Buenos Aires Part III: Just a coffee

On one side, there was a bustling street market, and on the other, a contingent of families gathered with mate and empanadas as their children chased one another around the playground. Max and I found refuge on the grass under the shade of a gum tree to recuperate from our 15-kilometer escapade. 

We had left around 11 a.m. for a coffee, but now it's nearly 4 p.m. in Eva Duarte de Perón Park. I was wondering how we had even gotten here in the first place.

How we got there: 

It was Saturday, and I had just moved to a new hostel outside of San Telmo. My new residence was less vibrant but more centrally located, with access to the infamous San Telmo Market and landmarks such as Palacio Barolo, which is famed for its design inspired by Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy.’ Just a bit of an uncomfortable walk away, you will find yourself in Puerto Madero, surrounded by parks, seafood, and the historical red brick buildings of the legacy port city, none of which I had the intention of exploring. Yet, with Max’s innocent goading, explore them I did.

It started when Max asked if I wanted to join him for a quick coffee run. This seemed like a simple enough activity for a New Yorker like me. But we were in Argentina, and in this part of Latin America, the craft of coffee exists only in cities and specific cafes because most locals prefer their traditional mate—a bitter, green-colored tea (though, and importantly, not green tea), commonly sipped through a bombilla (a special straw) from a traditional gourd. Coffee is such a niche find in Argentina that I found myself scratching my head at the grocery store, staring at walls upon walls of mate: traditional mate, flavored mate, and competing brands of the same. Sitting alone on the back corner shelf was one lonely jar of instant coffee. Needless to say, I understood the craving for a proper coffee and agreed to tag along. 

With everything around our hostel boarded up and closed for the weekend, I agreed to continue a little further in search of an open cafe. Then a little further, and a little further, and yet again, a little further.

The route was filled with detours as we scoured among boarded-up and barred windows and entrances for an open cafe. We crossed over and passed sketchy sections of town between quaint side streets, pausing only to save a few locations on Google maps or snap a few photos of hole-in-the-wall local eateries and unique street graffiti. Before we knew it, our 5-minute walk had turned into 20 minutes, and we finally stumbled upon a cafe in the middle of a desolate street. All of the bodegas and surrounding shops were locked up, but this oasis with white doors, soft fluorescent lights, and faux pastel flowers signaled the promise of coffee.

The cafe was nearly as empty as the streets, with the exception of three old men sitting in the back corner speaking in Spanglish, and a young man—well-dressed, with dark hair and a trim beard—sitting by the door with his coffee, notebook, and traveler's backpack. 

‘'One of us,' I thought to myself.

Max and I were just finishing our coffees when the young man next to us stood up and buckled his bag.

I have always had an insatiable curiosity. Since I was a young child, talking to strangers was never a fear of mine. My parents both loved and feared my desire to strike up conversations with unknown people around us. So, I instinctively turned to the traveler and asked,"

“Long way to go?” 

“About twenty more minutes,” he replied. “I just came in from the ferry and needed a coffee break before continuing on.

He explained that he was from Germany but had been studying in Brazil for the past few months and was now taking some time to travel. He had made his way through part of Uruguay before arriving in Buenos Aires, where he was just stopping over on his way to Patagonia. There was an immediate connection as Max had just finished exploring Patagonia. The two exchanged a few words in German before we wished him well on his way.

It wasn’t long before we had finished our own coffees, and I was about to bid farewell when Max nudged me. 'Puerto Madero is just fifteen more minutes,' he said, 'we’ve already walked this far, you might as well come along.'

I can't pinpoint exactly why—perhaps due to my perennial curiosity—but reluctantly, I carry on, quietly telling myself all the way, 'It will be worth it, just go with the journey.'

Fifteen long minutes later, we came upon a bridge with bright red steel beams. I looked around at the empty streets and thought, 'This is it? We came for this? An empty port with two restaurants?'

I was ready to turn back when Max whipped out his phone, looked at the map, and said, 'Looks like something straight ahead.' 

So, we carried on.

Over the hill and on the other side, nothing. It was a nearly empty park with barren grounds.

I was no longer angry or frustrated, but rather enjoying the comedic nature of this day—hopelessly walking from one place to another, only to be disappointed by finding everything empty. Perhaps it was the summer holiday season or the sweltering sun that kept people away, but it struck me as odd that we rarely passed one person after more than 45 minutes of walking

Just as I was about to lose all hope that this journey would indeed be worth it, and there would be something interesting to our day other than a wild story of walking countless kilometers, we made it to the top of a hill. Across the way, we saw a park with families picnicking and children playing on the swings, slides, and monkey bars. It looked like something, so we followed the people.

About 500 meters after entering the park, we caught a glimpse of an elderly couple with a propped-up table, red and white plaid tablecloth, and a pot of boiling oil. 

Empanadas!

Obviously, we had to get the empanadas!

Max asked for one empanada and a square-looking sweet treat. I watched the interaction, not understanding a word of the Spanish exchange.

Pausing, Max translated that the couple comes to this same spot every Saturday to sell their empanadas and pastelitos. Both were smiling and joking with each other in a playful manner that only true love emits. They seemed like two best friends, lovers, and partners. I couldn’t help but ask them for a photo to capture the moment. The wife agreed and nudged the man for a photo. With a wide grin, he turned and pointed in such a grandiose manner to suggest, 'Oh, you want a photo of us together? No, I don’t know her.' He playfully joked before pulling her close and giving her a big smooch on the cheek. 

They both laughed as they closely embraced each other and posed for a photo.

We left with our goodies and made our way towards the blue tents. Once in the street market, I’d occasionally lose sight of Max as he searched for souvenirs for his girlfriend Sophie and their little one on the way. At one point, I left him at a shirt stand to go buy a bottle of water. When I returned, I saw Max standing there, gleaming with pride as he held up a giant piece of sugary white flan.

And that’s how I found myself sitting under the shade of a gum tree, far away from the comforts of my hostel.

As we sat there, resting our tired feet and engaged in conversation, the specifics of which now escape me, Max posed a question:

"Did I tell you about the truck I had in Australia that caught fire?"

I responded with a quizzical expression and a swift, "Nope."

Max found himself traversing the vast expanse of the Australian outback, where every turn seemed to reveal another layer of rugged beauty and untamed wilderness. As his truck sank into the depths of a river he was crossing, far from the reach of any mobile service, he faced a daunting challenge. With determination coursing through his veins, he embarked on a perilous journey on foot, his every step a battle against the relentless sun and oppressive heat.

In the heart of the Outback, where danger lurked at every corner, Max's greatest adversary was not the venomous snakes or the lurking crocodiles, but the relentless force of the scorching sun and the seemingly endless stretch of road ahead. With each passing moment, the weight of uncertainty bore down on him, threatening to overwhelm his spirit.

Yet, just when it seemed that hope was fading, a glimmer of salvation appeared on the horizon. Several kilometers into his arduous trek, a group of fellow travelers came to his aid, their kindness a beacon of light in the vast expanse of the wilderness. With their assistance, Max found himself whisked away to the safety of the ranger station, where help awaited him.

Through the crackling static of the support phone, Max relayed the coordinates of his stranded truck to the eager rangers, who stood ready to lend their expertise. But bureaucratic red tape threatened to thwart their efforts, leaving Max stranded once more, his only solace the camaraderie of his newfound friends.

In a display of unwavering solidarity, the travelers offered Max a ride back to his truck, their selflessness a testament to the unspoken bond that unites wanderers on the road. With their help, Max's truck was freed from its muddy prison, and he set off once more into the wilderness, his spirit undaunted by the trials that lay ahead.

But just as he began to breathe a sigh of relief, fate intervened once more, sending him hurtling into a new crisis. In the dead of night, the acrid scent of burning oil filled the air, signaling the onset of a new ordeal. In the unforgiving landscape of the Outback, where every twist and turn held the promise of adventure and adversity, Max learned that sometimes, even the most resilient traveler can't escape the capricious whims of fate.

The details of the story were fascinating, but what was most intriguing was the vividness with which Max recounted his tale. One couldn’t help but feel the struggle of being stranded in a foreign country, the delight in meeting fellow travelers ready to lend their support, and the irony of the truck going up in flames.

However, that didn't deter his journey. A few repairs later, and Max was back on the road. And finally, I understood where the hints of an Australian accent had come from all those days ago.

Though I was ready to head back, a stone walkway overlooking a lagoon caught my eye across the way from the street market. So, once again, I agreed, just a few more minutes of walking to check it out. At this point, I shouldn't have been surprised that what awaited us on the other side was not a short walk to see what was there. It was the Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur, one of the largest and most biodiverse reserves in Buenos Aires, and Max was eager to explore it. In fact, he had been hoping to hike these trails, with the shortest being ‘only’ 8 kilometers (~5 miles). Eight kilometers more. 

I huffed and puffed as I dragged myself down the path, lined with lush green trees, barely managing to navigate around the swarms of local families enjoying the cooler, shaded areas of the city. A father pushed his daughter in her stroller while the mother held his hand. Couples hugged each other before continuing on their way. Several people carried the classic mate gourd with a canteen of hot water to share along the route. This, to me, seemed like a classic family day in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Every once in a while, I would whine that I was tired, and Max would remind me that our destination was 'just a little further.' We made our way towards the coastline, reaching the edge of the reserve where the earth meets the South Atlantic. Signs stating 'do not swim' greeted us, but we found families cooling off on a hot summer day in the salty cold water. We both chuckled at the daring swimmers and agreed: we were not going to be the gringos who illegally swam in the reserve!

After completing the loop and enduring my persistent pleas, Max finally relented, agreeing it was time to leave. We started our journey out of the park. Despite feeling tired and ever so slightly annoyed, I couldn't deny that it had been an unforgettable day. To my relief, we opted for a cab back to the hostel. As we entered the lobby, I was surprised to see none other than the young German from the coffee shop earlier that day. It struck me once again how small the world truly is when you're traveling, and you never know when your paths might cross again.

That night, I found myself seated with both travelers, my notebook in hand, jotting down the events of the day. It reminded me of the beauty of embracing the unexpected and seizing every opportunity to explore and experience. Sometimes, it's good to stay in and rest, but other times, the best thing we can do is venture out, immerse ourselves in new experiences, and go along with the journey. Because that is life, that is living, that is experiencing, and that is traveling.

*I still suspect that this had been Max’s covert agenda to carry on from the moment we left for the coffee. A special thank you to Max for being such a brilliant part of my Buenos Aires experience. Congratulations to you and Sophie on your little girl. I am humbled to have met your kind soul and excited to see what life has in store for all three of you!