"The place was tranquil, in a disturbing way, beautiful in a gothic manner of opulent splendor, a facade for darker stories - a ghost town in the literal sense."
NOTE: A Woman on the Wildside is a series of blogs currently being written by Anastasia Blackwell, chronicling her experience as a single woman traveling in Argentina, with the purpose of publishing the complete series.
"I imagined a late night tryst beneath a full moon, bare skin against cold stone, alive in the shadows of death, a delicious shock of electricity riding spine to heart, and the drive to create new life”.
I strode down bustling Avenida Alvear, past the Cathedral with open door confessionals and prayer stalls lined with candles. The sweet smells that wafted from the bakeries and candy shops filled my senses with delight, and. I ached to stop and try the fine leather boots and jackets in the windows of upscale boutiques, but I was running late.
Tamerlane Rivera appeared as I made my way past Our Lady of Pilar Church to the entrance of the Recoleta Cemetery, its stone façade in stark contrast to the swirl of white clouds floating, adrift in a sea of blue. He wore a black cashmere coat over a white collared shirt open at the neck, and dark wash jeans. His embrace was firm and confident, affording a kiss to my cheek that left a trace of musk and spice.
At the finale of the demonstration at the Tribunal he had offered an invitation to show me the sights of Buenos Aires. I had agreed, despite numerous warnings that a single woman must be cautious when traveling in Argentina. I did not regret the decision, as his beguiling good looks had the same affect in the harsh light of day as the romantic warm hue of moonlight..
“I grew up in the barrio of Recoleta, on the street that houses many of the embassies. Most of the wealth in Argentina is held by the people who live within the district.”
He guided me past a vendor cooking glazed walnuts, through neo classical gates and Doric columns into one the most famous cemeteries in the world. Inside the walled gates was a city of extravagant mausoleums that housed the remains of wealthy, famous, and infamous Argentinean citizens.
“Most locals born to the neighborhood are baptized in the church, educated, build careers, get married, raise children, retire, and move to the exclusive city of the dead, when they pass on. It is expensive real estate and there are no simple stones, the kind used to mark the remains of common people.”
“No Exit,” I remarked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your description reminded me of an existential Jean Paul Sartre play.”
“He is one of my favorite philosophers,” he said.
“Mine too,” I said, in half earnest, distracted, by the vast array of artistry used to render the essence of a human life.
The place was tranquil, in a disturbing way, beautiful in a gothic manner of opulent splendor, a façade for darker stories - a ghost town in the literal sense.
The elaborate marble mausoleums were decorated with statues in a wide range of architectural styles, tightly attached, like miniature houses, decorated with sophistocated sculptures, art, and photographs.
A strong French influence was apparent, but pyrmids, Egyptian motifs and Masonry symbols added an eclectic flair. Laid out like city blocks, the main walkways lined with trees led to narrow streets meandering for what seemed like miles. There were thousands of homes, and many offered clear views inside doors and windows, of elaborate, wood caskets adorned with precious metals.
The most touching was the crypt of a young woman who had mistakenly been buried alive, and then died of fright when she awakened. She had been reburied behind glass, in case she reawakened a second time.
“Eva Peron is buried further down this walkway,” he said, and led me along a narrow path to an elegant crypt lined with flowers and notes from her fans.” “She would have been forgotten beneath a slab in the country had she not used her beauty and eloquence to reform the country. “
“I read she was embalmed by her husband.” I said..
“Yes, and was stolen by thieves after he died. She was held as the property of his widow for a period of time.”
"A woman’s worst nightmare,” I said..
“Beauty and power exact a price,” he remarked, with a warm smile.
Evita rose from poverty to become an international icon for her rhetoric, personal style, and tireless work on behalf of women and the poor. A victim of uterine cancer, she lost her life to what created life and defined her as a woman.
“Is her husband, Juan, buried beside her?” I asked.
“Her family would not let Peron lie beside her since he remarried after her death. The crypt next door is for sale for $500,000. Money buys position.”
“It’s heartbreaking that she lies here alone, a spectacle to tourists, with a plot ‘for lease’ next to her, when her passion and commitment to her husband and her country were unconditional.”
“Legacy is all that matters.”
We passed the statue of a warrior on horseback. ”This famous general was revered for his slaughter of the local natives. A monument to genocide,” he said.
Tamerlane paused before a broken-down crypt, with glass shattered and laced cobwebs. The dusty coffins inside could be clearly seen and a top was slightly ajar, which made the scene even more macabre.
A high pitched cry came from inside the crypt and the wrought iron door began to open. I gasped and I jumped back, nearly into Tamerlane’s arms.
“It’s a feline not a ghost,” he reassured me, while barely stifling his amusement. “Cats are brought here to live when their masters are laid to rest. They keep the rodents at bay.”
A tabby cat stepped outside and sauntered leisurely down the street to the next abandoned home.
When a citizen dies their surviving family members are required to pay the caretakers to keep up the property. If their relatives fall into hard times or lose interest in their old relatives, the deceased are left to the ravages of nature.”
“Foreclosure in the cemetery,” I replied.
A dark shadow passed overhead and the sultry scent of the aquatic permeated the air. A shroud of black clouds threatened to flood the streets of the departed.
Tamerlane turned to me with a mysterious smile. His gaze lowered to my lips, my heart began to race, and for a brief moment I was lost to fantasy. I imagined a late night tryst beneath a full moon, bare skin against cold stone, alive in the shadows of death, a delicious shock of electricity riding spine to heart, and the drive to create new life”.
“There is no escaping Capitalism if you choose to lie with him,” he remarked, and looked deeper into my eyes as though to capture the image of forbidden love I had conjured.
“Who owns your soul?” I asked, in a shallow voice.
“My soul is not for the taking,” he replied.
“Does that mean it’s not been given?”
“It means it has not been bought.”
The heavy clouds began to give way to a torrential downfall.
“Come, let’s find shelter,” he said, and took my arm to lead me outside the walls of the city of the dead.
Recoleta Cemetery
- Recoleta Cemetary
