anoche

So last night I get back to Recoleta around 7 pm. Walking by the park, I hear a rhythmic sound. Construction, some banging. I wondered why a few people were clapping along down Arenales. I wanted to yell “¿Que haces chico?” to the man clanging his tin trashcan lid on the rooftop. I look down and see old men clapping broomsticks together, cars honking in unison – beep! Beep! Beep-beep-beep! When I reach the doorman, he asks me what’s going on. I say, “¿Mande?” and give myself away as a non-Argentine. When I ask him he says something about el campo. When we ask a little old lady, she says there’s always something to grumble about: los bancos, el gobierno.

I go upstairs and Ben is on the phone with his boss in Tulsa. The noise is growing louder. I try to look out our window, but the sunroom looks over the courtyard. Pedro (Augustin’s roommate and ex-novio) calls us. He has a better view of the streets. He greets us at the door with metal pot and spoon in hand. He invites us to his terrace where we see elderly people banging pots and the neighbor line-drying his white underwear. We ask him what is going on. He tells us that everyone here has a place in the country, and they are unhappy about the taxes. (Cristina is speaking on the television; although there have been strikes in el campo, she will not remove the taxes). He says even if you don’t have an estancia, you want your neighbors to think you do, so you bang even louder. (Pedro doesn’t have an estancia).

He then tells me we will march to Plaza de Mayo. I figure I’ve already walked through half the city, what’s the other half? (Me duelen los pies. My feet hurt.) So we follow Pedro, walking briskly. Camera stuffed in back pocket. He smokes a cigarette. Marlboro Red. We arrive at Avenida 9 de Julio. The poor people on the streets are ripping up books. I ask Pedro why? What is in the books? He tells me they can’t read them. The just want to recycle the paper. We cross halfway through Avenida 9 de Julio and see people surrounding The Obelisk. A sea of blue-and-white striped futbol jerseys. Yelling singing chanting. Haciendo ruido. They smell of Quilmes and tobacco. This announcement was just made today. Yet everyone gathers with flags and signs and drums.

And then I get abducted by an old man who is missing a lower tooth.

But seriously, this old man asked me a question, and upon realizing I was from the US, he invited me to come to his house to meet his host daughter, Joelle. We spent about 5 hours together: we drank yerba mate with sugar, she showed me pictures of her travels to Patagonia, she told me about her volunteer gig, her grad school plans (Ph.D. in oceanography), her nasty break-up with her boyfriend of the last three years (even though it was 10 months ago)… When it came time to eat, I ate with the family. Lidia, the abuela had baked una torta de verdura with ham. (Of course). But since Joelle is Jewish and I am a vegetarian, we ate cheese sandwiches with fruit and cold red wine. After lunch I walked with Joelle for 10 blocks before heading back to the park. She seemed like she needed someone to talk to.


But last night.

The police escort the rioters to Plaza de Mayo. So much yelling. Singing songs I cannot understand. And the cars are honking out a familiar tune. We arrive at Plaza de Mayo, and it’s not yet too crowded. A metal gate barricades us from La Casa Rosada. The police stand behind it with plastic shields. A few men in civilian clothes wander around behind them: el gobierno. Flashlight bulbs from news photographers brighten the sky. A man hands me a flier: “Estoy con el campo.” Neighbors greet each other with kisses. Apart from yelling obscenities at the president, it is a happy event. The crowd claps and chants “Ar-gen-tina!” Men climb trees and statues to wave flags. The crowd is no longer a sea of soccer hooligans, but men in suits, old ladies with shopping bags, school children still in uniform. Pedro finds his friend Leandro. They tell us that even in 2001 it wasn’t like this. That back then the people of Recoleta were the first to strike back. The people who have power and plata don’t like Cristina.

I see a sign that says “No autoridad sin dialogo,” and it reminds me of “No taxation without representation.” A lady tells me, “Todo el mundo va a Santa Fe y Callao” – she thinks I am Argentine and tells me everyone is headed back to my neighborhood to protest there. We meet a lady who lives above Josephina’s. We start to head back and see an even bigger crowd marching down Av. 9 de Julio. It is insane. Like nothing I have ever seen. Habia un monton de gente. Ben buys an Argentine flag and waves it in the air; I hold my “Estoy con el campo” sign in the air. Cars honk in agreement. An old man gives me a thumbs up. Pedro leaves us with Leandro, and eventually we head back home.

As we watch the news to see if anything new has happened, it starts to rain. I frantically scramble down the narrow staircase to get my clothes off the clothesline. Just in time.