“GIANT CRANES ARE SWINGING”
It is only necessary to go down to the immense docks of Buenos Aires to get a vivid idea of the vast commerce of this city. It is a scene that cannot be duplicated even in New York with its far greater traffic. All you can see along those docks is the lofty bow of an ocean greyhound heaving up now and then above the dock-shed, as the tide ebbs and flows, and each one looks very much like the other. Here in Buenos Aires they stretch along the edges of the basins, funnel behind funnel, bridge behind bridge, as far as one can see, until the vision is lost in a veritable sea of masts. A splendid freighter just in from Europe and loaded with champagne, automobiles and other luxuries may lie next to a river boat just in from Paraguay and loaded with oranges and bananas. Giant cranes are swinging, heaped-up trucks are constantly on the move and men are carrying loads backward and forward. Here are vessels from all the carrying nations of the world, flying the flags of Germany, Italy, France, Great Britain, Spain and Austria, but the flag of the United States is not visible. Out of the thousands of vessels which entered this port last year, there were only four small ships that sailed under the stars and stripes of Uncle Sam. Out in the river dozens of boats may be seen anchored, for the freighters are oftentimes obliged to wait three or four weeks before they can enter one of the basins and discharge their cargo. Outside the vast warehouses, which are always packed clear to the roofs, are scores of trucks and drays busily loading or unloading, and conveying freight to and from the railroad freight depots and the commission houses. And just beyond the line of drays is the dock railroad, where the switch engines are busily engaged in shoving cars backward and forward.
These immense docks, built only a few years ago, are already too small, so rapidly has Buenos Aires grown. Although almost four hundred years old, this city is as new as Chicago. For generations it remained only a miserable collection of mud huts, with lots three miles deep that could be purchased for an old, broken-down horse, or a second-hand suit of clothes. When our Declaration of Independence was given to the world only three thousand people lived on these mud flats now built up with great structures. Then it began to grow slowly, until a half-century ago it had reached a population of seventy-five thousand. Its greatest growth, however, has been in the last twenty years. A quarter of a century ago there was only a flat mudbar along the waterfront of Buenos Aires. Ships were compelled to anchor several miles out in the river. Boxes, bales and passengers were conveyed ashore in lighters and row-boats. High-wheeled carts were then pushed out into the water so that passengers could land without getting wet. Plans for a system of docks were then prepared by an English engineer, which were completed at a cost of forty millions of dollars. Five great basins were constructed which extended along the river front for three miles. At that time, however, the tonnage of this port was less than a million. Now it has reached ten millions, and additional basins are absolutely necessary. A magnificent and commodious custom house is now being built at a cost of a million and a half of dollars to provide room for the large working force necessary to care for this immense export and import trade.
It is as a town of pleasure, however, that the native Argentinian loves to think of his capital. “Paris,” says he, “why, Paris and Buenos Aires should not be mentioned in the same breath.” In his opinion Buenos Aires has Paris beat to a “frazzle,” although that particular word has not yet entered his vocabulary. This is the feature of the city that almost any inhabitant will dwell upon whenever you meet him. In his opinion the theatres cannot be equalled. He will tell you of the Casino, where the best vaudeville acts of all Europe are played; and of La Escala, where the singers follow each other in melancholy procession, each one dressed in the same strapless bodice and stiff, bespangled skirt. One may sing in French, another in Italian and still another in Spanish, but each one wriggles her powdered shoulders and presses her hands to her heart in the same pathetic way. The men smoke and stare, seldom applauding, and the Argentine ladies—they give La Escala a wide berth.
“THEY FILE AROUND AND AROUND BETWEEN THE PALMS”
Then there is the Jockey Club, with an entrance fee and annual dues higher than any club in New York. Only native Argentinians can belong to it, although the diplomats and a few other favoured foreigners are given an honorary membership. There is an English Club which is rather an exclusive organization, and a German Club which occupies a fine new building. The Club de Residentes Estranjeros, or, as it is generally called, the Strangers’ Club, is the one that appeals most to the visitor, however, for a stranger will be given the courtesies of the club for one month upon a simple introduction by a member. There are at least fifty similar social organizations in Buenos Aires, for the Porteños are a hospitable and sociable people and love to mingle together socially. The races are held on Sunday afternoons from twelve o’clock to three. Outside the race track may be seen a long line of carriages and automobiles drawn up along the curb. The instant the races are over this line melts away and every vehicle wends its way toward beautiful Palermo Park, where, joined by hundreds of other similar vehicles, they file around and around between the palms and indulge themselves in the passion of staring at everyone else. At five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, or on feast days, of which there are more than thirty in the course of a year, the crowds are at their greatest. The parade of vehicles is oftentimes three deep and would stretch out many miles if placed one behind the other in a straight line. There are no dark mantillas and no closed carriages to conceal the female occupants, and it is a sight for the men. It is a procession of human upholstery with expensive trappings, huge Parisian hats, expensive gowns and an abundance of cosmetics. Side by side with rich turnouts plated with silver and gold, magnificent horses and footmen as well as coachmen in rich livery, may be seen men just in from the Camp dressed in their less sophisticated clothes and riding in hired victorias, and the music-hall singers with their overdressed air and ravishing smiles, which they bestow with a generous freedom.
Calle Florida is the fashionable shopping street. In the late hours of the afternoon the street is crowded with the shoppers and idlers, and all traffic is excluded from the thoroughfare during those hours. Mamma and her daughters, Juanita and Carmencita, are out to look at the pretty things, the latter in their freshly starched skirts and bright-coloured ribbons. Others, who have no shopping to do, invent some excuse for being on Florida at that hour, and the young dandies stand on the corners, twirling moustaches that turn up at an angle of forty-five degrees and smoking the inevitable cigarette. When the witching hours of night have come the crowds again appear. Calles Florida, Cangallo, Esmeralda, Cuyo, Maipu and many others are brilliantly illuminated, for the theatres and cafés are in that section, as well as the best restaurants, and rathskellers, and these people certainly love to eat. There are many good restaurants, of which the Sportsman is probably the most popular. Here you may partake of almost any European dish—to say nothing of native ones. In addition to music a free moving picture show is provided. To obtain a seat at certain hours it is necessary to make arrangements beforehand, for diners linger long at the table. The meal usually begins with a dish of cold meats. Then comes a salad or the soup, together with the appetizers. Fish and three or four kinds of meat then follow, ending with a pastry or dulce (sweet) of some kind. It is surprising to see what a meal a thin Spaniard will put himself on the outside of, together with a choice assortment of liquors, and seem no worse for the effort.
During my visit the “Merry Widow” was being played in three different languages, French, Italian and Spanish, in as many different theatres. The Teatro Colon is the largest opera house in South America and the very best of opera is given there, a government subsidy being granted. There are few of the world’s great artists who have not appeared here at some time in their career. In no country in the world can better Italian opera be heard. It will seat thousands of people, and it is always a fashionably dressed audience. A thousand dollars for a season box is readily paid by the nabob of Buenos Aires. Low-necked gowns for the women and evening dress for the men predominate, and jewels by the peck may be seen sparkling all over the audience. Nowhere can wealth and beauty be seen in greater abundance.
There are almost as many Italians as those of Spanish birth in Buenos Aires. If all the Italians in the city were gathered together into one quarter they would make up a town as large as Genoa. Likewise the “Spaniards from Spain,” who now live in Buenos Aires, would populate a city larger than old Toledo. The British colony is probably next in numbers, with the German a close rival and France following in the rear. Americans do not cut much of a figure in numbers, for the North American Society, recently organized, had great difficulty in locating three hundred who claimed allegiance to the Stars and Stripes. And yet this small but enthusiastic body agreed to furnish a statue of George Washington, the father of liberty not only in our own land but in all the Americas, to be erected in that city. The city government has generously granted a site in one of the finest locations in the city. It will be a pleasure to future visitors from the United States to see the familiar likeness of our honoured hero gazing down at them with his benevolent manner in this Latin city.