Getting There

When I was 19 I travelled to Argentina with a punk band, but I wasn’t punk at all. I was a scared child. I had only left Colombia once, and with my parents. Besides, I was flying with my band mates only until Ecuador, from there on, I was on my own.

I had US $500 stupidly divided between my wallet, two backpacks, and my bass case. I kept checking my money was there every ten minutes. Besides, I was worried about the fact that I was going to be alone in three airports, including Ezeiza in Argentina, where pick pocketing is allegedly a commonplace, and I had to get from there to one of the biggest cities in Latin America and look for a place to stay nine hours before my mates arrived.

I guess all of us have been on that first scary trip, when you lose the fear. Even before leaving Medellin, my hometown, my best plan was staying in the airport waiting nine hours for my friends.

But before all of that even happened, still in the departures area in Medellin, this young man, dressed in black, with a bowler hat, a beard style like Lemmy from Mottorhead and with a very strange guitar case, showed up and said hello to my guitar player. As it turned out, he, Santiago, was part of another band, he was going to Buenos Aires and he and I would be arriving at the same time. I was saved.

Already in Buenos Aires, we took a cab and got to San Telmo, one of the most traditional neighborhoods, where Santiago’s friend lived. You can see the difference between San Telmo and the rest of the city, because as soon as you get there the car starts bumping in the cobbled streets.

The cab stopped in front of an old building, Santiago rang the bell and from a very small arched window his friend, Mateo, said hello. Suddenly, we were in this dark, 15 square meter apartment, full of books of the Damned Poets and small figures of witches and executioners. On top of this, Mateo’s girlfriend was watching a gore movie. In Medellin, because of my stupid prejudices, I would have never hanged around with them. In Buenos Aires, I discovered the nicest people ever: they let me stay with them, gave me liquor and invited me to eat with them.

We went out for a walk and there I was, eating Facturas, small pieces of bread; walking in a European style neighborhood; standing in the middle of it’s long avenues, only broken by the curvature of the Earth; kind of drunk because of the US$1 dollar wine and feeling the strong wind and the beautiful endless drizzle of Buenos Aires. I had made it.