Buenos Aires: First Impressions
Ya estoy aquí, Argentina, sabía que nos veríamos un día.
A brindar pues, Argentina, no hay mas que yo quería.
It’s my fourth day in the gargantuan metropolis of Buenos Aires, where I’ll be anchored for the next three months, completing the first draft of my novel. There, I said it.
My flat is on a quiet street in ritzy Palermo, and the weather is — and I don’t say this lightly — fucking perfect. It’s only been a few days, I’ve only had the chance to see a sliver of the city, and I have no delusions about still being in the honeymoon phase.
But after a lifetime of travel, I’ve learned a thing or two about sussing out the vibe of a new city. And with that caveat, here are my first impressions of Buenos Aires:
The people in Argentina are, by and large, the friendliest I’ve encountered in all my travels.
Yes, I know, that’s a huge claim. And I’m fully prepared to eat those words and walk them back in a few months after more interactions.
But that’s my first impression: Nicest. People. Ever.
I’ve heard a lot of Colombians say this about their people, but after spending years there, I can refute this claim. Colombian people are nowhere near as friendly as they pretend or hope to be — not even on the coast.
In my experience and extensive travels, the people in India had by far been the nicest, followed by Mexicans.
But they both need to step aside because there’s a new ilk in town: Los Porteños.
Virtually every interaction with the Argentine has been sterling.
I’ve never had a more pleasant back-and-forth with an immigration officer than at EZE. The driver who brought me to Palermo was such a sweetheart he damn near invited me to his house for dinner. The AirBnB host met me at one thirty in the morning, standing outside the building, waiting to greet and welcome me to the flat.
The grocery store clerks, building cleaners, bartenders, servers, baristas, and partygoers heading home at dawn (while I run) have all been so unbelievably nice that it’s taken me aback.
I had one gruff interaction with a subway attendant locked in his toll booth, sweating and smoking cigarettes in a tomb like a suicide bomber (they can’t all be nice), but other than that, it’s been a treat.
Also, if they’re this nice in the city, imagine what people are like in smaller towns!
I’ll head to a meet-up soon to see if more substantive evidence will confirm or negate this hypothesis.
Buenos Aires is expensive.
It’s true. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject.
Buenos Aires is the only “European” City in South America.
The sprawling avenues, monuments, statues, cafe/theatre culture, and architecture (French, Neo-classical, Baroque!) make a strong case. Indeed, there is more architectural nuance and history in a single downtown avenue — such grandeur! — than in all of Canada.
Mix in Italian, Spanish, and German descent with Hispanic, and you’ve got a city and culture distinctly reminiscent of Paris, Madrid, or Vienna.
The drivers in Buenos Aires like to play chicken with the lights.
So, the first time this happened, I thought nothing of it. It could have happened anywhere.
But then it happened again, and again, and again! By the end of the third day, I’d seen the same phenomenon on seven separate occasions.
A driver would notice a traffic signal is about to turn red, so they accelerate to make the light. Then it turns red anyway, and the driver realizes at the last second that it would be unsafe to go through, so they slam on the breaks and come to a screeching halt, typically well after the designated white line.
Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, a pedestrian’s worst nightmare: cars that don’t seem to be slowing down on red lights.
I’m getting used to it.
It’s a Buenos Aires thing. Calm the fuck down.
