Buenos Aires, Argentina
February 16, 2017
Embracing the Unexpected
Travel is about embracing unforeseen opportunities. It’s about following a path in one direction only to take an unplanned fork in the road. The sort of fork that leads to extraordinary experiences. Forks like the time we met a cook named Ali behind a restaurant in Morocco’s Tadra Gorge. A chance meeting during Ali’s smoke break, which led us to his family’s home a half-day drive away and three memorable days spent cooking tajine, visiting the local hammam, dancing in clubs, and drinking mint tea.
I love such experiences. They give travel its color and present the world through an unfiltered lens. They’re the sort of highly coveted experiences, which rarely happen to us at home where life’s routine makes us more insular to the world around us.
This is the story of one such experience. It’s about a day that began with a routine haircut and how that haircut led to a most unusual invitation to the guitar maker’s house - a typical sort of day that simply wasn’t.
Adventures in Haircutting
Outside the U.S., Sheri’s haircuts have been something of an 'adventure' - her salon visits in foreign countries a sometimes nerve-racking experience with an uncertain outcome. I use the word ‘salon’ loosely to describe anywhere someone has taken scissors to Sheri’s hair. Over the years, she’s received haircuts by both highly qualified and utterly inept stylists in places ranging from a remote beach in Ghana to a swanky Cape Town salon.
Sometimes it’s a quick and easy trip to the salon. Other times, it’s a misadventure with questionable results. Back in 2007, Sheri emerged from a salon in Uganda unsure whether to laugh or cry – her hair unrecognizable under a helmet-like layer of product applied by a well-intentioned stylist who was unsure how to style Sheri’s thin blond hair.
On another occasion, desperate for a long overdue trim, she made the critical mistake of employing me to do the work. With Sheri sitting on a stump behind our Land Cruiser somewhere in the Swaziland bush, I began hacking away. It was a haircut that began with me saying “This looks easy enough…” and ended abruptly when Sheri sprang to her feet screaming “Please don’t ever touch my hair again!”
With this as background, I’m sure you can appreciate Sheri’s nervous anticipation on the day of her appointment in Buenos Aires.
On the train to San Telmo, I asked Sheri about the salon. “I don’t know much about it,” she said. “All I know is that the stylist’s name is Jay, and he said to meet him at a bike shop." “A bike shop?” I asked. “Yeah. Here's the address. He said something about selling his salon and not having a place to cut hair. I found him on an expat forum. He speaks English and comes highly recommended, so I’m pretty excited. No language barriers to contend with. It should be good.”
On the way to the bike shop, Sheri dropped me off at a coffee shop where I passed the next four hours sipping lattes, catching up on reading, and anxiously wondering how things were going at her appointment.
When Sheri finally returned, I felt immediate relief. She looked ‘normal’ - no cornrows, beads, extensions, flamboyant curls, colorful highlights, or overuse of product. Her hair looked lovely, and she had a smile on her face. This was reassuring. No need to pull out the ‘just in case’ hat or ‘if it’s really bad’ paper bag with eye cutouts we carry on such occasions.
“So how did it go?” I asked. “I’m happy with the cut, but the ‘salon’ was something else.” She replied. “No time to explain, we need to get going. We’re meeting Jay for burgers and a beer at Banca Roja. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
On the way to lunch, Sheri briefed me on the past four hours. It had been an experience. After selling his salon space, Jay began cutting hair out of a local bike shop. It’s a solution that can best be described as function over form - a temporary solution until he can find another dedicated space.
Sheri described the space to me: Reception took place at a table in the back of a bike-filled showroom. Shampooing took place on a toilet in a cramped restroom. Highlights and cuts were performed while sitting in a wood chair in a back office.
Since I wasn’t there, I often try to imagine the scene. I picture Sheri in a wood chair as Jay applies tinfoil highlights. Bike parts are everywhere. Tires hang from the ceiling, and spares are stored in boxes along one wall. The whole place has a distinct aroma that’s a heady mix of tire rubber, chain grease, and shampoo. It’s a potent smell intensified by Buenos Aires' mid-summer heat and the shop’s lack of A/C.
To Sheri’s right is a work table and on top of the table is a toolbox filled with a mixed bag of bike tools and hair products. It’s a toolbox Jay shares with the mechanics repairing bikes a few feet away, and working out of the space demands focus. One lapse and Jay’s spraying Sheri’s head with chain grease and mechanics are lubing chains with hairspray.
Back in the bike shop’s restroom turned shampoo station, I picture Sheri seated on a well-worn toilet, thick with a yellowed patina laid down by years of heavy use. Crammed into a tight space, Jay has Sheri in a yoga-like backbend, her head held over a clogged shower drain by a telescoping pole fitted with an Ethiopian style headrest.
The restroom is extremely cramped and Sheri, Jay, the toilet, and floor are soaked in a grubby cocktail of rinse-water, and each other’s sweat. It’s a scene that requires a healthy dose of core strength on Sheri’s part and precision handling by Jay to keep her butt planted on the slippery toilet seat and her head suspended over the shower drain. One mistake and the whole scene could quickly devolve into a public restroom Slip ‘N Slide.
When we arrived at Banca Roja, we met up with Jay, placed our orders, and slipped into deep conversation. Jay is fascinating, an enthusiastic ambassador for Buenos Aires who possesses a wealth of information about the city and its neighborhoods. Over lunch, we explored everything from mate etiquette to Argentina’s economic struggles.
As lunch was winding down, the conversation shifted to Buenos Aires vibrant graffiti scene, something Sheri and I became fascinated with during our three months in Palermo. “You know,” he said, “one of the city’s more famous pieces of graffiti is painted on a house just around the corner. If you’d like, I can show it to you before you catch your train. Interested?” We were, and after lunch we headed off to have a look.
Are You Here to See the Guitar Maker?
Just around the corner, we came to a house with a portrait on the front wall. “This is it.” Jay said as he began to explain the graffiti’s significance. As we stood in front of the painting, a middle-aged woman with blond hair and pulsing energy approached. For a moment, she stood beside us before interrupting. “Are you here to see the guitar maker?” she asked. “The Guitar Maker?” Jay replied. “Yes, yes, the guitar maker.” She continued. “He’s famous you know. One of the most famous guitar builders in all of Argentina and he lives in this house. You must meet him!”
“Meet him?” I thought. I was confused, and from the look on Sheri and Jay’s faces, they seemed equally perplexed. Lagging behind her rapid-fire Spanish, I wanted to decline politely, but couldn’t get the words out fast enough. I wanted to let her know that “we’re just here to admire the graffiti.”
But before any of us replied, she walked up to the front door and knocked. Moments later, an older man came to the door, and she briefly disappeared inside before poking her head back out. “Come, come, let’s go inside!” summoning us with an emphatic wave of her hand.
Caught off-guard and struggling to follow the conversation, Sheri and I didn’t have time to process her invitation. Jay, who seemed similarly flat-footed, didn’t say anything either and before we knew it, we were inside.
Once inside, the woman closed the door behind us, and, for a moment, it was quiet. Insulated from San Telmo’s noisy bustle, I felt like I had stepped into a quaint oasis - a tidy home built around a leafy green courtyard in the middle of Buenos Aires urban jungle.
Still in the entryway, the man was standing to our left, and behind him, I could see a workshop. Around the perimeter of the workshop were tables, and on the tables were tools, stacks of wood, and a handful of guitars in various stages of construction. Above the tables were more guitars hanging on the walls. Even from a distance, I could see they were beautiful.
But the quiet was momentary. Once we were all inside, the woman picked up where she left off, introducing the man as the guitar maker before grabbing Sheri by the hand and leading us into the courtyard. Speaking quickly and without pause, she was moving faster than we could track. She was our impromptu guide, taking us on a room by room tour of the house. Along the way, she stopped often to show us framed photos, describe pieces of art, or tell us a story.
To be honest, I had trouble understanding her, doing my best to fill in gaps between the few words I understood and the many I didn’t.
“father”… “guitar”…. “Cordoba”….. “tango”….."daughter”….
I’d turn to Sheri and say something like “I think she’s explaining that the older man’s her father and when she was growing up in Cordoba he made guitars and taught her to dance tango. Or was it that he played the guitars in Cordoba while she danced tango? Honestly, I wasn’t sure. Maybe her father sold guitars to tango musicians?? Before we figured it out, she had already moved on to something else.
Listening as she described a family photo hanging on the wall, I remember thinking about how strange a turn of fate this was. It’s a feeling I know well. One I remember from past experiences. It’s an almost out-of-body feeling of being in a situation so odd that it’s almost like you’re observing yourself from afar. One minute we were immersed in San Telmo’s bustle and next we were on an intimate tour of a stranger’s house. A tour that honestly felt a bit too intimate given we were strangers that she just picked off the street.
After viewing every framed photo, thumbing through a shelf full of books, sitting in chairs, and peering in cupboards, our guide led us back to the front of the house and into the workshop where the man was chatting with Jay by the door. Slipping past, our guide continued her tour, taking us from one workstation to the next, showing us tools and pulling guitars off the wall so we could have a closer look. I must admit, it was something to see. Each guitar was a unique work of art. An instrument that almost felt too precious to be touched, let alone played.
Our tour ended back with the old man and Jay, where our guide held the man’s hand as we joined the conversation. Chatting for what felt like hours, Sheri and I found ourselves in a Spanish master’s class as we tried to keep up. From what I understood, the man had been building guitars his entire life – splitting his time between workshops in Buenos Aires and Cordoba. We talked about his craft, tango, family, and life in Argentina. It was a lovely conversation filled with warmth and laughter. An unexpected fork in the road, that transformed an otherwise normal day into something truly memorable.
With it getting late, our guide turned to the man, kissing him on the cheek, before saying her goodbyes. “I’ve enjoyed visiting, but unfortunately, I’ve got another engagement and must go.” And with that, she waved and disappeared out the front door.
For a few moments, it was strangely silent in the house. Finally, Sheri broke the silence. Turning to the old man, she said, “I apologize, but my Spanish isn’t so good and I’ve been struggling to follow the conversation. I don’t believe I caught the woman’s name. Who is she and how do you know each other? Is she your daughter?” After a short pause, the old man replied with a soft laugh “No, no. She’s not my daughter. I have no idea who that lady is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.” And with that, we all had a good laugh.
So what’s the moral of this story, you ask? I think it’s quite clear, Sheri and I need to work on our Spanish!
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