So I moved my blog, made it all pretty, and then disappeared. Truth is, even people who live in the best city in the world (or at least that’s what I’m thinking right now, just back from a walk on the beach in Flamengo with the haze gone, the water sparkling, and the entire bairro enjoying themselves in the sun) like to take a vacation every once in a while.
The first part of my vacation was by turns hilarious and agonizing. I headed south to Buenos Aires with two friends from my Portuguese class in Middlebury. I hadn’t set foot in BA for about 2 years (since the end of my study-abroad program there) and I was crazy excited to see it again. I had some ups and downs in BA, but there’s something about it — the cafes, the low buildings and picturesque streets, the mullets (ah, the mullets)…
Anyway, I was looking forward to walking around, revisiting all my favorite places, seeing my host family and the few other people that I managed to keep in touch with. I stepped off the plane, saw the signs in Spanish — it was good to be back. That first feeling lasted about 10 minutes — in other words, the time it took to get our bags and head to the taxi. The second feeling was a blast of arctic air that hit me as soon as I got outside. I know that last line sounds like a bad metaphor, but unfortunately, it’s the literal truth. It was absolutely, wretchedly cold. Cold like I never remember from my year there. Cold like I wouldn’t have believed, even if I’d thought to check the weather report before I went. Cold that I definitely, living in Rio, didn’t have either the toughness or the clothing to deal with properly even if I’d known it was coming.
The taxista made a point, as they always do, to tell us that the weather had been lovely, sunny and relatively warm, right up until the day we got there. It was hard to find that comforting… but at least I was back in BA.
And then it snowed. Not right away on the first day, but on the second day we were there, after pelting us with first a mist and then a fine, light rain that combined with a freezing, whipping wind to cut through my unlined jacket and layers of sweaters until finally, by degrees, the world turned white. Not white exactly — most of it melted — but there were enormous real snowflakes in the air that lingered a little bit before disappearing on the wet cement. It was night by the time it really snowed, and for a few minutes everyone forgot the miserable wind and ran out of the coffee shop to stand outside just to be able to have that “first snow of winter” picture, the one with snowflakes in their hair.
And by first snow of winter, I mean first snow since 1918.
89 years. And I got to see it. I still can’t decide if I’m grateful. I guess once I warmed up I decided it was kind of awesome. But only kind of. And I would have very much appreciated a warmer coat.
But aside from the snow, I still love the city. It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that Buenos Aires is only a few hours’ flight from Rio. Or that Buenos Aires shares a continent with anywhere else in South America, for that matter. It’s hard to explain, but for some reason, even after living there for almost a year, I find it more foreign than Rio. It really does feel like a different world. In any case, it was fascinating to be back in Palermo, staying just a few minutes away from my old house and even closer to the Plazas and ferias and shops and cafes. When I lived there, my favorite thing to do by far was just walk around the barrio, window shop, get coffee and watch the people go by. So that’s what I did this time, too. I shopped, and watched the fascinating parade of urban-rocker-chic fashion and endlessly creative hairstyles. I remembered things I had forgotten, like the names of the plazas and subway stops and the way that you have to close taxi doors really carefully because all of the taxis are about to fall apart and the drivers will yell at you if you slam the door too hard. And the bus fares, which — incredibly — haven’t risen even 5 centavos since I was there, and the undying Argentine devotion to any and all types of electronic music (anyone who associates Argentina mostly with tango has clearly never been there). And so much more.
I even sort of remembered my Spanish. There were several times where I mixed it up embarrassingly with Portuguese, including a couple of memorable moments in the office of my study-abroad program directors. But mostly I was relieved to know that it is still in me somewhere, however confused and corrupted by Portuguese my mind might be at the moment. And by the end of the trip, I was even — just for the heck of it — entertaining the idea that someday I might come back for a longer stay… a few months… a year…
Maybe, maybe not. But I do love Buenos Aires. Especially when it’s not snowing, when the temperature climbs a little and the wind dies down, and everyone takes their hands out of their pockets and chins out of their scarves black puffy coats. Like it did on the morning we left. And, as the taxista made sure to tell us, the weather would only improve from there.
