Club 69
Again I’m stumbling home in the daylight, this time from Palermo, the center of nightlife, from Club 69, a spectacle of a club with a fat transvestite and two slutty characters in gaudy costume performing on a platform. They are sitting on antique furniture above the entrance and feeling each other up and down. Breakdancers perfectly ripped and showing it, dance equally on their flawless arms and powerful legs. The rave-like pounding is relentless and unvarying. Smoke wafts by both tobacco and marijuana.
We dance, or try to, but it comes out as a lame bounce to the droning beat. The transvestite whores pass through the crowd on the dance floor on a cart livening the intrigue for just a moment or two. Argentinian men pursue the hostel women relentlessly. One function I have that night is to block their advances. I sweep one of the girls away and "Es mio," she fibs.
I wake up that afternoon and sit down for an excellent Argentinian style pizza and some strong espresso in a nondescript white cup and a dish of cookies. I work my way down to the newly developed strip of Puerto Madero. Along the way, temporary fences are being repositioned and riot police are gathering for a political rally of some sort. The port looks gentrified for gringo tastes, a malled up version of Argentina staples with just enough western chains for the tourist not to feel astray in a strange land, TGIF, Hooters and parillas galore. A bastardized version of Sydney Opera house, a dance club anchors port life while a pedestrian bridge reminiscent of a marlin fin holds the other side. Inexplicably, in the center of it all, sits a communist information kiosk.
I take the subte, circuitously, to another tourist haunt, Avenida Florida, a pedestrian mall. I stop to watch tango. By this time, ralliers are gathering in the square along with a dozen news vans. A mix of people line on the steps shouting "Argentina!"
I walk back to the hostel. A parade of ralliers with banners and drums file down the street and I weave my way through and watch.
Tonight its Thelonius Monk Jazz Bar, a mojito and martini, trumpets and mood lighting, a player with feathered hair, like that guy in Taxi, or John Travolta circa 1978. Then afterwards its salsa dancing and me falling asleep on the sidelines watching inspiration on the floor, tango, sex with clothes on. We take a taxi back to the hostel. My friend coaxes me to close the shutter with the coat rack to help silence the morning birds, our term for the lunch crowd that gathers to eat on the patio. Along with a hostel and bar, our place is also a restaurant. A new dormmate wired and wide awake leaves for the dicey Boca neighborhood to find a ticket for the biggest futbol game of the year. I sign up for the hostel field trip to the game, 240 pesos or 80 dollars, replete with parilla , bus ride and chaperone, a nine hour tour.
We dance, or try to, but it comes out as a lame bounce to the droning beat. The transvestite whores pass through the crowd on the dance floor on a cart livening the intrigue for just a moment or two. Argentinian men pursue the hostel women relentlessly. One function I have that night is to block their advances. I sweep one of the girls away and "Es mio," she fibs.
I wake up that afternoon and sit down for an excellent Argentinian style pizza and some strong espresso in a nondescript white cup and a dish of cookies. I work my way down to the newly developed strip of Puerto Madero. Along the way, temporary fences are being repositioned and riot police are gathering for a political rally of some sort. The port looks gentrified for gringo tastes, a malled up version of Argentina staples with just enough western chains for the tourist not to feel astray in a strange land, TGIF, Hooters and parillas galore. A bastardized version of Sydney Opera house, a dance club anchors port life while a pedestrian bridge reminiscent of a marlin fin holds the other side. Inexplicably, in the center of it all, sits a communist information kiosk.
I take the subte, circuitously, to another tourist haunt, Avenida Florida, a pedestrian mall. I stop to watch tango. By this time, ralliers are gathering in the square along with a dozen news vans. A mix of people line on the steps shouting "Argentina!"
I walk back to the hostel. A parade of ralliers with banners and drums file down the street and I weave my way through and watch.
Tonight its Thelonius Monk Jazz Bar, a mojito and martini, trumpets and mood lighting, a player with feathered hair, like that guy in Taxi, or John Travolta circa 1978. Then afterwards its salsa dancing and me falling asleep on the sidelines watching inspiration on the floor, tango, sex with clothes on. We take a taxi back to the hostel. My friend coaxes me to close the shutter with the coat rack to help silence the morning birds, our term for the lunch crowd that gathers to eat on the patio. Along with a hostel and bar, our place is also a restaurant. A new dormmate wired and wide awake leaves for the dicey Boca neighborhood to find a ticket for the biggest futbol game of the year. I sign up for the hostel field trip to the game, 240 pesos or 80 dollars, replete with parilla , bus ride and chaperone, a nine hour tour.
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