pretty city: knee-high, downtown

april 1, 2010. first and first.

april 7, 2010. wooster street.

photos © anita aguilar

things looking up

on 38th street, between park and lex, nyc.

photo © anita aguilar

AMO the ARG: shots of color (san telmo, day 7)

all photos © anita aguilar

AMO the ARG: and, on the seventh day...

a quick spin through neighborhoods that share a border, but not much else in terms of scale or style...

san telmo




***
and monserrat

piramide de mayo

the casa rosada

all photos © anita aguilar

read a good poem: baseball

we're not even a week into april and already i'm in a rut.
is anyone else feeling this?
if so, how do we break out?

i've spent the day drinking lots of coffee, reviewing photos, taking short walks, reminding myself of all the fun spring things, like...cleaning (ok, not actually fun but the afterglow is good?), buds blossoming... and baseball (though based on how my team blew up last night i'm not sure if watching baseball is going to help or hurt my mood. but let's go with help, for now. it's only the first day).

april is also national poetry month. i think that's a fine thing!

in the spirit of opening day league-wide, here's one from gail mazur:

phillies at nationals. april 5, 2010.
photo by greg fiume/getty images via yahoo!sports

Baseball

The game of baseball is not a metaphor

and I know it’s not really life.

The chalky green diamond, the lovely

dusty brown lanes I see from airplanes

multiplying around the cities

are only neat playing fields.

Their structure is not the frame

of history carved out of forest,

that is not what I see on my ascent.

And down in the stadium,

the veteran catcher guiding the young

pitcher through the innings, the line

of concentration between them,

that delicate filament is not

like the way you are helping me,

only it reminds me when I strain

for analogies, the way a rookie strains

for perfection, and the veteran,

in his wisdom, seems to promise it,

it glows from his upheld glove,

and the man in front of me

in the grandstand, drinking banana

daiquiris from a thermos,

continuing through a whole dinner

to the aromatic cigar even as our team

is shut out, nearly hitless, he is

not like the farmer that Auden speaks

of in Breughel’s Icarus,

or the four inevitable woman-hating

drunkards, yelling, hugging

each other and moving up and down

continuously for more beer

and the young wife trying to understand

what a full count could be

to please her husband happy in

his old dreams, or the little boy

in the Yankees cap already nodding

off to sleep against his father,

program and popcorn memories

sliding into the future,

and the old woman from Lincoln, Maine,

screaming at the Yankee slugger

with wounded knees to break his leg

this is not a microcosm,

not even a slice of life

and the terrible slumps,

when the greatest hitter mysteriously

goes hitless for weeks, or

the pitcher’s stuff is all junk

who threw like a magician all last month,

or the days when our guys look

like Sennett cops, slipping, bumping

each other, then suddenly, the play

that wasn’t humanly possible, the Kid

we know isn’t ready for the big leagues,

leaps into the air to catch a ball

that should have gone downtown,

and coming off the field is hugged

and bottom-slapped by the sudden

sorcerers, the winning team

the question of what makes a man

slump when his form, his eye,

his power aren’t to blame, this isn’t

like the bad luck that hounds us,

and his frustration in the games

not like our deep rage

for disappointing ourselves

the ball park is an artifact,

manicured, safe, “scene in an Easter egg”,

and the order of the ball game,

the firm structure with the mystery

of accidents always contained,

not the wild field we wander in,

where I’m trying to recite the rules,

to repeat the statistics of the game,

and the wind keeps carrying my words away

-via the poetry foundation

probably the only good little moment, when all was said and done, from the yankees' first game of the season. curtis granderson's first at-bat/first home run as a yankee. photo: brita meng outzen/mlb.com via mlb.com

good morning

photos © anita aguilar

AMO the ARG: where the streets have no...

people...


or cars...

avenida 9 de julio

avenida 9 de julio

***
and a few floors up...

avenida alvear

an apt in one of these buildings would be nice, i think:

avenida alvear

maybe here, too:

plazoleta carlos pellegrini

all photos © anita aguilar

AMO the ARG: when it rains and pours

if you were in palermo or recoleta last weekend and you spied a girl in a summer dress and sandals, positively soaked through, skipping between awnings, occasionally stopping to take a photo and wring out the sweater that she was using to shield herself and her camera from a direct downpour, that was me.

there were a few of us out.
they were a little better prepared, with umbrellas.
but maybe i had more fun?

she one upped me with the heels, i think.

this is actually what new york looked like the weekend i left...

all photos © anita aguilar

AMO the ARG: cabaña, round 2 (day 5, parte 4)

z and i decided to hit the town for our one and only saturday night in BA. destination: puerto madero. she got dolled up. i threw on some heels. it was a balmy, beautiful night.

the only thing missing? everyone else.
where the heck do they all go on the weekends? not that i really cared. ghost town, BA meant we didn't have to wait more than 5 minutes for a table at cabaña las lilas.

***

this is where the real action is:




***
the folks at cabaña really outdid themselves--they greeted us as friends and were even more generous than before (free champagne cocktails! free sides!). the american girl sitting at the next table was seeing green (we know--she was a loud-talker).

i didn't want to have the same exact dinner i'd had before. so instead of the rib-eye, i (innocently) ordered the steak of the house.

i thought it would be a dainty little filet.
we all had a good laugh when they set this down. but...did they doubt me?

done. and done (almost).

for my encore: hojaldre las lilas con crema y dulce de leche, their version of a "napoleon," which has pastry cream and dulce de leche.
the contrasts here really work: thick, sweet cream set off by crunchy, airy pastry.

they gave us the bonus cookie tray (to go with the coffees, i imagine).

ha! i look spent. but...i won...
(z and i both did. it was, once again, totalmente perfecto.)

mil gracias a cabaña...

all photos © anita aguilar

pretty city: ba, recoleta and palermo

on avenida pueyrredon

on avenida vicente lopez/junin

on avenida vicente lopez/junin

at a cafe, across from la recoleta

in the park, la recoleta

the courtyard, in front of the basilica

under the trees at the feria plaza francia

take 2. under the canopy, near the trees where the boys were playing in the feria plaza francia

at the feria plaza francia

at the feria plaza francia

at the feria plaza francia

real hippie hair, at the feria plaza francia

and a guy on stilts. where else but the feria plaza francia...

***

on avenida presidente figueroa alcorta

on avenida presidente figueroa alcorta

avenida del libertador

at the plaza del lector...

all photos ©anita aguilar