Autonomous City

Buenos Aires is one of my favorite cities in the world. I don't say that lightly—it means something different now, having lived here, than it did when I first saw it. It's easier to fall in love with a place in a week than it is to still love it in a year.

I looked back at my emails to see how I described Buenos Aires when I was first in it, in 2008. I called it "probably the coolest city ever". I thought it had the features of New York, with wider streets and the population sprawl of Los Angeles, and the fashion and sophistication of Europe's best cities. I wrote that it was enormous and that I'd barely scratched the surface.

Although I still feel I've barely scratched the surface, I am undeniably better equipped now to describe BA. A lot of travel guides call it the "Paris of the South", but I'm reluctant to volunteer that up in conversation, and definitely haven't heard locals invoke it. It just feels kind of icky, like calling an app "the Uber for X". But the comparison is not without truth. Paris has arrondissements, we have comunas; they have an ornate cemetery in Père-Lachaise, we have an ornate cemetery in Recoleta.

Or as some might call it, the Uber Black Car for the dead.

There are definite similarities between the two capitals, mainly in the sense that they are both beautiful cities. It would be more appropriate to contextualize Buenos Aires with a broader European heritage. This is, after all, a city of immigrants, including the obvious Spanish descent and the especially prevalent Italian descent. Combine those architectural influences with exceptional economic prosperity through the early 1900s, and you get a cityscape that knows how to age well.

High art from the high seats at Teatro Colón.

This is a water pumping station. Seriously.

But it would be woefully incomplete to simply compare Buenos Aires to Europe, because Buenos Aires is its own thing. Cities should be able to set themselves apart from their origins. And this is a city that has accrued enough character, charisma, and identity to share among three million porteños (and a few visitors). So enough with the comparatives; bring on the superlatives.

This is the city of books. Wikipedia tells me that Buenos Aires has more bookstores per capita than any other city in the world, with one for every four thousand residents. I'm not sure if that even includes the rows of used book stands around major plazas and avenues. Bookstores are legitimate attractions here, and even with so many peers, they do a fine job of retaining their individuality.

I'm typing this from the one on the bottom left.

It's not just the shelves, either. I've been impressed with every aspect of reading-related design here, down to the details of the dust jackets.

I'd judge these books by their covers.

Books are important enough that the city hosts one of the largest international book fairs in the world. More than a million people show up every year, over a span of three weeks. It would take at least that long to be able to see everything.

Look at all those nerds.

Interestingly enough, there doesn't seem to be an (Argentine) Spanish word for "nerd". We asked far and wide and came up empty. Our dictionary suggested pazguato, but when we offered this up, we just got laughs and furrowed brows. Turns out we were trying too hard; they just say "nerd".

There is a phrase for library rat, though, literally translated as rata de biblioteca. Buenos Aires is home to Argentina's national library, but this is one book repository that won't be winning any design awards.

Calling this architectural style "brutalism" doesn't help.

This is the city of tango. Before you ask—no, we will not be returning as tango experts. In fact, I probably remember more from square dancing in middle school than I do from the one or two lessons we took here. Sorry to disappoint.

That doesn't mean we haven't learned some things about it. As much as you can trace the history of the dance, the tango has no earlier known home than Buenos Aires. Today it may seem cliché and touristy, but it's an inextricable thread through the story of the city.

It first became popular in port neighborhoods densely populated by working-class European immigrants. As the dance grew in popularity, the upper classes naturally adopted it as their own. National recessions and military dictatorships caused periods of decline (when the military banned public gatherings, they included the tango, which was traditionally male-only). Although it's a small portion of current day-to-day life here, the tango remains a symbol of national pride and heritage.

Argentina's second national anthem.

An indirect consequence of the military dictatorships was that it increased the popularity of rock and roll, which did not require "public gatherings". Today Buenos Aires is part of the global audience that has a hard time avoiding hearing Taylor Swift and Rihanna at all hours. Top 40 has infiltrated the radio and regularly dominates our neighbors' party playlists.

There are a few twists, though. The most amusing one has to be a prolific trend of cross-gender covers of pop songs. In stores and restaurants we've heard male covers of Katy Perry ("Firework" and "Roar"), "What's Love Got to Do with It", and my favorite so far, TLC's "Waterfalls". The female side includes the Beatles, Maroon 5, and "Got to Give It Up"—a cover of the song that Marvin Gaye sued Robin Thicke for not quite covering.

In what also seems to be a global trend, the city's mega-concert venues are dominated by hard rock bands like Slipknot, System of a Down, and even Kiss. With their concert promotions plastered all over the city, it didn't seem unusual that one night our taxi driver was singing "Enter Sandman" along with the radio. I'm not embarrassed that he knew more words than I did.

That's not to say there isn't more to the modern Buenos Aires music scene. There's plenty going on; I just don't know enough to write about it.

Experimental electronica, I think.

One of my regrets is not having explored more of the local music. Oh well—I'll make up for it, when we return to master the tango.

This is a city of secrets. I'm not even talking about the political ones, which are countless and well beyond my scope. I'm talking about poorly kept secrets that persist if only to maintain a sense of secrecy.

Take, for example, the concept of closed-door restaurants. To eat at one, there is an email address or phone number through which to request a reservation. Only after your request is accepted are you given the menu, price, and address. The reward is dinner in the intimacy of a home—sometimes the chef's home, with a kitchen that looks like ours.

Just like home, except with set menus.

More commercial bars and restaurants can still follow this theme. They might have nondescript doors, dramatic vault openings, or hidden entrances through refrigerators in a flower shop. They put a lot of effort into the speakeasy vibe, even if they're well publicized in guidebooks.

The underground scene, but only literally.

I guess in a city this big, you need to be able to find escape within it. Residents who can afford it build that into their property in the form of a big wall at the front of their lot. The wall usually looks plain, which is the point. You wouldn't suspect a mini-mansion behind it unless you noticed a nice-looking roof sticking out on top.

There's gotta be something good back there.

This is a city that changes. You know the expression "changes like the weather"? In Buenos Aires, it would be "changes like the weather forecast". Maybe the Weather Channel just doesn't work here, because it readjusts predictions constantly and almost always incorrectly. Apparently the city interprets "100% chance of rain" as a challenge to stay dry.

Once you give up trying to predict, Buenos Aires does not fail to make its seasons known. The arrival of spring is announced by stunning violet jacarandá; in autumn, the scenery is dominated by pink lapacho.

City planning does not interpret "green space" literally.

As much thought goes into their manmade structures as well. This city loves to turn its lights on, and the difference between night and day is, well, obvious.

As the world turns.

It's not all flowers and fluorescents. This is a city after all, and cities have avenues to funnel traffic, train tracks to funnel freight, and the areas in between. We define cities by their landmarks, yet it's the other stuff that makes us feel how we feel when we're in them.

There will always be new developments. Every week, on our street alone, they are either closing off sidewalks for construction of a new apartment complex, drilling holes in asphalt to fix the drainage, or aggressively pruning trees, leaving bundles by the trunks. It also happens to be an election year, so new government services will coincidentally appear sooner and more proudly. But for all the new construction, something from the past inevitably remains. At least for four more years.

The formal name of this city is Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires. It has federal designation and belongs to no province. It is its own thing.

Before we moved here, if you had asked me what my favorite cities in the world were, I would've said Buenos Aires, Lisbon, and Prague. And then I would've added, "and San Francisco, of course." Not because San Francisco is an afterthought, but because how can you compare days of visiting to years of living? When you live in a city, you give it chances to show more glory than you had thought possible and more ugliness than you had wanted to see. Those are the things that transform opinions.

Has my opinion changed? If you asked me now, what are my favorite cities in the world—I'd say Lisbon and Prague. And San Francisco and Buenos Aires, of course.

Dimensional Analysis of Living Abroad

The last entry in the journal I lost was a graph. I normally keep the contents of my personal journal personal, but since it's no longer on my person, it somehow seems appropriate to share something from it. So I had drawn this graph. In case you were wondering, it wasn't the first graph I'd drawn in a journal (that's also sharing something). In this graph, the x-axis was the number of months since our arrival in Argentina and the y-axis was unlabeled. It looked like this:

What data does this represent? I wanted it to capture that first high of when we arrived in Buenos Aires and thought, oh my god, we actually did this. And that even higher high a couple weeks later when we signed the lease to our apartment and realized, oh my god, we're actually doing this. After that, a period of settling down and getting used to our surroundings, brought back up by our first trips around the country. (It's fitting that several of our peaks coincide with being in the Andes.) After each trip, like any vacation, there was a regression to the mean. Similarly, when we had visitors, they brought it up when they came and down when they left. Finding challenging work, including learning a language, had the same effect. Overall, I think the graph does a decent job of showing the difference between visiting a place (pre-month 5) and living in it (post-month 5).

I don't have an exact definition for this class of data. After drawing it, I labeled the curve K, for kinetic energy, because it seemed related to motion. I still think that's appropriate, but it should also include the dimensions of novelty, excitement, stimulation, and other properties I haven't thought of. If, for simplicity, we work only in units of energy, we can take advantage of the law that energy is conserved. In a closed system¹, if I know kinetic energy, I also know potential energy. So I drew that too, if nothing else but for symmetry:

The potential energy curve has some nice aesthetic qualities. It trends up. So while kinetic energy here conveys negativity by trending down, potential energy does the exact opposite. It's nice to feel like you're at the cusp of something—like things are about to start rolling.

Things did roll, but not how I expected. Remember, I drew this graph in the journal I lost, one day before I lost it along with the rest of our possessions. It turned out I hadn't reached the kinetic energy trough just yet. Now that I've created it in digital form, it's easy to update the graph to include the last month:

That looks bad, but keep in mind it's on an arbitrary scale, and I'm still not sure what exactly I'm showing. It's probably the most qualitative graph I've ever made with numbers. But, as you've no doubt figured out by now, I kind of like making graphs. So to round it out, here is the corresponding potential energy curve for the full ten months:

That looks better! And I think I'm actually getting somewhere now. In this analogy, I have a much clearer idea of what potential energy represents. It's all the energy that gets stored when you're not moving. It's what builds up when you're not traveling to a new place, not changing your environment, not experiencing something you haven't experienced before. It is the need for motion; the appetite for change.

That appetite swells and shrinks. It's fickle, and it doesn't always lead to change. But I think there is a certain level above which change becomes necessary and inevitable. I'm going to call that level the activation energy. (At this point, you're probably shaking your head at me for taking this analogy too far, unless you're a physicist, in which case you're probably shaking your head at me for bringing chemistry into it.) I plotted activation energy in the graph above, but only as illustration, because that line is bound to change, too. The point is, above a certain level of appetite, things need to start moving.

It's going to happen soon. While I can't predict the shape of the curve, I know what's coming up. Our lease ends in early September and we don't plan to renew (though we don't plan to go home right away, either; details to follow). Before that, we have one big region of Argentina we have yet to explore, the north. That leaves us with only a few more weeks of being in the city of Buenos Aires. The countdown has started and we have a BA bucket list (it's mostly edible). We're already feeling nostalgic for it. Change is coming soon, but we're still here, and we're hungry.

¹ "Closed system" is used in the classical mechanics sense, also known as an isolated system in thermodynamics. Now you know!

A Bump in the Road

It was only a matter of time. After enough days on the road, visiting enough towns, making enough stops, we were bound to have a decidedly negative experience.

We were in Bariloche, a popular skiing/camping destination in northern Patagonia. Being between seasons, we did neither skiing nor camping, but had rented a car to explore the surrounding Lake District. On the last day of our trip, on our way to the airport, we stopped downtown to pick up a snack before the flight. In Bariloche, downtown means a two-by-six block area with chocolate shops every other store and ice cream shops in between. We parked and spent about half an hour in one of those chocolate shops, enough time to sip hot chocolates. When we returned to our car, we found the driver door ajar and the back seats leaning forward. We opened the trunk and there was nothing.

We stood there, realizing what had happened. We had our wallets and phones on us, and our umbrellas, since it was raining, and nothing else. Our backpacks were gone, and so were our daypacks, which meant our passports and cameras were also gone. There was a guy working on the sidewalk right next to our car, but he said he just got there and didn't see anything. All the storefronts within eyesight were closed. There was a police patrol a block up, but they just directed us to the police station. We filed a report, got some signatures, and the policeman nodded in a way that conveyed, "Okay, that's all."

There wasn't much else to do. Our flight was in a couple hours, so we drove to the airport. Luckily, for domestic flights in Argentina, a California driver's license is enough identification. It was a bizarre experience flying with nothing. Security was a breeze and we obviously had no baggage to check in or claim. I don't imagine I'll ever travel lighter. At least I hope not.

On the flight, in lieu of reading material, we had time to think about the things we did wrong. We left our daypacks in the trunk. We never do that; throughout the trip, we always kept the important stuff in our daypacks and our daypacks on us. It was a combination of bad timing and getting too comfortable. At the end of a trip, when a town had become familiar, we didn't even think about it. They must've seen us get out of the car. It also didn't help that our car had a sticker on the window, advertising the rental agency and, equally effectively, our status as tourists. While we don't feel guilty, we still feel stupid.

We're lucky we didn't see it happen. There was no confrontation, no violence. It could've been so much worse, and we're grateful it wasn't. We also feel no bad will toward Argentina because of this. When we related this story to Argentines, we were surprised how many responded with some combination of knowing all too well and apology. This could've happened anywhere. We've never felt unsafe here, and we still don't.

That said, it still sucks to get robbed. Personally, I've never had so much stuff stolen. Yes, it's just stuff, but it's my stuff and Lauren's stuff and our stuff. And it's those possessive modifiers that determine a given stuff's replaceability. For me, there are two losses that hurt the most. One is my camera, not for the machine itself but for the 800 photos I took on our trip. The other is my journal, which had almost two years worth of writing done on buses, planes, cafes, and campgrounds. Sure, it came from my head in the first place, but there's a reason I wrote it down. Nothing I rewrite can match the level of detail conveyed by its bled-ink corners, endured in a rainstorm on the Strait of Magellan. Stuff, at its best capacity, helps its owner retain experience.

Oh well. After a few days of a kind of mourning, accompanied by guilt for mourning material possessions, we moved on to silver linings. There's no better excuse than losing all your clothes to get a bunch of new ones. We got to experience what it's like to go to a U.S. embassy as a U.S. citizen: pretty much like flying first class. And we didn't lose all our photos because we had taken some with our phones. Thank Apple for the panorama feature:

Lakes, Part I

Lakes, Part II

Lakes, Part III

This is when I wanted to see what would happen if I tried to take a panorama in a moving car.
The result may not surprise you.

So we continue traveling. We'll take even more photos, write more, and stay cautious. Our stuff will come and go, but we'll thank it for helping take us places, and for reminding us of the places we've been.

Thank you and goodbye.