Galerias Pacfico

Greg and I took a walk after supper tonight. We went the opposite way down the walking street, Florida, this time going left inside of right. The sun was setting. The temperature didn’t cool down. There was a strong wind – I am guessing as much as 30 mph some of the time. We watched a plastic slurpee cup bounce down the middle of the street, scraping its way curb to curb, being picked up the wind, caught in a whirl wind, then laid down again, twisting its way along the cobblestones – a symphonic sound that the echoed off of the buildings. Greg took along an umbrella for he expected rain.

Image: Galerias Pacifico Website

... ceiling fresco in Galerias Pacifico ...

We stopped first at the Galerias Pacifico, now looking like a palace with its evening lighting. He walked me inside, showing me the shops and then we went down the escalator so that we could get a better look at the frescos on the dome of the building. Socialist-activist art from the mid 1940’s I read on the internet when I came home to do a search about the meaning of the art. As well, I read about the history of the building. Originally built in 1889 and then I read up on each decade between now and then, as it changed uses.

When Greg and I were downstairs we checked out the food court – the first shop that caught my eye was MacDragon. “A Chinese version of MacDonalds,” Greg said. We looked at every kiosk even though we were stuffed from our evening meal. Finally Greg was laughing again.

“Only in Argentina would large slabs of meat constitute fast food. Look -- #16 on that menu is a rack of ribs for less than $12. We are bringing Wyona back here tomorrow. This is the equivalent of the food court we found in Hong Kong. I don’t know if we will ever eat anywhere else.”

There were the smells of BBQ a little further down: a huge grill with large sausages where the smell was coming from. I could see at least 8 possible places I would like to eat. Maybe tomorrow ... for I also want to see the Borges Cultural Centre on the top floor of that building.

Greg and I walked on down to the Plaza San Martin – stopping to admire the height of the Plaza Hotel at the corner of its ring road. We walked around the park, dark now, some joggers, some people walking their dogs. As we returned home we saw a different part of the night. The shops closing up, bringing down their corrugated iron sheeting. The homeless were getting out their mattresses – a mother and father laying out their three children – or getting a place ready for them to sleep on mats. The children were still playing in the corners of the buildings.

We walked by some political street art – a lot of careful printing and a chalk drawing of a political figure. We stopped to take a close look, even though neither of us could read a word of Spanish.

The tango dancers were still performing at one corner. They had been there when we began our walk and it would have been possible for us to have just stayed there and watched for the evening, for their moves were graceful ... more than that they were alluring, inviting the passer-by to give up any other agenda and to stop and watching for the evening.

We passed by the gelato shop and looked for Wyona’s favorite flavour saying that it would be unfair to bring her back gelato that had melted in the evening heat.

Arta