things to do in Buenos Aires

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Turning it around

February 2, 2010 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams | 10 comments

Me and C. decide on this Sunday’s adventure. Rented bikes around the Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur. I’m delighted that the clouds are hiding el sol because I’m peeling from last week’s trip to the beach and I don’t want even a single ray of UV to touch my skin. As I leave the apartment I grab one of C’s long-sleeved shirts, in case the sun does decide to show its face, and as it turns out it’s a good job I do. I should be careful what I wish for because by the time we’ve trained it to Retiro and taxied it to the southern entrance of the Costanera, it’s absolutely pouring with rain, I’ve got the shirt on for wind protection and the anticipated bikes-for-rent vans have vanished taking with them any last remnants of our little plan.

We shelter in a mediocre takeaway food place (the only one in sight, with an indoors) and I pick at blessedly-hot french fries while wishing the iced Coke infront of me was a steaming coffee, shivering and trying to keep a smile on my face. The rain sheets down, and Carlos sees the stressed child in me: cold, disappointed that my little escapist dream of bikes and nature has been shattered, and wanting to be teleported back to Palermo prontisimo. Come here, he says, and gives me a huge hug. How about when the rain eases, we walk down to the northern entrance to get warm? We both know there’s no choice about it. We don’t have a car. There are no taxis. We’re at least twenty blocks from the city side of Puerto Madero. Great idea, I say. And we start walking.

To my amusement C. strips off his T-shirt (the second week in a row he’s done that for me) and makes me put it on over my shirt. When you’ve warmed up I’ll have it back. People stare at us: me, a dishevelled woman in an odd collection of mens’ clothing, and him, a half naked man, both laughing, both with raindrops dripping off our noses.

Half way down the Costanera Sur, there’s a big pergola where you can look out over the reserve and we stop there for a while, taking photos of each other (I give back the T-shirt, to spare C’s blushes), complaining about the horrible collection of rubbish that people have tipped over the edge into the water and wondering who is going to live in the massive tower blocks (so far from any vegetable shops) going up on the other side of the road.

We walk on. Between the pergola and the northern entrance to the park is the quietest section of the promenade. Down here there are fewer food stalls, less people (on a drizzly day anyway) and definitely less rubbish checked over into the green. As we pass one of the parrilla stands down here, C. stops me. Now, this is where I wish I’d eaten my choripán, he announces, Look at those freshly made salads. For a moment we pause and stare at the obviously-much-loved mobile kitchen: strings of lights in the trees overhead, young men constantly wiping the surfaces around the bowls of delicious-looking sauces, even toilet cabins alongside, neatly labelled with the name of the place: Mi Sueño (My dream). Why don’t you eat another chori? I say, and I feel C.’s energy start to move towards the counter before his body shifts an inch.

While he orders, I see a man piling salad onto a slice of steak, and I am hooked too. Lomito? I ask. The owner spots I’m not from these parts (as usual my clumsy, but I’m told, appealing) accent gives me away, and before I know it I’ve been invited into the kitchen to cook my very own steak on the parrilla. Wow! It’s hot over those glowing coals, and I’m all warmed up by the smiles of the staff who put tongs in my hands so that I can turn the perfect slices of meat, and I pose for pictures as C. snaps away. Afterwards we chat with the owner as we eat, and tell him that the passion so obviously poured into his business drew us in with its up-energy. He understands.

Eventually, tummies full to bursting, we pull ourselves away and continue our walk towards the Avenida Cordoba end of the Costanera Sur. Still no bikes for rent. But folk near the entrance to the park tell us it’s just the rain. Normally on Saturdays and Sundays you can just roll up and pay for a couple of hours cycling. Another day, we resolve. Truth is, we’ve kind of forgotten about our original plan. Instead, we are brimming over with the effect on us of the Mi Sueño we discovered en camino, just because we happened to be stranded at one end of the Costanera in the rain, and walked to the other end. It’s got to be a sign, says C. We thought it was all a mini-disaster, but you know what Sal? Sometimes, it’s best not to think at all.

This week I’m working on keeping my mind quiet and still. I’m waiting on information. Doing what I can to progress things in the meantime. But worrying? Or conjuring up mini-disasters? Well, every time one pops into my head today, I’ll be replacing it with a memory of the most cared for and welcoming parrilla stand on the Costanera Sur. Mi Sueño: a perfectly-timed (and no coincidence there I am sure) reminder that just when you think all is lost, the best is usually just around the corner, waiting to make dreams you never even knew you had, come true.

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Sun seeker

January 27, 2010 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams | 11 comments

If you’re in Buenos Aires and it’s nearing forty degrees on Avenida Corrientes and you wish you were on the beach instead, well… you can be (sort of). For the price of a bus ride ($1.25pesos from the centre of town to Vicente Lopez on the number 29) and a bit of a walk, you can have your own private parasol shading a couple of canary-yellow low-slung seats, and a river (that almost looks like a sea) view. You can even have one of these little sun-bathing stations on sand if you want, because there’s a big rectangle of it specially created further up the ‘beach’ to give you the true Mar del Plata feeling, but, as yet anyway, even on a Sunday in mid-summer, you can enjoy it without the crowds (as they have, in fact, all buggered off to Mar del Plata, where I see from the endess TV coverage, they are crammed (see this brilliant photo by Pablo Cabado to get an idea) onto the real beaches with barely space between them for a single grain of sand).

It was C.’s idea to go to the Buenos Aires Playa. He’d heard about it on the radio, along with its jolly jingle (just check out the cute official website and wait to hear it), and he probably thought the sunshine-yellow brollies couldn’t fail to lift my spirits out of the slight doldrums I’ve been wading through (though not wallowing in, I promise) of late. When the man I love suggests a day out to me, offers me the chance to be a tourist, wants to show me something of Buenos Aires that I’ve never seen… Barbie wakes up, looks forward to candy floss, reminds me to take my camera so I can write about it afterwards. Alas, the mistake she made on Sunday was getting me so excited that I forgot to put my sun block, or indeed any kind of sun protection cream at all in my bag.

I am a shade seeker as a rule. I stopped lying outdoors grilling myself when I was about thirty years old (before that the world hadn’t really heard of Slip, Slap, Slop – it was cooking oil and the lowest sun protection factor possible, in those days). The last time I got sunburnt was in Wales this British summer, but it was only my feet, that had slipped from the cover of my trousers while I slept on the Pembrokeshire pebbles. Now I’ve got a delightful 

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scenario going on, and I’ve been kicking myself all week for my own stupidity.

Thing was, we didn’t get the 29 bus to Vincente Lopez, we took the 15 from our place, and so, got off before it turned onto the General Paz motorway (with the 29 you can get off the stop after, outside the Carrefour megastore), and ended up having to walk for at least half an hour along what really was the car access route – zero shade. I should have worn a shirt, but it was only 10am, there was a luverley breeze, and I had that ‘off to the beach feeling’ where all good things seem possible and I know I am invincible. By the time we’d been installed in our yellow plastic loungers (in shade) for a couple of hours and I noticed that when I pressed my arm it turned white for a moment then bounced back red – you know the routine, it was far too late. And we had to sit there longer, because I couldn’t face the walk back in the midday sun… in the end, we did set off, but poor Carlos had to strip off his shirt and give it to me, soaked in water (from the free showers), and so he (galant soul that he is), now looks like a tomato too.

We did, in spite of almost toasting ourselves to a crisp, have a super time. The grass was pristine (no dogs, littering or alcohol allowed), the kiosko sold the tastiest potato chips I’ve ever eaten in Argentina (smoky bacon flavour), and we sat and stared lovingly at each other for an hour or two, while I forgot some of the other ‘life-decision’ type stuff going on for us at the moment. It was a splash-of-sunshine break in space and time, and I was grateful for it. And, I’m not letting a spot of sunburn spoil that sentiment. No, no, no.

And that’s the trick you see, isn’t it? No matter what happens, don’t let the unexpected sunburn make you forget the blue sky, the fluttering canvas of the parasollies (made up Sallycat word), the birds who strut their stuff on the grass inches from your feet, or the love in the eyes of the man who runs off for ice-creams, drinks, smoky bacon snacks, and who takes his shirt off to protect you from the sun’s killer ray-gun. Learn something, yes. Don’t leave your sun cream at home next time. Use what you now know to make your next plan even better. Get the 29 not the 15 and get off closer to the beach, where there’s a tree shaded walk all the way. Be excited, but not so excited that it makes you lose your common sense altogether… that’s me all over you see. And perhaps it’s the part of me I love the most. The part that says, Just do it Sal. You can worry about the consequences later. The Barbie part.

Today I’m facing a few consequences it’s true, and sunburn is the least of them. But, the sunburn is fading already, and so eventually will the confusing and painful part of the other stuff (which is nothing life-threatening, just new aspects of life, and the VOD factor that can rise in me when any kind of ‘new aspect of life’ raises its head). In the past weeks I have received many many messages of support from around the world. I haven’t even mentioned the detail of my circumstance, but you’ve generously wished me good things. The up-energy  in all of that, plus the small actions that I do every day to keep myself on the level: the relaxation iPod Touch downloads in the night, the yoga CDs on waking, my morning pages, my chats with the people who know me best of all and good professional advice on the topics that need some planning for the future. All are getting me from A to B, where B, I am sure, will be a beautiful beach in my life that I haven’t even dreamed of yet, and as I go, I’m just reminded to enjoy the journey and make it the best it can possibly be. The dangerous aspects of the sun’s rays will always be there, but I can deal with them, once I know their power: I’ll be visiting the Buenos Aires Playa again soon, but this time I’ll be taking the 29 bus, and the Factor 30 is already in my bag. Meanwhile, I’m still working out what colectivo I need to catch for my travels through 2010, and what I need to put in my kit bag. But I’ll get there. And when I do, and the big picture starts shaping up, I’ll let you know.

If you’ve tried to get in touch with me in any way at all and I haven’t replied yet, I’m sorry. It’s just that I sometimes can’t bear to go through it all yet one more time and it is a bit complicado. It’s not that I’m not grateful. I am, more than you know. But, I’m working on attracting the solution, and at times I feel that explaining my challenges over and over again is going to make them bigger, not smaller – know what I mean? So for now, let’s stick with the sunnier stuff. Those bright yellow parasols for a start. Gorgeous aren’t they? If you’re in Buenos Aires this summer, why not go and give them a try? And if you’re freezing in your own country right now, I hope that simply seeing these will make you feel warmer. Now, where did I put that enormous pot of Aloe Vera?

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The edge

November 29, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams, Sallycat - the writer within, The tale of my book - Happy Tango | 9 comments

Yesterday, on the path of going with the flow, I discovered a not-to-be-missed stunner of a place in Buenos Aires. Remember how the last little instalment of Sallycat’s Adventures saw me touching the Virgin of Luján? Well, the next thing I knew, one of my best friends here was telling me that a friend of hers, Lilian Laura Ivachow, was screening her new film-short, PABLO Y VIRGINIA…VIAJAN A LUJÁN, at the Biblioteca Nacional.

Do you fancy it? said my friend. Oh yes, said I.

The film turned out to be quite brilliant. I loved it. It’s the story of two people who meet while making the annual pilgrimage walk to Luján and it’s a moving study of human relationships (with others, with ourselves, with the things we believe in). The setting of the Luján pilgrimage is intriguing, and the subtitles do not cheat you out of connecting with the characters, who are great actors, and who improvise their interactions, around some topics given to them by the director (she told us that afterwards). I say, see it, if you ever get the chance.

And it was not just the setting within the film that intrigued me. Entering the vast concrete space that’s created by the Biblioteca Nacional, I could not believe that I had never found it before. It is a powerful (and some might say, ugly) place: towering shapes that loom overhead; ramps, walkways, and terraces that coax you to step on to them; a mix of deep shadows and bright light (on a sunny day) that begs you to take out your camera. I started saying Wow! to myself as I wandered up Aguero from Avenida Las Heras. Sallycat, you’ve been past this turn a thousand times on the bus. How could you not have explored a little further? How could you not have seen what was there, just around the corner? How could you not have wanted to know? You might have missed it altogether.

I had a coffee with my friend before the film. The terrace of the first floor café appears to hang over the walkways below. We sat there, suspended for a moment above the rush and crush of the city, on chairs of rather wacky design. We talked about what it feels like to live your life on the edge. Or at least, I poured out my heart on the subject. To my relief, I discovered that she understood me: she understands because she is pushing the boundaries of her world, too.

Once upon a time, my life was a little bit like a nice comfy sofa: lots of lovely things around me, like proper and very expensive beds, Nespresso coffee machines and ready-made pods of coffee efficiently delivered in the post, conversations all in English, a husband with a well-paid job and great prospects, a pretty cottage-style house with a gorgeous garden, endless writing courses, craft courses, gardening courses, holidays all around the globe… a kind of secure feeling inside, a safe feeling. Unfortunately there was also a slightly dead feeling, a sense that I could be more, do more, become more. No matter that I could always have more: a new sports car, a big flat screen TV, a new loft conversion; having more did not solve the dead feeling. Yes, to be sure, it was a nice comfy sofa, but it was so nice and comfy that I was falling asleep on it, and my soul was dying.

Now the cushioned sofa is no more. In a twist of fate, my sofa these days, also happens to be my bed. And, the very fact that I have to fold it from bed to sofa and back every day to create the room where I want to spend the next twelve hours, means action. If I want to share it with Carlos, I have to get up and turn the sofa into a bed. If I want a house that feels like a workspace, or a sitting room, or a space to entertain friends in, I have to put the bed away… it feels symbolic to me. Even my sofa won’t let me doze off for too long. Thank God. But being wide awake and walking hand in hand with my soul is not always easy for me, and perched above the streets of Buenos Aires yesterday, I felt able to speak my current truth.

I’m scared, I said to my friend. When I’ve finished this book, what will I do? Who will I be? What will my life become? Will people like it, hate it, want to know me, not want to know me? What will I do with the thousands of hours I’ve poured into it? Where will I direct my energy next? How will it feel to send the book out there, let it find its own way, let it go, actually finish something of my own for the first time in my whole life?

It all came out in a rush. The fear.

It’s okay, she said. Normal. Normal to be scared. Especially normal to be scared when you live your life on the edge.

Yeah, I said. The edge. The edge of pushing your boundaries in the effort to discover who you really can be. The edge that means the utter joy of realising that you can experience everything your heart desires, if you want to. The edge that means the dark terror of feeling that every step is a step into the unknown. We who push our boundaries every day… we who don’t just dream, but who hound our dreams until they become our realities, have to find out the consequences of those dreams… and here I am, scared of the consequences of mine.

And yet, if I could, would I change my life, and go back to the comfy sofa? Let’s face it, I do have a choice. I could just bin the book manuscript right now, and never even hand it to my little band of Buenos Aires Beta Readers in the next couple of weeks. Yeah right… I could bin the book. But I won’t. The test readers will be reading it. Then you’ll be reading it. And then there’ll be the critiques and the comments and the silence and the good parts and the bad parts and the out of date parts and the next edition and the next edition after that and if it all gets too much I can run off to Brazil, or the Falklands or something! Ha! Oh, who knows what will happen?

Yesterday I went with the Luján flow, left the same old 59 bus route behind, and ended up in a completely unexpected but amazing and inspiring space; I had the conversation I needed; and I came home knowing what I would write about today on this blog. I think the Virgin of Luján had a message for me, and it was this: Walk boldly into the new places hidden just around the corner of your life, because only then can you see the next space, the next action, and so become who you are really meant to be.

Yes, I might sometimes feel that I am living on the very edge of my capabilities, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m about to fall. Rather, if I keep moving my edge forwards, I can continue to build my very own rather beautiful and unique road. I’ve just got to keep believing that I can. And somewhere, deep down, under all the fear, I do. I do. And I will.

Meanwhile, if you’re visiting Buenos Aires and would like to be inspired by the power of the Biblioteca Nacional, here are some photographs of what you can expect, and in case you need it, you can find the address and a map here.

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Touched

November 17, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams | 14 comments

I have touched the Virgin of Luján. I didn’t expect to, and I didn’t think I’d want to (I’m probably the least religious person I know), but you only have to see the magic moving in this photo that C. took of me this weekend, to be certain that there’s potent energy in the little town of Luján, just 75 minutes northwest of Buenos Aires. And, by 5pm on Sunday afternoon, I wanted to say thanks for the chance to feel its restorative powers for myself. So, like hundreds of thousands of pilgrims have done before me, I stood in the queue inside the Basilica until I could look the tiny terracotta Virgin in the eye, placed the palm of my hand on the blue and gold fabric of her gown, and mouthed one word, Gracias. She smiled at me. And I smiled back.

The story goes that this 38cm high image of the Virgin Mary has been in Luján since 1630, when the cart, transporting her from Brazil to Buenos Aires, stopped, in what then was presumably a field in the middle of nowhere, and refused to move. If the image was lifted from the cart, the cart moved on. If the image was returned to the cart, the cart wouldn’t budge. The Virgin wants to stay here, said the people, It’s a miracle (milagro in Castellano)! And thus, she is there to this very day, safe inside her protective cone of a robe and her very own giant, freshly (the restoration is ongoing in 2009) sandblasted Basilica. What a glorious casa, is it not? And she’s never going to be lonely: even when God chucked down torrential rain for hours on Sunday morning, it seemed to me that half of Buenos Aires came to pay their respects, regardless. Whatever the miraculous capabilities of the little figurine of the Virgin actually are, I figure that the endless influx of believers alone must shoot the energy of the town sky-high, put strength on to its streets, and elevate its standing in the pyramid of the world’s sacred places. Until I set foot in the Plaza I didn’t know that for sure. Now I do.

Luján played games with Me and C. We tried to snap a daylight pic of the two of us with the Basilica in the background; we took about thirty shots on three separate occasions over two days; our best attempt resulted in one and a bit peaks poking out of our heads (as seen here on the left). How can we keep missing something that big? said a bemused C, over and over again. My night-time photos came out with an extra, beautiful and unexplained light between the two towers. And the ones I took of the little market stall, where some of the friendliest ladies on the planet turned me into a princess by adding trensas (colourful lengths of macrame and beads) to my hair, had a beautiful violet arc added to them – courtesy of who exactly? Of course I’m sure there are reasonable explanations for all these little mysteries. I’d rather not hear them thanks: it’s fun to believe that powers greater than myself like to play too.

They even led us to a decent hotel. The one we’d booked in advance turned out not to be quite our cup of tea (never reserve a hotel online if you can’t see the bedrooms), so we politely declined it once we’d seen the room (not easy, but we did it nicely), and the lovely man rang another place for us: we got the very last double (there’d been a cancellation); there was a heated swimming pool (heaven); and it was dead opposite the trensa stall, which we definitely wouldn’t have found otherwise. Our roundabout, but rather surely-meant-to-be route to the smart, clean, friendly and probably the best hotel in town – the Hoxon – was absolutely, all by itself, enough reason to touch the Virgin’s dress and say, Thanks.

What was I doing in Luján? Well, I confess that Buenos Aires has felt too full of late; I’ve felt emptier than I’d like; and it’s entirely my own fault. At times, despite my best efforts to create the life I want, I allow myself to drift towards a life I don’t actually want: too many commitments, too many people, and too little time for me, for writing, for finishing my book. This weekend was my attempt to step outside it all, be with the only soul in the world who can calm me (the man I love), and give myself a bit of space to work out what I really want to do tomorrow. Luján reassured me that whenever I need to, on any day or in any hour, I can stop, and decide against the suck back into rush. I don’t have to be in Luján to do it, but I had to go to Luján to be reminded of it.

So, in the quest to be true to myself, did it help me to touch the robe of the terracotta Virgin who once refused to be carried away from the space her heart desired? I think it did. Sometimes it’s the things I can’t explain that inspire me most of all.

If you’d like to see more of the little Virgin, and the Luján she created in Argentina, here are the pics on Flickr. If you want to go and visit her yourself, you can take the 57 Express bus from Plaza Once (Avenida Rivadavia, corner with Puerreydón) to Luján for $10.50pesos and you’ll be there in 75 minutes; you can stay in the Hoxon for $208pesos a night for a double room; and as a bonus after you’ve said, Hi to the Virgin, you can walk down to the smaller town-centre Plaza and see something else pretty inspiring – one of the most beautiful collections of trees and shrubs around. Could you do it in a day trip from Buenos Aires? Yes, although I’d avoid Sundays, unless you thrive on crowds: pick a weekday instead, and maybe get the Virgin to yourself.

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Movement

October 4, 2009 in Diary of a Tango Dancer in Buenos Aires, Live your dreams | 27 comments

Four weeks after my trip to the UK I find myself wanting to push my boundaries. Wake myself up. Be the adventurer that I know I am born to be. Sometimes I can only do it in tiny ways (ways that don’t involve spending hundreds of pounds on flights around the globe), but I can still do it. I decide on a Buenos Aires milonga I’ve been meaning to try for at least a year. I take the 60 colectivo across the city and arrive in Congreso about six, early evening: pay my $15pesos; get three raffle tickets for two different draws; exchange my coat for a number; change my shoes in the Damas; receive warm welcomes all round. A lady in the loos even gives me a yummy chocolate eclair type toffee. The hostess shows me to a single empty seat in the second row (of two), behind a full to bursting front line. I beam a smile to both sides as I squeeze through crossed legs and stilettos. Alas (and I confess, because I have a soft heart, that it places a tiny dent in my joy) my fellow tangueras look straight through me. Once I might have shrunk in confidence. Not anymore. Truth is I believe in myself these days. There’s that, and the fact that I’ve already spotted three men I know.

By the time the next tanda begins I’m ready. A foreigner male pal of mine is on the table dead opposite me, in the second row (so let’s call him SecondRow), back against the wall. We make eye contact, and he grins. There are already dancers on the floor and it’s a stretch to keep him in my sights. I lose his eyes. Find them. He nods. Lose him. Find him. I nod. All going swimmingly. Then the Argentine bloke sitting in front of my friend gets up.

It all happens muy rapido and I don’t quite know how I do it, but I clock almost instantly that this man (let’s call him FrontRow) thinks I have nodded or smiled or something, at him. I also realise that I know him, dance with him every week somewhere else, kissed him hello in the hall ten minutes earlier as I was paying the entrada. I would have given him my best mirada later of course, but haven’t actually done so yet.

For a milli-second I am stuck in a freeze frame of uncertainty. I consider abandoning SecondRow just because I can’t bear the idea of anyone being stranded on the dancefloor without a partner, and SecondRow is not actually on his feet yet. Then my thoughts tumble, No! I won’t do it. I can’t. My contract is with SecondRow. He knows it. I know it. I wanted him. He wanted me. We’ve done the nods…

More bodies are on the floor. Maintaining eye contact with SecondRow around the dancers makes me wish I had the neck of a giraffe, but I manage to reassure him with my gaze and he gets up. FrontRow must see me staring at SecondRow because he sits down and apparently, I learn later from SecondRow mutters, Mujeres.

FrontRow then ignores me for the entire session. I even look at him for vals, but he refuses to bite. I know he knows I try, but he avoids. Punishing me? I reckon so, and I doubly reckon so when my girlfriend arrives a couple of hours later and he almost immediately dances with her. Will he still be punishing me next week? It won’t break my heart if he does, but it will make me sad. Everyone can make a mistake, and in this case I have to say that I don’t really think that the mistake was mine. I know who I looked at. And I had my glasses on.

I do enjoy the evening. Gorgeous traditional venue. Music that pulls me from my chair again and again. Gentlemen who I feel would forgive me anything on the basis of the shine in their eyes as they pull away from our tandas. Yet, I can’t help allowing FrontRow into my thoughts on the bus home. How he could barely bring himself to nod goodbye to me… so serious, so wounded, so out of proportion. Or so it seems to me. Couldn’t we have smiled, laughed, passed off the cock-up as just one of those things?

Months ago in another milonga, I managed to arrive on the dance floor to discover two men waiting for me, and not just any two men. Two men from the same prime front row table. Two men I’d been trying to land for weeks. Mortified, I explained to the one that I hadn’t looked at him… He cabeceo-ed me the very next tanda. Now that is what I call a gentle man.

Maybe my reaction is out of proportion to the unimportance of the events, but the episode with FrontRow puts me off the tango scene for a day or two. This weekend I abandon the dance that brought me to Argentina, and escape on the Semi-Rapido 60 bus to Escobar for the annual National Fiesta de la Flor (that’s the equivalent of the Chelsea Flower Show to us Brits). And bloody marvellous it is too. In amongst the orange Gerberas and the wafting smells of parilla-grilled beef, I find a knitwear designer who was possibly born to knit me the wedding coat of my dreams. I also spot a Barbie-inspired over the top cream floral sphere that brings the glitterballs of the Buenos Aires milongas to my mind and has me conjuring images of a massive globe of blooms hanging from the roof of La Glorieta on our special day… and now I am dreaming I know, but a dear friend has put the idea in my mind and I can’t help it. Where better for Me and C. to do the public bit of our knot-tying than in the bandstand in the park where we met? Course I need to work out how to get permission from El Gobierno de la Ciudad, or at least from the Belgrano City Council, but hey… if we actually manage to get our papers in order to wed in the first place, I’m sure that part would be a breeze. Wouldn’t it?

Ah well, maybe now I am digressing into fairytales. Nice one though no? And blessedly I’m now far, far, far from the little wolfcub in sheep’s clothing that was the genteel Buenos Aires milonga where this wee tale began. Sometimes you just gotta get away from all those cabeceos and codigos. Or at least balance them with something mucho removed. Yesterday it was the Flower Show in Escobar, and you can see the full picture story of our rather fabulous day out (including the ones of me posing in my new bruja-black designer knit) right here on Flickr. Next week it could be Temaiken. Or Lujan. Perhaps I’m entering a new phase of living in Argentina (at two years six months) involving exchanging the colectivos for the semi-rapidos and venturing beyond the city walls. And a good thing too I reckon. Flowers. Flight. Fresh air. Freedom.

In a strange twist of synchronicity today, a gorgeous girl I know in Buenos Aires sent me a Martha Graham quote. I’ve already got one on my wall. This one I’ve never seen. Here it is.

Movement never lies. It is a barometer telling the state of the soul’s weather to all who can read it.

I like it. Once in a previous life, I was stuck. I never want to be stuck again. And right now movement in my mind, seems to require movement in my physical world. So I’ll do it. Maybe in small ways. But I’ll do it. And thus, I will ensure that my soul will never again lose its glorious multi-coloured wings.

Where are you flying today? Do tell. I’d love to hear.


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Heaven

June 27, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams | 24 comments

IMGP4145 Heaven can be found in Buenos Aires at Avenida de Mayo 1370.

And here I am, with my talented costume designer mate who is currently visiting from An ever fixed mark in Boston, sampling it.

Believe me guys, if you are in this city on a Monday or Thursday afternoon you would be completely mad not to pay $20pesos each and take the fascinating 40 minute (on the hour from 2pm – but phone to reserve a place) guided tour (in English and Spanish) of Palacio Barolo. If there is a more stunning open air 360 degree view of Buenos Aires on offer, I have not found it.

Plus there is much more: the outside of  Palacio Barolo made me think of giant wedding cakes dripping in creative genius; the Dante-esque story told by the building and the charming tour guide Miqueas Thärigen had me ooohing and aaahing with the joy of discovery; the experience of perching my arse on a foot wide glass shelf inside the glass walled lighthouse 100m above hell (represented by the architecture of the ground floor) left me panting with adrenalin and feeling that I might be rather closer to meeting God (represented by the light) than I would like… what year was safety glass invented?

I needed a glimpse of heaven this week.

Blog posts disappearing and appearing and disappearing again, along with so many of your comments (alas – it turned out – a ghost in my host); a big water leak from the apartment above me; cable TV cut off but replacement delayed for the forseeable, and with it the ability to watch Wimbledon; legal paperwork drag, drag, dragging and the knock on postponement of happy plans; the realisation that if you want something (your first book) to be the absolute best it can be, you might have more work to do and it might take more time than you originally thought…

Right on cue Palacio Barolo reminded me that when the stairs to heaven appear to get steeper, and your Obeliscos seem further away for a while, you just have to keep the direction in mind and keep climbing.  If you do, they will come into view again – though you might have to use the power of mind zoom in the form of intention to bring them back into sharp focus.

From the balconies of Palacio Barolo, I saw the Obelisco and it looked like this:

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See it?

If not, try this one:

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Better? And I bet you can spot it in the other one now too.

Ah the power of zoom.

And here’s a question for you?

Can you imagine how thrilling and exciting it was to stand on one of the tiny Palacio Barolo balconies in the sun, as high as a bird, sharing my beloved home city with a new friend, and seeing this exact view? Do you think I’d have exchanged that for standing in the midst of busy traffic in Avenida 9 de Julio, and touching the Obelisk – however beautiful I believe the Obelisk to be? Actually no. On that particular day, in that particular second I wouldn’t have. The Obelisk looked even more enticing from up there too: more intriguing in the context of the city around it; perfectly connected with the vast blue sky and with the whole Buenos Aires; standing, waiting, in its rightful place.

Yes I want to keep my dreams in my sights, but to see them and the delays to them in the context of everything else is to know that the journey matters more than the end game: learning for the first time how to move from writing to professionally published writing; meeting wonderful helpers and supporters who want me to succeed; discovering talented and creative people who are excited enough by my projects to want to work with me; a love who will be at my my side regardless of plans or delays to plans; happy nights out in Los Consagrados, Cachirulo, El Beso and Sueño Porteño and at the super friendly El Amague milonguero-style tango school with friends from this country and beyond… (Blimey I did all that dancing in ONE week!).

Just having and believing in a dream enough to move towards it in the first place has put that little lot into my life. I stare at the Obelisk in the centre of this photo and I see that. Clearly.

Sometimes it takes a trip to heaven to realise that you are already there.

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Ah, couldn’t resist.

Pizza (first prize in the Los Consagrados raffle), Sallycat in new red-tipped specs, Saturday night with great mates (all hiding behind the camera – promise), Buenos Aires milongueros on tap… heaven.

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A new Buenos Aires tourist treat

May 7, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information | 13 comments

IMGP3637 You know what? I love days when I say to C. in my best Little Miss Bossy tone,

Right me lad, come on, we’re off to see a tango show, watch the gauchos at Feria de Mataderos, follow the trail of someone else’s perfect day out!

When I do, what I’m really saying is that for a few short hours I want to remind myself why I came to Buenos Aires in the first place: for adventure, to explore, to make the most of every minute of my life. I confess too that I love it most of all when the thing I am going drag him off to do is really touristy… it can either give me the chance to let off some steam (generally in private) about the naffness of it all, or it can land me something truly brilliant to share with you: however it turns out, when we are enjoying a touristy adventure, both Me and C. can forget that we have work to do, books to write and bills to pay, and play at being on holiday instead. Today, encouraged by Barbie, we set off to find the latest traffic addition to the streets of Buenos Aires, officially in operation since the 2nd May 2009: the Buenos Aires Bus or in my lingo, the new yellow Open Top Bus Tour.

It would probably have helped if I’d checked out exactly where the bus stops are for this particular ‘colectivo sin techo’: we spent half an hour running around Plaza Italia enquiring of stall holders, zoo keepers, horse and carriage owners, to absolutely no avail. If you are imagining, like I was, big yellow bus shelters to go with the big yellow double-deckers… think again. Not only were there no obvious bus stops, but the kindly folks in Plaza Italia (definitely one of the official stops on the circular route), were full of helpful lines such as, Oh well I think one went past yesterday and Ah no, there are no stops, you just flag it down…

Just as we were about to give up and go home, with my cries of Arrrrgh-entina! ringing in C.’s ears, I spotted the damn bus sailing down the wide Avenida Sarmiento towards Plaza Italia. I did not hestitate to march out in front of it either: no way was I letting it escape. I did indeed ‘flag it down’, and it stopped!

Getting on, we realised why it had so kindly interrupted its route for us: we were the only people on it! Blimey, this is one tourist attraction that hasn’t exactly taken off yet: my advice is, try it before it does, while you can choose from every seat on the top deck, and while it stops for you when you wave at it, in its new found enthusiasm to get its hands on your $25pesos.

Actually I think $25pesos is a pretty good deal for this trip. Your ticket, which you can buy on board, lasts for 24 hours (or you can pay $35pesos for 48 hours); you can get on and off wherever it stops (there are twelve scheduled on the route); it took me down some streets I’d never travelled, as well as many of my old favourites; and the commentary (available in English) taught me a few things: the building where the aristocracy first officially danced tango; who designed the Argentine flag; why Boca Juniors live and die in yellow and blue -the colours of Sweden…

From a comfort angle, Me and C. decided that on summer days it will be very hot on that top deck, and in winter pretty chilly – though hell, we did the London one in a freezing March and survived to tell the tale – so take a jacket once autumn arrives: today the sun was out, but we were glad of our fleeces in the face of a stiff breeze off the river as we rode through Puerto Madero, past the beautiful eco-reserve Costanera Sur on the way back from La Boca. In the quest for both value for money from your 24 hour ticket and avoiding a sore arse, I’d recommend that you hop off once or twice to explore a bit. If you decide to do it all in one, it will take you about 2 hours 45 minutes, but do take some choccy along for an energy boost, mid route.

Is $25pesos expensive? For tourists with pounds or dollars in the bank, I don’t think so. It’s less than five pounds. I think the London equivalent was around 20 pounds. A taxi across Buenos Aires last Monday night, from Club Gricel to my flat, cost me knocking on for $25pesos, one way, and this bus tour offers me far more options for taking fabulous photographs. One the other hand I can do around 20 standard bus trips for the same price, if I can get my hands on the monedas… it’s all relative, and especially to what you earn.

My bottom line is that I think for visiting tourists to Buenos Aires, this bus offers a great way to get an overview, early in your trip. I’ve walked miles of this city and taken some fab pics of it in my time, but gliding down the centre of the grand Avenidas of Buenos Aires, around fifteen feet up, with no roof above you, gives you a whole new perspective and today, I did not want to put my camera down.

Wanna see what I saw from the top deck?

Check out my Flickr photoset The Afternoon of the Open Top Bus Tour

If you like the view, and are heading this way, I think you will be jumping on this bus ‘pronto’. If not, well you’re getting the full tour ‘gratis’ via my photos anyway… and that as they say, is the service that this little adventurer in Buenos Aires is happy to provide.

And finally, to make you smile, here is one happy punter who, in each case at around an hour into the trip, is definitely preferring the temperature of autumn Open Top Bus Tour de Buenos Aires to the spring Open Top Bus Tour de Londrès. Bloody hell – who’d live in England?

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UPDATE 14 May 2009: If the weather is grim, they put a roof on the bus. Saw it today in the pouring rain! SC

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The small stuff

April 14, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information | 6 comments

IMGP3158 Me and C. amble to the Rosedal. He’s carrying the thermos and the mate ready filled with yerba. We walk with the railway line on our right, newly planted trees on our left, and we dodge the small but frequent deposits of dog shit: some streets are worse than others, and this is one of them because it’s en route to the Palermo parks. He laughs at me as I say, Cuidado, for about the fiftieth time in fifty yards. I was born here, he says, I can step over it in my sleep. We pass the polo grounds. Today they’re silent but on Saturday the English will be there, including me. We talk about where I can find a small English flag. I’m remembering the Dakar day and how I longed to support the Brits but had nothing to wave. Maybe I’ll make one, I say.

We pass Jumbo. Tengo hambre, I whine like a kid. He knows me and so before I can say it again I’m sat in the café downstairs with a huge slab of chocolate and dulce de leche cake on my plate. We read El Clarín. Did you put mosquito repellent on? he asks me. We never use it as a rule, but we’re both a bit nervous about the Dengue Fever epidemic said to be spreading from the northern provinces. I thought it was only a special type of mosquito, I say, and they don’t live here do they? Maybe they don’t, he replies, but what if someone comes here with Dengue and then a different sort of mosquito bites them and then bites you… Plus, he adds, they say if you get bitten twice, then you can get the haemorrhagic fever and die. You need to wear repellent. I know there’s something about my British blood the mossies love, although I’m pretty sure they go for me less than they did when I arrived here. Even so. I’ve got the repellent in my bag, I say, There’s no cure for Dengue either is there? Let’s put some on now before we get to the park. We do.

We cross Libertador, join the flocks of Argentines doing exactly the same thing: some have dogs, some have kids, some are on roller blades, some are on bicycles, some throw balls, some eat panchos (hotdogs), most clasp mates or thermos flasks, lots are smoking. I still can’t quite get used to arriving somewhere and not lighting up, or pouring the mate and not lighting up, or finishing a meal and not lighting up. We hold hands instead. Easy.

When we reach the gate in the iron fence around the Rosedal a security guard turns us away: closed. Carlos sees the hundreds of people behind those railings and makes to protest. I see the sign announcing that the places shuts at 5pm in ‘invierno’. It’s winter, I explain. Winter? It’s probably 30 grados and it’s about 5.15 in the late afternoon. I laugh to see C. begin to stride out on his giraffe legs. I scurry to keep up. I realise he thinks he might reach the roses and fountains by another gate. Alas that one is locked too. It’s not fair, he announces. How come all those people are allowed to stay in there? Do you want to climb over? he asks. I stare at the fence that is much taller than me. I could probably roll under the gate, Peter Rabbit style, but oh how embarrassed I’d be if I got stuck and had to be released by the security guards. Forget it mi amor. Another day.

We sit at the foot of a statue opposite the American Consulate and drink our mate, buy a traditional Easter cake for $5pesos from a young man starting a new life clean of drugs and alcohol: I always buy breads and cakes from those guys when I see them on the buses. We wish him luck. Then we talk a bit about our present, our pasts, our future, our pasts, our future. It feels spacious to do it in the park with families laughing all around us, balls flying through the air, skaters gliding at speed on the smooth tarmac, the clatter and bells of horses and carriages. I kiss him.

IMGP3153 On the way home we stop on the corner near easy (the Argentine equivalent of B&Q or HomeDepot) to sit in the concrete armchairs placed on the pavement under the trees and traffic lights. C. is sneezing and blowing his nose: Allergies, he insists. A cold, I think, but he has had it for weeks ever since he stopped smoking. Maybe giving up smoking sets off all kinds of physical twitches previously suppressed by the poisons. Who knows? My twitches have been more of the mental variety: wanting to punch the Migraciones officer when she refused me my visa renovation; my inability to be without a laptop for more than a week; random, unexpected and out of the blue moments of intense irritation with the world. There has been a physical craving for food, it’s true: just loving it all over again, but in my rather too skinny case, that is definitely a good thing. Sitting in our concrete armchairs opposite easy we watch the traffic, admire the design of the gardens sloping up to the railway line behind us, start salivating as we agree on takeaway steak for dinner.

IMGP3160 Eventually we prize ourselves out of those unbelievably comfortable concrete chairs, head back past the amazing mosque opposite Jumbo, and manage to reach the dog shit street in time to avoid having to take pot luck in the dark. We arrive home safe and we hope Dengue free. Just in case though, we empty our balcony’s zen garden clear water pool as suggested by the authorities, and agree to wear long trousers, long sleeves and socks until we know for sure that the coast is clear. They say don’t sweat the small stuff don’t they, but in the case of mosquitoes carrying death, is small really small? Anyway we’re not sweating it yet, just keeping it in mind. It’s the folk in provinces like Chaco, Salta, and Catamarca who are suffering. And I feel for them.

I’m not a drama queen, but I do like to know the score and share it with you, so in case you are planning travel in Argentina, here’s a post, dated 30th March, from Discover Buenos Aires with some useful links including to the official American line on the subject. The Brits haven’t gone as far as to issue an alert , but the FCO has updated its advice for travellers to Argentina with amendments to the Summary and Health section (Dengue Fever).

To be honest, I’ve found it a bit tricky to find up to date truths in Spanish, never mind in English, but this site Healthdoctoronline does seem to publish snippets of English language news on the subject: this latest one reporting over 5000 people with Dengue in Argentina, on April 9th.

aedes-mosquitoAnd in case you’re wondering how to recognise the real thing, here in all its tiny glory is the Aedes aegypti mosquito, carrier of Dengue and I understand, yellow fever, courtesy of www.aedesmosquito.com.

Small, and despite carrying a killer, rather beautiful.

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One perfect Sunday

April 6, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information | 8 comments

Good enough to eat Somewhere, buried in a whirlwind fortnight of fruitless trips to Migraciones, buggered laptop hard drives and testing nicotine withdrawals, was a perfect Sunday: Me and C. keen to hit the streets; beautiful late summer Buenos Aires; the recommendations of a friend who at that point, I hadn’t actually met. Other people’s favourite places are always music to my ears, and especially when they converge with budding ideas or desires of my own. Sometimes I’ve been meaning to do something or go somewhere for ages (let’s call it X) and then finally a mate saying, Hey have you tried X yet? pushes me the last inch and I get walking.

I’ve ridden past Parque (Park) Lezama loads of times on the way to and from one of my favourite viewpoints in Buenos Aires: the La Boca rooftop of Museo de Bellas Artes de La Boca Benito Quinquela Martín – just as an aside, if you visit La Boca, this art gallery and the views from its sculpture terraces are an absolute must. Anyway if you take the 64 or the 152 to get there, you will skirt around the bottom of the Parque as you turn in or out of the ‘gateway’ to La Boca, which is marked by a border of faded corrugated metal facades, fake windows and charicature-manikins  mimicking the houses of Caminito. When you see that landmark, and the foot of a hill like park opposite, get off the bus. If it’s the weekend there’ll be a straggle of market stalls winding their way around and disappearing up under the trees: an extra bonus if you like bargain hunting, as I do.

As it turns out this park offers a few treats. For starters the gorgeous Art Nouveau cookie factory in the photo can be seen across the street: the biscuit colour of the walls made me hungry. Next, the park’s design offers tree covered strolls; glimpses of Roman style statues, urns and follies; a gentle climb towards the terracotta and white house which sits at the top of the hill, and which is home to the free to enter National History Museum (worth a look for the building’s interior and some well selected exhibits, plus it will be expanding soon to include a café). On our wander uphill we managed to encounter a huge slice of homemade pizza with a delicious crust ($4pesos a piece and one was big enough for two), buy a military button for the jeans a dear friend gifted me recently – perfect fit but missing a fastener, and splash out on a second hand hippy chic shirt… oh gosh, like I said I can’t resist local markets!

By the time we made  it to the top of the park and the corner of Defensa and Brasil, I realised that I was almost in Plaza Dorrego, San Telmo, on a Sunday, and thus just a couple of blocks from the crowds. The peace of Parque Lezama however, gave no hint of that crush just up the road, and brought home to me how few tourists ever walk even a few blocks off the most beaten tracks. I was glad that on the border of La Boca and San Telmo, I finally had.

‘En la esquina de Defensa y Brasil’, Bar Britanico (well I had to pop in there didn’t I?) served us great coffee in traditional  surroundings for a surprisingly low price. As we sipped our ‘dos cortados en jarrito’, it dawned on us we’d already been in there once before, on a winter’s dawn many moons ago, after spilling out of Parakultural at Peru 571 one Saturday – this is a cool 24/7 café that never closes its doors. Way back in those mists of my early days in Buenos Aires, as we waited for the bus after a 5am breakfast, it seemed to me that we stood in the middle of absolutely nowhere and definitely in a dodgy district. This time I knew where I was, noticed the stunning Italian style balcony next to the Art Deco apartment block opposite, spotted Torcato Tasso a stone’s throw away, couldn’t believe I hadn’t shared this particular corner of the city with my parents – next time for sure.

We checked our map, and I calculated that we were probably only half an hour’s walk from Barracas and the artistic haven that is Calle Lanín. So, fired up with enthusiasm for demonstrating my expert knowledge of Buenos Aires attractions, I dragged C. off up Avenida Caseros towards the tiny street Lanín. There he enthused about the ceramic art in a way that perhaps only plumbers who have seen the inside of far too many badly tiled bathrooms can, and promised me that he’d be knocking up something Calle Lanín style on our balcony pronto. I meanwhile, marvelled at the stillness of the place, and found myself wondering how many visitors to Buenos Aires just don’t bother or don’t know to make it to Barracas and this stunning pint-sized street with soul. Please promise me you’ll try.

We finished our afternoon and ourselves off by marching through back streets to Constitución Station (probably only wise in broad daylight, with a degree of purpose in your stride), where I snapped a few pics of the vast arches that remind me of the glory days of British Rail. Got to say that flashing big cameras (mine’s teeny tiny) might not be too smart in Constitución… just be aware and be discreet eh?

As we wound our way home towards Palermo on the Blue Subte Line C, and the Green Subte Line D my feet were throbbing, but I was chattering like a child about the treasures that had made up our perfect day. Whatever gave you the idea and the energy to do all that? said C. I didn’t even know you’d heard of Parque Lezama!

Well, I began, I confess I can’t take all the credit… and out of my bag I pulled the printed pages of the e-book I’d downloaded from the internet just a few days before:

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Really, this neat little e-book by Jeff Barry at SoroDesign is exactly my kind of thing because it actually does enable you to create your own perfect days or half days in Buenos Aires: Jeff sends you off to an area of the city and then helps you discover it as you walk… architecture, landmarks, museums, cafés, parks, galleries. To create our perfect Sunday I picked just one of the book’s San Telmo starting points: Parque Lezama, made sure I found and tried all Jeff’s tips for the locality, and went home with a big smile on my face. OK, I admit I’ve got a bit of local knowledge and so I was able to add in Calle Lanín, but in the day I’ve described to you, straight out of Jeff’s e-book came Parque Lezama, the cookie factory, The National Museum, Bar Britanico, and Avenida Caseros. Not bad for a couple of small paragraphs of a guide book in my opinion. Plus, another section tipped me off to check out the architecture of Constitución Station. I’m glad I did.

The title might mention four perfect days, but actually there’s probably enough treats in its well organised and illustrated pages to keep you busy in Buenos Aires for a whole lot longer.

Having tried it out for myself, I think the book offers a good selection of the more well known and the less discovered. Yes, Jeff leaves out a few of my personal favourites, but instead he includes places that I have yet to explore, and for me that is a RESULT! What use is a guide book that only tells me what I already know? Even after two years here, I can learn from Jeff’s super suggestions. If you’ve never been to Buenos Aires, then I think he will get you off to a great start. I think the e-book’s got a cool price tag too: at only USD$8.95, it probably isn’t going to break your bank.

Best part for me is that if you buy the e-book, and you do it via Sallycat’s Adventures, then Jeff has agreed to give me a little bonus, out of his profits, for the sale. Thus over time we can all win: you can follow in my footsteps and enjoy your own perfect days in Buenos Aires, I can treat myself to a few licuados, and Jeff sells his book: win, win, win! Perfecto.

So how can you get your hands on this little gem? Well, just click any of the photo links on my blog (more will appear soon) including the one above in this post. Or, use this link instead:

Click here to visit the SoroDesign Buenos Aires website and buy Jeff’s e-book!

Meanwhile, if you’re wishing you’d been with Me and C. on our perfect Sunday, why not head over to my One Perfect Sunday Flickr Photo Set where you can slideshow the gorgeous photos we took as we explored.

Sometimes, however well we think we know a place, it can be the fresh perspective of another soul that adds the possibility of new layers of discovery. If, on the other hand, we’re a first time visitor, aren’t we always after the inside track? If you like what you see in my photos, why not give Jeff’s ideas a try and treat yourself to the prospect of  ‘4 (or more) Perfect Days in Buenos Aires.’

Here’s to exploring and adventuring with a little help from our friends. Enjoy!

 

After the fact, one of you sent me the link to this all the way from Milan, and because I love the BBC and David Bowie’s voice and the brilliant use of this tune in Trainspotting I’m adding it to this post. Here’s to every day being a perfect one. We have it in our power to make it so!

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Meant to be

March 22, 2009 in Buenos Aires Information, Live your dreams | 2 comments

A patient man We have to go to Piedras 115 to get me a Certificate of Good Conduct to support my temporary residency visa renewal application. Actually the paper given to me by the lady at Migraciones has Piedras 130 written on it, but we work it out. We discover that we must lift a phone located to the left of the big reception desk in the main office area to be offered an appointment: it’s about 11am and we get one for 1.30pm – on the same day. Bingo.

Happy, we decide to seek a quiet space to wait. We are downtown on the edge of the hustle and bustle of the Centro, but we know of just the place: the courtyard of the Manzana de las Luces: hidden, spacious, has seats, completely free of charge to enter and rest a while. We walk the few blocks to its sanctuary.

To get to the courtyard we must pass through the indoor market stalls between the entrance on the corner of Alsina and Perú, and the quiet within. There’s bric-a-brac, polished rocks, a few crafts. I walk by without really looking. As I turn the corner to exit the market my eye lands on a document wallet hanging on the nearest display … it’s a bit like a slim briefcase in that it has handles, but it’s less bulky and boasts several zipped compartments. It isn’t made of leather, but it looks fine and functional enough. I catch sight of the price tag: $25pesos. I say to Carlos, ‘Mirá, mi amor.’

In November 2007 I wrote here about my desire to buy C. a posh new document satchel. At the time C. was carrying his work papers in a fairly grubby canvas wallet, as he had done since we met. He had no desire to replace it. I watched him make small repairs to the bag as months passed, and I stopped wanting to replace it too.

A few weeks ago an enormous hole developed in the fabric around the press stud fastener. We talked again about shopping for a solution, but C. was reluctant. I thought that he might lose his papers if the bag could not close. Yet, he had plans. One day I came home to find that he had sewn the most brilliant repair using a piece of tyre inner tube. We both marvelled at the handiwork. No need to replace anything when it’s loved that much I thought.

However, in the Manzana de las Luces market, C. stops and looks at the new document wallet. He pulls open the zips, tries the handles, weighs it in his hands. To my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. $25pesos slips through his fingers in a flash and the bag is in his arms. We emerge into the calm of the courtyard. He adopts businessman-like poses in front of one of the mirror-like full length windows. I’m laughing at his delight.

‘See,’ he says to me, ‘We didn’t need to go looking. It found us.’

We talk about how almost eighteen months have passed since I first mentioned the possibility of replacing the bag and we remark that if it wasn’t for the apparent trials over my visa renovation we wouldn’t even be in the Manzana de las Luces market at all. This particular moment of joy would not be ours.

‘When I saw it,’ he says, ‘I knew it wanted to be mine. It was waiting.’

‘I know,’ I say. And I do.

Since the purchase, the old bag has been washed and hung out to dry so that its white lettering gleams as new, and all traces of grubbiness have gone. It has a vital role to play. It’s to be used as a backup, in barrios where leather look document wallets might attract the wrong sort of attention. I’m glad it lives on.

Meanwhile, the new prize joins our strange little household of objects that have somehow, via various roundabout routes, made their way to us over the many months since we ourselves first found each other.

All this reminds me to trust, and not be tempted to force anything. Things will work out in their own time. They always do.

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