Youngest Child

Friday August 4, 2023

A discussion with the building concierge the previous night where Mr. Wafflehad understood him to say that the water might be off briefly overnight and I had understood him to say that we should fill every available receptacle with water because the water would be cut off the following morning, proved that my Italian was more useful for understanding these matters than Mr. Waffle’s Spanish. Never have I been so sad to be right.

Mr. Waffle and I went across the road for breakfast and shortly after we finished there was a message from the children that water had been restored. Much rejoicing.

This allowed us to shower before beginning our 17.6 km (the specificity is due to a tracking app that I am attached to) cycling tour of the the city. The weather was beautiful. We began in a little park and saw parrots. Very exciting although our guide was surprised by our enthusiasm.

We went to the Boca Juniors stadium. Big club which I had never heard of before coming to BA but as the kids would say, “That’s on me”. We went to San Telmo which is very touristy but I am a tourist, I like touristy places.

Messi is popular locally.

We went into a nature reserve with lovely views over what definitely looked like the sea but what porteños (what the locals are called, look at me integrating) are extremely adamant is a river.

We were met at the entrance to the park by one of the cycle shop employees with drinks for all of us. This was the Corinne (our travel agent) service we were already beginning to expect. I suspect that Corinne did not know that our cycle tour took us in part along a road that had very strong motorway vibes. We’re all very experienced cyclists but it definitely felt a bit edgy. Largely fine however and a great way to see the city. Honestly, we possibly could have done without the nature reserve. We have lots of nature at home.

We had an opportunity to verify that Calatrava builds the same bridge everywhere. Our guide said that it was supposed to be inspired by the tango. “If this is the case, then why is it identical to the one in the Dublin docklands?” I wondered. She said that she suspected as much all along.

We saw the Casa Rosada where the Argentinian president hangs out. Mr. Waffle offered the fantastic fact that it is made with ox blood, hence the pink colour. It is on the Plaza de Mayo which due to the weird distinct form of Spanish spoken locally is pronounced Plaza de “Masho”, calle is “casho” and so on. For those of us whose Spanish is based on Italian and a couple of duolingo lessons, this does not make things easier.

The Plaza is where the mothers of the disappeared used to march and the headscarf logo on the ground is in memory of that. During the time of the generals, left wing activists or anyone the regime didn’t like were “disappeared”, often dropped by helicopter into the middle of the river. I saw a big sign up announcing 40 years of democracy and that didn’t seem like a very long time to me. It’s not so long since these young people were taken away and killed in huge numbers.

After our busy morning we had an afternoon off. As we were to discover, this was a complete rarity in the Corinne schedule which we probably should have looked at in more detail before agreeing to everything. Herself and myself went back to the fleshpots of Palermo Soho for a more detailed look around. This wasn’t a complete success as I was exhausted from my three hour cycle in the morning. However, I did have a significant triumph. As you may be aware, there are Welsh speaking towns in Patagonia. “Who doesn’t know that?” you cry. In a shoe shop, the assistant was from Patagonia. “Do you know the Welsh speaking towns?” I asked. Herself cast her eyes heavenward. But he did, he knew all about them, he had grown up near one but, sadly, spoke no Welsh.

Our driver having abandoned us at our request, we had to make our own way home. I didn’t feel strong enough to try the metro so we hopped in a taxi which set us back 1,7000 pesos or, at the time, about €3.

Honestly, there was no real need to investigate the metro, the Subte to its friends, which, incidentally, I gather is very good though I am unable to speak from personal experience.

We had asked Corinne to book us a neighbourhood pizzeria for dinner. I regret to report that we did not enjoy Argentinian pizza. The fault lay not in the restaurant which had queues out the door and around the corner but we just did not like Argentinian pizza, – significantly more cheese than appeals to an Irish audience. As we were now becoming accustomed to, we were, yet again, whisked to the top of the queue and installed as honoured guests.

After dinner, a car came to take us to a tango show. A triumph for me as the driver had two Italian parents and I was able to chat away in Italian. Herself had opted out of pizza (a wise move in retrospect) and tango but the rest of us were if not exactly gung ho, certainly curious.

The Tango show was excellent in fairness (the theme was tango through the years) but as scantily clad women danced around our table, it felt a bit like watching films with sex in them with your children ( which is just as bad as watching them with your parents as a teenager, just a different kind of bad).

We emerged, impressed by the artistry and sheer athleticism of the dancers but pleased to see our driver (of course) who zoomed us home to bed across the city.

Saturday August 5, 2023

We went to the Pain Quotidien again. I’m not proud.

After breakfast we were picked up to go on a food tour.  We were rapidly discovering that there was a certain danger in being cosseted beings whose every need was catered to by guides and drivers.  Mr. Waffle expressed the mildest interest in the BA water system following our guide pointing out a pumping system and we very narrowly avoided a tour of the local water infrastructure.

Danger averted we went to our first stop on the food tour,  We got choripán which is basically barbecued sausage in a bun.  We went to a small corner café and sat outside.  Delicious.  It was in a suburban part of town and a lot of the buildings were single storey.  It really reminded me of Brooklyn.  This was not the first time I made this observation and it never failed to irritate the children.

Sadly, the choripán was only the beginning.  Argentinians like a lot of food.  We went to a restaurant which was very nice and everything but we were already kind of full from the choripán. Then we went to an ice cream place. Pretty good, I have to say, but we positively waddled away.

We were trying to get a feel for the Argentinian character and asked our guide what other South America countries might say about Argentina.  “Well,” she said, “they might say that Argentines are snobbish because we are the most European country of South America.”  I found that a bit weird but Mr. Waffle pointed out later that they kind of think of themselves as European.  They’re always saying how far away from everywhere they are but of course they are actually surrounded by other countries although they are a long way from European countries.  They cordially loath the Brasilians who they regard as very blingy but, of course, economically, they are doing far better than the Argentinians and they tend to visit and flash their cash in their white and gold outfits while being very loud (say the Argentinians anyhow).  The Argentinians themselves are turned out like chic French people or Italians in dark well-cut clothes.  The cliché is that an Argentinian is an Italian who thinks he’s Spanish and wishes to be British.  Clichés  are there for a reason, people.

After our enormous lunch, the driver dropped the guys home and Mr. Waffle, herself and I went to explore around San Telmo. 

We found a very cool cafe called La Peurto Roico and, suitably fortified, we went on to the Plaza de Mayo for a more leisurely look around.

When we got ourselves home, the guys seem to have enjoyed a peaceful afternoon.

That evening (because we spit on exhaustion), Mr. Waffle and I went to El Ataneo, a very cool bookshop in a former theatre.  There were very few English language books there – just some school textbooks, printed in Argentina – because of the absolutely prohibitive cost of importing goods.  It was still nice to look around though.

Mr. Waffle was absolutely fascinated by security in the residential buildings we passed.  Sometimes there was an actual security gurad but more often than not there was a live video feed of a very bored person looking out at you – presumably each guard looked after multiple buildings and you were to be intimidated/supervise their work as you went by.  Very odd, I have never seen anything like this before.

People, this is only another two days. If you’re feeling strong, join us soon for our next adventure when our heroes fly North to Iguazu.

Well, hello there, did you think I had dropped off the edge of the earth? Well, yes, Argentina is a long way away, since you mention it.

Monday, 31 July, 2023

I spent the day before our departure stress tidying a bookcase. Some people were not enormously pleased. More fool them as we are home now and we know where all the jigsaws are.

I found myself increasingly worried about our 2 hour window to change flights in JFK. We were only passing through the US but we discovered, rather late in the game, that we would have to go though immigration and rescue our luggage and get it on the connecting flight. We also had to fill in ESTA forms. The US is not ideal for transit but we were flying a long way as cheaply as we could (still very expensive, I might add).

Mr. Waffle found a fantastic app for roaming which herself tested out when she was in Italy. I can truly recommend. It’s called Airalo and no one paid me any money for this recommendation. More’s the pity. Mr. Waffle also sorted out cash, insurance, Argentine plug adaptors and gathered tickets, passports and other documentation. Good job I had the bookcase tidying in hand is all I can say.

Tuesday, 1 August, 2023

We arrived at Dublin airport about lunch time to be given the deeply unwelcome intelligence that our flight from London to New York had been cancelled. We would be flown out via Paris the following day. Could we go home and fly in the morning? Are you joking me? We had to take our scheduled flight to Heathrow and once there would be sorted by BA for overnight accommodation in London and onward flights. The man at the ticket desk gave us this comprehensive paper work.

Essentially we would be spending 24 hours getting to Paris which is kind of in the wrong direction from Ireland, if you are trying to get to Argentina. As my sister conceded when I told her about our woes, “It does seem a roundabout way to get to Argentina.”

When we got to Heathrow we queued for two long hours to arrange our new flights and hotel accommodation. A very pleasant French woman sorted us out eventually, “Oh, you’re going to Argentina,” she exclaimed, “I would love to be you!” I did raise a slightly battle hardened eyebrow at that but I suppose her heart was in the right place.

We stayed in the Renaissance hotel in Heathrow airport. The children had a room each and Daniel was touchingly amazed and delighted that it was free. The rest of us were a bit less impressed and herself sent round a poll asking whether the hotel had previously been a prison; honestly, quite plausible.  We were rigorously separated from paying guests and checked-in and fed in separate rooms – obviously minimising costs as they had some kind of deal with BA but these were – you will scarcely believe this – even less appealing than the hotel restaurants.  I went to inquire about buses.  There were no buses to our terminal and they recommended booking a taxi.  I booked.  I will reveal that in the morning it cost us £50 to get to the airport.  What kind of an airport hotel does not have a shuttle bus to the terminals?  The Renaissance Heathrow Airport.  As I overheard a German lady saying to her husband in reception, “Niemals wieder!”

Wednesday, August 2, 2023

Anyway after a forgettable breakfast buffet at the hotel we were off. I still had a couple of the £8 vouchers we had got from British airways and passed them on to other passengers. Daniel continued to be charmingly astonished by the generosity of British airways, “We got an £8 voucher each? I thought it was one between the five of us!” Herself put our bags through the self check-in like a ninja.

We got to Paris without further incident.  As we transferred in CDG, our substitute cleaner rang.  Our own lovely cleaner was on holidays in Ukraine and this was a friend of hers to whom she had given a wholly inflated and inaccurate impression of my ability to express myself in Ukrainian.  As we scooted around the airport, I was fielding new cleaner’s queries about the front door key in Ukrainian.  I had no idea what was going on.  We resorted to texting each other with the assistance of google translate and the neighbours from both sides got involved and I spoke to each on the telephone.  The Chubb key she had didn’t work, at least one neighbour had one that worked, she got in.  I aged by about five years.

After this we enjoyed an extremely lengthy security queue in CDG and I was filled with fear that we would miss our plane. I am pleased to say that we did not miss our flight and we settled into the five middle seats some distance apart from each other which were to be our homes for the next 15 hours.  I have never flown longer than 5 hours before. I would not recommend.

I was sitting beside an Argentinian woman who sympathised with me on my novice long haul flying status.  “Do you know what we say about where Argentina is?” she asked.  “El culo del mondo” she said patting her bottom.  I can confirm that it is a long way from Ireland.  I asked whether my knowledge of Italian would be at all helpful in getting around.  “No,” she said looking at me, reasonably enough, as though I had two heads.  “I heard that there were a lot of Italian immigrants and perhaps…” I said feebly.  Apparently not.

By the time we got to arrivals in the airport in Buenos Aires it was about 11.30 local time and we were met by our local guide. Honestly, I would pay all of the considerable money we paid our travel agent just to be met at an international airport in the middle of the night. Silvia, our guide, was a Convent of Mercy girl like myself and this helped us to bond. She commented rather acerbically on all the Argentinian families emerging from the plane. “I see that although we’re all supposed to be suffering economically, some people went to Europe for the winter break with their families.” Our driver whisked us off to the Airbnb and Silvia pressed a charcuterie board and a bottle of wine into my hand after we arrived and she had ensured that we were safely ensconced. “Your arrival gift,” said she. I was living my best life, I am not sure I
can ever go back to non-luxury travel.

A word on our travel arrangements: when we decided to go to Argentina, Mr. Waffle mentioned it to an Argentinian woman who had done a post grad with him in Belgium asking for tips.  She put him in touch with Corinne, a friend of hers from school who is a travel agent, and this friend organised our trip.  I can never go back; that was an amazing, amazing service.  More details will follow but she booked all our internal flights and accommodation except for the airbnbs and this was only the beginning.  Stay tuned for further luxury travel details.

Thursday, August 3, 2023

Leaving the children to sleep off the jet lag which was fine really it’s only a four hour time difference, Mr. Waffle and I scurried around the corner to the Pain Quotidien, my safe space everywhere. We were staying in what the airbnb owner called “Chic Recoleta” and Recoleta was pretty chic and also spotless. However, the airbnb did boast this sign in the lift which seems to follow me around from place to place.

As well as breakfast our initial foray into the outside involved a trip to the supermarket. It turns out that Italian is not a lot of use in supermarkets in Buenos Aires. Silvia had said that the supermarkets had very little stock. I didn’t find that but any imported products were breathtakingly dear.

As I was to discover, Argentinians love telling you that BA (as we will now be calling it as I am as good as a local) is a very European city. There was a big boom in the period between about 1880 and 1940 and in the early 20th century a lot of European architects were commissioned to design buildings in BA. So as you walk around, you kind of could be in Paris or Rome or anywhere in Europe except you turn the corner and you’re definitely not. It’s a bit uncanny valley.

After breakfast we went out on tour in our big car. It was a bit weird but not unsatisfying. The big draw in our neighbourhood is the cemetery. I love a cemetery. We were driven there; all of 300 metres from our accommodation. Both driver and guide seemed shocked that we felt we could possibly have walked there through the extremely safe streets of Recoleta.

At the cemetery entrance we were wafted to the top of the queue. No such vulgar issues as buying tickets delayed our entry; this was all sorted beforehand and Silvia guided us around. This is one of the world’s great cemeteries.

Admiral Brown, formerly of Foxford, Co. Mayo and founder of the Argentine Navy is buried here.

The misfortunate young woman buried here was allegedly killed by the shock of discovering that her fiancé and her mother were having an affair. She was then buried but not in fact dead and scrabbled unsuccessfully to get out. Unlikely in my view but a beautiful tomb.

In fact there were loads of really beautiful tombs.

Evita’s tomb was surprisingly very much at the modest end of things. There is a long story about what happened her corpse after she died but most people seem to accept that eventually she landed here.

I very much enjoyed this story about an Argentine great man who wanted his tomb to be a monument to him alone.

His wife died after him and the family, despite his clearly expressed wishes installed her in the same tomb. Her rather grumpy looking bust is around the back.

There was a famous boxer’s grave.

There was something I have never seen before and found quite touching, a shared grave for a Catholic/Jewish couple.

From there we went to inspect a large mechanical tulip in the park which rotates and opens with the sun. I mean, grand, nice even but it was no Recoleta cemetery.

Then off for a quick trot across Parque 3 de Febrero, the “Central Park” of BA. It’s enormous and laid out like all these 19th century parks with water features and walks and so on. Honestly, it probably wasn’t at its best in the middle of winter. I was struck though by how clean it was and for all of the ongoing economic crisis there were loads of municipal employees cleaning and raking and tidying.

The car drove around the park and picked us up on the far side. Unheard of luxury but a bit weird. Our driver, A, was a young Venezuelan; very pleasant and hardworking. He had got himself Argentine residency and voting rights (the ease with which these can be acquired was the subject of some ire among the Argentines). I guess the Venezuelans haven’t had a great time with left wing governments but he told us that he would be voting for Milei in the upcoming presidential primaries. Very popular with the the young men, apparently but definitely someone who would have me clutching my pearls. The former Argentine finance minister, Martin Lousteau, was running for mayor of BA. His posters were everywhere and Michael and I were quite excited as we had been to see him at a small venue in the Kilkenny economics festival (otherwise disastrous) and thought he was pretty good. Our driver and guide were unconvinced.

They took us on a driving tour of the Embassy quarter. A bit dull to be honest but the Indonesians appeared to be prepping for some upcoming excitement and my husband and children enjoyed themselves identifying the various flags.

Then we went to trendy, happening Palermo Soho. This was much more exciting. Because inflation is so problematic (when we arrived in BA the peso was 500 to the dollar, when we left it was 780), the young people are not incentivised to save and they spend all their money in the trendy restaurants and cafes of Palermo Soho and the like. We stopped for churros. Very satisfactory.

That evening we walked to dinner. It was quite exciting to get out with our own map and without a driver. We went to a recommended steak restaurant which was, weirdly, under a motorway. A place called Piegari. We liked the steak but, it was the first of many. Argentinians apparently eat more beef per person than any other nation on earth and I can well believe it.

People, it’s not even the end of the first week and we were in Argentina for three weeks. Much, much more content to come.

At the crack of dawn on Sunday morning, the boys and I hopped on the ferry to Wales. We were quite tired so it was a shame that we only discovered at the end of the journey that the swift ferry (a catamaran, bumpy but, in fairness, swift) seats recline. Alas.

We arrived at 10ish and then had a long, long drive to go and pick up herself and her belongings. The guys were charmed by the signs in Welsh. They were less delighted by the discovery that England is a quite big country. We only arrived at our destination about 4.30 having briefly stopped in a motorway service station for what, in my view, was a deeply unsatisfactory lunch. Dan had never had Gregg’s before and he thought it was the best thing ever. Honestly, no. He needed filling up as he was sitting up front as my navigator and car DJ – he actually did an excellent job on both fronts. I wouldn’t have minded a paper map as back up to my phone but Mr. Waffle had gone to Eason’s to see if he could pick one up before we left but none were for sale. What is this brave new world?

On arrival we filled the car to the gunnels with stuff. Very tiring but herself was touchingly grateful for our efforts. Actually more her siblings’ efforts than mine. While living on the fourth floor with no lift, I am sure, has advantages, they were not immediately apparent as we toiled up and down the stairs in 30 degree heat.

Unfortunately, herself had an ungettable out of engagement that evening but the rest of us went to Pizza Express and, I’ve had worse. Definitely in Gregg’s.

It was pretty toasty the next day and we met up after breakfast to do various touristy things including a boat trip and a not terribly scary ghost tour but it was quite interesting as a walking tour so there was that. I had hoped to get in a swim but logistics and dreadful traffic prevented it. Still, we had dinner by the river which was lovely.

The following day, I rearranged everything in the car, I wouldn’t say it was comfortable but it was ok. After an elaborate shared breakfast we went to a local art gallery (herself, at work as scheduler extraordinaire again) and then hit the road. It was much less trying than the journey there on Sunday and, in fact, we made far better time. Are all road works in the UK scheduled for Sundays, I wonder. I had thought we would be super speedy on Sunday but in fact it was very slow and busy whereas Tuesday was, by comparison, painless. Michael whiled away the drive by reading Lady Gregory’s Irish Myths and Legends. He kept us updated on new facts. There was a lot about the impressive fighting force that was Na Fianna. “Apparently,” said he, “the old High Kings were a bit nervous about the power of Fionn and the Fianna, a bit like Putin and Prigozhin.” I like to think that this was the first time this comparison has been made.

So speedy was our journey that we were a bit early for the ferry. I wish Holyhead boasted more delights. Inevitably the ferry was then late. The food on the ferry was appalling. Let us not speak of it. We got home about 1.30 in the morning, nearly two hours later than planned, but at least we were home. When we took all of the stuff out of the car, I was amazed that it had all fitted in along with the four of us.

We only had a flying visit from herself as she is off to Italy today but back again in a couple of weeks. It is nice to have her home and her bedroom full of stuff again.