Madras Kitchen in Buenos Aires

Writing this in the Hostal Gran Oriental in Buenos Aires (neither Gran nor Oriental by the way). It’s when you come to BA that you realise that Santiago is just a town. Buenos Aires lives, breathes, pulsates – and wears its past glory on its sleeve. For that’s what it lives on – past glories.

The first thing you notice about the Argentines is that they don’t smile as much (and Chilenos are supposed to be reserved!!). Beginning with severe little Clowdia, my hospedaje owner in El Calafate, the manager in the BA hostal…An interesting difference is the point on family photos. All the Chilenos I met would produce these photos of their family out of their wallets - and eagerly show them to me. And then they’d ask me about my family – but alas, I didn’t carry a photo! Even Patricia and Maurizio’s house was full of family photos. Didn’t see that anywhere in Argentina. The only person who showed me a photo of his wife and daughter in Argentina turned out to be a Chileno married to an Argentine.

Today was another early start – my flight was at 10am but the airport at El Calafate was a good 25km away. Had located the Airport Bus office the previous evening – so trudged off with bag and baggage…and discovered my hospedaje owner was not just unsmiling but also not very helpful. He pointed out where the office was but forgot to mention that it was closed till 10:30! Wandered around the streets of El Calafate trying to locate a taxi – and was finally helped by a cop who showed me where the taxi stand was. The first friendly person I met in Argentina! We travelled briefly on the famous Ruta 40 on the way to the airport. Ruta 40 is the highway that covers all of Argentina – from Rio Gallegos in the extreme South to Salta in NW Argentina.

Full flight with a Frenchwoman next to me; she was at least 70 but seemed to have had several cosmetic procedures. Her printed scarf, choker pearls and chiffony-cream trouser suit were presumably from Cannes in the 70s. And in front of me were a lesbian couple who seemed pretty amorous even at 10 in the morning. I bore the brunt since the pillow kept falling behind and I had to hand it over each time. But it seemed business as usual for everyone – Argentina is certainly one of the most relaxed of South American countries in this respect. Argentina is also more blond and blue compared to the rest of SAm – the Aerolineas Argentina air-hostesses being cases in point.

We landed in BA at around 2pm. The urban sprawl had begun a good 30 minutes before the captain switched on the fasten seatbelt sign. It began with block after block of tiny houses with their own neighbourhood stadiums and malls, then the city took shape and finally, a long sweep over the muddy waters of the Atlantic and we were flying over BA. Even from the air, the avenues looked huge. As soon as I emerged from the airport, I was accosted by a shoe-shine man who insisted my shoes were incredibly dirty (which I suppose they were) and cursed me when I said I didn’t want them polished. It was a hot and humid afternoon – my decrepit taxi first swung out onto a wide road hugging the muddy bay (would have expected more blue!), crossed a run-down area near the railway station, passed some magnificent parks and boulevards and then criss-crossed a maze of narrow roads. By the time I got to the hostal Gran Oriental, the roads were narrow and choked with traffic and people. The window of the cab was rolled down but I was sweating rivers as we crawled in heavy afternoon traffic.

The subte (metro) was round the corner, so decided to stroll around the ‘microcentre’ in the evening. The Subte is over 100 years old (unlike Santiago’s spanking new and yet to be completed metro). The carriage I was in came complete with wooden floors and seats, yellow globes hanging from the roof and even mirrors – they were glazing over with age but were mirrors none the less!

The microcentre has two long bisecting pedestrian streets; the Lavalle and Florida. Unlike Santiago’s manicured Paseo Ahumada, Calle Florida was a glorious chaos of huge shopping complexes (the Galerias Pacificos a la Galerie Lafayette in Paris), street vendors, crowded hardware stores, suited businessmen, long-haired touts spruiking virtually anything that can be sold, American tourists, dodgy cinemas, equally dodgy bylanes, streetside tango and ramshackle Karol-Bagh-ish buildings closing in on the narrow street. And smoky cafes where busy waiters served real coffee (what joy!) after the café con leche in Chile that tasted suspiciously of Nescafe. Ate dinner at a small brasserie called the Madras Kitchen – done up in funky purple and serving standard Hispano-Italian fare. The waitresses were Argentine and the only thing Indian was the décor (ranging from the Taj Mahal to Om!). Back to the hotel and the angular sharp-featured harpy of a manager managed a smile when she gave me my keys.

Photo album for this post available at: http://picasaweb.google.com/shivmoulee/BuenosAiresMendozaAndOverTheAndesToSantiago