Saturday.

My apartment overlooks a section of the street that retains the cobblestones from a bygone era. A set of tram tracks runs down the middle, a vestige of another time. Three rooms line the front of the building, each with their own little terrace wide enough for a chair and a small table. On the roof, a larger terrace seems to beg to have parties thrown on it.

I had a few days to ease into Buenos Aires, working during the day and exploring the neighborhood at night. My first night, friends invited me over to their house for a fantastic home-cooked meal and we made plans to go bicycling on the weekend.

Saturday, I decided to make the most of the day and walked to the Cementerio de la Recoleta. It had left an impression on me on my first trip to Buenos Aires and I was eager to revisit this cemetery that containes the graves of Eva Perón amongst a host of luminaries.

I walked the 40 some odd minutes to reach the cemetary, taking in the tree lined streets and avenues, enthralled that this was the city I would call home for the next month and a half. Already I was planning my next stay and the stay after that.

At the cemetery, I paid the foreigner entrance fee and was surprised to see how much smaller it was than I had remembered. I had recognized the small plaza just outside the cemetery from my last visit, and yet the interior felt more compact.

I slowly made my way amonst the mausoleums, taking photos as a particular scene caught my eye. Glancing at my phone I saw that Carlos had texted me. He was ready to meet. I told him I was at the cemetery, not so far from his house, and I’d be there soon. He told me to meet on a corner near his house. He would take me to a bike shop to see about negotiating a rental. Checking the map, I looked for Eva Perón’s grave and stopped to take a photo before leaving the cemetery.

Along the way, I saw a poster for Maluma. He was coming to Argentina and I excitedly checked the date, planning to get tickets if I could. October 29th. I’d be in Patagonia. Just my luck. I kept missing Bad Bunny; he’d either just have left a country I was visiting or was playing a concert just after. I made a note to check who else might be in Buenos Aires over the course of the next two months.

At the bicycle shop, the owner offered to sell me a bike for 40,000 pesos. It was a little over the cost of renting the bike for the month and I agreed. He sold me a chain and threw in a helmet for good measure. He told me to bring the bike back in a week for retuning after I had had the chance to ride it for a week.

Bike in hand, I followed Carlos through the city. He was a fount of information, detailing the history of buildings, statues, and the people for whom avenues had been named. We rode on bike paths, through parks large and small, and on side streets as Carlos showed me the city he had been born and grew up in.

Sunday.

The next day, I took the bike out for another spin around the city. Carlos had told me that all parking garages park bicycles and i was eager to try it out. I biked to the MALBA, the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, which boasts one of the finest collections of Latin American art in the world, and found a nearby estacionamiento in which to keep my bike.

I loved exploring the galleries, seeing modern and contemporary art that existed in conversation with the movements that had dominated the world at various times in history, learning the names of new artists and submersing myself in their work.

Afterwards, I rode leisurely back to the house, excited at the prospect of making this my new base in the world, taking in the atmosphere and the architecture of the city as shops and cafes and apartment buildings sped by. 🇦🇷