domingo

It’s Easter Sunday, and I take C’s suggestion to go to mass at the cathedral in Plaza de Mayo. Both the edifice and the service are unremarkable. Squat, with painted-on marble that’s chipping and cracking in many places, the cathedral has limited seating, and it’s standing room only for the misa de Pascual. There’s little in the way of Easter decorations, just a few lily garlands around the altar, and most people haven’t dressed up. I followed a woman dressed in a white silk suit and flowered blouse from the subte, guessing correctly where she was going. A TV crew also recognizes her as wearing her Easter finest and grabs her for an interview . Midway through the homily, a child playing in one of the chapels slips and cracks her head against a step. Though the cathedral has poor acoustics, her wails drown out the familiar double-double message alert sounds emitted by Nokia cell phones that haven’t been switched off. I’m pleased to see a cardinal, and even more pleased have him splash me with holy water. At the end of the service, the four-person choir sings Handel’s Hallelujah chorus (Messiah is more properly Easter music than Christmas music), and a smattering of applause breaks out.

On my way to mass I’d stopped into a bakery and bought some pastries for breakfast, which I now enjoy while wandering around the Plaza looking at the Casa Rosada, where Evita addressed the decaminados. Today the plaza is empty, save for a few protestors, tourists, souvenir vendors, and sleepers-on-the-grass. There are a few policemen in orange vests, too. Two policemen are stationed all day, everyday, on my block in Palermo as well.

I make my way through the arcades of the Paseo Colón towards San Telmo, a district everyone has encouraged me to visit. Many of the sidewalk tiles have been torn up and reduced to rubble, as if tiny pinpoint earthquakes had erupted all over. Wooden slats that are themselves sometimes splintered stitch together the unbroken stretches. I had expected a quiet, atmospheric barrio in San Telmo, but I am surprised by thousands of people at a Sunday street market. Vendors display their jewelry, shoes, mate bowls, and knitted scarves on the ground. The crowd is so thick you can barely see what’s for sale at your feet. Enterprising souls offer water and fresh-squeezed jugo de naranjas to those suffering from dehydration, while the few that have managed to claim café tables on the main market street squint out at the less fortunate. The antiques market is too choked to move through, and I’m happier on the side streets looking at the architecture and peering into the grocery stores and butcher shops. San Telmo has a specific graphic design sensibility: signs are lettered in bright colors and flowery calligraphy. Families are lining up for lunch outside their favorite restaurants, and for me it’s a cheese-smothered steak that tastes like a controlled burn and soda water that comes in its own siphon at Bar Federal, which is listed on the register of historic BA locations. Trundling home I feel elated at having stumbled on this Sunday party and this local institution without even trying. BA is that kind of city: wherever you go, you find out later that it’s been especially recommended.