1981  The Kindness of Portenos

Date: Tue, 11 Nov 2003 12:01:15 -0800
From: randy cook <randycook95476@YAHOO.COM>
Subject: The Kindness of Portenos

Dear Tango Friends,

I am in Buenos Aires again, staying at the House of
Maria Teresa in Caballito. My bedroom opens onto a
balcony where I can sit and watch the pigeons perch on
the railings of the building across the courtyard, the
woman washing the green awning of her apartment
window, the grandfather feedinga caged bird with his
grandson on the fifth floor balcony to my right. I
hear traffic sounds, the chirp of birds, a dog
barking--but distantly. Blue sky of midday in early
summer. Purple flowers and new leaves in the garden
below. A soft, warm breeze.

Donna says that Buenos Aires has some of the energy of
big U.S. cities, but less intense, more tranquil. The
people don4t seem to be in such a hurry. They have
time to talk to you, to smile and answer your
questions.

When I approached the maid to talk to her about doing
my laundry this morning, she insisted that I kiss her
on the cheek before we talked business. In the
restaurant around the corner, they won4t show me a
table without an "abrazo" and a "?Como andas?" first.

The Swedish woman in the next room tells me of the
time she didn4t know what bus to take to her hotel
after a tango class, so one of the other students not
only showed her to the bus stop, she waited with her
until the bus arrived, then paid her fare. "In
Sweden," the woman said, "people would think you were
naive if you were as generous as that."

Kathleen and I were lunching in the restaurant "Tia
Margarita" on Ave. Jose Maria Moreno when a
well-dressed couple came to our table, introduced
themselves, welcomed us to Buenos Aires, gave us their
card and invited us to visit their home. The wife4s
mother, they said, was from Ohio.

At an open air bookstall on Rivadavia, I asked the
bookseller for a certain title. He shut his eyes for
a moment while he consu,lted his mental files. "No, I
don4t," he admitted. A customer, overhearing us,
pointed out another book with a similar theme, a novel
about Buenos aires that begins at the turn of the
century, when tango was young. "I want you to
understand us," he told me, "and this book will do
that better than any other." I looked at the
sincerity in his eyes and the urgency in his voice and
bought the book, a densely written hardback that I
don4t think I have time for. Ten pesos (US$3.25).
Maybe I will make the time. The book was called, Adan
Buenosaires, by Rudolfo Marichal, by the way.

These experiences are the rule, not the exception in
Argentina. All the foreigners I talk to have similar
stories to tell. I don4t mean that people here are
never rude, or that their chaotic and authoritarian
political history has nothing to do with their
national character. Portenos are doubtlessly at least
as neurotic as the rest of us--witess the number of
plastic surgeons and psychoanalysts. But in spite of
their problems, they show their kindness and their
humanity to the world in a way that seems ever more
rare in the U.S.

I recall a poem by the Uruguayan writer Mario
Benedetti, in which he reminds us the although the
North dominates the world with its trade agreements,
its armies, and its popular culture, nevertheless down
here, below, close to the roots of life, "el Sur
tambien existe"--the South also exists. Tears fill my
eyes.

That4s all for now.
Randy