July 26, 2010:  Now that sufficient time has passed to allow the disappointment that is Caminito sink in I feel I can adequately express myself on the topic.  For those of you not familiar with the tourist attraction here in Buenos Aires called “Caminito”, here’s a link:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caminito ; It is apparently ranked #64 in Trip Advisor’s top 230 attractions in Buenos Aires but after having been there I have no idea why.  I think the only reason to see it is to appreciate how undeserving it is of this designation.

First, let me start off by pointing out that Trip Advisor and other guide books make it a point of telling readers to be sure to only go into La Boca, the neighborhood where Caminito is located, during day light hours, to stay with guided tours-if you are on one-and/or not to wander outside of the two to three block area that comprises Caminito.  After having been to La Boca I would say that is all good advice.  I didn’t take it.  Except for the daylight part, of course- I’m not that crazy.  La Boca is not the upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires by any means.  It was one of the first neighborhoods of the city, settled by Italian immigrant populations working the newly developed port.  It is still a working class neighborhood today and is rough and tumble at best.  It is the type of place best left unexplored unless you speak like a local and know people there.

After a week walking the city because I couldn’t purchase a Subte pass (see previous posts) I was determined I could walk from where I am staying in San Telmo to Caminito.  It didn’t look to be any farther than anywhere else I had been walking to according to my trusty cartoon map.  The cartoon style tourist map even showed an enlargement of the Caminito area so I figured it wouldn’t be all that bad.  I ignored all warnings to the contrary and set out on foot on a sunny afternoon to conquer La Boca.

The first half of the walk through San Telmo to Plaza Dorrego and just beyond was pleasant.  Then there was a park.  Parque Lezama according to my trusty cartoon map.  Great!  I’ll take a stroll through the park!  About halfway through the park my surroundings drastically changed in appearance.  Uh-oh, Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore…  The park was noticeably rundown and the people looked more ragged and unfriendly than in other parts of the city.  By the time I came out the other side of the park it was most definitely a different neighborhood.  Determined not to turn around, I trudged on.  The main street was not bad although obviously a bit more rundown than the rest of town.   Still there were blocks that looked as though they were undergoing gentrification.  That’s nice!  And then, recalling cartoon map, I remembered to turn onto Suárez.  And my environs changed yet again.  And not for the better. 

But like Alice through the looking glass or Red Riding Hood forging deeper and deeper into the forest, on I went, hopeful that Caminito would show itself in all its garish colors before some stray rabid dog walked off with my leg or leering backyard mechanics (who suddenly seemed to appear on every block) gave me an up-close-and-personal tour of the chop shop they had set up in their ground floor apartments.  God in Heaven, where in the hell was I???  And why in the hell do tourists come here???  And then I saw it, peeking out just beyond the railroad tracks were the bright hues and slanting angles of the Caminito I had seen in pictures.  I had found it!  Thank Jesus!

As I approached I heard accordion strains and was hopeful I would soon see my first tango in Buenos Aires!  I soon discovered, however, that the music was merely spilling forth from a tourist gift shop and the only dancers to be seen looked like they were either breaking for lunch or else just over it.  As I stood and watched tourists take pictures I noticed how small the three blocks that make up Caminito were.  It was more like one regular city block, if that.  And as I walked along the cobblestone streets I realized that there was nothing there that didn’t remind of TJ (what San Diegans call the Mexican border city of Tijuana).  There was loud music, guys shouting to take your picture for 10 pesos, gift shop upon gift stand selling brightly colored and, in my opinion, gaudy and tacky souvenirs, street carts advertising local delicacies and artists selling everything just short of Elvis portraits on black velvet.  I half expected some kid to come running up to me shouting something about gum, “¡Chicle!  ¡Chicle!  Srta., ¿quiere chicle?  ¡Un dolár!”  And where was the guy with the donkey painted like a zebra that you could get your picture taken with?  It was like I had stepped through some worm hole back to North America.  Noooo!!!  This is not what I came here for!

Disappointed I began to leave, taking care not to go back the way I came because anything would be better than Pepe and the three amigos offering to check my oil.  As I approached the end of Caminito there was a pair of dancers in the entrance of a restaurant giving a show visible to diners both inside and outside of the restaurant.  I stopped to watch because I figured I may as well get something out of this.  I was not impressed.  If tango is a dance of passion and sex lurking just under the surface of a barely disguised public display of affection this was an exercise in how to dance with a hangover while moving just enough so that people won’t mistake you for being catatonic.  The couple could not have looked more bored or disinterested in each other and what they were doing.  The female dancer, behind her partner’s back, even gave the thumbs up to some guy who looked like an off duty bouncer from the cantina next door who apparently had brought her lunch and set it down on the table next to the stage.  I hope they weren’t expecting tips for this performance.  Ever more disappointed, I moved on.

Five or six blocks from Caminito a car that didn’t look rundown enough to belong to any of the neighborhood auto engineers slowed down as it passed me.  A woman had rolled down the window and was shouting something to me.  Asking for directions most likely.  As I was about to shout back that I’m not familiar with the area I realized that really the only thing she could be asking directions to was Caminito, and I knew where that was!  I approached the car.  Sure enough she was asking if I knew where Caminito was.  I could actually understand her accent and got the distinct impression that she was a German speaking Spanish, which means that she probably spoke English too but hey, she mistook me for a local so that was her fault.  I answered her in Spanish, “Sí, está por allá, al derecho como medio kilómetro.”  Okay, my estimate on distance probably was not accurate seeing as I don’t know the metric system but it honestly was straight ahead of her, I should know, I just came from there.  She looked at me with that vacuous look that I know I give when I’ve just received an answer in Spanish and am unsure of what I’ve just been told.  Laughing a little nervously she asked, “¿A la derecha?”  Well, you could go a la derecha (to the right) but I don’t think it would turn out too well for you.  “No,” I answered, “al derecho.  Siga, siga la calle.”  I motioned for her to follow the road straight.  Still laughing nervously she thanked me and gave it the gas.  I walked on.  After I walked a few yards I turned back to see she had stopped again and was speaking to another passer-by.  He made the same gesture, “Straight ahead.”  What the hell, lady?  I was speaking Spanish!