Since a vacation is heavy on my mind today, and I am anxiously awaiting my trip to Barbados, I’m in the mood to transport you with words. Let’s take a mental flight back to Buenos Aires. Here is the journal entry I wrote on my last day there.
On my ultimo dia here, Buenos Aires transformed into the Buenos Aires I’ve always known. The reason for this metamorphosis is the sudden warm weather. Gone is the cold and with it the indifference. As soon as the sun blessed Buenos Aires with its warmth the city blossomed and spread its petals.
On this nice day, I walked to Plaza Serrano at 11:30 am. It was the most peaceful and serene walk I’ve gone on since I arrived here. On my way to the plaza, I was about to cross Avenida Jaun B. Justo when an old man—out on his morning jog—wearing sunglasses and a cap on his head spotted me. He looked so adorable milling along, his fists boxing the air.
“It’s very hot, no?” He asked in Spanish.
I nodded. “Si.”
He came to rest in front of me. “Where are you from? Brazil?”
“No. Los estados unidos.”
“Ah. Los estados unidos.” Still speaking in Spanish, he began to say something about his vacation in Miami. I couldn’t follow the conversation. So I assumed he was speaking about a positive experience, which resulted in me throwing a universal thumps up.
“No.” He vetoed my thumps up with sign language of his own, signaling what he said was not good.That’s when I explained to him that I did not speak Spanish well.
“Ah,” he replied and took my hand is his. “Ciao luego,” he said and then continued on his jog. The moment made me feel warmer than the sun touching my skin. This is the Buenos Aires I remember I thought, continuing on my walk.
One block later, a young guy waiting to cross the street started to sing the moment his eyes fell on me. I smiled to myself. This was a characteristic I noticed most about the Argentine men I encountered. The sight of dark skin charmed them into song.
This particular young man paused his serenade for me. “Are you from Brazil?” He asked in Spanish.
“No. Los eatados unidos,” I said, cutting round two of the guessing game short.
“Ah. North Americana. You understand castellano well.”
“No. No. Un poco.”
He nodded and we parted ways.
For my entire walk, beeps blared from cars followed by “Hola, Morocha!” And I couldn’t help but smile. I felt like Buenos Aires was giving me a proper send off. When I made it to the plaza, Argentines went out of their way to help me find my café. The man who helped me first smiled warmly and said, “Ciao, chica,” before he left my side.
On my way back home, the beeping cars began their melodic salute again, joined by bicyclist, all of them greeting me with the same salutation: “Hola, Morocha!”
I do still believe my life is not meant to be in Buenos Aires again, but the possibility of me returning for a short pass through is not impossible. Buenos Aires belongs to me in the spring and summer, and this will be the only time I will return—if one day I decide to.