A stranger in Buenos Aires
- Ian Rosenberg
- Jun 6
- 11 min read
Updated: Jun 19
If you haven't picked up by now, the Argentines are amazingly social people. They have a unique ability to introduce themselves to anyone, to make friends in minutes, and to find some way to connect with anyone they meet. They don't live in fear of rejection, and they don't participate in small talk. A taxi ride can easily turn into a 10-minute political discourse session, and even when you're sitting at a café with your headphones in, several new friends may be the last thing you expect.
Wednesday night, I was planning to attend a language exchange—a place to speak foreign languages with other expats and learners—in the Palermo neighborhood of Buenos Aires. The neighborhood is known to be quite hip, attracting Argentina's young professionals and white-collar expat remote workers alike. Leafy streets, low-rise brick buildings add to colorful, artful apartments and trendy restaurants to create this young neighborhood.
Nightlife in Buenos Aires, even on weeknights, starts late, and lasts into the wee hours of the night, sacredly named the madrugada, where conversations turn intimate and ideas flow freely. The language exchange, proudly advertising dinner and drinks, started at 9 pm, and even then, I'd read online that it doesn't get kicking until 10 or so. I, being unemployed and having a wide open schedule, was happy showing up at 9 and making friends with the early birds before the others showed up. But I ended up making my way out to Palermo even earlier, arriving at around 8 pm. Again, I didn't have much else to do. So, I did a very Argentine thing: I got merienda. This is a "meal" that you get before dinner to tide you over. Because, I don't know, eating dinner at a normal time is just too much for an Argentine to process. So I got a medialuna (an Argentine croissant) and a mocha at Café Pékines (Beijing-ese Café), a few doors down from the bar hosting the language exchange.
I sat at a table, headphones in, listening to tango and savoring my very Argentine merienda, when the only other people in the cafe asked me if I liked sushi. I said yes, but explained that I had dinner plans, but in a rather clumsy manner. I, of course, was not expecting to be approached with my headphones in and sitting alone. But again, that's just one of the differences between home and Argentina. They seemed surprised that I was a foreigner, actually, and explained that they imagined I was one of the mysterious, classy Palermitanos whose friendship seems elusive... Two of them spoke perfect English—with one having lived for a while in the UK, and another having spent a good portion of his childhood in Canada. So we mostly conversed in English.
We quickly became friends. They turned out to be the owners of the café, and they waived the bill for croissant and coffee, and we headed out to a local corner store to buy a few bottles of wine to split. After heading back to the café, we began, well, discussing.
I'd read romanticizations online about how the Argentines love to have conversations late at night over some wine. Deep, intentional conversations about passions, politics, art, and culture. And here I was, doing exactly that. The guys who owned the café were pretty alternative, I would say. They're a group of rockers and arty musicians, who wear odd outfits and enjoy being goofy. One of the guys, Johnny, is in a rock band and has opened for some pretty big names before. Another, Julian, is a lesser-known musician who enjoys the art of making sushi in his café. Though, he is also prone to pulling out his own his own vintage electric guitar late at night and playing a tune or two.
By this point, I'd well given up on my goal to make it to the language exchange early, instead, preferring to experience a more intimate evening with fewer people, in an impromptu space.
Julian offered me a few sushi rolls, and I accepted (on the assurance that I pay full price). He pulled out this fish he'd been pickling for a few weeks for me to try, artfully made a rather simple roll with it, and, upon giving it to me with a cup of soy sauce, told me "it used to swim. It no longer swims. Don't make it swim in the soy sauce, please," ensuring that I respect and appreciate the taste of his fishy creation instead of just the generic soy sauce.
Soon after, grandparents of the third owner, Seb, surprised him at work. They're true porteño old souls, having lived through the dictatorship and the golden age of Tango. Because Seb's grandpa is a tango aficionado, Julian asked me, being a fan of the genre and the honored guest of the evening, to put on my favorite tango album over the loud speakers. So, as we discussed and savored our meticulously crafted nigiri and sashimi, each coming out piece by piece, the Antologia de Roberto Goyaneche played some of the most classic tangos in the background.
We discussed life in Buenos Aires. The fading of tango from public life, the growing obsession with Rock and Roll, and the changing of neighborhoods over time. The influx of remote workers savoring the culture and nightlife of the city, and the experience seeing the city change across time. He described the difficulty of sharing your opinions and thoughts during the dictatorship, and we compared the impacts that Milei and Trump have had on their respective countries. We discussed my trip, the lessons I learned, and bonded over our love for the Northwest. Seb's grandpa even sang us a classic tango, Los Mareados, with his feeble, fading voice. All the while, fresh nigiri rolled out, three pieces at a time—one for me, and one each for Seb's grandparents. It was here, perhaps more than any other time, that I truly felt like I was living the porteño life.
As 11 pm rolled around, the café had to close its doors, even to us as friends. They actually close at 10:30, but we were having such a nice time that they decided to keep us around for an extra little bit. Though we made plans to see each other again to go bowling, Julian ended up getting sick, and we never ended up reuniting.
So, I headed next door to the language exchange. I was expecting a dozen people, but it ended up being a huge gathering. I learned what I was about to get myself into, when, approaching the bar, I saw probably fifty kids spilling out into the sidewalk. And inside, there were over a hundred more kids my age, all speaking in all sorts of languages. When you enter, you get flags with the languages you speak. So I picked up a USA flag, an Argentine flag, a French flag, a German flag, and a Brazilian flag. I didn't realize until later that they had others, and I would have totally picked up at least a Chinese, if not an Israeli flag as well. I got so many looks from people, who had been conditioned to know Americans as stupid people who don't care to, don't want to, and are frankly too dumb to be able to, learn a foreign language. So I enjoyed lighting some people up when I could speak to them in their native language. Perhaps I did a good deed for the public opinion of the US that night...
I met a few people with interesting backgrounds, including a refugee from Tuva, escaping Russia for fear of execution after his harsh criticism of the Putin regime. I also met a kid from Morocco living here, looking to improve his life. But the majority of the kids were either here on long-term study programs, Buenos Aires natives, or remote workers soaking up the culture and depth of this city between their working hours. I encountered no other short-term tourists, which I found to be interesting. But really, most of the rest of the night, until 3 AM, was spent just having short conversations with people, introducing ourselves, and connecting over one thing or another.
Though I feel the barrier to entry in a conversation in Argentina is already incredibly low—it's completely socially acceptable to just begin a conversation with someone who looks interesting or to barge into a conversation you can contribute to—this program broke the already-low barrier. Here, there was zero barrier to entering a conversation. I mean, it's a bunch of like-minded, similar people who are here to converse. The point was to have conversation, not to sit and look at your phone in silence. And because of that, I think the people who come are interesting, accomplished people with things to discuss. People who are knowledgeable about culture, both modern and traditional, and who enjoy lengthy conversations and low-stakes debates.
Between my time at Café Pekines and the language exchange, I had just a wonderful evening in Palermo.
For Shabbat, I attended the youth service of temple Amijai, at their secondary house called La Malka. About three years ago, the 18–35 year-old members of Amijai decided they wanted a space to practice together. Away from their parents and away from little kids, they wanted to create a young-adult bubble, where, once again, conversation and discourse could flow between those of similar interests and life experiences. And what they got was something wonderful.
La Malka and Amijai are both deep in the Belgrano neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Though about 30–40 minutes out from the center, and far off the average tourist route, I found Belgrano to be so incredibly pleasant. It's certainly a little more upscale than other areas of the city, but it's also less invaded by influencer cafés and trendy restaurants. It feels like a more authentic Buenos Aires, living before the age of viral trends and TikTok. La Malka is in a house donated by a community member about a 10-minute walk from the main Synagogue.
I arrived at the Malka house, where, unfortunately but necessarily, I was greeted by a security guard. He checked my passport, my bag, and my pockets, and let me in through the heavy door into the house. Jewish spaces in Buenos Aires have had tough security ever since the 1990s, after two Hezbollah-orchestrated, high-profile bombings on Jewish spaces—a Jewish community center and the Israeli Embassy—took the lives of 114 porteños.
Left: the foundation of the Israeli Embassy, Right: The Rebuilt AMIA (Jewish Community Center), both after their 1990's bombings
Inside, though, was a warm, welcoming, friendly community. I was instantly greeted by nearly everyone with a kiss on the cheek and a Shabbat Shalom, and was asked about what brought me here. They're a very tight-knit community, and clearly knew when someone new was around. Before the service, we did a round of schmoozing, all going around asking each other about their weeks and their lives in a mix of English and Spanish. Though I, by this point, am speaking quite good Spanish, many of them wanted to use this as an opportunity to practice their English. Despite my insistence that we speak in Spanish...
The rabbi began the Kabbalat Shabbat service, leading us in song through the prayer book. Though I've attended many services on the road in the past, from Georgia to Cuba, this service reminded me the most of home. It wasn't just a bunch of people in a synagogue mumbling off at lightning speed the prayers, like what had happened at the more orthodox synagogues I'd visited abroad. Here, we were moving slowly through each prayer, singing it in beautiful song with a violin, a keyboard, a guitar, and a drum. We were savoring the meaning and the words, repeating them over and over again. It reminded me of my Reform upbringing; it wasn't scary or intimidating, and I never once felt ashamed for not knowing every word to every prayer, or for needing to mumble along. The holiness was in our collective spirit, in our community being brought together as one.
The songs were beautiful. Some I recognized—the melodies of Shir Shalom and Michigan Hillel—and some, I didn't. But either way, they were easy enough to pick up on and sing along to.
Then, the rabbi summarized this week's parshah. And frankly, I felt like it matched perfectly with how I was feeling in Buenos Aires, and in Argentina particularly. One of the main stories in this week's parshah, Beha'alotcha, is the invitation to Moses's father-in-law to join the tribe on their way to the Land of Israel. And the rabbi talked about the importance of welcoming those of our community. Especially in our times now, where being Jewish in this world is not easy, it is important to show our community members love. To include them, to grow something bigger than any individual.
At this point, I was already imagining what moving to Buenos Aires would be like. After all, ABS has an office in the city, and I was increasingly falling in love with the country. But now, what the rabbi was saying felt besheret. The idea that we should actively build our community, welcome newcomers, and show them love echoed in my head for the entire night. I felt more than welcome in the night; I felt like I was part of the night. That my presence contributed to everyone's experience, that me, showing up at a new synagogue as a stranger, tested this week's parshah by seeing how a community of young, bright, skilled, honorable individuals would take in one of their own that they'd never met before. And they did it with pride, honor, and exuberance.
Then began dinner. We had, for appetizers, of course, empanadas. But then there was also brisket and vegetables as the main course. The food was delicious, and there was plenty to go around. But the main attraction, yet again (unsurprisingly) was the conversation. Though politics had come up bit by bit, this was the "final boss" of how well I could discuss politics in Spanish. Though my neighbor at the table, Katia, also spoke perfect English, we decided to bounce between the two for the sake of both of us practicing. Katia is heading to NYU for her master's degree, hence her wanting to brush up on her English.
The two of us talked a lot about the experience of Jews in America, moreso than the experience of Jews in Argentina, though that came up too. She was just more outgoing than me, and kept the conversation mostly in my court. We discussed the way the colleges handled anti-semitism in the last few years, how Trump and Kamala each fare at handling anti-semitism, and just our general grumblings about the difficulties of being Jewish in the 2020s.
Again, another night, another classically porteño conversation. A conversation blending cultures, spanning oceans and decades, and had completely openly with no judgement. Statements were made to be learned from, not to be judged about. Sure, it helps Katia and I agreed on many things, but the times we didn't, we expanded on the disagreements together instead of debated them hostilely.
It was also one of the girl's at La Malka's last Shabbat, as she, from the DC area, was heading back to the US after four months in Buenos Aires. She spoke unbelievable Spanish with a perfect porteño accent, which is why I was shocked to learn that she was American born and bred! She wanted to go to karaoke for her last shabbat, so at about midnight, after dinner was over, her, I, and a few others headed out to find a spot. We were unsuccessful, but in our moments playfully bickering on the street corner about what karaoke bars we should or shouldn't attend, whether we should walk or Uber, or how to find a bar hiding in plain sight, I saw something real. I saw a community, a group of friends that I could be a part of. I saw a glimpse of my life, of my friends, of my community. I saw a flash-forward a few months or years into the future, if only I was actually here for that long. I felt like I belonged. I could make jokes, I could talk freely about opinions I had that I would repress back in Ann Arbor, and from the outside, I looked like any other kid from Buenos Aires, part of any other friend group born here. Once again, I felt porteño, and I felt like I belonged. La Malka had delivered on their mission set out by Beha'alotcha.
We never ended up finding a karaoke bar. They were all either too far away, ghosts on Google Maps, or too expensive. But we did find an ice cream parlor with a piano. So, we all headed there, and until the late hours of the madrugada, people took turns playing on the piano, while the rest of us sang along to classic American and Argentine songs, while enjoying our gelato, our conversations, and each other's company. It was a wholesome, heart-filling night.
After these two rich nights in Buenos Aires, I no longer felt like a stranger in this city.
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