Mar del Plata

“Where in Argentina are you from?”

“From La Plata,” I respond.

“Oh, yes! The beach town! ”, the interlocutor exclaims with pride for his knowledge.

“No, that is Mar del Plata.”

Mar del Plata is where I spent all of my childhood summer vacations. We always stayed at the hotel owned by the union of government employees, which is the closest hotel to the beach. Literarily, one crosses the road and there it is: the vast ocean. Unfortunately, the water is as cold as if it came from snowmelts. I did not mind it, and I did not know any better, when I was young. I just found the beach fascinating. I spent hours building sand sculptures and walking on the rocks, trying to find anemones that shyly pursed when I stuck my finger on them. I collected the most beautiful shells and, one time, I found a huge crab claw that seemed made of porcelain.

Despite my aversion to food, the city offered atypical culinary options that awoke my interest. I learned about seafood at the restaurants of the harbor and ate unhealthy plates of milanesas, papas and huevos, everything fried. We relished on the Havanna alfajores, (back then, they were sold only in their hometown) which we gulped with condensed milk coffee that my mom prepared in the small room by means of an electrical heater.

Mar del Plata was a city of hidden treasures. My brother Nico and I developed our creativity beyond limits; one time, during boring siesta time, we discovered how filmography worked as the whole world outside reflected on the walls or our room through a little hole in the window. There were always new friends to meet and boys to get crushes on and new clothes bought at Ferimar and crabs, seagulls, grassy hills and cool nights.

Not long ago I was back  in my childhood realm of sand. My trip to Argentina coincided with my grandparents’ vacation. They always take their break in March, when classes already started and the AMEMOP hotel fills with the retirees. It had been a long time since we took a trip together and I excitedly accepted their invitation to join them.

The taxi I took from the bus station pulled in front of the hotel, on Paseo Jesus de Galindez, where my grandma was waiting for me. It was already dark and the cold sea breeze blew her hair. Being in the cold, waiting for me, was one of the infinite things she has done to love me.  Together with my grandpa, we had dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, which was filled with old people. The restaurant was a new addition to the premises where there used to be a bare concrete structure. In fact, the hotel looked pretty different due to the many additions and repairs they had done along the years. My room, though, was just as in the old times: damp, with a tiny bathroom that served as a shower –I recalled my parents squishing the floors after showering, so that we would not get our feet went when we went to the toilet- and smelling of wet sand.

My grandparents, who are in their late eighties, enjoyed their simple routines: breakfast in the large room that overlooks into the ocean (café con leche  and about four pieces of toast each, which my grandma spreads with butter and jam, and maybe a little piece of media luna); reading each word of the newspaper at the hotel’s courtyard; a little stroll on the beach, soaking the feet in the frigid water (my grandma only; my grandpa does not want to walk down the steps to the beach); eating; taking a nap; having mate; and dressing up for dinner. So did I follow a simple routine during the five days I spent with them: ate all the same meals; spent many hours in front of the computer; and went for runs along the ocean, as I had dreamed of doing as a child when I saw the beautifully sculptured thighs of a runner wearing short blue lycra pants in the eighties.

The city, although still beautiful, seemed so much smaller, so less magical; as everything does when one is not a child any more. The passing of time… And we were there, my grandparents and I. My grandma, so coquettish that seems to have never changed. My grandpa sliding into mind of a child that speaks his mind with no shame and charming naughtiness. And I, an adult that has been to so many places, and none as delightful as Mar del Plata.

Coca y Lolo