From Jesuits to Jews

Tuesday, 12/29/2009

Today's plan was to see a few things that we had not yet gotten around to seeing. We went back to San Telmo to see a few old buildings, such as the narrowest house in the city, build to fill the space between two houses. We saw a turn-of-the-(20th)-century pharmacy, with fresco on the ceiling, tiled floors, dark wood counters and shelves, still used as a pharmacy. We saw the Centro Nacional de Musica, in honor of Gloria's visit to the city, and had a long talk with the librarian about the musicology research being done at their library.

We met the chicos and had lunch so that we could visit the Manzana de la Luz together. This is probably the oldest block in a city that has not saved any of its colonial history. The structures are primarily a Jesuit convent. Interestingly, a Jewish architecture student discovered that there are tunnels under the convent that connect it with other churches as well as certain other buildings and homes (none of which survive).

The guided tour of the convent was full of historical content, including the reconstructed room in which the governing assembly met in the 1820's, the intrigues surrounding this or that governor's attempted murder, the architectural details of the structure. We then visited the part of the tunnels that had been excavated under the convent. They had been used, among other times, during the English siege of the city at the beginning of the 1800's.

Tonight we went to a fine, kosher parrilla restaurant called Tucson. A parrilla is where meat is cooked, usually over a charcoal fire. It was the best kosher dining experience I have ever had (outside of my home). One of the dishes we ordered – and shared – was a 1.2 kg rib steak. The rib of this hunk of meat was over a foot long. By my calculation, the cost of that particular steak dish is approximately what the raw meat, by itself, would cost in the kosher section of our grocery store. It was a real pleasure to see Leandro polish off the meat on the bone.

As you enter the restaurant, the hostess seems to evaluate the guests, because on one side of the restaurant sat the secular-looking patrons, and on the other side of the restaurant sat the customers who looked more religious.

Wow! We got back to the apartment at 10:45 this evening.

Silencio

Monday, 12/28/2009

For most of the morning we fought traffic and went around to shopping centers.

Traffic in BsAs is something a few notches more terrifying than Mexico City or Rome. For one thing, the lane lines are merely recommendation; they are just to indicate the general direction of the flow of traffic. If you were to be so foolish as to follow an indicated lane, you would be in an accident in seconds. The central rule of the road is to make sure you don't hit anyone in front of you. Drivers take no responsibility for those behind them. The margin of error is hair-thin. The right-turn lane is whatever lane you turn right from. The only inviolable rule is to stop when the light turns red.

We drove to the so-called Once (pronounced “own-say”) district to browse the kosher groceries and to see the shops. The district gets its name from the train station Once de Septiembre (11th of September). This barrio is where most of the religious Jews live. On one particular street, there were fabric shops, one right next to the other for the entire block. There were about 10 on one side of the street and 12 or so on the other side of the street. Imagine having to compete in that setting!

In the evening we were invited to the birthday party of Sylvia's brother's wife. The family lives on the 18th floor of a high-rise in a very exclusive district. The view from their balconies in one direction is the Botanico, the Planitarium, the municipal airport in the distance and the river behind that. In the other direction are the hundreds of apartment and commercial towers of the city.

The party was catered. People in starched uniforms offered us hors d'oeuvres, wine, and champagne, from the moment we showed up. Again these appetizers were delicious: asparagus in filo roles, little quiche torts, cheeses of all kinds, and tapenade better than I usually have tasted – made fresh. My wine glass was refilled before I noticed that I had emptied it. Then came the pizza – various types. When we thought we had finished dinner came the brochettes of chicken and beef with vegetables interspersed. Dessert was ice cream with an apple crisp, but that wasn't the end. There was a separate birthday cake, made of layers of milk-soaked cookies (the likes of which can be found only in Argentina) and dulce de leche. The only thing that saves us from the rich foods is the amount that we must walk each day.

The conversation was interesting as usual. We all had a good laugh while we were discussing foreign languages. Sylvia mentioned that when she studied French it became more difficult for her to speak English. I said that language study did the opposite for me: “I'm taking German,” I said, somewhat haltingly in Spanish, “and it has improved my ability to speak Spanish.” (According to Gloria, this statement took between 7 and 8 minutes for me to express.) With that, Gloria chimed in, “Imagine! This is the IMPROVED Spanish! What must it have been like before!” Love is never having to be embarrassed when being laughed at.

Sylvia's brother Mario then gave a magic show, mostly for the benefit of the kids present. His two grandchildren were his helpers. Mario announced “silencio,” and the 3-year-old helper repeated, “silencio.” Mario began to do his magic, but before he said 3 words, the little boy repeated, “silencio!” Mario proceeded, but the audience was apparently not attentive enough, “silencio,” the boy interrupted pointing at individual noncompliants. Every few words he would interrupt, quietly, “silencio,” to the giggles of the audience.

The first trick was to make a green cloth and a white cloth turn to blue and a yellow ones. Everybody loved the trick, but his 3-year-old “helper” was astounded. “Where is the green one?” he asked. Mario did another trick, but the 3-year old was preoccupied. At the end of that trick he asked again, “but what happened to the green one?” A complicated card trick,...pause, “where IS the green one?” Until the entire room was doubled over laughing at the little boy's insistence on finding that missing green cloth.

The evening ended at the relatively early hour of 1:30 AM.

The Engagement Party -- Play-by-Play

Sunday, 12/27/2009

I met everyone at Sylvia's home yesterday as the makeup session was drawing to a close. Call me ignorant, but I don't get it. Try as they might, the makeup artists couldn't hide the natural beauty of the mothers last night.

The party was held at a beautify reception center near their home, starting at about 9:15. When we entered, the hors d'oeuvres were laid out on several tables – probably 10 different selections. As the guests began to arrive, waiters began passing yet additional types of hors d'oeuvres, champagne, liquor, and other drinks. I can honestly state that I have never seen better appetizers. We were introduced to people as they arrived, and folks were uniformly considerate of the possibility that we might not be able to speak Spanish well. The circle of about 150 close family and friends could not have given us a warmer reception. Everyone was eager to wish us well and to meet the novia's (bride) parents.

At about 10:30 or 11:00 we went up to the next floor for dinner in a tastefully decorated dining room. Before any food was served, the families of the novios were called to the front for a ceremony during which an engagement “contract” is stated, and then the mothers break a plate. Two rabbi friends of Leandro spoke and gave a benediction. Pieces of the plate are given to the mothers and to single women in the gathering.

Then the dancing begins! Starting with circle dances, the mood quickly works up to a frenzy. The fathers and the mothers as well as the novios are picked up and tossed about, almost like body surfing. They are surrounded by circles, everyone dancing frenetically, including men and women my age and older, for perhaps 45 minutes. Thirty seconds before someone has a coronary, the music dies down, and people make their way to their seats.

By now it is around midnight, and the salad course is served. People have an opportunity to talk, the volume of the music being lower. At the end of the course, the projection screen lights up, and we see a collage video of the cutest and most nostalgic photos of Bela and Leandro growing up. The place echos with oohs and ahs.

Before long, though, the music comes back at disco-level volume, and people appear to have gained their second wind, for they dance again – non-stop – for the next 45 minutes. So, now it's around 1:30 or so, and the main course is served: Salmon. You may think you have had well-prepared salmon in your life, but this course was indescribably delicious.

At the end of the main course the famous video (see The Engagement Party, Saturday, 12/26/2009 blog entry) was shown to everyone's delight. We laughed until our faces hurt. I hid under the table. Everyone thought the production was great. It was a really cute idea.

The music is back and people pack the dance floor again until the dessert course, at about 3:30 or so. A cake was brought to our table and put in front of Gloria, and several family members came to the table to sing happy birthday in Spanish and then in English. Also during this course, a large cake was brought out and Bela and Leandro were called to the microphone. Each of them said something touching about the engagement, and Leandro toasted all his friends and family who had come to the party.

But dessert was not over. Everyone was ushered to the lower floor, where cocktails had been earlier, and a lavish dessert buffet had been set up. The highlight, I think, was the crepes table, where crepes filled with dulce de leche were being made.

When everyone went back upstairs they were given carnival attire, such as hats, tiaras, boas, and other fanciful items to put on, and dancing continued. Bela and Leandro were given Queen and King hats. By this time, however, people had begun to drift away, bidding their good-nights and felicidades (happiness/congratulations).

We underestimated the stamina of the Argentines. The party broke up as it approached 6:00 AM, after many of the guests had danced just about the entire time. Where do they get the energy??

Gabriel and Sylvia took us back to the apartment where we crashed at about 6:45.

I slept until about 11:00 and Gloria until about 2:00. We skipped breakfast and went directly to lunch, after which we went to Gabi's and Silvia's home to hang out. We sat around for hours talking about the party and just about every other subject for the remainder of the afternoon.

In the meantime, the chicos opened their presents from last night. Almost without exception, people had given them money. Money packs better than a blender for the trip back to the States, anyhow.

Leandro's parents had also gotten them gifts – an entire set of handmade glass judaica items: a seder plate, a challah plate candle-sticks, a mezuzah, etc. These were genuine artistic items.

Finally we had our opportunity to invite the family to dinner. Up till this time, Gabriel would not hear of allowing us to host them for dinner; he finally relented and let us take them out.

The Engagement Party -- Preparations

Saturday, 12/26/2009

Tonight is the engagement party that everyone has been looking forward to. It looks to be a mini-wedding in terms of scope and expense. Knowing the daily schedule in these parts, we are girding ourselves to last until 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning. I'm sure that, at that time, it will be only the Americans who have been worn out.

For some time I was plotting to make a toast at the party to the coincidence of two great occasions: the engagement and the birthday of my wife. That should be impressive, but its value has been diminished by the fact that I forgot to wish Gloria a happy birthday this morning.

This afternoon I'm left alone while the women are having their makeup and hair done. They met at Sylvia's home at 3:00 for this ordeal. When I consider such an experience, the Spanish Inquisition comes most readily to mind. I am so happy not to be a woman. Now I know why that prayer is in the traditional service.

The up-side is that the two mothers get to commiserate with each other and to become better acquainted. I am to show up this evening at their home around 8:00 so that we can go to the party together.

In the meantime, I am left to my own designs. I have already taken a bus to Santa Fe to browse the shops and to pick up some items that we had planned to get. Otherwise the outing was useless other than to provide me with considerable exercise walking.

The preparations for the party had been kept secret, in part, from los chicos, because we had performed in a video to surprise them. I have refrained from blogging the events, in case the kids read this blog before tonight. It has been difficult accounting for huge chunks of time on two separate days of production.

Leandro's parents had set words to a very famous tango, “Cambalache,” and the whole immediate family met at a professional recording studio to sing the song. It was an hilarious experience, especially since the two of us had never seen the words previously. We had been told what the tune would be, and I located a few recordings on the Internet. I downloaded two, put them on my mp3 player, and we listened to them many times on the flight from the US. We had learned the tune so well that it kept both of us awake one night, swirling around in our heads.

The recording session was the afternoon of our first day in BsAs. Our jet lag only added to the comedy of the afternoon. Occasionally, there were too many – or too few – syllables in the substitute words to fit the music. That caused some giggles and some consternation trying to work it out. After three hours of grueling effort, we wrapped up the recording session.

But that was not to be the end of our ordeal. Nobody told us that we would then have to do a video production; we had always understood that the surprise would be a video of something related, accompanied by our recorded singing. But no. We all met at the Puerto Madero a couple of days later, instructed to dress in black and white.

We arrived not knowing what to expect. The film crew was there with the finished, mixed recording. They gave us black hats and scarves to make us look like tango dancers, and divided us into groups. Each group performed a routine – luckily very simple – to a couple of lines of the song. The killer was that all of the scenes required us to sing – or to lip synch – the words of the song. But remember, Gloria and I had not seen the words before a few days ago; we had not known to study them in the interim; we had no teleprompters for these routines.

We sang or mouthed the words clumsily and did several takes until the camera crew decided that it could have been worse. Some of the family actually knew the words and did a great job with the video recording. I felt rather foolish, but it should provide for some good laughs when we view it tonight at the party.

It will be nice to have such a lavish affair tonight. Many of Leandro's friends and relatives will not be in a position to attend the wedding next September; it's a long way from Buenos Aires to Atlanta. This party gives them an opportunity to celebrate the occasion with the couple.

Well, let's see if I can nap for an hour or so before the party.

(Read about the party in tomorrow's post.)

Business as Usual -- Hardly

Friday, 12/25/2009

As there are no Chinese restaurants in BsAs, we wondered where one would eat on Christmas eve and Christmas day. Turns out that many restaurants remain open, and by the evening, most are open.

Outside our window is one of the busiest streets in the city. Here is a picture of what it looks like on a business day.

By contrast, on Christmas morning, the traffic was non-existent. We saw a man walking down the middle of the street, rather than crossing the street directly. All we could assume is that he must be doing that simply because he can.

We walked up to Recoleta to meet Marcos. We figured that something would be going on there. Indeed, the feria was beginning to open, as it would on a weekend. After browsing the feria again, we went across the plaza to visit the Recoleta Cemetery. The cemetery looks like a small town. The graves are all mausoleums, with ostentatious structures above ground and the remains of their owners, mostly in caskets, but some in cremation urns either on shelves or in crypts underground.

The remains of many – probably most – of the presidents and military leaders, as well as anyone of importance would be found in this cemetery. (I avoid using the terms “interred” or “buried” since there are only a tiny few who are actually in graves.)

There is always a crowd in front of the Familie Duarte mausoleum, since there rests the body of Evita (Eva Peron). About this time we heard a family walking behind us speaking Hebrew, so Marcos addressed them in Hebrew and we struck up a conversation.

Los chicos (the kids) are flying in this morning and Leandro's parents will be picking them up at the airport. We are invited for lunch, but we'll wait until they call us to make sure that they don't have to nap for a while to make up for the overnight flight.

We sat on the patio under a huge gomero (rubber tree) at the Cafe Biela at the edge of Recoleta Park (see picture of tree under “Being Tourists.”) This is one of the archtypical cafes of BsAs. Finally we heard from the kids, so we're off to meet them.

Of course, we took the bus. Marcos is always apprehensive about taking the bus, while I relish the opportunity to rub shoulders with the locals and to get to know the streets. On today's bus ride of about 3 miles, Marcos asked at least 4 times, “you ARE paying attention where to get off, right?” We stepped off the bus two blocks from their home.

We greeted the kids, whom we hadn't seen for over a week. Imagine: Leandro's parents see him only a couple of times a year.

Sylvia is the example of hospitality. When we entered the apartment, lunch was laid out on the dining table: 6 varieties of cheese, a tuna-rice-corn salad, smoked salmon, an olive-tomato-artichoke roll, various breads, a herring dish, and a bunch of other stuff that I can't recall as I write this. Alfajores for dessert. These are sandwiches of two cookies with any of a variety of fillings, but usually dulce de leche (caramelized condensed milk) with coconut or chocolate.

We left to meet a friend of the kids who had come down for the engagement party. We met in Recoleta. While the women went to the feria, three of us strolled around the barrio (neighborhood), checking out the restaurants and looking at the parks and statues and generally getting an orientation to the neighborhood.

After parting company with the friends, Leandro and I went to evening services at a synagogue in the Once (that's pronounced “own-say”) neighborhood. The building is one of the oldest synagogues in the city, dating from the end of the 1800's. It has a facade that identifies it immediately as a synagogue, while most of the temples in town are relatively anonymous from the street. It's gorgeous inside, but one doesn't take pictures on the sabbath, even in this VERY liberal congregation. They sang Adon Olam to the tune of "The Saints Go Marching In."

After Leandro dropped me off, we went to dinner, sitting outside at the corner cafe. In the 15 minutes between sitting down and beginning to eat, the wind picked up to a storm, and it began to rain. We quickly moved under the arcade roof, but the wind made it feel so cold that we couldn't bear it. There were no tables inside.

So we paid and carried our leftovers back to the apartment. I should have paid closer attention to the weather report.

Silent Night

Thursday, 12/24/2009

It rained all night, and we took advantage of the situation by sleeping late. When we went to breakfast, we noticed that there was a15-person queue in front of the delicatessen in the mall. We had planned to get something to take to our hosts, who had invited us for this evening – and for tomorrow as well.

While we ate, we judged how long the wait might be in the line, which got no shorter as new customers added themselves to the line. Since porteños are so good about standing in line, this seemed like a logical way to keep the shop from getting unmanageably crowded. We bought some very nice prepared items that we thought our hosts might like. Since the family goes to the beach next week, we bought things that they could take with them and things that would not spoil.

A couple in the store recommended another store in the neighborhood, where dried fruits and similar items are sold. In addition they said that they carry sugar-free items and health foods. We walked around the barrio and dropped in on the store, They had some nice things, but curiously, many of the products labeled as sugar-free had “J.M. alto fructoso.” Sounded suspicious. Finally found a jar that spelled it out: jarabe de maiz. In other words, it was sweetened with high fructose corn syrup. In a store that features wheat germ and bran crackers.

All the stores were packed with customers buying last minute presents as well as food and drink. We looked for a papeleria (paper store) to buy a gift bags for the things we had bought. In the store we bought a couple of bags. Do they have tissue? “Would you like 1 sheet or 2?” asked the clerk.

For the rest of the mid-day period we went back to the apartment to bring the blog up to date and to rest up. All that sleeping late has tired me out.

This evening, Gabi and Sylvia have invited us for dinner. Despite our protests, Gabriel picks us up at 8:15 to take us to his home. Traffic is already thinning out on the streets.

Dinner is, of course, delicious, with roast beef of two types – meat that practically melts in your mouth. And the salad was amazing. Having a world-class wine with almost every meal other than breakfast is a genuine pleasure.

They insisted on driving us back to our place after dinner. The streets were empty of pedestrians and cars. It was eerie. Going to sleep was not easy. Fireworks – all amateur – are apparently a favorite pastime on Christmas Eve. By about 1:30, the activity had diminished to one or two every 10 minutes or so.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Wednesday, 12/23/2009

Today we visit the Rosedal, a flower garden in the middle of one of the biggest parks in Bs As, called 3 de Febrero, part of the Bosque de Palermo. The park was originally laid out at the end of the 19th century from land expropriated from the governor of the state, Juan Manuel de Rosas, overthrown on that date a few years earlier. De Rosas had, himself, overthrown the previous governor only a quarter century earlier.

We Norteamericanos have it easy. We all know what happened in 1492 and on the 4th of July. Beyond those dates, we don't even have to remember the birthdates of any presidents, as we have glommed them together into Presidents' Day. But here in Argentina, besides 1492, you have streets, parks, and memorials to the 3rd of February, the 9th of July, the May Revolution, and so forth.

The Rosedal has formal rose gardens, informal gardens of various trees and shrubs, statuary, gazebos, and an adjacent lake where you can row. Even as late as the first days of summer, the roses are spectacular. It is a calm refuge in the middle of a frenetic city.

Gabriel and Sylvia picked us up across the street, in front of the American embassy, to take us to lunch. We went to a restaurant on the riverfront called Happenings, where we had another delicious meat dinner. The highlight of many of our meals together is when we raise a toast to each other and to our respective families. It seems that neither couple can say enough to compliment the other or the children of the other couple. Today, Marcos was added to the conversation, giving his well-wishes to the chicos.

Gabriel dropped us off at the newest art museum in the city, Museo Fortabat, in the Puerto Madero area. Housed in an impressive, modern building is the collection of the very rich Fortabat family. The collection is primarily Argentinian artists, with several pieces of ancient Mediterranean art. The collection demonstrates that there were Argentinian participants in the impressionist, expressionist, art nouveau, cubist, and other international movements in art.

To wait out the rush hour, we sat in a Freddo heladeria and ate ice cream at a table next to the water in the Puerto Madero. Freddo is probably the most common ice cream parlor in the city. The porteños take pride in the fact that ice cream here is artisanal and not mass-produced.

We took the bus back to the Patio Bullrich and went to the movies. We saw a French film with Spanish subtitles; talk about being at a disadvantage. It was nothing great, but it was fun to do something local. With the Wednesday discount, it was $15.00 (about US$4.00). Afterwards we ate pasta in the food court; so far we're not so impressed with the Italian-style food.

As we entered our apartment building at 11:00, we wondered why everything was so dark. The whole block, we were informed, was without electricity. So we went back to the mall to wait out the situation. Finally, at about midnight things were back to normal, and we went to our place.

Local Color

Tuesday, 12/22/2009

Today we go on a tour of the river delta. We meet the tour at the Alvear Palace Hotel just up the street. This hotel is one of the fancy US$400 a day places, with bellhops, polished brass, and a sumptuous included breakfast in an opulent dining room. We hesitated to sit down in the lobby to wait.

On our way over to the Alvear Palace we passed a crew filming a movie on the street.

The tour bussed us out to Tigre, a resort town about 40 km up-river from Buenos Aires, but still in the State of Buenos Aires. The residents of the city are referred to as porteños, while the denizens of the State outside the city are called Bonaerenses. As a train passed us going the other direction it was remarkable that people were sitting in the doors with their feet hanging out of the train.

The name of the area, Tigre, derives from the time when this was the edge of the tropical rainforests, and jaguars roamed the terrain. The jungle was cut down by the Spanish settlers for farm and grazing land, but many wild cats remained even into the 20th century. Because of the confusion of names, the area was called Tigre, and the name became attached to the city and the river.

In the 20th century, porteños began to buy homes in the area and built country clubs and sporting clubs to retreat here for vacations. One of the country´s presidents, Sarmiento, liked the area very much and built a home on one of the islands in the delta.

We had been picked up so late that we missed our boat in Tigre and had to wait for the next boat. The lancha (boat) left the pier in Puerto Sarmiento and started down to Tigre River, and then we entered the Rio Lujon. Rio Lujon is the border between “continental” Argentina and the delta islands. We passed the mouth of the Carabachai River, which in the Guaraní indigenous language means “tranquil or peaceful Indian.” All of the area is the delta of the Paraná river.

The delta islands, as they are developed for homes, have retaining walls built of wood or concrete; these are called estacada. While the land and the homes are relatively inexpensive the maintenance and the retaining walls cost a great deal. A typical home has a terrain of perhaps 15 meters by 20 meters and would cost perhaps $70,000 (that's pesos). To maintain the home, you must build the retaining wall at about $1,000 per meter. In addition, the humidity requires that the house must be painted annually and repaired frequently.

While they have electricity on most of the little islands, everything must be brought in by lancha. There is a lancha de supermercado (grocery boat), and a LP gas boat, for example. The river water, while brown from sediment, is not polluted and is used for showers and washing things after filtration. Drinking water is brought in on the grocery boat.

Most islands have a low, bog area in the center. Homes can be built only around the perimeter of the islands. The sediment that flows down-river is caught by the reeds and other growths in the river slowly forming more small islands and land area in the delta.

We left the Rio Lujon and entered the Rio Sarmiento, a major shipping route through the delta area. The river eventually connected back to the Lujon, and then we re-entered the Tigre. The guide pointed out the difference in color between the brown sediments in the Lujon and the greenish tint of the Tigre, stating that the Tigre is the only polluted river in the delta. At about that time Marcos came out of the rest room and said that it's no wonder that the river is polluted – that he had added to the pollution himself – as the drains from the toilets in the rest rooms on the boat empty directly into the river.

In the small town square, on the road back, and in Bs As, it's as if the country has color-coordinated its flowers. The jacaranda trees – large and small – have beautiful blue flowers, some of which remain even this late in the year. (The accompanying picture was taken from a moving bus; apologies for the blur.) The hortensias (hydrangias) have blue, purple, and violet flowers; the jacintos (hyacinths) are all blue; the morning glories finish out the blue bouquet.

Tonight we meet Marcos to go to a Tango show and dinner at the Cafe Tortoni. On our way to the Tortoni, we witnessed one of the frequent demonstrations in the street on Avenida de Mayo.

We sat near the front near the stage and ate a small meal during the show. The show began with a wonderful ensemble of bandoneon, violin, piano, and bass playing typical tango music. The show had some drama illustrating the origins of tango in the seedy areas of the city. A very talented singer presented several apparently well-known selections. All was interspersed with flashy tango routines. We all agreed that there could have been more dancing, but we were not disappointed.

Marcos was affected quite emotionally by the show, as his late father was a huge fan of Carlos Gardel, the famous tango great.

We ended the day with ice cream. The sign in front of the heladeria (ice cream parlor) said “2 for 1 Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays,” so I asked for the special. “Only before 8:00 PM said the server. You have to wonder if my gringo accent had something to do with the limitation.

Getting from Here to There

Monday, 12/21/2009

Readers who ever plan to go to Buenos Aires must know about the buses. Buses run everywhere, and so often that, as we stood at a bus stop the other day, we saw four #67 buses (the line we needed to take) behind each other in the distance, no more than a minute apart. The drivers jockey their vehicles around the cars and motorcycles and even pass each other on the street to get to their stops.

When you arrive in Bs As, you MUST purchase a “Guia T” – pocket size. This guide to the bus lines of the city is remarkable. The guide is laid out like a street atlas. Every map is divided into squares of about 5 blocks by 5 blocks. On the facing page, in a corresponding grid, the bus lines are shown that service the respective squares. Thus, you find the square where you plan to originate and the square on another page where you plan to end up, and match the bus lines to find which buses traverse both squares on the grid. By doing so, you know which bus to catch.

In addition, the routes of all lines are detailed in the back of the book. You can find out that such and such route follows this street and that avenue. In the front of the book is the key that shows which map contains the street you might be searching for. By the way, there is also a subway, but it's not as useful nor is it as much fun.

But don't ride public transport during rush hours. We have passed bus stops at 8:00 PM with lines of nearly 100 people waiting to board. We passed a subway entrance that had nearly 100 people waiting outside simply to enter the stairway down to the turnstiles.

Today we went to breakfast late. Even though a $7.00 (US$1.80 + or -) breakfast is a bargain, we had a craving for our usual breakfast at home of bread and cheese. So today we went to the equivalent of a delicatessen, bought some bread and cheese, and then went across to buy some cafe con leche (at the McDonald's – where else, at their price). It also occurred to us that we need to plan for breakfast on the morning of the 25th, since nothing should be open that morning. We're invited to Leandro's parents' home the evening of the 24th.

Today was a lesson in what to expect in Argentina – and probably most other places that aren't the USA. As I mentioned elsewhere, the tourist magazines all have listings for theaters this week. In addition, the newspapers show available theater shows this week. No theater we went to was still presenting performances for this season. All that we visited have closed for the summer break. Did nobody tell the newspapers? The schedule, in current publications, for guided tours of the tunnels under the old city included 3:00 tours Monday through Friday. When we showed up at the entrance to the tunnels, the posted schedule showed that Mondays and Thursdays have been canceled for the rest of the summer.

The guidebook cited a monument in the Place Lavalle to the people murdered in the attacks on the Jewish community center 15 years ago and on the Israeli Embassy 17 years ago. We couldn't find it. By the way, if you end up being an Argentine hero or dignitary honored with a statue or a bust in a public park, make sure your will indicates that your family decline the honor. You will have graffiti, moustaches, and other disfigurements added to your honor over the course of time in the park.

Another lesson was how inept I sometimes can be. I ended up entering the subway on the southbound side, when I meant to enter on the northbound side. They allowed me to exit, to cross the street and re-enter in the right direction. You have to allow me some lenience, though, since the subways keep to the left, not to the right. It's discombobulating waiting in the tube and expecting the subway to come from the left and exit to the right; it comes from the right and exits to the left.

We ate lunch today at the famous Cafe Tortoni (Avenida de Mayo 829), where all the Tango greats have hung out at one time or another. It's a turn of the (20th) century cafe with dark woodwork, stained glass, and marble-topped tables. Very European; very porteño. We made reservations for tomorrow's Tango show, while we were there. The place was crawling with tourists! Oh, yeah; that includes us.

Finally during this outing we made our way back to the Libreria El Ateneo (Santa Fe near Callao). This bookstore is in an old theater, which still has its lobby, orchestra, balconies, boxes, and stage intact – and probably in better shape than when the theater went out of business. It's a gorgeous setting.

When we got back to our apartment, there was a note on the door that Marcos had dropped by. He arrived this morning and had apparently not been able to take any kind of meaningful nap. He wrote that he would do some window shopping in the Patio Bullrich mall next door and come back later. He knocked on the door only a few minutes later. We caught up with his adventures, almost being bumped from his flight.

We went to the Pizzeria Babieca (Santa Fe 1898) for dinner. We all ordered from the prix fix menu. Gloria and Marcos had a huge Chicken “Milenese” while I had a squash ravioli. Dinner came with a huge variety bread basket, wine, and dessert and was not only delicious but copious. We sat outside and plied our favorite pastime: people-watching.

Home tonight again at an American bedtime.

The Weekend Artisan Markets

Sunday, 12/20/2009

Since it rained all of yesterday, today will be our last opportunity to go to the Recoleta feria and to the San Telmo feria. Next weekend we will be completely used up and unable to get out.

While we are enjoying ourselves in Buenos Aires, there is a parallel drama of standby airline tickets going on back home. Leah and Marcos are coming down on standby tickets if they can make it. By yesterday, Leah was effectively cut out of the picture, as the empty seat count dropped to about 11, with 31 on the waiting list.

Marcos, higher on the priority scale, was still in the game, but it was looking grim for him as well. He called us yesterday morning to change to plan B: he would fly to another South American airport, and transfer to Buenos Aires (EZE). But then the weather hit the northern US, and scores of flights were being cancelled. So many seats became available for the day prior to his planned departure, that he changed his plans and called us on our cell phone. “I've changed my hotel reservation, but I can't get through to the people who are picking me up from the airport,” he told us. We took on the task of advising them that he would be coming a day early. Leah was still out of the picture, though. Getting back from EZE would still be “touch and go” the following week.

We walked from our apartment the five blocks to the corner of Pueyrredon where the artisans were beginning to set up at about 11:00. We made our way slowly through the market, where much of the fare is quite nice. There were belts, purses, and other leatherwork, skirts, scarfs, and other textiles, paintings, caricatures, mate and materos of gourd and in silver, wooden sculpture and puzzles (even the very same artist from whom I had bought a violinist puzzle three years ago), hand-painted signs, jewelry of polished stones and silver, and sculpture of glass, of wire, and of silverware.

Before going to the other feria we had to go back to the apartment to unload all the loot we had picked up. We went out to wait for the colectivo (bus). Bus fare is based on distance traveled, but usually comes to $1.20 (US$0.32), subsidized by the government, as it states on the receipt you get when you have paid.

San Telmo has what is billed as an antiques market on Sundays. In fact, antiques are a small part of the feria. Around Plaza Dorrego are most of the antique stalls, but for the entire length of Calle Defensa – a length of more than a kilometer, artisans, performers, junk-sellers, and 21st century hippies sell their wares from blankets on the ground. You can buy small hardware like plug adapters, hand-painted signs, hair clips and adornments, wallets recycled from cereal boxes, leatherwork, woodwork, clothes, sandals, toys, and food hawked from the trays of wandering salespeople. Every block or so has its performing group – a puppeteer, a guitar player, a samba singer accompanying himself, a tango/milonga ensemble, one of which had a piano, 4 violins, a bass, and 4 Bandoneones (similar to a concertina).

Hey! There's a copy of that novel we bought yesterday. What are they charging? What? It's half the price we paid yesterday. How annoying is that? Maybe it's a used copy. Nope; it's new. And there are two copies for that price. The mobs that come out to these ferias can hardly be described.

We stopped for a sandwich at a cafe and sat at an outside table, watching the passersby. I ordered a Quilmes beer (the most popular local brand) on tap. We mused about the effort that the vendors must make to do these markets every week. The booth in front of us had hundreds of small ceramics. Each one must be wrapped individually to be stored from week to week. Week after week.

Gabriel called us mid-afternoon to see how we were doing. “We'll call you a little later to see where we can pick you up. We have just spent hours at the grocery buying food for the coming weeks when los chicos (the kids) are here.

Finally, they called at about 6:00 and ended up touring us around the architectural highlights of the city, particularly the buildings that are being or have been “recycled.” But they graciously dropped us off at our apartment early so that we could eat early and retire early.

Singing -- well, walking -- in the Rain

Saturday, 12/19/2009

Having slept until 10:45, (Do we know these people? Who are they, and what did they do with Ed and Gloria??), and having had a leisurely breakfast, we packed an umbrella and went exploring. Today we'll go out to Palermo Soho and walk through the weekend feria (market). We were under a threat of about 80% chance of rain.

We weren't disappointed. We got the rain we were promised and then some. Luckily we ducked into a boutique to wait out one of the heaviest and hardest rainstorms of the year: 30 mm in 30 minutes according to the news. Of course, the feria was rained out. It's a real shame for the artisans that have to set up their displays each weekend. They were rained out practically before the customers began to show up.

Between downpours we would proceed from one store to the next. In a couple of bookstores we searched for a Spanish translation of a recent Dan Brown novel. Eventually we found a copy and bought it. We also stopped in several farmacias (drug stores) to search for an over-the-counter item that Gloria's sister wants. Several of the pharmacists concurred that the pills were no longer available; the manufacturer had stopped shipping them.

We called Gabriel and Sylvia to invite them to dinner. They had hosted us at all our subsequent meals together. But we need to go early, we pleaded. They picked us up at about 8:00, and we went back to Palermo, where there are multiple restaurants on every block. Being early, we were one of only two parties in the restaurant, La Parrilla Escondida.

The waitress brought us our menu and I told her that I wanted the check. Gabriel demanded otherwise and the waitress refused to take sides, of course. We ordered three different types of grilled beef, and went to the salad bar while we waited. In addition to what you would expect on a salad bar, this one had arugula, and caramelized onions.

Beef in Argentina – as well as many other countries – is cut differently from the way we are accustomed in the US. In addition, Argentine beef is generally range fed; it never sees a feed lot. As a result, the meat is more muscular and seldom has the fat marbling that we know in the US.

By the time we finished our meal, at about 10:00, the huge restaurant was 100% full. The noise from conversation had reached a level that made it difficult to hear our own conversation. For a hidden (escondida) restaurant, it seems that a lot of people are in on the secret.

When Gabriel left the table to go to the rest room, I signaled the waitress to bring me the check. A few minutes later Gabriel returned, holding the check. The waitress only shrugged her shoulders at me when I shot her an inquiring glance.

As we left the restaurant, we had to push through a throng of at least 75 people waiting to be seated. At 10:30. Passing the parrilla (grill), we stood a few minutes to watch the cooks prepare dozens of cuts of meat on the gratings. The grill, heated by charcoal and wood, is at the entrance, where you can see it from the sidewalk; 20 or 30 bags of charcoal were stashed under the fire box. The cooking surface measures about 1.5 meters (5 ft.) deep by about 5 meters (16 ft 5 in) long. One of the cooks saw us and asked “who finally paid the check?” Our dispute had made it all the way to the cook staff.

We drove around Palermo marveling at the shops and restaurants. Most of the eating establishments had crowds waiting to be seated, while clientele eating their meals packed the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalks. As has become our routine, our hosts pointed out interesting landmarks and businesses as we wound our way through the barrio (neighborhood).

Dropping us off at our apartment, our hosts said, “We'll see you tomorrow.” We responded, “Please don't preoccupy yourselves with us; we can make our own way around the city.” But they would not hear of it. “We'll call you in the afternoon. If you need anything you have our number.”

Being Tourists

Friday, 12/18/2009

We got up early to catch the city tour, which turned out to be pretty informative, I learned a few interesting tidbits. The tour confirmed my observation that poverty is the best proponent of historic preservation. Those sections of town that were poor have some of the oldest intact buildings. The richest areas (think Avenida 9 de Julio) have lost almost everything.

The notable exception might be the neighborhood of Palermo. Here we find many of the consulates and embassies occupying houses and palaces that were abandoned by the erstwhile well-to-do in the Depression or in a prior economic crisis. The state is also beginning to rehabilitate many of the government buildings in the city center.

The poorest area such as La Boca – at one time the river port district – is where immigrants lived in subdivided homes or in corrugated metal shacks between the permanent structures. Often entire families shared a single tiny room, like that of monks in a convent; the dwellings became known as conventillos.

In the Caminito (A plaza in La Boca) the sidewalk restaurants all have stages with dancers performing Tango or Flamenco. When they can lure a diner into their tables, the dancers will perform. Or you can just stroll by and enjoy one show after another.

The city is full of examples of huge gomeros (rubber trees). Another specimen tree is one that they call palo borracho (drunk stick); this is probably because it looks like someone with a beer belly. The most commonly seen tree is the jacaranda, which blooms in the late spring with purple flowers; some few still had flowers as late as this week.

We learned that Candombe was the musical style of the slave population in Buenos Aires in the 19th century. (This has a striking similarity to the Candomblé of Brazil.) Turns out that Tango may have grown from this musical genre, according to El Viejo Tanguero, a writer of the early 20th century.

Gabriel and Sylvia picked us up and took us first on a tour of the Puerto Madero district and then to their home in Palermo, overlooking the botanical garden in the foreground and the Rio de la Plata in the background. Afterwards we went to Gabriel's parents' home, also in Palermo, for dinner. We had met them in Miami Beach several months ago, as they spend the Argentine winter in Florida.

In Buenos Aires people eat late and retire late. But I have finally figured out how to deal with it. Next time I come here, I'm not changing my watch. When it's 7:00 PM my time, it's 9:00 in Bs As and time for dinner (well,.... a little early). Then at 11:00 my time it's 1:00 AM in Bs As and just about time to go to bed. Not having changed my watch, I won't feel that my schedule has been disturbed.

Sleep Deprived

Thursday, 12/17/09

Some people take pills to sleep better. I've discovered that the best non-chemical way to get to sleep at night is to have stayed up the entire previous night. We – who normally get up at 7:30 – slept in until 10:00. I think that either of us could have slept even later.

Yoyi had said last night that we should close the blinds to keep the sun out in the morning. I said that, since the windows face north, the sun wouldn't come in. I failed to take into account that we are in the southern hemisphere where the sun is always in the North, unlike in Atlanta. Luckily I had closed the blinds even as I demeaned my wife's knowledge of astronomy.

From our window we have a great view the incoming lines of the Retiro train station as well as the cranes and building of the port on the river.

Breakfast in Buenos Aires is Croissants (mediaslunas) and coffee (cafe con leche). We went into the food court of the Patio Bulrich for our fix. In this expensive mall 3 croissants and a huge cup of coffee was $7.00. (That's 7 Pesos, or about US$2.00.) And the mall has WiFi.

Being tourists today, we walked up to Florida, the pedestrian shopping street. After some perfunctory shopping we went into the Gallerias Pacifico to look around and to eat in the food court. The food court of the mall has the obligatory McDonald's, but most of the buffets are much more interesting. Of the 15 or so food services at least three are parillas (meat cooked over a fire) and several others are for sandwiches made of similarly prepared meats.

We had a 250 gram (a little more than 8 oz.) rib steak with a huge bowl of guarnacion (like an upscale salad bar) plus a small beer for $25 (about US$7.00 or $7.25). Grilled to order. To walk off our lunch we explored the area, including the box office at the Teatro Nacional de Cervantes, where we tried to decide which play we might like to see. We also walked past the (still being renovated after how many years) Teatro Colon and the Libertad Synagogue.

Afterwards, we went to a tourist bureau to arrange for some guided tours, so that Yoyi could become familiar with the city without having to put up with a know-it-all husband guide. We scheduled a city tour for tomorrow (2 for the price of 1. Of course). And we scheduled a bus, train, boat tour for early next week.

Still feeling sleep-deprived, we went back to the apartment to rest so that we could go to the theater in the evening. We studied the book that publishes the theater offerings and decided on a few options, all in Corrientes Avenue. At 8:00 PM (20.00) we took a cab to Corrientes only to find our favorite theater closed for the summer – in spite of having been shown as active in December. We walked to the next theater, which was also closed. Finally we bought tickets for “Agosto,” a well-received play this season in Buenos Aires.

The play was very well acted, and had some (we gather) famous actors in the cast. There was no amplification, making it somewhat difficult to hear all the players. To my dismay, the actor that I best understood died early in the plot. The play received a standing ovation. I personally understood somewhere around 60% of the dialogue. But I felt pretty good to learn that Yoyi didn't understand everything either. In large measure it was for not being able to hear well.

Sandwiches were all we could handle for supper, immediately after the play, at 11:45. How do the Porteños manage with so little sleep?

Acclimation

Wednesday, 12/16/09

The overnight flight was tolerable. Yoyi took an Ambien right after dinner and – after complaining of seeing spots – konked out completely. I don't think she moved from 11:00 until about 4:30 Atlanta time, when the crew began to serve breakfast.

I didn't fall asleep, and I stubbornly refused to take a pill. Instead I eventually sat up and watched movies all night. I saw two delightful movies: “Adam” and “Up.”

We arrived right on time and were met by Leandro's parents. Since we always seem to get into the slowest line, they began to be concerned when we were not exiting from customs with the others on our flight. Finally we came out an had a nice reunion. On the drive from the airport we caught up with each other and got a quick tour of the parts of the city that our route traversed.

We then went to sign in to our rented apartment in Recoleta. One of the reasons I wanted to stay in the particular area was that I was familiar with a nice shopping area right at the corner. When we arrived, the entire building was closed and being remodeled.

Our first day was an ordeal. We checked into our rented apartment only to find out an hour later that there was no water supply. Really! Who would think to check the taps to see if water comes out? In addition, the bathroom smelled of mildew – something that wasn't obvious until you closed yourself in.

We called the agency and demanded to be changed to another apartment, but they said that because of the contract, they must first try to remedy the situation. They would send a cleaning person and a plumber. Hours passed until someone showed up, but it was neither; it was a representative of the owner, who quickly determined that the problem was that the entire building was without water.

Having illustrated that the condition was irremediable, we were given the opportunity to select another apartment so that we could move later in the evening. We found a very nice apartment in a relatively classy section of town for only $25 a week more. This place reflects its neighborhood; it's very clean and comfortable. For those of you in the know, you'll be impressed that it's right next door to the Patio Bulrich, an upscale shopping gallery/mall.

But most of the day was wasted!

In the meantime Gabriel and Sylvia picked us up to stroll around a bit, to help us move, and for dinner. We met up briefly with some other members of Leandro's family, but we'll be seeing more of them next week at the engagement party. After a pleasant evening we arrived back at our new digs at about 11:30, or 23.30 as they say here. We fell into bed, completely used up.

The Three-Legged Race

Tuesday, 12/15/2009

It's a 10+ hour flight from Atlanta direct to Buenos Aires, Argentina, but we'll be in transit for just over 24 hours today. Just because we look for the bargains.

The business class ticket from Atlanta, non-stop, to BA would come to about $3,100 RT. Searching further, I found a 1-stop flight from Miami to BA for $2,200. In order to take advantage of this bargain, we have to fly from Atlanta to Miami in time to catch the first leg of the flight. Since we don't want to risk missing the flight, I left plenty of time to allow for weather delays, not uncommon at this time of year. We left home this morning at 7:30 to be at the airport to catch the 9:37 flight to Miami.

A $900 saving is a bargain I can really appreciate. But wait! The Miami-to-Buenos Aires itinerary includes a change of planes in Atlanta.

We change at Hartsfield-Jackson to the only daily flight from Atlanta to BA – the very same plane on which the $3,100 passengers will be riding. Talk about a differentiated market segment!

So,.... I figure that it's so inefficient to fly us on 3 legs when 1 would suffice. I called Delta (and talked to a supervisor) offering that we would happily pay the full fare we purchased from ATL to MIA and even permit them to re-sell our seats on the ATL-MIA and the MIA-ATL legs; just allow us to board the Buenos Aires flight in Atlanta. That would give Delta 2 additional revenue-generating seats at no cost to them.

Nope, I was told; that would entail a fee for an itinerary change PLUS the difference in fare.

I'm writing this while cooling my heals in the Miami Airport Delta Lounge, waiting for the flight to Atlanta.

Why would you go to Germany?

Being Jewish in Berlin

One of the goals of my travel to Germany was to familiarize myself with the Jewish community. Being successful in this endeavor required some tenacity, as it would in almost any country other than the USA. There's a saying in Yiddish that being Jewish is difficult. Of course, the implication of the saying is that there are so many requirements that Jews must meet.

The most obvious difficulty in Europe is that the security around the synagogue is so heavy that the first few times you show up, you have to plan for a time-consuming grilling before you are admitted. By the time I left Berlin, all the guards at the shul knew me. I began to think of them more as greeters than as guards.

The irony is that, as far as I know, there have been no dangerous incidents at German synagogues since the War, at least no more so than in the US. The potential problem in Germany is not the Germans, but that there is a large, suspect, unassimilated Muslim community. There have been some acts of vandalism in cemeteries and Jewish institutions, but I don't know of any attacks.

Germany, officially even more than culturally and socially, is very welcoming and supportive of Jews and of the Jewish community (Jüdische Gemeinde). Germany has the fastest growing Jewish community outside of Israel. Germany is perhaps Israel's strongest supporter other than the US. Germany may be the only country that requires all school children to participate in a holocaust studies course. Every day, hundreds of German school children are visiting one or another of the historic concentration camps.

When you socialize with the Jews in the synagogue, you learn that almost everyone is an immigrant from eastern Europe. Many of the remainder are from Israel. Some are eastern Europeans who first went to Israel, and then came to Germany afterwards. Every once in a while you'll meet a survivor, or a returnee, or the child of a survivor or returnee. Hebrew and Russian are the predominant languages of conversation among the Jews over 40 years old. The bare fact is that Germany is the best hope for Jews trying to get out of eastern Europe – at least aside from the US.

Younger Jews speak German well. They converse among themselves in German, occasionally resorting to Russian or Hebrew. The rabbi communicates with the congregation in German. He gives his divrei Torah in German (with a thick Israeli accent). Talk about a challenge understanding the nuances of Pirkei Avot, when you have to determine if he's speaking Hebrew, German, or Yiddish.

There's no such thing as a conservative shul, as we know it, in Germany. There are Masorti congregations, but they are, for the most part, very liberal. The typical synagogue in Germany, the home and birthplace of Reform Judaism, has an abbreviated service – when they have services at all, and many of the trappings of Reform. Some have an organ; some have a choir, usually not Jewish; some inconsistently have separate seating; most are egalitarian. The only alternative to Liberal is what we would call Orthodox. (Actually, another option is Chabad.) There is one Orthodox synagogue in Berlin; other than Chabad, it's the only one that has daily services and Shabbat afternoon services.

The service at the orthodox shul is very similar to ours at Congregation SI. The sanctuary is cavernous, and without a microphone, it is sometimes difficult to understand, given the reverberations and the noise level of those conversing instead of davening. They use some distinct melodies, but some are the same. The entire service is led by a chazan, who also reads Torah. Of course, men and women sit separately. There is no common siddur, but since one edition outnumbers others, the rabbi occasionally mentions a page in that siddur, if we do something off path, like the omer. There was a paperback siddur with German translations, but the only other translated siddur was the Artscroll Russian edition. I saw no translated Chumash.

People that come to services at the orthodox shul are not uniformly religious. This is especially true on the regular Friday evenings when college students attend. In fact, orthodox Judaism appears to be attractive to non-Jews as well.

At the shul, out of the regular 40 or 50 Shabbat attendees, I met about 5 or 6 who are converts. In addition, I met another handful who are at various stages of conversion, somewhere between thinking about it and having done considerable learning. The converts are usually German young people from Protestant (in German: Evangelische) families. One young man told me that he had been active in the church as a lay minister.

I asked why a German would ever want to become an orthodox Jew. All said that it has to do with the belief system. I also asked if it were realistic to expect to find a Jewish woman to date or to marry. They all said that, while it isn't easy, they had every expectation of success.

I had trouble socializing with the Jews of my age, as most of them spoke almost no English, and spoke German with accents that made if difficult for me to understand. I was able to socialize with a small number (one couple my age, and several younger individuals), and we had nice conversations about Jewish life in Berlin, and about more general topics as well. I was interested to learn that there is no German kosher symbol. Only certain imported foods, mostly from Scandinavia or France, have any symbol indicating kashrut. Among German products, the orthodox rabbis have compiled a list of prepared foods that are acceptable. One goes shopping with the list in hand. In Berlin there is one kosher meat distributor, who sells meat brought in frozen from Holland or France.

While walking – with kippah on my head -- along the sidewalk on one of Berlin's main streets, one of my companions mentioned to me that the police recommend not wearing a kippah in public. One is advised to wear some other kind of hat to minimize the likelihood of being a target. I don't know if I view that as paranoia, but I do view it as irony. The four of us discussing that subject were walking along the boulevard: I wore my kippah; two of the others were dressed normally, but had tzitzit hanging down; the fourth, with long curled sideburns, was wearing the sort of “standard” orthodox Shabbat garb of black suit and felt hat, also with tzitzit (we were going to have a beer, motzei Shabbat, immediately after havdalah).

Dreaming in German

The first night back from my trip I dreamed for the first time entirely in German. The subject of the dream seems to have been responsibility. Details are, of course, fuzzy the morning after.

The dream dealt with witnessing a mugging. I don't recall if it was an actual mugging or a theoretical discussion. A vicious, intimidating mugger beat up someone while one or more people looked on. The ensuing discussion, involving witnesses and other parties, revolved around the witnesses, not the mugger. My recollection of the discussion is that it took place in a legal setting, like a court or in an investigation.

One side of the discussion said that the situation was so fearful for the witnesses, that they were intimidated into inaction, fearing that the mugger would turn on them. The mugger seemed to them to be capable of doing them great harm if they exposed themselves in that fashion.

The other side said that the witnesses had a responsibility to confront the mugger to get him to stop. The proponents of this argument were divided into two groups: One held that the witnesses should have taken direct action to thwart the mugger's designs. The other argued that the witnesses should have used non-violent means – reasoning, deception, whatever – to get the mugger to stop.

I was surprised, thinking back on my dream, that there was nobody who said, “It's not my problem,” or “The victim deserved it,” or “The victim wouldn't have done anything for me, if I had been victimized.” I have no doubt that a separate set of witnesses would have included people with one or more of these points of view.

I recall the nearly unanimous opinion of the participants that intervention would have been appropriate, even among the witnesses. There was an assignment of a measure of guilt to the witnesses, due to their failure to intervene, even in the face of great mortal danger to themselves.

Even in a cloudy state of consciousness when I awoke in the middle of the night, I saw that this dream was an allegory on the Holocaust.

Oh, and by the way....

Some General Observations

Buildings and Architecture

Berlin was largely destroyed in the War. As a result, the buildings that existed before the Wall came down (in 1989) belong to three types: 1) a few old buildings that were habitable with some repairs, 2) completely new (think 1950 – 1960) buildings, and 3) buildings that were reconstructed to look like the buildings that used to be there (primarily palaces and some government buildings). Some of the new buildings, especially in the West, were designed by important architects of that time period. Most of the buildings in the east were designed according to the socialist workers' concepts of monumental (or at least big) and poor quality.

Since the Wall was removed along with the “no-man's land and mine fields, valuable property became available in what had been, historically, the very middle of the city. The center of the city, Pariser Platz, right in front of the Brandenburg Gate at the beginning of the avenue Unter den Linden again became a focal point. The Reichstag building right around the corner was rehabilitated to be the seat of the German Bundestag (parliament). The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is just down the street. Potsdamer Platz, a subject of other blog postings, is completely new with shining buildings and eye-popping architecture.

In addition, they are now replacing, among a few other old buildings, the city palace of the Prussian kings. They are placing this new construction on the completely empty lot where it stood until bombs destroyed it in the war. The East German government had razed it and replaced it with an ugly government building, now removed.

Much like Washington DC or like the imperial parts of Paris, Berlin has broad avenues. In fact, there are almost no narrow lanes like one might see in old European cities. Roads are not in a grid, and it's hard to get your bearings, but most of the roads are wide and accommodating. Distances are relatively long between sites, like in Washington.

There are signs at most corners specifying which direction and how far the closest 3 to 6 sites may be found.

Ground Water

Throughout the city you see huge, usually blue, overhead pipes 8 to 12 inches in diameter spanning streets and following streets. These pipes often have traffic signs attached to them where they cross a street. I wondered what they were. In a city that has only underground electrical wires, cable TV, and phone lines, why would they have these obtrusive, above-ground things that look like water mains?

Turns out that the water table in Berlin is only inches below the ground. Historically, when buildings were small, this was not a problem. In fact, buildings hundreds of years ago until the beginning of the 20th Century usually had wooden foundations. The high water table actually acted to preserve these foundations, sometimes for centuries.

Once they started building sky-scrapers (such a building is called a Hochhaus, or high house), they could not pour concrete foundations with all the ground water in the way. They had to pipe it out, and that's what those huge pipes are all about. Anywhere there is a construction site in the vicinity is likely to have such pipes sticking out of the ground. I don't know what happens when the construction is done. Since I don't see such pipes around Potsdamer Platz, for example, I assume they are removed.

In the meantime, the little houses with wooden foundations suffer rotting foundations.

Jewish Day School

There are a couple of Jewish day schools in town. Perhaps the most successful is Chabad's. At the orthodox shul I frequented, very few kids show up. At Chabad many more come to services. The really gratifying turnout is the attendance by college students, about every other week at the Chabad and alternating weeks at the orthodox shul.

Buying Domestic Cars

In Germany 8 of 10 cars are German cars. Other than them, you see Toyotas and Hyudais, an occasional Suzuki, and that's about it. One is compelled to ask, “How do domestic cars compete with Japanese cars?” I haven't studied the tariff structures, but you can be sure that Germans are buying cars that are fuel efficient, as the price of gas is between 150% and 200% of the price in the US, largely due to taxation.

In addition, Berlin has a designated “Umweltzone” (Environmental Zone) within the S-Bahn perimeter. Cars must carry a sticker to be permitted entry into that zone.

Economic Crisis

Everyone blames the US for the crisis in which we find ourselves these days. It's not as bad in Germany as in the US, but layoffs are increasing. The government has an almost universal safety net. Some people fall through, but for the most part, people don't seem to be losing their homes and don't seem to be homeless in general. By the way, religious and social organizations as well as the government itself provides support for the homeless. You see almost no homeless on the streets. As in any big city, you do see a some panhandling and some people performing for donations on the street or in the subway.

Interest rates, though, look a lot better than in the US. While it's hard to find an account these days in the States paying more than 3% (and that's difficult), I've seen numerous banks paying 4.35% and more – for savings accounts.

Home again home again, jiggedy jog...

Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Abflug

Got up earlier than my alarm, finished packing, and went to breakfast early. I took the 109 bus to the airport. Luckily, I boarded near the beginning of the route, as it was standing room only by the time we got to the airport.

Check-in was a little bumpy, as my ticket was under my middle name and therefore didn't match my passport. I'm usually careful about that, and thought I had been specifically careful about it. I think the problem is that my Skymiles account automatically filled out my ticket information. I'll have to change my account so that it's in my first name.

Furthermore, I set off the body scanner, as did almost everyone. Even the titanium in my ankle beeped when they did a manual scan. But shortly it's off to home and family.

My seat-mate was a Polish lady who spoke neither German nor English. Good news is that I was not bothered or annoyed by a talkative neighbor. Bad news: I couldn't practice German (or English). By the way, none of the reading lamps worked in the airplane.

The flight to Atlanta was not as stress-free. After sitting on the tarmac for 45 minutes, waiting for our turn to take off, the pilot announced that we were going back to the gate because something was wrong. We would stay in the plane, he said, while technicians looked at things. After a half hour or so, we were advised that we would be deplaning and taking another to Atlanta. We waited in the terminal for a little while when we were told that we could get back on the same plane, as the problem had been resolved.

We boarded again and were shortly told that we would have to get off the plane, because the problem had not, in fact, been resolved. We sat in the terminal for another stretch while things were moved from the first plane to another plane, and eventually, about 3 hours after our original boarding time, we boarded the new plane. The lady I had now helped three times to stow her carry-on asked if I had had a nice dinner. When I looked quizzically, she asked, “You didn't get a meal voucher?” I had not even thought of asking for a voucher. She is apparently experienced in delays. She claims that every flight she has ever been on was delayed.

Arriving at home in Atlanta after 11:00 PM, I had finally been on the go for 22 hours and in planes and airports for 19 hours. But it's good to be home.

I'll be posting some additional information that I found interesting tomorrow and following days.

One last time

Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Winding it up

Today, my last day in Berlin, I spent my time doing a final “walk-through.” I made sure that I saw all the locations I had meant to see. I walked my legs off, again. And I assured myself that I knew where things are and how to get there. In particular I walked through the Gendarmenmarkt, Nikolaiviertel, the area around Oranienburger Tor and the shops in that neighborhood, and Alexanderplatz.

There were a few places I didn't see on this visit. The inside of most synagogues are not accessible except for Shabbat services. I didn't particularly want to go to a different synagogue each week, so I saw only two synagogues. The Gemeinde is housed in the so-called New Synagogue on Oranienburgerstr,, where it maintains a museum, which I didn't visit. Only one synagogue, according to the Jüdischen Gemeinde, has visiting hours for tourists, for which they charge an admission fee. In addition, I didn't visit the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, which is, ironically, located in Oranienburg, north of the city.

After walking around one of the historic districts, I went back the LOXX miniatures exhibit, so that I could take more photos. Again I'll say the place is amazing. I think I liked it more than most of the other exhibit/museum places I visited.

I walked Unter den Linden again, and I made a point to stop at the Singakadamie (Sing-Akademie zu Berlin), now the Gorki Theater, where several important musical figures either presented or premiered works.

I took a few hours out of the middle of the day to pack, since I will be leaving relatively early tomorrow morning. Since I had walked so much and taken so many pictures, I also had to download the pictures to free up space on the memory card and charge the battery.

In the evening I went to a Recital Night at the Hochschule für Musik (Music University), where students would be playing selections. When I got there, the program was posted on the door, and it looked interesting. Only when I was seated and had time to review the program more thoroughly did I notice that the first player was in the “2. Kl,” which I figured out means second grade. The last student on the program was in the first year of college.

Nevertheless, I stayed and was not disappointed. The kids played some really demanding music, including Wieniewski, Lalo, and Prokofiev. I'll provide the program to anyone who wants to see it. Even the second grader played completely in tune, with vibrato, position shifts, double stops, and good bow control. At the end I asked the teacher if these kids were studying after school or somehow as a specialty. He confirmed that they do a normal school program up to their graduation, and study and practice in addition to that.

After the concert, I thought I would go to a kneipe (bar/joint) recommended by one of my German teachers. When I got there, it was empty; after all, it was only 9:00. So, instead, I went into an Indian restaurant next door for dinner. With a final stop at Potsdamer platz to try to get some night-time pictures, I made my way back to the hotel.

There was a WWII picture on one of the channels. I joined it in progress; it was about a deportation train and was in German. I tried watching it, but either my mind was too cluttered or I was too tired; I couldn't follow the dialog at all. I eventually turned it off and went to sleep. I don't know the name of the film.

Past and present antisemitism

Monday, May 11, 2009
Wannsee

On last night's news program, the weather lady said that it would be mostly sunny on Monday and Tuesday and partly cloudy on Wednesday. It rained all day today. I went out this morning without a jacket and not carrying an umbrella. I got a half a kilometer away when I felt my first drop of rain and noticed that it was really too cold to be going without a jacket. I turned around and picked up my backpack with jacket and umbrella.

I used the regional Bahn (instead of the S-Bahn) to get to Wannsee this morning. The area is a picturesque community on the edge of a large lake (“See,” pronounced “zay,” means “lake.”) It has been a leisure destination for Berliners for at least a century.

Max Lieberman, perhaps the most important modern artist in Germany, built a villa on lake shore at the beginning of the 20th century. It was here that he painted and sketched a large proportion of his life's output.

After spending a while at the house, I walked 5 minutes to quite a different site. Just down the same street is the house where the infamous Wannsee Conference took place during the holocaust. The house presents a thorough history of the Nazis' treatment of Jews and highlights the meeting, at which the Endlösung (final solution) was planned, organized, and documented.

The meeting resulted in a huge manual describing the responsibilities of every department of government and how they were to carry them out. The idyllic setting belies the barbarity of the result of the meeting.

Gathering my wits about me, I started back to Berlin.

When I got back to the city, I went to the Apothecary. I had gotten just about to the end of my store of medicines that I take regularly. The pharmacist said that he could get them for me by today. I calculated how much money I would need in Euros; I exchanged just enough; and I went over to buy the medications. It's much less expensive here than in the US.

As it turns out, I exchanged too much money. I had counted the number of dollars I would need, and accidentally exchanged enough money to have that number of Euros.

I can't think of anything that Berlin would have that would do for a souvenir. Could I suggest a plastic Brandenburg Gate? A bag with Berlin written all over it? A chocolate bear? I wasn't going to get anything for anybody; usually, when people bring me a remembrance from a far-off place, it's something that's pretty meaningless.

But I was browsing through a “dollar” store and found the perfect recollection of Berlin. I've mentioned to everyone at one time or another, when eating nuts mixed with raisins that, among the university students I lived with 42 years ago, this mixture is called Studentenfutter (student feed, as in chicken feed or horse feed). There, staring at me from one of the bins were bags of Studentenfutter. I had to buy this as my souvenir from Berlin.

This evening I decided to patronize one of the kosher restaurants, The restaurant has a relatively limited menu as it serves no meat. I ended up having a veggie burger with a nice glass of beer on tap. As I was sitting there nursing the remaining beer, one of the young fellows I see at synagogue walked in, so I invited him to sit with me. We had a nice conversation during which I learned that he is a convert. We talked about being Jewish, about finding a Jewish girl to marry, about keeping kosher, and about his job as an IT professional.

We rushed to minyan and everyone was pleased to see us, since 5 minutes late they still had not gotten a minyan. After quickly davening, I chatted with a couple of the friends that I had made, and we took some pictures. I looked for the shammas and gave him a donation for the synagogue.

I went back to the hotel to update my blog, but I also wanted to see a TV program on antisemitism that had been promoted yesterday during the news. The program was not bad and started by talking about European episodes of antisemitism and the background for them. Most of the rest of the program was abouut current Muslim antisemitism, about how most Muslims are taught and believe the “Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” how the libels are promulgated in theater, films, and on TV, and how perfectly normal, intelligent-looking people justify it.

Aristocrats and asparagus

Sunday, May 10, 2009
The summer palace

With my weekly pass, I can use not only the city's public transport, but also the national railway, as long as I stay within the boundaries of the card that I purchased. It takes about 45 minutes to get to Potsdam by S-Bahn, but only 25 by regional train.

I caught the next regional train and experienced a really wonderful ride. Trains run to Potsdam every half hour. On their way to a town farther west. Regional train traffic is busy, with frequent service to just about anywhere you might want to go.

The regional trains are “double decked,” Sitting in the upper deck gives a nice outlook onto the passing countryside. Seats are comfortable, similar to those in commuter jets, but without the ability to recline. The ride is unbelievably quiet.

I had tried to get out early, since I have to be back, at Martin's house, by around 6:00 for dinner. Not entirely successful in that endeavor, I was on the train at 9:17 and in Potsdam by about 9:45.

There were huge crowds at the bus stop at the Potsdam Hauptbahnhof. The first bus that came filled up completely, leaving scores of people on the platform. I asked the driver before he closed the door if any other route goes to the palace, and he directed me to the 965, due in about 7 minutes.

I was surprised at how far it is from the Hauptbahnhof to the city center. Usually the train station – especially in small towns – is at or near the city center. The bus route went through the center and out the other side of town to reach the Sanssouci palace grounds. I found the ticket office, and I bought a day pass to all the palace holdings. I knew I wouldn't see everything, but it would still be more cost-effective to buy this admission.

They give appointments to enter the palace, since the numbers are so large. My admission was scheduled for about 10 minutes later.

I took my audio guide in German again. I guess that I understand 80% of the lecture. I stop the recording occasionally to look up a word that I can't figure out from context. Waiting for my turn I strolled the perimeter. The “front lawn” of the Sanssouci palace is a Weinberg (literally: wine hill/mountain). Freidrich the Great was a wine lover and connoisseur, and he had a wine cellar that held hundreds of bottles of wine from all over, including his own vineyard.

The Germans call a vineyard “Weinberg” because in Germany all vineyards are on the south-facing slopes of hills. It's too cold to grow grapes in Germany if they don't take full advantage of the sun in that fashion.

The floors of most of the palaces I saw today were not covered with carpets to protect them from traffic. Instead, visitors are required to wear felt slippers to avoid damaging the floors. There are floors of wood and of marble. Some of the marble floors have beautiful inlaid designs of multiple-colored marble. Frederick was from Schlesin (Silesia) where marble is produced, and he wanted to show his solidarity with the homeland.

One of the rooms of the new palace was unique in its wall decoration. All the walls and much of the ceiling and many columns were made of inlaid shells of oysters, mussels, and snails. The mother-of-pearl radiance was impressive, and the sheer number of shells and the designs that were made of them was a sight.

Friedrich der Grosse (Frederick the Great) was close with contemporary artists and thinkers. He was a patron of the arts, a musician and composer, and (for a monarch of his time) a relatively liberal thinker. Voltaire spent considerable time at the Sanssouci palace as a guest. In particular the two of them would play word games. Here is an example of a coded message that Freddy sent Voltaire one day:

P		6
--	à	-----
à		100

Read it with your best French accent:

À sous P à cent sous six
(A under P at 100 under six)

If you said it right, it would have sounded more or less like:

“à souper à Sanssouci”
or, in other words the king was inviting Voltaire:
“To dine at the palace”

In case you don't remember what I said on previous occasions: I think it would be nice if these European palaces would show how the servants lived, what they did, where they hung out waiting for the lords and ladies to ring the bell, how they ate, how they prepared food or made clothes. At least in the US, when you visit a nobleman's palace (like Mt. Vernon) you get to see the slaves' quarters, and there's a docent who tells you about the slaves lives. At Williamsburg or Agrirama, the whole town functions much as it might have 250 or 150 years ago, respectively – albeit without the diphtheria, infant mortality, or potential starvation and on an 8-hour workday.

So Yoyi called me while I was touring the palace today, and while we were on the phone, I noticed a couple take a picture of themselves using the timer on their camera. That was a forehead-slapping moment; I had not remembered to do that for my entire trip. Do I feel dumb? By the way, did I mention how nice it is to get a call from my lovely wife?

It was getting late, so I rushed over to the site of the Potsdam conference of Stalin, Churchill, and Truman in 1945. It was at that conference that the victorious powers created a modern Germany and divided up the responsibility of overseeing it. It was to be united, but with 4-power (add France) oversight. It took only a couple of years before the Soviets made their zone a people's paradise. Then in 1948 they blockaded Berlin for 15 months, and the US mounted a massive airlift effort to bring everything, down to the everyday requirements like heating coal, saving the city from disaster.

This year they will celebrate the 60th anniversary of the end of the airlift. Coincidentally, they are also celebrating the 20th anniversary of the tearing down of the Berlin Wall.

Well, I didn't time my visit as perfectly as I had planned; I had to rush through the little palace where the meeting had taken place. I was unable to get on the return train at 5:00, which would have been just right. Instead, I had to take the train a half hour later, and that's exactly how late I arrived at Martin's. I called Martin from the streetcar to advise him that I was running a little late. Then to add insult, the connecting streetcar pulled away as we were approaching the transfer station. Sascho and Regina were just coming at the time I showed up; with them was the young man we had met in their garden on our previous visit to Berlin. (I have been reminded that it was 4 years ago.)

Sascho and Regina brought a bottle of Bulgarian wine for me to take home; he is Bulgarian, as I may have previously mentioned. Martin made a huge serving bowl of white asparagus. It's asparagus season in Germany, and everyone goes crazy for it. The farmers make dirt berms around the asparagus plants so that they never emerge into the light, and they stay white. If you ever get the chance to have these delicacies (especially here) you will understand why they love this time of year.

At the end of dinner, the three from across the street bid me farewell. Martin and I talked for another half hour or so, and then I said goodbye and left until the next time either they come to the States or I come back to Berlin.