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Published: February 2nd 2008
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San Telmo, up from the Rio de la Plata, and Puerto Madero on it, were the Barrios we explored today. We left our neighbourhood by subway, then explored the underground, admiring its tastefully tiled walls, before re-boarding the cars for a diagonal virage and surfacing in a peaceful park of older people, adjacent to an elementary school.
A trifle tattered and downscale on its perimeter, the presence of corner stores frequented by folk on ordinary missions of the day give the outskirts of San Telmo a warm community feel; our stroll brings us to the ecological centre of this historic Barrio, where the timeless form of the architecture, baroque, colonial, classical and neo, takes hold, and a sense of old worldliness pervades. This is the site of earliest settlement, 1535, in Buenos Aires. It was where early sailors first docked and where the gentry came ashore and brought their families to live, ministered by the Jesuits and fed by the fisher folk who plied their trade, on the river, and in the Atlantic, nearby. The well to do departed in the eighteen seventies, escaping a yellow fever epidemic; but their mansions and the religious buildings remain; as museums and art
studios, and as places bearing antique goods from the various periods of settlement.
Old San Telmo is of cobbled streets with well worn stones that echo a time of horse and buggy jaunts between the stately homes of, first Spanish, and later Italian migrants to this new world. Atriums, courtyards and patios have pride of place, with clear skies of drifting clouds or ornate ceilings, delicately engraved, serving as roofs on high. Our wandering followed a path through the lives of early settlers: textiles, ceramics and silverwork among other First Nations goods, European ornaments and trinkets, implements and tools; utensils and cutlery; robes and armour; a unique glance at a society on the build, an eyeful of adventurous times gone by.
We lingered on the property of one mansion, entering through a narrow carriageway beneath a striking semi circle in the stoned front walls. Our walk took us to a circular courtyard, where a fountain offers flowers, alive and vibrant, under the soothing spray of sprinkled water. The perimeter of the yard presents contiguous little rooms, probably the redoubts of household staff from an earlier time. Now, they offer period antiques, on general exhibit and for discreet sale
transacted in whispers. We flow through a graceful opening in the inner atrium to a sun lit compound, where the ground is a platform for play; and come upon a tour guide teaching one of his tourists the tango, sans music.
He, the essence of a Buenos Aires young man, exiting his twenties, white shirt, black slacks, patterned shoes, fully in character as lead of the dance, seduction set at dusky dim in his dancing eyes; she, the perfect foil for this mini play, all of eighteen but not a day more, hesitant, shy, demure but inquisitive and manifesting interest. The dance lesson begins with the asking eyes of the male and the acquiescing female nod; in the first move, au pair, the teacher glides backward, his student forward, their palms entwined, arms outstretched, allowing distance between them; then he moves forward, and she reverses track, until he reaches and embraces her; a side shift is then executed, knees lightly over knees, he transferring to her left side; for an encircling spin, and a breathless swooning dip, before all is four square again; and the dance sequence repeats, this time, no ask, no acquiesce, just mutual consent. Such are
the basics of tango, as I glean from this poignant little lesson.
And, off- side to the action, just beyond the circle of learning, quietly observing it all with a look of wonder, is an elder man, slightly greying. It is the young lady’s Dad, wearing a look of dawning recognition that his child is a young woman now. Before long, our teacher, the tour guide, discerns the moment and offers a lesson to Dad, who hesitantly accepts; and uncomfortably learns the role of male lead from a male, the tour guide, acting as female. Then, with obvious delight, and Mom looking on, Dad takes his daughter out on the platform, eyes moist, pride in his bearing. There is no swooning dip in this dance of the tango; but the protective embrace is enough; and says it all.
We are off to do neighbourhood squares, grassed in tufts and treed by elm, cedar, magnolia and palm, serving multi functions: as market places for a full range of everyday items, including but not limited to jewellery, clothing, paintings, carvings, hats, boots, shoemaker shoes, silver plates, brass, crystal, glass work, hand-me-down books, olden pocket time pieces, coins from the ages,
china, you name it; the squares are also out door dining rooms for proximate restaurants; and act as stages where performance artists, including strolling troubadours and extemporaneous tango dancers, strut their stuff; as well they are venues where pamphleteering is done for every imaginary project, be it historical, economic, social, religious or cultural.
A well meaning citizen chooses to tell me that trading of slaves was common in these squares in the seventeen hundreds; and, warming to her topic, that the source moves of what became the tango dance, not its music, were first made by freed slaves in these squares; and that the narrowest house in Buenos Aires, close by, eight feet wide, was originally owned by a freed slave, who went off with his brethren to serve Argentina in a war with Paraguay, from which most of them did not return. We repair to a second floor restaurant overlooking a square to digest all of this data, grey, oral and single source as it is. Pensive, we take a late lunch of sausages, pudding and innards, appropriately; and gaze upon the passing parade of people on the prowl, while sipping sparkling, cold cider.
It is time
to seek out running water, down slope from San Telmo. We trundle through a commercial zone, begin crossing into greener pastures on a green light; and espy a couple, going in opposite directions, exchange a brief, wordless kiss, under protection of amber; and continue on their opposite ways, not a beat skipped nor a word said; this is some city, I say. Shortly, we arrive at Puerto Madero, the latest settled Barrio, where well-kept, fully flowered parklands border promenades astride both sides of the river. The waterway is fitted at frequent intervals with restored nineteenth century locks, diques, engineered for small yachts of today and large ships of yesteryear; gaily painted cranes and winches remain in place, among the newly completed brick construction that dots the riverside. There is a leisurely tone to life in this sector of the city; what with el fresco meals, walkers and joggers moving in all gears, families at play on patches of grass, bars offering copious servings of excellent local beer and a view of the river, wrecked ships turned over at riverside, moored ships, open for visiting and itinerant vendors offering a full range of refreshments, including ice cream, a special delicacy of
the city.
As we stroll the broad walk, a most aesthetically pleasing bridge appears against the sky scape; it is stunning; its thin, white, bright outline is striking; it affects the form of a graceful harp for its skyward arc and strings of the instrument as its suspensions; this is architectural design at it zenith. It is a foot bridge, to boot, so we can live the bridge by walking it, slowly, bemused, as we are, by a cluster large, metal blocks seeming to be uncommon art in the river, as it flows gently to and away from us. Historical buildings of state in Plaza de Mayo are before us, and modern, low rise, sky towers of the new Barrio, Puerto Madero, are behind us. We walk ahead to Casa Rosada, the rose coloured presidential building in the Plaza; and are in time to witness lowering of the national flag in solemn ceremony, bugler wailing mournfully, every uniform within eyesight at salute, young children at rapt attention, parents quietly respectful. The day is done; darkness will soon fall. We return to Palermo and the warm, welcoming smiles of Marta Elena, her son, husband and Mexican guest.
Vernon
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