My purportedly exclusive barrio, where my apartment is situated, is called Recoleta, named after a famous cemetery.

What do you do when you move into a new neighborhood? You go visit the neighbors.

Cementerio de La Recoleta is the final resting place for many of Argentina's rich, famous and powerful: presidents, authors, military officers and plutocrats among them.

The place is interesting because it is laid out like a small city—passages lined with mausoleums—small buildings, really. Like any city, it has its high-end neighborhoods...

...and it has its slums. Like all real estate, it's about location.

Some mausoleums are little more than ruins. This one contains coffins that have been broken open and is used to store garden tools. Rest in peace, indeed.

Apparently, there's a recent trend for urban renewal; a ladder signals that renovation is underway.

Restoring an angel's wings requires the services of experts.

Statuary abounds. On the left, we see Christ descended from the cross; on the right, Father Time checks his hourglass.

Former presidents and authors often get represented by statues of themselves. A frequent pose is one of enlightening the masses; amazing when you consider that most of these guys were robber barons or tyrants. Nice guys don't often make it into Recoleta.

Below we have the grave of General Juan Lavalle, a national hero and a direct descendant of Hernán Cortés. He is honored with a life-sized cast bronze statue. His sword is drawn but broken, not because of vandals, but because the statue was made that way, to indicate that he died in battle.

Most of Lavalle's body is not interred here. Dying in the northern wilds, his body decomposed. Finally, his soldiers boiled what was left of his remains, returning only his bones to Buenos Aires.

A plaque beside the door of his mausoleum reads:

Grenadier! Sail among your dreams, and if you awaken, note that your native country admires you.

My eye was drawn to rotating vents atop some of the mausoleums. Why vent them,? I mean, it's not like the inhabitants are uncomfortable. The vents look to me like they were fabricated from old tin cans. Like they might be in Mexico. Surely I'm mistaken.

There were plenty of visitors. Most intently studied maps of the cemetery, maps that locate the graves of particularly famous people.

After much note taking and discussion, the crowds set out looking—for the grave of Eva Perón. Nobody else. They ask each other, "Where is Evita's grave?"

What is with people anyway? A third-rate actress presides over the final ruin of what was once the 14th richest country in the world, and she becomes a cult figure, an object of adoration.

We all had a shot at allowing her to sink into obscurity, and then that damn musical came out, and now a whole generation thinks she was some kind of Mother Teresa, caring for poor, downtrodden Argentineans, fighting for the welfare of the poor.

Andrew Lloyd Webber as history professor. Great.