Letters from Rio: A Breath of Fresh Air in Buenos Aires

At which point does old become beautiful? When is something just plain "old and ugly" and when does it pass that point when we want to preserve it? It's rare for me, having spent a big chunk of my life in Vancouver, a city that is constantly exfoliating itself, riding itself of anything older than a few decades to make space for a newer, shinier layer of shoebox condos, to see anything survive long enough, beyond that point when the old and ugly becomes beautiful again. Yes, it's a young city, ridiculously young, and desirable and this means it never has to time to settle, to get over it's growing pains and mature.

I'm pondering this upon my return from Buenos Aires, once referred to as the "Paris of South America", and since I've never been to Paris, or Europe for that matter, you can imagine how the city charmed me. The cooler, overcast weather allowed me to relax and take in the architecture, the cafes on every corner, windows brimming with pastries, the successions of green parks, museums, theaters, fountains, and churches, a marked break from the sweaty heat of Rio, and it was my perception that the "portenos", (the people of Buenos Aires) reflected this cooler weather, a little quieter, less agitated, and less blindingly bright as the Cariocas.

My eyes feasted on the largeness of the old towers in Centro, the ultra wide avenues, and the busy plazas and also on little details like ornate art deco doorhandles, mosaic tile floors in the entrances of restaurants, and weeds growing out of old houses as we toured the city by taxi, subway, bus and on foot. Sure, we did the touristy things, mostly activities that pleased the kid, and a little part me wanted to run inside every museum, spend long afternoons in cafes reading, and catch a show, but I also knew that I couldn't resent the fact that my kid would not get much out of walking around the Museum of Fine Arts as much as me or sit quietly while I sipped on a glass a wine with my feet up, and so I let the city give me what it wanted to offer even if it meant sitting on the subway people watching and going to the bakery every afternoon to fill up on pastries.

With our bag of sweets, a bottle of wine and a few easy things to pop on the stove for dinner, every night we returned to an old apartment with a tiny elevator which the boy took responsibility for, insisting on operating the two metal accordion gates and pushing the buttons. A solid iron vault door which we opened with a medieval key lead onto a living room with high ceilings and a wall of french doors with a close view of the neighbors across the street. On one hand, I loved the apartment, I loved that it wasn't a cookie cutter hotel room, I loved the old hardwood floors, the layers of paint on the moldings, the warped, rattling, single pane windows, and the idea that I could imagine an Argentinian family having lived in it, but on the other hand, I longed for a comfortable bed, puffy towels and room service. The place was definitely on the verge of "it's old enough to be cool, but has so many little issues." For me the "issues" were more "quirks" and for the four days we spent there, the old apartment was part of spending time in the history that Buenos Aires offers which Vancouver could never offer in the same way.

Thank you Buenos Aires, you really are a breath of fresh air.