After some chats with friends and family, it seems that many of you have questions about what is happening on an everyday level. Basic things about life that are different here but part of what I do each day. So here is my attempt to describe one typical day of my life in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
The Hostel
From the moment I arrived in Argentina until now I have been living at a place called the Hostel-Inn Tango. A buyant and lively place, full of vivacious travellers with a desire to experience Buenos Aires, it often gets quite noisy at nights. This is where I enter, late one night.
Standing at the entrance of my hostel, I am worn out from the long walk home with my heavy side-bag of Spanish and other assorted books. Of the two heavy and narrow doors of the hostel, formed of thick glass and sculptured iron bars covering the outside, only one is ever opened. I push on the tiny brass button enveloped by its large brass plate mounted on the concrete pillar next to the door, signalling my presence. Then I wait. When I hear the familiar buzz of the door being released remotely I push hard swing it open. At this point the sound of music, distant before, floods out onto the street. I climb the two short steps and squeeze through the narrow doorway. I am home at last.
The music pumps out 24hrs a day, although strangely enough it gets louder as the night gets later, and noone seems to mind. Even at this hour of the night, well past midnight, many people are about. The two free internet computers, slow and painful to use, are always occupied and a few are constantly waiting in the nearby lounge for their turn to contact friends and family. Looking around I see others standing at the reception desk, chatting with the staff. More are standing and sitting, some are reading papers, others conversing. Below me is the sound of raucous laughter.
I descend down a steep set of stairs into the basement, where the laughter was coming from. Fighting my way through the smoke haze, past the barstools and tables littering one side of the place, I make it to the bar itself, now converted into a breakfast bench and kitchen. The music from upstairs, piped down here also is playing just as loudly. Those watching television compete with the noise by turning it up louder. Every conversation is either shouted or remains unheard. On the other side of the basement is an old pool table complete with chipped balls and faded markings. Watching people play half of their pool game on the floor helps me understand how the balls could get so chipped.
My Room
Although most are only here for a short time and move on quickly, I say hi to a few faces I recognise before heading for bed. Upon climbing out of the basement, I then turn to climb a large marble staircase in want of repair to my dorm on the second floor. This is my second room here. When I arrived I lived in a general dorm with other travellers, but after the first week I was moved to the more private staff dorm. I guess they figured that if I had stayed for that long I was now part of the furniture. As is often the case, when I reach my door, it is locked, so I return to reception for the key and labour back up the two floors to my room.
My room has three double bunks and a large balcony. Three rows of lockers and my bed stand in front of the balcony doors, blocking access. I am not too concerned since the airconditioner is always on, keeping the room at a steady cold temperature. Some days this is great, while others I really crave fresh air. I drop my bag onto my bed, dig out my locker key and pry open my battered locker. Into this locker goes my bag and everything in my pockets; change, wallet, camera, and phone. A quick brush of my teeth and a large suck of water from the tap and I am ready for bed.
Wearily throwing a blanket over my bed and turning down the newly washed sheets, I climb in, feeling my whole body sink happily into the soft mattress. Before I allow myself the luxury of sleep I check that my alarm is on and set, and before it can reach the tiled floor my eyes have signed out for the night. The rest of my body follows shortly afterwards.
The Morning
Morning is announced not by the birds, nor my alarm, but by the buses. My room sits just above a nearby bus stop and gushes of noise from every passing bus pour through the closed doors into my room from the street. Bus drivers here know only go and stop and the buses, already old in age, growl noisily in response to their demands. Sometimes, when the streets fill up with traffic, I am serenaded by every tone of horn imaginable as drivers try to move their line of traffic through the uncontrolled intersections. I often turn over to try for some extra sleep and this works at times, but from 6am it grows noisier and noisier until most times it is just not worth it. I rise somewhere between 7am and 8am.
Having resigned myself to rising, I drag myself from the tangle of my sheets and blanket and grab some stuff enroute for the shower. Turning on the “C” tap results in hot water, logical if you think in Spanish (Caliente means hot), which sometimes I don’t. The slightly sloped tiled floor and a fully functioning drain is all that keeps water from my shower from flowing out the door and down the passageway. It has worked fine as long as I don’t crank the water pressure up too much. I have also worked out that by moving the curtain-rod so the shower curtain touches the floor, a narrow stretch of floor remains dry. It does require swinging on the door at the end to get out with dry feet however.
Now feeling much more awake, I search for clean clothes but choices are limited. Filling my pockets with everything that went into my locker the night before, I retrieve my bag and stuff a bag full of dirty laundery and head out, greeting the person at the front desk on my way. I pay them for the night before, which should have been payed ahead, but I normally pay in bulk and then forget for a while. Then squeezing out of the front door, I enter the noise of the street, and turn right.
The Streets
The sidewalks, with each section owned and maintained by the building owner adjacent to it, are in random states of repair. Some sections of sidewalk are completely missing, while others have large and small holes in them. Most sections are mostly complete and a very few are actually in good condition. One such good section is just down the street from my hostel, on the same block, and every morning I walk past a lady washing it clean with soapy water.
Even fifteen minutes walk from the city centre people fill the streets, making it difficult to move fast, and it is unwise to stray from the sidewalks for very long. Traffic fills the roads and every crossing becomes a game of “Frogger(1)“. Many of the intersections are uncontrolled and vehicles pass through them by flashing their lights and beeping their horn as they approach. Some drivers slow down.
On the way I stop at a Lavadero, dropping off my clothes to be washed. A full service laundery with ironing and dry-cleaning also available, I choose the cheapest service of wash and dry. It only takes a few hours to be completed, and will be waiting for me when I return in the evening. These places normally do not close until 8pm at night.
Public Transport
If I don’t feel like walking all the way, I will take to the subway. Descending into the tunnels of these old and noisy, window ventilated trains, I wait with only small crowds of people for the train to arrive. After all, who would be crazy enough to spend 80 centavos (cents) on a one station journey. Squeezing into the tightly packed carriages with the others is not so bad with only one station to travel, but it still gets very hot. Looking at those in suits I do not understand how they have not yet broken out into a sweat.
At the other end of the subway, I join in the rush of people vying for the two elevators. As we approach them, everyone starts forming a line of two abreast. Some rush up the stairs, pushing past others trying to descend, but most of us simply wait to reach the elevators. It is hot enough without trying to generate more heat.
Recently I have started taking the bus. The buses are somewhat random at times, and even being at the bus stop and raising my arm for the bus does not guarantee it will stop. When it does, I clambour aboard, steadying myself as the driver takes off. This is normally as soon as the last person is just inside the door. In the rush of stop-go down the street, it is a fumble to find my coins and insert them one at a time into the ticket machine. Should I have forgotten to tell the driver my fare (out of the two choices of 75 centavos and 80 centavos) then I am automatically charged the greater.
Knowing when to get off the bus requires knowledge of the streets, for which I am extremely grateful for all of my wanderings during the early weeks. In heavy traffic exiting the bus can occur anywhere near the stop, in the middle of the road. Most times the bus is full of hot, smelly people and it is a pleasure to get off. I normally only take the bus when I am late as it stops very close to my school. Other days I walk or take the train so that I can stop at Plaza de Mayo.
Plaza de Mayo
Surrounding Plaza de Mayo, arguably the most famous park in Argentina, is a wide multi-lane roundabout. How many lanes it actually is I cannot tell because it has been in repair since I arrived, with no surface left on the road face. I would estimate it at somewhere between six and eight lanes. Crossing without waiting for the lights takes some good Frogger(1) skills, but as I and many other Argentines have shown, it is highly possible.
On the inside of this roundabout lies a lovely area of parkland, criss-crossed with pathways. The widest follows down the middle of the park, with a tall pillar monument in the middle of the park. This is surrounded, in a pattern that forms a square, by four large fountains circled by bricked seats. The park is cut in half by a temporary steel mesh barrier just behind the monument, leaving two fountains on each side. The larger part, nearer the city heart, is much busier and has more trees and gardens. The other part faces the pink government house, Casa Rosada(2). It is in the larger part that I stop each morning, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the business world starting up for the day, and relax in the morning sun.
In the time before classes begin, I settle down on a lovely green section of grass to read or study. Sometimes I watch people passing by, or perhaps they watch me. This time on my own, anonymous amongst the crowds, is a highly enjoyable way to spend my morning time before joining in with the throng and pushing my way through the crowds to reach my school.
Florida Street
My school is located on Florida Street, probably the busiest section of town. People fill the street from wall to wall. Although many journeys are not so fast, if I need to move through this place at any speed, it requires much weaving and anticpating of gaps. Even moving with the crowds is not that easy, with people and objects constantly getting in your way.
Making my way up the street toward my school, pamphlets appear before my eyes, some I take and others I ignore. Most find their way into the nearest bin. Vendors selling hotdogs, croissants, watches, clothing, or nick-knacks all fill the street limiting the area where crowds can move. As one of the crowd, I wait at the street for traffic to stop flowing. As a pedestrians, our goal is to cross the street. This is done when the traffic is reduced enough to make crossing mostly safe, and it does not always coincide with the crossing lights. Large crowds cross most roads as soon as the traffic flow slows, sometimes trapping cars at a green light. Drivers in these situations honk their horn and wait for the flow of people to subside.
A little further down Florida street and I have reached my school, but divert into the grocercy shop opposite it for breakfast. This is normally yoghurt mixed with the cereal in its lid. Buying a meal has slowly changed from an ordeal to a pleasure, especially since being able to understand what price they are telling me. Receipts are very rare here, except in tourist stores, and plastic bags for everything is very common, even for just one item. I constantly tell surprised people that I do not want the bag.
The Lifts
Breakfast secured, I dodge the wall of people to reach the building that houses my school. Walking through the shopping arcade on ground level that continues through to the next street. It is only a short distance through this, past the perfumery and shoe shop, before I reach the entrance for my building. Class is taught on the 8th floor, so most times I prefer to take the lift, although there are times when it can be faster to walk up the stairs.
Of the three lifts that service the 12 floors in the building, only two are ever normally used. Each of these are small, with a maximum load of four people making it very cosy. A small sign on the lift states that “in fear of death, only allow four people in this lift”. It is something that we tend to follow closely.
In addition to being small, the lifts are also very slow, and very old. They look to be made in the days that Noah needed to get all his animals down from Mt Arrarat after the flood. At each stop two tiny french style doors on the lift creep open with a slow stutter, creating a tension of uncertainty that this could be their last attempt as all eyes are drawn to their efforts.
It is for such a reason as these two lifts, decorated lavishly on the ground floor with elaborate brass surroundings, that I now wait in a growing line of people. A man operates the lifts for us, opening and closing the door of each as required. It has not occurred to him that these same styled doors operate unassisted on every other floor, although I presume his purpose is more to ensure the lifts are not overloaded during such a rush as I am currently in.
Should a person have a large object such as a pram, wheelchair, or ladder, then the third lift comes into play. This lift, on the other side of the stairs, is larger than the other two and can take more people each time, something it occasionally does during times of great demand. Fully manual, it has a rotary handle that is operated by a “lifty” who determines the floor level by the painted numbers we pass.
The Lessons
Upon reaching the 8th floor, I enter my school through a glass door into a narrow hallway. People fill the hall waiting for classes to start, requiring patience to reach my classroom. Each week the class size varies and this week there are three of us seated around the table. We greet each other and chat animatedly in English about what has happened since we last met. It is not long before our teacher arrives signalling the commencment of classes and cessation of English.
Once classes commence, we only speak in Spanish with the exception of points of distinct confusion. All explanations of meanings and misunderstandings are in Spanish. My first class was quite difficult, but now as I listen to my teacher, I can understand enough to make sense of what she says. Many words are still new to me and it is only by context that I believe I have understood, although sometimes I have been completely wrong.
Working from our book, compiled of photocopies of various texts, we follow the pattern of learning a new concept and then practising it. The exercises in the book include such things as completing phrases, writing passages, answering questions, reordering sentences, and linking phrases to make sense. During the afternoon, with our second teacher, we also listen to songs that are in our books, filling in the missing words. Our time is divided roughly equally between learning and practicing, although out of practice can come many questions.
Afternoons
When classes end, at 3pm, I head straight for Plaza de Mayo. Here I lie in the shade enjoying the cool of the gentle breeze. With my school books scattered around me, I spend the rest of the sunlit hours studying and working through my homework exercises. It is also pretty watching the golden rays of the sun on the pink Casa Rosada(2) grow deeper in colour until they fade away into dusk. The relaxing setting of the park helps me concentrate on my work, although there are many things happening here and sometimes I allow myself the distraction.
The Walk Home
Once the sun sets it is around 6pm and my screaming stomach signals that it is time for dinner, so I gather up my stuff, throw my bag over my shoulder and reenter the high-paced surroundings of the city. Some nights I catch a train while others it is nice to walk. There are only so many ways I can walk home, and I have tried almost all of them by now wanting to see what was down each street.
Some days I take a taxi because it is easy. Simply stepping out onto the street and hailing one driving past. There are so many taxis that it is rare to wait more than a minute before finding a free one. The ride home costs somewhere around three to four pesos depending on traffic, and I often hand the driver a five peso note as I get out. Most drivers are extremely happy with this generous tip, and it is nice to make someone’s day.
Being tired tonight, I decide to walk the direct route home which takes me along the busy 8 lane Avenida Julio A. Roca. In the middle of this road is a statue of a horseman celebrating success, and I still have not worked out why roads make such good locations for statues here. At this time of day the foot traffic is not so bad and I meander my way down the wide sidewalk through scattered people and past many shops to my street, where I am now only several blocks from home.
Of the shops I passed, locutorios, where you can access the internet and make phone calls to anywhere in the world are very common. They are found on every block of the inner city and are still prolific elsewhere. Mini-shops that sell everything from emergency groceries to sweets, drinks, and smokes which are all jammed into a tiny space, are found even more frequently. Also everywhere, but on the sidewalks, are tall green cabinets up to three metres long that have their doors folded out during the day to become instant newspaper and magazine shops.
Once I turn into my street the sidewalk narrows to the width of two people, causing me to slow to the pace of those before me. Shops give way now to local businesses. Laverderias, Ferreterias or hardware stores, and other shops selling pumps, lawn mowers, chainsaws, or other equipment line the streets. Every now and then the locutorios and mini-shops also reappear.
Dinner Time
One block from home is my favourite restaurant. It is old, run-down, not entirely clean, poorly lit, cheap, run by a family, and local. Those last three reasons are why I like it, especially because it is local, and the food is good. Walking in, I tell the cook something like, “I want to eat food” using my limited vocabulary, and he will produce a menu to which I then randomly point, hoping that my new choice will be something that I like. Each time I go through this procedure, I consider going through the pains of translating things but then it is a little like Christmas when I don’t. So I am still pointing.
Generally my meals consist of meat and potatoes. Potatoes only come one way, boiled. I have asked for other ways as I have discovered names for them, but the chef tells me that this is not possible. So my meat, variations on steak, lamb, and chicken, comes with the staple potatoes, nothing more. No vegetables and no salads.
While my meal is being cooked I receive a bowl of small bread rolls, as I have in almost every other restaurant I have visited since arriving here. The difference with these bread rolls is that they are hard. Not hard so much as stale, but hard as in extremely stale, to the point that I often have a wrestling match there on the table as I try to pull off a bite sized piece from my selected bun. This often creates quite a mess for me to clean up when my meal arrives. Other restaurants also provide buns, but they are normally fresh. I like bread in any form, so I do not mind too much.
With the bread rolls comes two bottles. One contains an olive (or similar) oil, while the other contains vinegar. I have never seen other people use these to eat their bread rolls, but because these bottles are always associated with the rolls, I have presumed that they are to flavour the bread. So I use them for such. The vinegar is very useful for my little bread rocks, making them soft enough to eat without chipping a tooth, although it has taken me a while to get used to the taste of vinegar soaked bread. The oil does not soak into the bread and after dripping on myself a few times, I now stay clear of that one.
When my dinner arrives I discover that this time it is breaded steak, covered with melted cheese. I am one of only two patrons in the whole place. Inbetween bites, I stare up at soccer game that is invariably showing on the noisy television above the door. My enjoyment comes more from the reactions of the chef and his other patron at the fortunes and misfortunes of each team than from the game itself, and I pass the time either watching the game, them, or people as they pass outside.
Dinner completed, I pay the chef, who is the only person running the place at the moment, and cross the road to my favourite Internet access point, an Internet and Gaming shop. Although Internet is free at my hostel, the speed of the machines means that I cannot do very much with them, especially with my photos. So instead I prefer to pay one peso per hour to get high-speed access with a fast machine.
Internet Access
Arriving at the shop, I stand at the glass door, waiting for the door to be remotely opened. Once inside, I scan the 20 or so computers to see if one is free. Tonight I have to wait, and take a seat beside another guy who is also waiting. To pass the time I pull out my Spanish vocabulary book and start learning some new words, but it does not take too long before I am assigned a machine. I settle down in my bay to start emailing and sorting through my photos on the web.
Normally I limit myself to a certain amount of time such as one or two hours, but some times like tonight, I forget about the time and write away into the night. When I look at my watch it is already 11.30pm. When I leave at 12am, the shop is still packed with people.
Although today I spent my time on the Internet I often stay in the city and watch movies. They cost $7.50 (pesos) Thursday to Sunday and $4.50 other days. I have choosen Hollywood productions so far because they are in English with Spanish subtitles. This is good for learning Spanish, where watching the film is a process of trying to read the subtitles fast enough to catch a glimpse of the pictures. When I return home from the movies, it is often by taxi, as the walk is 20 minutes.
Today I am only one block from home, an easy walk.
Paper Grabbers
In the short distance home, I pass several people rummaging through someone else’s rubbish. Thorough in their job, these paper collectors search for any paper in the rubbish that can be recycled and add it to their collection. Once they have sifted through a complete pile of rubbish, they head for the next pile, leaving behind a mess of torn rubbish bags, scattered rubbish, and paper scraps too small to be worthwhile collecting. I can only assume that with so many people collecting paper they do not have time to be tidy.
The end result is a city of mess. Walking home sometimes requires diversions to avoid piles of rubbish scattered across the sidewalk, and reveals street after street of disarray. Somehow though, the mess must be cleaned up by teams of workers that continue through the night because by morning the place has been restored to looking clean again.
Home Again
Although it sounds late to return home by 12am or 2am, this is a common time for many people living in Buenos Aires, and not just tourists. Known for its vibrant night life, Buenos Aires shares a lot in common with Spain where the night is only starting at 2am. Most people prefer to sleep a little during the afternoon or early evening so they can go out at a later time, something that I often do also. Even very late at night the main city streets have just as many people as were there during peak hours.
On the street at 12am, I walking down the final stretch to home. This is the hardest part when I am feeling exhausted, when I can see my hostel and my legs don’t want to carry me anymore. Tonight I am feeling fine, although tired, and when I reach my hostel, I turn to face the glass doors, press the tiny brass button, and wait…
Home again.
NOTES FROM TEXT
(1) Frogger the Game
Frogger is a very old arcade game with a frog that has to cross the road. You control the frog and have to hop forward between vehicles, trying to make it to the other side safely. Each time you make it to the other side you are then returned to try again but with more vehicles that are driving faster. (Play Frogger the game)
(2) Casa Rosada
The huge big pink building at one end of Plaza de Mayo that serves as the Presedential Palace. More information at:
* Plaza de Mayo information
* Presidencia de la Nacion Argentina (Casa Rosada in Spanish)
* Casa Rosa on Wikipedia
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