an unanticipated day in Buenos Aires ...

It was raining this morning, which means that my last piece of unworn clothing - my raincoat - was brought out of my luggage.  I thought (and the hotel agreed) that the only way to be sure that I'd sorted out my travel arrangements (the "real" flight is now scheduled to depart at 7.15 tomorrow morning ... I wonder ...) was to go to the American Airlines office downtown, and they were super helpful, thank goodness, and I should be leaving at 10.45 p.m.  This meant I took a commuter train in from San Isidro to Retiro, the one last major Anglo-influenced building I'd yet to see properly - and yes, it's an Edwardian station! At least, the main part of it might as well be Victorian - I might as well have gone to Paddington.  All the parts were manufactured in Liverpool, and shipped out, and assembled in BA.

The booking hall concourse can't have changed much ... there are, of course, precious few places to buy tickets to, any more -

and other aspects are less retro than never changed.

And the buffers are from Ipswich!  They say 1913 on them: of course, after that, the company responsible, Ransome's and Rapier, were making war stuff.  As a company, however, they had a terrific history, making essential railway parts for all round the world - China, especially - and dam gates and sluices for India: there's a research project here howling to be done.  I am forever an engineer's daughter, I guess.

Airline business conducted, I walked to my favorite building, noting that some of the (many) pet shops were entering into fervent World Cup spirit,

and I did hold out hope that I'd get inside, this time.

And yes, it was full of people paying their water bills, and sorting out their water problems,

with a tiny, tiny number of artifacts on display.  They are clearly proud of their history, but alas, the museum was still firmly closed for renovation, and the guards and I agreed that yes, this was a pity.

Might as well have a bowl of guiso de lentejas while looking at the Palacio ... lentil stew has probably been, overall, my favorite Argentinian dish.

And back to the hotel, passing this sign on the walk from the station.  My spoken Spanish isn't very good, but it exists in a functional way (now, of course, probably disastrously modulated by Argentinian colloqialisms).  I don't know how I'd have managed without it - people in hotels often have excellent English, but that's about it.  I've been puzzled how very few signs I've seen offering English lessons - usually in non-English countries I'm used to seeing language school after language school promoting itself.  This one ... looks as though it mightn't use the most up to date methods.

And one last wave from my lovely, quirky, old-fashioned San Isidro hotel.

I'm delighted to report that I'm writing from the airport lounge, with a suitably strong vodka tonic in front of me ... with luck I'll arrive at Burbank (that's a bonus!) in about 24 hours time.

 

Tigre: one last Argentinian day (or not)

 

It was a very feline day, and began with a sighting of the Hotel Cat, walking alongside the swimming pool.

The hotel's - what? lounge, lobby? gives a great sense of what this must have been like at the turn of the century: this area, San Isidro, has some lovely old houses, like this one, on cobbled streets;

and has its own Gothic Revival cathedral, consecrated in 1898.

Bus to Tigre, a town up the river Lujan - which feeds into the Plato - and which is a town that owns its own name, whether on lamp posts or trash bins or any kind of municipal object,

or outside its Tigerish soccer club.

I had gone there to see this building, the Museo de Bellas Artes - which had looked so wonderful in photos - built as a club in the very first part of the twentieth century - but disappointingly turned out to be like a rather over ambitious Edwardian hotel in Leamington Spa.

But the walk up the river was wonderful, and when I saw people crowding into this restaurant, even though I rarely eat lunch when traveling, this seemed like a good idea ...

Many of the houses along the river are very dilapidated and clearly belong in some neo-Gothic scenario.

The river is served by little boats - like vaporettos in Venice - that carry passengers up and down, so I asked a guy at the ticket booth where it would be sensible to take a round trip to, and went.

Actually, it was a bit like Richmond ...

But the Venice motif was definitely there: once back on dry land I walked to find out more about this,

and, unsurprisingly ... (there are many rowing and sports clubs in Tigre).

And one last Argentinian cat - not very tiger-like, but, with those blue and white stripes, definitely expecting the country to win the World Cup again.

And that, I thought, was that ... but just heard that my flight tomorrow is wildly delayed because of maintenance, so I'll miss my connection, so ...well, let's just say I think I've successfully rebooked, but it's going to be a long and complicated route back ...

Salta to BA

I was very sorry to leave Salta, a city that I genuinely liked, in its rather chaotic way (an angle of the main Plaza, above). This morning I had one more church to visit, the Iglesia Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria de la Viña, built between 1873-1908, and a curious, but attractive pale blue.

There was something rather Portuguese about the tiles, and even the interior decoration - and then I found that the first church on this spot had been built around 1630 to house an image of N.S. de la Candelaria that had been brought from Coimbra, so maybe the influence lingered.

It looked good from the back, too.

Then to the Museo de Bellas Artes, which was tiny, but very well hung.  I especially liked this portrait by Amadeo Gras of Maria Josefa Goyechea de la Corte Arias, who was a revolutionary woman in the 1800s (and is that a harmless mole, or is it more sinister? for obvious reasons I find myself worrying about her cheek ...).

and then there was this great view of Salta in 1854, as it shuffled towards becoming a regional capital.

And one last view of contemporary Salta, for no reason other than this was a block before my hotel, so I got to know it well.  It doesn't seem terrifically likely that I'll be back, but I'd like to ...

And now, back in Buenos Aires for one more full day, tomorrow.  Or to be exact, not BA, but a leafy old suburb, San Isidro, full of C19th mansions, and I'm staying in one of them, built around a courtyard - it's completely out of the way from the big city's bustle, and impressive not just as a building, but as a charmingly run small hotel (Hotel del Casco, if you're heading this way).

Though they don't have a restaurant, they do have room service - or rather, they will serve you your dinner in your room, or in the Winter Garden (there's a Summer Garden, too) - both of them conservatories.  I could happily move in here ...

 

headed southwest

From the later ninteenth century right up until the 1990s, Argentina had a wonderful railway network: first transporting agricultural produce, and then many passengers, as well: one could hop on it and get to Chile, or Bolivia ... But then it was nationalized, and fell apart, and now there are a handful of local trains, and commuter trains near Buenos Aires, and that's it.  Doubtless I'd have been traveling quite differently forty years ago.  This is the station at Alemanía, which according to our guide (more on him at the end) served a station on a line inaugurated by the English, and then worked on by people who emigrated from Germany after WW2, and was closed in the 1990s.  However, a bit of digging around shows quite a few problems with that history - not least that the station shut in 1971.  And the name seems to be much older, possibly much much older ...  Anyway, it's beautifully situated, near the beginning of a long, tall, spectacular gorge, the Quebrada de las Conchas.

I was to regret not having had one of these tortillas, later ...

Disconcertingly, a lot of the landscape today looked like New Mexico, which made me homesick.

First major stop was at La Garganta del Diablo - the Devil's Throat - formed by water tumbling into this bit of rock over millennia.  It gave one ample opportunity to observe standard Argentinian tourist practices, most of which involve taking selfies - sometimes with the national flag.

Or maybe they'll just take a photo of a tortilla in front of the rock formation.

Maybe they'll have brought a sticker with them to slap on ... a waste bin.

On to El Anfiteatro:

which apparently has wonderful acoustics: a couple of local buskers were demonstrating this.

Lots more rocks, and stops, and viewpoints ...

and then at the far end we emerged into wine country,

with a very instructive brief tour of the wine making process, the French oak barrels, etc, by the manager (and the obligatory tiny sips of wine: a very passable Malbec, and two instantly forgettable wines).

More autumnal vineyards,

and Cafayate, very sleepy at this time of the year, and clearly dominated by wine, though alas the ice cream shop that specializes in wine flavored ice cream was closed.

There was, however, a lot of excellent wall art.  These lines are by Eduardo Galleano, the radical Uruguayan, who presumably didn't have AI in mind, but I might just print this out and put it on my office door.

And then back again, with the landscape still looking like NM, or maybe Utah.

These book-an-excursion days through a local company (or via Viator, which acts as a kind of middleman), are very hit or miss when it comes to the guides themselves.  The last two days the guides - both women - were fabulous.  Today, Ignacio - the only male guide I've had on this trip - was very indifferent: he couldn't be bothered all that much with his busload, except to take people's photographs against scenic backgrounds.  He took us in Cafayate to some dismal tourist joints - a large store full of very dusty goods, and I should have known better than to go to the lunch place where we "had a reservation," although tamale was tasty.  It was a glum mini-van load of Argentinians, plus one supercilious American photo-poseur (maybe Dominican Republic in origin - he spoke fluent Spanish, but most definitely not with an Argentinian accent), and a Brazilian, and me.  The guide makes all the difference, and this one didn't come up to the mark - I think we all caught his lugubriousness. Also the driver mysteriously had a tape of Seventies hits: "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?", "Hotel California," "Imagine" - which was highly disconcerting - not least because I was once in a mini-van in Northern Thailand for twelve hours that had one tape - Creedance Clearwater - and for three minutes I thought fate might be repeating itself.