Thursday, March 15, 2007

Disconcerting drips

In the two weeks we’ve spent in Buenos Aires (BsAs), I have already fallen in love with this city. It’s cosmopolitan, exciting, architecturally diverse and full of great restaurants. And as far as I can tell with my limited grasp of the Spanish language, the people are very friendly.

Yet like all great places, it’s not perfect. BsAs has some warts.

Picture this scenario: It’s a beautiful sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. As usual, the sidewalks are crowded with people heading to work, sipping café con leche, walking immense packs of dogs and generally looking beautiful. Ensconced in this sea of humanity, I amble with limited purpose. Looking up at the detailed carvings on the buildings above and generally enjoying the beautiful weather, I am suffering from a condition that plagues all tourists in a new place: Cluelessness. That’s when it happens.

A drip of unknown origin and substance lands squarely on my slowly balding pate. Did someone spit on me? Was I blessed by having a low-flying bird drop a treasure on my nest? What is that cool liquid now running down my forehead?

To say the least, it’s a bit disturbing. The reality is almost all apartments in BsAs have air conditioners, and with the ubiquitous humidity, these machines condense water on their outsides. This water collects on patios, ledges and sills high above the street until a critical mass forms. Then it drips.

Throughout the city, as in no other place I’ve encountered, there is water dripping onto the sidewalks. And until I figured it out, I was troubled by it.

As a seasoned veteran of the big city now, I know to look for pools of water on the sidewalk. These small aquatic ecosystems indicate drips above. So like Serpico, I weave my way down the streets, avoiding the wet places and the drips they foretell.

Of course, it’s also wise to watch where you step because of another of BsAs’ charms. In Crested Butte, we knew them as the brown crocus flowers. But this is a story for another time.

1 comment:

Unknown said...

Bradley and Erin, talk to your dad. We had the same experience in London in 1962. A pigeon found my jacket to be the perfect spot on which to deposit the remains of his last 24 hours of foraging - a healthy load. We immediately went to the closest cleaners. In a manner typical to British aplomb, the owner of the establishment exclaimed, "Albumen!" He gave us a receipt for the jacket, a receipt that was, no doubt created during WWII. It had disclaimers for damage resulting from acts of God, V2 German rockets, incendiary bombs, storm troops, building collapse, fire, theft, and a littany of other causes that only the most fertile mind could conger up after a night of bad dreams and a quantity of LSD. Ask your dad for more details. Enjoy the Argentinian experience.