Buenos Aires boundless megalopolis where there are supermarkets lead the way.
Argentina, a country of extremes. You get the impression that I carry with me since I've known to quattro'occhi.
Nicest people that you open the door and heart to the flight or cafonazzi that stimulate the hidden desire to take a hand.
Buenos Aires boundless megalopolis where supermarkets are not to lord it but where, on the contrary, it continues to go to the grocer, the butcher and the shoemaker in the house without the echo resounds in my wallet empty.
La Villa 31, with the His ways of mud and laws of the road, a stone's throw from the center glitzy, glitzy palaces, Plaza San Martín, from Calle Florida with the Galeria Pacifico and right next to the Sheraton Hotel.
And then bars and trendy restaurants and beyond, next to small bars and taverns very basic - if not more - than those in which perhaps in Italy would enter even more, expecting nothing but dust and sad brioscine packed the trunks.
But here we enter confident, savoring delicacies in places that often, at least to me, they take a dip in what was supposed to be Italy sixties or so. Among Guardia Vieja and Billinghurst there is a corner old style that I love: el Banderín.
I like to sit next to the window that overlooks Guardia Vieja, watching the world go by, guess who will enter and peek at the other side of the road, where the equally old almacen contains an infinite number of barrels and milk full of olives and pickles.
Last year during the World Cup I went to breakfast at Banderín with two or three friends watching the first game of the day, along with the other customers with the nose at the TV that always transmits sport.
The walls are hung with banners, signed jerseys, scraps of old articles about sporting prowess. A cat wanders around the room or if they're lazily crouching on an empty chair, while customers of any age open the doors and take turns at the tables and at the counter, where a rule is proudly displayed a baking sheet and chock full of medialunas facturas among more tidbits that I've ever eaten.
With a café con leche hot in his hands and a chubby medialuna to bite, and Banderín is a beautiful corner of the world in which to take a break and look out the window from a perspective of the past.
Nicest people that you open the door and heart to the flight or cafonazzi that stimulate the hidden desire to take a hand.
Buenos Aires boundless megalopolis where supermarkets are not to lord it but where, on the contrary, it continues to go to the grocer, the butcher and the shoemaker in the house without the echo resounds in my wallet empty.
La Villa 31, with the His ways of mud and laws of the road, a stone's throw from the center glitzy, glitzy palaces, Plaza San Martín, from Calle Florida with the Galeria Pacifico and right next to the Sheraton Hotel.
And then bars and trendy restaurants and beyond, next to small bars and taverns very basic - if not more - than those in which perhaps in Italy would enter even more, expecting nothing but dust and sad brioscine packed the trunks.
I like to sit next to the window that overlooks Guardia Vieja, watching the world go by, guess who will enter and peek at the other side of the road, where the equally old almacen contains an infinite number of barrels and milk full of olives and pickles.
Last year during the World Cup I went to breakfast at Banderín with two or three friends watching the first game of the day, along with the other customers with the nose at the TV that always transmits sport.
The walls are hung with banners, signed jerseys, scraps of old articles about sporting prowess. A cat wanders around the room or if they're lazily crouching on an empty chair, while customers of any age open the doors and take turns at the tables and at the counter, where a rule is proudly displayed a baking sheet and chock full of medialunas facturas among more tidbits that I've ever eaten.
With a café con leche hot in his hands and a chubby medialuna to bite, and Banderín is a beautiful corner of the world in which to take a break and look out the window from a perspective of the past.
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