bean's blog

I came to Buenos Aires knowing that it was tragically impossible to work without a visa, assuming that classes would be effortless, and under the general impression that I would be overrun with free time to dispose with as I pleased. I figured that this burdenless respite from actual school would be a great opportunity to tackle my daunting stockpile of books to-be-read. I came to the city with a few novels, a few wild cards, The Communist Manifesto—things I had been meaning to get around to, but had put off reading till I had ample time to spare. After leafing through a little Cormac McCarthy, and oddly, Moore’s Utopia, I decided that while in Argentina, I should shift my focus southward. I picked up 100 Years of Solitude, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Chronicle of A Death Foretold, and of course Borges.

As I picturesquely carted my Latin American authors around with me—sprawled out in the Bosque Palermo, smoking a cigarette on the granite steps of the Malba, basking in the sun near the Recoleta market, and sipping café con leche in various corner bistros—I almost always encountered the very same, very strange, reaction from onlookers nearby.

“What are you reading?” they might say as they asked for a light, or handed me my coffee over the counter. “Marquez, Diaz, Borges…” I’d reply with a satisfied little smirk, showing them the books’ façade. “En Ingles!” they’d shriek back with terror, as though I were holding something incendiary, something mutinous or blasphemous. I’d have to justify myself to the barista, the Porteno, the stranger—explain to them that my Spanish is embarrassingly poor, and that it would be far too difficult to read these books in their native Castallano. I’d plead my case of how I still wanted to enjoy the masterpiece, and how truly amazing I thought it was—always to an unyielding look of disapproval.

book cover: Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges

I took to reading in my room, or isolated in the middle of a large grassy park, to avoid these awkward confrontations, and so settled in comfortably as I delved into Borges’ Labyrinths. Labyrinths could not be a more appropriate title for this collection of short stories. Not only do many of them relate to real or figurative “labyrinths,” but the individual tales are so profuse and loaded with mysteries and puzzles that the act of reading them feels much like being in a labyrinth. I had to reread the stories several times in order to grasp even some of the metaphysical mystery, layered paradoxes, literary and historical allusions. Still I’m certain there is much that has gone over my head.

Two stories I liked in particular for the twist delivered at the end, and the poignancy of their final lines were, “The Garden of Forking Paths” and “The Shape of the Sword.”

“He knew my problem was to indicate (through the uproar of the war) the city called Albert, and that I had found no other means to do so than to
kill a man of that name. He does not know (no one can know) my innumerable contrition and weariness.” –Garden of Forking Paths, Borges

Call me a blasphemer if you will for reading Borges in English, but I felt closer to the culture as I became familiar with such a central figure in Argentine literature. And if I could make the choice again, I’d still read it in English, because it was difficult enough to understand in my native language, let alone in Spanish for which nuance does not yet exist to me.

After having the kind of experience in Patagonia, which left me without words, I decided to read about Bruce Chatwin’s time there, for which he had 199 pages worth of things to say. Within the first few chapters, I believe I had to refer to Wikipedia nearly twenty times to look up the various historical and literary allusions Chatwin inserts as frequently as commas. Though my reading was moving at a glacial pace, I did think I was learning a great deal. And perhaps I’m just slow, but it took me at least 50 pages to realize that Chatwin was not merely presenting a flowery description of the same place I went to—interspersed with unusual and narrowly related facts—but that his novel was an almost too seamless mixture of fact and fiction.

book cover: In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin

It was right about the time that I started to read a detailed account of the personal lives of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that I began to wonder…but in the end it didn’t really matter. Once I broke the silly habit of trying to match everything Chatwin wrote with some secondary source on the Internet, it was thoroughly enjoyable to pour over the multitude of rich descriptions that resonated with my memories of Patagonia. It became almost a secondary level of excitement to try and figure out which of the ambiguously plausible descriptions were true. Like this one for example:

“The fleet entered the Magellan Strait with the southern winter already begun. A sailor’s frostbitten nose fell off when he blew it…” (87) Could that happen, I thought to myself, maybe so?

I can’t say that my experience in Patagonia was much like Chatwin’s—aside from similar observations of the physical landscape. The only foreigners I saw were travelers like myself, rather than the exiled Europeans, and miscellaneous eccentrics that Chatwin may or may not have come across. But for some reason Chatwin’s illustration of Patagonian people struck a chord with something in the recesses of my memory. There was something familiar in his landscapes filled with sheep herders, asados, quiet and nearly uninhabited pueblos. Something that reminded me of the hostel keeper, waiter, or tour guide, who lived in those places even after we left, whose accordion-like “forehead whined a story of immobility and repressed ambition.” (84)

In Patagonia is a great read, even if you haven’t visited to the southern region. Chatwin’s imaginative journey in search of the origins of a mysterious piece of animal skin (alleged by his mother to be from a dinosaur) is whimsical, rich, and extremely clever in the way that it weaves back and forth between personal account, historical fact, and fiction, using common locations in Patagonia as the links between the tales.

Looking back on my time in Buenos Aires, it’s hard to say what was the most rewarding aspect of the experience—especially since I still have another month left of my semester, and a few weeks of travel after that. There have been so many meaningful moments—and a few wild ones—that will stay with me forever. But ultimately what was most significant about my time here, was my purpose. I came here to push myself, to liberate myself, and even now I feel like I’ve found what I was looking for—more or less.

It’s impossible to know exactly how I’ve changed—at least while here in the moment—but I can say that heading back to New York, I feel that I’m in a very different place than when I came to Buenos Aires. Until I had to register for Fall 2009 courses, I hadn’t even thought about returning to New York. My life next semester was an abstract notion overshadowed by my disconnected present circumstance.

Then it was time to face the music, to own up to the fact that the Fall semester was coming, and that this one was ending. I realized that every move I made after that point was heavily influenced by this past semester—changing interests and priorities, new inspiration, new friends and wider experience.

Now occasionally my thoughts drift off to New York, to ambitions I have returning back to the city. What will I do differently? I’m excited to be back in that familiar setting, to pursue it, to explore it with the kind of vigor that I’ve recently applied to Buenos Aires. I’m optimistic that my new stamina for adventure, and recent sense of freedom, will open up many new things for me upon my return.

New York Madness

I’m also bringing back the knowledge of travel—self-collected and obtained through texts—to New York City. I’m eager to slow down, to notice, to draw, to appreciate all the intricacies of that eclectic place I call home. I can’t wait see my good friends, eat in my favorite restaurants, and walk through my old stopping grounds, but I’m also ready to search for new places, to notice new details, to meet new strangers too.

I joined “Art of Travel” three weeks later than most Buenos Aires bloggers, and two months after everyone else in the class. Due to my tardy arrival, I was a bit behind on the posting schedule, and I was told that I would need to blog every four days to catch up to speed. At the time, this task did not strike me as particularly onerous. However, every four days is much more frequent than one might imagine, and I found myself finishing a blog and realizing that I was already due for another post. As academic obligations, travel plans, and sheer negligence intervened with my posting program, the blogs started to pile up.

blogging can be stressful

I found myself in April still having 2/3’s of the posts to complete. It became necessary to devise a new blogging schedule, one which basically meant 1 post per day. After a few days of this routine—I was exhausted. I lamented to my friends on how difficult it was to write a blog each day. And then I realized something—this is what bloggers actually do. Once I started to approach my circumstance as a real blogger-type experience, rather than the unfortunate result of procrastination, my daily post became a wonderful thing.

Because the Buenos Aires semester is not synchronized with other abroad programs, some of the assignments didn’t always match up with what was going on in my life. I figured that since I was already so far off schedule with the blogs, it wouldn’t really matter if I posted a little out of order—according to what prompt concurred best with my lived experience.

Blogging with the freedom to respond to the full range of assignments, under a sort of time crunch, was actually very exciting. And I put a lot of effort into making my posts meaningful, and hopefully fun to read.
The one thing I wish worked better was the response process. Though there might have been a lack of time and desire, I thought each person’s blog would have been more meaningful if there were several responses to each post, and a dialog between those responding and the original blogger. Nevertheless, it was liberating to get my ideas out there.

No amount of pre-departure preparation or planning for my semester abroad could have saved me from the myriad mistakes I made, beginning the minute I set foot on foreign soil. Nevertheless I will offer some points of guidance and forewarning to future Buenos Aires students, for whatever value they might have.

Advice:

1) COME WITH A PROFICIENCY IN SPANISH: Of course it is possible to travel and party here without speaking a word of Espanol, however, for the most meaningful experience—one where you connect with the city, to its people, to its culture—it is much better to arrive already comfortable with the language.

I came to Buenos Aires after completing Beginners Spanish at NYU—desperately wishing that I had come with more under my belt—as I saw that other students were more able to engage with the city than I was. The best time to study here is when you’ve completed most levels of Spanish, and want to practice speaking, rather than coming here to learn grammatical points and vocab. Having a lower level of comprehension means that social interactions are more difficult, certain media is limited, you don’t learn as much of the language because you can’t use it as much, and your NYU course options are significantly limited (and far inferior).

2) MAKE FRIENDS WITH LOCALS—there are many New Yorkers where you came from: I spent the first month I was here under the silly notion that it was better to first solidify a few friends in the NYU program, and then branch out to the Portenos. While I have made some great friends from NYU, I can now clearly see that my reasoning was flawed, and that I wasted an entire month touring around with familiar faces, while I should have been extending myself into the city.

Bosque Palermo (Argentine Central Park)

This is where a proficiency in Spanish neatly fits in. The better you are able to speak the language, the more social you can be. While I came here with a tenuous ability to say what I did that day, or what I’d like for lunch, I lacked the ability to make jokes, and speak with nuance—the kind of conversation that makes us interesting people. In the end you must perforate the NYU bubble, and realize why you are in a foreign country in the first place, to become integrated.

3) SEEK OUT CULTURAL EXPERIENCES IMMEDIEATLY: Don’t be fooled into believing that there exists some abstract period of acclamation, in which you must forget about cultural stimulus, in order to normalize your new place of residence. To be cliché, life is short—don’t waste time. The sooner you familiarize yourself with the obvious cultural spheres, the sooner you can permeate that much more interesting underground. Otherwise, you might just find yourself at the end of the semester, not having done anything worthwhile, having shopped a lot, clubbed a lot, and eaten at many many restaurants.

4) TAKE ADVANTAGE OF CHEAP AND EASY TRAVEL: Argentina is not only Buenos Aires, and there are many interesting and wonderful places to visit within the country—as well as its neighbors, Brazil, Uruguay, Chile etc. Traveling by Argentine bus is a really unusual experience as well—though some destinations can keep you on board for up to 36 hours. At the same time, take caution that you are not so overzealous with your travel that you never secure good roots in the city. If you go away every weekend, you will have no chance of understanding what it’s like to live in Buenos Aires—a knowledge that is elusive even to those who never leave.

Junot Diaz on Immigrants: Feria de Libros

5) MAKE GOOD CHOICES WITHIN THE NYU PROGRAM: Most of the classes offered in Buenos Aires are bullshit—especially the ones taught in English. If possible only take three courses, and do something meaningful with the rest of your time. There are great community service options, art classes, dance classes, etc. that allow you to explore the city and really engage with Portenos—rather than waste time cooped up in a renovated embassy building, learning nothing. If I could do it all again, I would take one Spanish language class, and two content courses in Spanish—probably Argentine Film (great professor), and maybe the Borges and Argentine Lit. class.

Courses to avoid: Tango and Mass Culture, (snoozer), Political Economics of Argentina (3 painful and confusing hours a week), and Intro to Lat. American Studies (this course is meant for high-school students)

Home-stays: This was the first year that NYU did not allow it’s students to rent apartments for themselves—which I think was an unfortunate mistake on their part. The rents in Buenos Aires are absurdly inexpensive, and having a place to invite friends over encourages more social interactions, and a more genuine living experience. However, in lieu of one’s own apartment, the home-stay is the next best option. The residences here are a nightmare, and only foster socialization within the NYU community. Though the home-stays are kind of a coin toss (whether you will be living in rags or riches, hospitality or hostility) for the most part they are an enriching experience. (see my previous post on my home-stay)

There are hundreds of do’s and don’ts that I could come up with, but in the end, future Buenos Aires travelers are bound to repeat the same mistakes, and likely to have many more of their own. So ultimately, I guess my final piece of advice would be: consider longevity. Consider a full year instead of a semester. It seems to me that many other study abroad bloggers have said that they experienced similar periods of acclamation to their foreign city, and that it was only in the last month that they were able to live the experiences they intended—this was my struggle at least.

Studying abroad in the Spring sort of allows you to correct this little snaffou, since you can extend your semester into the vacation months. But traveling is not the same as being rooted in a city with a purpose for being there—to study. The temptation to travel, to spend those additional months on an epic tour of South America (one week Rio, 3 days Lima) is hard to resist—as is the binding call of obligation and responsibility to obtain some job or internship over the summer.

If I could undo one thing, I would have come in the Fall and stayed the whole year. I would have made the same mistakes no doubt, but afforded myself enough time to learn from them and move on—whereas now I feel like I’m leaving wanting so much more.

In an attempt to control the superhuman number of media-lunas (sweet, scrumptious, buttery croissants) that I consume per day, I’ve been visiting the fruit and vegetable stores (“verdulerias”) that I always found so charming. In order replace—at least a few—of my overly abundant guilty pleasures with an apple or two, I’ve started going to one verduleria in particular. This tiny little market caught my eye with its overflowing baskets of produce, shiny fruits, and exotic looking legumes—not to mention its irresistible proximity to the NYU campus.

Now at least 1 time out of 5, when I have the urge for something sweet and flakey, I turn right instead of left, and head reluctantly towards the verduleria. This adorable little shop, “La Cosecha,” is not particularly conspicuous here in Argentina. In fact, it’s very much like the hundreds of others I’ve seen in Buenos Aires as I walk from one place to the next. But this verduleria does indeed have something special about it. When I go there to survey the goods—looking but of course not touching, since such activity is not permitted in these places—a small Argentine man, named Juan, is always waiting to help me.

Juan (store interrior)

Juan who has been in the food retail business since he was 25, is sweet as pie, and always gives me a smile as I fumble around with my Spanish. “Una manzana verde y grande, por favor!” He has worked in La Cosecha for the past three years and is used to seeing lots of NYU students popping into his store to grab a healthy snack in between classes.

Now that I’ve been trying to go into the verduleria more often (to avoid the coffee shop on the other side of school) Juan and I have become quite the amigos. Not only am I certain that he saves the biggest, shiniest, crispiest manzanas for me, but I also find him to be extremely interesting, and a great conversationalist—and wonderfully nonjudgmental of my botched Spanish speaking endeavors.

Our brief afternoon conversations might even been a significant determining factor in my declining rate of media-luna consumption. Every day I learn something new—some tid-bit about how Juan came to be where he is. He moved here from Tucuman, like most Argentines, to study a “carrera,” the Argentine notion of a major. Juan had a military carrera (whatever that means), but some how ended up in the fruit and vegetable business, working in the super-market chains, “Carrefour,” “Claro”—you name it.

And despite my rosy image of the verduleria life, it wasn’t by choice that Juan ended up working in this little shop. Apparently, supermarket work is very much like the modeling industry—one day you’re young and desirable, and the next thing you know you’re 30 and useless, and out on you’re ass. No one cares about experience in this town, it’s all about youth. Juan, who is now almost 50, says no supermarket would ever hire him, but luckily he’s happy with the comfortable work at the verduleria…unless of course I was offering him something better!

Living in Buenos Aires with an Orthodox Jewish family has been a particularly enlightening experience, one which has proven to be a temperamental tour of mishaps and mitzvahs. While a majority of the comical encounters I come across on a daily basis are probably shared amongst all NYU students residing in Argentine home-stays, the minor disasters that I cause each day, in my kosher kitchen and Shabbos supper, are a genuinely unique affair.

Truth be told, when Vivianna Saal wrote to me in January, describing her family as “traditionally Jewish,” I thought to myself—mazel tov! Though it wasn’t exactly what I had expected from the 92% Roman Catholic country, my anxious heart was put at ease knowing that I could automatically understand certain things about her family. First and foremost, I knew food wouldn’t be an issue. (I must admit to feeling slightly disappointed, however, that I wouldn’t get the homemade empanadas I’d been dreaming of, but I’ve never been known to turn down a good brisket either!) Secondly, the understanding that Jewish mothers only differ slightly, within a very narrow spectrum of defined characteristics, left me feeling safe in the assumption that this Viviana would be taking very good care of me.

And indeed my assumptions were correct. Vivi turned out to be exactly what I expected and more. Overly hospitable to the point of exceeding irritation, an excellent cook whose use of chicken fat instead of oil has resulted in my gaining several pounds, and a loving and maternal woman who uses passive aggression and guilt to convey her feelings—Vivi is truly a blessing.

How To Be A Good Jewish Wife Lesson #1: Knish Making

But living with Vivi, her husband Jacovo, their strange maid who pretends not to speak English, and my NYU roommate (also orthodox)--in the tiniest apartment imaginable--has been a trying experience as well. More of a cultural encounter than I had bargained for, I’ve found myself lighting the Shabbos candles, washing my hands before getting to eat bread at dinner, stumbling upon Vivi’s extended family—asleep on the livingroom floor—in the midst of a little Shabbat siesta, getting reproached for mixing the milk and dairy silverware, and told semi-jokingly (and through much less subtle innuendo) of the option of early marriage, religious practice, and the remaining chance for me to enter into this blessed accord.

Awkwardness aside, Vivi’s self-sacrificing nature, inability to confront issues directly, and general pushiness, has made me feel right at home. Whether I walk into to the house and say that I’ve already eaten dinner, only to get a knock on my bedroom door sometime later with a plate of food piled high (just in case); or whether I’m relentlessly being groomed to be a good Orthodox wife at age 21, you’ve got to love the woman.

If anything, this whole thing is probably more of a demanding ordeal for her. I mean I’m most likely the closest thing to a shiksa she’s ever had in her house—not respecting Shabbat, coming home late most nights, with my long showers and shoulders out! The least I can do, is let her go on like she does, allowing her to be content with the fantasy that my roommate and I have entered into a competition to see who will get married first. I say, whatever keeps the knishes coming!

It’s my understanding that most people get the urge to travel in order to visit the old cities of their ancestors, symbolic religious monuments, great artistic masterpieces, or decisive historical sites. However, more often then not the very hunger that drives me towards travel is inspired by none other than hunger itself, and the knowledge that the most scrumptious feasts await me at my destination.

Sometimes I’ll literally sit with a pen, writing down places I’d like to travel, as I watch programs on the Food Network, like “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives,” with Guy Fieri which takes the viewer to some of the most interesting and unique restaurants across America. I actually have an entire itinerary for a road trip across the U.S. which is completely dictated by my cravings for the BBQ belt, and the Soul Food I’m dying to try in the South.

Naturally my choice to come to Argentina was easy enough as I fantasized of endless banquet tables pilled high with different varieties of this infamous Argentine beef I’d heard so much about. I romanticized the notion of backyard asados, dimly lit parillas with gauchos as my waiters, and this dulche de leche which was apparently so ubiquitous that it ran down the walls. After brushing up on my vocabulary of all the different cuts of meat in Spanish with my tutor, I felt I was completely prepared for just the kind of traveling I like.

As though the food wasn’t amazing enough, the exchange rate makes it simply impossible to refuse a steak dinner every night. And each bife is better than next, so that you become ravenous in the quest for the ultimate lomo! Sometimes you walk into a parilla and the air will be so thick with a savory ambrosial scent that you will just know that your are about to have a religious experience.

Meal at La Cabrera--photo that does not do justice

I reached this place of nirvana just this past Saturday, it’s called “La Cabrera.” This Palermo restaurant (which can be found on the Hedonist’s Guide to Buenos Aires) looks like an old time French bistro, with dark mahogany moldings, old clippings and photographs on the walls, mercury glass mirrors, and neon signs. At La Cabrera It best to bide one’s time waiting for a table outside—with your complimentary glass of champagne—because the magnificent sight of the juicy bifes and the delicious odor inside is enough to make a person do crazy things.

Once inside you are presented with an overflowing basket of assorted breads and a variety of tapenades, dried tomatoes, and spreads. It’s necessary at this point to muster all the self control one possesses, in order to carry on with polite conversation, for of course, all parties involved are aware of the great anticipation which is distracting everyone from saying anything meaningful.

After every crumb of bread has been eaten, the jars of tapenade have been scooped clean, and conversation has become strained, the waiters finally arrive with both arms fully extended bearing smorgasbords in each. At this moment the only feeling that can be had is utter excitement, a kinetic energy that surges as they begin to lay the plates on the table before any bites are taken.

In these seconds, suspended in time, you are almost paralyzed with elation looking down at the feast of caramelized meat medallions, and the vast array of delectable accoutrements—like mashed pumpkin with raisins, beet puree, and baked pearl onions in wine. It’s almost too beautiful to touch—but of course you do. And when that steak melts in your mouth, it is truly a moment of enlightenment.

“The touristic experience that comes out of the tourist setting is based on inauthenticity, and as such it is superficial when compared with careful study; it is morally inferior to mere experience. A mere experience may be mystified, but a touristic experience is always mystified…” (599)

In my opinion the act of studying abroad in itself is an attempt to circumvent the inauthenticity of travel by establishing a life which is somewhere in between permanence and transience. When debating whether or not I would spend the semester in Buenos Aires, there were two pivotal arguments in favor of studying abroad; the opportunity to learn Spanish, and the chance to truly experience another culture first hand.

After being in Buenos Aires for three months now, that preconceived notion that living here for a semester was the formula to having an authentic experience seems shallow and naive. Other than the fact that I have a place to “call home,” and have established a rather superficial routine in the city, I feel no different than a common tourist, in that I am constantly searching for that authentic experience. Perhaps it comes across in less obvious ways—but it is the same quest—whether I’m looking for the local parilla, café, bar, clothing store, or pass-time. I am constantly asking Portenos where they go to shop, what their favorite restaurants are, where they like to go out. And just when I think I’ve found a place which is “authentically” local, I will hear someone observe loudly in English, “oh isn’t this cute!” and my dreams of having found that “back region” are shot.

It’s this reason exactly that I’ve been so adamant about finding friends here in the city—friends whose lives are real unlike the one I’m living. MacCannell writes, “No one can participate in his own life, he can only participate in the lives of others.” (601) Without friends who have a permanent reality in Buenos Aires, going out to bars, concerts, clubs, festivals, can only be observed as an outsider. However, once you become an integral part of someone’s life, once they make you part of their social network, you become intertwined with their reality, and though the distinction as an outsider may not disappear, the lines are blurred enough for me.

ambar la fox (gay club BSAS)

I am still battling this authentic/tourist dichotomy everyday. Sometimes I’ll feel like i’ve done it, like I’ve connected with people here deeply enough that when we’re together our experiences are authentic, and that in sharing those moments I’m living like the portenos. But that feeling is completely unsustainable and the next minute I might think that I spend all my time in an American bubble, with only NYU students, eating in fancy restaurants and vacationing in places that Argentines would never go.

It seems that connecting with Argentine people has been the only anecdote to assuage my feelings of depression at not being able to penetrate that authentic “back region.” After a night of drinking and chatting about life in a friends departamento, followed by an early morning of euphoric dancing in some boliche (that I’ve never heard of), it’s difficult to deny that what I’m experiencing is true. It seems odd to me in fact that these sort of personal relationships weren’t even mentioned in Macannell’s essay, since they seem to be the only bridge between the two parallel universes.

If I had to characterize my time abroad, I would say that I am in a constant pursuit to really connect with Buenos Aires. At times I think that the best way to feel entrenched in porteno life is to go about with the trivialities of my everyday routine, but other times I feel the urge to milk the city of its cultural and local experiences to avoid feeling like I’ve simply transplanted my life in New York to a South American setting.

In a weekend where I was feeling particularly inclined towards intensifying my familiarity with the city—visiting several museums, exhausting my Porteno contacts, going to local parties and boliches until six in the morning every night—several friends and I took the advice of a very cute administrator at NYU, and went to a unusually interesting show.

album art

On this night, my three friends and I all got into separate cabs, assuming that the concert was a 10 minute ride—6 peso fare away—as usual. As time passed and we all grew more and more anxious, alone in the back seats of our respective cabs, beginning to assume the worst from our sheisty taxistas, we began texting each other to make sure that we weren’t be “taken for a ride.” I asked my cab driver which neighborhood we were in. He looked at me confusedly in the rearview mirror, “Belgrano por su puesto.” He retorted. “Ah yes! Belgrano.” I said. He could tell I’d never been to this seemingly obvious part of town—which I had thought was a suburb of Buenos Aires, and he responded that Buenos Aires doesn’t only exist in Puerto Madero and Palermo (the most posh, and probably least cool areas)…ouch!

I decided to take what the taxi driver said as less of an insult and more as a bit of wisdom. How had I not been to Belgrano yet after three months in the city? I got out of the cab in front of a huge theatre, El Centro Cultural 25 de Mayo, and was relived to see my friend waiting out in front. I could sense the relief in his eyes as well since he was obviously the first of us to arrive. The crowd loitering outside was a serious aberration from the typical Argentine scene—indie kids, hipsters, maybe a punk or two. It was all very exciting.

We walked into the theatre half way through the first band’s set, and there we saw the strangest thing. “Go Neko” the indie band on stage was rocking out, while the hundreds of people who had come to see them play we sitting, orderly and well mannered in the theatre chairs—calmly bobbing their heads and drumming their hands to the music. The disparity between the performance on stage, and the venue was so bizarre. If you were to only look at the stage you would expect a mosh pit in the audience, and if you were to only look out at the audience you would expect to see a full orchestra on stage.

We followed suit, however, found ourselves some seats and sat back to relax and enjoy the show. One of us even left at some point to go get soda and candy from the Kiosko—a reflex perhaps of being in a theatre. Eventually the band we had come to see, "El Mato a Un Policia Motorizado," came on. The previously orderly crowd began to get a little rowdier—apparently this group from the city of La Plata, Buenos Aires, Argentina has quite a following. But for the most part, everyone returned to their chairs, bobbing, drumming, singing along.

el mato a un policia motorizado

At one point a song came on that aroused great enthusiasm in the crowd. One chico jumped on stage and began galloping back and forth, kicking his legs and reaching out into the crowd, beckoning others to come and join him. At first only one other boy got on with him, and the two continued to jump around in their indie ways. But then the madness spread and everyone began pouring onto the stage, at which point an epic mosh pit ensued for the duration of the song—despite the desperate protestations of a few small women who worked for the theatre.

It was as though the music defied the venue, and after that people wouldn’t be confined to their chairs. Instead they crowded to the aisles and danced up against the stage, or hung off the balcony shaking their heads to beat. It was definitely a show worthy of stepping outside Palermo.