Photo from Flickr user _ACI_

Last night Sol, our tour guide from a couple of weeks back, invited us out to her dad#8217;s swank house just north of the city to eat asado. Asado is Argentine barbecue, and puts our sad North American hamburger and hot-dog endeavors to total shame. Chorizo, pork chop, two kinds of beef, and chicken, were all consumed in the same belly-expanding meal. We drank Fernet with Cola and talked about the Argentine economy (key word: INFLATION!) with Sol and two of her friends, Sabrina and (I think?) Natalia, whom she lovingly referred to as #8220;las pendejas#8221; (which I guess roughly translates to #8220;my bitches.#8221; Argentines swear a lot more than Canadians do, though maybe not as much as Midwestern Americans.). Anyway, I#8217;ve eaten so much meat in the past three weeks that I feel the chemistry of my body has actually changed. Like, my sweat smells like bouillon.

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Photo by Flickr user CristianGs. As you can see by that watermark.

Last night Sol, our tour guide from a couple of weeks back, invited us out to her dad#8217;s swank house just north of the city to eat asado. Asado is Argentine barbecue, a ritualized feast of a variety of God#8217;s grilled creatures that puts our sad North American hamburger and hot-dog endeavors to total shame. Chorizo, pork chop, two kinds of beef and an exquisitely marinated chicken were all consumed in the same belly-expanding meal. Before last night, I would never have believed this was physically possible.

It was a fabulously Argentine affair, gabbing over Fernet with Cola about the Argentine economy (key word: INFLATION!) with J, Sol and two of her friends, Sabrina and (I think?) Natalia, whom she lovingly referred to as #8220;las pendejas#8221; (which in this situation roughly translates to #8220;my bitches.#8221; Argentines swear a lot more than Canadians do, and it#8217;s usually pretty endearing). Anyway, I#8217;ve eaten so much meat in the past three weeks that I feel the chemistry of my body has actually changed. I#8217;m starting to smell like a bouillon cube.

Argentina is well known for its earth-shattering, grass-fed Pampas beef, but the truth is all meat in Argentina is cheap, plentiful, and of exceptional quality. Sol said that it#8217;s actually rare to encounter bad meat, a legitimate challenge. For this reason, Argentines eat an absurd amount of flesh; fresh produce, though also abundant, is very much an afterthought. In fact, the very word used to describe salad items at many Buenos Aires restaurants translates literally to #8220;garnish.#8221; Go figure.

Sol sent us home with leftovers from the asado. #8220;A doggie bag,#8221; she joked, a concept she must have picked up in her dealings with foreigners as a tour guide. While no longer as unthinkably gauche as it once was, the practice of bringing home leftovers from restaurants and the like remains decisively outside the norm. I#8217;m not sure her Argentine galpals caught the reference.

Argentines have had a rough go of it over the past several decades, between military dictatorship and, more recently, total economic collapse. But throughout it all, they#8217;ve maintained a healthy appetite. While leafy greens might not be a national staple, even the most run-of-the-mill street food here is worthy of marvel. Lonely Planet did a roundup not too long ago of 10 non-steak edibles to eat in Buenos Aires, and I#8217;d say they were right on the money with their mention of ice cream (also, the best I#8217;ve ever had in my life), pizza (ditto), and dulce de leche. Apart from some horrible American tourists we encountered while waiting in line to eat at B.A.#8217;s ancient and famous Cafe Tortoni (#8220;Empana-what? Looked like Hot Pockets to me!#8221;), all the foreigners we#8217;ve encountered have been impressed by the offerings here#8211;and rightfully so. But, even more impressive is that the locals know better than to take it for granted.

What if, say, Barack Obama had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer? Surely, the media wouldn#8217;t let it go. But then, say, after his nationally-breath-held operation came through and it turned out that, Oops! The cells were healthy after all!  wouldn#8217;t there be investigation? Wouldn#8217;t people insist that something smelled fishy? Of course they would; someone would immediately suspect a stunt at play. North American democracy is founded upon a healthy sense of skepticism. Not so in Argentina. The fundamental distrust of democratic governance held by the Argentine people, recently released from the throngs of a dictatorial regime, is apparently immune to bizarre marketing schemes that will play up a head of state#8217;s potentially life-threatening illness only to overlook its subsequently positive prognosis. It#8217;s easier, here, to simply put one#8217;s faith in one#8217;s leader. She#8217;s strong and speaks for the people!  is the prevailing rationale. It#8217;s called Peronism, and it#8217;s a curious beast.

The Peronist political machine relies upon a degree of personality cultishness that I#8217;ve never experienced elsewhere. When I visited the Casa Rosada (presidential palace) last week, I was immediately stricken by the dozens of photo installations of the president, her late husband and their children, displayed along the entrance. These mini-billboards showed #8220;day in the life#8221; type scenes: photos of the president blowing kisses from outside a car window, presumably at a crowd of her loyal countrypeople; la presidenta mid-embrace with her children; #8220;candid#8221; shots of Cristina at speaking engagements, eyes welling with emotion before the masses. Why are images politically relevant? Well, they aren#8217;t. Nothing about Cristina#8217;s ability to smile at a camera suggests shrewd policymaking. Rather, the message is, #8220;I am one of you. Love me.#8221; And, it seems to work.

Back to the cancer thing. Why wasn#8217;t this front-page news last week? Why has it been discussed on television broadcasts only as an afterthought? Why haven#8217;t people been celebrating her#8211;apparently, unexpectedly#8211;good health? I can#8217;t help but come to the conclusion that there#8217;s a fear of throwing off a narrative of support and well-wishes coming from high up, trickling down to mainstream media. A populist head of state#8217;s life-threatening illness is quite the unifier, after all. Why break the circle?

Not to say that North American politics are any more civil, but it#8217;s been fascinating to see a totally different kind of machine at play.

What if, say, Barack Obama had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer? Surely, the media wouldn#8217;t let it go. But then, say, after his nationally-breath-held operation came through and it turned out that, Oops! The cells were healthy after all!  wouldn#8217;t there be investigation? Wouldn#8217;t people insist that something smelled fishy? Of course they would; someone would immediately suspect a stunt at play. North American democracy is founded upon a healthy sense of skepticism. Not so in Argentina. The fundamental distrust of democratic governance held by the Argentine people, recently released from the throngs of a dictatorial regime, is apparently immune to bizarre marketing schemes that will play up a head of state#8217;s potentially life-threatening illness only to overlook its subsequently positive prognosis. It#8217;s easier, here, to simply put one#8217;s faith in one#8217;s leader. She#8217;s strong and speaks for the people!  is the prevailing rationale. It#8217;s called Peronism, and it#8217;s a curious beast.

The Peronist political machine relies upon a degree of personality cultishness that I#8217;ve never experienced elsewhere. When I visited the Casa Rosada (presidential palace) last week, I was immediately stricken by the dozens of photo installations of the president, her late husband and their children, displayed along the entrance. These mini-billboards showed #8220;day in the life#8221; type scenes: photos of the president blowing kisses from outside a car window, presumably at a crowd of her loyal countrypeople; la presidenta mid-embrace with her children; #8220;candid#8221; shots of Cristina at speaking engagements, eyes welling with emotion before the masses. Why are images politically relevant? Well, they aren#8217;t. Nothing about Cristina#8217;s ability to smile at a camera suggests shrewd policymaking. Rather, the message is, #8220;I am one of you. Love me.#8221; And, it seems to work.

Back to the cancer thing. Why wasn#8217;t this front-page news last week? Why has it been discussed on television broadcasts only as an afterthought? Why haven#8217;t people been celebrating her#8211;apparently, unexpectedly#8211;good health? I can#8217;t help but come to the conclusion that there#8217;s a fear of throwing off a narrative of support and well-wishes coming from high up, trickling down to mainstream media. A populist head of state#8217;s life-threatening illness is quite the unifier, after all. Why break the circle? It#8217;s an idea that especially makes sense in the context of what I#8217;ve been told, that the press isn#8217;t completely, 100% free in Argentina.

Not to say that North American politics are any more civil, but it#8217;s been fascinating to see a totally different kind of machine at play. Techniques of ruling also have their cultural differences.

A blurry live-action tango scene.

Buenos Aires is beginning to make sense. Maybe because today was the first time I got properly lost on my own, which is a fabulous way to get one#8217;s bearings in an unfamiliar place. For the past 13 days (!) I#8217;ve been relying on my travel partner for navigation. In a sense, he#8217;s the orchestrator of this trip, and I#8217;m the guest, so I follow. Besides, this is a working holiday for me; many potential brain-map-making hours have been spent drinking cortados in coffee shops while pounding away at my laptop about goings-on back home. This is no complaint, but it was an adventure to begin forging my own sense of geography earlier tonight.

Stationed on the southern-ish edge of B.A.#8217;s #8220;old money#8221; Recoleta neighbourhood (note: the apartment sublet here was, miraculously, comparable in price to others in less quiet/chi-chi locations), I ventured for a 10k run to and from the border of Palermo, a gigantic expanse of parks and nightlife broken up into four real-estate subsections for easy marketing appeal. From my monthlong dwelling at the intersection of Ayacucho and Peña, I headed northeast along increasingly swanky territory along Ayacucho and onto Avenida del Libertador#8211;Avenue of the Liberator#8211;to make my way westward.

As a headphones runner, I had the latest record by Argentine electro group Poncho to keep me from bursting into an anti-exercise tantrum. According to the current Argentine edition of Rolling Stone (which I picked up at a nearby kiosko a few days ago)  iTunes is relatively new to the country and, within moments of its inception, Poncho#8217;s sole English-language single #8220;Please Me#8221; became its most-downloaded track, even surpassing Adele#8217;s #8220;Rolling in the Deep#8221;#8211;quite a feat, if you#8217;ll ask anyone in the Western Hemisphere.  In true tech-gen fashion, I discovered the tune by Shazaaming it at a Palermo bar earlier in the week, but it#8217;s been apparently inescapable for months. ( In case you#8217;re wondering, the entire album is brilliant.)

After I figured out how to return home, we ate what could almost be called a homecooked meal and drank Fernet and Cola, which I#8217;ve discovered is the cocktail of choice for Porteños (the name given to people from Buenos Aires, a port city, which literally translates to #8220;Port dwellers#8221;). I learned about the concoction during a fabulous walking tour last Monday, which I#8217;d recommend to anyone considering a visit to the city. Upon mention of the drink, a German tourist in the group made a horrible face and said that his experience with Fernet y Cola was unpleasant and headache-inducing, which naturally led me to try it a few hours later. Some loser on Vimeo described its taste as #8220;mouthwash,#8221; but my refined palate reads notes of Ricola cough drops and Sicilian mafiosos. It#8217;s simultaneously classy and dirty, which is really the best any of us can aspire to. For my Toronto friends: Fernet Branca is apparently available at the LCBO, but at about 6x the Buenos Aires price. In other words: hit me up, for I shall be importing.

Fernet y cola was something that got consumed last night, as well, when we ventured to a hip milonga called La Catedral at the recommendation of a local friend-of-a-friend named Elena. Milongas are where tango happens, and el tango is just short of religion here. The dance originated at the end of the 19th century but waned in popularity during the mid-20th century, when newfangled rock-n-roll business decided to take over the public consciousness. The folkloric dance was further suppressed during Argentina#8217;s most recent, and most violent, military dictarorship, which lasted from 1976-1983. But, after a long period of decline, tango is making a major comeback, thanks to a number of Bohemian and youth-centric milongas and#8211;of course#8211;a bounty of international tourists drawn to  its undeniable sexiness. As my new friend Elena explained, #8220;Es una obsesion.#8221;  Having experienced my own first tango lesson and show last night, I can understand why: it#8217;s a dance that relies on intuition and reflex, a communication between dance partners, more than any other.  Basically, the dance is foreplay on heels. I hope to get a second lesson tomorrow.

Beyond tango and exploration, today involved a visit to the MALBA#8211;the museum of Latin American Art in Buenos Aires#8211;where we experienced some amazingly trippy #8220;physiocromic#8221; (my own attempt at an English translation for it) work by the artist Carlos Cruz-Diez. Google the guy, as your mind will surely be blown. The following photo is from one of his less-impressive (but more interactively fun) pieces. Apologies for dorkiness (I is what I is).

[Final note: for more intelligent/comprehensive Buenos Aires recaps, follow this blog here.]

The apartment is in Recoleta, about a 10-minute walk from where I stayed during my last visit to B.A. That one was strictly work though, and minimal pleasure. This time, I hope to get in a fair bit of both.

This afternoon we walked past an embassy that I foggily remember stumbling past on my last night in town last year, during my one moment of fun. A late night at El Alamo bar with instant expat friends led to a long night of very 20-something adventures. It was a relief at the time, a moment of excitement in the middle of a period I don#8217;t remember too fondly.

I bought new sandals for this trip. Attempts at chicdom. The 5-inch platforms need to be broken in; after an hour in them, my feet are temporarily ruined. But they make me feel elegant, and this city deserves the effort.

Buenos Aires has a choose-your-own-adventure vibe. As my friend Lisan said, it#8217;s a cultural gray area somewhere in between Latin America and Western Europe, or maybe both and not both at the same time, like a Venn Diagram of identities. We look like everyone else here, more or less, and it#8217;s nice not to be pegged for a tourist until I open my mouth and the gutter rust of my mother tongue stumbles out instead of spilling.

We drink totally passable red wine that cost $4 USD, which I first thought tasted like soap but now, a mug in, am beginning to appreciate.

#8220;I think it#8217;s good for my heart and shit, just to feel excited. And scared.#8221; J said that, but I agree. My brain is still in Toronto, but my body is here. And my heart, I think. Another Venn Diagram.

This song is kind of cheery but ultimately still dark, which I feel is appropriate for a sunny day in late October.

Who knew that dude from Pulp is making disco songs now? No complaints here!

Anyway, I listened to him talk for 90 minutes last week at the International Festival of Authors and wrote about it here. Whether or not I think he#8217;s as great as he does, it#8217;s true that the work he does has its place. I wonder how other Gen Y-ers think of the guy. At least from what I gathered of the audience at Friday#8217;s talk, the handful of us under 30 were all there on assignment anyway.

Read here: http://torontoist.com/2011/10/whats-on-at-ifoa-2011/

Read here: http://toronto.openfile.ca/toronto/text/meet-voices-ttc

While the semi-aquatic weasels are native to the region, only recently have the sleek, coffee-coloured critters become regular sightings along Toronto shores.

Ralph Toninger of the Toronto and Region Conservation Authority says this is a very good sign.#8221;

Read more about the stinky minkies here . I love them!

Read more here (including the C+C music factory reference that I snuck in there!)

Read more here.

Fight the urge to punch these people who call you #8220;baby#8221; in the face. Because you could, and you would probably injure them. You#8217;re stronger than people guess. You restrain yourself because you#8217;re better than that.

Wear really short shorts and get away with it.

(Once was? Am? Shudder.)