“It’s probably closed"

I am constantly surprised by the work ethic here in Argentina…or really the lack of work ethic. I’ve become somewhat of a regular at a few restaurants, cafés and shops in my neighborhood, and I’ve learned through multiple visits, often at similar times, that business hours are merely a rough guideline here. Businesses close when the owners/workers feel like closing, and they could care less how their patrons feel about it.

Kelly and I recently walked to a local restaurant that we love (solely for the cheap empanadas) – only to find it had closed at 7 p.m. I looked at Kelly with disbelief. Had we not eaten here at 10 p.m. a couple nights ago? Why would they be open late on Wednesday and not Friday? Kelly’s response was “eh, it’s Argentina.” So I’ve come to rely on the unreliability of local businesses.

Kelly and I often say to each other:
“It’s late; it’s probably closed.”
“It’s early; it’s probably closed.”
“It’s Monday; it’s probably closed.”
“It’s raining; it’s probably closed.”

And then there are those that close in the middle of the day:
…even the cat looks confused
(cerrado = closed / abrimos = we open)

Iguazu Falls (Puerto Iguazu Fails)

Kelly and I decided to get out of the city last weekend and visit Iguazu Falls. The most common method of transportation for expats with more time on their hands than money in their wallets is by bus. It’s an 18-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu, so naturally we passed the time by drinking wine and trying to sleep. I say “trying” because the seats weren’t comfortable, it was freezing cold, the man behind me snored and my iPod died somewhere around hour 10.

Iguazu Falls has been described as “Niagra on Viagra,” and we immediately understood why when we heard the rumble of the falls shortly after entering the park (after some wandering to find a working ATM since the park only accepts cash and, as the Americans we are, we only brought Visa).

I cannot find the words to describe the sheer magnitude of water thundering down the cliffs bordering Argentina and Brazil. No words, or even pictures, could do this beast of nature justice. We spent hours walking along the river with fellow visitors enamored by the beauty of each small waterfall, rainbow and glimpse at the massive natural wonder. As if it weren’t enough that we were soaked from the mist that filled the air like rain, we then took a 12-minute boat ride up to the falls on both the Argentine and Brazilian side.

“The waterfall system consists of 275 falls along 2.7 kilometers (1.67 miles) of the Iguazu River,” according to Wikipedia.

The violent energy of water hitting water made me feel small and insignificant as it pushed our boat away. Cold water splashed us from all angles as we looked up at The Throat of the Devil…literally. “La Garganta del Diablo” is the section of waterfall marking the border between Argentina and Brazil. Argentina claims 2/3 of Iguazu Falls, though both countries attempt to claim the best view. Almost mockingly, a small Argentine flag waves from a pole stuck whimsically in the rocky foot of San Martin Island.

I tried to enjoy every humbling moment next to the powerful waterfall, but a few of those moments were stolen from me by my own cynical humor. I couldn’t help but mock our Asian boat mates snapping photos and screaming frantically with each turn or wave. After the boat ride, we felt like children who had exhausted a theme park. Each view became less impressive, every picture resembled the last and the monotonous rumbling of the falls made our eyelids feel heavy.


Kelly and I spent Sunday night at the hostel bar discussing future travel plans over two-for-one liters of Quilmes. Our hearts raced as we talked about wine tours in Mendoza, Carnival in Brazil, hiking Patagonia, Peru, Chile, Columbia…Thailand? But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; let’s explore Puerto Iguazu while we’re here.

On Monday, we realized there isn’t much to do in Puerto Iguazu outside of Iguazu Falls. On our way to an Indian reservation (Fortín M’Bororé), our bus driver dropped us off on the side of the highway and told us to walk back because he had accidently passed our stop. Starting at a sign that said “Fin Zona Urbanizada,” we followed the long highway back to the city center with a couple detours along the way. We never did find the Indian reservation, but we did find unhelpful Argentines, sketchy dirt roads and new insight into how fast we can run!

I had a feeling of comfort as I boarded the bus back to Buenos Aires. That feeling was soon interrupted by stillness. We weren’t at another bus station, so why weren’t we moving? I looked out the window to see our bus driver kissing a young woman while holding a newborn baby. I found myself annoyed when I realized he had stopped to see his family. My typical American response was irritation at his lack of respect for my schedule. Then I remembered that I have nowhere to be! I laughed at how lax the work culture is here and decided to practice patience.

But my patience was tested each time our drivers stopped to pick up random cargo in the night. I tried to sleep but was regularly awoken by Argentine police officers searching our bus, checking IDs and confiscating packages. Our 18-hour bus ride became a 21-hour bus ride including our mechanical issues. I was tired, annoyed and confused. I had suffered through a full day of unhelpful Argentines, and I missed America where people are kind, companies are efficient and conversations are in English.

Desperate for something familiar, I searched my iPod. And right there, during hour 14 on the dark country roads of Argentina, I found a piece of home…Casey Stidham. I wiped tears of exhaustion from my face as Casey Stidham, from Plant City, Fla., sang me to sleep with comforting cover songs. “Everybody’s just a stranger, but that’s the danger of going my own way. It’s the price I have to pay.”

Cementerio de la Recoleta

This cemetery/tourist attraction is where Eva Perón and generations of the Argentine elite immortalize their social status with marble mausoleums and elaborate statues.

The layout is similar to a that of a city. Large mausoleums line the street-style walkways like historic city buildings.

I found myself curious about many lives represented along the streets of Cementerio de la Recoleta. Who was this person? What kind of life did he/she live to afford real estate in the most expensive part of Buenos Aires? What would this statue mean to him/her?

A saying about this cemetery: "It is cheaper to live extravagantly all your life than to be buried in Recoleta."

Evita's family mausoleum with her plaque on the bottom right.

Flower child buried in the 70's that reminded me of my friend, Devon. It's an odd feeling to have a connection to a stranger's burial plot in a foreign country, but I felt like I knew this girl.

A large number of freakishly healthy feral cats call Cementerio de la Recoleta home.

Mi Barrio de Buenos Aires

“Recoleta is the Rolls Royce of Buenos Aires. It’s where the rich live in luxury apartments and mansions while spending their free time shopping in expensive boutiques such as Cartier and Armani. It’s where the privileged proudly walk their pampered poodles and have their hair dyed an even richer hue. It’s where the elite sip at elegant cafés in their best Sunday threads – even on Thursdays. And it’s also where they’re all finally put to rest, in their famous cemetery.”
– Buenos Aires City Guide; Lonely Planet

I do live in Recoleta, but to say I’m living in a luxury apartment and sipping elegant cafés in my best Sunday threads is a far stretch from the truth. I share my quaint one-bedroom apartment with my friend Kelly from college and a collection of small insects. The rent is cheap, the neighborhood is nice, the elevators work (most of the time) and the doorknobs only fall off when I’m in a hurry. But this is not about my shabby building in a chic neighborhood… it’s about the city; Buenos Aires.

I arrived in Buenos Aires nearly two weeks ago and realized instantly how little Spanish I know when my customs attendant couldn’t understand me and the airport ATM didn’t have an English option. The cab ride from the airport to my apartment was filled with awkward silence sporadically interrupted by futile attempts at small talk. “Where you from?” he asked me. “Florida, y tu? Usted de Buenos Aires?” Why I even attempted to ask is beyond me. I knew he’d answer in Spanish and that would be the end of the conversation. After rambling for a minute, he glanced in the rear-view mirror at my blank expression and said “Chile now here.” Ah. I turned back to the window and pretended to read the street signs. He’d occasionally point something out, in Spanish, and I’d smile and nod as if it meant something to me.

Kelly met us on the sidewalk in front of our building, and I felt like a child who had just flown alone for the first time. They engaged in Spanish conversation as the cabbie unloaded my two heavy suitcases and passed me off to Kelly – possibly warning her that I was going to be swallowed alive by this city. I don’t know; I couldn’t understand them. And then I heard the English language for the first time in two hours: “You made it! Welcome to Buenos Aires! Watch out for the dog shit.”

One might think “watch out for the dog shit” is an odd greeting, but in Buenos Aires it’s imperative. It seems more dogs wander the cobblestone streets than humans, and they shit everywhere. It pains me to think of the beautiful architecture I must miss by keeping my eyes down to navigate the dog-shit landmine that is Buenos Aires. But my first week was filled with more than just Spanish lessons and dog shit.

During my first seven days in Buenos Aires, I tasted empanadas, milanesa and alfajores. I danced at a Brazilian drum show, Erick Morillo’s house show and various nightclubs. I visited Palermo, El Alamo and the famous Cementerio de la Recoleta. I said hello to new American friends, exchanged besos with new Argentine friends and even had to say goodbye to fellow expats returning home.

I had an epic entrance into Argentina, and I’m looking forward to everything this adventure has to offer. I’ll try to document my findings here as I live in Buenos Aires, travel South America and (attempt to) learn Spanish.