Associations with Evita and tango are inescapable, but an unusual way to explore the vast and historic city of Buenos Aires is by bike.  We were escorted by four handsome young men through the many alleyways and back streets of downtown Buenos Aires, and past the dubious outskirts of Boca into Caminito.

In this manner, one gets to experience life in the shoes of a local, with the Bart Simpson posters, back-to-back corner shops selling alfajores, the smell of freshly prepared empanadas wafting up through the narrow streets and assailing nostrils.

Why you should go there: tango shoes, beef, very good-looking locals

Adventure worthy attraction: Bike tour of the city!  Ferry to Colonia, Uruguay, excursion to an estancia (ranch) outside the city, Recoleta (Evita’s cemetery)

Details

We left our hotel, the Hotel Melia in Buenos Aires by foot. There were 21 of us, a group of largely hung over, sleep deprived and generally exhausted MBA students.

Our bodies were not adjusting well to the chill of Buenos Aires after the warmth of Copacabana Beach, or to the flu that had gripped a substantial portion of the group. The plan was to walk over to the city center where we would meet the cool cats who run a bicycling tour of Buenos Aires.

We ambled carelessly past touristy Calle Florida where leather hawkers stood in clumps of three to four, where sale signs littered the windows of the glitzy retailers, and where you can get some of the best Freddo (Argentine ice cream) in such flavors as dulce de leche and walnut.

After a few missed turns here and there, we ended up on the north side of Plaza (“Plaasha” in Argentine Spanish) General San Martin. A small stream of bicycles awaited us, and aside these, four fashionably disheveled young men. When instructed, we immediately self-selected into two groups of about 12-13 persons each. A guide would lead each group and a secondary guide would form the rear to ensure slackers and laggards (and other physically challenged persons such as yours truly) were guarded from the horrors of urban Argentina.

Self selection was easy. It took several of us gals less than two seconds to select into the group that would be bounded by gorgeous, hunky Esteban, but it took some more time to choose our actual mounts. I had the added challenge of finding something to accommodate my short stature, but the deed was surprisingly done without fuss.

Our guides provided helmets, pulled out screwdrivers, righted seats, aired up tires and began to discuss our activities for the next three hours. Selecting a Bike My experience with bikes is limited.

Last year I bought a stately 10-speed Giant that has since been blanketed in dust in my garage as Chicago’s winter cast its evil spell on the environment. The Giant was custom sized a la moi, which meant that on the rare occasion I actually rode it around my quiet leafy neighborhood, I felt very much in control and rather safe. This occasion was something else altogether. The rickety, infirm bike I was given looked much like a donkey that’s been flogged too much. The brakes felt rusty and there was no horn, no bell, nothing that might advise pedestrians about my potential for ramming into them at full out-of-control speed. However, under the dark and mysterious gaze of the lovely Esteban it was easy to act brave. I mounted the bike and ignored the discomfort of the seat, the fact that my feet barely touched the ground, and the fact that I was obviously one of the least athletic persons on the trip.

Onwards

Single file my group took leave of the Plaza and made its way towards the same church in which Evita was once married. Our trip involved some road-sharing, and aside from almost getting run over by a smoking cab driver, I was generally able to follow the bonnie bicyclists.

The little church was delightful, and we got a little history about the Argentine elite as we huddled outside the entrance. It is in the most expensive part of town and has historically been used only by very select families (always reassuring to know that exclusion and snobbery are universal).

A little eco-sanctuary beckoned next, and we juggled our way past traffic lights to get there. My heart sank as I saw the tall grasses and general wildness of the place. This is the sort of place I am convinced snakes the world over love to hide in before slithering up to innocent, juicy female specimens such as myself before dealing the final, painful strike. I was infinitely thankful then, when I heard that the sanctuary was too muddy from all the rainfall. If I knew how to genuflect, I would have genuflected right there and then.

Pigeon Murder

We committed pigeon murder by the sanctuary. It wasn’t intentional, at least, I hope not. The assassins were one Mike White and one Tony Barker. Two ordinary blokes in whom such pointless violence would not have been suspected - but as I’m sure many detectives and people in the world of dark crime will tell you, one never knows.

It may have been the smell of the carne asado – the grilled Argentine beef – that brought out the red blooded rage in Mike and Tony. The sidewalk was lined with stalls from which the scent of glorious, forbidden, doubtlessly swine-flu ridden meat wafted upwards. I found myself getting a little dizzy and not even Esteban’s gorgeous, shy smile could have directed my attention away from those little vendors.

Our bikes were rolling forward at a steady pace when we heard a thud and a squeal and someone shouted “you killed it!” Now, in normal circumstances upon hearing those words, in that order, one would stop, right? Nope, not us ruthless Kelloggians. We rode on. And from somewhere within the group news of the murder spread.

Tony had run over a pigeon, followed by Mike who neatly finished off the job. Feathery wheels. Giggling. A squeal or two. Poor pigeon. Vicious, cruel race of Northwestern University students that we are, we laughed it off and continued on to Puerto Madero and the Bridge of the Women.

The Bridge of the Women

Puerto Madero is like many upscale port areas, flanked by ritzy restaurants and overlooking lovely specimens of the boating variety. There is a stretch of long wooden planks that line the boardwalk, and we rode over these with glee, the thrill of the pigeon hunt still in our souls. Puerto Madero is also the spot from which one departs to get to Uruguay by boat. It's an old port that has since been gentrified and made upscale by the addition of high-end retail and fine dining.

We stopped at the Bridge of the Women, a lovely footbridge designed by Santiago Calatrava who seemed to favor cantilevered bridges above all others. This particular Puente spans dock 3 and is notable for its resemblance to a tipsy harp. All five girls in the group got off and had a picture taken in front of this bridge. We were hoping by doing so Esteban might actually notice that we were, in fact, women. He didn’t.

Boca and Mate

Have you ever tried Yerba maté? It is god awful. I mean, it is serious, absolute pig slime. Knowing this, knowing I think it’s the wormiest of all drinks, I nevertheless took the communal maté cup from classmate Tim as we stopped in colorful Boca for a little rest.

Now Boca is that place with all the colorful pictures that one sees in write ups of Argentina. It’s actually a rather yucky neighborhood, enlivened by the presence of a few streets of very bright, very colorful houses and shops in the Caminito subsection.

My belief is that some nutty young Argentinian woke up one cold September day and decided to spend his last few pesos on the most garish paint he could find, and then threw up the paint all over the houses of his neighborhood. The result, Caminito.

Surprisingly, though, it is rather charming. It’s like Walt Disney on some kind of crack, but it has its own draw and no trip to Argentina is complete without it. My last trip to Argentina was over twenty years ago, but I still remember Boca and Caminito. If you’re the sort who has money, expect to spend some in Boca, for there abound tourist traps galore. All the shops carry the little rodochrosita, a pretty pink stone that is supposed to be uniquely Argentinian (it’s not, you can get it in Peru). The shelves are lined with leather goods and a number of other tchotchkes that one can find anywhere south of the US border but which assume a new charm when you see them in Argentina.

I huddled with some of the group as they prepared and passed around yerba maté and the incomparable alfajores, the Argentine dessert that haunts your dreams for decades. The maté was awful, but then again, what should I have expected? Some of the people professed to like it, but I am sure these were the same ones who were swine-fluish or whose hangovers had not really ended.

All the girls wanted to talk with Esteban, and many pictures were taken. At this stage we were beyond the stage of pretending to be shy, submissive damsels. We were obvious, we were loud, we were quintessentially American. Hallelujah!

A Russian Return

Our return entailed going past the Casa Rosa (governmental building) and a few famous plazas (tango, Martin etc) and past the city center where the mothers of the Disappeared still protest, in search of answers. I shed my own tears, however, before we got to this point. There was this hill, you see. A big, ugly hill. Hills are generally hideous enough on their own, but compound this hideosity with tired legs, unpracticed in the art of bicycle maintenance, and you have yourself the makings of a tragedy.

My problem was summed up in two very dangerous words: peer pressure. I was at this point in the journey lagging behind the group. Part of this was intentional, since Esteban was within spitting distance, but part of this was due to sheer out-of-shapedness.

Pigeon killers, Mike and Tony, whizzed up the hill, followed by a number of other young bucks. I took one look at the hill and almost threw up. How the hell was I supposed to ride up that thing in one go? And what if Esteban saw me roll backwards? What could be more embarrassing?

Riding up a hill involves two things: Madness and Intent. I knew that I possessed both in generous quantities, so I changed my gears to the lowest possible setting, felt my wheels get loosy goosy under me, and puffed upwards, affording Esteban a good view of my ample posterior.

When I got to the top of the hill, I pretended to be interested in a rather plain lamp post – anything to avoid the group seeing how out of breath I was. Do you remember those cartoons when the coyote hangs over the edge of a cliff, his tongue lolling about, his eyes flecked with strange red circles, as he huffs and puffs? That, dear reader, was how I felt.

Thanks to my age-induced asthma issues, I didn’t immediately see the lovely Russian Orthodox Church that guarded the city-side. It (the Church) is seldom used, there being no more Russians in Argentina, but the building remains a beacon, a reminder of Argentina’s glory days. Beautiful, incongruous.

Tango Square

We rode back through narrow streets and along the part of the city where Bart Simpson seems to dominate newsstands (don’t ask). By biking we came away with a better understanding of the city than any we would have garnered from days spent exploring the city by taxi. We also got to practice our Spanish on Esteban, have guilt-free alfajores and savor some really disgusting local tea. Lessons learned: There is nothing like biking through a city to get to know the lay of the land.

Biking a city also tells you much about its residents. Are they the sort of people who tolerate the occasional tourist whose bicycle stalls traffic as she clutches his toes in pain from stubbing it into the uneven, cobbled sidewalks? Argentina was a most gracious biking host even to this pathetically uncoordinated cyclist.

So my dears, if Argentina beckons, give the bike tour a try. You’ll come away hungering for more.

HKV