Naomi Migliacci
This article was first published in Elan Magazine in February 2014.
The accordion moans a long, drawn-out, forlorn melody pleading with the dancers to slow their tempo, twirl their bodies almost to a complete stop, eye-to-eye, hands clasped intimately to each other but with an intensity that belies the fluidity of their movements. Now the accordion player, provoked by some internal rhythm, leans into his instrument and with a faster measure heats up the beat while the sun climbs high into the sky.
Surprise jolting me from my reverie on this Sunday morning, I tuck myself into a non-descript store front, a voyeuristic hiding place from which I halt my morning stroll, afraid that if I’m seen, the magic will stop. The dancing couple, dressed in tux and heels, tangos down the cobbled street of San Telmo, twisting their bodies first one way, then the other, then cheek-to-cheek, dragging a leg behind, then swinging it forward for the return, the woman’s black dress swinging tightly around her calves, a spring ready to unfurl at the accordion’s next request. Have they just come out to welcome the day? Or, have the pair been dancing the streets of Buenos Aires all night? I wonder, mesmerized.
Mini-movies, close-up snapshots of culture in vibrant hues set to Latin rhythms: This is Argentina—more episodic than saga. As I crisscross the street meandering from fruit vendor to organ grinder, stopping to capture the interplay of light and shadow on the ornate colonial architecture through the viewfinder of my camera, it strikes me that this is a city to experience not as a tourist but as a short-term resident, zigzagging in and out of stories. I put the camera away and boldly join the natives in the plaza, browsing the weekend market of improvised tables piled with local art, antiques, and kitsch, looking for a memento that encapsulates the diversity of this country.
As I explore Buenos Aires it continues to conform to my view of short story with its myriad barrios. Each neighborhood offers a chance to create an anecdote. There’s high-end shopping in Palermo, night clubs in Puerto Madero, and Recoleta is home to the cemetery and mausoleum where Eva Perón, the popular wife of Juan Domingo Perón is buried, and for which the popular musical and film, Evita, portray. The cemetery is also home to a colony of stray cats, one I named Granite, for his grey fur flecked with white that matches the carved crypts.
Zoom into Boca, the barrio at the mouth of Rio de la Plata, or River of Silver, one of the largest river basins in the world. A white cat naps in a window, undisturbed by the riot of blues, yellows, and reds that characterize the decorative buildings in this faded but charming neighborhood. A band stirs up romance under the umbrellas of a café. But the real passion builds near the stadium.
Today marks my first live fútbol match in South America and my heart pounds to see Boca Juniors play Independiente, just a few competitors of the over 330,000 registered footballers in Argentina. The game comes with warnings.
Sit in the neutral section, not with the fans. Don’t cheer for either team. If a team scores a goal, don’t show any facial expression. When it’s time to leave, wait until the guards let you out, after the winners and after the losers.
The stadium is filled to capacity, the noise deafening as the players confidently weave the ball down the field in intricate patterns toward their goal. Near the end of the match, riot police guard the moat that separates the fans from the field, pushing back the fanatics trying to scale the fence which was no match for the rolls of toilet paper and other debris that now litter the pitch. My team wins but you would never know it as I stoically stand to exit with the other soccer aficionados.
A trip to Argentina is not complete without experiencing the viticulture, ranked fifth in the world. The short flight to Mendoza provides stunning views of the Cordillera de Los Andes and a glimpse of Mount Aconcagua at 22,808 feet the highest peak in the Americas. The grape of choice is Malbec, from France, but often grown by vintners from the country’s 1.5 million Italian immigrants.
A well-traveled elderly couple, tourists in their own country, with careful Spanish and even more careful English, explains the intricacies of wine-tasting to their new North American tourist-friends. We sip diverse varietals at each bodega becoming more proficient as the tour winds down to an evening of the famous grilled Argentine beef served with chimichurri sauce and a peppery Malbec poured from porcelain penguins, a nod to the southern end of the country.
The clean air of Mendoza invigorates the soul and wipes the wine cobwebs from sleep, so it’s on to another episode performed on a large, yellow rubber raft. I brazenly tug at the class IV rapids with my paddle, but the river will have me yet. The crew shifts its weight too late, and I am in the drink, iced by the snow melt of the Andes, grasping for the line that will pull me to safety.
After a wet morning, I expect that a gentle ride on horseback will decrease my blood pressure, but I’m in Argentina, the land of tango, of quick starts, stops, and turns. The twist of adventure lurking behind the sweeping panoramic views of the countryside now startles me close up. I see the landscape has been lying to me from the tour bus as I view it from the back of a horse. My heart stops as I comprehend that a plunge off the scary-steep path will certainly not end well. For a second, I relax when I consider that Morena, the mare, knows the way, but only for a second. In that moment, I realize she also knows we are nearing her stable, food, and rest and that’s why she’s picked up the pace. I hold onto the saddle Western-style and in a death-defying act of bravery allow Morena to carry me over the precipice of the mountain on a trail I can’t see but she feels, and we gallop down the path toward her home—she, breathless with anticipation and me, breathless with trepidation.
The rancher and his son have built an outdoor oven where the aroma of warm beef empanadas beckons. Their crusts perfectly browned, they taste heavenly after the rigorous outdoor escapades.
The hosts at the guest house convince us that a day trip to Uruguay is a pleasant way to experience the vast river basin and see the beach house of one of Argentina’s, and the world’s, greatest players, FIFA Player of the Century Diego Maradona. I’m game.
I don’t test the English of the taxi drivers or ticket vendors because I’m in-the-moment, in an Argentinian-self, proudly and recently acquired. I engage the locals in my best high school Spanish who willingly play along. Their patience only runs out when it’s in your best interest. The woman at the hovercraft counter where I’m purchasing the tickets to Uruguay switches languages, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if we don’t finish this transaction in English, you’re going to miss the boat,” she says (in excellent, unaccented, idiomatic English), as I hide my blushing face in my purse, fumbling for correct amount of pesos to pay for the tickets.
On the other side of the river, our guide shows us the sights until we’re hungry. A restaurant that serves roasted goat entices all my senses with its quaint location near the plaza and its garlicky aromas. A coastal breeze allows us to sit outside comfortably under the waning sun.
Near the end of my too-short-stay, I return to the San Telmo Plaza and the antique markets to find a fitting souvenir—a bold, silver bangle wrought with decorative designs and elegant swirls. After all, Argentina comes from the Latin, argentum, or silver, a country whose twists and turns I’ve come to treasure.
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