofty heights of Toowoomba's ranges; car weighed down with overnight bags, pillows and party goods; it was time to stop to buy Icy Poles and let the dog out for a pee.
We tracked the long stretch of road between Dalby and Miles, facing a relentless western sun. The grassy plains seemed infused with the pinkness of the sinking light, sunkissing the entire landscape with a rich crimson glow. Telephone poles lined the highway, leaning so far sideways into the black soil, it seemed as if the tension of the lines was all that held them upright.
We marvelled at the Downs which are called Darling for a good reason. Jen told us she had never been this far west before. The dog snored gently on the floor in the back. I drove on, squinting.
At about the half way mark, we started short bouts of Simon Says and I Spy to punctuate the journey.
Grandma dutifully regaled me with stories to keep me awake. She told me how when I was a little girl, I learnt to drive when I was only five in our old diahatsu van. She made me laugh, telling me tales she'd told me a million times before, but I never tired of hearing.
Jen snoozed now and then in the back, her head gently bumping on a pillow pressed against the car window.
We wanted to get to the farm by 8pm, so not to miss too much of the birthday dinner celebrations. But arriving in Chinchilla, we couldn't resist the warm glow of The Commercial hotel and its promise of a cool drink and a snack to tide us over. We all needed a bit of a break and my heel hurt from being perennially poised over the accelerator for so many hours.
While Grandma and Jen went inside to buy drinks, I took the dog for a walk in the dimly lit main street to stretch our legs. On returning to the pub, we joined Grandma and Jen sitting on plastic chairs in an empty outside beer garden. I noticed Grandma had applied lipstick in preparation for our arrival at the party. I ate salt and vinegar chips while she sipped from a small plastic glass of chardonnay and Jen smoked a cigarette and drank lemonade.
Satisfied and well-hydrated, we headed off on the final leg of our journey. From our instructions, the property was another hour from Chinchilla, following half-hidden sign posts along dusty, dark side roads. We drove in silence for the final fifteen minutes, eager to finally arrive.
Eventually, we saw the lights of the homestead twinkling erratically in the distance. I drove slowly through gullies and creek beds so not to scare the nearby horses. We could hear the rise and fall of laughter and music of a party in full swing. Yawning collectively, we prepared to meet the plethora of family and friends awaiting us after our long drive.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Destination; deadline
With a fistful of notes and list of stories, I cross the threshold into the weekend. I've happily embarked upon a freelance writing assignment for a local magazine which means writing lots and lots of words between now and 20 October. It also means some more pocket money for my Argentina trip in November, not to mention the glee of seeing my name in print and adding another story or two to my list of published pieces!
I've spent the last week coming home from work, taking Arthur for a stroll around the block, pouring a splash of tinto and settling in to do an hour or two of writing. It hasn't been a drag at all. I've loved the chatting to people in the community, knowing what is coming up and happening around town, and especially the writing process. The writing process with a destination in mind seems much more fruitful. Writing with a purpose. So often I'd sit at my desk, fingers poised over my keypad, waiting for the genius to start gushing onto the blankness on the screen.
I have four stories to write this weekend, then another four next week. Completely achievable!
I've spent the last week coming home from work, taking Arthur for a stroll around the block, pouring a splash of tinto and settling in to do an hour or two of writing. It hasn't been a drag at all. I've loved the chatting to people in the community, knowing what is coming up and happening around town, and especially the writing process. The writing process with a destination in mind seems much more fruitful. Writing with a purpose. So often I'd sit at my desk, fingers poised over my keypad, waiting for the genius to start gushing onto the blankness on the screen.
I have four stories to write this weekend, then another four next week. Completely achievable!
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