There are other cities inside of Buenos Aires — the province that is.
Let me introduce you to San Miguel.
A 35 cent train ticket buys a 45 minute ride outside of Buenos Aires into a working-class town of less than 200,000 people. In the last decade, San Miguel’s identity hastily shifted from rural village to industrial suburbs. And you take note. In the first few minutes, Buenos Aires’ lights fade. The landscapes on the other side of the train window depict the shifting scenery — rugged Earth, gas stations, and apartment highrises. The lull of the engine, the flourescent lights, and the lack of stimulation submerge you into a daze.
The doors open and you hear the faint sound of cumbia. It’s a carnival-ish tune, with a repetitive “shh, shh” rhythm. You look around to find the source, and realize it’s playing from a cell phone in the pocket of someone’s Addidas sweatpants. Ahead, there is a stand selling grilled pancho and choripan. The platform smells like cigarettes, cheap perfume, and greasy meat.
A main road, a large Shell gas station, and palm trees are the landmarks on the other side of the station. There’s a billboard that says, “choose life, not drugs.” Down the main road there’s a billiards hall, a Rasta Bar, and a slew of boliches (clubs).
In the plaza, the youth of San Miguel gather in an unlit park under the gaze a bright white church. A man walks around selling marionettes. Stray dogs with sedate, disinterested faces weave through crowds and lazily claim their territories on church steps and under park benches.
Inside the church, the white walls anchor three-dimensional wood carvings of saints. Believers pass by the technicolor figures in a solemn procession — kissing painted feet and whispering prayers. Janet and I slowly follow behind. She names every saint and their significance — “wealth. love. protection…” We stop at the icon of la Virgen Maria Embarazada. Sure enough, the Virgin Mary had a pregnancy bump, as plain and direct as the halo around her head.
We passed a line of people on their way to confession and stepped over a stray dog on the way out.
Before catching the next train back, we walked back to the billiards hall and opted for a pool table in the back corner. Janet and I didn’t talk much. San Miguel is her childhood, and since moving to Buenos Aires, she tries not look back often.
We fell half-asleep on the train back to Buenos Aires. The doors opened, and the city we left waited patiently for our return.
cassherrington 