Buena Suerte en Buenos Aires

The cab driver sang along to The Doors from the ferry port into Buenos Aires. A young man, unabashed in his supposed coolness, he sped into the crowded city amongst a cloud of cigarette smoke and Jim Morrison’s psychedelic crooning. I didn’t have any Argentine pesos to pay him because I had failed to change money at the port, so I asked him if we could make two stops: first the bank and then Celina’s house.

“El banco?” he said into his rearview mirror.

“Si, necesito un cajero automatico...o puedo pagarte en pesos Uruguayos.”

He said okay and then forgot, enjoying the ride a little too much. I said no problem, that I could borrow the cab fare from Celina, but when I rang, she wasn’t there. The cab driver took me to four ATMs before I found one that had enough money in it. It was a Sunday, and the ATMs were out of money.

“No tengo suerte hoy,” I lamented to the cab driver when we returned to the house and Celina was still not there. He let me use his cell phone to call her, but no one answered. It was evening, and he suggested that he take me to a nearby McDonald’s to wait. On the way he asked if it would be okay for him to stop for cigarettes. He came back with candy, which he offered to me as a consolation.

Dropping me off at McDonald’s, my new friend wrote down the address for me and wished me good luck with sincerity, “Buena suerte,” and then he was off into the night with candy, a fresh pack of cigs, and his music for company.

I sorted out the situation on my iPod touch with McDonald’s free wifi, and an hour later, I was greeted by Celina, her American student-tenant Hardy, a friendly neighbor, and all smiles at the front door of Celina’s apartment building. Celina, Hardy, and I crowded into the tiny lift with my giant suitcase, and we made our way to the third floor where I made my residence for the next week.

I was introduced to Celina through a friend in Greenville, Justin, who studied for six months in Buenos Aires ten years prior. She was completely adorable, a small mother in her sixties, constantly talking in Spanish, of which Hardy and I understood about 5%. That didn’t stop her, though, from taking us out for pizza, beer, and ice cream at Freddo’s, and telling us all about her children, her former student-tenants, and her fondness for Justin: “Un muy buen chico.” I could tell she missed him, and loved so many people with a big heart full of pride.

When Hardy went out with his fellow students, Celina and I ate in her TV room. “Te gusta cerveca?” she asked slyly the first night we dined together.

“Si, mucho!”

The answer delighted her, and we split a liter of beer and talked about life over homemade meals with the local news on the TV in the background.

“Susie!!!” Celina called me because it was the name of Justin’s ex-wife, and she couldn’t remember my name, “Susie!! No vas a creer lo que me paso hoy!” She launched into stories with gusto, giggling with delight and astonishment.

I spent my days in Buenos Aires in Spanish school: level three, with a room full of Brazilians. They understood everything the teacher said to us, with Portuguese being so similar. I understood that our teacher liked to go dancing, which she demonstrated in class, that she was the first Spanish teacher in that particular IBL school, and that she thought the Argentine President was a bitch. The Brazilians were not as capable at speaking Spanish, so we all labored over our expressions and pronunciations, but mainly did a lot of laughing at our teacher and each other.

I told the Brazilians about Celina’s warning to me, “No sale con Brasilenos. Brasilenos son locos.” They were greatly amused.

I did end up going out with Brazilians. I had the great pleasure of meeting Nayara and Nelson, a couple on vacation in Buenos Aires who invited me to travel with them. We ate in delicious restaurants, went site-seeing in the city, and went dancing all night. We all spoke a similar intermediate level of Spanish, and sort of created our own language, a blend of broken Spanish, Portuguese and English. Espangueslish.

I took Nayara and Nelson to La Salsera, a club with salsa dancing every night of the week, all night long. The dancers were incredible, mostly LA style…it felt like a salsa congress every night.

After a week of hot cramped subway rides, homicidal traffic, and elbow-to-elbow sidewalks, I had the itch to move on from this New York of South America to more open spaces. I said goodbye to my new Brazilian friends, to Hardy, the Alabaman who was making his way to Iguazu for the weekend with friends, and to the one and only Celina, who kissed my cheek and told me I was hermosa in every way.

I had buena suerte in Buenos Aires after all, and I knew, as I settled into the overnight bus to Mendoza, that I would return to this city for a weekend of salsa and city life some time soon.