Pardon the rust. It’s
been a while.
Apparently it took for me
to be over 12,000 kilometers away from Beirut for me to get an urge to post
here again.
I was so tempted to
revive this blog when I was in Venezuela, but clearly the Atlantic Ocean and
its Bermuda triangle alone didn't exorcize the demons of the Lebanon. I had to
call in support from flesh-eating Amazonian piranhas to feel safe enough. I
will have an angry rant or two about Venezuela and perhaps about Lebanon as a
thing or two have taken place there in the past year or two, but let's just
start with the land of gods. Of course, by gods I mean holy cows the biggest of
which is of course the ultimate god, Diego Armando Maradona.
This reminds me of the
conversation I had with dude on plane.
Dude on plane: I raise
cattle and export chicken breasts. The part of Argentina where I'm from pretty
much feeds the world. So what is Lebanon's main economic activity?
Dude in seat next to dude
on Plane, also known as Me: Well, we raise cattle and export breasts too, but
ours are more like peacock breasts.
I haven't read the laws
of Argentina, but I'm pretty sure that vegetarianism in this country is a
capital punishment offense. (Disclaimer: This line has already been tweeted,
but I typed it here first)
The City of Buenos Aires
is tens, perhaps hundreds, of kilometers of walkability. So I like it. There
are minor elevation changes in the topography of the city, but these only
become problematic after hour number 13 of walking. Also, the “green” that is
missing from there dishes they try to make up for it with Free Bicycles.
I know that in Spanish
the rule of thumb is that if a word starts with al then it's most likely
adapted from Arabic. Alfajor is a sugary cookiey chocolatey concoction, which
can be found in many countries in the bigger half of the Americas. Half here is
used as in "You're my better half" where half is clearly not
mathematically accurate. Well, whatever alfajor is in Arabic, Arabs should take
it back. I know there is no shortage of delicious pastry in the Arab world, but
let's face it, the towns that make the best sweets (Tripoli, Damascus, Nablus
and Hama, which claims to have taught Tripoli how to make Halawet El Jeben)
aren't easily accessible these days.
But Buenos Aires isn't
just about food.
After all there is an
Argentinian dude who has sold more shirts than Leo Messi.
Ernesto Guevara's
portrait made an appearance at a protest camp outside a pink palace, which I
presume is the presidential pink palace as the signs were against the
presidential family: the Kirchners.
I talked to some
protestors who were on hunger strike. I don't think you're supposed to talk to
hunger strikers as they attempt to conserve their energy after 25 days of
foodless survival, but at the same time solidarity requires you to know what
you are solidarizing over. Now whether I
solidarized with them or not (more on that later), the conversation earned me
an undercover police tail. Protests and police informers go together like a slap
on a face. It won't be hard for them to keep me on their radar. I am wearing
that kryptonic glow of green that nullifies Superman's super powers. It also
happens to be the same color of that blip on analog radar displays. Also, I
probably won't be changing anytime soon as my bag and my entire wardrobe is
somewhere in a pile of lost bags in some airport. Logically, it would be either
Caracas or Buenos Aires's international airport. Illogically and more likely
it's in Tegucigalpa. If you're wondering what that is, it is the city that
houses Tegucigalpeños and Tegucigalpeñas and the younger Tegucigalpeñitos and
Tegucigalpeñitas.
I must admit I'm
completely ignorant about this city and the country…as ignorant as a CNN
correspondent in Beirut. I basically did a 3-minute search for a place to stay
before landing here. That was that extent of my knowledge of the city. As I
walked around I came upon what is clearly a very coveted touristy site: La
Recoleta. It comes replete with octogenarians in shorts with orthopedic black
shoes and calf length white socks, tour groups following a guide carrying a
brightly colored thong on a stick (most tourists are Brazilians after all), and
Nikon straps strapped to generic cameras with big lenses. It turns out one of
the hottest tourist traps in town traps you eternally. It's a cemetery. You can
pose for pictures and – if no one is looking and you have long limbs – shake
hands with famous dead Argentinians who are in fancy
mausoleums/sarcophagi/tombs/graves/caskets/bonesinabox/yougetthepoint.
Madonna's kitschy tomb is one of the hottest attractions. No need to ask people
not to cry for me Argentina, because the truth is that people look to be
extremely jolly when surrounded by decayed human remains.
Back to fresh flesh,
because after all the food here is quite exquisite. The internet has gone to
great lengths to deliver you unbiased critical scores of eateries around the
world. Billions of internet users can't be wrong, so naturally I consulted with
a random person on the street and she pointed me to a restaurant.
I would venture to say
that purse snatching is a thing in Buenos Aires. The unique way a purse is
carried buttoned into the belly with a hand clutching it or within
quick-clutching distance looks like the result of conditioning.
Finally, here’s some street music from a few minutes ago.
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