We’re exploring our catalogue of great travel writing and digging deep into the stories of journeys big and small.
Carolyn Swindell tells how she learned that small things really do matter in Buenos Aires.
Decent underwear – it’s important.
There’s nothing like carrying your life on your back for months and having the freedom to go wherever you want. However, some days the allure of the traveler’s lifestyle isn’t as bright. You yearn for familiar faces and straightforward interactions. Generally, these moods pass quickly, yet sometimes when the joys of global exploration wear you down, what you really need is a clean pair of knickers and a good cup of tea. Therefore, solid underwear becomes not just a luxury but a necessity.
I preempted this scenario when packing; I had chosen practical yet stylish underwear to keep me comfy on my travels. I sacrificed crucial backpack space to include five pairs of cotton briefs – not overly cheeky, but decent enough for any potential inspections. They were comfortable enough for the long journeys yet stylish enough for the occasional short trip.
These knickers served me well through countless handwashes in hostel sinks and overnight dryings on improvised clotheslines. They didn’t ride up during walks or pinch uncomfortably while I sat for hours on trains. Yes, they served me well. But like all good things, their time was running out.
I arrived in Buenos Aires and, after months of frugality on the road, decided to treat myself to a proper hotel: a four-star room of my own, complete with a bath, and conveniently situated near where my trusty guide said the action would be. No need for my sleeping bag here; I had a real bed, topped with a mountain of plush pillows. But all that was to be enjoyed later.
I showered and relished the novelty of unpacking my entire backpack, even hanging some clothes up. Feeling rejuvenated, I stepped out to embrace the world.
Before my trip to Argentina, all I really knew about Buenos Aires stemmed from watching Madonna in ‘Evita’. I understood that a young Eva Duarte found the capital thrilling when she arrived from the countryside, and that the city’s men were known to be incredibly attractive and skilled in tango from a young age.
Still justifiably feeling pampered, I hopped into a taxi and nervously recited, “Feria de San Telmo, por favor.” I felt pleased when the driver seemed to grasp my request.
After patting myself on the back for my linguistic achievement, self-doubt crept in. What if Feria de San Telmo meant ‘shallow grave’ instead of the intended flea markets in the vibrant suburb? I desperately flicked through my guidebook, trying to confirm our destination, but all I achieved was feeling queasy as we pulled up about a block from the market.
The market overflowed with antiques and unique trinkets. Local artists showcased their paintings and sculptures, many impressively crafted despite their tourist-centric appeal. After a bit of wandering, I squeezed my way to the front of a crowd gathered to witness a breathtaking tango performance. I ended up watching the captivating display for what felt like hours, spellbound by the gracefulness and sensuality of the dance. It dawned on me that my attraction to men in trilby hats hadn’t faded with time.
However, as time passed, my focus shifted from the men to the talented female dancer in a standout black dress. You would never spot someone like her back home.
Upon closer inspection, her black dress was more than twenty years old – worn satin devoid of contemporary fashion sense. Yet, you wouldn’t notice its age; you’d be too caught up in the enchanting dance. Despite its declining appearance, the dress became desirable in its representation of artistry and spirit.
The dress clung to her curvy form, cut daringly high, exposing a shapely leg adept at tango movements that spoke of countless evenings spent dancing the night away.
I longed for the power of such graceful legs. Imagining a more womanly form was an aspiration.
As the show concluded, the dancers gathered donations from the enthralled audience. I tossed some US dollars into the hat. Had she approached, I’d have given much more. My interest in the male dancers waned; I now yearned to learn the tango myself, to embrace the femininity embodied by the lead dancer.
The crowd gradually dispersed, and the dancers congregated, smoking and chatting effortlessly among themselves. To an observer like me, they appeared completely at ease; their transitions from dance to casual banter were seamless yet deeply intimidating.
Desperately, I wanted to strike up a conversation with the female dancer – to learn about her journey and whether someone like me, who had just discovered a passion for tango, could ever reach her level.
Gathering courage felt akin to facing the popular kids in school. I pushed aside the waves of insecurity to engage with the dancer.
Just as I was about to approach her, something distracted me. I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. The realization was both shocking and disheartening. Far from the seductive figure I was envisioning, I saw a reflection that revealed an entirely different story.
My hair was pulled into a ponytail; well, part of it was, while the rest hung limp or jutted out in unkempt angles. Rushing to smooth my hair, I assessed my overall appearance. My T-shirt was misshaped and stained; my jeans were less than pristine. Even my once-loved sneakers were beginning to show wear.
In that moment, all hopes of tango dreams faded alongside my body image insecurities. I couldn’t gather the courage to speak to the dancers. Even a decade after high school, it seemed I could still find “the cool kids” that made me feel inadequate.
My shoulders slumped as I drifted away along the broad streets leading back to Microcentro. Buenos Aires is a walker’s paradise, usually a delight for me, but today it felt torturous.
Everywhere I turned, I spotted beautiful young Argentine couples strolling hand in hand. Each man was effortlessly handsome, reminiscent of Antonio Banderas, while the young women exuded confidence. The essence of womanhood radiated from them, drawing admiration from every Antonio in sight. Their figures were accentuated by snug half-length pants and skintight skirts, with ethereal hips swaying to an unseen rhythm.
Interestingly, their attire featured visible panty lines (VPLs) everywhere. This detail could ordinarily boost my spirits, as I consider myself too classy for such a faux pas. However, today, it only amplified my feelings of inadequacy. I felt genderless as if I had shed my femininity alongside my backpack.
Lost in thought, I missed the turn-off for my hotel and stumbled upon Boulevard Florida. The vibrant energy was palpable; it was after nine o’clock, and the night was just starting to come alive. Once again, I glimpsed my reflection in a store window. I braced myself for another disappointing sight. Yet, unexpectedly, something transformed as I scrutinized my image.
Amidst the chaos of reflections, my eyes caught sight of a simple black dress with a V neckline. Although it wasn’t much, I sensed its potential to carry me through my adventures. Eagerly, I rushed in, picked it off the rack, and headed straight for the changing rooms, purposefully striding through the expansive store.
The changing rooms felt universally similar, akin to fast-food chains – a space that could exist anywhere. I slipped the dress over my head and faced the mirror. It was perfect.
Blaring pop music surrounded me, drowning any semblance of the changing room ambiance. Anxious to make my purchase and escape, I quickly lifted the dress off, humming along to the chorus as I reached for my jeans.
Yet again, I glanced into the mirror, only to find myself struggling with the same unease. Despite not having gained weight, I noticed I looked decent from my efforts walking every day – the gym and its machines felt distant. However, discomfort crept in as I glanced down at my underwear. My reliable travel knickers had transformed from white to grey; once practical and attractive, they now bore cruel evidence of wear.
It became clear that I needed to bid farewell to my quintessential backpacker underwear and invest in fresh options. While daunting, it was essential.
Exiting the changing room, I was once again bombarded by awful pop music. It felt as if a deluge of bad tracks had been waiting to ambush me. I had to expedite my search for new underwear and make a quick exit.
A sales assistant approached, and she spoke rapidly in Spanish, her fashion sense suggesting she was far more stylish than her colleagues. I marveled at how she could endure the music; it would surely unsettle anyone in their right mind.
“No hablo español,” I muttered apologetically.
She smiled, pointing to the dress, “You buy?” she asked.
“Si,” I replied, wanting to communicate that I wanted to browse more first, gesturing in a circular motion as if stirring tea.
“Si, si,” she grinned, grabbing the dress and pointing toward the cash register. Then she pointed to herself, saying ‘Carolina.’
I smiled. “Si. Gracias, Carolina.” She was the first person I had conversed with that day, and in a sense, it felt like I had made a connection.
The lingerie section boasted an array of colors, some shades that appeared entirely unnatural. There were patterns, prints, and an overwhelming selection of tiny knickers with matching bras. The extensive variety hinted that Argentineans took the term ‘brief’ quite literally; it felt more like a fashion statement than practical wear. Perhaps the extreme bikini wax should be associated with Argentina instead.
After a few disappointing choices, it took some searching before I found three pairs of suitable cotton underpants hidden at the back – the kind I preferred. I made my way back to Carolina at the front of the store.
She greeted me like an old friend and started chattering away in Spanish, likely assuming I had somehow mastered the language in the lingerie department. Carolina folded the dress, wrapped it carefully, and reached for the underpants.
She picked them up, inspecting them, distaste clearly written on her face. She pointed at the underwear and then at me, indicating a judgment over their suitability for my wardrobe. I nodded, unfazed.
Carolina shook her head vigorously and put the underpants down. “No.”
“Si,” I replied, equally firm. Carolina shook her head yet again, more decisively this time. “No.”
Undeterred, I insisted, “Si.” Then I tried to defuse the situation, adding, “Gracias” in hopes of ending this strange interaction that was altering my perception of my newfound friend Carolina.
Carolina dropped the underpants onto the counter, clearly exasperated, folding her arms. “No,” she stated, this time with unwavering certainty, signalling she hadn’t changed her position on the matter.
Frustration bubbled within me. While I might not rival the Argentinean girls in glamor, I had money to spend and intended to use it within my own discretion. Right now, purchasing those underpants was a point of pride. I retrieved my credit card from my wallet and slid it across the counter alongside the underpants.
“Si,” I reiterated through clenched teeth, wishing I had the vocabulary to request the manager in Spanish.
Carolina took my card and gestured for me to wait. Although tempted to flee before the situation escalated, I remained since my desire for the black dress overwhelmed my instinct. I scanned the shop, trying to catch the attention of another sales assistant, but no one acknowledged me. With Carolina in charge, the others took no interest in my plight.
Moments later, she returned, brimming with enthusiasm while continuing to chatter at me in Spanish. With a triumphant smile, she handed me the smallest pair of underpants I’d ever encountered, nodding contentedly.
“Better for you,” she said, positively beaming.
Resisting laughter, I remained amused at the reality that these knickers were nothing like my practical choices. But I also felt slightly insulted that Carolina was so keen on promoting more expensive items than I actually needed.
She assumed I would accept her decision. I locked eyes with Carolina, whose smile was unwaveringly persistent. I lifted the tiny underpants, attempting to maintain my composure while feigning consideration for such an absurd suggestion.
I couldn’t resist checking the price; to my surprise, they were more economical than my chosen underpants. Seeing Carolina’s gratitude in the situation made my decision tougher.
“No, gracias,” I said, returning the tiny knickers to the counter and placing my practical choices back atop the dress.
Carolina again expressed her disapproval with her arms crossed, vigorously shaking her head.
A tense standoff ensued, followed by an uneasy silence.
Ultimately, she sighed sharply, saying, “Okay.” I thought I had triumphed.
“Together,” she reiterated, gesturing for me to follow.
For the next 15 minutes, we roamed the lingerie section, trying to find common ground. Carolina was adamant I would try on some of the alluring Argentinean knickers, while I remained intent on seeking the most similar pair to my reliable travel undies.
After numerous deliberations, we finally reached a compromise on a pair we both accepted. Carolina’s victorious smile spoke volumes as she quickly gathered three pairs and rushed back to the register.
At last, I pulled out my credit card for the final purchase. As she handed me the bag with my items, Carolina surprised me once more.
She pointed at me and said, “You beautiful girl; don’t forget.”
The English was broken yet the sentiment was crystal clear, leaving me momentarily speechless.
As I walked away, it dawned on me what Carolina had accomplished. She’d made a point to put the tango back in a stranger’s step without securing her commission. Thanks to her persistence, I traded my practicality for a touch of tango, an alteration that has remained with me since.
That evening, I strolled along Boulevard Florida, devoid of visible panty lines but infused with renewed Argentinean confidence in my swagger. The essence of Eva Duarte had returned.
