Dingy, like the smell of dirty nails, like banana peels two days old, like beer bottles, and no showers. Cold and frozen the air whisks past slicing your throat as you breathe in a whiff of congested buses; and overpopulation. Yeah, something like that.
It's the kind of air that pollutes your lungs, a bitter cold that makes your chest ache and your heart warm.
Buenos Aires in June.
But after...
After the usual bickering with Lily's husband, Sergio, about how we'll be just fine, about no it's not too cold, and uh-huh we have our phone. And after the reassurance of yes, we have enough layers on, and yes we will call if we need to be picked up. After we step past the threshold of the old front door it's just me and her.
Pulling out a cigarette, she asks as we walk, "¿A dónde querés ir hoy?" And she doesn't just say it. She says it in her beautiful porteñan accent that you will find only in the people of this raw city. It is Spanish with notes of European influence, but a strong Italian undertone. Needless to say it is makes my companion that much more charming.
And we never really knew where we were going; the point was to get out of the house alone. To walk and enjoy each other's company as we absorbed the energy of the monumental metropolis that sat quite appropriately on Rio de Plata, or River of Silver.
She gives me a warm smile, displaying teeth yellowed from a lifetime of evening coffee and habitual smoking. "Le damos a la Centario y a la derecha, no?" I say in my painfully plain Mexican accent. The same accent that fascinates her friends and family and everyone else that stops by to visit her celebrated guest. We'd come to the end of Calle Francia and turn right into San Isidro District's main street. This is when it all comes to life; when the sun disappears. Lights decorate the buildings and apartments--the kind of buildings you don't see just anywhere. It's those buildings that are cement grey, and although they tower over their population, they almost look like they're leaning on each other--probable because they have trouble breathing here too.
Cars race by beeping, swerving, practically toppling over themselves in their continual aggressive struggle to reach the next light etc. And the public buses that stop every 15 feet and neglect entirely with an honest disinterest in the idea of a personal bubble; the people inside sway with their motions, packed in so close that they can taste one another's breath.
And we would talk, our lungs finally adjusting to the dramatic change in temperature. We would talk about life, about family, and romance. We'd talk about children, decisions, philosophies, dreams, and society. Anything that would cross our mind was fair game. There was nothing we were afraid to discuss because for the first time in my life, I had met someone who was not afraid to touch any subject matter. For the first time in my life, I needn't hide behind a social buffer. We had given one another our face value and had taken each other for it as well. It was simple. :)
It was during those nights that I so often got that feeling. Gawd, that feeling! The one where everything is OK, the one that makes you want to laugh at every joke--even the bad ones! It's when it hits you that this is what makes life worth all its suffering and pain and worries. This. Right. Here.
During my short stay in the house on Francia, we would do this once or twice a week if we would manage it. This was our routine because it was what we needed. Talking was our manner of showing affection and we had only known each other for a few days, but we were partners despite that and the age gap of nearly thirty years.
About 7 blocks down was Blockbuster, about 10 was McDonald's... we'd never go that far, though. Usually, we'd just go to Blockbuster and back.
