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DAUPHINE
THE DAYS OF only seeing photos of beautiful places were over. That was the first thought that came to
me when I woke as Captain Nathan, in his soothing accent, announced the plane’s descent. I was
expecting to see pasture out the window, but when I peered out, the sun was rising over a carpet of
city, Buenos Aires stretching as far as I could see. Its scope took my breath away. I had read about the
dazzling sprawl, but I was actually seeing it, and from high up. I’d never seen any city from this
vantage point before, and it felt otherworldly, like having a superpower. Soon, I would be more than a
mere observer. I’d be immersed in the city itself, the Paris of South America.
I privately thanked S.E.C.R.E.T. and, while disembarking, quite publically thanked my pilot by
kissing him on the cheek as I passed.
“That’s for helping me,” I said.
“The pleasure was all mine,” said Captain Nathan, tipping his pilot cap.
Two drivers stood behind a placard with my name on it: one would take me to the hotel; the other
would bring Carolina’s painting to a secure facility until the auction. Waiting for me in the back seat
of a limo was a bowl of chilled fruit, pastries and hot coffee, which I savored along the way. I was
ravenous, for food, for people, for life, my eyes scanning every detail out the window, as wide as
saucers.
All in one block, I saw neoclassical French facades, Italianate cupolas, art nouveau gates and
modernist glass block rectangles wedged between six-story walkups, laundry strewn over every
balcony. I couldn’t keep up with the feast of curves and cornices. People seemed oblivious to traffic
lights, a hazard in a place where a quick turn off an eight-lane avenue could send you down a narrow
one-way street with no sidewalks. So this is what it’s like, I thought, to be a stranger on an
adventure in a new place. My senses were alive, my whole body tingling with possibility.
My driver, Ernesto, was an eager tour guide, pointing out all the relevant signposts, like when the
highway from the airport turned into Avenida 9 de julio, one of the widest streets in the world.
“It is … comemorativo,” he said with a crisp accent, “this one celebrating Argentina’s
independencia. Most streets in Buenos Aires are named in celebration of something or someone.”
Approaching the hotel, we cruised through the heart of a dense and hectic neighborhood called
Recoleta, a posh part of town, Ernesto said, where people still lined up to pay homage to Eva Perón
in its famed cemetery.
Stopping in front of the Alvear Palace Hotel felt like we were pulling up to a castle. I chastised
myself for feeling like a princess, something from which I thought my workaholic tendencies had
inoculated me. But there I was stepping out of the long, sleek car with Ernesto’s help, feeling utterly
prized. A line of international flags whipped loudly in the wind, highlighting the fact that the hotel
took up nearly an entire city block.
“This will be your home for the next little while,” he said, removing his cap and bowing slightly.
I caught a better look at his face. His creamy dark skin and slightly Asian eyes were an alluring
mix; for someone so young, he had an air of gravitas about him.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.”