(3) Of Emeralds and Caramel
My duffel bag is not at all ergonomic. When I finally slip off the taut straps, my shoulders aching from the effort of carrying luggage down seventy degrees of latitude, I feel freed not only from its lumpy weight, but also the stress built up by seventeen hours of travel, and my mind finally registers the fact that I am very, very, far from home.
I look around at the spacious living room of this sleek, modern apartment. An air conditioning unit drones softly, pulling sticky summer heat out of the room, drying patches of sweat left on my chest by my backpack. On one end, a marbled island holds various trinkets — leather wallets, wristwatches, acrylic sunglasses, two passports. Opposite, floor-to-ceiling glass doors open onto a broad concrete terrace set with wicker patio furniture, and beyond that, a collage of treetops and rooftops stretching into the hazy afternoon distance.
I walk to the window, step over the white metal of the sliding door’s guide strips, cross to the cylindrical railing, and look down at the bustling street five stories below. For some reason, I expect a scene that resembles the one from my own veranda, over five thousand miles away. Up until this point, I have thought about this city almost exclusively in terms of how it compares to my home; in the Uber, resting my hot cheek against my palm, looking out at whirring bicycles and sputtering mopeds jostling for space; during our flight’s descent, watching the ocean, gray-green from pollution, spilling white surf onto urban beaches littered with people; on the small rectangle of my phone’s map, tracing right and left angles on the city grid as I try to chart our course from the airport to the AirBnB. Until now, everything I have seen has felt quite familiar, but I realize now that this is only because I have tried so hard to see it through the same lens.
Buenos Aires is singular in its skillful balancing of Old World charm with refined contemporary style. The short, squat buildings in my view display an eclectic mix of architectural styles; neocolonial facades made of cracked plaster, stained yellow with age and rot; crumbling, elaborate friezes of beaux-arts palaces in the old quarter to the south; glassy, angular residential towers that shimmer like mirages in the heat. The haphazard structures appear like houseboats in a sea of emerald, a sea formed by the canopies of hundreds of trees that fill the space above every street with layers of delicate, fernlike leaves balancing on soaring trunks and twisting branches. In the sunlight, the green takes on a neon glow, shot through with bursts of yellow flower that turn the entire canopy into a stunning display of lime-lemon color. Scents of jasmine float to me on invisible currents, and I breathe deeply, tasting the floral notes as sweet, clean summer air rushes in to fill my lungs.
In the light breeze, the trees murmur softly, and golden petals drift gently to the ground, where I notice a group of locals gathered in animated discussion. A dented blue Renault rattles up to the curb, depositing a heavyset man man in a striped polo two sizes too small and worn rubber sandals. He plods over to the group and greets a friend with a boisterous clap on the shoulder. The sound of their laughter, genuine and clear, tugs at my soul. Ten yards up the avenue, a woman in a cropped purple blazer walks her dog — a chocolate lab — towards the group, giving them no more than a foot of space as she passes, no animosity felt between these neighborly strangers. A red moped bumps along the cobbled street, its rider sporting an equally red helmet, sunlight playing on it like a ripe tomato. The doors of the shop swing open to reveal a balding man in a flour-dusted apron carrying a flat cardboard box in hand. He delivers it to the group, shaking the hand of the new man who just arrived. As he turns back, the group huddles around the box, and even at this height I can see crisp green leaves of basil placed carefully on a bed of crimson sauce.
There is so much color here that I can not help but feel like New York is pale and grey and dull, especially now, in the dead of its winter, but I force my mind to rid itself of yet another comparison and replace its tired thoughts with a sense of relief for the warmth of the Southern Hemisphere and gratitude that I am lucky enough to have escaped here, even if only for a few precious days. I go back inside, sliding the door shut behind me to preserve the refrigerated interior, and sink into a white leather couch, feeling jetlag pull me down into soft cushions like the weight of three gravities.
My friends appear shortly after, and the minutes that follow mirror the scene on the street before. I have not seen them in years, separated by distance, work, a pandemic, a perpetual shortage of time. It takes less than five minutes for us to find our familiar groove, and in the next equally short span of time, sunscreen is applied, passports stashed, water guzzled, and our sights set squarely on crisp beer and flaky pastries.
By the time we return home, the sun has set and the sky is a soft lavender smeared with streaks of indigo. Tonight, we have a reservation at the most famous steakhouse in all of Argentina, and I, a recent convert to meat-eater, am doubly excited to show off to the group, who have only ever known me as a vegetarian. We let ourselves into the flat with an antique cast iron key, the climate within a cool salve on skin still smelting from the heat outside. We fall into a few minutes of quiet relaxation, arrayed around the room; two of us on the couch, two on high chairs at the countertop, turning our minds off to look at our phones and reconnect briefly with the worlds we left just a day before.
We have brought back a bottle of Malbec wine, and it sits with us in silence on the countertop, a black ruby monolith waiting patiently for its time of reckoning. We have two hours before dinner and my stomach decides then to conduct an orchestra, starting with the sound of air slowly escaping a balloon, crescendoing into a whine, then a gurgle, and finally dimming to a light background rumble of hunger. I have not yet eaten a meal in this city, and I start to think of culinary riches promised during our nights of planning — of fried empanadas, their shells crispy and hot, brimming with potatoes and meat braised in wine and butter, the whole affair dunked in spicy, fragrant salsa — of steak seared to a perfect crust, basted with oil infused by toasted garlic and thyme, first bite sinking through black-peppered crust and reaching an impossibly tender center. I think about this intense umami married with the tight crunch of shishito peppers blistered over flame, the slight bitterness of their burnt skin, and juicy tomatoes, dusted with rock salt and a hint of sugar. Finally, I dream of flan melting in my mouth like butter, light and airy yet firm enough to hold its shape while delivering rich flavors of caramelized sugar, vanilla, fresh cream straight to the deepest recesses of my palate…
The gastronomical fantasy threatens to swallow me whole when someone breaks the silence to suggest we check out the rooftop pool and sample some Malbec. We climb the staircase, all industrial concrete and white fluorescence, and step out onto the rooftop deck, our eyes adjusting from the harsh light to accommodate for the velvet shadows cast by urban dusk.
There are few true skyscrapers here, but the few buildings that do rise sharply above the rest boast a selection of fascinating scenes through the glass panes of their penthouse units. The skyline is cable television and each window is a different channel. Turning one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, we see, from east to west; a warm cocktail party, the men dressed in linen suits, the women in satin and floral; a family watching football at what must be the set’s maximum volume, the rapid-fire voice of an energetic commentator punctuated by cheers and groans from what must be a family divided by their La Liga allegiances; an inkling of drama in the form of two figures behind a thin curtain, gesturing wildly, their silhouettes like dancing shadow puppets. I get the same dizzying sensation of sonder I feel so often at home, looking at little cutouts of other people’s stories in the fabric of reality, and smile as I think about the members of this bourgeois cast looking back at our roof, witnessing a comical sketch of four men balancing wine glasses in one hand and towels in the other, dipping their toes into a cold pool suspended in the Argentinian sky with the same gingerness that they stepped onto searing runway tarmac this morning, lost in this new half of the globe, still eager to discover its best-kept secrets.
The temperature in the pool goes from chill to cool to refreshing within minutes, and soon we are in our element. We catch each other up on years of experiences, the good and the bad, remember familiar faces and introduce the new characters in our respective circles; we make stupid jokes and laugh loudly into the night like the stereotypical Americans we are; forays are made into sharing hopeful career trajectories and postgraduate shifts in ideology, but we soon abandon such heavier topics in favor of making plans for what we’ll see and where we’ll go the next day. The wine is excellent. Dry and full, oaky, notes of dark plum and tobacco and a hint of fresh leather, color as deep a purple as the sky above. We turn our heads to the night and see many more stars than are visible from rooftops in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco… but none of us can identify a single fragment of a familiar constellation, and that’s when we collectively realize that of course, we’re staring at the other half of the heavens, one none of us spent our childhoods beneath — there is no Polaris, no Little Dipper — and Orion looks all funny, as if he’s dangling upside down and being dipped headfirst into the horizon. We lean our heads back on the slick aquamarine tiles of the pool and stare up for a while, the wine still warm in our bellies, and the time passes in great leaps and bounds until soon it is time for dinner.
My linen shirt is rough against skin tenderized by chlorine and heat, and I fiddle with my collar (do I pop one button, or two?) as we walk past wine bars, clubs, restaurants, all open late and packed with dripped out locals. Looking in the mirror before we left, I saw a rough visage staring back at me; wavy black hair, the longest it has ever been, swept back into a flow; full beard, knots in places where I twirled it in stress or in thought; skin already tanned from the day’s activities, the crinkles at the corners of my eyes slightly more pronounced than usual. In a slightly altered outfit, my lululemon shorts swapped for chinos and canvas sneakers for loafers, I imagine myself blending seamlessly into my surrounds, the tone of my skin and style of my hair not unusual amongst the locals I’ve seen so far, but I know the effort is futile. Trying not to stand out would become hopeless as soon as I was required to speak, the expectation of fluid, natural Spanish coming in high above the reality of a thick Californian sentence that would probably begin with “what’s up” and end with “I really love your country, dude”.
In truth, I want my incongruous relationship with the city to become something I embrace, not fear, because it clarifies my mental image of home, and just as I will never be the street musician who plays a vintage jazz melody on his trumpet as we turn his corner, I will never be the the woman who balances three milky jade cocktails on a wobbling tray as she navigates the sidewalk ahead of us to a table of young men smoking cigars, or the girl who whistles a cheerful tune on her bicycle as it rattles along the cobblestones, a bouquet of flowers in her basket. I’ll never be the man who sits on the rounded concrete lip of a fountain we round, staring at something imperceptible in its glittering blue-tile-copper-coin depths, or the loudest member of a raucous group of teenagers cursing at the others as they tease him with words unknown. I will never be any of these people, and this city will never be home — I try to come to terms with this fact, however grainy it feels in my mind, when I become aware of a constant background din like rushing water, the sound of a great many conversations happening all at once, and I look up to see…
…Don Julio, the legendary steakhouse, and it is overflowing with people, mostly tourists, who crowd the entire block. Some hold glasses of champagne while others fold their arms patiently, and the sum of all conversations climbs towards the volume in a concert hall just minutes before the beginning of the show. I feel strong kinship with the residents of plaster-and-brick apartments that line the square, as I am intimately familiar with the eternal battle between tired urban dwellers and rousing nighttime crowds. It is 11:00 PM. Waitpeople dressed in pressed black linens rush around, taking orders, delivering orders, and I catch sight of a massive tomahawk steak — easily north of thirty ounces — ferried on a platter made from the cross-section of a rosewood tree, steam curling up from its bronzed crust to mix with smoke from cigarettes held loosely by a group of young men who part to let the treasure and its pallet-bearer through. I watch it duck and weave through the crowd and disappear into the night and my stomach lurches anew with hunger when I realize that the conversation around me has taken a turn for the worse…
My friend is saying something horrible, and it goes something like this: Our reservation is somehow for tomorrow and there’s no seating left tonight, and my other friend is howling with anguish at the full moon as it shines mockingly on our faces, damp from sweat. We sit on the curb, spent, our only consolation that at least it is for tomorrow and not yesterday.
There is another restaurant open one block away, and we decide to cash it in for the night, the fatigue of travel catching up with us as we start up the street and the noise recedes into darkness behind us. Splashing through pools of amber light created by low, incandescent street lamps, walking under electric wires and telephone cables strung across the street like clotheslines, listening to the distant screech of tires and the nearby buzzing of mosquitoes, we arrive at the restaurant. A few minutes later we hurry to a long, low table in what seems to be a greenhouse, a window to our right opening onto scenes of pure chaos in the kitchen as the staff wraps up the final orders for the night. We order immediately, taking turns to peel delicious-looking nouns off the menu and hand them to our bemused host.
Thirty minutes later, in the stupor of satisfied fullness, I see him crossing the patio towards us, its tables mostly emptied out by now, with a single plate in his left hand. The flurry of cooking metal, aprons, and fire, visible just minutes ago through the servery window, has quieted down to the calmer motions of closing up.
The plate is bright orange in the room’s ambience, lit entirely by candles, oil lamps, and the fading light from the kitchen. It floats down to our table and I see sitting upon it a modest square of flan, caramel sides reflecting the lights bobbing in the breeze, the top a beautiful golden brown. I pick up my spoon once more, carve off a small piece, place it gently on my tongue, let it melt away to nothingness. It is everything I had imagined and more.
~