We celebrated the heralding of a new financial year and safe arrival in a new city, Buenos Aires, by setting off on a self guided city tour via Starbucks coffee store of course. Hopefully a good coffee would offset the stress caused by navigating a new city.
For a bustling, noisy and western looking metropolis we were disappointed not to find a reliable coffee chain, the ones we love to hate at home. Buenos Aires has many Spanish style early 20th century stately buildings, many McDonalds stores, many homeless men sleeping all day under piles of blankets in doorways, on steps or in parks under trees. The homeless men and sometimes women were often accompanied by rabid dogs (dogs pleural because often they had more than one rabid dog sharing their blanket with them). This means that Buenos Aires also has a significant dog-shit problem though the locals don't seem too disconcerted by their pavements being covered in dog shit. I'd claim there is more dog shit in Buenos Aires than there is pigeon shit in London! As for Starbucks though, none.
Our walking route passed the Plaza Congresso (government building and meeting place forsocialist demonstrators), back towards town centre stepping over countless dog deposits and sleeping homeless men, onto the obelisk (Buenos Aires own phallic land-mark) and Tetro Colon (opera house). The latter, like most Spanish monuments, was being restored and was completely obscured behind a facade of ugly scaffolding. We also wandered past Casa Rosada, including the famous balcony that Evita used to address her adoring crowds during her heyday in the 1940s.
Karyn, feeling compelled to rescue a gramophone from an unfortunate future in Argentinawished to visit San Telmo, gramophone Hades waiting to pass onto the next life, or so Lonely Planet led us to believe. Once again we felt we were late-arrivals at the acquire-a-gramophone-party. Like missing Zebras in Botswana, the last gramophone had already been poached by an earlier tourist.
What San Telmo lacked in the gramaphone department it more than made up for with stores
selling Karynesk things (funky stuff for lack of better word), namely designer prints and painted cobbler's boot stands (aka, a Karyn collectible).
It turns out that Karyn's purchases are likely to be significantly less in volume and weight than an awkward gramophone and that pleased me greatly.
In the evening we followed the advice of Lonely planet and dined at La Cabrera steak-house. We were told we could easily find the steakhouse by catching the number 3 of the number 39 bus (apparently 39 follows 3 different routes). Once again the locals rallied for the plight of the poor non-Spanish-speaking Australians who needed a dose of Argentinian beef. Just getting to the bus stop was a group effort involving a shop-keeper and several pedestrians. Once on the bus a concerned young lady took up our cause, and with the assistance and commentary of several other passengers, harassed the driver about posible other intended destinations we may have had in mind. In due time and with notable Spanish melodrama we arrived somewhere in the vague vicinity of La Cabrera and footed it the rest of the way.
Little did we know that La Cabrera is legendary in Beunos Aires and we wern't the only visitors wishing to dine late on a Tuesday night. The restaurant only opens at 8:30 and we were graciously told they were fully booked but encouraged - a glass of champagne - to wait for the first available table. The wait was well worth it. On the advice of the chef we ordered one serve of beef to share... sound advice. We were presented with three large thick cuts of steak consuming the entire plate and with it numerous other condiments. This was tender juicy steak that melts on the tongue and begs you to pick it up like a burger and devour it. We were sorry Brent could share this poor cow with us.
The following day we set out on foot again to complete the Buenos Aires walking tour. We covered Recoleta (the wealthiest area) including Iglesia de Nuesra Senora de Pilar; just another church but with impressively kitch decorations.
This was followed by a stroll around the Cementerio de la Recoleta the final resting place of the elite of Beunos Aries, kind of what Westminster Abby is for the English and the Gold Coast is for Australians. It was a compact collection of elaborate sarcophagi inspired by Greek, Roman, Egyptian and gothic crypts. Many had multiple coffins, one had 20. I was strangely fascinated by this morbid memorial to the dead, but even more so by Karyn's superstitious fear and subsequent refusal to be photographed lying in a coffin with a corpse - it would make a great pic for the blog I begged! We paid solom tribute to Evita - aka Eva Peron (who is she again?) - but failed to shed a tear. Her 6m high black marble tomb was a little average compared to her neighbor in deaths 10m high megalithic catastrophe.
That night we purchased tickets to the tango with dance lessons included. The lesson was under the instruction of Damien and we were joined by a hoard or English and Irish girls all determined (like Karyn and myself) to star in next seasons S.Y.T.Y.C.Dance. Unfortunately I was one of only two guys who dared attend the dance lesson so was forced to spread myself thin among the girls to Karyn and my dismay. Anyway despite Karyn's reluctance and my initial protestations, I selflessly assisted Damien teaching the English and Irish gaggle toTango. Dinner was more steaks (what else) and a good supply of red wine while the Tango was danced on the stage in front of us - pretty much on top of us! Between mouth-fulls of delicious red meat we would mutter crazy ideas like we really must learn to Tango!
selling Karynesk things (funky stuff for lack of better word), namely designer prints and painted cobbler's boot stands (aka, a Karyn collectible).
It turns out that Karyn's purchases are likely to be significantly less in volume and weight than an awkward gramophone and that pleased me greatly.
In the evening we followed the advice of Lonely planet and dined at La Cabrera steak-house. We were told we could easily find the steakhouse by catching the number 3 of the number 39 bus (apparently 39 follows 3 different routes). Once again the locals rallied for the plight of the poor non-Spanish-speaking Australians who needed a dose of Argentinian beef. Just getting to the bus stop was a group effort involving a shop-keeper and several pedestrians. Once on the bus a concerned young lady took up our cause, and with the assistance and commentary of several other passengers, harassed the driver about posible other intended destinations we may have had in mind. In due time and with notable Spanish melodrama we arrived somewhere in the vague vicinity of La Cabrera and footed it the rest of the way.
Little did we know that La Cabrera is legendary in Beunos Aires and we wern't the only visitors wishing to dine late on a Tuesday night. The restaurant only opens at 8:30 and we were graciously told they were fully booked but encouraged - a glass of champagne - to wait for the first available table. The wait was well worth it. On the advice of the chef we ordered one serve of beef to share... sound advice. We were presented with three large thick cuts of steak consuming the entire plate and with it numerous other condiments. This was tender juicy steak that melts on the tongue and begs you to pick it up like a burger and devour it. We were sorry Brent could share this poor cow with us.
The following day we set out on foot again to complete the Buenos Aires walking tour. We covered Recoleta (the wealthiest area) including Iglesia de Nuesra Senora de Pilar; just another church but with impressively kitch decorations.
This was followed by a stroll around the Cementerio de la Recoleta the final resting place of the elite of Beunos Aries, kind of what Westminster Abby is for the English and the Gold Coast is for Australians. It was a compact collection of elaborate sarcophagi inspired by Greek, Roman, Egyptian and gothic crypts. Many had multiple coffins, one had 20. I was strangely fascinated by this morbid memorial to the dead, but even more so by Karyn's superstitious fear and subsequent refusal to be photographed lying in a coffin with a corpse - it would make a great pic for the blog I begged! We paid solom tribute to Evita - aka Eva Peron (who is she again?) - but failed to shed a tear. Her 6m high black marble tomb was a little average compared to her neighbor in deaths 10m high megalithic catastrophe.
That night we purchased tickets to the tango with dance lessons included. The lesson was under the instruction of Damien and we were joined by a hoard or English and Irish girls all determined (like Karyn and myself) to star in next seasons S.Y.T.Y.C.Dance. Unfortunately I was one of only two guys who dared attend the dance lesson so was forced to spread myself thin among the girls to Karyn and my dismay. Anyway despite Karyn's reluctance and my initial protestations, I selflessly assisted Damien teaching the English and Irish gaggle toTango. Dinner was more steaks (what else) and a good supply of red wine while the Tango was danced on the stage in front of us - pretty much on top of us! Between mouth-fulls of delicious red meat we would mutter crazy ideas like we really must learn to Tango!
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