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The shopping areas like Florentine street in Buenos Aires are replete with souvenir shops beside those selling fine leather goods, a by-product of Argentina’s huge beef industry. Individual ornate memorials pay tribute to those interred in the dark and narrow vaults, some of them stretching deep down to accommodate several catacombs. We were approaching as the wealthy district of Ricoletta, that houses the famous cemeteries where Evita Peron’s remains have found a final resting place. I look at the yellow and pink flower-speckled trees whose trunks are shaped like bottles.
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“Those are drunk trees,� said Laura, pointing to the clutch of trees in the Palermo district, the Beverly Hills of Buenos Aires. A guided tour took us through the highpoints of the 500-year-old city. When we finished, the entire crowd broke out into appreciative applause, while we stood, flushed but happy with the effort. Though we couldn’t stop giggling, we had the time of our lives, contorting our bodies into those impossible movements. Soon, we were inevitably drawn to the dance floor, and ended up having a go at the tango with an elderly porteno (native of Buenos Aires). One error of judgement and the woman’s stilettos would surely stab the man in strategic places — but of course, that didnn’t happen. My sisters and I watched, fascinated, as the pair expertly navigated the makeshift dance floor, pausing, kicking, sliding, and swooning, in perfectly choreographed sensuous movements. But once it caught the fancy of the romantic Parisians, it gained a new and stylish form, returning to a resurgent Buenos Aires in its new and alluring avatar. It eventually wound up in brothels and bars as an erotic dance number. The tango, with its rich mixed parentage, was born in the suburbs of Buenos Aires where the scores of immigrants pouring in from Spain, Italy and Cuba made their homes. The tango traces its origins to the Cuban habanera, the rhythmic candombes of African slaves, the molongas of the gauchos and immigrant Italian music. At a clearing, a couple was dancing the tango with gay abandon. The items on sale ranged from a complete silver tea service to bottle stoppers, hairpins and bracelets fashioned out of old coins. The kiosks were flooded with odds and ends, mostly antiques. Getting off the coach, we were quickly engulfed in the hustle and bustle of the Plaza Dorrego Sunday flea market. Vying with real life were artistic creations in water and oil colours, labours of love of the many street artists peddling their ware on Caminito street. The material used was mostly tin, and with curious children leaning out of the windows, it was as though we’d somehow gained entry into a life-size modernistic painting. But soon, my attention was drawn to the quaint, bright, multi-coloured buildings lining the cobbled streets of Caminito: The houses were a riot of colours, peppered with graffiti. I wondered how three words in Spanish could convey so much.
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The country was in the grips of a currency crisis, but it meant that the US dollars we were carrying would buy us more pesos than it would have, otherwise. “But the president is doing all he can, poor man,� she hastens to add, looking at the expression of horror on my face. It says, “Duhalde, you’re dishonest, we’d like to put you against the wall and shoot you!� Laura, our guide, translated for us. Duhalde: Tra-idor Al Pare-don!� scream-ed a handwritten poster displayed on the rear window of a gleaming Mer-cedes right in front of our coach, as we were driving through the colourful La Boca area in the historic but bohemian San Telmo district of Buenos Aires.