Getting My 9th Tattoo in Buenos Aires: A Seasoned Traveler's Unexpected Adventure
This article is written by Rease from Indecisive Traveler. Rease is a US citizen currently living the ex-pat life in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She is bilingual and an experienced traveler. She loves gaining and sharing knowledge of local cultures, customs, and adventure.
I have nine tattoos. For those who know me primarily through my articles and online avatars, this might come as a surprise. Given my experience, it's no wonder I chose to get inked in Buenos Aires during my 2009 travels there. What could have been a straightforward process turned into a memorable adventure worth sharing.
It all began with a magazine. While at the hostel with my friend Rachel, she spotted a brief mention in a British publication about a talented tattoo artist specializing in Porteño graffiti art. The next day, we embarked on a hunt for his small studio hidden within one of Buenos Aires' many galerías.
These galerías are narrow passages off bustling streets that open into labyrinthine networks of stairs and tiny shops. We explored numerous ones without success, growing frustrated. Parlor after parlor was inexplicably closed, so after hours of searching, we returned to the hostel defeated.
Undeterred, we located the shop the following day. The artist custom-designed graffiti-style art for my right hip—a bird with decorative swirls. He accommodated my feedback on his initial sketches, though I nixed his idea for excessive flowers.
As my ninth tattoo, I wasn't anxious at first. Once approved, he led me up a precarious spiral staircase to an even smaller space. Aware the session would last hours and pressure my bladder, I inquired about a bathroom. His vague reply? "It's complicated." Not the reassurance one wants.
He enlisted a colleague, who navigated me through the galerí a to a narrow punk clothing store. The shop assistant provided a key and cryptic directions resembling a video game code. The dimly lit, endless staircase ahead was daunting.
I slipped immediately, tumbling down the concrete steps and bruising my back and buttocks. At the bottom, dazed, I surveyed the scene and thought, "This is straight out of a Saw movie."
Flickering lights, echoing drips from unseen sources, moldy walls—it evoked horror film clichés, like waking up minus a kidney. I squatted hastily, skipped the discolored faucets, and opted for the studio sink later. Safely back up the "stairs of death," I proceeded with the tattoo as a stranger worked intimately near my hip for hours.
The result was stunning, but realities soon hit: South American tattoo aftercare differences and two weeks of walking with a fresh hip tattoo. The artist applied a cream that left me sticky, then wrapped it in plastic like leftovers.
Hours later, an allergic reaction flared—my sensitive skin reacts to nearly everything (see: The Attack of the Mexican Bee). Combined with constant movement, it was challenging. For three days, I wore unbuttoned pants under a long shirt, dodging my friend's playful threats. Lesson learned, with a beautiful tattoo as the souvenir!
