Looking back over thirty years of travel, nine days in Buenos Aires loom large in my memory. My Argentine sojourn of late September 1999 has taken on a mythic quality in my imagination. I luckily kept a decent record of events for this experience, having since become quite obsessive about that sort of thing. So my basic narrative remains sound, and less hazy than it would have been otherwise. Indeed, this was a journey worth remembering, as Buenos Aires marked my transition from tourist to traveler, from a middle-aged man standing in a queue, to a man who understood that adventures were meant for someone just my age, whatever age that might be.
I had somehow reached the age of thirty-eight before I had ever boarded an airplane. I have no excuse for that. Looking back now, I seemed focused on the necessary conventionalities of life: work and family. But, perhaps I was also avoiding quite a number of things that were building up inside me. But there was no turning back after that; a year later I was flying across the ocean to Europe. I have been making up for lost time ever since.
No one is a stronger proponent of being settled in life than I am. I completely disagree with that great fool, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said, “People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.” Those words are no more foolish than any of the other things he said, I suppose. In opposition to such glorified rootlessness, I find wisdom in the words of Sir Roger Scruton: “It is through settling that the most important fund of social capital is accumulated, and an unsettled world will be one in which inherited wisdom will be irretrievably dispersed.” So, echoing Scruton, I love my home and the life we have made by being rooted in a very particular place. Returning to this gracious house is always one of my great joys in life. But you can never return unless you first decide to leave.
To be sure, I had already begun venturing overseas before Buenos Aires: to the UK with my wife and son in 1994, a return trip with just my son in 1996, and then the three of us together again in France in 1998. None of the earlier journeys, however, measured up to Argentina, which set the template for all future travels. The difference lay in why I was flying to South America. My very best of friends, Bill, had invited me to join him there. Our friendship will take quite a bit of explanation before I can do justice to our time in Argentina.
I have often noted that Bill has had more influence over my life than anyone save my own father. Now, I wonder if I even need to qualify that statement at all. My dad was with me for my first thirty years. I treasure that time with him, of course, but I have to admit that for much of that period of my life, my dad was a very busy man. That was the life that he loved, that was the life that he had made for himself, and as much as I could make myself a part of it, then I had that time with him. He was a great man, in my view; an exemplar of hard work and determination, honesty and integrity, fairness and generosity. Dad was wise, extremely perceptive about people and basic human nature, quick to deflate pretense and pomposity in all its guises. He had an engaging, dry wit about him, and after any conversation you would leave feeling that all his words had been chosen carefully. He was my pattern in life, and to the extent that I have any of those qualities myself, it is in imitation of what he showed me.
Indeed, the highest compliments I have ever received is when people have told me that I was like my Dad. But I am at least self-reflective enough to realize that, unlike him, I am a bit of an odd duck. Our lives revolved around work and farm. I am indeed thankful for both. The work gave me a chance to do something useful and rewarding, while making a good life for my family. But from the first, I never cared to define myself by this honorable occupation. It was never my “life,” as people are wont to say. I also certainly put in my time at the farm, and if it meant being with my Dad, then I was happy to do so. But this never came as natural to me as it did my brother; to some extent, I was going through the motions. Even so, I think I enjoyed it more than he did.
My life found expression and release in other areas. To begin with, I was always a keen reader. My family read, of course, but they were not readers. I, however, read anything I could get my hands on. I recall that I read War and Peace in high school, which, looking back, does not seem typical of a teenage boy in East Texas. And from the earliest, I was an Anglophile, preferring English authors to American writers, eschewing Mark Twain for Dickens et al. This is still very much the case, excepting of course, Southern writers of the 20th century. Early in my marriage I became a member of the Folio Society, and collected those volumes for almost forty years (and would yet, had not their selections veered towards books in which I have no interest). Before I ever met Bill, I had read the entire twelve volumes of Anthony Powell’s Dance to the Music of Time, and was steadily working my way through Anthony Trollope’s forty-eight works. Other than my eccentric friend Milton, there was no one in my acquaintance with whom I could talk about any of this.
In addition to reading, I always had an abiding interest in history–all of it. This curiosity began on its most basic level–the story of my own family. Before I was thirty, I had published a book on my mother’s ancestry, and along with others, had kick-started a national family reunion for that clan that went on for forty years. But my interest went far beyond family, or even American history, for that matter. You might say that there was not enough of it to satisfy me. European history, however, and more particularly that of the Middle Ages, and eventually even more particularly, that of the Byzantine Empire, became a fascination for me.
Of course, all of this dovetails nicely into a love of travel. My wife and I made a loop through New England, six years into our marriage, and over the next several years took a number of road trips, exposing our son to our nation’s historical sites along the Eastern seaboard. But travel did not come natural to her, nor was it something she particularly enjoyed. This attitude is rooted in her conventional upbringing, I suppose. I particularly remember the time her brother and mother picked us up at the airport on our return from England in 1994. My wife was the first of her family ever to fly anywhere, much less overseas. But neither of them had any questions or the least curiosity about our recent trip. The brother, however, had just returned from one of his several yearly pilgrimages to Branson, Missouri. That is what was talked about on the drive home.
And so, my interest found few outlets in the world in which I lived. This changed drastically upon meeting Bill. In the late 1980s, we frequented the same morning coffee shop. I would get my survey crews out of the office and on their ways as soon as I could after 7:00 am. Then I would decamp to Becca’s, where I would enjoy some time alone with my coffee and copy of The Dallas Morning News before returning to the office and clients’ calls. I was an odd fit there, as most of the habitues were self-important members of the local legal community. But somehow, a couple of them figured out that there might be more to me than just another young man in “bidness.” This earned me an invitation to a short-lived literary endeavor, “The Tabard Inn Society,” dedicated to the memory of Robert Burns. The group, consisting mainly of lawyers, judges, landmen, and a few hangers-on, only met a few times. I felt my difference keenly: I lived in a small town, managed a blue collar enterprise, and attended a fundamentalist church rather than either the downtown Methodist or Episcopalian ones to which most of the others were nominally members. I found it all stilted, awkward, and pretentious, and my associations there did not really hold; except, of course, with Bill. Something clicked with us, and our friendship solidified. Over the succeeding thirty-four years, he has been my closest confidant, and we have met for weekly lunch for most of that time.
Bill is a consummate storyteller whose tales I never really tire of hearing. I would have to say that to some degree they have enriched my own repertoire of imaginative storytelling. He has always expressed the greatest interest in what I had to say, as well, keen not to monopolize our conversations. And so, I have given full rein to my interpretations of history and literature. I would have to say that while my literary appreciations and inclinations are uniquely my own, and would differ from Bill’s, my historical insight has been honed and shaped by years of our deep discussions. His comprehension and memory of history is truly remarkable; I believe he has forgotten more history than most people have ever known. Bill is a scholar of the highest order. Academicians specialize, but real historians know how to synthesize into an understandable narrative. Such is my friend Bill.
Finally, and most importantly, Bill has been a mentor nonpareil; you might say he has awakened in my imagination hitherto unacknowledged hopes and aspirations. Twenty years my senior, he has lived his life in full, open to all opportunities and possibilities. To some, it must have seemed that Bill has led a charmed life. Indeed, in his self-deprecating manner, he has regarded his successes as being as much of a surprise to him as anybody. And any financial rewards seemed almost incidental to him–to be used in pursuit of a life well lived, to be sure, but never an end in and of itself. This has been my opinion as well, though perhaps previously unformed in my mind. Bill showed me where such an attitude could take you in life.
Like myself, Bill was blessed with impeccable man-on-the-people credentials, rooted to a place and heritage that gave his life meaning and purpose. He is quite proud of his time at Texas A & M, a subject I usually let pass without comment. He served in the Army in Germany, and returned for a stint on the family place as a full-time farmer. This led to several terms in the Texas Legislature, where he aligned himself with the reform faction during a particularly turbulent era. He attained a law degree along the way, which led to a successful legal partnership, and culminated in his appointment to the Twelfth Court of Appeals by the time we met. A true gentleman, Bill wears this all very lightly. His illustrious career seems to serve as mere fodder for his storytelling, never for his own vainglory.
Bill traveled to Buenos Aires for six weeks to work on his Spanish. He had been studying Spanish for decades by this time, as well as German, not to mention French, Italian, and Serbo-Croatian at different times. He rented an apartment on Esmerelda Street, directly opposite the Palacio Paz. Through a friend, he had quickly made the acquaintance of some well-connected Argentines, and was already a fixture in their morning coffee rituals in the toney Palermo neighborhood. I had turned him down in 1995, when he had rented a small apartment in Korcula, Croatia where he and his wife spent the summer. My mother-in-law was dying that summer, so any travel that year was off the books. But I leapt at the chance to join Bill when he invited me to Buenos Aires in 1999.
Bill is old school, in so many ways. He belonged to the more formal age where travel included a suit and tie, and lots of luggage. Visit any airport waiting lounge these days and that seems like so much ancient history. I too bemoan the trashiness that characterizes air travel attire these days. I suppose, why should people show any more care for how they look in a crowded cabin than they apparently do in their everyday lives? So while I am sympathetic, my luggage minimalism precludes an extensive wardrobe, and my inclinations for suit-and-tie lose out to the prejudices of my background.
I imbibed a healthy skepticism from both my parents towards “men in suits.” From an early age, I took on my dad’s aversion to pretense, and I had seen very little since to disabuse me of that notion. Certainly, twenty years spent observing the suit-and-tie crowd in a fundamentalist sect had only reinforced that notion (this was four years before exposure to Orthodoxy, again with Bill). But I knew I would be expected to have at least a sports coat before arriving in Buenos Aires. And so, with my flight leaving Dallas in the afternoon, my first stop was the Brooks Brothers store. A man on a mission, I soon emerged with the requisite navy sports jacket and tie. I do have a real suit, somewhere. I purchased it quickly, as well, for my uncle’s funeral in 1997. But ever since, my Brooks Brothers sports coat, along with several tweed jackets, is about as formal as I ever want to be. It has served me well, as in my younger son’s recent wedding.
You might say that I was introduced to Latin America before my plane even touched down in Buenos Aires. This was my transfer at the Miami International Airport, a major hub for South American travel. If you were dropped down into this terminal, you would not know you were in North America. I almost never sleep on flights, so I arrived in Argentina a little bleary-eyed. I hopped on the bus into the city, and other than our driver clipping a little Ford Falcon, the ride was uneventful. My eyes, however, were wide open, taking in everything that I could see of Buenos Aires–and what a city it was! Riding down the Avenida 9 de Julio was a metaphor for the metropolis itself, just a little much. I found Buenos Aires hard to characterize, a wild jumble of almost every architectural period, with some experimental style structures that seemed to fit in no particular category at all. I remember thinking that Gaudi would have been right at home in Buenos Aires. Only later did I learn that much of the Art Nouveau architecture was the design of his disciples.
My bus eased down a narrow, one-way street approaching the depot, and in the pedestrian traffic, there was Bill, in topcoat and hat and umbrella, looking like nothing so much as some British colonel in the colonies. We greeted each other, and then made straight for the nearest cafe, the staple of Argentine urban life. In warmer weather, the outside seating would have been crowded with customers, exactly as in Paris or Milan. But in late October, the Spring weather was still quite cool, and the sky was overcast. So everyone remained inside, behind the large plate glass windows which offered the clientele the most excellent people-watching imaginable. The protocol was simple: order your coffee and media luna (“half-moons,” or what we call croissants), find a table with a good view, light up a cigarette, and then not look at your watch for the next hour or so. And so I settled into la vida de la Porteño.
We were near the apartment, so we threw my bag into his sixth-floor suite, took a quick appreciative look over the Palacio Paz, the largest private residence ever built in Argentina, and then started out for the day, on what I later dubbed our “Seven Mile Hike.” In looking back, it almost resembled the itinerary from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, in the near impossibility of doing everything depicted in one day’s time. We cut over to the Avenida Florida, and walked its length down to the Avenida de Mayo, where we spent time at the lovely Plaza de Mayo, home to the Casa Rosado, the Catedral Metropolitan containing the tomb of San Martin, and the Cabildo, among many other sites.
From there we marched further up the Avenida de Mayo and stopped for late lunch at the Cafe Tortoni, a Buenos Aires landmark. The atmosphere here was thick, in this ornate 1890s-ish watering hole. The cafe itself is relatively narrow, but with the columns, high ceilings, and chandeliers, it was light and airy, a fin de siecle jewel. We sat at a small marble-topped table next to the richly carved mahogany walls. A library was located at the rear, where billiards can be played. Some of its more memorable patrons from years past were commemorated with busts on the walls: I remember in particular those of King Juan Carlos and Federico Garcia Lorca.
Refreshed, we set out again, walking miles in my estimation. I was not in as good a shape then as in later years, and struggled to stay up with my friend’s long strides in his size fourteen shoes. We ended up in the fashionable Recoleta neighborhood. In short order we found the Recoleta Cemetery, Buenos Aires’ famous “City of the Dead.” I have never seen anything to compare with it. Narrow streets lined with marble mausoleums, each striving to be more elaborate than its neighbor. Some of the family temples obviously cost millions of dollars.
The mounds of flowers laid at the door to the Duarte family mausoleum let us know that we had found the resting place of Eva Peron. The mausoleum is certainly respectable, but far from the most elaborate in Recoleta. Her story is a fascinating one, well-known to most by now. The fact that the Duartes even have a tomb here is entirely due to Eva Peron herself. She was born to a second family, and thus legally illegitimate. Her wealthy landowning father deserted the family when she was one year old, but left her mother a document allowing them to use the Duarte name. She grew up poor, with no advantages in life. I cannot help thinking of the better lines from Evita, from the aristocratic Porteños who never accepted Eva Peron y Duarte .
Such a shame she wandered into our enclosure
How unfortunate this person has forced us to be blunt
No, we wouldn’t mind seeing her at Harrods
But behind the counter, not in front
We have allowed ourselves to slip
We have completely lost our grip
We have declined to an all-time low
Tarts have become the set to know
Things have reached a pretty pass
When someone pretty lower class
Graceless and vulgar, uninspired
Can be accepted and admired
Of course, the Argentine acceptance of the Peron dictatorship, and the cult of Peronism, is understandable when seen in the larger context of global events. Argentina had been a first world nation up until the Great Depression, when their economy collapsed. Since that time, they had been on a slow and inexorable slide to a somewhat lower rung. To many, this new reality was incomprehensible, just as the waning of the U.S. as the global hegemon is to many Americans today. Charismatic demagogues with simple answers have always stood ready to step into this void.
In light of what happened to her at the end, she comes in for more sympathy than her husband. Felled by cancer at age thirty-two, her widower planned an elaborate mausoleum for Evita. But her body was still at the embalmers three years later when Juan Peron was overthrown. For two years, her remains were jockeyed around the country, here and there, suffering desecration by the soldiers along the way. Finally, the body was spirited away to Italy, where it was buried under another name. Later, the body made its way to Spain. In an arrangement with the Argentine government in 1975, Eva’s body was returned, encased in steel, and buried twenty-two feet down to prevent future exhumations. Presumably the other Duartes buried there are her mother and some siblings.
Our next stop was the Alvear Palace Hotel, the grandest of Buenos Aires’ old hotels. Here we had high tea and scones, as one does, in this fabulous restaurant, in the most Anglophilic hotel in Argentina. Argentina and the British always had a special relationship. It is a shame about their Falksland fiasco, which more or less ruined that legacy. But old habits die hard. I was just glad to sit down, regardless of what was set before me.
We made it back to the apartment about 5:45 pm. I immediately collapsed onto the sofa. Within minutes, however, the phone rang. I heard Bill speaking to someone, and telling them that we would meet them downstairs at 7:00 pm. Little did I know that my adventure was just beginning. But I buried my head deeper into the cushion, sensing that my rest would be short-lived.
***
We were picked up in an old black extended Mercedes Benz–it looked 50ish in style. It had once been a taxi cab. Our host, Julio, had adapted it as a personal vehicle because it had wide leg room in the rear, and with two small seats backed up against the front seat, just like in traditional London taxicabs. His younger associate, Peter, was behind the wheel, and Julio sat in the back, facing us, to facilitate conversation. Our destination, I learned, was the Buenos Aires Yacht Club. There are in fact several of them, one of which being an Art Nouveau landmark. As it was dark, and I knew not what direction we were headed–obviously towards the water, but beyond that I was clueless–I do not know which one we were taken to.
Julio was seventy-two years old, and could have easily been mistaken for a dapper English gentleman of good family. He did, in fact, speak impeccable English, which he attributed to his Yorkshire nanny. He grew up in the northwest of the country, on his family’s estancia. Julio said he had been a member of the yacht club since he was nine years old. With clues like this, we did not have to guess about Julio’s standing in the socio-economic order of Argentina.
He had followed family tradition by joining the Argentine Navy. This put him in opposition to Juan Peron, who was a creature of the Army. Julio could go toe-to-toe with Bill when it came to telling stories. During his naval career, for example, he said he had been to Antarctica three different times. And at one point during the Peronist era, he had been exiled to Tierra del Fuego for, as he said, “making revolution.” Julio had never voted, not from indifference, but as a matter of conscience. Back in the day, you were fined for not doing so. He dutifully paid his fines, for, as he said, “if the people are allowed to choose, they will alway choose–wrong.”
After he got out of the Navy, Julio got a job with his friend Oscar Secco at Amoco Petroleum. Working for Amoco, he spent quite a few years in the U.S. and came to love America and Americans. He worked the oil fields from Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana to Odessa, Texas to California. He said he got along well with Texans and “Coonasses,” especially after he learned to cuss. Along the way, he met a disparate array of people, from Leander Perez to Francisco Franco. Come to think of it, Perez and Franco might not have been so different at all, just by situational degrees. Julio had been back in Argentina for many years by this time, but told us that he often visited the U.S. In his third career, he was now operating a private investigation agency.
Peter was his part-time associate. The two men were a study in opposites. Peter was my age: a scrappy hard drinker and heavy smoker; gregarious, and not a bit polished. He regaled us with his repertoire of sheep jokes, which of course, all end more or less the same way. Peter was the product of a Welsh father and a Slovenian mother. He had been in Argentina since he was twelve, but still spoke Welsh at home. They apparently brought the sheep jokes with them from Wales. Peter’s full-time job was that of a policeman; at least semi-honest, which probably made him a good fit for the private investigation racket. Peter had yet a third profession, of which we learned more of later on that night.
Julio had met Bill through their mutual friend, the Amoco executive. He wished to question Bill about a particular aspect of American jurisprudence that might affect a case they were working on. But Julio was in no hurry to get down to business. He treated us to a tour of the yacht club. The smell of old money, privilege, and tradition seemed to seep from the very wood-paneled walls themselves. He decided to hold court near the bar, selecting a large round table for the evening. Soon, waiters had loaded it down with hor d'oeuvres. Julio and Peter ordered their Scotch and waters. I forget what Bill ordered, and I had a whiskey sour or two. Three, actually. A haze of smoke formed a cloud which hovered over our table for the night.
Julio led with a few reminiscences, as well as some anecdotes and jokes. The latter would certainly be frowned upon today by the humorless Puritans who mind such things. This would, of course, have made them all the more enjoyable for Julio to tell. Two of them I remember in full:
The best job in the world:
You live in London,
On an American salary,
With a Chinese wife (they take such good care of you),
With a French cook,
You drive a German car,
You have a Filipino valet,
You have a Romanian mistress,
And a Swiss banker.
Followed by:
The worst job in the world:
You live in Paris,
But on a Chinese salary,
With an American wife, (they are so demanding!)
You have an English cook,
You drive a Filipino car,
You have a German valet,
You have a Romanian banker,
And you have a Swiss mistress.
And:
The ideal South American:
As discreet as a Brazilian,
As elegant as a Mexican,
As sober as a Chilean,
As honest as a Columbian,
As hard-working as a Uruguayan,
As handsome as a Bolivian,
And as humble as an Argentine!
Finally, Julio told his story that brought us together. He described his client as an incredibly wealthy American multi-millionaire. Of course that sounds quaint today, as you have to be an incredibly wealthy multi-billionaire before anyone takes notice. Julio assured us that we would recognize his name. The American had business interests in the U.K., and while there made the acquaintance of a German investor and his Bulgarian wife. In short order, he was engaged in business endeavors with the couple. Of course, when wealthy people of no morals and little scruples are thrown together, nature seems to take its course. From London, the American decamped to Buenos Aires, to pursue his business interests in Argentina. The Bulgarian woman left her husband in the U.K. and accompanied him, obviously to pursue matters of a more personal nature. The American and his mistress set up shop in the glamorous old Hotel Alvear Palace, the very place where Bill and I had enjoyed tea and scones earlier in the day. By this time, however, the American was beginning to tire of his mistress, as one does.
Things did not become complicated, however, until the American’s wife, and perhaps their young children, suddenly showed up in Buenos Aires. And of course, she was going to stay at the Hotel Alvear Palace as well. It seems the wife had joined her husband in Argentina for a bit of eco-tourism, or as Julio put it, “to watch the whales fucking, or something.” Her husband had to act quickly: get the soon-to-be-ex-mistress out the front door before the loving family came through it. The wife may have already been ensconced in the hotel, but I just do not remember that detail. It would have made for a better story if they had all bumped into one another at the same time in the lobby of the hotel. That did not happen. What did happen was loud, drunken and combative histrionics on the grand staircase of the Hotel Alvear Palace, complete with baluster-clutching. He managed to stuff her into a waiting taxi, with instructions (and money) to take her to the airport and put her on the next flight to London. This Bulgarian filly, however, would not drink: she refused to board the London flight.
The wealthy American, however, was not without influence. He put in a call to the British Embassy. And so, embassy staff escorted the uncooperative passenger onto the British Airways flight. Unfortunately for the American, the story did not end here. Once back in the U.K., all was forgiven with her German husband. But as so often happens with cases such as this, they were threatening to sue in American courts for the emotional trauma she had endured, as well as the cost of the psychiatric treatment she had undergone upon return. A cynic might conclude that this was a thinly-disguised blackmail threat, to expose the man before his wife and family.
This is where Julio and Peter came in. The American hired them to interview hotel staff–bell hops, porters, maids, etc.--to get their observations on the events of the Bulgarian woman’s sojourn at the Hotel Alvear Palace. In so doing, they wanted to be absolutely sure that the depositions they obtained could be used in the American court system. Julio wanted to question Bill about the safeguards they must use to ensure this.
After the story was laid out, Julio and Bill only spent about fifteen minutes discussing the particular questions about their depositions. We talked until about midnight, at which time Julio bade us good-bye, and departed to his home, leaving us in the trusted hands of his associate, Peter. Buenos Aires nightlife does not really get underway until about 1:00 or 1:30 am, and Peter intended to introduce us to it. He gave the taxi driver an address on Suipacha Street. By the time we climbed into the cab, Bill and I were feeling very full of ourselves; a couple of big boar monkeys.
Even so, by that time I had not slept in about forty-five hours, and was more interested in my pallet on the floor of Bill’s apartment than I was anything on Suipacha Street. But I put a brave face on things and pushed on, like a good soldier. Peter informed us that we were fortunate to have him along, as Buenos Aires was not safe at night. We soon surmised that this was a bit of self-promotion on Peter’s part, as neither Bill nor I never felt ill at ease on our remaining eight nights in the city.
Peter’s first stop was the STOP Piano Bar at 919 Suipacha. I know the exact address because the card from that establishment has been under the glass of my desk ever since. The club advertised: “Piano - Show - Disco.” No doubt we were entering a classy joint. To the best of my memory, it was decorated in what I would characterize as “imitation glitzy,” with lots of shimmery, silvery surfaces. I do recall that there was a piano on some sort of elevated platform, though I am not sure it was being played at the time. The club was not at all crowded at that time, but everyone there certainly seemed to know Peter. In fact, about the only people there seemed to be an assortment of short-skirted, hard-looking women perched atop their bar stools.
Well Bill and I might not be the most perceptive individuals, but our suspicions about this place began to be aroused. But no matter, we sidled up to the counter and ordered a round of Quelmos, the ubiquitous Argentine lager. The old adage of “liquor before beer, never fear” has some truth to it, I suppose. We sat here for a while, and ordered another round, I believe. Bill and I were trying not to make eye contact with the aforesaid women, who were oh so keen to make eye contact with us.
Peter huddled up with us and shared the figure that the women would ask. He cautioned us, however, not to pay that amount, and then gave us a figure that we must insist upon. It began to dawn on Bill and I the exact nature of Peter’s third occupation. It begins with a “P,” just like his other two jobs. I am afraid we were an abject disappointment to Peter, for he was really, really barking up the wrong tree with us. We nodded, and pretended to be obtuse, which is not as hard as it might seem. Finally, we had to try and make him understand that we did not have any intention of hiring the services of one of his prostitutes. I am not sure he quite believed us.
Sensing perhaps that we just desired a different venue, Peter led us up Suipacha to another nightclub. I forget the name of this one, but it is of no consequence, for the scenario played out exactly the same, in almost every detail. After the requisite time of awkwardness and Quelmos, we hit the sidewalk again. Within a few steps, he was leading us into a third establishment. Perhaps I am made of sterner stuff than my friend Bill, who followed Peter into the joint. I refused, and stood my ground on the sidewalk. This ever so slight distinction between our behaviors during those wee hours so long ago has been the subject of much banter between us and our friends ever since. Peter and Bill apparently just took a quick look at the place and came right back out.
By this time, we were only two or three blocks from our apartment and I put my foot down, firmly. I would not stop anyplace short of that address. And so we walked on, for Peter decided to go back to the room with us. Somewhere along the way, we had picked up a six-pack of Quelmos. Once back in the room, Bill dropped immediately to bed, leaving me to finish up the night with Peter. We set ourselves up on the terrace overlooking the city, with the Quelmos, of course. As the cigarette smoke drifted up in the crisp night air, we no doubt plumbed the depths of the profundity of life’s major mysteries. At some point after 3:00 am, the conversation became decidedly one-sided, as I was nearing my end. Either Peter took the hint or more probably, we ran out of beer. Either way, he took his leave. I stumbled into where my pallet was set up in the living room, and fell onto it, sleeping for the first time in forty-eight hours.
We had many other adventures over the following eight days, though the pace was far less manic, and punctuated by periods of actual slumber. We spent one afternoon at the racetrack. Several days later Julio treated us to lunch at the exclusive Circular Militaire, which occupies part of the immense Palacio Paz. During our conversation, he asked if we had read Clochemerle by Gabriel Chevellier. We had not. But I determined that once home, I would research the book online and have a good copy mailed to him. And that I did do.
Our boozy night at a tango club was particularly memorable. These were package deals: the tango performance, an Argentine steak dinner, with bottles of Malbec at the front, and bottles of champagne at the end. My exposure to tango heretofore went little beyond Jack Lemmon and Joe E. Brown in Some Like it Hot. The real thing was worth every penny.
From there, we took a taxi to the Plaza Hotel on the far end of the Plaza San Martin from where we were staying. Our destination was the bar on the ground floor. I have never forgotten it, for it was something out of a 1930s Hollywood movie. William Powell and Myrna Loy would have been right at home. The bar was a grand affair: tall ceilings, curved oak paneled walls, booths with plush overstuffed cushions, waiters in white jackets. I stuck with my whiskey sours and Bill ordered a Benedictine. One of us had some cigarettes. I forget exactly what we talked about,whether reliving the night, or deconstructing the Treaty of Versailles one more time.
Bill was in his glory, living out the role he imagined for himself. I was basking, I suppose, in his reflected glory. We ordered a second round. Bill managed to spill his Benedictine. Such is the life of big boar monkeys.1
The term “big boar monkey” comes from Bill’s father, a veritable fount of colorful expressions. Whether he originated it, or picked it up somewhere remains a mystery. The phrase is used when someone is perhaps feeling full of themselves, or putting on a bit of a show, or being publicly and expansively generous when perhaps their pocketbook would not justify it. I have found it one of the most useful turns of phrase ever. My younger son has picked it up, and more importantly, knows how to use it. So, the moniker lives on.
There's so much fun here I almost want to go to Argentina — though I have no Bill beckoning me.
But one thing you said caught my attention: "from the first, I never cared to define myself by this honorable occupation. It was never my “life,” as people are wont to say." That's exactly how I felt about the profession from which I'm now almost four years retired, and you even say it much as I did: "It was my livelihood, not my identity." That makes retirement much, much easier.