Around the flea market are men and women dressed all in white. Even
their faces are white. They pretend to be statues and then move if you
get close. They shake hands for a photo and a tip. In the background a
flamenco guitarist can be heard. Occasional breezes make the heat just
bearable.
Stalls are selling old watches, knives, coins, glassware, jewelry --
almost anything. Pictures of Evita and Che Guevera are on sale too. They
are not forgotten.
We had lunch on german food, of all things, and check out a fancy
shopping mall. This mall, called the Galerie Pacifico, is almost as lovely
as South Coast Plaza (in Orange County, California) although not as large.
I forgot to talk about Recoleta Cemetery. Our cab moves through the
crowded streets and it begins to rain a little. The air is very sticky.
Once outside, we find the entrance. There is no one there to ask -- where
is Evita buried. We walk in a little ways. It is like tiny stone houses
on streets. Each one contains many of the relatives of a given family.
You must be important to be here. The rain picks back up and we are forced
back to the entrance. We watch it rain. Spots on the pavement; but it is
dry under the trees. Fearing that it will rain harder, we dart from one
tree to another. We see no Evita.
Our attention is drawn by a British accent. A woman in her late 50s is giving a tour to two oriental men. We tag along. This idea is far from original and in just a couple of minutes there are a dozen or more of us. Guessing what is going on, she turns to the group and says "if you will all follow me, we will eventually come to Evita."
We stop at a couple more rather spectacular graves and by the time we get to Evita, there are about 30 people. We find that she is about 20 feed down. Rare for this cemetery but there is a stone "house" never the less. We catch back up to the "tour" to learn that this lady is one of the elite who will be buried here. Interesting and maybe a little creepy too.
Outside we see a small group playing music under the biggest tree I've ever seen. Several men hold squeeze boxes on their laps. Then a young couple starts to tango. This is much more complex than we have seen on the screen in the theater. It is twisting and turning and I think that learning how to follow that would be nearly impossible.
This is supposed to be one of the best places to buy local handicrafts in the country. We are excited as we watch the miles of green farms and trees pass. Two hours we have been riding the bus when we stop. We are here. We get out of the bus. A gaudy sign offer a dusty porch on the tiny bus station awaits us.
There is no town visible.
I spot a cab. We ask him to take us to the main street where the shops are. The driver seems a bit confused. The street is found but as we pass along it there is nothing open. Almost no one here. In desperation, Wade ask for the Tourist office in Spanish and the driver takes us there.
A very pleasant man gives us a map and tells us where to find the shops.
We feel better and start to walk again -- empty. Closed shops -- nothing.
We pass several locations on the map and no handicrafts are to be found.
It is like something out of an old western when there is about to be a
showdown.
Soon we decide to give up on this and we head for the bus station. The bus is due in 30 minutes so we sit on the porch and wait. The time comes. . .no bus. Minutes pass. . .10, 15, 20 -- no bus. Finally at 30 minutes late, we have a bus. The lunch we never got pales in the distance as we joyfully board the bus. We are joking that I said I would follow Wade to the ends of the Earth but I had no idea he would take me up on it (even though this particular place was more my idea).
Our jubilation was short lived as we got on and found that there were only wet seats left. One nice man moved his son out of a seat onto his lap. It was a gesture that he would end up living with for an hour and a half.
An intermediate stop allowed Wade and I to find seats but mine was wet. Unable to do better, I stayed there.
I am awakened by a thump! It is followed later by another one. Nothing happens -- we roll on. I am hungry, hot, cramped, and sitting in a wet seat. I have been more miserable but I don't know when. We stop and more people get out. We are waiting to go again but the driver seems to be looking under the bus. Someone hollers something in Spanish and everyone starts to get off. Only 20 minutes from the bus stop we have broken down.
We have had enough. We catch a cab to the hotel, clean up, and go to
dinner. What was the guidebook thinking? Who paid them to say
this?
The day had been a complete loss but we were lucky too. Lucky that no one had taken our cameras from us in that tumble weed town. Lucky that our broken bus had not flipped over. Lucky that our cab driver was capable of zigzagging through traffic safely.
Oddly enough, probably the best part of the day was watching a man try to fix his car with a rock. He had a rock the size of a small loaf of bread. There we sat on this hot dusty porch dismayed as he bashed the car repeatedly with the rock to no avail.
To say that this was an unusual day is to miss the scope entirely.
Feed the birds. This is the one thing that Chelsea could make a career
of her in Buenos Aires. I think you could wake her up in the middle
of the night and ask her if she wanted to feed the birds and, in the blink
of an eye, she would be ready to go. So this morning, partly to make up
for the catastrophe yesterday, we made fatter birds.
Then we attempted (successfully, this time)
to acquire some handicrafts. I got some Andean pipes and Wade got
a knife. It was a good day although not a s remarkable as many of
the others.
This was put together by Wade Guthrie