I lived around the corner from a sushi place in Buenos Aires that I loved. Every conversation I ever had in there felt like the loudest I’d ever been. It was a muted orange box of a restaurant that impressed the virtues of the avocado upon me in ways that seem impossible to replicate in this hemisphere. This is, I know, a function of nostalgia. The food is probably not that good. But thinking about it made my mouth water, and when I finished my project today and wanted to celebrate, I ordered Japanese takeout from the sushi place up the street here, because it would have to do. And it was completely underwhelming, even though I’m pretty sure it tasted exactly the same.
I knew this would happen. I told you it would. The last post on my blog with the tag buenos-aires is from September 20, 2016. I haven’t let myself think about it since then. I don’t have an Argentine accent anymore. I overcorrect my ll sounds. They have all the spittle of a stage actor trying too hard to sound dignified. I’ve filed over a hundred and fifty new articles to the folder where I keep all my notes from the thesis I turned in two years ago and I haven’t read a single one.
I’m returning to Buenos Aires in two weeks and I seriously doubt I will be having the sushi.
What I keep waiting for is the puente. In Cortázar’s stories there’s always a puente. The pane of aquarium glass across which the man becomes the axolotl and the axolotl becomes the man. The bridge in Budapest where the women embrace and change bodies. The man brandishes the knife over a man reading a book about a man brandishing a knife over a man reading a book. The camera lens. You know, the sushi.
I blame all that back-and-forth across the Potomac. It got me used to the idea that I could switch bodies when I needed to, occupy two different worlds in a day. That rhythm of wet summers and sticky dress shoes makes anything seem possible. If there was ever a city of puentes it is the one I call home. We make an art, there, of making ourselves, and switching as we need to. So yes, I want my Argentine accent back. I want Avenida Libertador done right this time.
But I’ve got a vuelo, not a puente, and I’ve renewed my lease in Charlottesville.
Whatever this is, it’s going to be different.
All of which is to say I feel bad for wasting the sushi, and I’m still hungry.
La Boca is a neighbourhood in the Argentinian capital of Buenos Aires. It is most famous for its colourful houses and soccer team Boca Juniors. Tourists flock to the famous Caminito walkway, to see displays of street tango and by tango related souvenirs.
The beginning or end of the world? – Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego – HAVANA CLUB GAP YEAR
This question sounds like a religious question, but it’s completely the opposite; I visited Tierra del Fuego in Argentina, this is one of the southernmost cities in the world, and it was beautiful. I have to say that being there and realizing that I was in the place that I called ‘where south can’t be more south’.
Beautiful landscapes, camping places and a place for adventurous people, 3 ½ hours from Buenos Aires by plane (yes, it’s far but beautiful), there are many hotels and B&B around.
The place I stayed in Ushuaia was incredible, I felt at home at this place, the food was outstanding and I couldn’t stop laughing because Elsa and Jorge, the owners are hilarious, warm and beautiful. Address: Elsa y Jorge Lodge
12 de Octubre 1335, Ushuaia 9410, Argentina
One funny thing I found in Ushuaia is that everything is the “southernmost” and we would joke about everything “southernmost” such as a trash bin, - the southernmost trash bin in the world – and you can use it with anything.
I just hope you can answer the question and also enjoy the pictures.
- Julián -
Then, you start thinking why do they call it the end of the world?