Running water sweeps the city, zigzagging at random, with only a passing obedience to the laws of gravity. Pools spew from the ground, like volcanic activity or a burst water main, both events that wouldn't surprise me in this city. Waterfalls on hilly streets are now a spontaneous new tourist attraction. The city becomes dissected by impassable barriers, with the routine flow of people traffic responding with the development of a queuing system for the remaining pathway, using makeshift bridges carved from improper construction procedures and badly repaired street tiling; on normal days your arch nemesis but ironically now your savor from wet socks and mud-singed jeans. After sometime, piles of collected trash begin to block the already modest drainage systems, resulting in what looks like a mouth drowning in its own littered vomit. The only carry over today is the driving style of choice; it continues to be all about offense, except this time innocent bystanders are dragged into this jungle battle of attrition, with artificial waves of bubbly water squirted on all and discriminating against none. Welcome to Buenos Aires on a rainy day.
Cities with normally good, consistently clean weather suffer from the same problem; it's citizens are picky and a night with even a tiny hint of unpleasant conditions is used as an excuse to cancel much looked-forward-to plans. If you're set on going out, and that venue has an indoor option, why let 15 minutes of rain and 20km/h winds change your mind? The same disease that plagued Sydney and annoyed me has also swept over BsAs. People don't go out unless Mother Nature blesses the idea personally. Bollocks. In my opinion, the only way to intimately meet a city is on a rainy wet weekend, with a wet slide in your walk and a dense smell in your nostrils. The colours take on a rich blend, a disco-ball reflection, distorting your sense of distances and mashing elements of the senses into a big cake mix of contrasts. No longer are people spread out, marking their own path, everyone must now use the limited tracks remaining to make their way. At no other time does one have so many close ups, shoulder brushes, and eavesdropping situations as a rainy night. A connection forms between the street walkers - everyone feels each others pain. The stares are softer, the body language more open, and old fashioned comradeship emerges in the form of gestures - umbrella space is offered, taxis are passed on to the most needy, and hospitality service seems a little better than in the past. Warmness of the soul sometimes doesn't equate with warmness of the body.
Ridley Scott was renowned for his signature damp city scenes. Think Blade Runner, Black Rain, even Gladiator. He was no fool when it came to imagery. Darkness and negativity brings personality and intrigue. The masses and dull mainstream are washed away, revealing the inner-city lifeblood, the people tied inexplicably to the weekend night - your derelicts, vampires, street hustlers, drug fiends, party seekers, perverts, bored youngsters, high end networkers and those who grind the streets for work - late night store owners, taxi drivers, pan handlers and street entertainers. All melted together, huddled under the same walkway roofs, all afraid of getting wet, all the real human heartbeat of a city. Try it sometime. Go out and get wet. Walk around. Feel your cities pulse bleed water.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Futbol of Life
Weaknesses are difficult for us as humans to confront directly, an evolutionary trait passed down from our primal ancestors, manipulating us into presenting our better side to the world and shunning that which is counter-productive to our agenda, attaining power, status, security, and fucking the best mate possible. This isn't a totally unconscious experience however. In our minds we play out many possible weakness-revealing scenarios, and judge whether its in our best interest to play cards we our dealt, chancing exposure to a possible information leak. Or always the easy option remains, throw them back to the dealer, pattern-side up with a quiet smirk of dignity. Over time we become content playing the same strong self-perceived starting hands. Why play life poker any other way? On the flipside, never developing a hand range for fear of losing our table image is perhaps the greatest gimping one can undertake for his life potential. Don't continually improve, and you're going backwards. Somewhere, there exists a trade off between being divulging flaws and pushing your skill set forward. It seems so far that this blogpost is going to be serious and self-examination. Nope, this is just my pompous introduction to my first game of football (note to readers: I call it football, not soccer, despite being a dumb gringo).
The reasons why I decided to play deserves its own blog post, but the idea came from my roommate who insisted that at least once, I should come down to his Monday football game and partake in a social kick-about. Now, I don't consider myself an athlete. I'm like a pretend nerd; I surround myself with everything that makes me look nerdy, glowing computer cases, random tech products, Star Trek:TNG box sets, even dressing the part with over-sized shirts and 60's throwback style glasses, who in the end is as dumb as a box of nails and couldn't do algebra or re-wire a circuit if his life depended on it. That's how I feel about my athletic prowess, I enjoy sports and part of that is being sporty myself, working out at the gym, running to stay fit, and playing a variety of sports I have interests in. I'm tall, muscular, and by all accounts look like someone who should be talented and useful. I can hold my own in certain sports, but when I mention to people that I play rugby, and hear the all too frequent first response of "so did you ever go pro?", I know somewhere there's a disparity between what people perceive my ability to be and the actual, embarrassingly quaint truth. This is made worse by my Dad, who is an ex-circuit Tennis professional, and now days a kick-ass golfer, who must have just plum forgot to pass down that gift, but never forgets to casually mention to friends that he has a son who is 'serious about his rugby'. Sporting talent isn't as passed down via genetics as much as what people think, so I tell people. So when faced with an opportunity for a false athlete like myself to play probably my weakest sport with a tight-nit group of football regular, and remembering my instinctual fear of sucking in the presence of an audience, I went into the tank for this freshly dealt hand.
About 4 days had passed since the roommate first brought the idea up. "Just join the facebook group, post the next number and you'll be signed up". His casual attitude (not to mention his presumption that I had already decided) swayed me to log on to facebook and join the team. The game itself was pick up style, 14 guys turn up, teams were selected by balancing abilities, and the game goes on for an hour or so with no logged scoring. Ok, maybe this will be fun. I've never kicked around a football since I was 10, the closest is a Rugby ball, and perhaps a Basketball once fucking around with some eccentric H.O.R.S.E game. My footwork is what you'd expect from a nonathletic 6"5 guy who has stuck to hand based sports - clumsily hilarious and potential stardom on youtube if filmed by some sadistic person. Fortunately for me, cameras have more important business elsewhere than some random Argentine sports center. I committed myself for Monday and living true to my life ineptitude, I made no special preparations or training. This will be interesting, I thought Sunday night, eating a fatty lomito and fries.
Monday night rolls around. The starting time is a late 11 o'clock, typical Argentine scheduling but thanks to my transformation into a night-dweller, its close to optimal. The roommate and I pack our provisions and head down to the corner to meet up with the other guys, all of who I've met before. Whether this induces confidence or adds to the pressure I can't tell at this point. A short cab ride later we arrive at the complex, consisting of one or two large outdoor pitches, an indoor kiosk/waiting area acting as the entrance to a impressive half sized indoor soccer arena. Men are drinking beers, which is slightly reassuring - the great Australian tradition of post-match ales is more universal than I thought. "Perhaps this attitude applies to other areas", I optimistically ponder in an official top 5 'world's craziest soccer' country. The pitch is a strange mix of AstroTurf and chunky artificial dirt, combining to form as surprisingly good surface, not too slippery but a good mix of traction and softness. The arena is carved as a stomach between two heavy rail tracks, loudly rumbling every 10 minutes or so, occasionally cloaking in 'I-can't-hear-shit-mode' when two trains happen to pass alongside simultaneously. A few practice kicks later and I'm thrusted into battle. Up against me is a tall Australian guy, lankier but more skillful than I. He knows what he's doing, a stark contrast to me indeed. Cross out the 'I'm a tall gringo in a game of midgets' excuse from the list. Damn, I really wanted to use that one. The first 'quarter' goes well, I focus on my defending, using my size and speed to apply what I think was pressure. "Never be flat footed" my roommates voice narrates from above, over and over. I occasionally press up looking for space, and fortune must favor the brave, because I was rewarded with an easy goal, a cross that missed everyone, most importantly the keeper. I strike the ball into the thread-loose netting, being careful not to 'claim' the goal with any kind of celebration; its a bad omen in sport. My first football goal, 17 years after my first game - not that my younger self ever gave a shit. After few mistakes, a couple of easy turnovers, and masses of midfield calamities (and another goal, courtesy of a header), the game was over. The others untied their boots, re-organised their bags, made small talk - business as usual. I sat their disecting my performance, difficult in the shroud of self-doubt. Did I play good or bad? Was I burden on my team? What did I do right? Is it worth trying this again? I was certainly a burden on the team, but I was at least better than the other teams worst player, which is consoling. Will I play this hand next time around, or does it go into the muck? No one ever dips their toe into water, only to dive in the moment it touches. Nor does it leave them pancake-like blisters the next day. But I'm definitely buying a football.
The reasons why I decided to play deserves its own blog post, but the idea came from my roommate who insisted that at least once, I should come down to his Monday football game and partake in a social kick-about. Now, I don't consider myself an athlete. I'm like a pretend nerd; I surround myself with everything that makes me look nerdy, glowing computer cases, random tech products, Star Trek:TNG box sets, even dressing the part with over-sized shirts and 60's throwback style glasses, who in the end is as dumb as a box of nails and couldn't do algebra or re-wire a circuit if his life depended on it. That's how I feel about my athletic prowess, I enjoy sports and part of that is being sporty myself, working out at the gym, running to stay fit, and playing a variety of sports I have interests in. I'm tall, muscular, and by all accounts look like someone who should be talented and useful. I can hold my own in certain sports, but when I mention to people that I play rugby, and hear the all too frequent first response of "so did you ever go pro?", I know somewhere there's a disparity between what people perceive my ability to be and the actual, embarrassingly quaint truth. This is made worse by my Dad, who is an ex-circuit Tennis professional, and now days a kick-ass golfer, who must have just plum forgot to pass down that gift, but never forgets to casually mention to friends that he has a son who is 'serious about his rugby'. Sporting talent isn't as passed down via genetics as much as what people think, so I tell people. So when faced with an opportunity for a false athlete like myself to play probably my weakest sport with a tight-nit group of football regular, and remembering my instinctual fear of sucking in the presence of an audience, I went into the tank for this freshly dealt hand.
About 4 days had passed since the roommate first brought the idea up. "Just join the facebook group, post the next number and you'll be signed up". His casual attitude (not to mention his presumption that I had already decided) swayed me to log on to facebook and join the team. The game itself was pick up style, 14 guys turn up, teams were selected by balancing abilities, and the game goes on for an hour or so with no logged scoring. Ok, maybe this will be fun. I've never kicked around a football since I was 10, the closest is a Rugby ball, and perhaps a Basketball once fucking around with some eccentric H.O.R.S.E game. My footwork is what you'd expect from a nonathletic 6"5 guy who has stuck to hand based sports - clumsily hilarious and potential stardom on youtube if filmed by some sadistic person. Fortunately for me, cameras have more important business elsewhere than some random Argentine sports center. I committed myself for Monday and living true to my life ineptitude, I made no special preparations or training. This will be interesting, I thought Sunday night, eating a fatty lomito and fries.
Monday night rolls around. The starting time is a late 11 o'clock, typical Argentine scheduling but thanks to my transformation into a night-dweller, its close to optimal. The roommate and I pack our provisions and head down to the corner to meet up with the other guys, all of who I've met before. Whether this induces confidence or adds to the pressure I can't tell at this point. A short cab ride later we arrive at the complex, consisting of one or two large outdoor pitches, an indoor kiosk/waiting area acting as the entrance to a impressive half sized indoor soccer arena. Men are drinking beers, which is slightly reassuring - the great Australian tradition of post-match ales is more universal than I thought. "Perhaps this attitude applies to other areas", I optimistically ponder in an official top 5 'world's craziest soccer' country. The pitch is a strange mix of AstroTurf and chunky artificial dirt, combining to form as surprisingly good surface, not too slippery but a good mix of traction and softness. The arena is carved as a stomach between two heavy rail tracks, loudly rumbling every 10 minutes or so, occasionally cloaking in 'I-can't-hear-shit-mode' when two trains happen to pass alongside simultaneously. A few practice kicks later and I'm thrusted into battle. Up against me is a tall Australian guy, lankier but more skillful than I. He knows what he's doing, a stark contrast to me indeed. Cross out the 'I'm a tall gringo in a game of midgets' excuse from the list. Damn, I really wanted to use that one. The first 'quarter' goes well, I focus on my defending, using my size and speed to apply what I think was pressure. "Never be flat footed" my roommates voice narrates from above, over and over. I occasionally press up looking for space, and fortune must favor the brave, because I was rewarded with an easy goal, a cross that missed everyone, most importantly the keeper. I strike the ball into the thread-loose netting, being careful not to 'claim' the goal with any kind of celebration; its a bad omen in sport. My first football goal, 17 years after my first game - not that my younger self ever gave a shit. After few mistakes, a couple of easy turnovers, and masses of midfield calamities (and another goal, courtesy of a header), the game was over. The others untied their boots, re-organised their bags, made small talk - business as usual. I sat their disecting my performance, difficult in the shroud of self-doubt. Did I play good or bad? Was I burden on my team? What did I do right? Is it worth trying this again? I was certainly a burden on the team, but I was at least better than the other teams worst player, which is consoling. Will I play this hand next time around, or does it go into the muck? No one ever dips their toe into water, only to dive in the moment it touches. Nor does it leave them pancake-like blisters the next day. But I'm definitely buying a football.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Bringing Disease and Pestilance to the New World
A form is presented to you, maybe pushed across to you in an interrogation room, or perhaps handed to you on a clipboard at a dull downtown insurance conglomerate. You break into a half skim, filling in the 'gimmie' questions like "Date of Birth", "Current Address" and "Profession" (the latter being an awkward experience for me), but leaving some trickier questions like "Blood Type", or "Income Level" (always am I tempted to clumsily edit 'Theoretical' on the left of this one to make the question a little easier) giving me time to go through a 'if i fuck this up it'll be really embarrassing' 10 second pen-tip-to-chin tap before answering. Eventually 'Please list any food allergies' appears on the list, and let's be honest, there's a certain sense of genetic pride in ticking the 'None' box. Those of us with no heredity issues, 20/20 vision, even a life of being broken bone free, we not only enjoy our quoted insurance costs, but also a vain sense of elitism that we know deep down is unearned, but this rationality doesn't stop us from lifting our necks and poking our chests out a touch more than the general population. Unfortunately for me, my days of genetic elitism are over. I discovered that I have a food allergy.
Twice a week, a chef by the name of J.D comes to our house and cooks large batches of food, to last until his next visit. At first I was skeptical. What would be the ramifications J.D's service would have on my work ethic? Being waited on hand and foot, although an exaggeration in this case, is not good for keeping me grounded. If there's one thing I've learned about myself in 25 years of near-consistent breathing, its how easily I lose perspective, and how even more easily that can translate into a 24/7 life daydream vacation. But enough pseudo-conditioning bullshit. Practically, having restaurant-quality food available at all times is a godsend for productivity. As a self-confessed eating addict, one who hates the feeling of hunger and loves the calming satisfaction of a big meal just ate, the less worry about the former, the better. Food is that important to me. People notice when I haven't eaten. I'm irritable and have difficult paying attention. Avoidance of this state is a big enough life priority to trump all others.
The first two weeks went well. Great food, tantalising variety, and its nice while fighting off a virus that food consumption need only a 15m walk from bedroom to kitchen, with no need to worry about icky processes like food preparation. Then not long after my virus subsided, bad luck struck. A giant trout-slap of bad luck. Never had I an allergic reaction from anything in my life. Like I said earlier, I considered myself part of the elite. Neck high, chest out, etc etc, until one morning last week. I awoken to a some light itches that seemed centered around my feet and lower waist. In a morning zombie trance thus not thinking much of it, I slipped into the bathroom to attend my morning business, reaching and prodding for the light switch with the usual half opened eyes. *click*. The eye adjustment came quicker than usual, from the shock of my mirrorly reflection. 80% of my body was covered in a thick red rash, in some places resembling skin boils, with only my face spared. Congratulations, you're covered in hives. And it was getting worse. The itch was slowly spreading, partly from the psychological effect (things are always worse when you notice them) but I'm sure something psychical was going on too. My ass and lower back now required an ape-like reach around to sooth. I was fucking scared. "What the hell is this, why is this happening, is this related to my virus?!". Questions swirled in my brain but luckily my rational planning instincts took hold, translation: 'wake my poor spanish speaking roommate 4 hours into his sleep and drag his ass with me to a hospital'. Luckily, from then on in everything would go smoothly. The hospital gave me the option of a direct dermatologist consultation needing only a small wait, who turned out to be a cute girl in her early 30's with a sprightly smile and an authentic white coat. She calmed me with her professional re-assurance and prescription notepad filled with a range of drug ideas. I left the hospital somewhat relieved, so my roommate and I celebrated - with a trip to a nearby Burger King, as you do in times of crisis.
But what caused my skin's meltdown? The Doctor said it was probably my O.T.C. drug medication (binned shortly after), but allergies to other things like food could also be the cause. At that point I was close to certain the drugs were the reason. I had taken double the suggested dose (don't do things half assed my father used to say...), which sounded too poetic not to be the culprit (disobey packet recommendations at your own risk I've now learned). The hives cleared up by mid-afternoon and my old meds were now firmly positioned in the bottom of the trash can, so I resumed life as normal, even going out to dinner that night with friends (I ended that early however, because my stomach virus kicked up again thanks to my new drug abstinence). Unfortunately for me, red dots started appearing again lightly on my arms around 11 O'clock. Rationality mode kicked in again. The drugs weren't to blame. It was a food allergy, the process of elimination pointing squarely at J.D's salad.
A salad. A Caesar salad. A particularly good Caesar salad that I enjoyed. It was the culprit. Something in it was to blame for an allergic reaction in my skin, causing me to break out in hives for about 8-10 hours. The next morning I made sure to intercept J.D, who was also dumbfounded at how the salad of all things could be the cause. "All the sauce is is an egg-based mayonnaise with nothing more". It took a 5 minutes conversation for us both to come to the same conclusion; this was fucking weird. I've eaten Caesar salad's frequently from all over the world, including Argentina. Never has a single crumb given me an allergic reaction (let alone a full blown rash attack), I've traveled most of the western world, sampling local foods from many street corners and food kiosks. I wish there was an explanation, some obscure ingredient that I could narrow down and used in the future as pre-meditated party story. "You know what I'm allergic too? Bolivian nightshade spice! Yeah I know, crazy right? More exciting than airplane nuts!" *queue blond girl laughter*. But there is none. Just a mystery. A mystery which brings my elitism down a peg. Not to mention my form-filling out times.
Twice a week, a chef by the name of J.D comes to our house and cooks large batches of food, to last until his next visit. At first I was skeptical. What would be the ramifications J.D's service would have on my work ethic? Being waited on hand and foot, although an exaggeration in this case, is not good for keeping me grounded. If there's one thing I've learned about myself in 25 years of near-consistent breathing, its how easily I lose perspective, and how even more easily that can translate into a 24/7 life daydream vacation. But enough pseudo-conditioning bullshit. Practically, having restaurant-quality food available at all times is a godsend for productivity. As a self-confessed eating addict, one who hates the feeling of hunger and loves the calming satisfaction of a big meal just ate, the less worry about the former, the better. Food is that important to me. People notice when I haven't eaten. I'm irritable and have difficult paying attention. Avoidance of this state is a big enough life priority to trump all others.
The first two weeks went well. Great food, tantalising variety, and its nice while fighting off a virus that food consumption need only a 15m walk from bedroom to kitchen, with no need to worry about icky processes like food preparation. Then not long after my virus subsided, bad luck struck. A giant trout-slap of bad luck. Never had I an allergic reaction from anything in my life. Like I said earlier, I considered myself part of the elite. Neck high, chest out, etc etc, until one morning last week. I awoken to a some light itches that seemed centered around my feet and lower waist. In a morning zombie trance thus not thinking much of it, I slipped into the bathroom to attend my morning business, reaching and prodding for the light switch with the usual half opened eyes. *click*. The eye adjustment came quicker than usual, from the shock of my mirrorly reflection. 80% of my body was covered in a thick red rash, in some places resembling skin boils, with only my face spared. Congratulations, you're covered in hives. And it was getting worse. The itch was slowly spreading, partly from the psychological effect (things are always worse when you notice them) but I'm sure something psychical was going on too. My ass and lower back now required an ape-like reach around to sooth. I was fucking scared. "What the hell is this, why is this happening, is this related to my virus?!". Questions swirled in my brain but luckily my rational planning instincts took hold, translation: 'wake my poor spanish speaking roommate 4 hours into his sleep and drag his ass with me to a hospital'. Luckily, from then on in everything would go smoothly. The hospital gave me the option of a direct dermatologist consultation needing only a small wait, who turned out to be a cute girl in her early 30's with a sprightly smile and an authentic white coat. She calmed me with her professional re-assurance and prescription notepad filled with a range of drug ideas. I left the hospital somewhat relieved, so my roommate and I celebrated - with a trip to a nearby Burger King, as you do in times of crisis.
But what caused my skin's meltdown? The Doctor said it was probably my O.T.C. drug medication (binned shortly after), but allergies to other things like food could also be the cause. At that point I was close to certain the drugs were the reason. I had taken double the suggested dose (don't do things half assed my father used to say...), which sounded too poetic not to be the culprit (disobey packet recommendations at your own risk I've now learned). The hives cleared up by mid-afternoon and my old meds were now firmly positioned in the bottom of the trash can, so I resumed life as normal, even going out to dinner that night with friends (I ended that early however, because my stomach virus kicked up again thanks to my new drug abstinence). Unfortunately for me, red dots started appearing again lightly on my arms around 11 O'clock. Rationality mode kicked in again. The drugs weren't to blame. It was a food allergy, the process of elimination pointing squarely at J.D's salad.
A salad. A Caesar salad. A particularly good Caesar salad that I enjoyed. It was the culprit. Something in it was to blame for an allergic reaction in my skin, causing me to break out in hives for about 8-10 hours. The next morning I made sure to intercept J.D, who was also dumbfounded at how the salad of all things could be the cause. "All the sauce is is an egg-based mayonnaise with nothing more". It took a 5 minutes conversation for us both to come to the same conclusion; this was fucking weird. I've eaten Caesar salad's frequently from all over the world, including Argentina. Never has a single crumb given me an allergic reaction (let alone a full blown rash attack), I've traveled most of the western world, sampling local foods from many street corners and food kiosks. I wish there was an explanation, some obscure ingredient that I could narrow down and used in the future as pre-meditated party story. "You know what I'm allergic too? Bolivian nightshade spice! Yeah I know, crazy right? More exciting than airplane nuts!" *queue blond girl laughter*. But there is none. Just a mystery. A mystery which brings my elitism down a peg. Not to mention my form-filling out times.
Monday, March 1, 2010
La Bamba Bam Bam
Brazilian cultural icons seem to have a legislative ban of some form in Argentina, to be shot on sight or at least imprisoned to be later deportated. For two countries with a close geographical and historical connection (although its like two kids growing up across the street with different families, despite the same neighborhood and a shared birth year they never form a real bond), there couldn't be more of a difference between the social psyche of their citizens. You could spend a day in both Buenos Aires and Rio, and not long after having one of those cliche 'I'm a smart traveler' moments, where you look towards the tallest building/touristy landmark, and emote loudly using only your inner-monologue, 'Argentina and Brazil are really fuckin' different! Who knew!'. You then go on to discover that the national dance in Brazil is Samba, but wait, a day ago you learned in Argentina its the tango, a fact you immediately memorise, for when the inevitable "so what was different about Argentina and Brazil" question dribbles from your co-worker's mouth by the watercooler, you can reply with your new-found knowledge, impressing the pants off the barely 20something secretary, rewarded with a fake smile and a nervous sideways stare. The countries differences obvious to even the awkward travelers.
Which is why I enjoy La Bamba. I can't be sure of the homeland of everyone in the band, but its an authentic Brazilian event, multiple beats of drum and bass inside a large warehouse, with rasta-black guys doing their wildest flipping and banging of whatever mix of the bongo's and upside-down garbage bin their instrument is. The music is also catchy, easy to dance to, plus a dedicated section for shirtless gay guys exists, kept in the obstructed view area where no one would be anyway. Only issues are the embarrassingly long beer line, and the unique monetary inflation that seems 50 basis points stronger on the week to week alcohol prices than elsewhere. Either way, a great street style event. Another point, or point subtraction depending on your opinion is many foreigners also go there, as high as 20%. Some people think that detracts from the cultural experience. Me? I'll keep it simple, if you're interested in hooking up with some girl and possibly having some of that 'we're both traveling so let's lower our standards and fuck' sex, then La Bamba is your (and my) place. And what's that, you possess beginner level Spanish plus intermediate knowledge of the city's nightlife on any given night? You can spend the whole night talking about BsAs itself, and they'll eat it all up, and even start demanding that you show them where to go. Goldmine. Only issue being fending off Argie guys when parts of your flock start getting separated from the pack (I'll have more to say about Argie guys in future updates,they deserve a three part series, frankly, but for now, let's just say they are aggressive and shameless).
I should probably be searching for something of a more cool, underground style cultural event shit to do instead of attending the same gringa-orgy every Monday, but what am I, some kind of faggot?! Nuh-uh, I'm Mr Hetero, and not the deeply insecure overly compensating kind, but the 'bro, how much do you luv the vagina?' beer-funneling kind. You know, that other type of cliche traveler.
Which is why I enjoy La Bamba. I can't be sure of the homeland of everyone in the band, but its an authentic Brazilian event, multiple beats of drum and bass inside a large warehouse, with rasta-black guys doing their wildest flipping and banging of whatever mix of the bongo's and upside-down garbage bin their instrument is. The music is also catchy, easy to dance to, plus a dedicated section for shirtless gay guys exists, kept in the obstructed view area where no one would be anyway. Only issues are the embarrassingly long beer line, and the unique monetary inflation that seems 50 basis points stronger on the week to week alcohol prices than elsewhere. Either way, a great street style event. Another point, or point subtraction depending on your opinion is many foreigners also go there, as high as 20%. Some people think that detracts from the cultural experience. Me? I'll keep it simple, if you're interested in hooking up with some girl and possibly having some of that 'we're both traveling so let's lower our standards and fuck' sex, then La Bamba is your (and my) place. And what's that, you possess beginner level Spanish plus intermediate knowledge of the city's nightlife on any given night? You can spend the whole night talking about BsAs itself, and they'll eat it all up, and even start demanding that you show them where to go. Goldmine. Only issue being fending off Argie guys when parts of your flock start getting separated from the pack (I'll have more to say about Argie guys in future updates,they deserve a three part series, frankly, but for now, let's just say they are aggressive and shameless).
I should probably be searching for something of a more cool, underground style cultural event shit to do instead of attending the same gringa-orgy every Monday, but what am I, some kind of faggot?! Nuh-uh, I'm Mr Hetero, and not the deeply insecure overly compensating kind, but the 'bro, how much do you luv the vagina?' beer-funneling kind. You know, that other type of cliche traveler.
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