The small town of Puerto Madryn sits roughly in the middle of the length of la Patagonia.  From the heart of town a two kilometer pier attempts to bisect the wide mouthed bay.  The sun shone brightly but was not enough to warm the whipping wind that carried a fine sand down from the plains above.  Walking to lunch at El Nautico felt like being sandblasted.  The hostel owner said the town is persecuted by the wind.  Though it may be, the wind enhances the pleasure of eating indoors.

We woke early our second day for the tour to see the penguins.  I dressed in an under shirt, a t-shirt, a button-down, a sweater, and a scarf.  The night before I bought a knit hat just in case the wind persecuted me.

The tiny penguins swim down from Brazil and tend to the same nest every year.  Everywhere I looked were tiny caves, each of them home to parents caring for their eggs.  When walking to and from the ocean the penguins would start walking alone and would soon veer toward one another and finish the trek in a small group.

Afterward the tour took us inland for Te Gales, traditional Welsh tea.  Surprisingly, a number of people left Wales and settled in the south of Argentina.  The town quickly became the most developed in the Patagonia–they developed an irrigation system that doubled as a source of electricity.  The Welsh influence is still strong and most evident in the architecture and the preponderance of tea houses.  Nothing could have been better after leaning into the cold north wind for two hours than the assorted sweets, simple sandwiches, and hot hot tea with cream.  The lemon pie was the first of its kind I’ve ever liked.  I asked for three servings.

We had great dinners at Estella Parrilla and at Margarita our two nights in town.  At Margarita I got my first taste of cordero patagonico (patagonian lamb).  It surpassed the hype. 

Then just before leaving town on a bus for Bahia Blanca we fortified with a nice pizza and a cool beer.  We weren’t sure where we were going besides closer to BsAs and were excited for the adventure.

The facade to the historic cafe was wholly unassuming.  White stone covered the front down to its simple steps.  A few plaques hung on the wall announcing the age of the one hundred and fifty year old establishment and its distinction as a Cafe Notable.  There was no large awning nor outdoor seating.  The curtains were drawn on all the windows and it looked closed.  I tried the door.  It pushed in slowly and with each centimeter revealed an other worldly place.  The woodwork along the walls, the brass fixtures, and the Corinthian columns led one to expect a scene full of suits and dresses. 

It was only once the enchantment of the long cafe settled in my mind that I noticed all the tank tops and cameras and a table of pursed lipped girls who must have been Americans.  It saddened me to see such a wondrous be overtly exploited by tourists (myself included).  Then I saw an ancient old man and his decked out, foxy, younger wife.  I imagined the couple had been coming there since they met when she was a singer in the back stage salon.  He was a divorced business man going on forty.  She was an Italian who fled an oppressive house at the start of the war.  She stole two dresses and a small box of jewelery from her mother.  She sold or bartered all the gold and gems but kept the pearl earrings she wore today.  She absconded for Buenos Aires and used her classical training to sing in small time operas.  Soon she found the milonga and learned to sing tango, like any young artist did.  Years later, once she had regular shows and filled out, her mother’s dresses fit.  The two fine gowns bought her ticket from a bohemian life into the aristocratic walls of the Cafe Tortoni, just blocks from the capital building.

Yes, there's a burger under there.

We ordered.  Short Cut asked for her hamburguesa completa without the bun–she was doing the low carb thing–and I had a steak sandwich.  We shared a salad.  I noticed something peculiar about the waiter’s dealings with us.  He was definitely no-nonsense like other waitstaff in the city, but I couldn’t place what was different until he brought our check while we were eating.  Short Cut picked it up and called for his attention.  He made a simple motion, stretching out his hand, as if to say Don’t worry about it.  She persisted, explaining that we’ll be ordering more.  He motioned again, That’s okay.  After she kept talking the waiter seemed compelled to finally speak.  It was as though she finally proved her fluency.  I filtered through the din, homing in on as many conversations as I could pick up.  I heard French, Portuguese, Italian, English, and a couple languages that sounded like German.  There were about ten tables from which I could distinguish words and the only Spanish I heard was when someone ordered.  The waitstaff must have developed an indifference to language and settled on ways to communicate with everyone.  So they point and motion and nod.  It serves their every purpose; they don’t need to chat with their clients.  After our meal I got up in search of the bathroom.  I quickly asked another waiter where it was.  He pointed toward the end of the bar and motioned around the corner in two thrusts of his hand.  Down around the corner of the bar, second door.  I verified with him, Down to the right?  He signaled again.  On my way I saw one of the pursed lipped girls with the waiter.  She pinched the ticket in one hand and a crisp green twenty dollar bill in the other.  She dramatically joined them in one hand and thrust them toward the waiter.  They exchanged a thumbs up.  Not a word was said.  And I was right.

I spent a lot of time in and around Plaza Dorrego waiting for Short Cut to emerge from classes.  How many times I’ve seen tango that way in the plaza and elsewhere in the city I don’t know.  Perhaps dozens of times.  Some partners are campier than others, like bald, heavy set, middle-aged man who occasionally slaps his young red headed partner’s ass in a playful ‘thrill of the chase’ drama before beginning to dance as though at their cafe tables are watching a music video.  However, the concept still works.  The dancers never seem out of place.  Perhaps it is because tango is so much more interesting than the exaggerated image of the dancers clasped hands pointed in the direction they mechanically stride until stopping and shaking their heads violently, dipping the woman, and changing direction.  Oh, and that business of the rose in their teeth.  Or it could be that tango music is also better than the soundtrack that always seemed to accompany that ridiculous movie scene–no doubt a perversion of the classic La Cumparsita (particularly at 0:50, 2:10. and 3:12).

Undoubtedly, however, the setting is perfect.  Some cultural periods, movements, eras (whichever you prefer) are born of something so deep in a collective consciousness it is inextricable.  Before long these movements come to define the people better than anything that came before.  Like reggae for Jamaica and salsa for Cubans and Puerto Ricans, tango still pulses in the veins of the city.  There is a palpable romance everywhere that comes from the buildings, the music, the way people dress and behave.  Taken from its surroundings, outdoor tango would just be another diversion at Disney’s Tangoland.

I awoke late for the voting party at the Embassy.  I tried to put myself together quickly but had coughing bouts.  Four full days of antibiotics hadn’t yet killed enough of the bronchitis.  I found my inhaler and took it while checking email.  The medicine helped ease my lungs.  There were going to be snacks at the Embassy.  I headed out.

The sun shone on my face when I stepped out of the apartment gate and it hit me with a sense of great possibility, like anything were possible.  It charged me with power.  I was a human solar panel, part of the greening revolution, saving the ice caps and cute little penguins, global coastlines, and handing out cups of water in desert towns.  I was going to cast my vote and paint North Carolina blue for the first time in ages.

A line extended a hundred citizens deep from the entrance to the concrete slab Embassy.  My heart jumped at the sight of it.  So many people there to vote.  But look at the time, the Embassy closed in fifteen minutes.  Would a government entity actually betray its schedule? 

Apparently so.  I entered American soil at 1230.  My stomach shouted at me but the snacks were long gone.  I passed groups of ex-pats chatting.  Would I meet some interesting people? would we celebrate our rightous act of citizenship? would we go for lunch and toast to the promise of a new era?

I talked to some while in line to have my absentee ballot notorized.  Mostly, though, I listened and observed the crowd.  Undergraduates surrounded me, they’d just finished their teenage years, they talked about how cool it was to, like, vote for the first time ever and how it is a really really important time.  Totally.  They stumbled over questions of residence. 

Granted, forms are confusing.  But I hoped for conversation about issues, the world.  The act and the moment were significant to me in a certain way and I wanted to find like-minded folks.  I wanted to be a proud American abroad.  Instead I filled my ballot by hand, writing in Obama/Biden in large, clear letters, and walked home thinking about the crowds, the overflowing ballot box, and unprecedented voter turnout.  I peeled off the backing to the flag sticker and placed it over my heart.  It read, I Voted Absentee.

Even still I didn’t get the details for the shows early enough.  There were plenty of free shows in Recoleta during the day but we wanted to go out in the evening.  There were tickets to buy and reservations to make for our trip to Patagonia.  After handling that business I chose a club with night shows.  Theloniuswas the closest to our place and clearly had the best name.  I didn’t know any of the artists playing.  Luis Nacht played at 21:00 and was apparently renowned.  I called the club to inquire for tickets.  With the background noise and cell phone connection we had a hard time understanding each other.  Fortunately, we worked it out between English and Spanish.  Tickets had sold out but there would be another show at 01:00, door at 00:30.

Short Cut and I arrived to a small line at 00:30.  From the stairway that approached the door we could hear the crescendos of a small jazz band’s finale.  We soon entered, paid our twenty pesos, and scanned the narrow bar.  I spotted an empty bench on a landing in the rear.  From above we saw the scene.  The casual crowd chatted over a mix of seventies funk no one seemed to hear.  Five small tables lined the windows from the stairs to the bandstand.  Mostly couples sat close together and shared champagne.  At least a dozen stools ran the length of the bar from the bandstand until a bend reserved for walk up orders like my own.  I got a cup of red wine and a water bottle, handed the bartender eight pesos and returned up the stairs past two Americans sitting there.  The next band just now began to set up and Short Cut had a terrible headache.  I gave her cab fare and told her I wouldn’t be too long.  She told me not to get too drunk and to talk to people, socialize.

When the band started I noticed a spot to belly up.  The tall stool felt unstable and didn’t swivel easily.  I tried to appear comfortable but had nothing to face.  To see the band I had to crane my neck about or look directly at a man’s back.  Across the deep, tile bar was a blank wall with a lighted shelf of liquor.  The band played well enough but jazz without horns or piano has always had a hard time with me.  The songs sounded familiar and not as good as the songs they brought to mind.  Just before I finished my wine they took a break.  After waiting for longer than they had already played, I left.  A disappointing outing, but by no means fruitless.  It’s a bar I’m sure I’ll go back to.