Slowly, I am finding my place in La Plata, my lovely, symmetrical city an hour south of Buenos Aires. I’ve rented an apartment, bought a bicycle, and stocked my kitchen. (All three of these tasks proved much more complicated than I had hoped.) Classes have yet to start, so I’ve spend most of my time walking around the city’s tree-lined streets, looking for one thing or another, or sometimes just looking for nothing in particular. I’ve taken to noting the cross streets of interesting places in a notebook: I have a couple pages of note like “used bikes, corner 44/7,” “veg. restaurant!, 36/14,” “kitchen supply store, 42/1,” and “Basque cultural center? 14/52.”
La Plata’s proximity to Buenos Aires has condemned the city to relative obscurity, even within Argentina. Despite its tree-lined streets, beautiful buildings, and many parks, La Plata is not somewhere people visit on holiday. In almost all ways, La Plata is outclassed by Buenos Aires, but to be fair, almost every city in the world is out-classed, out-glitzed, out-everythinged by the cultural and political behemoth to the north.
That may be why I like it so much here. The search for La Plata’s charms requires some patience: there are no big poster-boards touting historic attractions or tango shows. I’m rewarded every day with some curious shop or attraction, all of which are duly recorded in my notebook... “art gallery, 5/52,” “beautiful nursery, 56/9.” Of course, I find many more places than I have time to visit, and my list of curiosities and attractions grows longer by the day.
My days here feel like an accumulation of unrelated moments, some more memorable than others. Nothing really flows, but somehow the anecdotes fit together into complete days. The friendly Bolivian greengrocer on my block asked me where I’m from yesterday. The United States, I said. “Interesting,” she commented. “You have a Canadian face, but when you bought hot peppers, I was sure you were from Mexico. Mexicans always ask for hot peppers.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was flattered. (And confused about what a Canadian face looks like.)
Those hot peppers are hard to find here, but some Argentine staples are not. Dulce de leche, a sticky, sickly-sweet spread, lurks beneath the surface of all too many pastries and desserts. Entire tarts are filled with the stuff, and it hurts my teeth. My local friends remain incredulous that I don’t like the stuff. I do like mate, the tea-like national drink everyone consumes almost daily. However, mate hasn’t become part of my daily life yet, and sometimes I think that some people are able to identify me as a foreigner simply because I am not carrying around a gourd of mate and a thermos for hot water everywhere I go.
As mentioned above, I have a bicycle, but I haven’t been riding it much. La Plata isn’t all that bike-friendly, and after a lifetime of coddling in the bike lanes in Portland and Eugene, riding here is one long exercise in panic-control for me. (I am one of maybe five people in the city here that wears a helmet.) More importantly, though, is my bicycle’s temperament. I have named it “Che Quilombo,” which translates from Argentine slang as “problem, dude.” It loses its chain often, the headset is loose, and the seat tends to pitch backwards. None of these problems were evident when I bought my bike, and I lack the tools to fix them. At the moment, Che Quilombo is locked up on the street, and I think it’ll remain there for a while.
The loss of Che Quilombo is not that big of a problem, though. For one, I only paid fifty dollars. More importantly, La Plata is better suited for walking. Like I wrote, this city is perfectly symmetrical. Tree-lined avenues predictably radiate out from consistently-placed plazas. There’s no need to memorize street names or confusing intersections; there’s a simple system of numbering that makes everything easy to find. I haven’t needed a map since day three. (Those that know me best will attest that this says much more about the city than about me.) The bus system, however, is still a mystery, so I usually walk.
And when I walk, I find curious places and notice more about this lovely little city. Eventually, I think it’ll feel normal and maybe even a little too small. But for now, I’m enjoying discovering La Plata, one street at a time.
La Plata’s proximity to Buenos Aires has condemned the city to relative obscurity, even within Argentina. Despite its tree-lined streets, beautiful buildings, and many parks, La Plata is not somewhere people visit on holiday. In almost all ways, La Plata is outclassed by Buenos Aires, but to be fair, almost every city in the world is out-classed, out-glitzed, out-everythinged by the cultural and political behemoth to the north.
That may be why I like it so much here. The search for La Plata’s charms requires some patience: there are no big poster-boards touting historic attractions or tango shows. I’m rewarded every day with some curious shop or attraction, all of which are duly recorded in my notebook... “art gallery, 5/52,” “beautiful nursery, 56/9.” Of course, I find many more places than I have time to visit, and my list of curiosities and attractions grows longer by the day.
My days here feel like an accumulation of unrelated moments, some more memorable than others. Nothing really flows, but somehow the anecdotes fit together into complete days. The friendly Bolivian greengrocer on my block asked me where I’m from yesterday. The United States, I said. “Interesting,” she commented. “You have a Canadian face, but when you bought hot peppers, I was sure you were from Mexico. Mexicans always ask for hot peppers.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was flattered. (And confused about what a Canadian face looks like.)
Those hot peppers are hard to find here, but some Argentine staples are not. Dulce de leche, a sticky, sickly-sweet spread, lurks beneath the surface of all too many pastries and desserts. Entire tarts are filled with the stuff, and it hurts my teeth. My local friends remain incredulous that I don’t like the stuff. I do like mate, the tea-like national drink everyone consumes almost daily. However, mate hasn’t become part of my daily life yet, and sometimes I think that some people are able to identify me as a foreigner simply because I am not carrying around a gourd of mate and a thermos for hot water everywhere I go.
As mentioned above, I have a bicycle, but I haven’t been riding it much. La Plata isn’t all that bike-friendly, and after a lifetime of coddling in the bike lanes in Portland and Eugene, riding here is one long exercise in panic-control for me. (I am one of maybe five people in the city here that wears a helmet.) More importantly, though, is my bicycle’s temperament. I have named it “Che Quilombo,” which translates from Argentine slang as “problem, dude.” It loses its chain often, the headset is loose, and the seat tends to pitch backwards. None of these problems were evident when I bought my bike, and I lack the tools to fix them. At the moment, Che Quilombo is locked up on the street, and I think it’ll remain there for a while.
The loss of Che Quilombo is not that big of a problem, though. For one, I only paid fifty dollars. More importantly, La Plata is better suited for walking. Like I wrote, this city is perfectly symmetrical. Tree-lined avenues predictably radiate out from consistently-placed plazas. There’s no need to memorize street names or confusing intersections; there’s a simple system of numbering that makes everything easy to find. I haven’t needed a map since day three. (Those that know me best will attest that this says much more about the city than about me.) The bus system, however, is still a mystery, so I usually walk.
And when I walk, I find curious places and notice more about this lovely little city. Eventually, I think it’ll feel normal and maybe even a little too small. But for now, I’m enjoying discovering La Plata, one street at a time.
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