The Place?
Hotel Boutique Complejo Tango
AV. Belgrano 2608, BA, C1096AAQ AR
It’s not only a hotel, it’s a tango institute. I’m in room 23, the El Cabaret room. The dance studio and green room for the adjacent bar room balcony stage (!!) is beneath me.
The room is key carded and seems entirely safe. The hotel clerk was nice, telling me his English wasn’t good but it was really quite good and way better than my long ago Spanish II. I really do need to commit myself to that Rosetta Stone course I bought a few years back. The guy asked me where I was from, just making chitchat as we climbed the stairs with my crazily overstuffed red bag I’ve taken to calling Bernie, and I said Florida in the US. He said he thought everybody from Florida spoke Spanish and I sheepishly admitted my espanol was muy mal.
After dumping Bernie (deadweight but good for the weekend fun, don’tcha know?), I quickly changed and went for a run. It was nice to stretch the ol’ land legs and try and shake off the sea and shipness that mucked about with my inner ear. I was slow, partly as I was just trying to get back into the groove, and partly due to stop lights on the city streets. I opted to run straight down one road to preclude getting lost, but once I hit the waterfront where Meg and I had our vastly different medium cooked beef, I did turn left and run the boardwalk.
By doing so on the return trip I spotted a few extra cartoon figures and stopped for a photo or two.
And, Jesus, what a Starbucks! (See what I did there? Played the Jesus care because holy cow you can’t outrun the Starbucks!)
After a quick shower i sent an email to my mom to cancel my ATM card (paranoia gripped me as I withdrew some cash at the airport – I swear I punched in 700 pesos but only got 200 and an exorbitant fee then had to get another 500 with ANOTHER withdrawal fee).
I had asked at the desk for a good restaurant and he recommended a place called Le Continental… I had run past it earlier and noted its ex pat, foreigner Denny’s vibe. So I Yelped! for a cheap eats place and found what some called the best empanadas in Buenos Aires. It was only 1.4 km from my hotel so sold!
Before leaving, I confirmed with the clerk how I was supposed to get back in – the front door was buzzer operator but I didn’t see a place to slide my room card to activate it. He told me to buzz and tell whoever answers what room I was in. And then he said something I’ll never forget. “But when you come back, there will be an old man at the door. Just speak to him and tell him you’re with the show. Not to see, but with hotel.” I wasn’t sure what passcode I’d just been given but figured I’d cross that language misunderstanding when I came to it.
Ambling down the road, I popped into a pharmacia to pick up a Diet Coke. It was 15 pesos and all I had from my ATM troubles were 100 peso notes. After waiting in the slowest line in the Southern Hemisphere (unofficial), I understood through my rudimentary Spanish that the clerk wouldn’t accept my 100 peso note. Apparently, a lot of 100 peso notes are counterfeit in Argentina and as a result, people don’t want to accept them. But then how am I ever supposed to do anything when the ATM *only* gives me 100 peso notes? Based on an average exchange rate of 15 pesos to the dollar, a 100 peso note is worth $6.66. So the 15 peso soda was roughly a buck. I made out the clerk wanted me to use my tarjeta credito but that seemed crazy to me when I literally had just been scammed out of two withdrawal fees to get pesos at the ATM. I waved him off, leaving the precious Diet Coke and I’m sure further proved the stereotype of the ugly, ignorant American.
I made my way to El Rincon Jujeno, the empanada place so highly rated on Yelp! It was a hole in the wall place and I immediately loved it. This was authentic Argentinian take-out and so much more of what I wanted than some faux-diner Continental fare. I went a bit overboard in ordering, pickming four empanadas of various filling – de carne picante, de pollo, de jamon y queso, and napolitana. Each one was 15 pesos. I also took a Diet Coke from these folks, not caring what it cost (it wound up being 30 pesos, double the pharmacia but here they were willing to take my 100 peso note). So for 90 pesos, or approximately $6, I was going to stuff myself silly and wash it down with a Diet Coke.
I eventually figured out they were asking me if I wanted them fried (frita I think they said). What the hell, right? It’s my last night in town. The lovely folks behind the counter told me cinco minutos and I sat on the low slung hunting lodge benches… I don’t know what décor they were going for but it, um, had some functionality issues. Namely that when I sat down, the bench tilted like a see-saw. I already was sitting barely above the floor and then, well, I was on the floor. But it all worked out.
After getting my food, I walked back to my hotel. And sure enough, the front door was open and an old man was there. Was he a bouncer? If so, he looked more like Burgess Meredith’s Mickey from Rocky than Patrick Swayze “Road House.” Still, I endeavored to flash my keycard and say, “I’m with show. Not to see but with hotel?” And I’m pretty sure my voice rose at the end, indicating a question, as I really had no idea if this password somehow was going to lead me into an underworld cage match where I’d bet on others or worse yet be bet upon to defend myself to the death.
Instead, the old man (who again was definitely an old man… I did not misunderstand that part) waved me inside. As I climbed the stairs with my empanadas, women in flow red dresses scurried about while a man playing a small accordion pumped out a tune. I just kept walking, trying to look like I knew what I was doing when in fact I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.
Passing the desk, I climbed the final flight of stairs to my room, only to once again encounter a flurry of activity. A woman in a flouncy tango outfit threw her leg over the handrail I was using to maneuver, stretching out and prepping to dance. Two others rushed past me to take their places at sliding doors which opened out and looked down onto the bar and grill and suddenly the lights went out and music swelled. Two more ladies took strategic places on the hallway’s landing that lead to my room. Suddenly a recorded voice echoed through the halls, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re pleased to perform Tango Complejo. Please silence all cell phones and enjoy the show!”
I was staying backstage at a live dinner theater performance, my room I see now just steps away from the dancers green room. As the dancers threw open the doors and shouted down their taunts to the gentlemen callers of the Tango Complejo storyline, I can only imagine what paying patrons thought as they spotted me with my take-out food rocking blue jeans and my Raiders of the Lost Ark: The Adaptation shirt. Was I some sort of avant garde addition to the show? Was part of my room and board charge that I also had to perform?
This would make for a great movie I think. Some poor schmoe turns up at his hotel only to find out that he has to literally sing for his dinner… and bed. Or dance. Or tell jokes. Or work stage crew? I don’t know.
Slowly I tried to hide amongst the shadows and retreat to my room.
So while music and dancing occurred outside my door, I ate my empanadas, or what I would more accurately call my “bombas de las arterias” or “artery bombs.” They were delicious but oh so terrible for me.
I then spent the evening trying to get the various runkevinrun.com daily logs posted, re-uploading all the photos, and just generally trying to stay out of the way. The show lasted two hours. The memories? They’ll never die.
***
I slept terribly, whether it was the second Tango show, the traffic outside my window, the ongoing swaying sensation of the ship in my inner ear, or just the longing anticipation to eventually head home, I just had real problems getting to sleep.
But morning finally came and with the rising sun I went for a long run. Or at least tried to. I got incredibly lost “backstage” trying to find the exit, wandering into a dressing room that was for dancers only. But I couldn’t find a light switch so tried using my phone as a flashlight to bushwhack my way out. This brought the desk clerk’s attention, a guy who looked like he was an aspiring contestant on “So You Think You Can Dance.” I wondered if as part of the troupe you’re obligated to take a shift working the hotel reception. Nonetheless, I got directed out to the street and took off.
It again felt good to stretch my legs and I spotted a few more of the cartoon character statues for selfie opportunities. I also grabbed a Titanic moment atop the front hull of a seafaring monument.
Returning to the hotel, I showered and packed, opting for ease to grab a cab to the airport. I assume it would be comparable to the ride out last night (more on this in a moment). I asked the front desk to call a taxi for me while I went up and to grab Bernie and my carry-on. Returning, the desk clerk took me down a different stairway, one I had found the other night that was marked as Salida Emergencia (and not wanting to set off any alarms, I had backtracked to try and find another way.) But the clerk just pushed through the door, with nary a peep or bell indicating the emergency exit had been opened.
I didn’t realize that calling a taxi meant the clerk just stood on the corner trying to hail a cab. I probably could have done that – I guess I thought they’d call a taxi company and have them send a cab to me. After about five minutes of cabs already occupied or zero traffic (it IS Sunday morning I guess) she finally hailed a taxi “libre” who pulled off to the side to load me up.
She explained I needed to get to the international airport and they quoted me a number. I thought they said something akin to “ciento pesos.”
One hundred pesos sounded like a deal – I figured there was minimal traffic on Sunday and since we weren’t making two stops like Mark, Karen, and I had split last night, this seemed doable. But as he loaded my bag and I got in, I had a feeling something was off.
He pulled into a gas station and I saw his tank was dangerously low. His check engine light was on, the emergency brake light too, albeit the brake wasn’t pulled. He kept trying to explain to me that he needed gas and I kept saying, “Si, petro, pero…” I kept trying to understand what was going on. As we waited in the queue to get to the pump, he pulled out a wad of 100 peso notes. I was wondering if any of them were counterfeit. That’s when I noticed the rubber black scorpion he had pinned to his air vent. What the hell was I doing here? I asked in my broken Spanish “cuanto queso para el viaje?” Which I *think* means “how much is the trip?” Although I probably asked “How much cheese for the trip?” which in slang totally works, yes? And he said the words again. I shook my head, trying to make sure I understood and pulled out my iPhone, pulling up the calculator app for him to type out the fare.
He punched in 600. He was apparently saying, “seiscientos pesos.” I shook my head as at most I had left over from my ATM banditry and dinner change no more than 542 pesos. He finally shook his head as I was getting ready to exit the vehicle and he held up a 5 for 500 pesos. The scorpion on the dash drew my attention once more, as did his arm tattoo that I really began to believe was of a scorpion stabbing a passenger who refused to pay the meter charge. He wasn’t making me pay for the gas, right? I mean, what could go wrong?
After giving the attendant a 100 peso note (which looked oddly laser-printed to my untrained eye but what do I know), we quickly filled up maybe a fraction of the gas gauge and took off. On top of all of this, I should once again note that lanes are merely suggestions in Buenos Aires and not hard and fast. Drifting is the order of the day, drifting within centimeters of each other regardless of speed. It’s horrifying and I try not to watch the road. But I do want to see if I can spot any sign that I’m going in the direction of where I want to go.
It did feel longer to drive than the domestic airport trip yesterday. So I kept telling myself, “Maybe 500 pesos is reasonable. Maybe it’s normally to knock 16.6% off your fare. Maybe he’s not just taking you for a ride, literally and figuratively. Maybe he won’t kill you. This looks like a highway. I see signs for EZE aeropuerto internacional. All good, man. All good.”
And it was a highway… or at least it was a toll road. I know because we had to stop and pay tolls and he asked me for money to pay them. Even that seemed ok – I mean, that’s a thing. Fares pay all tolls, right? Still cool. So the guy’s big time into scorpions. That’s cool. I like running. We’re the same, man. Simpatico, no?
The first toll was 25 pesos. The second 10 pesos. And then there was a third island for getting a ticket to enter the airport but he didn’t ask for money on that one. I was down to 507 pesos. He asked me which terminal, “B or C?” I said, “Ah,” my best approximation of day 1 Spanish when you learn the alphabet. He nodded and thankfully we did head for Terminal A, where TAM’s check in desk was located. He wedged his taxi between two others and popped the trunk. I handed him the 500 pesos and grabbed Bernie, saying a sincere gracias for still being alive and feeling only marginally ripped off by the fare.
It wouldn’t be a trip without feeling at least once like you’d been ripped off by a cabbie. So mission accomplished, Mr. Scorpion Taxi Man. Thanks for not killing me.
***
And so here I sit, downing a complimentary Diet Coke in the airline lounge thanks to my frequent flier status. Pesos? I didn’t need those pesos. I mean, had I not paid him that money, what was I going to do with the spare pesos?
I do need to ask Mark and Karen what it cost for their cab ride. Or maybe it’s best to just sleeping scorpions lie.