Buenos Aires,
life in the good airs
Except for the minor fact that the guards are not cradling rifles, Buenos Aires airport reminds me of run-down New Delhi. This is supposed to be the Paris of South America, I think. A man stamps my passport, as I wonder what exactly I have done. He winks at me, with that look that Latino men perfect.
There is a certain post-apocalyptic feel to the city. Pale pastels of scratching paint. It feels as though a city was definitely here, but all I can see is the shell. But as we drive in, small details catch my eye. The lanterns, the cafes, the hanging plants off the wrought iron balconies.
A sign reads –
No hay ciudad sin poesía
There is no city without poetry
I feel something that I've felt before. That desperate curiosity that comes before you fall in love.
…
As I climb up the narrow stairs that curve their way around the house, I can feel the summer heat coming through the tiles. Moments from the Buenos Aires accent on the garden patio, from shared mate tea to make sure that no one is a stranger. Latin rhythms drift down the street. I wonder, neglecting the fact that my room has no window, why everyone doesn't live like this.
Argentinians are so alive, that sometimes I get the impression they only ever talk two at a time. Understanding that you only live once, my housemates turn their nose up at fruit, then eat the day old pastries I accidentally leave outside. A kiss on the cheek each time I come home. A knock on my door at 11pm, to find out if I'm hungry and interested in dinner. I fall asleep so many nights to the sound of Argentinian conversation above me.
...
I drive across the city in a taxi, the driver's hands jumping rapidly off the wheel.
"Why", he asks in a moment of fervour. "Why is it that a man may change his wife, his religion, he can even disown his family.” He pauses. “But he will never change his football team?"
As this city gets underneath my skin, I think to ask him, why is the the place with more psychiatrists than any other city in the world. He looks at me smiling, and replies
“You'd have to be crazy not to have a shrink.”
Fences shake with supporters at the soccer games. There is tango in the streets.
…
This warrants some reflection perhaps, at a cafe. With a short black coffee and the perfect steak. And vino, por favor. With this city that breathes for the night. Rooftop cactuses glowing in the soft light.
Whether sometimes we travel more sometimes when we stand still. More life in a few kilometres than in a thousand.
