The Birds

November 17, 2007

“The other day, I picked up some guy from New York who told me an amazing story,” the twenty-something taxista said, scratching his five o’clock shadow.

“Apparently, he saw this girl on the subway and instantly fell in love with her. They were only in the same car for a few stops, and he never said a word to her. Never got her name or her phone number. She got off and he had no idea how to find her.”

“So he created a website,” he continued, turning around to meet my eyes, “And he put up drawings of the girl. Drawings! What her face looked like, her hair, what she was wearing – everything! He included all the details he could: what day it was, where she’d gotten on, where she’d gotten off. And one of her friends happened to see the website…”

“No way,” I said.

“Yep, one of her friends saw it and put them in touch. Apparently they’re together now. Can you believe it?”

“Incredible,” I said.

“I’d have to build a lot of websites for all the girls I’ve fallen in love with like that,” he said.

I laughed.

“Seriously. Especially when I was a teenager. I’d walk down the street and fall in love instantly. Then I’d go home and write a letter to the girl, but have nowhere to send it. I must have 30 or 40 of those letters lying around somewhere.”

At this point, I didn’t care where the young taxista took me.

“I’m a poet, you see. I fall in love too easily.”

“Just like the Miles Davis song,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You know, Miles Davis, the jazz musician. He played a piece called ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily.’”

“I don’t listen to jazz,” Juan said, “But I love Michael Jackson:

…Beeellie Jeeeeen ees not my loverr
…Sheees jest a gerl…
The keeeed eees not my sown…”

He screeched more than he sang. I envied his lack of self-consciousness, although it appeared – as he shifted gleefully from “Billie Jean” to “Beat It” – that we were driving in circles.

“Where did you want to go again?” he asked me.

“Someplace good to eat…”

“Someplace good to eat! I could take you to the styx, you know. You must be a very trusting person.”

Before I could respond, he asked me whether I liked sandwiches.

“There’s this little cafe – on Marcelo T. y Azcuenega – where they make a great sandwich with mayonnaise, chicken, tomatoes, and olives. On pita bread. Delicious,” he rolled his eyes in ecstasy, “How about it?”

As has been the case on nearly all my taxi adventures so far (and much to the surprise of many who assume that BA’s taxistas are some of the biggest crooks in the city), the cross streets were just a few blocks from where Juan had picked me up. He made a triple right turn and set us on the sandwich course.

“I would eat one with you, but I don’t have time,” he said, “I’m trying to finish a poem.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It’s about…about…”

“About?”

“No, you’ll think it’s silly.”

I assured him I wouldn’t.

“Swallows. About women as swallows. Their only true destiny is to be on their way somewhere.”

“I don’t think this is true of all women.”

“Of course not. Just the ones that fascinate me,” he sighed.

And with that, we arrived at the corner of Marcelo T. and Azcuenega. Our conversation, as intimate and fleeting as a tango, was over.

I wished Juan well with his poem and ducked out of the rain into La Cigüeña (the Stork), a non-descript corner café opposite the University of Buenos Aires medical school.

As I approached a two-top next to the window, fluorescent lights bounced off the green linoleum tabletop and matching chairs, kitsch landscapes from the 1970s vied for space on water-stained walls, and a man in a windbreaker flipped through Saturday’s Clarín at the bar. Track lights blazed into a display case where stacks of sandwiches drooled mayonnaise and basked in the spotlight.

“We’ve got anchovy and tomato, tuna salad, ham and cheese, chicken, tomato and olive…” a green-shirted man with a stork monogrammed on his breast pocket patiently recited the offerings.

Though the sandwich Juan had described didn’t sound the least bit appetizing, I ordered the chicken, tomato and olive concoction out of artistic solidarity. After I scraped off much of the mayonnaise, it wasn’t bad…but it certainly didn’t merit an ecstatic eye roll. I worked my way through it with the knife and fork the waiter had brought me, sipping grapefruit soda from a wine glass.

Bill paid and chicken consumed, I buried the pile of mayonnaise under a napkin, left the Stork, and walked home, hoping the muses were hovering around the taxista and his swallow.

La Cigüeña
Azcuenega esquina Marcelo T. Alvear
Hours: Mon-Sat – all day