Soundscape - San Telmo

 

I am sitting on a roof in San Telmo in the sunshine; above me not a cloud, save for a paleing* of the sky towards the River Plata. Otherwise as blue as you have ever seen.

March is progressing and the season slips towards a Buenos Aires autumn. It is still warm, Europeans might say hot, but no longer the intense heat of previous months.

So I sit in the sun, close my eyes; and this is what I hear.

The opening strains of 'Cumparaseta' rise from San Lorenzo. The first few bars are louder, as if to announce a presence, then they subside, to be carried away on the breeze that ruffles the leaves of the banana plant. A Yamaha motorcyle roars along Independencia. A cartonero - the street people who recycle cardboard and plastic - wheels his rattling, squeaking laden trolley in Defensa.

Music on a transistor radio competes momentarily with Cumparaseta, before reverting to a scramble of Castillano. Somewhere at a distance, a workman uses something pneumatic, but too far for reverberations to interrupt the soundscape. Now a lift door closes - the old type with a lattice of riveted bars that open like a bandoneon, and close with a 'clack'. 

There are voices down at the corner of Independencia and Defensa - two men seem to be speaking about something important, or about where they should go for coffee. Bottles are being recycled, or simply thrown into a bin, for glass recycling is not high on the agenda here. Of course there are car horns - not as you may hear in India or the East, but occasional, out of recognition and frustration.  Beneath the whole soundscape is the hum of traffic and the occasional air conditioner unit. Lorries grind at a distance as they progress along Av Ing Huergo, and nearby a race starts with the changing lights  on Independencia. 

In San Telmo (unlike Monserrat) there is little birdsong. Perhaps our building is too high (we are on a 5th floor roof), or maybe the density of buildings and dearth of open spaces takes its toll. Below I can just hear a single street pigeon - but not the accompanying chirrup of the sparrows that perch expectantly at cafe tables.

There is however a sudden explosion followed by the sound of drumming. Elsewhere in the world this would be of concern, or at least significance. In Buenos Aires we recognise the sound as a firecracker launched by the protest marchers that each week protest about something different. The bang is loud enough to send the pigeons flying, but is ignored by the Portenos that walk to work along Defensa.

A light helicopter makes its way along to Aeroparque Jorge Newbury via Puerto Madero docks with more of a presence than a noise, its rotor blades compressing the air. Van doors slam, iron apartment doors clang, and footsteps clack on marble stairs.

There is always sound here in Buenos Aires. Both the day and the night air is never silent. After a while, it becomes part of the city's pattern - to be ignored and then unheard. Unless, that is, you are walking on a narrow footpath being passed by deafening colectivos, or hearing their air brakes released as they set off across the grid of San Telmo streets.

Up here, the quality of noise is different - distant - diffused, enabling a disconnection from the busy city. And so I sit with tea and ' drink in' the city sounds.

Plaza Dorrego - the final tanda

In a trip to Buenos Aires, you should at least once dance in Plaza Dorrego.

Here in the heart of San Telmo is the most iconic square, where on Sunday nights locals and tourists dance tango under the stars. Pedro ‘El Indio’ Benavente organises the milonga, providing sound system, lighting and a demonstration, and it runs from 7 - 11 pm in the summer months. It is part of what makes San Telmo the tango barrio.

Stephanie and I arrange to meet Miss Moneypenny and TT there after 8 pm. “We will be sitting on the little wall where you change your shoes, or dancing” adds Stephanie; and indeed we are dancing when they arrive from their different barrios. 

With our street shoes tucked inside our bags, and the bags placed securely in the pile next to where Pedro masterminds his playlist, Stephanie and I have squeezed onto the floor for a tanda of Calo. We join dancers of all ages and abilities. Our attention is drawn to a young and energetic couple as they ladle their DNI moves across the polished tiles. Then our discerning eye fixes on a mature couple in their 70’s who dance in close embrace. He gives a clear but sensitive lead, and despite her elderly thickened calfs, she collects her heels perfectly and dances like a dream. They are the prize of the pista. 

We dance a circuit of the floor just before the tanda finishes. For Stephanie, this is like tasting a shard of chocolate from a whole bar, and she wants more. So despite the next tanda being ‘milonga’ - a quicker form of dance - we return starting sedately with Canaro’s Milonga Sentimental. 

I do my best with my new found milonga skills following Patrick Arellano’s instruction, and these are just good enough for the first three tunes of the tanda. A fourth song is fast and the floor has become crowded, so at my request, Stephanie and I step from the pista to resume our places on the wall to watch.

As the final song progresses there is a moment of consternation. Dancers group to one side of the pista. From our position it is impossible to see what transpires. Shortly, we are aware of figures rushing from the southern end of the plaza. The music falters, then stops. Circling dancers stand in couples; and couples in silent groups. They look from side to side questioningly. The non-dancers that crowd and watch from the perimeter of the pista break the moment with animated questions and comments.

Gradually, the pista clears. Tangueros are returning to their places at the edge of the square. A hush descends.

The joy of tango is not simply the mastery of an intricate and difficult dance. It is about a journey within an embrace. Often we hold - or are held by strangers in an intimate embrace, that speaks of a primeval need to be loved, to belong, or at least acknowledged as we go through life.

Tango is a hard journey, through testing times before reaching the goal of fluidity and true connection. For this reason, the skills of young, quick dancers are not the ones that we covet. They are yet to qualify for milonguero status. The older, experienced dancers often hold the key to tango. They take time, in silence they listen to each other and the music, they connect, and they accommodate the moment. And so it is here in Plaza Dorrego. Life, love, anxiety, and intimacy are played out each Sunday as dancers travel to their chosen destination in their own personal tango journey.

Four figures are now kneeling on the ground in concentric focus. There is movement, but little activity. A circle of watchers gathers. Something is amiss. Don Bernabe, the grandfather of this little milonga, speaks quietly with Pedro. He in turn moves forward, but to stop. We hear the sound of a siren as it draws closer on the night air.

The figure on the ground is that of a tanguero of senior age. His polished tango shoes glint in the evening light as he lays. 

Time suffuses and the evening gathers in a surreal envelope. Dancers wait in the shadows, patiently, and expectantly. The expectation is that the figure will rise from the floor. Perhaps he will be helped to a seated position, be assisted to the wall where someone will produce a bottle of water for a much needed drink.

But that expectation is not to be. The figure does not rise, nor now can anyone assist him on this final journey. Even the crowd of tango watchers falls silent. On the far side of the plaza in Defensa, the drumming of the carnival drummers ceases. Plaza Dorrego has never witnessed such silence. People huddle together and whisper. Faces that were intent on dance now look drawn with sadness. A frailty is cast across this place. It is the frailty of life itself. It is - at the end of the final furlong - the end of a journey.

Miss Moneypenny brushes a tear from her eye, and TT places a motherly arm around her shoulder. I pull a shoe lace and reach for my street shoes. Stephanie gathers her bag and folds a wrap close around her. Without words, we walk. I pass Don Bernabe to give him a hug. “This is how life is”, says Pedro Benavente philosophically and without drama.

Back in Defensa we climb four flights of stairs to our rooftop apartment. Moneypenny and TT join us for they sense this moment should be shared, rather than ignored. With a bottle of wine to ease the weight, we sit in the half light and speak of tango, and of mortality.

His was a tango journey that ended as tango journeys should end. Whilst the aftermath is of unimaginable grief, the moment was that of a tango dancer on a tango floor within a close embrace. Together we clink our glasses and wish him 'Godspeed'.

 

La Boca - beyond the tin foil

Our Porteno friend Cecilia Pastore, who took this photo of me at the La Boca Stadium in 2007, is not able to visit us today, so Stephanie and I decide instead on an impromptu return visit to La Boca, an edgy, southern barrio of Buenos Aires.

When people say, “You should be careful going there”, I feel a sudden sense of bravado and the desire to venture into danger. La Boca is one of the more challenging and challenged barrios, bounded to the north by Constitucion and to the south by the Riachuelo river. Here poverty levels rise and fall with the changing value of the peso. Living in La Boca is a day-by-day affair. There are no cushions, no flexibility. Life is hand-to-mouth, and tourists present a worldly, camera festooned respite from poverty.

Nevertheless, we walk; via Av Regimieto de Patricios and Magallanes towards the La Boca basin. The last section past Plaza Matheu is testing. Thin tailed dogs roam the streets; the pavements rise in steps and disappear with a drop, I test the sharp blade of my pen knife against my palm. The cars and vans that line the street are as decrepit and tired as the buildings alongside. Shirtless, threadbare men peer from crumbling balconies. Here is none of the ‘Colourful Caminito’ of La Boca - simply the detritus of lost, wasted generation.

Ahead we see the ‘La Boca’ that will be familiar to tourists. It arrives suddenly, and with a brash, commercial steel. Tenements give way to shops, arcades and ‘pavement tango’. Waiters rush between shorts-and-cheesecloth-clad tourists, making placating sounds to secure a tip. The tango dancers, who have been here since dawn, seem exhausted, but keep dancing for the few pesos that tourists will drop into their hat. Stephanie and I look at each other with dismay. We knew it was like this, but the reality is more displeasing than our anticipation. We are in the wrong place. This is not a place for us. I feel like Garrison Keiller’s ‘Sanctified Bretheren’ family in ‘Lake Wobegone’ as they enter a worldly restaurant for the first and last time.  Are we ‘the tourists’ who come to soak up an unauthentic pastiche?

We walk quickly through the throng of American, English, German Dutch and Japanese voices that grate against the strains of ‘La Cumparsita’ and ‘Choclo’. On the other side of the Caminito, we reach the docks. Since our last visit in 2015 they have been freshly fumigated, and the remaining polystyrene and plastic bottles are corralled within a circle of floats. Old buildings, formerly covered with thin rusting tin are being clad in newly painted corrugated steel to replicate the old. To our right, the paving stones have been coloured in gaudy ‘La Boca’ colours. To Stephanie I say, ‘’Don’t stand on the yellow ones”, to which her reaction without speaking is to do precisely that. We walk the length of the port on yellow until we arrive at the iconic ‘Puento Transbordado’ - the La Boca transporter bridge, fabricated in England and assembled in Argentina between 1906-12 by the British owned Buenos Aires Great Southern Railway. 

‘We must see this, now it has been painted silver”, I say, and walk off towards the quayside. Stephanie follows reluctantly. I rest my arms against the quay wall and look out at the lattice of steel work that spans the basin. Below, the water is calm and deserted of craft. As we gaze an old woman approaches, looking concerned. “Don’t venture beyond here”, she warns in Castillano. “It is full of robbers and criminals”. We thank her, and return without further prompting to the no 152 collectivo which waits at the stop. Behind us in the shadows figures flit, as if laid in waiting for our arrival. 

The bus driver smiles reassuringly. “Donde”, he asks? We say, “San Telmo” and press our SUBE card twice to the reader. It pips but once, and the card reader reveals a debit of 4.5 pesos. “Just say that your other card was robbed”, says the driver knowingly, and allows us both to board. We take our seats at the back of the bus as the collectivo rushes from barrio La Boca towards Parque Lezama and the civilisation of safe San Telmo.

Photo of La Boca by Cecilia Pastore

Parque Lezama - the bright side of life and the inevitable destiny

 

“Where shall we go this afternoon”, said Stephanie, adding quickly, “don’t forget its pizza tonight”. “How about Parque Lezama?” “What a good idea” I rejoin, thinking already of pizza and chilled Lopez.

And so it is to Parque Lezama that we walk, taking the scenic route via Balcarce, Cafe Pride and Cafe Rivas.

An undisclosed, but significant sum of pesos has been invested in Parque Lezama since 2015, turning a tired provincial park into a wonderful work of horticultural art. Sculptures were removed and replaced in polished condition. The children’s play area was relocated from the centre of the park to a convenient (and discrete) lower level. Huge palms were copiced, and have regenerated with succulent growth and a fresh crop of fruit to feed the resident parakeets. Altogether, magnificent.

Today is the day to visit a park. It is 24 degrees, with a light breeze. Overhead there is not a cloud to clutter a 210 degree azure sky, halfway between blue and cyan. The sun shines.

We enter by the amphitheater at Av Brazil on the north side. A lone workman scrubs graffiti from the wall. Perhaps this is his ‘community service’? We mount the steps leading into the main park. To our left the ancients sit at stone tables to play chess and draughts. Ahead white poodles are walked by their owners beneath trees crowned with candy coloured blossom.

 

We follow an anti clockwise route on the new brick paving, taking in the restored balustrades and enjoying open views. Small plaques to our left indicate the species of tree; ahead - a colonnade set with new benches. Riding slowly on their black bicycles, two policemen pass-by, nodding with appreciation as we give way to their progress. 

 

Stephanie and I select a bench that still enjoys the afternoon sun, to watch park life. To our right a tai chi figure unfurls a cerise banner, two lovers pass pausing for a long kiss, at one side a group of college students sit together with books spread out on the grass beneath the canopy of a tree. Here is the hum of humanity, gentle, almost gentile. In the distance, the bark of a lone dog, and the sound of a car horn. Then a sudden breath of a breeze lifts Stephanie’s hair and ruffles my collar. This solitary wind is different from others - it signals an altered energy on which the pea-green parakeets have taken flight.

After a while we rise to continue our walk in the park. Just around the corner we see the same two black bicycles stood together on their stands joined by a checkered tape. Two dark figures bend over a pile of clothing on a sunlit bench. One of them reaches down to lift an arm. From the end of the bench dangle two legs with feet clad in old boots. A policeman, with remarkable sensitivity, removes a watch from the wrist, and places it in a tiny pile with other possessions. A blanket covers all but a shock of grey hair. There is no sound; no movement; nor has there been since its discovery. The ‘solitary wind’ now makes sense. That stillness spoke of a moment passing.

Now, children dressed like miniature shopkeepers in long white coats return from school in small groups or with admiring parents. The park springs back into life as the volume switch turns. Contemplative, we walk, hand in hand,  regarding our lives with a fresh value.

“When I die, I want it to be like that”, I say, “On a park bench here in Parque Lezama, in the sunshine, my spirit borne by a flight of green parakeets”, I add. Stephanie smiles. “We will see what we can do”, she says quietly, with a twinkle in her eye.

 

Legal in Argentina - a tale of the Visa

 

Its Monday. On Wednesday Stephanie and I will have been in Buenos Aires for 90 days - which is the duration of our entry visa. So, to remain legal, we must renew.

Most longer-stay visitors will combine, or break their stay here in Argentina with trips to other Latin American countries, meaning that on each re-entry, they receive a further 90 days. Others who are not intent on travelling will simply take the Buquebus ferry to Uruguay - a short return trip across the Plata that can be undertaken in a day.

Having chatted to those that have taken the ferry, we are not convinced the journey is for us. Our North American friends love its novelty, but for British Islanders, the ferry holds no such delight. So, we are to seek our renewal at the ‘Direccion Nacional de Migraciones’.

We board colectivo 130 in Paseo Colon, joining late morning city travellers. At Av de Mayo, heat soars whilst traffic freezes due to construction of a new bus route causing traffic chaos. The remainder of our journey is at walking pace as we pass pedestrians only to be re-passed by them en route.

Just short of Av Cordoba, we exit into Av Leandro Arlem, pass the Buquebus offices at the head of the docks and on to the ‘Migraciones’ building. 

Stephanie and I sense we are criticised when we speak of Argentina being ‘third world’ - for it is the most ‘Westernised’ of all Latin countries. Walk in barrios Recoleta or Palermo and you will find everything that Westerners covet and prize. Sales assistants will have a university degree in law, philosophy or psychology. But when it comes to government - and especially administration - here in Argentina you must replace ‘efficiency’ with the queue. Yes, the Portenos of Buenos Aires with saintly patience are world experts on queuing.

So with technology. USA currency and credit embargos imposed on Argentina at the turn of the century following their international debt default made the purchase of modern computer equipment by many Argentines, expensive, if not impossible. Enter shops or offices and you will still see old computer monitors, and a dearth of digital equipment such as card readers. Until 2016 and the election of civil engineer, President Macri, Argentina had largely a ‘cash economy’, with heavy disincentives for the use of credit or debit cards.

And so it is at the ‘Direccion Nacional de Migraciones’. Systems analysis knows no place here. After answering the questions of the ‘man on the door’ who directs us and tens of thousands to our destination, and navigating the milling crowds, we arrive at Edificio 6, Zona K. The desk is immediately recognisable by a long queue snaking to one side, whilst the desk itself is bereft of visitors, its occupant flipping a passport nonchalantly between his fingers then gazing into the near distance. Underneath, an old desk-top processor struggles in the heat, with a mess of wires that bundle into the waiting hall. 

Our reception officer looks stressed as he manipulates his neck from side to side and rubs his eyes. Returning to his desk he grabs a few sheets of paper, folds them firmly and inserts them into the workings of a large fan to cushion the rattles and vibration. The effect is momentary, for soon the papers are whipped on a current of air, and the rattles resume. He looks at us kindly as he hands us a sheet of paper with our arrival number top right, perhaps anticipating that our next encounter will be with his surly colleague at an adjacent desk, who then commands our presence with a peremptory hand movement. His is the ultimate economy of speech, words being replaced with grunts, sighs interspersed with disconcerting silence. He flips over the visas, returning as if he is willing there to be a problem.  Should our applications have been knowingly flawed his demeanor would have broken our nerve and sent us rushing from his desk. Instead, after some consideration, he utters two reassuring words “noventa pesos”, by which we understand that we are to proceed to the cash desk distant in Edificion 4. 

He is still waiting when we return, the unmoving queue now trailing out of the doors into the courtyard. He leans back in his chair and examines the receipts with suspicion, then waves us back to his stressed colleague take our photographs and ten finger marks. Stephanie recalls that I looked terrified when pressing too hard on the finger-reader causing the operator to pull it from its mounting, bash it twice on the desk “Basil Fawlty’ style to demonstrate his displeasure before resuming the operation. Then we are sent to sit like naughty children and wait, our passports disappearing into hidden offices for checks, and more photocopying with medieval machines. Stephanie and I look at each other, then into space, around us the hum of frustrated humanity. Had we slipped unknowingly into hell, or is this just another aspect of Argentine administration misrule?

Twenty minutes pass. A handful of visitors arrive with their personal agents who, with plastic folders of papers, negotiate the process successfully by nods and the flapping of arms. We sip our now-tepid bottles of water and Stephanie searches her bag for a mint to steady her breathing.

Suddenly and without warning, the surly colleague waves our passports towards us from behind the glass screen of his counter. We approach wondering how tight the handcuffs will be fastened. And then, the almost-smile: not quite a smile as you would know it, but something less than a grimace - and our visa stamped passports are returned to our care. “Let’s get out of here before they change their minds”, says Stephanie with her usual humour. “Yes, ordeal over...and we are now legal for another three months”, I rejoin as we depart into the sunshine and make our way back into the city. 

How it's done:

1. Travel to Migraciones building Av Antartida https://g.co/kgs/lHtvgb. 

2. Take with you:

     *Your passport

     *Printed confirmation of home flight

     *Proof of accommodation in CABA

     *Other paperwork if relevant

     *Bottle of water

     *Book or Kindle to read during the wait

3. Enter the yellow building, Edificio 3 (‘Entrada’).

4. At the door, if asked, say “Edificio 6, Zona K”.

5. Enter, turn immediately right, walk up the ramp, and exit through the door on the right wall to the courtyard/garden.

6. Take the path straight ahead through the garden to Edificio 6.

7. Enter Edificio 6 and go to ‘Zona K’.

8. To the left of ‘Zona K’ (marked D) join the queue to obtain a ‘time of admission’ sheet bearing your log-in number.

9. Sit and wait for your number to be called by one of two officers at ‘Zona K’. 

10. Hand over:

     *Your admission sheet

     *Your passport

The renewal process now starts, involving a series of lengthy checks of your visas.

11. ‘Zona K’ prints out a payment slip, retaining your passport. Take this immediately to the CAJA in Edificio 4 at the very far end and pay 900 pesos per traveller.

12. Return to ‘Zona K’ and pass receipt papers back to the waiting officer.

13. The officer will direct you to stand to your left at desk D to await photograph and 10 fingerprints (starting with right thumb).

14. Once completed, take a seat and wait...and wait.

15. Officer at ‘Zona K’ will wave to you when he receives your passports from the back office with renewed visa.

16. Check the visa date. If correct, now you may leave. 

On our visit (arriving at 11 am) total time - 2 hours

Oriental Buenos Aires

So, you were expecting a piece about Barrio Chino, Belgrano. But no, we are still very much in San Telmo, just seven blocks in Defensa from Buenos Aires' best kept secret - 'Mash'.

Why come to Buenos Aires to eat curry, you ask? There is no single answer to that. Maybe gorged from the parilla, or piqued by pizza? Perhaps it is simply time to sample something different, with hot spice, chili and fun? Or is it that we seek the quirky, highly individual style of Gus and Martyn who own and run the restaurant called 'Mash'?

We leave our apartment at Defensa to cross Independencia towards Plaza Dorrego. Tonight we shall not linger in the newly restored square with its 2017 vintage-style LED lamps, paving and plastic covered cafe chairs. We hurry by, leaving the restaurant touts and their clipboards in our wake; for our destination is across San Juan, under the fly-over, by Cochabamba towards Juan de Garay. Within minutes we arrive at Defensa 1338, tucked inauspiciously to the left side of the street, announced by two boards bearing the dishes of the day.

Stephanie rings the bell and we glance ahead to see Gus come to the door smiling. How he recognizes us after two years absence is a miracle, but he does, and ushers us in with a hug. Tonight is 'Carnival Tuesday'; the city streets are bare of Portenos and tourists, and the restaurant is unusually quiet. When two regular late dinners leave, we have the place, and the joyful companionship of Gus and Martyn, to ourselves.

Eating at 'Mash' has two attractions. The first, and most obvious, is curry. Yes, there are other curry houses in Buenos Aires that hit the top ten - but their china is too fine, their napkins too large, their glasses too opulent, and their curry too pretentious. At 'Mash' curry is just curry, priced as curry should be, and served without flummery. The other attraction is more fascinating - its to do with Gus and Martyn. 

You can come to 'Mash' to sit quietly in a corner of their restaurant and eat curry. There will be no interruption to your longing looks into your lover's eyes. But, that is not why we are here. We want the rich chemistry, the conversation, the roll of thought and discussion....the perfect adjuncts to curry.

Martyn is the reason for 'Mash', styled as a 'British Curry House'. Born in Dorset, Martyn now lives as a Porteno and has become a living piece of San Telmo folklore. Like all good restaurateurs, he is to be found by the bar with a glass of red wine, a wicked smile and a wonderful flow of conversation. Martyn defines 'Mash' in the same way that Yves Saint Laurent defined French fashion. But being English, he does so with refreshing vernacular British style. Understanding this, and preparing for your curry experience with Martyn is the secret to a successful night. If you arrive damp, dull and devoid of dreams or diablo you may not be allowed in, and if you are, your experience will not be the same as if you arrive hungry for adventure.

Gus by contrast is the Rene from 'Alo Alo' - without the mustache. By day Gus commands huge respect as one of Buenos Aires' most prominent and well known scientists, working as a university professor. It seems strange to see him behind the bar at night, but as he says, "this keeps me in touch with the real world'. His warm intelligence radiates, and arcs with an electric zing to Martyn's acerbic humour..

Stephanie and I choose to sit at the bar, despite 'Carnival Tuesday' tables being free. Why?....because we do not wish to miss a moment of rich conversation that can only happen at the bar stool in 'Mash'. Our orders are placed - Chicken Kashmir and Thai Green Curry, and our placemats are set. We order a bottle of cool, crisp Sauvignon blanc to take the edge off the humid, limpid night.

Those restaurants where you feel 'the embrace' are rare. When found, they are to be prized. 'Mash' is one of these illusive experiences. Soon, Stephanie and I are enthralled by both conversation and wit. It is like taking dinner with two fascinating friends. Of course, conversation is a two-way street, so do not expect simply to be entertained. But if you have something to say, or anything to ask, here at 'Mash' seems precisely the place to do both.

An hour or two later, our plates are cleared from the bar top and we 'down' the remainder of the Sauvignon, with Martyn to our left and Gus to our right. We are but four characters from 'a soap', by now supremely scripted, and very satisfied. At that moment I have a fantasy that conversation should go on until dawn light breaks across the roofs of San Telmo. But that is just my selfish romanticism. Instead, we rise, settle our modest bill, and set off into the San Telmo night.

'Mash', Martyn and Gus have provided another memorable mark in our 2017 Argentine journey. If not before, this is the moment that we feel we have arrived back in our beloved barrio. A colectivo thunders past, gripping the cobbles. Stephanie and I glance at each other with satisfaction and simply stroll back towards the plaza and home.

Thanks to Adasol Oiram for the photo. 

Daniel Diaz - hair maestro

 

Why would a bald barrister be so enthused about hair styling?

Just look at the date. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day in case you had forgotten. I certainly didn't when I booked for Stephanie to have her hair styled by Buenos Aires' most exciting, original and enterprising hair stylist.

I feel a sense of guilt with my description of Daniel Diaz. 'Hair stylist' does not cut it....so to speak. I really want words such as 'creative artist', 'original hair philosopher', 'technical wizard' - but I am hopeful he will forgive my lack of understanding of hair; after all he has seen that I am not well blest in the hair follicle department. 

Of course I do know about women and their hair. I understand that hair precedes shoes, which precede almost everything else. I had overheard Stephanie speaking with her hairdresser in England and the look of abject anxiety on both their faces at the prospect of four months separation in Buenos Aires. And because it is so important, the stylist has as much status as the husband or partner - just ever-so-slightly behind 'the children'. There was even talk of Stephanie's stylist being flown to Argentina, just as Zsa Zsa Gabor did at the height of her fame. 

That was never necessary, as you will discover. Daniel Diaz has become the new idol for every anxious hair-aware woman, and indeed many men who seek something more than a haircut.

Monday afternoon, on the eve of Valentine's Day. It has been raining - you know, the sort that we get here in Buenos Aires, when the gutters gush, the trees pour, umbrellas break under the force and weight of water, and shoes squeak into deep puddles in the pavement. We contemplate the sky and wonder whether we will make it. Then everything changes. The sun hints with a couple of shafts down the calle, and we are off on our expedition to see Daniel Diaz. 

We near Corrientes, 'the street that never sleeps', but as it is approaching 1400 hours we need not worry about sleeping, just hair. The road is thronged with Portenos, travellers, tourists, shopkeepers, waiters and just about everybody else. Parana runs north to south on the Buenos Aires street grid, and this is where we take a right turn. 

The lift takes us quickly to the sixth floor and Daniel Diaz's studio. He meets us at the door which opens onto a truly fabulous room. This is his home as well as his workplace, and the studio bears his distinctive style. On the one hand the perfect salon - perhaps more than perfect for its range of equipment, hand-chosen for quality and precision. And then there is the gallery - with sofa, coffee table, TV, and Elsa the kitten, who will reach her first birthday tomorrow, Valentine's Day. Here is the welcoming of a friendly place.

Daniel cuts a remarkable figure, far from the effete hairdressers of yesteryear. Tall for an Argentine man, with thick black hair and a sculpted beard of the modern style. More interesting are his eyes that penetrate with their look, but in the way of someone about to ask a question. And then his smile, one that wins with both his clients and friends. 

In this blog you will understand that this is my second visit to meet Daniel - the first being to book the appointment, but I will condense that to this, simply to tell you of Daniel's investigation of 'the hair' - its nature, its colour, its previous management, the client's expectations and aspirations. The detail is reminiscent of the questions that precede any important event and that fill one with confidence about what is to follow. It is apparent that his knowledge of hair, and everything associated with it, is immense. 'Sassoon' trained in Toronto, Canada, Daniel can name not just every hair colour type, but indeed each bone that lies beneath.

Stephanie swoons as he unclips her tresses and pulls them gently through his fingers into long strands. He speaks about it as if it were a priceless pet, and asks how it is cared for, on what is it fed, how it is exercised. Stephanie sighs again with both pleasure and reassurance, and commits herself and her hair to Mr Diaz. It is clear that she has arrived exactly where she wanted and needs to be, and her long search for hair care in Buenos Aires is over. 

We meet four hours later. She walks towards me on Uruguay before Ave de Mayo. She smiles, and as she walks she shakes out her beautiful hair - revived, restored, re-invigorated - just like the expression on her face. 'So that is Valentine's Day sorted', I say to myself as I stroke my hair-free head and receive her kiss.

Daniel Diaz can be found at Facebook /danieldiazhair, email ljddiaz@gmail.com or phone 15.5751.9612

Elsa the kitten

Mariposita

We are crossing Avenida 9 de Julio, heading for Carlos Calvo 950 - the home of Mariposita de San Telmo. It is now a regular journey for us, easily undertaken by instinct, especially for Stephanie who attends the fabulous ‘Ladies Technique’ classes there.

Mariposita is a tango hotel and tango dance school. Sitting modestly next door to a towering green glass block, there is no outward sign of either hotel, or tango, simply an unmarked grey door with an adjacent caged bell, which we press. A voice answers. We hear footsteps on the long corridor and the sound of the latch. The door is opened by graceful Lettie, mother to the proprietor, Carolina Bonaventura. Behind her is Simon, a terrier of unknown breed, clearly the master of the house.

Towards the end of the corridor we turn right, entering a grand dance salon. No simple studio here - this is a large, elegant space with high ceiling, running the depth of the building. The floor is polished wood. It is mirrored along it’s full length. 

Centre stage is Patrick Arellano, supported by Giannina Roncagliolo who teach here under Carolina’s direction. Tonight there is a class of twelve dancers, distinctive in the ‘Mariposita style’ - a gentle V embrace designed to give perfect freedom to the follower. Whilst the student’s dance levels differ, Patrick appears to tune seamlessly to their experience, offering empowering advice to each. This is the most respectful and focused method of teaching.

Leti returns to the counter to one side at the head of the salon. Behind her is a small kitchen containing a glass-fronted refrigerator full of cold drinks. Beyond double doors are steps to a large terrace garden running down the rest of half a block to a huge subterranean dance studio. The hotel room balconies overlook the terrace. 

 An easy Calo marks the end of the earlier class as students circle the floor practicing what they have learned. Patrick teaches technique, then translates this into a simple, accessible pattern to ‘nail’ the technique into the subconscious mind. Those looking for ‘flight-of-fancy’ steps will be disappointed: discerning students seeking a true tanguero style will be totally delighted.

Our session is for improvers, although again the range of the students’ experience varies in the class. This poses no problems - for the change of partners is optional - Stephanie and I ensuring that we understand the technique before we switch. Patrick and Giannina demonstrate with an amazing clarity, speaking in both Spanish and English, then direct their attention to individual couples as they assimilate Patrick’s teaching. Here, Patrick assists with modest and energizing corrections, gently given with humour and warmth. His teaching is like an embrace - telling us that we are safe with him, and valued. His is a great gift.

Two hours (we chose a double class) pass in a trice. We finish with a short practica in which Stephanie and I dance with our favorite fellow students. We pause to correct our giro; to replace a step; to feel a different embrace. We dance until the music stops, sensing that Patrick and Giannina may be exhausted by their own generosity. We part with a hug. Carolina Bonaventura has arrived back from a tour, so we share a special moment with her, then Lettie leads us through the passage to the street.

For tangueros of any standard, Mariposita proves to be a delight. Carolina provides a safe haven in which her community of students thrive. Stephanie speaks of her technique classes as ‘an inspiration’. For once - at group classes here in Buenos Aires - I sense that I too may achieve something special.

Aux Charpentiers - traditional clothing of Argentina

 

Mexico the country may be in the news because of a wall; but we are heading to Mexico the street in Monserrat Buenos Aires.

At the junction with Santiago del Estero, at Mexico 1302 is a totally traditional store. We have seen it several times in passing, examined the window displays and become intrigued. Whilst other shops around it have been modernising and re-modernising,  over the past 139 years Aux Charpentiers has remained relatively unchanged, and thus unique. 

A sign on the door says that the shop is open, and we try the handle only to remember that many shopkeepers keep their street door locked; so we ring the bell. Carmen's husband Enrique, neatly dressed and grey haired opens up, and welcomes us into the cool dark store. 

To both left and right are long glass counters revealing small displays and perfectly ordered piles of clothes. Further to our right dark oak sectioned shelves reach for the ceiling, each dressed with stock in order of size. The shelves continue around to the right in an L shape, with a brocade hung changing area to the rear. The tiled floor is polished. There is a sense of peace and timelessness. And the old fashioned scent of an historic clothes store, taking us back to childhood memories of yesteryear. 

Aux Charpentiers was founded in 1888 and run for over 60 years by Carmen's father, Juan Robligio. On Juan's death his son Roberto and daughter Carmen took over to carry on the grand family tradition. 

Here is everything traditional in Argentine clothing. Wonderful pantalones - Bombachas de gaucho, camisas, zapatas and boinas. To one side are the jackets, below the counter are braces and belts. At the side of a glass-fronted tongue and groved cabinet are photos of family and wedding groups, one from France, another from the countryside here in Argentina. 

 In the shop window I spied a pair of traditional Argentine trousers, high waisted,  gathered in two sets of three pleats at the front, and a further two sets at the hip - then tapering to buttoned cuffs at the ankle. Enrique quickly measures and lifts down my size. Here are fawn/cream, charcoal, blue and olive green. As befits a traditional pantalone, there are no zips - just recessed fly buttons. The pockets are deep and buttoned to the back. The ankle cuffs carry three buttons which, unless riding, are generally left unfastened. 

I carry a 'winter weight' pair to the changing area and swish the heavy maroon curtain across its length, running smoothly on a curved brass rail. They have to fit. I try them. They do. And for the first time I realise why Stephanie loves shopping. It is with delight that I exit to seek Stephanie's approval, which she gives.

In just minutes we have slipped back decades into history and tradition. The whole experience is like tasting an unexpected vintage Malbec - the bouquet, the initial taste on the tongue, the surprise, the delight, and the swallow as I reach for my wallet modestly to pay.

Aux Charpentiers have not seen the last of us. We shall return, and return again no doubt. Carmen's store has captured our hearts and imagination. I am now a gaucho. This is why we came to Buenos Aires.

 

Another Sunday in Monserrat, Buenos Aires

 

Another Sunday. I sit in the shade of the garden.

The rufous bellied thrush has just descended through the banana tree into the garden to look for grubs. A dragon fly darts away. Voices nearby murmur accompanied by the chinking of cutlery on late lunch plates. A chair squeaks on a polished floor. Somewhere someone sneezes. A dog barks. Distant, the sound of a radio; more distant the voices of children playing. Closer, the sound of Osvaldo Fresedo's 'Canto de Amor'  tango wafts through Casa Luna.

 

Cleo the tango dancing cat snoozes, curled around my chair. A breeze picks up the pages of Stephanie's book.

Sunday is one of those days you simply want to drink in. In bright sunshine no one makes unnecessary movements, but relaxes just as the weekend intends. There is a definite 'art' to relaxation, one which climate and circumstances sometimes deny. But here in Buenos Aires the art is perfected. Time feels as if it has slowed to a stroll, giving the chance to collect, to think, and to dream.

Casa Luna - the first 40 days

As 2016 closed, I exchanged my practice as a barrister for the new challenge, with Stephanie, of 'manager of a tango house' in Buenos Aires. So - how has it been? What is it like to 'up and off' to another continent and take on new responsibilities?

Those who have been following my blog will know that Stephanie and I left the UK on 8 December to visit Buenos Aires for four months, our first two and a half months taking on the role of managers of Casa Luna, a well known tango house here in Monserrat. Our hosts and house owners, Vicki and Rob left for California shortly after our arrival, leaving us with their home, their tango guests, Cleo their cat, and the novel chance to manage a tango hotel.

Southern hemisphere summer in Buenos Aires is an unexpected delight. We had assumed that it would be hot and humid to the point that day-to-day tasks would be burdensome. Not so. There are occasional days when temperatures soar and energy levels drop; but mostly the climate is a joy, especially on those days when we read of snow and sleet in the UK. The weather does dictate a pace - taking each day at a time without too much expectation for activity when really hot, or wet; but the climate brings a new attitude to life, and even the hottest, most humid moment - or a sudden thunder storm - brings more opportunity than restriction. Climate becomes simply a state of mind, to be addressed as it happens, and to be cherished for the difference and variety it makes to daily life.

Neither Stephanie nor I had any doubts about our capacities to run a tango house. Of course, the unknown element was 'the guests'. With three letting rooms - additional to our own suite - we wondered what experiences awaited. We need not have been concerned. Vicki and Rob's policy - to invite English speaking, tango dancing guests from the USA or Europe - meant that all of our guests have shared our passion for life and for dance. The ethos of the house is one of independent, supported living, in which the house managers meet and greet guests, advise about tango venues, city sites, restaurants and places of interest. Most guests choose to eat out, dining being relatively inexpensive, so there is little pressure on the well equipped kitchen. Our first 40 days have been fascinating, with great guests who have added interest and friendship. To date, all have been experienced visitors to Buenos Aires.

The tango house itself was designed and built as a 'Petit Hotel' for its first owner Dr Rodolfo Bonanni, and retains many of its original 1930's Art Deco features. As with most properties here in the capital, the house is but two large rooms in width, yet extends back deep into the block, with an enclosed side passage leading to the garden at the rear. The rooms comprise the Peron Room - a ground floor double, the Porteno Room - formerly the maid's quarters,  a single room with adjacent shower room, the Garden apartment, and the Gardel suite - currently occupied by Stephanie and I. Additionally, there is the through reception room/dining room, the dance studio and the kitchen leading to the back stairs and laundry. From the Gardel suite there is a large first floor terrace, overlooking the garden featuring a vigorous banana tree and other semi-tropical plants.

  

Caring for Cleo, the tango dancing cat; and tending the garden have been two principal tasks. The other main responsibility is house security, taken very seriously throughout Buenos Aires. Over our first 40 days, we have been successful in these roles. In relation to the house guests, we sense that we have added value to their stay; and in the process, made good, lasting friendships.

 

Reflecting on our extended stay, not simply as tourists, but as house managers, the experience has been totally energising. It has given our time here a special quality - one of 'belonging' rather than just passing through. At milongas, when asked about my trip, I take pleasure in boasting that I am here to work as manager of a tango house, if only in my own mind, giving me a significance that otherwise I would not have experienced.

We have now entered our final month as managers of Casa Luna. Already, the weather has started to change from hot days and steamy nights, to warm days and cool evenings. As the summer season unfurls we already taste a tinge of regret at the prospect of leaving Casa Luna. But another adventure awaits as we return to San Telmo and the familiar streets of another bario.

 

One day - three eras

In the wake of Joe Biden's words about his 'Second Lady', I should acknowledge Stephanie's support for me - not simply with our trip, but also with this blog. She reminds me when I reach a point where my writing stretches meaning, and she comes to the rescue with 'the right word'. So this blog is for her, and for her friends; for it is about pamper and about clothes.

Today was always going to be a special day; for no particular reason other than that was the way it happened. 

After a breakfast of fresh fruit in delicious combinations, we set about our first event of the day: a 'floating feet' pedicure. Whilst in Buenos Aires, regular visits for a pedicure are both affordable and wise.  

Graciela works from Piedras 1025. Piedras is one of those San Telmo roads that planners and time forgot to mark. It happens from - and on the way to - somewhere else; unmemorable and easy to miss. Between a shop and a boarded front, just along from a great rubber tree, is Graciela's doorway, marked only by a number. We push the white bell and wait for her footsteps on the long corridor to the street.

Her studio is small - comprising a couple of interconnecting rooms at the back of the house. A white leather sofa stands by a small counter in the first room; the second being her treatment room. Here is a feeling of Buenos Aires simplicity, frozen in the 1970's, beige tiles to the floor, pale green panels screwed to the walls, a radio cassette player tuned to a local station suspended from the ceiling in one corner. 

Graciela is the queen of pedicures. Hers are not superficial beauty treatments: lasting 30 minutes they comprise total mastery of the feet and are like no other pedicure. Stephanie reaches from her toes to the treatment platform, swinging her legs towards Graciela's roller seat. Within moments, her toe nails are softened and ready to trim, each surface of the foot examined, all rough skin removed and sanded, with attention to the finest detail. As the treatment progresses one feels that a burden is released, a softness achieved, and a stillness attained. Then there is the final massage with cream, and in Stephanie's case, the painting of the toe nails. 

At the end I look to see if she is still awake. Her feet, always pretty, are now more slender, light and beautiful. And so to my turn.

We leave Graciela with a hug and appointments for three weeks hence. Now is time for serious shopping.

Those that follow our 'Twinwoodians' page on Facebook will know about Stephanie's passion for vintage. Together with 'Golden Age' tango, Stephanie's love for the 1930/40's takes us today to Alma Zen Arte at Belcarce 1056. 

Nora is one of those timeless San Telmo women that simply belong in the bario. Her shop is a small cave of vintage, with a slight Parisienne feel. Nora looks quickly at Stephanie and recognises a kindred spirit. "Come this way my dear and let's see what we can find", she says as she leads Stephanie to a rack of 1940's dresses. They are crammed together, in a sort of colour-code, but otherwise random stack. She lifts a pale blue linen dress with patch pockets from the rack. Above and beyond is every dress, skirt, blouse and coat imaginable. They rise in row after row - right up to the vintage wedding dresses against the ceiling. Across the small store are kimonos, and beyond a cabinet stuffed with handbags - this one in dark brown suede with pearl clasps; another in soft black leather with scrolled art deco handles. I sit on a stool and watch Stephanie explore two decades of fashion.

After a visit to Origen, Humberto Primo 599 - cafe con leche served 'French style' in a cup the size of a soup bowl - our still floating feet take us to Maria Jazmin Ropa de Tango at Humberto Primo 558.

The serious tanguera should know about Maria Jazmin. Maria's is my favourite tango shop. It is a place where dreams are made. I sit on the long sofa to watch women arriving in jeans transform into tangueras. Maria designs and makes the clothes. She is tall for a Porteno, with a slim tanguera body. Today she walks in heels elegantly wearing a slimline skirt in black trimmed with lace to the waist. You know when she approves of a choice, her designer's eye fixing and breathing a soft "belissima". This is why Stephanie is one of her favoured customers - she displays Maria's creations perfectly without a lump or bump to be seen. 

We leave, Stephanie clutching a Jazmin bag containing two of Maria's latest designs, one made specially for her. For me it has been a full day of activity. "Now, which milonga tonight?", Stephanie asks.

Tea at Alvear Palace

It was back in 2007 that I met Cristina. Our legal professional practices were, and remain, mirror images - both having practiced as lawyers for many years, later as mediator/facilitators. Our cultural roots were even deeper than professional ones, with similar senses of humour, occasion, politics, and intellectual outlook. So taking tea together has become an annual ritual not to be missed.

As previously, we select the Alvear Palace Hotel as our meet venue - not simply because it is one of the two best hotels in Buenos Aires, but because of its cultural resonance, a place where Buenos Aires meets London over tea.

The English arrived in Buenos Aires in 1806 then under Spanish rule, as merchants and industrialists. By 1825 Britain became one of the first countries to recognise a newly independent Argentina, and in 1939 British investment in the country was 39% of its total economy, with rail, ports and other infrastructure being funded by the English. The Hurlingham Club was opened in 1888, and in 1912 Harrods launched their only store outside London here in Calle Florida. But for the 1982 Falklands/Malvinas crisis, ties between the UK and Argentina would have been some of the strongest international links.

So it is of little surprise that afternoon tea is of significance here in Buenos Aires. There remains a strong and wealthy  'English' population here, and 'English' English is the most popular language after Castillano. They still take tea, and to do so pass English-style letter and phone boxes in Recoleta.

Our reservation is for 5.30 pm and we meet in the hotel foyer. As befits 'afternoon tea', we meet promptly in British, rather than Argentine time. 

In Buenos Aires the culture, as with the architecture, never remains static - but evolves in an organic way. So, hugs replace handshakes - not just one hug, but several. Within moments, twelve months of absence becomes but a twelve second pause...it is as if we meet on consecutive days. And so to the Orangery. 

The Orangery is a salon, similar to those of Harrods, Fortnum and Mason or the Ritz. Waiters circulate, white gloves contrasting with their red jackets. Menus are brought by a young woman in a charcoal coloured suit. These enumerate the choice of tea and question whether Champage will precede or follow the cake. Our table is large, but the room uncluttered. Adjacent tables are distant, so as to screen conversation. Today, there are no business meets, one family celebrating a significant birthday, another relaxing together, children sipping from china tea cups as if they were born to this life.

The cake tiers rise in three plates - at the top the sandwiches, cut without crust, each containing a taste delight of cucumber, smoked salmon, and other delicacies. Below we reach the cakes, small tarts festooned with miniature fruit and dome-topped dainties , almost too small to cut.

Of course we do cut the cake - that is the reason for the knife and fork, two essentials when it comes to afternoon tea at the Alvear. Fingers are for holding the cutlery, not fingering the food. 

During this account, you, my readers have been patient, for I know that the one aspect about which you wanted to read - was the tea.

I order a blue Earl Grey, for the taste equates with the experience of afternoon tea. Cristina selects a precious blend. Stephanie - for reasons entirely obvious to those that know her well - selects 'Sophie', an aromatic infusion of roses, fruits and spices. These are brought to the table on silver salvers - bearing two pots and a strainer. The hot water from one is infused into the other where it remains for but minutes. Then the infusion is returned to the original pot via the strainer, to produce the perfect cup of tea, remaining perfect at whatever stage or temperature. 

Our china cups tinkle on china saucers; our glasses of Champagne chink in a toast to health and the occasion of taking tea together. Somewhere I sense the keys of a piano, although today the salon grand remains foresaken. Conversation ranges law, mediation, history, culture, language and family. It is unhurried, and uninterrupted from any source. 

As plates empty, they are removed quietly and unobtrusively, without sensing the hand that reaches for them. We glow slightly with the Champagne that somehow reached a spot that only Champagne can. Over two hours elapse before we conclude our tea. Now the Orangery empties as residents and others return to their rooms and homes. With the swipe of a card, we leave, descending the hotel stairs to the street and a rush of warmth. Here we stroll Recoleta, its fashionable stores and fancy restaurants still open. We part in Av Gral Las Heras as air conditioners drip through evening air to the street below. 

 

Knife grinder

After the rain the pavements are washed, the gullys have been drenched, and the sun shines on a clean city. The row of Jacarandas seem spritely as they soak their roots from underground reserves. We walk Chile towards Entre Rios. Filigree shadows are cast across the sidewalk from the shrubs of hidden gardens. Ahead, the sound of music.

We have heard the sound before but known not what it was. Panpipes, but of a shrill nature rather than the sonorous modulation of Peruvian pipes. The scale from A to G and then down to E. Somewhere in the scale the notes sharpen with a plastic lilt. It repeats - and stops - then repeats again. I look across the street, and behind to identify its source. I check the balconies and glance within darkened door ways.

Ahead, a man wheels his bicycle. One of those old ones with a battered black frame and disjointed pedals. The handlebars stick out straight and a side stand leans out towards the kerb. Its owner makes leisurely progress, but seems intent. And then it happens. He lifts small panpipes to his lips and blows another scale. The notes are shrilled by proximity. He looks expecatantly as he passes the hardware shop.

Attached firmly to the cross bar is a grindstone, one of those that are revolved by pedal power. Its surface is both rough and smooth, round but worn, its edges shaved away. As he lifts his cap, a shock of grey hair falls across his eyes, and he shakes it back from his face. I notice that his fingers are those of a pianist, long and slim. He is a knife grinder.

Knives are serious investments here in Buenos Aires, especially those made from a softer steel that quickly take an edge. As Stephanie and I pass the corner shops I pause to examine rows of knives - simple cooking knives, steak knives, long elaborate decorative daggers with leather scabbards. The cheaper ones bear a Brazilian mark; the more coveted are of Argentine make, with engraving and rustic wooden handles. 

A grindstone is so diffrent from a steel. The edge is taken to the finest cut, then finished with an oiled stone and then smoothed with a rough cloth. Both sides are addressed, but in different ways, depending on the bevel and the handedness of the user. Sharpness demands that the weight of the blade should be sufficient to cause the cut. I feel for my small penknife attached to my keysafe and conclude that this may not be the right knife. We pass; a customer calls to him; he stops; and we wish that we had our camera.

Photo by courtesy of Knivesgrinders  

Buenos Aires - after the weekend

Buenos Aires is a place where the weekend matters.

In Europe, that 'weekend feeling' has largely evaporated, Saturday and especially Sunday becoming indistinguishable from other days of the week. In a summery Buenos Aires, Friday still sounds a clarion call for the weekend. Here is a feeling of anticipation, and wind-down - as traffic chokes 9 de Julio for an hour and office workers return home on busy colectivos. Soon that is all over, and the weekend starts in earnest.

Pass any restaurant on Friday night between 9 pm and late, and you will see families dining together. Not as in Europe, where the cost of eating out precludes all but the well-off. Here, ordinary working people arrive - often with tiny, well-behaved children who sit, smile and eat with their parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins - and especially their favorite uncles and grandfathers, their slicked back grey hair, whiskers and friendly faces setting them apart as fun people.

Later, after 11.30 pm, the young families give way to families with older children, couples and groups of friends, eating steak or sharing a pizza, together with a bottle of wine, large Quilmes Cristal beer or litre bottles of fizzy fruit juice, so popular in the humid evenings.

Eating out has an altogether different feel and connotation from that outside the Latin world. It is a leisurely affair, the table for the night, the little cameras, the toasts, the hugs, the waves across to other tables that are not really separate but form an organic whole. The waiters stay busy, moving quickly from table to table, carrying large plates of meat, or calamari, or pasta - or a pizza the size of a small bicycle wheel. Glasses clatter to the table, and corks are pulled without ceremony - save for the peremptory tasting ritual. The atmosphere is like two interconnecting cogs, the small, fast one of waiters - revolving the large slower one of diners.

On Saturday traffic is lighter than midweek. The emphasis is on shopping and portenos fill the streets; but not in the same way as previously. Now the pace slackens to a stroll, and greetings are shouted across the sun-filled street in Castillano. Neighbours meet under the shade of an occasional street tree to stop and chat. Saturday is a big preparation for party night.

As the evening arrives, young girls brush out their hair and apply their makeup; teenage boys are torn from their computers, and wives will pass over a freshly ironed shirt. The clubs, bars, milongas fill towards midnight, and the restaurants resume their busy trade. Portenos are out on the street, some simply sitting on steps by the pavement, or enjoying the luxury of a balcony above. For festivals, the portable barbecues appear on the sidewalks, together with stools or upturned buckets as seats. Smoke and the smell of cooking drift on the evening air. Shadows fall and voices hum under the Jacaranda trees.

Sunday brings yet another change. Where have the Portenos gone? The streets are deserted, even by the cartoneros - the street people that collect boxes and plastic to sell. The baker is closed. Cafes struggle to open by noon, and perhaps mid-afternoon the few teatime couples or groups of older women sit and drink coffee together. Even the solitary taxi drifts, as if the driver has lost his way, free-wheeling to lights and stopping well before they change to red. On green there is a further pause whilst the driver returns his mobile phone to the dashboard, and the taxi slides slowly away looking for a fare. 

Then Sunday evening. A quiet settles over the city. Families are indoors to eat, or sitting in hidden gardens to the rear of their homes. Family time is coming to an end. The boys are solitarily back in front of their screens; the girls are messaging their friends. He brushes the collar of his jacket, she carries a pile of fresh laundered towels to the bathroom. The weekend is over. Tomorrow, the city will return to its weekday state of agitation and rush. The dove that has called from eves will disappear for the week. And we await the next weekend with fresh anticipation.