My friends and I arrived at the Durban Art Gallery with just 10 minutes to spare before closing time.
“What should we see?” we asked the security guard.
“Actually, you can probably see the whole thing in 10 minutes,” he said. “Go!”
Off we went, tearing through the tiny exhibitions, running from room to room. True, it was small — we did see everything in 10 minutes — but the place was fantastic representation of African art.
The juxtaposition of the work left me smiling.
Call it divine intervention.
As soon as I heard about Palacio Barolo, my inner literary nerd rejoiced. An enormous building designed to pay homage to Dante Alighieri and “The Divine Comedy”? Yes, please!
Since the building is now filled with staid offices and busy professionals, I figured it would be difficult to tour. Or, at least, located far across town.
Turns out Dante was pulling for me, because I could actually see the building from my hostel. All I had to do was walk across the street, fork over 30 pesos and sign up for one of the afternoon tours.
With Europe in chaos at the beginning of the 20th century, the structure was originally conceived as a place to house Dante’s remains and keep them safe.
The Italians, however, didn’t go for that plan. Dante is the father of the Italian language, known as “The Supreme Poet” throughout the country, and Italy wasn’t about to ship his ashes to Buenos Aires. So they hung on to their beloved poet — which means the building built for Dante is actually Dante-less.
Even so, the monument is a masterful work of architecture and design. When the building was finished in 1923, it was the highest in all of South America.
The building’s 100-meter height represents the 100 cantos of the poem.
The ground floor ushers visitors into hell. When the sun catches the nine arches — one to symbolize each circle of hell — they glow with fiery reds and yellows. Sinister gargoyles form a ring around the room.
The next 14 floors form purgatorio, where tormented souls wait to escape the sorrow and misery of sin for a state of grace. (Aside: There are many law offices on this level.)
Each floor has 11 or 22 offices to mimic the poem’s cantos, which have 11 or 22 stanzas.
And finally, climbing from floor 15 to 22, you can reach heaven.
The view is divine. Of course.
Street art always reminds me of all the nights I spent scaling bridges, tagging buildings and scribing on walls with my crew.
No, that’s not true.
Though I’ve never been a graffiti artist, I definitely appreciate art — both lawful and unlawful — and applaud lovely bursts of self-expression. That’s why I was so intrigued by the Graffiti Mundo tours of Buenos Aires, which promote street art in the city.
Unfortunately, running out of both time and money, I didn’t get a chance to actually take one of the tours. So I set out to find some graffiti on my own.
On a side street in San Telmo, I stopped to snap this:
As I walked away, a young guy with spiky hair and a black leather vest yelled, “Chica!” I gave him a little nod and continued walking. “Chica!” he hollered again. I ignored him. Finally, he ran up behind me — “CHICA!” — and blurted out something in rapid gunfire Spanish.
I apologized and said I didn’t speak Spanish.
“You like the graffiti?” he said.
He introduced himself as an artist and said that neighborhood contained some fantastic examples of Buenos Aires street art. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
Trusting him, I went. And I’m so glad I did.
We wandered San Telmo for a couple hours, soaking in the vivid colors and designs.
The streets felt like those Russian nesting dolls, unfolding with one surprise after another.
I think graffiti art offers unique insight into a city — a visiually compelling way to understand its energy, politics and overall vibe.
Having a personal tour with an artist only made the day more beautiful.
The best thing about Buenos Aires is how you never have to make any plans. Just walk outside and see where the day will take you.
And so it was yesterday with my visit to Teatro Colon, considered to be one of the top five opera houses in the world — and totally not my intended destination for a Monday afternoon.
But I was in the neighborhood, and I heard that the theater has incredible tours, so I popped into the front office to inquire.
ME: Hello. Do you have tours?
FRONT DESK GUY: No tours. We’re closed.
ME: Oh. Are you open tomorrow.
FDG: No tour tomorrow. Closed.
ME: Do you ever give tours?
FDG: No.
Until that moment when I was turned away, I didn’t realize just how much I wanted to see the inside of the place — and now it seemed like I was fresh out of luck. Beyond buying an expensive ticket to a fancy opera, the tour was my only way to get inside the stunning 1908 building.
On a whim I walked down the alley on the side of the building where I saw a security guard.
ME: Hey, are there any tours of this building?
SECURITY GUY: No tour, but go inside. They speak English.
He nudged me toward an open door. I figured at the very least I’d get to see the lobby, so I played along and walked inside.
There was a woman at a box office desk.
ME: Hola! Do you have any tours?
LADY: No. No tours. Not until spring, when we have more visitors.
ME: Oh. That’s a shame. I really wanted to see the place.
LADY: Sorry. Oh, but I could give you free tickets to this afternoon’s show. Do you want that?
ME: Absolutely!
And that’s how I found myself at the Concierto de Primavera inside a massive and gorgeous theater. For free.
The show wasn’t a full opera, so no buxom ladies in Viking helmets, sadly.
What I did get was a masterful orchestra playing selections from a variety of operas, accompanied by incredible soloists. Baritone Fabian Veloz sang a piece from La Traviata that was a gift to my ears. An oboe, playing the melancholy “Oblivion” by Astor Piazzolla, made me weep. And during the big Brahms finale, I leapt to my feet and clapped until my hands were red and raw.
For two flawless hours, I was inside one of those perfect travel moments — where it feels like the whole world is working in your favor and every dream can come true.
There were seven of us squeezed into the tiny Cessna. A pilot and co-pilot up front, The Husband and me in the middle, and a French family in the back.
It didn’t take long to get up in the air and into the barren desert between Nazca and Palpa, site of the famed Nazca geoglyphs.
The lines were actually very difficult to see at first, but the pilot agrressively dipped the wings and rotated the aircraft around each site to give all of us a good view.
Here’s the astronaut man, which is one reason why some believe the Nazca lines were etched into the ground by space aliens.
You can see him better here.
These were constructed around the year 400, so it’s remarkable they have lasted so incredibly well. The purpose of the lines is unknown, but most seem to think these figures have some kind of religious significance.
Or maybe some guy in ye olde Nazca really, really liked monkeys — which you can see here.
This is some kind of crazy ancient bird.
This is my favorite. I think it looks like a baby chick with an awkward case of enlarged feet.
About five minutes into the flight, as the plane dipped and twirled around the site, the French dad grabbed for his airsick bag. Then the mom puked. And finally, their son joined in with some projectile vomit. They heaved and retched for the remainder of the 35-minute ride.
The mom apologized and said, “We are sorry. We are French.”