Don´t mess with the A Team

Above and Beyond - Three tales from inside the Marriott Plaza Hotel

Where else would you find a warning letter under your door, apologizing in advance for the classical music that will played tomorrow as a fire alarm?

This charming hotel felt like home after a few weeks, every time we came back for a return visit and a story to tell the staff who we got to know pretty well at this stage, probably by reputation. The Marriott business lounge became our morning HQ for blogging and planning each day in BA. In the evenings we shared photos and chatted with the lovely lounge assistants, Paula and Sonya.

By this stage my sister had mastered the art of the Marriott “At your service” button on the hotel room phones. I had a growing collection of Havana alfajores that the maids brought by each evening, around ten past 6pm (as well as a growing dulce de lece stash). Steph was keen to be back by this time anyway for the gorgeous tray of meats and cheeses up in the lounge.

One day I woke up early with a painful numb feeling in my skin. At the early hour of 7am, I needed Sonya's help with finding a doctor since the swelling on my chin from (probably an infection) was growing. I was a bit worried about finding an English-speaking doctor on short notice. Before I could even change clothes into something smart enough for the Argentine streets, I was in a doctors office buried deep in this grand old hotel's corridors. It was strange to think there was an actual doctor's office in the hotel as I sat there in my slippers at the desk of this old man. He silenced my concerns and questions of technicalities of infections using his slow calm voice. The old doctor soon had a shot of cortisone in my butt and prescribed a stronger form of antibiotics, urging me not to worry about what was indeed an infection. He shook his head again when I checked when I should take these meds around meals and whether I shouldn't have any alcohol. One pill per day, anytime. As for alcohol, of course you can have a beer or a wine. The doctor then looked deep in thought for the first time. He began to explain (or prescribe) a lesser known wine to tourists, known as Torrentes. This white wine should be administered at around 6pm, with cheeses and maybe a little crackers. He made a second prescription on his doctors pad using a scribble that evolves less legibly with old doctors the world over.

El Gaucho - a natural diplomat and born leader of team B. Monica served as the Spanish interpreter while Steph kept tight control of the budget.

Another day in Buenos Aires, we decided to go out to La Boca, home of colorful shacks, tango in the streets and the world famous boca juniors FC. Getting to the other side of town was a bit of a mission. By now we had to get two seperate taxis to go anywhere in BA, teams A and B, who often competed using teamwork and animated taxi drivers to win each race. On this occasion my Mom and I's team A car was stuck in gridlock outside the presidential palace. We had moved only a few feet in one hour of beating sun. People were getting out of their cars and so did we. A few metros and taxis later, we found the B team shaking their heads in La Boca. An early victory for my Dad and the girls.

The race back to the hotel had to be won by the A team. Our driver was a shifty guy, but friendly and speedy enough. Buenos Aires taxis weave in and out like race car drivers, taming the rest of traffic. At the finish line we rewarded him with a crisp hundred peso bill from the hotel's HSBC cash machine. We were then victim of the old switcheroo scam. He slipped us back a fake hundred note with the all too familiar line in this city - no change. I went into our hotel for change where the receptionist immediately spotted it for a fake. The concierge interroggated the taxi driver but said he did seem like he was telling the truth that this was his first fare the bill could not possibly be his. We´d been had. The bellman was terribly sorry. My mom later found out that he felt so frustrated about how guests were treated in his country. So he took the drivers number plates to the police and the hotel were persuing the matter. The driver would receive a warning to hopefully scare him from ripping off tourists, or lose his license if the police were not satisfied with his story. A heavy hand perhaps for messing with the A team.