Buenos Aires, Argentina: Bleary-Eyed Acclimation (cont.)

The Plaza de Mayo is the political center, the place where the descamisados rooted for Eva Perón in the fifties and the Madres de Plaza de Mayo still protest the ills of El Proceso. It is not the place for rest. But it is my first day, I am sleep-deprived-stupid, and all is quiet.

I slip around the side of the building and into the Casa Rosada’s museum.A few people pass by me on my rounds through the main floor, where an eclectic and rather unremarkable collection of former Argentine presidents’ belongings is on display. I slip downstairs to the dark recesses of the basement.

There, a dusty black buggy stands with wheels slightly askew, like someone parked it decades ago and ran off. Beyond it, metal gates stand ajar, inviting me into an empty room with brick walls, and one bare light bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to be looking at, but it is cool and quiet and I am alone to sit on a bench and munch on the cheese and crackers that I swiped from the airplane.

Distant – but familiar – sounds fill the basement. Bump, bump. Bump, bump. Crack! The protesters are making their way toward the Plaza de Mayo.

I feel much safer in my dungeon bungalow than I did exposed in the Plaza San Martín. Until the firing noise becomes louder, and I look up and notice windows that are wide open and at street level.  I remember how bullets can ricochet.The clatter of footsteps, and one of the museum’s employees is rushing down the stairs and slamming the windows closed. She is startled when she sees me.

“We didn’t know anyone was down here!” she says in Spanish, eyes wide.

As in the Plaza San Martín, I rely on the locals for cues as to how I should be feeling and reacting. The bulging whites of her eyes, is not reassuring.

“Is this very common?” I ask.

She squares her shoulders and manages a professional smile. “Oh, yes. But I’m going to have to see you out. Follow me.”

I've been told that the museum offers tours of the palace’s opulent halls and inner patios. But my brisk personal tour is through the employees’ halls. It’s not opulent, but it’s certainly exciting. And I only get the briefest glimpse of a patio as we hustle through it and out the door. The woman’s smile is apologetic as she ushers me outside. I stand blinking in the sudden sunshine, bloodshot eyes undoubtedly matching the paint of the building behind me.

Next stop – Recoleta. Given that it’s a cemetery, it would seem the perfect place for a little rest. But by now, I’ve learned my lesson. So I head back to Calle Florida to splurge on some alfajores and a cappuccino for some extra energy before I go.

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