Palermo Soho, the hipster center of South America. This must be what Soho was like before Old Navy sailed onto Broadway armed with $2.99 sweatpants.
But more on that later, the rest of the pulsating metropolis of Buenos Aires is waiting. Plus the skinny jeans need a bit of time to stretch out.
Come on dude, you haven't even mastered the almost-fully-automated Breville yet. No idiot-proof Americanos here. Just, ahem, idiot Americanos.
Save it for the tango floor.
Hang on, this isn't going to be conducive to skinny jeans.
Buenos Aires is proud of its European heritage. That must be why the service is so slow.
What happens in the elevator stays in the elevator. Which floor is the party on again? Oh this is South America, there's a party on every floor.
The bustling San Telemo antique market is a great place to find old things. We're talking about antique teapots and stuff of course.
Time to learn a little Spanish. Mercado? Whole Foods Market perhaps?
Coffee Town? Now that's a tough one, glad we signed up for the international data plan so we can Google Translate it.
When the afternoon sun is beating down and the streets are eerily quiet it can only mean one thing: siesta time. No rest for Team J00ster though, there's sights to see and steaks to eat.
Evita, former First Lady of Argentina, is practically the patron saint of Buenos Aires. Beloved by her people for her tireless work with the poor and destitute of her country, she appears everywhere. You know you've got street cred when even the vagabond graffiti artists have your back.
Beneath the grit and graffiti that gives modern Buenos Aires an edgy, welcome to the hood kind of swagger, there are hints of a lost grandeur from a golden age.
The cost of things in Argentina hinges on whether one uses the official exchange rate of 6.5 pesos to the dollar, or the black market rate of 9.5. Actually, when you live across the street from Whole Foods it's cheap no matter what rate you use.
Is there anything more hipster than carrying around your vintage vinyl collection in a tote made of vintage vinyl? Well yes, carrying said tote on a single speed bike on the way to a barge rave on the Gowanus canal. Plus, if the DJ runs out of beats you can deconstruct your tote and save the night.
Looks like siesta time is over.
The locals are partial to a highly-caffeinated tea called mate, served in decorated gourds. If that doesn't snap you out of your siesta nothing will.
Sunday rush hour in San Telemo.
Don't push too hard, France is already heading down the banana republic aisle. Try nationalization, it's the best way to scare off those vile capitalist thugs.
They've got Brooklyn to thank for transforming graffiti into street art. Push on the third panel and you'll probably find a speakeasy behind there serving bespoke whiskey sodas.
This place isn't getting any less popular. This blog on the other hand...
Is it hot out here or what?
Just in case you don't understand Spanish, or you're smashed out of your brains, there are helpful pictographs to direct you to the correct door.
La Brigada supposedly grills up some of the best steak this side of the equator. Note how we've conveniently ruled out competition with New York.
The owner, in addition to a love of cows, takes the default South American obsession with football to a whole new level. Every last inch of wall, and indeed ceiling, is covered with signed jerseys and other memorabilia. If Maradona's Hand of God doesn't whet the appetite nothing will.
The menu is encased in cow hide, that's got to be a good sign.
At La Brigada you order by the cow not the ounce.
Fast forward one food coma later and it's time to explore the deadly streets of La Boca, home turf of the fabled Boca Juniors football team.
Actually, it's not really that dangerous these days, unless you're dumb enough to wander around in the colors of River Plate, Junior's mortal enemy from the other side of town. Uhm, did anyone remember to check what those colors actually are?
Looks fairly civilized, guess the Superclásico isn't on today. Unless you count this blog post.
The crowd goes wild as another searching corner kick from River Plate is headed away to safety. Oh hang on, it's just news arriving that it's 50% off day in the Palermo outlets.
In addition to its football team, the gritty, working class neighborhood is famous for its garishly colored houses, clad in every color except, of course, for the red and white of River Plate.
Somehow that dude doesn't look like a legendary Junior's striker. Must be the glasses.
Even the trees get in on the festive spirit.
The guidebook said to avoid sketchy characters. Someone warn that poor fellow before it's too late.
Working class is being inexorably transformed into freelancer class as one block after another falls to the hipster invasion. Nothing says cool like following some disused railway tracks to the nearest purveyor of cold-brewed single-origin coffee.
Or slow grilled skirt steak for that matter.
That plaza is just itching for an impromptu football game. Today's drill: how to use a handball to score a goal without anyone noticing. Or more accurately, how to use a handball to score a goal without anyone caring since you're eliminating those effing Pommies.
So although we didn't know it at the time it turns out this kid is a real celebrity. We knew he was cool, but we didn't know just how cool.
The new marina district is apparently where all the politicians maintain apartments for their mistresses. Quick, someone tell Hollande that 23D is for sale.
So who had their nifty sailing ship seized this time? Take that Chris Christie. You may be able to pick up the phone to move a few traffic cones around with impunity, but we can pick up the phone and nationalize another asset whenever we feel like it.
Not exactly a classic tango step.
The local brew is Quilmes, and the locals drink it ice cold. As cold as the response you'll get if you call those godforsaken islands the Falklands instead of the Malvinas.
The Recoleta Cemetery is truly a city of the dead. Not since the pyramids of Egypt has one-upmanship extended so far into the afterlife. Instead of a simple headstone the graves here are lavishly appointed mini-houses, complete with everything one needs to make the neighboring ghosts translucent with envy.
The final resting place of Argentina's favorite non-football player.
We Are Tango is a tango show with a difference. It's limited to 20 people who gather for an intimate home-cooked dinner followed by a sultry tango show that ends with the audience on the dance floor, quite literally given the unlimited drinks.
The forbidden dance that started in the murky brothels of Argentina quickly exploded around the world, taking the high society of Paris and London by storm.
Many cocktails later and those six steps we all learned are starting to get a little blurry. Was it left-right-left or right-left-right? Or shot-shot-shot?
Is it green, or is that the absinthe? We're all impressionists now.
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