For those of you haven't rented Spaceballs recently, the title line heralds from a great scene in that fine flick. Why be original when someone else has paved the way. Quoting the immortal Woody Guthrie, "he just steals from me, but I steal from everybody." And so it goes.
Alright, enough rambling. Today's title does have relevance to my current mental state. It occurs to me that too often we plan our lives for some future date, when the grass will be greener and our chips worthy of being cashed in. That day represents the affable yet elusive "then" that we all ponder in one form or another.
But here in BaAs, as the locals refer to Buenos Aires, I've found a place and time where "now" fits like a glove. Admittedly, the metaphorical glove has been extra comfy knowing that old man winter has kept a hammer-lock grip on the midwest. But all the same, for the first time in a good while, my cup, it doth overflow.
For those of you who haven't ventured on a solo trek, I couldn't recommend more highly. On a daily (minute by minute) basis you are forced out of your comfort zone. You get to meet, and rely on, your neighbor at the bar and the taxi driver zooming along to some unknown desination. Along the way random fun is all but inevitable. It is an eye-opening experience which can reinvigorate your faith in others and make you keenly aware of the inner-connectedness of us all. Because in the end it's the people that make the place, and in that category, I couldn't have picked a better spot on the map.
So if you'll indulge me for a second, a few notes of gratitude.
Thank you Laura, my local barrista, who put up with my espangles and taught me along the way. Thank you Marcelo, Nick, German, Sara, and Julieta for making the BsAs nightlife an experience I'll never forget. Thank you kindly teller at San Isidro race track for patiently helping me to wager on los caballos (for those of you who know my betting habits, just envision me attempting exacta wheels in Spanish). Thank you to the random 40 year-old lady, dancing in your booth at the Irish Bar when DJ Tiesto's video came on the TV screen. You made me smile. Thank you los gatos, denizens of the botanical gardens, for accompanying me in my daily reading. Thank you Malbec, for being such a fine grape/wine for many a summer's eve. And most of all, thank you to the multitudes, for offering me an embracing, pulsating city, from day one until the last.
So why venture elsewhere, when "now" is finally so keen? Because there is a flip side to being a minority of one. It means that you good people are not here with me. And just as the people of Buenos Aires have made my stay so memorable and unique, you embody it on a broader scale. So put some wine in the fridge and send up the bat signal over Gotham; daddy's coming home.
But I shall return......
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
There's Nothing Like a Good Gay Foam Party
That's what I always say.
Admittedly, there are some nights that sneak up on you. You're out on the town and somehow the evening just keeps leading to more fun. On the other hand, some nights wreak of debauchery before you ever open the front door. Friday night was the latter.
I was supposed to meet my friends Marcelo and Kari at 1 am at this club, Amerika. About 10 minutes before leaving my apartment to meet them, Marcelo calls and tells me that I may not recognize him because he's dressed in drag.
Here we go.
The previous night I'd gone out with some other friends and when I mentioned plans of Amerika, their only response had been "mucho gays." But I'm thinking to myself, "I'm an equal opportunity employer and up for an adventure, why not?" Plus, the music was supposed to be excellent, and I knew I was going to be in the company of at least one other heterosexual (Kari).
I had no idea what I was in for.
Turns out everyone at Amerika pays 35 pesos ($12) to enter, and then it's all you can drink all night. That should have been my first tip that things would get ugly. Upon arrival Marcelo also informs me that at some point there will be a foam party and that when it occurs things will get "nasty, nasty, nasty." At this point, I'm giving Kari the "you + me = white on rice" stare-down. Anyways, after a few drinks we proceed to the dance floor where the number of shirtless men easily outnumbered any of my prognostications. Thankfully, by now two additional heterosexual female friends had joined our crew. Now my eyes had the luxury of alternating amongst the three ladies in our mini-cocoon.
Well about 3:30 am the foam party comes and with it every two-legged male in the building makes a B-line for the dance floor. The mass calling left an expansive area for me to take over upstairs in the back of the club. From that locale I could see the madness (pure madness) without needing to partake. Great spot for me. I did notice one girl on her bachelorette party dancing on a huge block in the middle of the foam with about 15 men. If I were her husband-to-be, I really wouldn't want to know what transpired from that juncture on.
Another 90 minutes or so expire and then the foam comes again. At this point one of the girls in our group, Elizabeth, looks at me and asks, "quieres ir al centro (want to go to the middle)?" Now there are a lot of moments in life when you shrug things off. You know deep down this is something you wouldn't do 9 times out of 10, and then suddenly you realize that one time in ten is now.
The next thing I know I'm dancing in 4 feet of foam with this girl and about a hundred shirtless men. What a spectacle. And the foam kept coming and coming; only to be followed by a misty rain. In the end I have to admit it was pretty fun (and very, very wet). Thankfully, my half-nude, Y-chromosome cohorts were very respectful. To my relief not once did I experience an unexpected body bump or flirtation while dancing with Elizabeth.
A good end to a crazy night. A night that neither I, nor my soaked attire, will ever forget.
Other random observations from BA:
There is a casino that is approximately 1/3 mile long UNDERNEATH the local horse racing track. You would never know it existed from the street, seemingly shunning Vegas and cementing a point: gamblers need not sight, merely smell.
There are more Chinese people here than I would have guessed, leading me yet again to the age old rumination, "just think about how many Chinamen there are in China."
On a 1 to 10 scale, if service at most restaurants in the States is an 8, I would rank service here a 4. It's a societal thing; people here never (ever) seem to be in a rush.
We need the beverage "Pomello" in the States. It's a carbonated, grapefruit concoction that tastes like a combination between Sprite and Mellow Yellow...only a little more citrusy.
Cheers to all, M.
Admittedly, there are some nights that sneak up on you. You're out on the town and somehow the evening just keeps leading to more fun. On the other hand, some nights wreak of debauchery before you ever open the front door. Friday night was the latter.
I was supposed to meet my friends Marcelo and Kari at 1 am at this club, Amerika. About 10 minutes before leaving my apartment to meet them, Marcelo calls and tells me that I may not recognize him because he's dressed in drag.
Here we go.
The previous night I'd gone out with some other friends and when I mentioned plans of Amerika, their only response had been "mucho gays." But I'm thinking to myself, "I'm an equal opportunity employer and up for an adventure, why not?" Plus, the music was supposed to be excellent, and I knew I was going to be in the company of at least one other heterosexual (Kari).
I had no idea what I was in for.
Turns out everyone at Amerika pays 35 pesos ($12) to enter, and then it's all you can drink all night. That should have been my first tip that things would get ugly. Upon arrival Marcelo also informs me that at some point there will be a foam party and that when it occurs things will get "nasty, nasty, nasty." At this point, I'm giving Kari the "you + me = white on rice" stare-down. Anyways, after a few drinks we proceed to the dance floor where the number of shirtless men easily outnumbered any of my prognostications. Thankfully, by now two additional heterosexual female friends had joined our crew. Now my eyes had the luxury of alternating amongst the three ladies in our mini-cocoon.
Well about 3:30 am the foam party comes and with it every two-legged male in the building makes a B-line for the dance floor. The mass calling left an expansive area for me to take over upstairs in the back of the club. From that locale I could see the madness (pure madness) without needing to partake. Great spot for me. I did notice one girl on her bachelorette party dancing on a huge block in the middle of the foam with about 15 men. If I were her husband-to-be, I really wouldn't want to know what transpired from that juncture on.
Another 90 minutes or so expire and then the foam comes again. At this point one of the girls in our group, Elizabeth, looks at me and asks, "quieres ir al centro (want to go to the middle)?" Now there are a lot of moments in life when you shrug things off. You know deep down this is something you wouldn't do 9 times out of 10, and then suddenly you realize that one time in ten is now.
The next thing I know I'm dancing in 4 feet of foam with this girl and about a hundred shirtless men. What a spectacle. And the foam kept coming and coming; only to be followed by a misty rain. In the end I have to admit it was pretty fun (and very, very wet). Thankfully, my half-nude, Y-chromosome cohorts were very respectful. To my relief not once did I experience an unexpected body bump or flirtation while dancing with Elizabeth.
A good end to a crazy night. A night that neither I, nor my soaked attire, will ever forget.
Other random observations from BA:
There is a casino that is approximately 1/3 mile long UNDERNEATH the local horse racing track. You would never know it existed from the street, seemingly shunning Vegas and cementing a point: gamblers need not sight, merely smell.
There are more Chinese people here than I would have guessed, leading me yet again to the age old rumination, "just think about how many Chinamen there are in China."
On a 1 to 10 scale, if service at most restaurants in the States is an 8, I would rank service here a 4. It's a societal thing; people here never (ever) seem to be in a rush.
We need the beverage "Pomello" in the States. It's a carbonated, grapefruit concoction that tastes like a combination between Sprite and Mellow Yellow...only a little more citrusy.
Cheers to all, M.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
The Kiddie Table is Down the Street...
When you are new and alone in a city, you are never far removed from “tourista” status, whether you want to admit it or not. You tell yourself that your pre-trip due diligence has given you the inside track on the coolest bars, lounges, and restaurants. In truth it´s still guesswork at best.
After you arrive you think the lounge you sleuthily (yes, I just made that word up) unearthed down the street is a reverential gem, but in reality it could be the local version of Planet Hollywood. The moral here: you think you’re eating at the grownup table, but when the meal comes don’t be surprised if you’re being served applesauce and milk in a plastic bottle.
Until one day…..
You arrive at a club that looks like the Sydney Opera House for “after-office” (happy hour) and find 2,500 of the most attractive, fashionable people on the planet. At this particular juncture, it´s probably safe to do away with the bib.
For those of you who have not been to Buenos Aires but are contemplating the trek, there are some things you have to do. 1) Recelota Cemetery – where the heroes of the revolution and aristocracy are buried in gorgeous, gargantuan shrines. 2) Plaza de Mayo – where Evita gave her beloved, balcony speech. 3) Visit a milonga – to learn about and see tango at its most authentic and seductive 4) Palermo Viejo – where cobblestone streets meet fashionable stores and restaurants. 5) And finally, if you like a nice lounge/club in the States, for the love of all things right in the world, you HAVE to go to Opera Bay for after-office on Wednesday.
Opera Bay is a dazzling club/lounge which overlooks Buenos Aires´ main port in Puerto Madero (http://www.operabay.com/). Imagine a mid-week happy hour on Navy Pier in the summer with 2,500 attractive Chicagoans . Now imagine that scenario with 2,500 beautiful Argentineans that could outshine our pale arses any day of the week.
The setup of the place is stunning. A huge outdoor deck allows you to view the port/water on one side and watch the sunset behind the city´s skyline on the other. Inside there are four rooms serving as separate dance areas, with different styles of music coming from each (inexplicably the Counting Crows appear to have cross-over appeal, as I actually heard them in two different rooms). When the DJ on the back deck played a terrific version of U2´s “One” right at sunset, it was about as pleasurable and serene a moment as one could ever hope for without the company of friends.
Other random observations from BA:
The rickshaw appears to be alive and well and has apparently stayed true to its utilitarian roots. Pigeons truly rule the world. There is a huge billboard for Corvettes near my apartment, advertising different models of the car, all of which are orange (weird). Waiters in the cafes regularly take espressos (on trays) across the street to workers in nearby stores: laudable. Cats are permanent residents in many of the local gardens and the Recoleta Cemetery. The helado (ice cream) is truly to die for, and I would highly recommend the little known international flavor: frutas del bosque (fruits of the forest).
After you arrive you think the lounge you sleuthily (yes, I just made that word up) unearthed down the street is a reverential gem, but in reality it could be the local version of Planet Hollywood. The moral here: you think you’re eating at the grownup table, but when the meal comes don’t be surprised if you’re being served applesauce and milk in a plastic bottle.
Until one day…..
You arrive at a club that looks like the Sydney Opera House for “after-office” (happy hour) and find 2,500 of the most attractive, fashionable people on the planet. At this particular juncture, it´s probably safe to do away with the bib.
For those of you who have not been to Buenos Aires but are contemplating the trek, there are some things you have to do. 1) Recelota Cemetery – where the heroes of the revolution and aristocracy are buried in gorgeous, gargantuan shrines. 2) Plaza de Mayo – where Evita gave her beloved, balcony speech. 3) Visit a milonga – to learn about and see tango at its most authentic and seductive 4) Palermo Viejo – where cobblestone streets meet fashionable stores and restaurants. 5) And finally, if you like a nice lounge/club in the States, for the love of all things right in the world, you HAVE to go to Opera Bay for after-office on Wednesday.
Opera Bay is a dazzling club/lounge which overlooks Buenos Aires´ main port in Puerto Madero (http://www.operabay.com/). Imagine a mid-week happy hour on Navy Pier in the summer with 2,500 attractive Chicagoans . Now imagine that scenario with 2,500 beautiful Argentineans that could outshine our pale arses any day of the week.
The setup of the place is stunning. A huge outdoor deck allows you to view the port/water on one side and watch the sunset behind the city´s skyline on the other. Inside there are four rooms serving as separate dance areas, with different styles of music coming from each (inexplicably the Counting Crows appear to have cross-over appeal, as I actually heard them in two different rooms). When the DJ on the back deck played a terrific version of U2´s “One” right at sunset, it was about as pleasurable and serene a moment as one could ever hope for without the company of friends.
Other random observations from BA:
The rickshaw appears to be alive and well and has apparently stayed true to its utilitarian roots. Pigeons truly rule the world. There is a huge billboard for Corvettes near my apartment, advertising different models of the car, all of which are orange (weird). Waiters in the cafes regularly take espressos (on trays) across the street to workers in nearby stores: laudable. Cats are permanent residents in many of the local gardens and the Recoleta Cemetery. The helado (ice cream) is truly to die for, and I would highly recommend the little known international flavor: frutas del bosque (fruits of the forest).
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