On our final morning, we have a smallish breakfast, check out of Home and decide to pick up some last minute items. We don’t need to leave for the airport until about 6pm, so we have a few hours to kill. We leave our bags at the hotel and again stroll around Palermo. I decide that I want my last meal to be a simple one. I want what the average Porteno eats. I want a milanese napolitano. If we eat around 3pm, the later end of the lunch hour, we should be OK until we get on the flight.

After picking up some media lunas and an apple tart to bring home, we speak with Tom, the owner of Home. He highly recommends a place just down the street that has no name. It has been there for years, they are only open for lunch, all of the local construction workers eat there, and they have a milanese that is bigger than my head. Sounds perfect.

S and I get there and are welcomed with “Hola, chicos!” We already love it. I order the napolitano, and S orders the lomo sandwich. I also ask for a glass of wine, and our server holds up two small metal pitchers, one a bit larger than the other. As I point at the large one, I spot a plate coming out of the kitchen. It is a napolitano, going to another table. It looks simply delicious. I am so excited at this point, for this, my last meal in BA, I am giddy. I am about to mention this to S, when our server comes over and says, “Milanese terminado.” Or something to that effect. I understand what he means, and am nearly heartbroken. That lovely steak that I saw coming out of the kitchen was the last one they had. I am not going to have a napolitano. I order the ham sandwich instead.

The lomo sandwich is the best steak sandwich I have ever eaten. Simply a steak stuffed into a sliced, crusty baguette. No sauce, no veggies, nothing to get in the way. I eat very little of the ham, as I am now resolved to get the napolitano elsewhere. I drain the wine, pay the bill, and have an hour to find it.

S is as determined as I am, and, after a half hour and several restaurants, we find a coffee house (aside – there are no Starbucks in Argentina) that has a milanese sandwich on the menu. I ask if they can make a napolitano, and the waiter looks at the cook, who simply nods. My last meal is indeed a napolitano, and I am quite happy.

We head back to Home, where Tom wraps our food (media lunas, apple tart, left over ham and lomo sandwiches) for the flight and calls us a cab. On the way to the airport, I ask the driver which neighborhood we are in, and he continues to name them for us as we cross into each new neighborhood. I understand maybe half of what he says, but we get by and have a good last look at BA.

At Ezeiza, the security works exactly the opposite way it does in the US. Initial security screen to get to the terminal is light, but the screening at the gate just before boarding is intense and causes long delays. I stop at the duty free shop for some alfajors and cigarettes, and get ribbed by the cashier for my healthy purchases. I call her judgemental and she gives me a little moue. After finally making it through gate security, we gird ourselves for the 11 hour flight and our return to the ordinary. As we glance out the windows at a quickly receding Buenos Aires, we are already planning our next trip here.

In the morning, I walk to the corner and grab some media lunas and a couple dulce de leche filled donuts, stop by the bar at Home for an espresso, and bring them all back to the room for breakfast. After a leisurely morning, we head into Palermo Soho for a little shopping. S has been looking for a leather trench coat and a messenger bag, and I’m not particularly opposed to finding a laptop bag for myself. We start to think that there is nothing but purses and large valises, when I spot what I think S is looking for, through a window, on the top shelf of a small boutique called Postman. Makes sense they would have good messenger bags, I suppose. When we get inside, it is exactly what she is looking for, and I find a nice one for myself that will easily accommodate the 17-inch brick my firm demands I carry around. At around US$100 apiece, quite a deal.

Famished from our shopping (never thought I’d ever write those words), we stop for lunch at Bar Uriarte. We have heard that it is somewhat trendy for dinner, but also quite good, so lunch is probably the better time in order to avoid a scene. We order the standard lomo, and also try the skirt steak, a goat cheese & zucchini puff, and a burrata and tomata salad. Absolutely perfect. I had never had burrata before, and it was truly exceptional, particularly with the whole tomato confit that came with it. The steaks were cooked to perfection, and the ambience of the place was just outstanding. We think this might be our “safe” place for a last meal if we cannot decide on something else tomorrow.

We return to Home to drop off our new bags, but S is still looking for a trenchcoat, and I wouldn’t mind finding a tabaqueria. I am not a big cigar smoker, maybe have one every two years or so, but since I cannot get Cohibas in the US, I think I may want to try one and see if the hype is at all accurate. I had actually prepped for this experience by having a decent cigar two nights before we left the US at some uppity cigar bar on the Upper East Side, which merely reinforced my opinion of cigar smoking as a working man’s luxury turned into a rich man’s hobby. But, this might be the only chance I get (or possibly take) to smoke a cuban cigar, so I decide I want to take it. Unfortunately, the only place where tabaquerias and leather factories co-mingle is a place we have been before. Against my own better judgement, we head back to Florida Street.

We wander around a bit, looking for a tabaqueria, and I start to develop a better appreciation of the area. I can only imagine what this street must have been like around the turn of the 19th century, when Argentina had the 6th largest economy in the world. There is a massive Harrod’s near the top of the street, now abandoned except for the occassional art show, and mixed in among the souvenir stores and leather factories, are high-end tailors and boutique stores. A hundred years ago, it was probably a lot like Madison Avenue.

I finally find a smoke shop, and S goes into the leather store next door. When I am done buying the Cohiba (still not so cheap at 60 pesos), I walk next door, and S has found a chestnut leather trench that fits her perfectly, off the rack. She considers this to be an omen and buys it. We quickly skirt the edge of Florida Street and hop on the Subte. We take it two stops and transfer to the old line, which still has the same wooden panelling and electric chandeliers as when it went in nearly 100 years ago. We get off at Congreso, hail a cab, and head back to Home.

Home has a spa in the basement, so I decide to get a massage. When I arrive, it quickly becomes apparent that they are still a bit new. The robe I am handed would have been small on S, and the slippers they leave for me must be for children, for no man I know would have been able to squeeze into them. I am left in the lobby, in bare feet and a robe that barely covers my butt, for about 10 minutes until my “therapist” meets me and takes me into a private room. While the massage was nice, it was little too new age, or something, for me. Very little deep tissue, and a whole lot of deep breathing. Plus, at the end I am covered in a massage oil that does not rinse off easily in the shower.

I go back to the room, retrieve the Cohiba, and head to the bar. S is down there and says she wants to try one of the places we hadn’t made it to yet for dinner. I agree, and she goes off to the concierge to ask about getting there. I light up the Cohiba (quite smooth, one of the best cigars I’ve ever had, but not worth US$20 to me) and get into a discussion with a couple at the bar who are also from New York. One, in fact, works for a company S used to work for. I try to tell them that I am really not a “cigar smoker,” and assure them that I am not a golfer, and this seems to ease their minds a bit.

When S returns she says she has some good news and some bad news. The good news is that she found the parilla, and they might take reservations. The bad news is that it’s in La Boca. Now, we had heard from many people that La Boca is a great neighborhood, but not to get caught there after dark. In fact, when the concierge was helping S find it on the map, she started tracing her finger down the line of a street, and when she stopped at the block, she gasped, looked at S and said,

“That’s La Boca!”
“Is that okay?” S asked. “Can’t we just take a taxi there?”
“Take a taxi straight there, walk straight into the restaurant, and have them call you a taxi when you are done. Do not linger on the street!”

As I am a little concerned by the locals’ reaction to this neighborhood I tell S that I will for certain go there if we can get a reservation. If we cannot get a reservation, we’ll have to discuss it a little more. Fortunately, we get a 10pm reservation, and are off.

Driving through La Boca at night, we realize it is no more dangerous than the Lower East Side. We see plenty of women walking alone, and the streets are well lit. As we pull up to the parilla, we see a policeman standing outside the door. (He stands there the entire time we are eating dinner. I would imagine the restaurant has some sort of arrangement with the local police.) We walk in a few minutes late, and are quickly seated in Miguel’s section.

This parilla is apparently a local favorite. Very good service, very good food. Miguel is an outstanding server, very polite, but not fawning, and easily forgives our broken Spanish. When I step outside to have a smoke, he stands in the doorway and keeps an eye on me to make certain that none of the local riff raff bothers me. The meat is almost as good as Las Lilas, and the apple pancake dessert far superior. The general attitude and ambience is so much more friendly than Las Lilas that we consider this by far our best meal. We are a little sad that we only came here on our last night, but so glad that we were able to make it at least once.

After a last breakfast with Bertrand, we head back to Uru to get our garments refitted. My sleeves were a bit long, and S wanted different buttons. Catch a cab in front of Uru and head downtown. S has heard of a Korean restaurant, Biwon, and wants to try Korean barbecue with Argentine beef. I’m not one to stand in her way.

Walk dowtown and stop by El Ateño bookstore. I had heard about this place from numerous sources as a “must-see” place, but honestly, it’s not all that impressive. Basically it’s a Barnes and Noble in an old theater. Very nice space, but not all that exciting of an inventory, and since inventory is what a bookstore is all about, I can’t really recommend it more highly than a B&N.

From the bookstore, we stroll down to Biwon, but find that they are closed for another half-hour. So, we stroll around some more, try to buy some stamps, but apparently you have to do that somewhere other than a post office, because we went to two and neither had stamps suitable for postcards. Upon returning to Biwon, we discover that we are the only people in the restaurant, and the waiter thought this to be quite strange, how early we were for lunch, at noon. Had decent panchan (sp?) and some of the best bulgogi I’ve ever had. I guess the meat really does make a huge difference. By the time we left, the place started filling up with locals, both Korean and non.

Took a cab back to the Guest House to retrieve our things, then headed into Palermo for the Home Hotel. Quite a difference. First, Palermo is like a boutique neighborhood, but still a little rough around the edges, which is very different from Recoleta. A railroad track splits it in two, creating the two sub-neighborhoods of Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood. Home is in the Hollywood area, which right now appears to be the wrong side of the tracks, for all of the fashinable shops and restaurants are in Soho. A 10 block walk puts us in the middle of Soho, and it feels a lot like the West Village, except far less expensive.

Second, Home is a fancy hotel. Very stylish interior, with a small pool, and an outdoor bar made from granite and glass. Everyone speaks English, and all of the guests appear to be American. Seems the Conde Naste article was quite popular. But it seems to be just the beginning of the coverage, as we were asked to be interviewed by a camera crew for the Discovery Channel that was floating around the grounds. We declined.

Pop out for dinner around 10pm, just a neighborhood place that was trying to be a little fancier than maybe it should have been, but decent enough (though my least favorite meal so far). When we return from dinner, our clothes have been delivered from Uru, and everything fits perfectly.

We wake up early in order to get to the BuqueBus by 10am, and have a nice breakfast with a man named Ron from Manchester, England. He is in town on business, and has spent a lot of time in BA. He is off to a polo match, while we are off to Colonia, just across the Rio de la Plata in Uruguay.

The BuqueBus is quite nice, much nicer than I expected. I suppose I was expecting the Staten Island Ferry, and instead got something closer to the Love Boat. Each passenger has a comfortable seat, and we cross the river and get through customs in about an hour and a half. (It’s a very large river.) Right outside the terminal on the Uruguay side is a Thrifty car rental, and we rent a golf cart for getting around town. As we only have about 4 hours, we don’t want to spend half of it walking between the terminal and town. S, for the first time, drives in a foreign country. While she is not sure this really counts, as it is only a golf cart, I assure her it does, as she is driving on the same roads and subject to the same traffic laws as all of the other cars.

We drive into the old part of town, and while I am not sure what exactly we were expecting, it surpasses expectations. A delightful maze of cobblestone streets filled with vintage autos and few tourists. We wander around a bit looking for a nice place to have lunch and decide on Sacramenta. I have a steak, and S has a fish stew of some sort. The apps are quite good, but the entrees leave a little to be desired. The ambience of the place is fantastic, though, and right up against the water, so we have a great meal.

After lunch, we walk around the town a little, looking to see if there is anything we want to buy, as I have withdrawn far too many Uruguayan pesos from the ATM. We drive the golf cart up the coast a ways, and sit on a bench overlooking the beach while teenagers jump and frolic in the waves below us.

We decide to spend some of the pesos on a goat skin rug for the dog (after all, we’re getting leather stuff for ourselves), and start to head back in to town. While driving through the newer part of town, a bunch of schoolchildren start shouting at us, “carreta! carreta!” meaning, “cart, cart!” I guess they were excited that summer was back on the way and the golfcart people were back in town. Either that or they were making fun of us.

In the main square, we met a stray dog, whom S names Maria Theresa Ramona Argentina, but whom I just called pichicha (roughly, junkyard dog). She started following us around, and, because it was so hot, S gave her some water. I was very unsurprised by what happened next.

We bought the rug for our dog, then headed back to the golf cart. As we got in, Maria tried to get in as well. When we didn’t let her in she started to run alongside us. As golfcarts aren’t exactly indy cars, it took us a while to get up to speed, and Maria sprinted on the sidewalk to keep pace with us. The entire time, S just kept saying, “Oh my god, I can’t leave her! Look, she’s following us, what do we do?” I just told her to look straight ahead and keep driving, that Maria would find another kind tourist to help her. After about 3 blocks, Maria seemed to tire and stopped chasing us.

Took the BuqueBus back to BA and cab back to the Guest House, where we again encountered Ron, coming back from his polo match. We sat in the courtyard and had some Quilmes, and talked about the state of the world. For dinner, S and I returned to Campo Chico for our last dinner in Recoleta. S wasn’t sure she wanted steak, so I told her that if she didn’t have at least one steak a day as we decided, she would lose. (Lose what, exactly, I’m not sure.) My goading worked, and we had the lomo and bife de chorizo.

Tomorrow we check out of the Guest House and move to Palermo and Home Hotel, one of Conde Nast’s “hot 100 hotels.” We’ve been so happy with the Guest House, the change to a hip hotel might be a little disconcerting.

As I didn’t get in from Entre Rios until after 10pm last night, and we didn’t finish dinner (wonderful lomo and ojo de bife at La Brigada in Recoleta) until after midnight, S and I slept in this morning. After a late breakfast and chatting a bit with Bertran, we decide to go to a leather factory in Recoleta. Neither of us wants to go back to Florida Street, and I don’t want to be called an idiot by my co-worker, so we decide to go to Uru as it is highly recommended by Pedro from the Guest House.

Uru is much nicer than the stores we had seen on Florida Street, and much higher quality, so I am immediately more comfortable shopping here. After discovering the salespeople speak english, and after being giggled at for using “usted” when talking to one of them, we learn a lot about buying leather in Buenos Aires. First, one must decide on the style. I selected a sort of mid-length car coat, while S chose a long-sleeve shirt. Next, we had to choose the leather. We both chose antilope, which is actually goat, and feels a lot like suede. But the big difference from suede is that the goat is the outside of the skin, while suede is the inside of the skin. Thus, the old canard about “don’t cows wear suede in the rain?” is now perfectly clear to me, as no cow walks around in the rain with her skin inside out. But I can walk around in the rain in antilope skin.

We then get fitted, and make requests for customizations from the standard pattern. S wants different buttons, I want an inside zipper pocket and narrower pocket flaps. They say it will be no problem, and the items will be delivered to the guest house tomorrow. Grand total for both custom made items is around US$330, incredibly inexpensive.

We hail a cab and go to the BuqueBus terminal to buy tickets for tomorrow’s trip to Uruguay. After struggling through the process of buying international boat passage in spanish, we head off into Puerto Madero for lunch. Walking along the boardwalk on this very hot day, I am wearing shorts and Tevas. Apparently, one of the locals thought this was very amusing, as he pulled up his pant legs and started walking down the boardwalk in front of us, calling out to his friends something along the lines of “Look at me! I’m an American!” I suppose I deserved that heckle, as very few people wear shorts in BA, even when it gets into the upper 80’s. Then to add to that, I pulled the classic American buffoonerism by walking into Cabaña Las Lilas in said shorts and asking for a table, which they surprisingly gave us.

Cabaña Las Lilas is one of BA’s fanciest restaurants, and one that has a lot of controversy surrounding it on the foodie websites. Many people say it is great, while many others say don’t waste your time or money. We thought we should try it for ourselves, as sometimes web foodies get a little particular about place for reasons that have very little to do with the food. Without a doubt, it was the best steak I’ve had in my life. The cubiertos were fantastic, especially the beef carpaccio, and the Malbec wine I had was superb. The dessert, on the other hand was truly awful. Maybe they were just trying to get too fancy, but the crust of the apple pie was tough and chewy, and the apples were the consistency of banana slugs. Overall, the meal was incredible, and, at 300 pesos (around US$100), the most expensive yet in BA.

Completely stuffed on the lomo and bife de chorizo, we decide to walk around a bit more. We cross the Punta de la Mujer, take our standard “Self-portrait with [city landmark]” photos, and head down to the water’s edge. Walking along the Costanera de Sur, we see all sorts of graffiti, much of it in english. One spot in particular seemed to be devoted to Nazi skinhead slogans, including “Skingirls” and swastikas. This just seemed odd for some reason, especially that it was all in english.

Walked back up to the Plaza del Mayo, then caught a cab back in to Recoleta. We had some media lunas and alfajores in the confiteria near the Guest House, then headed home. We are far too full to have dinner (plus we had already had our one steak today), so we call it an early night.

Editor’s note – One of my own posting rules states that I will not post anything that is not related to 3cube3. One item on my list, #14 – Visit all 7 continents, is inclusive enough, I suppose, to allow almost anything related to travel in a foreign country. With that in mind, I’ll briefly relate the days of our trip, in hopefully a none too boring way.

Breakfast at the Guest House, and we are joined by two women from South Carolina, Susan and Anne. They are in BA for their first time as well, and seem to be the kind of American travellers that we like. Adventurous, respectful, and not loud. As long as these are the only types of tourists who keep coming to Argentina, I doubt Porteños will ever tire of them.

After a breakfast of media lunas and coffee, we head to the Cemetery. Though it is Saturday, and the place is packed with tourists, there are still pockets off the main paths that are completely empty. At first, I didn’t quite get it. But after looking at the crypts, I realized that each one of them was unique. Unlike US cemeteries, where everyone has one of 5 tombstones, or the same granite angel looming over their grave, each one of these burial spots was completely customized for the inhabitants. They all reflect the time in which they were created, so gothic tombs sit next to modern 50’s glass and steel tombs. Apparently, only the very elite of Argentina are buried here (Eva Peron, but not Juan Peron), which probably also means the very wealthy, and explains how the families could afford to hire artisans to create such elaborate pieces. It is a wonderful place, as worthy of a visit as any museum.

I was told by a co-worker who is originally from Uruguay that if I didn’t get a custom leather jacket while I was here, I was an idiot, and the place to go for custom leather jackets in BA is apparently Florida Street. We head there from the cemetery, on the way crossing Avenida 9 del Julio, reportedly the widest street in the world, and at 21 lanes, I can believe it. Florida Street is that same street that exists in any big city in the world, that place where tourists congregate, and locals just want their money. While the main items for sale may change (leather jackets in BA, theater tickets in Times Square) the accessories are always the same t-shirts, shot glasses, refrigerator magnets, and postcards found in all of the cities. Every step I took, someone handed me a card and asked me to come into their shop for a jacket. A fairly unpleasant man approached me speaking spanish, and when I said “No hablo español,” he rubbed his fingers together in front of my face and said, “moh-nay!” That was about enough of Florida Street for me.

We walked into Retiro and had lunch at a little hole in the wall. S ordered pasta, and I ordered a milanese napolitano, a wonderful, tenderized and breaded steak, smothered in tomato sauce and swiss cheese. As the steak was overflowing the plate, S and I split each dish, and waddled back into Retiro, then back up to Recoleta after stopping for a Quilmes (beer) at a pub on the way.

Dinner at 9:30pm tonight, a little later, but we are still the first ones in the restaurant, Campo Chico directly across the alley from Barbacoa. Again order the lomo and bife de chorizo, (our 2nd steak of the day) and they are even better than last night. If each steak keeps getting progressively better, I’m very excited for the steak the night before we leave. Though that would mean we are leaving the next day, which already saddens me, for I think we have fallen in love with this city.