What It’s Like to be a Foreigner in Buenos Aires...Notes From a Confused Gringo

What It’s Like to be a Foreigner in Buenos Aires...Notes From a Confused Gringo

Today in front of the Congreso Nacional I saw a father, mother, and their two-year-old kid on a motorcycle together. The father was driving, the mother was on the back, and the niño was in the middle, holding on to his father’s torso. None of them were wearing helmets, in fact there was a helmet tied to the front handlebars. The strange thing is, after just one week in Buenos Aires, this scene barely even surprised me...

In Buenos Aires parents seem to take their children everywhere. The other day I saw a man walking down Avenida Santa Fe, one of the busiest streets in BA (think Madison Ave.), holding the hand of a baby who was barely able to walk. She was just sort of stumbling along in her diaper, as babies do, to calls of “vamos, vamos” from her father. Just a regular little porteña trying to make her way to the next café or restaurant or party, or whatever. At the San Lorenzo soccer game last week, in a neighborhood called Bajo Flores, in a scene that was composed of 95% men, there were children of all ages. Even some infants...yes, infants.

The soccer game was a story in and of itself. On my second day here, an acquaintance from my hostel offered to let me come along with he and three other guys on a trip to see a match between San Lorenzo, a local club, and one from Caracas, Venezuela, as part of the Copa Libertadores; an all South American soccer tournament. I had no idea there was even a San Lorenzo soccer team, I thought the only ones were Boca Juniors and River Plate. Thus, I had absolutely no idea where I was going, except I assumed it would be somewhere within the vast city limits of BA.

But any apprehensions I had were soon augmented when my new friend advised me, a.) not to bring much money, and b.) not to bring any kind of documents, whatsoever. My camera? He just laughed...

We took a 15 minute cab ride from Palermo Soho to a neighborhood called San Telmo, where we were to catch the bus with the other guys. The bus ride lasted about an hour, or so it seemed. As it went on, I felt that sinking feeling of getting further and further out of my element, seeing fewer and fewer foreigners, and meeting more and more curious glances from the locals. Wherever I was going, I knew I was headed into the real Buenos Aires.

It was getting dark by the time we got to the stadium, and before we got off the bus, one of the other guys, a Frenchman, leaned over and said to me, “Don’t talk English too loud. American’s are not very popular now. If somebody asks where you’re from, just say Canada.” I asked him if he thought there was a conceivable chance I would make it out alive, but he just shrugged.

All this turned out to be a bit of an exaggeration, since as I said, there were babies there. But, I can assure you the neighborhood was not someplace you’d want to be caught alone at night.

As for the game, it lived up to every preconception I’ve ever had about South American soccer. The actual play was not great; San Lorenzo scored two dribble-in goals in the first half and Caracas never really challenged. But, the atmosphere was amazing; the fans expressed more passion, more excitement, and more unified interest in the game than I’ve ever seen at any sporting event in my life. The closest thing I’ve ever seen to it was a game between the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs, in Montreal.

However, that game didn’t have incessant bass drums, road flares, smoke bombs, or fans throwing thousands of paper streamers while they chanted and sang a rotation of about a half-dozen club songs. The singing is the most unique thing; like the base drums, it absolutely does not stop, for the entire game.

The bleachers were unusual, too. Just huge slabs of concrete. No seats, no seat numbers, no railings, nothing, just concrete steps on which to stand—because no one sits except at half time.

Add to all this the ominous smoke-haze that covered the city last week, and it felt like something out of Mad Max vs. the Thunderdome; some kind of rabid, post-apocalyptic ritual in which the losers would be taken off to be slaughtered. Luckily for Carcas, we’re still pre-apocalypse...

So, back to the point of this whole rambling mess (and if you’ve made it this far, I salute you)...what is it like to be a foreigner in Buenos Aires? Well, it’s probably the same as being a foreigner anywhere; a constant level of confusion, frustration, and fear that varies from ambient, to intolerable. Everything is a nine-step process and you’ve neglected steps 2 through 8; everyone speaks too fast, even when they are speaking to you slowly; you seem thwarted at every turn, except when it comes to spending money...at which you find no resistance from anyone.

Naturally there’s also that constant excitement, curiousity, and the feeling that everything you see and do you are doing for the first time. That’s what makes it worthwhile...everything is a new challenge, from buying a loaf of bread, to going to a soccer game in a marginal neighborhood.

Like just last week I tried to take the city bus from Palermo to Congreso. I figured out which bus I needed to take, the 39, and stood by the stop. Two busses apparently stop there, the 39 and the 152. As I stood there, three 152 busses stopped, but no 39 busses. So, I asked someone, again, if I was at the correct stop. She told me to take the 29, not the 39. Okay...luckily the 29 stopped about 20m away from where I was standing. On my way up to the 29 stop, I see a number 39 bus pass me and stop where I was just standing. Perfect.

So now I’m waiting for the 29 bus. I see one in the distance, four lanes away on the other side of the avenue. It approaches, and then passes right by the stop without so much as an attempt to get over into a closer lane. Gone. I check to see if I’m being filmed...no cameras anywhere. So, I finally see another 39 bus in the distance, and I decide to run back up to the 39 stop and just try my luck. I get there just in time, but after the driver lets off all his passengers, he shuts the door in my face and scoots away. Apparently the bus only stops there, but doesn’t actually pick up passengers...or something. I don’t know, and I can’t figure it out. But, as I’m smoldering on the sidewalk, I see the 29 bus stop and pickup passengers, and drive off...

So like any good New Yorker, I decide to give up and just use the Subway, or El Subte (subterráneo), as they call it. But when I get to that stop, I find it is closed for the day due to the smoke, or perhaps some other reason I just don’t understand. I only have about three seconds to wallow in my angst, when I see a 29 bus stop and open its doors. Without a thought, I hop on...

Americans Abound...And Everybody Speaks English

Having said all that, it is impossible feel like a complete extranjero here...there are Americans and other Anglophones everywhere, and it seems as though everyone, everyone, speaks a passable level of English.

I literally cannot turn around in BA without bumping into some wild-eyed youngster who is studying for a semester here in Candyland, or some other such gringo who has quit his job and relocated here for a while to take advantage of the exchange-rate and the easy living...(uhhhhh). It’s gotten so that stopping and talking to someone just because they are American, is like approaching someone because we both have brown eyes. It’s just not that unusual, and sometimes meets with a response like, “Yeah...and?”

The other remarkable thing about being here is that literally 80% of the Argentines I run into speak some level of English. At a certain level it is comforting, but then it gets to be a little annoying because it is almost impossible to practice my Spanish with someone for more than five minutes, before the conversation turns back to English. So if you are prevented from coming here to visit, solely because of whatever language barrier you think might exist, just forget it and buy your ticket tomorrow. Even if all you know is “hola” and “buenos dias” you’ll be fine. It’s almost embarrassing to tell you the truth. How many Americans do you know who are fluent, or even competent (and I don’t mean the few phrases and hand gestures you picked up on your latest trip abroad) in another language? If I racked my brain I could think of five, out of just about everybody I know.

But that’s another topic for another time. If you actually read all of this, I’ll buy you a steak...in Buenos Aires....Hasta luego.

Comments

Anonymous said…
I read the whole thing, I want my steak!! I laugh a lot with the bus, haha! I'll teach u... The day u stop thinking and let everything around u just flow. You are gonna feel like in a new different home, take it from a traveler. I can't wait to hear about Mendoza!
Anonymous said…
Como estas, cugino? How's slummin? Sounds like you are having a great time...no Chris this time around? Good luck in your travels and drop me a line (or email sometime). By the way, if you end up lock up abroad (like that TV series) I will come to bail you out. P.S. don't know if your dad told you, but you are going to be an uncle.
Anonymous said…
Your best work yet my friend. The bus story is out of some kafka tale, truly funny. The city looks very much like any ol eastern europe country. Of course what would any third rate country be without dragging along way too young kids for like..motorcycle rides, or through busy intersections.

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