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[[newspaper clipping 1 begins]]

[[bold]] Busy and Big "B. A." Built On a World of Ideas [[/bold]]

[[bold]] Argentines Prove Agile in Dodging Traffic Worse Than Washington's [[/bold]]

May 13 1939

(No. 18 of a Series)

[[bold]] By W.H. SHIPPEN, Jr., [[/bold]]
Star Staff Correspondent.

  Buenos Aires - Visitors who have seen Chicago for the first time, and without ample forewarning, ought to sympathize with an innocent from North America getting his first glimpse of B. A. 
  This city is too big, too noisy, too crowded and too busy to see, hear or estimate in a day or a year. Perhaps, however, a newcomer in a day could comprehend certain differences that would be obscured by the months. 
  For instance, I get the idea that B. A. is part of everything her builders have seen - in Paris, Madrid, Berlin, London, New York, or Chicago. The Argentines take a little of this and that from here and there, and mix it together after a formula of their own. 
  A downtown skyscraper, for example, looks like an office building - yet it's an apartment house. The structure narrows as it mounts upward. The outer design resembles that of Rockerfeller City or the Empire State Building. On the other hand, the builders discarded structural steel in favor of reinforced concrete.
 [[bold]] Traffic Belittles D. C. Jams. [[/bold]]
  The extent of traffic congestion on downtown streets would bewilder a seasoned Washingtonian. Rush-hour traffic creeps for miles in B. A., where it's a matter of blocks in Washington. Motor cars, trolleys and buses tie themselves in knots around 6 or 7 in the evening - the hour wen the office employe leaves work and generally goes to a moving picture show before dinner - served too often - between 9 and 10 p.m.
  Through a bedlam of traffic and street noises dart nonchalant bus riders whose daring is only excelled by their dexterity in emergencies. They brush street cars, taxis and speeding automobiles off their sleeves with a Latin shrug, and no able-bodied citizen ever thinks of entering or alighting from a bus unless it is in motion in the middle of traffic. Yet, they tell me, the death toll is quite low. After several rides through traffic, I am inclined to believe this. On many occasions, I, being a reporter with his full share of ambulance chasing, have reached for my pencil and paper - to take notes on a tragedy that never occurred. I couldn't say why, unless it is that the Argentine has developed great pride in dodging motor vehicles, and, like the heroes of the bull ring, wins most approbation when he escapes death by the fewest inches. 
                      * * * *
  After meeting various members of the consular service here and on the way South, my idea about the desirability of their jobs has altered somewhat. I used to think, in all ignorance, that to be in the consular service was to sit on a veranda overlooking the sea while a native fanned one with a punkah and one decided, between sips at a gimlet, whether to accept the invitation of the Russian princess to dinner that evening. 
  However, from what I have seen, this is a pretty good composite picture of a consular assistant's day in these parts:
  A North American is to be cremated at 7 a.m. A consular agent must be on hand to certify the validity of the corpse, or something. 
  Then a United States citizen is to be married. He insists on somebody from the consular office as a witness. After that the agent has an engagement with the local chief of police - it seems a North American is in jail.
     [[bold]] Buffalos and Dowagers [[/bold]]
  Then he may be called upon the help land a cargo of buffalos, Gila monsters, etc. (As in one case I know about.) When he has obtained all permits, official stamps, papers, etc., and seen the shipment through, he may be cornered in his office by a visiting dowager with an absessed molar. 
  Now a visiting dowager with an absessed molar is just as dangerous as a couple of buffalos and a crate of Gila monsters, especially if she has political connections. She must be "expedited" to the very best - and gentlest - dentist!
  Later there's a formal dinner, given by the wife of an official who wants to form three tables of bridge, and after than an assignment by the boss to sub for him on the speakers' platform at a charity mass meeting to raise funds for something or other. Then a late dinner - say 10 or 11 p.m. - in honor of a visiting celebrity he never heard of. 
  "Is that all for the day?"
  "All, of course, unless you keep remembering the sunrise ceremony you're booked for tomorrow * * * and the worst is, you do all that smiling! Like this!"
  The agent smiled. 
                        ---
[[italics]] (Tomorrow: More B. A. Notes.) [[/italics]]

[[end newspaper clipping 1]]

[[start newspaper clipping 2]]

[[bold]] Excellent Beefsteaks at 25 Cts. Found in Buenos Aires [[/bold]]

[[bold]] 'Chicken House' Also Is Good Place To Eat, Visitor Discovers [[/bold]]

[[bold]] By W. H. SHIPPEN, Jr., [[/bold]]
Star Staff Correspondent.

  Buenos Aires - When the Uruguay left for the states today many former passengers were on the dock to wave good-by - their tribute to the good ship, a willing crew and a pleasant voyage. 
  Along the rail were familiar faces - friends we would miss pretty keenly after weeks of association. Cruise passengers, officers, members of the crew . . . no telling when or where we would see them again!
  Uncertainty adds to the drama of a sailing - the realization (half admitted) that, after all, new friendships, quickly made, can be as soon forgotten, however important they may seem at the moment. Still, some of my best friends were met on boats. 
  Nobody hated to see the ship go worse than two New York detectives who will be here for weeks yet unwinding the red tape involving an international extradition. They hope to take home a Sicilian charged with the fatal knifing of a countryman.
  Some of the passengers brought up the ship's orchestra to the promenade deck. The musicians played "The Sidewalks of New York," for the special benefit of the detectives, while the breach widened between vessel and wharf. The "cops" brought out their handkerchiefs and pretended to blow their noses. 
  One of them snorted. "They would have to bring that up, wouldn't they!" But "they" were well out in the harbor, where the ship was swinging her bow around to the north. 
  We felt a bit let down, going back to the hotel. The crowd which had bummed around together for three weeks was breaking up. The party from Hawaii already was on the way to the Andes, to catch trout and to travel up the west coast. The young prospector soon would be going to the back country - the salesmen, executives, etc., had their jobs to look to . . . even the animals, some of which we had become find of on the way down, had entered on another existence. 
                      * * * *
       [[bold]] Good Food Is Served [[/bold]]
  Bu Buenos Aires has its consolations. Food is one of them - good food, well-cooked and faultlessly served, in great abundance and variety. The beefsteaks of the Argentine should be tasted, rather than described. How guilty I felt, passing that stuffed Hereford, a masterpiece of the taxidermist's art, which stands at the entrance of La Cabana, gazing pensively upon those who enter and depart. In those glassy, bovine eyes I read a sad reproof . . . I had eaten, in all probability, at least her cousin.
  Steaks are grilled over an open charcoal fire at the entrance, grilled and sliced 2 inches thick, to be wafted away and served on miniature ovens that keep them sizzling hot. Alongside each steak lies a gaucho knife for carving. And each steak sells for about a quarter in American money. 
  I remembered those steaks, my first Argentine love, until I met the spitted poultry they serve at a place which, translated, it called "the chicken house." Indeed, this was the resort of many chickens, all fattened in their youth, ans whirling on spits before a crackling fire of hardwood. The chickens outdid themselves to surpass the ducks in their well-filled skins turning a nice brown. 
     [[bold]] Life Begins at 9 P.M. [[/bold]]
  The "chicken house" is something like the Occidental in Washington, except that it is much larger. Up until 9 p.m. it is practically dark, with only a few waiters hurrying about polishing glasses. The only real sign of life is the majestic chef and his assistants attending the spitted poultry before the glowing fire. 
  Then at 9 p.m. the crowd begins to arrive - dark Latin beauties, turning a bit plump at tender ages but furred, gowned and jeweled to outdo Paris or New York. 
  Their escorts are sleek and dressed almost too well. They wear Clark Gable moustaches, or perhaps Clark Gable got his ideas from the same place - Paris - and their hair is brushed to polished perfection. 
  The conversation is gay, animated and constant. One never hears a loud or raucous voice or the sudden little silences which sometimes follow. 
  The diners do a lot of talking and stow away a lot of food. I was puzzled to know how they accomplished this double function until I learned how long they dallied over a meal. 
  The Argentine allows himself plenty of time to talk as well as eat, without trying to do both at once.
  I'm endeavoring to learn that myself, at the suggestion of my wife.
[[italics]] Tomorrow South American pedestrian control. [[/italics]]

[[end newspaper clipping 2]]