My First 24 Hours: Buenos Aires

Article by: John Kenyon, February 2007

I had arrived in Buenos Aires without a reservation, but with a long checklist of sights and tastes.

I wanted to feel a stadium shake underfoot as I jumped up and down with 30,000 shouting soccer fans, and my stomach had expressed a serious interest in tasting a slab of the 'world's best steak'. I had a thirst to sample the city's nightlife and then there was the tango, a passionate dance with a lusty history of sailors, brothels and roses clamped between teeth.

I opened the front door and was hit by the drool-inducing smells of the parilla, a traditional barbeque and charcoal grill.

In the bus station a young guy with a baseball cap and a collection of photos offered me a free taxi ride to stay at his hostel. The catch was I had to pay for the taxi and would eventually be reimbursed through some convoluted system of agreements. Now, a taxi always sounds good after an overnight bus ride, but I said no thanks and headed for the underground.

The hostel I decided on (or stumbled upon) was hidden up a flight of stairs a short walk from the city. When I arrived, my need for food was stronger than my need for sleep. So I dumped my bag, took a quick shower and headed straight into San Telmo, one of Buenos Aires' hippest suburbs.

San Telmo is a district of bars, experimental fashions and traditional restaurants. It's squeezed between the city centre and La Boca, the working class home of Maradona and Argentine soccer. The area bristles with the charms of old and new Buenos Aires and it's more than willing to get in the way of the best-laid plans.

On Saturday San Telmo comes alive with a street market, a shopping extravaganza that was in full swing when I arrived. Lanes and alleys proffered stalls of independent fashion, dusty curios and buskers dancing tango at outdoor coffee houses. People wandered by selling steaming hot pastries from wicker baskets.

Not being a big shopper, I was somewhat concerned when two hours later I had already acquired a new shirt and a 1950s leather watch: what might happen to a serious shopper?

Hungry, I headed for Desnivel, a Buenos Aires institution. I opened the front door and was hit by the drool-inducing smells of the parilla, a traditional barbeque and charcoal grill. The large and sweaty cook standing over the parilla gave me a smile before a waiter swept me away to a table.

Desnivel is the kind of restaurant where you might expect to see pictures of old boxers and 1930s movie stars on the walls. The clientele come from every walk of life and Desnivel hums with chatter and clattering cutlery. The furniture is no-fuss and practical and so are the waiters. Put simply, everyone comes here for the same reasons: to eat steak and talk.

One huge, char-grilled steak and a half bottle of wine later, I was a very happy man. I waddled back to my hostel to indulge in another Argentine institution, the siesta.

After my nap I chatted with a French girl staying at the hostel and she invited me to meet her friends that evening at a milonga, a kind of tango party where everybody is welcome and where the locals go to scuff their tango shoes. There was, she added, just enough time before the milonga to catch a show.

'Catch a show?' I asked.

She explained that the Buenos Aires Opera House was on our way and that there were cheap seats (in what the locals call 'the chicken coop') that only cost US$2. So at 7pm I found myself soaking up the music in the nose-bleed seats of the Buenos Aires Opera House looking down on the well dressed and monocled opera patrons below. At the interval we went down a couple of levels and found some empty seats with better views. I was beginning to feel like a highly cultured man of the world, albeit on a tight budget.

Displaying your willingness to dance involves a subtle interplay of body language and eye contact that is almost as involved as the tango itself.

Around nine we left the Opera House and walked to La Confitería Ideal. We wound our way up the spiral staircase, bought a ticket from an old man in a dinner suit and made our entrance into a long, wood-panelled ballroom. It was a beautiful, old-world room with small tables set around the dance floor and just a hint of bingo-hall charm. The French girl's friends called us over to their table, wine was ordered and I settled in to watch the amorous circling of the tango.

The milonga is an incredibly social affair. People, traditionally men, survey the room looking for partners to invite onto the floor. Almost everybody sitting at the tables will dance at some point. However, displaying your willingness to dance involves a subtle interplay of body language and eye contact that is almost as involved as the tango itself. Just watching this drama unfold could be a social studies course.

I spent the night watching with wide eyes as dancers navigated the floor in a rigid yet stylish embrace. They all looked so good I began to feel my dancing shoes twitch. After our table had worked its way through a few bottles of wine, I was eager to learn 'some basic steps' at the back of the hall. It soon became obvious that more than basic steps would be needed to make me presentable on the dance floor.

When La Confitería Ideal closed its doors our group ambled into a San Telmo bar for a nightcap. At four in the morning I fell into bed exhausted and mumbling to myself in bad Spanish.