8 Steps

When the clanging of the Subte (subway) cars roll to a stop and the breeze from the moving train settles into the humid dank air you can hear Tango music from a hand organ rise above the din. An old man in a gray wool suit, v-neck sweater and fidora fingers the keys of the instrument. The train lurches ahead for the next stop. The music falls back below the din.

The staions look like the Metro in Paris. Rounded low slung walls coverred with tile. The concrete platforms are worn and stained black by the shoe tread of the millions of people who've waited on a train here. Walking out of the station's pungent air and up the stairs to the street the French theme continues on the edifaces of many buildings looking over the street. The Subte and many of these buildings were contructed in the boom days of the 20's and 30's when the Tango was one of the most popular dances in the world and Argentina boasted one of the worlds most sofisticated and popular cultures. The portenoes (locals) sought to build the Paris of the Americas; a name that still clings to Buenos Aires today.

The Parisian theme however is quickly lost in the modern square buildings and high rise towers. As opposed to french quisine it is Italian pizzerias and spanish cafes that populate the store fronts of every block. Craft stores sell panchos and hats of gauchos and mate gourds, local artifacts found in none of the European cultures that built this place. Monuments and lavish statues commerorating the spanish conquests, those that liberated the country from the crown and modern poltical struggles dot the plazas and boulevards. All these shades of life neatly wrap back together in the keys of the old man's acordian, in the 8 steps of the Tango.

I arrived two days ago from Cordoba. I was quite happy to be on the move from there. A month had worn it's way into routine. The days punctuated by how many hours of reading I may get in, what cafe I would take lunch in, how many glasses of wine to embibe that night. It was well past the time to move on. I finally completed the repair of the last of my twelve cavaties with my friend and dentist Silvina and was ready to move on.

I sound jaded though. What a wonderfull city to spend a month in. Though my house was populated by ex-pats our social life and friends outside the home were entirely local. A deeper cultural experience for me than I've found in my past travels. Such a ernest city too, not a haunt of tourist attractions. In the country side I stood within a body length of a soaring condor and ate lunch on the dusty plazas of small Argentine pueblos. I learned the basics of asado (local BBQing) from a old family patriarch. I spent late nights with local characters and sufferred the following days from them. I got twelve new teeth. Most of all though I learned the 8 steps of the Tango and how dificult they are to master.

The train station in Cordoba is modest and run down, but is a monument to the powerfull history of the locomotive here. It's sturdy and sensible design speak to the Brithish money that built it. They plan to replaces the 50's vintage train currently in use with a modern European bullet train. The 16 hr journey will be cut to six, less for direct lines. I am quite glad to get to ride the old train. For days before I asked people about the train, but most seemed to think it no longer ran. Some hippy kids in the park informed me they bought tickets and it left every Thursday and Sunday. I knew then that my teeth would be done and I would be on Thursday's train.

For as many people told me the train did not still run, I am surprised to find it nearly sold out when we arrive at the station. The train lumbered slowly out of town through outlying neighborhoods. Some look wealthy and some look poor. Further out there are districts of new small homes all matching. These are built by the government to house the poor. There are virtually no street homeless visible in any of Argentina. The program was started in the 50's by Juan Peron, the seminal power of modern political history here and the husband of iconic Eva Peron.

Dead scince 1974 Peron still commands intense local passion. He is either the villian or savior of the modern Argentine state. In the early eighties his hands were cut off his corpse by opponants. The thieves were never found. His remains wer moved last month and the protesters and supporters arived at blows even firing several gunshots.

For now though I sit aboard the train looking at the passing landscape. Will and I have a sleeping car and I feel like I am living on the set of North By Northwest, just waiting for the Hitchcock thriller to commence. We rock back and forth waiting for the bar car to open.

Outside Cordoba the countryside is increadibly flat and goes on froever, without even subtle rolling like the midwestern plains back home. This is the Argintine Pampa, or great plain. All of it looks to be devoted to ranching and grain production. Estancias dot the landscape, shelterred from the vast openness by clusturs of trees. I feel very much in Argentina.

There are many older folks riding the train. The pasage, though longer, is half the cost of the bus, and while this is the motovation of many on the train, I think for the viejos it is the accustomed method of travell to Buenos Aires. Most of them sport sharp clothes, almost formal dress for dinner. I am still caught in my mind that this is some scene from the forties or fifties, just waiting for Boney and Clyde to come through and collect wallets.

Will and I order the menu and two beers. The menu is chicken pate and pork chops. It sounded good but upon arrival I realize the canned meats were likely stalked when the old train began it's service. We order two more beers to help it all go down. We kept our table into the night and continued orderring beers. We are both very blonde and caught regular gigles from neighboring tables. All seem to be good hearted in nature. By 11:30 I am ready to turn in.

The next morning we are awoken by the porter pounding at the door and requesting our sheets. We have just enough time for a coffee before arriving at the station. I have definately awoken in a new place. The city goes on for miles of high rise condos. The station in Buenos Aires is a bit tired looking, but is every bit as grand as any I have seen in Europe. Out it's front door is a sturdy and unornate clock tower. It again harkens to the British money that built it.

The street is a huge boulevard. We jump in a cab waiting in cue outside the main enterance and give him the adress of our hostel. The ride is a solid fifteen minutes. The concrete canyons go on enlessly and the Grand boulevards cut the city into sections. I wonder if I am in New York or Paris, but realize that this is niether. This is Buenos Aires.

Still early in the day still when we get to the hostel, we drop our bags and I make some coffe in the kitchen. There is a beautiful Italian woman jellying her bread. She arrived in BA just under a month ago and plans to stay here for a year. When I ask her why she replies...

"I want to become a great tango dancer!"