Revolución

I didn’t know, when I booked the trip, that the weekend included a national holiday. Not for Argentina, anyway. I wanted to visit my brother after he settled and before winter set in. Memorial Day seemed as good a reason as any. A three-day weekend stretched a little on either side to accommodate a trip to South America. I hadn’t bothered to look at the Argentine calendar, the weather or guidebooks to figure out what I wanted to do. My brother and friends would take care of the first and the last, and as for the middle, I would layer.

At some points, I froze. For the most part, though, I was comfortable as we wandered the streets on the May Revolution Day, stopping by street vendors to look at old movie posters, photographs and phonographs, china dotted with fading flowers, frightening dolls with cracked faces and drooping lids.

In May 1810, a small revolution took place in Buenos Aires in the first step towards independence from Spain. Almost 200 years later, on El Día de la Revolución de Mayo, flags flew from the windows of cabs, of private cars. A band of two drummers and three singers walked the market in San Telmo, passing around a fedora for change.

Later, we discovered they came from Brazil and may have been homeless but we still we talked. We laughed. We all posed for pictures, at their prompting, and passed around kissed to unshorn cheeks before we left. I have their phone numbers with me still, just in case we want music at a party.

On a corner, near the plaza, a couple demonstrated the tango, pulling members from the audience. A woman with cascading red curls and a short black skirt lengthened with fringe danced with a boy who barely came to her waist, spinning and following his tiny lead.

Nearby, a puppet walked a tightrope, balancing precariously to the delight of small children and parents alike. Further down the street, an Amerindian (or a man in costume) played a flute while the artist next to him rolled his eyes and pointed at his headphones.

With the sun low in the sky and vendors packing up their wares, with the chill set deep into our bones, we sought the comfort of a local cafe. The waitress refused to bring us mate. Not enough people wanted it and those who did obviously didn’t warrant the effort. She also harangued us, in Spanish and disapproving stares, for the number of pastries we ordered – too few – and wine to follow coffee to join the girl who didn’t want to drink alone.

She, the waitress, joined a long line of servers who passed judgment on what we did, how we ordered, when we wanted things and our mental lists grew. No mate for two. No coffee until after lunch. No large desserts. No small desserts. No food left uneaten. No tips for cab drivers. No more than 10 percent in a restaurant. No purses on the table. And fish isn’t meat. Nor is chicken.

Nevertheless, we did what we wanted and they did the same, bringing out dishes, as they were ready, refusing to serve the mate and bringing the coffee in the middle of the meal. We found an unlikely balance and laughed. Lived. Learned.

Tag: Travel Argentina