Back when Argentina ruled as the “it” country for Western travelers seeking as of then “undiscovered” or “neglected” destinations, I nearly could’ve contributed towards the realization of a Rene Magritte moment. Sort of.

The Belgian artist wouldn’t have played a major part in the endeavor. He just would’ve been a reference. The impetus to get the ball rolling as it were.

Magritte was a surrealist artist. And like any surrealist worth his abstractions, Magritte challenged rational notions. Okay. Besieged them. Perhaps the reader has seen his portrait of a gentleman whose face has been obscured by a green apple (The Son of Man) or the artist’s painting of a pipe titled This Is Not a Pipe.

Confusion or introspection should’ve been what transpired while trying to decipher either image.

Before Argentina devolved into a hypochondriac economic basket case, the South American gem lured with a melancholic style and manner. That nation ought to be wealthy today but its indulgent past finally caught up to it the same way a lioness catches the slowest wildebeest.

Between a junta that straitened the country and timorous successive elected governments which sought to quell civil unrest by parceling goodies on the cuff, Argentina would find itself owing much in what seems generational arrears. However, that liquor bottle fell through the bag’s soaked wet bottom later. During my Argentina stays, the hole wasn’t so deep that adults practicing Economics 101 couldn’t have eased the debts.

Unfortunately, the likelihood of another strongman forming another junta proved more worrisome than scaring away investment as well as skipping true efforts to pay down markers owed global bankers. Let’s face it, vain men wearing peaked caps and aviator shades leading military units is a great threat to life and limb. Like the pope, stiffed Swiss or German financial pooh-bahs don’t have armies.

Therefore, better to ignore the money problem one has than possibly create a civil unrest dilemma that’ll invite any martial law.

Happy to say that during my times in Argentina while I saw manifestations against unresponsive policies issued by dithering governments, I never troubled myself worrying some generalissimo might order his troops to prepare his goosestepping entry into La Casa Rosada, the Argentine White House.

How did Argentina appear on travelers’ radars? For me several impulses sufficed getting me on 10-hour flights to Buenos Aires from New York. First, as an Arizona undergraduate I’d been classmates with three Argentines. Second, watching PBS.

Seemingly, some independent producer had gone down there, became enthralled with tango. She probably compared that country against the others on the South American continent. Enough malbec and the melancholy inspired by mandolins driving tango’s exacting steps along with Argentina’s sultry dominant Mediterranean cultural influences likely influenced her belief this just the spot for visitors seeking different – though not too unfamiliar or discomforting or, FFS, strange – exotic immersions.

Naturally the producer’s documentary could not encapsulate the whole country. But by selective filming, cherry picking those Argentines interviewed, she conjured attraction to this part of the antipode Americas. By her program’s end credits, what viewer didn’t want an excursion there? Who didn’t want to guzzle malbec beneath a warm winter sun? Or be a carnivore devouring grilled beef so tender knives apologized to it? Then for the daring, enter a milonga. There, yield to distant or unrequited or unresponsive heart’s longing through tango.

The producer’s lenses were focused on Buenos Aires, Patagonia, and, of course, whale watching.

My South American times occurred when sanity was rampant and Washington led the free world through stable leadership. So, yes, not that long ago.

Either I was fortunate or adventurous enough to meet residents (Porteños), travelers who also heard and obeyed Argentina’s siren to appear, and expatriates. While the first instructed, and the second shared discoveries, the third fascinated. Of all the ex-pats crossed in Argentina, each one of them emitted this same vibe: he or she had best been in Argentina at that moment rather than in North America, Britain, France, or Germany. Indeed, had any ignored self-exile and remained in his or her respective native country, it was likely each might’ve faced empty futures in their homelands.

Curious as I was about what ignited their skedaddle urges, I never baldly asked. Why not? That would’ve been unnecessary. In so many ways they would reveal themselves. Isn’t there something in human nature which motivates us to expose ourselves?

Had I grilled any of them, the tales told would’ve been nowhere near as complete as the occasional pearls voluntarily dropped. Or the tales eventually learned after assembling the pieces.

Of them all, Mick’s wend across the Atlantic proved the most “flavorful.” The French and Germans were the wariest ex-pats of all. Britons like Mick might edit pasts but they generally wouldn’t omit sections. While the French did, seeing them in action among credulous locals and visitors provided observations that allowed one to surmise.
The French fabricated beautifully.

Despite being amidst Argentines, people who may live at the end of the world but never behaved as if the end of the world was nigh, this North American perceived the Germans had packed a big bag of moody Northern European reserve.

The aloof slow to warm up attitude was completely absent in Britons. That also went for suit and tie type English in Argentina for legit business purposes such as seeking exploitive deals. If only I had been a rich Yank …

From what I gathered Mick served as sort of a conduit between the various strata of dodgy and respectable figures looking to strip meat off the bones of what they’ve could’ve of Argentina; between the people who could make things happen and those who wanted/needed the same to occur.

A lean man who wore his brown hair neat, Mick’s face and the mien it presented could’ve classified him as cunning. Or labeled him as shifty. Leanness emphasized his longshanks height.

Residents I met on wanders through Buenos Aires neighborhoods. I crossed paths with other visitors at the expected places, the touristy magnets. But ex-pats? Without fail a good portion were encountered deep into night inside bars and clubs. Alongside Porteñosalready starting to feel pinches of the belt tightening now thoroughly strangling Argentina. Partying locals congregated there in order to make themselves available.

Then, somewhat occasionally conscientious North Americans might’ve been surprised at the entries opened by two packs of Virginia leaf cigarettes and a disposable lighter. Probably don’t even need the lighter today.

Mick made my acquaintance while I was attempting to foster improved international relations with a lively, slender, dark-maned woman of Italo-Iberian ancestry. Jammed packed as the crazy loud space was, I’d become one of the bar staff’s best buds through steady evening attendance inside the merry bedlam as well as not stinting on propinas.

Water runs uphill to money. Anywhere, no matter how chockablock the establishment, no matter how other patrons yelled for service, cocktail bearing servers will blaze ways through insolent insistent human moils for sure tips.

Service brought Mick to our table. Or he saw regular deliveries at ours as opposed to the unslaked thirsts in the drinks desert around us. Ambitious and opportunistic as I would eventually find him, Mick snapped up a pair of empty chairs from a couple of tables then sat himself and his date down in them. His Porteñashared similarities with my own. Knowing looks minus any winks had Mick and me simpatico from the jump.

He introduced himself in the broadest terms. Only through the lightest interrogation would I discover him an East Londoner. A man who calculated his best prospects waited for him in South America. He had several ventures churning. All on the face of them legit. Perhaps the way he confirmed his legitimacy must’ve intended it to have been impressive. More importantly, though, all his businesses fattened his margins. All the more so besides money Argentine life afforded him a different girl every night should he feel the twinge.

That gladdened him far more than me. Perhaps even further validated him to himself. And should that evening’s female have heard him, have understood where she sat on his conveyor, it just meant she’d mulct him for more before being replaced by the next one down the line.

Her higher transaction fee wouldn’t have bothered Mick.

Not sorry. No subterfuge about my profession. Being an “educated man” burnished my luster. Like a lot of Britons crossed in South America, I’d initially been mistaken as having been in some military branch. Hopefully an ex-marine. Those Brits then, they admired marines.

On one hand, that mistake flattered. On the other hand, it meant I wasn’t on the make as a possible “body man.” A “body man,” a guy whose very proximity could demonstrate enough visible menace to dissuade any trouble that might ruffle his charge.

It’s funny. Having worked with a former “body man” Stateside – one who claimed to have known the Krays – I readily grasped Mick’s allusion. All part of being an “educated man,” I guess.

Here would’ve been the biggest difference between us: had Mick asked, I would’ve then confessed my reasons for being below the Equator. Unlike him, I had no reason to have been cagey. Nights later, I volunteered a fuller background. Maybe he heard it as sign of evolving trust.

But that night, pleased to have met me, happy to have elevated conversation with “someone who so obviously knew something” in Argentina, his magnanimity let him acquire our tab. He melded it with his. Therefore, the cocktails my Porteña and I had been nipping at became Champagne our quartet swilled.

The rest of the night extended itself into a mild early autumn gray dawn. Or to flip the season, spring above the Equator.

Leaving the club after six o’clock offered a glimpse at Mick’s money. Upon entering, I barely noticed coned off parking spots in front of the club as well as across the parallel curb. By dawn, luxury cars narrowed the street waiting for their owners.

Mick gestured at a long dark Benz. He offered my Porteña and me a ride to, oh, wherever. She was upset my abode sat within too drunk to walk but crawl distance. That pet would’ve enjoyed being swaddled inside his car as it coursed through Buenos Airean traffic. Even more than the admiration, but from the speculation such a carriage would’ve surely drawn.

Knowing our togetherness limited, I didn’t even bother with the sop of “next time, baby.” She just needed to have contented herself with medialunas at the breakfast buffet the hotel next to my short-term apartment offered before our ascension upstairs or lunch in same preceding her taxi ride home.

Yeah. There will be numerous mentions of eating throughout these This Is Not a Submarine posts. The one constant between Argentina then and Argentina now is they’re necessary.

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