a smoky day

[Kragen Javier Sitaker]

(I wrote this 2008-04-19, when Buenos Aires was still under a blanket
of heavy smoke.)

I went out in the smoke tonight, Saturday night, to try to get food
from Chinatown, despite Beatrice's protestations that 20:00 was too
late.

As I slowly walked the few blocks to the route 107 bus stop, three 107
buses passed me.  I waited at the bus stop as two 107 buses passed
going the other way; while I waited, standing in the street, other
would-be passengers accumulated: a bald man with gray hair cuddling
and kissing with his middle-aged girlfriend as they stood in the
street behind me, and two teenagers.

Eventually I gave up on the bus and hailed a passing taxi, which I
took to a Citibank near Chinatown, where I extracted money from my
bank account via an ATM.

The sidewalk cafes in the commercial district were full of people,
despite the smoke blanketing the city; I recognized an acquaintance
waitressing at the the restaurant "1810", where we first tasted
Argentine empanadas.  A few blocks away, as I walked in the direction
of the 107 bus route and Chinatown, I found a long line of mostly old
people.  I asked a young man standing in line what the line was for.
He didn't answer for a moment, and then without meeting my eyes, he
explained that it was for bread.

I walked along what I thought was the 107 bus route, but I arrived in
Chinatown before seeing any more 107 buses.  The store I had hoped to
go to had closed at 20:30; I walked around looking for an open store,
so I could buy peanut butter, ginger root, and packaged ramen.  (Ramen
only costs $2 a package there.)

I passed a couple of young men with small shopping carts full to the
brim of 1.5-liter Quilmes beer bottles, waiting to be let into an
apartment complex; elsewhere I passed one or another sentry waiting at
a door, presumably to let in people who had gone out.

After walking about six blocks through almost all of Chinatown, I
never found an open grocery store, so I went to Todos Contentos and
ordered a couple of dishes to take home to Beatrice.

As I waited, I read some of the sports section of the paper.  It had a
list of the rugby and football games that had been canceled because of
the smoke, although it explained that the air "wasn't toxic", just
irritating and allergenic.  Maybe "tóxico" means something different
in Spanish than in English.

As I carried my order from the restaurant to the 107 bus stop, I
stopped by "Dashi", a sushi restaurant near the Buddha Bar.  The
newspaper blurbs outside the door explained that the chef had spent a
long time in Perú and had studied in California, so I hoped that
perhaps they might have some of the sushi flavors I've been missing
here in Argentina: maguro, uni, natto, unagi, ama-ebi, inari, and so
on.  I, went in to read the menu.  Although it had several pages
listing an impressive number of different kinds of sushi, more careful
reading revealed that they were made from a small number of basic
ingredients that did not include any of the above.  I was a little
disappointed but not surprised.

I walked on.  A couple sitting on some steps asked me what my mask was
for --- I explained it was for the smoke.  Wordlessly the man grinned
and lifted his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, filling his
lungs with much denser smoke.  I laughed.

I eventually caught the 107 home.  Strangely, when I got on, the bus
was empty.