And so it begins... (revised)

After two planes, a bus, and two taxis, I settled into a barrio of Buenos Aires known as Palmero Soho. Tattered from travel, and still set in the quiet mode of my former life by the beach, the transition into the city was exhausting. Buenos Aires is an enormous city made up of 48 barrios, or neighborhoods. It was pure luck that I found my hostel amidst the tumult of this gigantic city. After dropping my pack, I set out to the streets to explore. As one who most readily identifies with rivers, mountains, and oceans, the city was just another city at first glance. Yet its people set it apart in my mind.

Immediately evident was the striking beauty of Argentine women. Their beauty is classic and pure. With dark featured faces gracing their comely bodies, they walk with a confidence that intesifies their allure. It is not the case that the beauty of these women is beyond anything seen before. Rather, it is the plentiful abundance of them that is so remarkable. Continually I need to force my gaze to the overweight, stubble-faced, toothless women as a means of perserving my sanity. With such an ambient display of feminine beauty, it is easy to see how some well-to-do Argentine men end up walking the streets aimlessly, muttering to themselves in unknown tounges.

The people here are emotionally uninhibited. On most street corners and park benchs, sweethearts vehemently embrace and smother eachother in kisses. Observing their intensity, I imagine their intoxicating love must silence the din of the city. Equally interesting is Argentine greetings. Regardless of age or gender, each Argentine greets the other with a kiss on the cheek. While I was unsuprised to see this done by older folks, it was striking to see a group of teenage men, standing around their motorbikes, greeting eachother in this manner.

This openness is everywhere. Along sidewalks and in parks there are statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary set behind plexiglass. Many go up to the glass, and pressing one hand to the glass and the other on their breast, they whisper prayers. This is done by old and young alike.

As far as my own state, my main difficulty has been with the language. My gringo tourist identity exudes from each of my ill conceived attempts at spanish. Most practically, this inability to properly converse has made eating a problem. I am embarrassed to admit that my first Argentine meal was a Big Mac. I am not a normally a BigMac consumer, but it was the only thing that I had the slightest degree of confidence to order. Even then, I found myself pointing to the illuminated picture of the McDonald´s meal. It was three days later, emaciated by a pathetic diet of bread, pizza and ciggerretts that I sat down and had an Argentine steak. Fortunately, with each day my ability to speak improves.

Despite wearing the scarlet letter of a tourist, I have been treated with the utmost kindness by the locals. Just today, after wandering the streets aimlessly, I was approached by an old woman. When she first addressed me, I could not hear her voice over the music in my earphones. Missing most of her teeth and carrying a flimsy plastic bag, I thought for sure she was asking for spare change. ¨¿Sabes donde vas?¨, she asked. Laboring over her accent, I responded ¨Lo siento, no entiendo¨- I´m sorry, I don´t understand. Then in broken english she asked, ¨Do you know where you are going, or...¨ She then proceeded to gesture with her hands the willynilly route she must have seen me taking. I smiled, taken by her kindness, and responded in the best spanish I could muster, ¨I am okay, just walking around.¨

Walking is how I would describe my days. Endless walking from museums to monuments. While this routine is exhausting, it is the best way to see the city. During my walks, I take in the scenes. Fruit stands on street corners add brilliant color to the cityscape. Artful graffitti covers the walls and provides me with inspiration for my next work. Old men play chess with young men- drawing crowds to watch the silent match. Teenage girls rehearse dance routines in the parks, while young boys chase eachother around. Dogs run unleashed along their masters. Norman Rockwell would have loved to paint here.

The city is vibrant with intimate energy. Yet while I am happy with Buenos Aires, my preconditions make it difficult to stay here. I am not a city person. In my mind, I hear the callings of the Patagonia rivers and mountains for which I came to Argentina. I am planning to finish the week here, then head southwest to Bariloche where I think I will feel more at home nestled in nature.