Well, I found a bunch of Americans (I love Americans, they are so outspoken and they readily talk to you AND give you their full name!), but no French in sight until now.

Yesterday, my quest brought me to the “confiteria ideal”, literally the “ideal bakery”, but of course it’s an ancient café where there is a dancefloor for tango. They also have lessons every day with famous dancers.

It is a beautiful place. A big, tall room, with golden stuck on the ceiling and mirrors on the walls. Everything looks very much Parisian, but then everything that is called “ancient” here looks French. Languid or enthusiastic tango songs fill the place. It was quite empty when I arrived (to be honest I was also right on time, which just doesn’t fit the typical argentinian lifestyle). Because of the cold (it’s currently snowing in the country, and the argentinians have invented their own temperature measure – the FELT temperature, in the papers I saw that we have 0,4 degrees FELT, so I imagine it should be 6 degrees or so.) and of course the famous swine flu, less people were awaited, the chef of the place told me. A beautiful room, but it isn’t heated at all. As it’s too hot most of the time in this country, they are totally unprepared to cold.

So I shivered, ordered a tea with lemon, and waited, ready to pounce with my mic on anyone who would appear.

And so people started to arrive! Old tangueros couple who are dancing for 52 years, extremely passionate and cute. Elegant snow-haired ladies and proud old men with their hair slicked back. And all eager to speak. One of them especially. An old tango teacher, he was inclined to tell me about his success in his time with ladies. He was constantly interrupting himself with a “ah! mon amour! mon petit!” or ” ah! la marseillaise” or “ah! Jean Gabin! que hermoso!” and each time I was seeing myself cutting it out with Audacity. “Tango is all about passion. It’s like a kiss. I respect my partner. But if a girl falls in love with me…ah! mon amour! mon petit!” and so it went on.

Apart from that I got TOURISTS. They were there, very recognizable, although I mistook an american woman for a German one, but at least I knew she wasn’t argentinian. She comes here as often as she can to get tango lessons. Her friend, Wesley, American with Irish descent, is a musician ” a fiddle player which is a violin” and was sitting all alone in a corner so that his friend could get asked to dance. he wants to get inspiration here and then “bring live tango music to Maine”, which I found very sweet.

Then there was the cutest americano-argentinian couple, Matthew – from Seattle- had just married his argentinian girlfriend and had started to dance tango so as to dance with her.

Well, my quest is still going on. Tonight I’m off to a tango class where there should be more young people. French people probably not. But who knows?

Now the place is a regular meeting point for demonstrations of all kind. “There’s always something going on, but I never know what”, explains to me Carina, one of my Spanish teachers. Today, it is the turn of veterans from the Falklands war, asking for more support and money. They peacefully sit there, smoking and drinking mate, the local tea.

Suddenly – big commotion. A hundred people or so come out of the Pink Houses’s gardens. What’s going on? Journalists with cameras run. Others take out their microphones.

And here he comes: Nestor Kirchner himself, the former president and actual president’s husband. With understandable haughtiness and pride, he marches down to the square. And all the people are following, to get a better view.

I follow him too, finding it interesting. Then I get a little closer: ah yes. A comedian. “It’s a very popular comedy show, it’ll be aired tonight”, explains to me a passer by. “Like these muppets shows in France”, she continues. Ah, I say, les guignols? “Exactly”.

This comedian is not doing anything in particular. Just strolling around, head high, ignoring the crowd. Maybe he wants to be as convincing as possible. Indeed the real Nestor Kirchner is well known to hate press conferences or interviews. Journalists rarely get near him. Just a few weeks ago, he gave a speech in front of supporters, where he explained how much the press was his enemy.

That maybe explains all this eagerness to get near even a “fake” Mr. K.

Nestor K. ignoring the crowd.

Veterans and K.'s followers

Old car with typical paiting

Cold, windy and sunny, full of tango and Carlos Gardel, fresh orange juice and alfajores with dulce de leche, funky buses and huge alleys: Buenos Aires is my home for two months.

From Paris, I’ve been thrown into this amazingly diverse city. My spanish is improving rapidly (thanks to weekly intensive sessions and thoroughly nice and patient people). That is good and necessary, because during my internships in journalism, I need to be able to interview Argentinians (and understand their responses).

Currently, I’m an intern at the dpa (German press agency). Pretty cool and relaxed, as I’m allowed (eg. have to) find my own reporting subjects. I’m mostly supposed to write so-called correspondent’s reports, which are about life and events in Argentina (that would interest readers in Germany). I can do it in my own time, so it’s quite a change to my studies at the crazy journalism school of Sciences Po in Paris!

I also write short notes for the press agency, which are then edited by my boss. I write about such different things like riots in Peru ( the bureau in Buenos Aires covers the whole of South America), swine flu prevention measures in Buenos Aires, German city art here, or weird ships with gold, lost in front of the patagonian coast.

So far, so good. I’m enjoying it , although this whole swine flu business is seriously getting on my nerves. People are panicking and wearing “barbijos” – masks, on the streets and in the metro. I find that the scariest thing in the world, although I’m getting used to it.

Anyways, this blog is about my little life here in Buenos Aires and my view on things. First post!

By the way, the header is a photo of the view from my balcony