Inexpensive at $19.99, the walking tours to Palermo, San Telmo and Recoleta are easy to download and chock full of dynamite information for independent travelers who want to roam at will.

Started by two former college roommates (of course), MPTours.com has created a travel experience that caters to the five senses and explores architecture, culture and history in the world’s most dynamic cities without the lag time that often occurs in tour groups.

Your audio guide speaks to you as a friend, and clues you in to much more than just the must see sights. Actually, the best part is the dynamics of everything else—the local flavor is such that you leave the barrio feeling like it’s your new home.

MPTours got its start in Buenos Aires and has set its sights next on a city that could be BA’s sister city: Rome.

We can hardly wait.

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One of the most visited tourist spots in Buenos Aires is also an oasis of tranquility in the midst of one of the city’s more popular nightspots. After all, it can’t get any quieter than being surrounded by the dead.

Located on 1760 Junín, in what used to be the garden of the Our Lady of The Pilar church, the Recoleta Cemetery was inaugurated as the first public graveyard of the city back in 1822. Decades later, after a restoration and with the opening of the much larger graveyards located in Chacarita and Flores, Recoleta became the posh cemetery: the “it” place to be and be seen in your afterlife if you were a VIP during your life time.

Nowadays, one way to get into this burial ground is as a visitor but, if you want to remain there for good, you can only do it if you belong to one of the families that own one of the 4,870 graves already built there.

Just a few feet within the entrance, visitors are greeted with a not often seen panoramic view: a landscape made of stone, trees and some of the most important surnames in Argentina’s history.

You can either take one of the guided tours – Tuesdays and Thursdays at 11 a.m. for English speakers, Fridays at 11 a.m. in Portuguese and everyday except Mondays at 9, 10, 11 am and 2, 3 and 4 p.m. if you dare to keep up with a Spanish speaking guide- or do the tour on your own. Maps are sold in the entrance for four Argentinean pesos, and they will insure you against getting lost within the six blocks of halls and burial vaults.

The cemetery is a good way to see the chronology of what was going on in the Argentinean architecture when the graves were built, from neo classicism and art nouveau to XIX century trends with their angel statues, to more minimalist mausoleums made of marble, as the building dates get closer to our days.

Nevertheless, since this place was also used as a way for the upper class families to show off their status (and everybody knows us Argentineans love showing off) be prepared to behold a burial architecture extravaganza. Take the Dorrego family mausoleum for example, an epic construction that it’s hard to miss, located fifty meters at the right of the main road round about, with ornaments that make reference to passages from the New Testament in similar biblical proportions.

One of the most famous “inhabitants” of the cemetery is Eva Duarte de Perón, Argentina’s First Lady from 1946 until her death in 1952. After Evita’s body was recovered from an Italian graveyard where it was under a false name and traveled almost through half of Europe it was finally deposited in the Duarte family’s grave, where it still rests, in a simple dark marble burial vault located in a narrow hall a few meters from the cemetery wall that’s over Vicente Lopez street.

While some are notorious during their lifetimes and remain so after passing away, there are some that achieve celebrity because of the events that take place in their afterlife. That’s the case of Rufina Cambaceres, an early XX century socialite that died the night of her 19th birthday from a stroke. Or at least that’s what everybody thought. According to the urban legend, not long after the young girl was buried in the Recoleta cemetery, the night keeper found her coffin opened and seriously damaged. The official version dictated it was made by grave thieves. But her mother, an upper class widow (known for being president Hipólito Yirigoyen’s mistress at the time) was convinced that her daughter had suffered a catalepsy attack, a disease in which the victim presents all of symptoms of being dead when still alive. And 106 years later, the statue that she ordered to be placed in Rufina’s burial vault still stands reminding us so: a young woman grabbing the door knob, as trying to get inside the grave, or preparing to leave, it’s hard to tell.

Speaking of leaving, the cemetery closes at 6 p.m., after which only the local cats remain wandering the alleyways of the Recoleta Cemetery. If you’d rather not join them on the night watch, head for the entrance.

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A city is often defined by its local art and music scene (or lack there of). It is the heart and pulse of a community – the, as they say in Argentina, “after office,” or what people do for fun. New York City, Paris, Tokyo, Montreal, Bangkok – an urban center can be defined by its dimension of revelry – each of these has a vibrant music and art scene. Buenos Aires also has a thriving live music scene, though I’ve discovered that it is not easy to find.

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBSkLfVp2fQ]

Much of the nightlife went underground, after a tragic fire at Cromagnon night club killed 194 teenagers in 2004. The evening news here goes after boliches (nightclubs) that are purported to serve underage youth, and there are few publications that list dance parties or live bands.

The answer usually lies in word of mouth, but any random night at the neighborhood centro cultural can prove fruitful. A flyer at a bar listing a party Saturday night at the centro cultural in Parque Patricios (also home to Caseros prison) led straight to a goldmine in local hip hop, reggae, and cumbia talent.

Sursystem puts on events bimonthly with DJ’s, live acts, projections, and merchandise booths. And as a bonus, when the YMCA becomes the discotheque, there’s no mean bouncer or velvet rope.

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And if I took the blindfold off, you might be a little disappointed. Instead of the large, high definition flat-screen televisions that line the walls of my local sports bar back outside of Boston, MA, El Alamo boast just two flat-screen TVs and a bunch of small ones.

Maybe it’s a character flaw of mine, but if there is one thing that I live for, it is to watch my football either live, or on a big HDTV. Shallow life? Maybe. But I know I am not alone. For American sporting events that cannot be shown via Argentine Direct TV, El Alamo grabs an often grainy and pixilated internet feed and hooks it up to their televisions. This creates an interesting paradox: On one hand, it is great to be able to watch the sporting event that I otherwise would not have be able to see live. But the picture quality is poor, and I often find that my viewing experience is ruined.

During Buenos Aires’ spring and summer I frequented Shoeless Joe’s El Alamo every Sunday to get my fix of the National Football League. After searching, there are no other possibilities in Buenos Aires other than the one or two games per week that are broadcast on the Argentine ESPN affiliate. Believe me, I am very happy to have a place go and watch football every Sunday, but El Alamo just makes me appreciate my old sports bar back home that much more.

Editor’s Note: For more on this American sports bar in Buenos Aires, check out Alan’s review of El Alamo, or head over there on Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday for their Bikini Open…need I say more?

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For $1.70 pesos, a diner can choose between almost a dozen of the standard varieties of empanadas; choices include baked empanadas filled with meat, chicken, cheese and onion, creamed corn, spicy beef, spinach, tomato and basil, ham and cheese, as well as a fried meat, egg, and olive empanada called El Sanjuanino for $2.50. Also on the menu are offerings of tamales and locro (a traditional Argentine baked meat casserole), neither of which exceeds $10 pesos.

In addition to the almost unbeatable price, the empanadas are HUGE. I can usually pack away six empanadas in a sitting without trouble, but after four I was beginning to struggle. In fact, I was in a group of seven people and we ordered 36 empanadas and barely topped 30 before we called it quits. Just to reiterate, we spent about $21 dollars total between seven people for lunch and could not finish!

So if three dollars for a delicious lunch or dinner (plus drinks) sounds like your idea of a good time, El Sanjuanino is your best bet. Not only is the price unbeatable, but I dare you to find a better empanada in the city, or better yet, anywhere in the world!

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We began our night by greedily watching our salmon rolls being prepared, ignoring the baskets of bread given as appetizers, and used our ample waiting time to absorb the sensational collage that was the mind child of some interior designer with or without previous experience. The space itself is pretty small and laden with a pastiche of Americana and quasi-Japanese decorum, an in vitro fertilization between Vegas and Osaka gone awry. The warmly lit red interior was complimented by a long marble encrusted sofa, hanging gold glitter camel, and large picture of Marilyn Monroe. A drop down projection screen played sped up film footage of a car racing through traffic, some random Elvis clips, and avant garde rubbish. All of this was presented to the senses with a soundtrack twisting its way through electronica, rock, and techno. Some sort of digestive aid, perhaps.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour of watching grass grow (our concept of time severely deranged due to hunger I’m sure) a large plates with 32 pieces of sushi were placed in front of each of us. In the end it was poorly executed, but my attack strategy was to maintain a well measured cadence in collusion with intermittent water breaks. Note: this general approach is equally applicable in all “Tenador Libre” (All you can Eat) situations.

The sushi wasn’t the best quality and it was mostly salmon, with a tiny bit of tuna and some crab or crab derivative, not to mention an excessive amount of cream cheese. Proudly, I can claim to be the only person not to try to pass them off to someone else. That said, not being the best does not make it the worst, even though it’s not quite a ringing endorsement. However, my total consumption count of around 40 pieces says something. Either I am incredibly cheap or the sushi was decent. Maybe both.

By the time I finished my first plate of 32 I was ready for an IV, but to the amazement of our waiter I placed an order for another hit. Using what reason I could find in my soy and wasabi saturated brain I downgraded to only half a plate. After a few minutes of much welcomed inactivity my new pristine plate arrived amidst the carnage on our table. Other peoples areas looked with miniature war zones with strewn ginger, pools of soy splatter, and shrapnel rice. This is probably why others grabbed at my sashimi from all sides. However, well past the pointed of being sated, I put up absolutely no resistance and my stomach secretly rejoiced.

By the end I was thoroughly useless and satisfied with the value I had squeezed from my 46 pesos ($15 USD) one uncoordinated chopstick pluck at a time. For people of a less compulsive or gluttonish disposition there is a normal menu of sushi and other offerings to choose from, but frankly this never crossed my mind.

We arrived around 10 pm and the place was a ghost town, but shortly into our meal people streamed in and by the time we left there were barely any seats available outside or inside. For groups with more than two people it probably would make sense to just make a reservation, since it is really no hassle.

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What I discovered was a quiet Wednesday evening. Trash was being picked through for recyclables before the piles were removed from the sidewalks. The streets were dark and nearly vacant. I was surprised. I had researched the area before coming to Buenos Aires and now I felt misled.

My first week I had a pessimistic eye. The parks’ grass was not healthy for the spring season. The large dog population was apparent. I walked carefully as I dodged the smell of urine. I was disenchanted with the pride of the neighborhood.

The major avenues that host shopping, are loud and choked with busses and exhaust. People are not friendly. They are preoccupied by the windows of overpriced goods. The area seems to diminish the expected South American charm.

The wealth is represented by hundreds of doormen. Twenty four hours of door service surrounding every block. Each morning the gentleman on the night shift proceeds out the front door of his post and washes the sidewalk with a hose and a broom. Early morning Recoleta has a soothing peace, with the sound of splattering water, and bristles brushes.

Recoleta does have beauty. It took me about a week to notice. My eyes were kept busy watching where my feet landed. Once I let my sight wander from the sidewalks and streets, a charm was introduced.

The dirty streets are lined with a fluent sequence of old and new. Grays, yellows, and whites blend into blocks. Balconies spill out from French doors. Massive entrances give way to small restaurants. Flowers are sold by sidewalk vendors on every block. The pleasantries had been there all along, but my initial prejudice masked them.

There are fine eateries in the area. Most everything is expensive, but if a high quality dining experience is the objective, Recoleta can satisfy. There are also wine and cheese stores and small markets. Cafes should be more prevalent, with more outdoor seating.

My misconception of Recoleta simply boils down to opinion. I wanted a crocheted community, with an authentic Latin American feel, and I was knocking on the wrong doors. Recoleta is beautiful, and has something for everyone. There are, however, many other places in this immense city that I find more pleasing.

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