Yesterday, July 13, Merritt officially turned two months old! We went to the Bodega Saurus to celebrate. This place was actually the first restaurant he ever went to, although that visit took place when he was just a couple of weeks old. Here are some pics from the restaurant, then . . .
. . . and on his birthday, below. He sleeps on a bench in between his parents, posed with a wooden pine cone. Who knows why? He was a nice boy and let his family enjoy a very special lunch in his honor.
On our last day in Buenos Aires, which was a week ago Sunday, we went on a short tour of the Manzana de las Luces, the Jesuit block of Enlightenment. It's offered most afternoons, and a guide takes you around to some of the old historical buildings, colleges/high schools, past a church or two, and dips into the subterreanean tunnels that used to link together underground some of the important locations. These were supposedly also used for various things, like hideouts for politicians and wayward schoolkids, networks for smugglers, etc. It was a little disappointing that we didn't get to see more of the tunnels, but the guide did point out that they featured false terminations and blind corners to confuse the univited. Looking at the maps, the makeup of the tunnels, and the grand fustiness of the old colleges reminded me of settings from Harry Potter. Here are some pics of me, Louie, and Merritt in the tunnels, followed by Louie wondering/wandering the empty streets on a Sunday in Buenos Aires, me being a "guide", and a courtyard fountain:
The actual guide had some interesting stories, but she stood out by repeatedly warning her flock about the dangers of the gift shop, and how, although we might meet up in front of it from time to time, we were under no circumstances to enter the gift shop until the termination of the tour, because otherwise (it was implied) we might become hopelessly lost in its shopping vortex. She seemed to especially eye us, the capitalists of the bunch, presumably because our spending frenzies are well-documented. (When we did actually pass through the shop . . . what a shop it was! Not a gift shop at all, but a kind of traders' market of antique, odd, and grubby fascinations, and we did of course feel the urge to stop and gawk (Reagan was turned off by the plaster Buddhas, but I spied a Tango'd pair suspended in a snow globe, perfect for my friend's mom; Louie declared he wanted to shop there; a handful of old ladies had already--willfuly?--peeled away from the group and engaging in the forbidden act of browsing). But the guide's admonitions echoed in our heads: we would always had time to shop after the tour; in fact, we could stay until it closes at 6:30, she taunted. After the tour, we were hungry.tired.headful of information, and we forgot all about the shop.
Some of Louie's captured street scenes:
Louie and I also went on a very quick tour of Recoleta Cemetary. Louie had never seen it before, and at first wasn't much interested ("I've been to Cozumel," he explained Quixotically), but he was won over instantly by the grand displays and the mysteries of the unkempt kennels of the dead. I find myself repeating over and over everytime I visit (which is really every time I am in Buenos Aires), "This is a true Necropolis." Then I might yammer on about how this should be a setting for a Buffy or Angel episode. Or at the very least Supernatural.
The actual guide had some interesting stories, but she stood out by repeatedly warning her flock about the dangers of the gift shop, and how, although we might meet up in front of it from time to time, we were under no circumstances to enter the gift shop until the termination of the tour, because otherwise (it was implied) we might become hopelessly lost in its shopping vortex. She seemed to especially eye us, the capitalists of the bunch, presumably because our spending frenzies are well-documented. (When we did actually pass through the shop . . . what a shop it was! Not a gift shop at all, but a kind of traders' market of antique, odd, and grubby fascinations, and we did of course feel the urge to stop and gawk (Reagan was turned off by the plaster Buddhas, but I spied a Tango'd pair suspended in a snow globe, perfect for my friend's mom; Louie declared he wanted to shop there; a handful of old ladies had already--willfuly?--peeled away from the group and engaging in the forbidden act of browsing). But the guide's admonitions echoed in our heads: we would always had time to shop after the tour; in fact, we could stay until it closes at 6:30, she taunted. After the tour, we were hungry.tired.headful of information, and we forgot all about the shop.
Some of Louie's captured street scenes:
Louie and I also went on a very quick tour of Recoleta Cemetary. Louie had never seen it before, and at first wasn't much interested ("I've been to Cozumel," he explained Quixotically), but he was won over instantly by the grand displays and the mysteries of the unkempt kennels of the dead. I find myself repeating over and over everytime I visit (which is really every time I am in Buenos Aires), "This is a true Necropolis." Then I might yammer on about how this should be a setting for a Buffy or Angel episode. Or at the very least Supernatural.
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