Buenos Aires Real Estate

All agencies post the prices for residential real estate in US dollars. This leads me to believe that the tide that brought Latin American buyers into Florida in search of real estate in which to park cash has gone out, and that US buyers are now looking at Buenos Aires as a safe option. I may be wrong in this perception. (There are several mysteries that I'll list in a future post. Local health care. The underground recycling operations involving children. The abnegation of personal citizen responsibility involving smoking, littering, curbing one's dog and traffic. Lack of coins/exact change. The fencing off of statuary and fountains.)

US $75,000 - $230,000 will get you a fine place with a terrace (some neighborhoods are much more desirable than others).

We were, however, shocked and amused by the prices for the new Norman Foster development in La Boca, an exclusive enclave of gentrification on the riverfront. It is 45% sold with mid-range unit prices at US $750,000. Nearby, the cranes were hummin' and the cement mixin' and the skyscrapers scrapin' and we were guessin' that this town had not gotten the memo about the failure of the residential real estate market. Or, maybe, having read the headline "Real Estate Market Goes South", they thought this to be good news for Buenos Aires.



Here is the new Faena Hotel and Universe, a sleekly converted grain warehouse designed by Philippe Starck with an emphasis on deep red and black polish. Our DC spa-owning friends here at the Axel had dinner in its contrasting white Unicorn Room where they were served squid ink. They spit it out and demanded that the waiter replace it with something edible. They described it to me as "squid piss".



Peaking through the blinds of the glitzy ruby-accented lobby, we were surprised to see the that the amorous athletic blonde lesbians and their body guard (Uncle Fester in speedos) had translated themselves from the Axel into the infinity pool of the Faena. Perhaps they required a more refined audience.

Manzanas Deliciosas

At Gay Pride Buenos Aires, a tango dancer is inspired by Javi Punga who was performing his hit, Manzanas Deliciosas, nearby.

I am translating Manzanas Deliciosas as Tasty Apples but I suspect the actual lyrics are less about vegetarianism.

Gay Pride - Old School

On Saturday Nov 1, we attended the wonderful Buenos Aires Gay Pride Celebration and Parade at the Plaza de Mayo. This is an old school pride fest that reminded us of the way things used to be before sponsorships and barricades and police-every-five feet killed it all. Very freeforall/Montreal-Pridelike.

Here are 80 pictures of a beautiful day full of beautiful porteños (locals). One question: where are all the older gay people? You would think they would be visible at least on this day, but this was an overwhelmingly young crowd.

The parade ended after sundown at the central Plaza del Congreso with fireworks and performances. You really have not lived until you have heard an Argentine transvestite lip sync the Quebecoise Celine Dion's cover of Englishman Andrew Lloyd Weber's American Broadway hit "Don't Cry for me, Argentina". Our life is now complete.

PS to our German farmboy friend, Reinhold: You photograph so well.
PS to Naty: you handle direct sunlight with valiance.

Here are some sample photos. Video to follow.

In crazy funny BA Dayz

Barely a moment to write. Here are some pics from our trip to El Cementerio de la Recoleta. Think Pere Lachaise in Paris, or maybe Campo Verano in Roma or even Green-Wood in Brooklyn. I touched the tomb of Eva Peron.








Back at the hotel, they were holding one of their weekly art evenings. This one featured an artist named Tom Middleton who explores light from within the body, or something. A lot of fun. We convived with Jim and Eduardo of a certain celebrity spa in DC. Their personal scandal has now been broken open on Facebook by the lover/business partner of Jim who is of a certain automobile family. I could dish, but I guess that's already been handled efficiently. They are fun company and their new hair cuts are very Jane Fonda in Klute. The 24 yr old Eduardo will not use the subway and once crashed a car while on route to Jim's house where the lover answered the door disturbed at the sight of the bloody Eduardo screaming "I know he's in there!". Reinholdt, the tall Bavarian from Munich, joins us. He is off to Montevideo tomorrow. We all gossip about the incredibly beautiful blonde athletic lesbian couple who have been making love all over the hotel in their bikinis. Later, C, with camera, lets me know what I look like underwater when viewed from below the glass-bottomed rooftop pool. I develop a new respect for Esther Williams.








And I learned a new Spanish idiom that may be particular to this town. A surface parking lot is called a playa di estacimiento. A parking beach! I am sure this will be useful knowledge at some point in the years to come.

Las Cañitas and Palermo Hollywood

We selected two adjacent and delightful neighborhoods for this day's exploration: Palermo Hollywood (named because of an industry sector that clustered therein) and Las Cañitas ("Little Sugar Cane Road" where the polo grounds are).



In these neighborhoods, the trash problem is handled with bins on posts on the sidewalks. Unfortunately, they seem largely ignored and too infrequent.



Needing no explanation:



After several hours on our feet, we were ready to try a parrilla recommended by a childhood friend from Connecticut. She is still a fiery redhead with milky skin offset by the circle of green peridots at the end of the long sterling holder into which she screwed a succession of clove cigarettes. Originally a librarian content to just read about life, she caught the eye of an Argentine friend of Alexander Haig when the two entered her reference room to research some local real estate history. He seemed to have married her in Buenos Aires but she says the ceremony was blurred by the language barrier and a hangover. The day he left her for a another readhead (but with a promise of perpetual extravagant support), she spat at him and then tearfully kissed him goodbye. She wants for nothing, has never learned Spanish and has always had her pick of the local boys. She brought us to El Primo and it was wonderful. The roasted red pepper and eggplant in garlic and oil! The steak! The chimichurri sauce! The malbec! The helados! We will be back for more.





Later, we paused before a salon that helps folks be more like Jesus.

Thursday on Bilerico: You make me wet.

You will have to go to The Bilerico Project on Thursday at noon to read my response to the following:

Dear Father Tony:

My problem is sweat. I dread going on a first date because I know I will sweat right through my undershirt, shirt, jacket, whatever. After I sit down I'm afraid to get up because my back is like a river and my ass is drenched. Antiperspirant does nothing.

The worst is when I finally meet a guy I've been chatting with. It's only natural to give a hug instead of a handshake and it always makes them jump back a little and wipe off their hands. Gross.

Is there some way to psychologically turn off the nerves and the waterworks?

Supersoaker.

San Telmo

On Sunday, we walked from the hotel into the adjacent San Telmo neighborhood. If we lived here, this would be a neighborhood we would consider. Unlike Palermo Viejo, it is in the process of emergence, and retains the rough edges.



We jumped into the gaudy and festive weekly flea market that extends for many blocks down the street called Defensa.




C got himself a hand-painted t shirt from an artist who signs himself DayTribal.



We made the acquaintance of the fabulous Naty Menstrual, who has her own line of clothing, and who writes a blog that is full of steamy stories that require no translation.





Portrait settings abound in San Telmo.






Back at the hotel, the pool party was in full swing.

A long walk

Today we walked for several hours, leaving our hotel in the Micro Centro and exploring the neighborhoods of Once and Recoleta.

Booze is cheap here. Don't be confused by the dollar signs in these prices. They refer to pesos (unless it says US$). There are three pesos per dollar. That's right. That big old honkin bottle of vodka is mucho less than two bucks. Later we entered a Pharmacia in search of mouthwash, and concluded that it would be mucho cheaper to gargle with a fine bourbon.



The herbs in the center level of this display ought to be consumed in the order of their arrangement, given their properties.



In the fashionable Recoleta neighborhood, we paused for an espresso doble. C got the torta di limon and I got the torta di manzanas. His was surprisingly Flavoroff-free, mine alas had been doused. We are now accustomed to being given tiny glasses of water with our coffees, but this establishment also felt that we would appreciate tiny glasses of Tang. We did not know whether these were meant to be downed before or after the coffees/tortas. We chose after. Oddly refreshing.



We came upon a gigantic and clunky public sculpture called Generic Plant. It is supposed to mechanically open and close, but it does not work. It was paid for by Lockheed Martin and we suspect they used some old airplane parts. There were several pouty fashion models doing their best for the cameras in front of this thing.



We approached a church to see what was drawing the crowd outside on its portico. It was the shrine to San Expedito. I am translating this to mean Saint Expeditor. A saint who "gets things done lickety split." In New York, one must always hire an expeditor to get a construction permit through the municipal bureaucracy. Heaven is no different. Here the pious ladies bring their needs to the saint via the lighting of candles (and the church minds not the revenue attached to this).



This sign gives the text of the prayer one ought to say to Saint Expeditor, inserting your particular dire circumstances at the appropriate moment.



The janitor put the debris of yesterday's supplications out with the trash. Nothing leaves a waxy build-up like unanswered prayers.

Where's the Argentine Beef.

Although I've some complaints, my beef (pardon that) is largely about expectations unmet and is overridden by the resolute intrigue of Buenos Aires.

Beef seems to be the central preoccupation of this city. They eat it and wear it and want us to do the same.

Everyone has a strong opinion about which steak house is good and why all the others are inferior. We sidestepped the obvious mistake: the famous and over-priced Las Lilas on the waterfront in Porto Madera. We went with the recommendation of an acquaintance and found La Cabrera in the Palermo Viejo neighborhood.



As is the case with most of the popular places like La Cabrera, you need to get there early (i.e. before 10PM for dinner) unless you want to wait for your table, a sentence mollified by the offering of free champagne by La Cabrera's solicitous staff. Once seated, we were happy with the rambunctious feel of the room.





A salad of palm hearts and avocado was delightful, but the "dressing" was to be strictly avoided. It was a swirl of mayonnaise and ketchup. Bleech.



As we had been told, La Cabrera heaped upon us many little ramekins of stuff meant to enhance the steak. Our waiter nixed the sirloin we selected and suggested the rib eye. Taking note of our girleen figures, he also wisely suggested we split a single order. We began to sample the various fixins and were surprised to find that the ricotta, the liver pate, the potato concoctions, the relishes and even the garlic itself were utterly devoid of character. What would become clear to us after having eaten in several restaurants (all highly recommended by various locals and friends) is the fact that Argentines do not make spicy food. In fact, they strongly lean on two spices that I have encountered nowhere else in the world: Flavoroff and Blandon. Everything we eat seems to have been sprayed with Flavoroff and sauteed in Blandon. (Yesterday, at an acclaimed Italian place, I had the pizza a quattro formaggi, made forgettable by what must have been a lacquer of 4X-strength Flavoroff to stand up to the presence of four cheeses.) Out of all the little dishes, only the stewed pears and apples were of interest. The most frightening was the tomato relish steeped in what had to have been gasoline.



The steaks were, however, savory on their own. Grisly, as is the Argentine preference, but delectable and nicely encrusted in cracked pepper. If you are of the sort who appreciates eye-popping volume at the groaning board, this is the place for you. And the breads were to die. And, to either add a star to this review or to subtract a raspberry, know that the bill came to less than twenty bucks each, tip included.



I would also recommend the two other restaurants we have attended. Amici Miei, in Plaza La Dorrego, San Telmo, for its ambiance (Select the terrace in the rear), and Broccolino, just north of the Micro Centro (have the ice cream for dessert but skip the arrabiata sauce on your pasta for it is rendered unarrabiated by a liberal dose of Flavoroff.)

Then, there is the beef on the hoof, or off it, as in shopping for leather goods. C was enthralled by the wonderful 28 Sport shop.



They make either exactly one pair of shoes in a particular style (if you like it, you better hope it's your size) or limited runs of other styles (one pair in each of twelve sizes.) They look to vintage German soccer shoes of the 1950s as their inspiration. The leather is supple and the craftsmanship superb. The colors made me want to vote for Ike.



C selected a smart pair.




The third steaky category has to do with the Argentine men themselves and how these steer desport themselves when corraled in nighttime places such as Tom's and Zoom. Later, boys. Work up an appetite.

PS: In my first post, I spoke about the fact that this city is filthy. It appears that we had arrived just before trash pick-up day. The streets are now cleaner in our neighborhood, but there is a strong disregard for the picking up of dog poop on the sidewalks, and those dogs do not wait for the weekly arrival of the garbage truck. The city budget for basics is obviously strained, but the citizens augment the urban distress with their common carelessness. In New York, folks generally pick up their shit.