Sin Palabras/Without Words

Today I asked myself what I would tell somebody if they asked me to describe Buenos Aires.

I closed my eyes and thought of the streets in my neighborhood, Paternal, quiet and lazy, with the occasional truck passing slowly through, the driver spewing announcements (publicity perhaps?) with a megaphone.  I thought of the milongas, particularly the one I go to every week, the music playing just a bit too loud, the people I get to so lovingly embrace on a regular basis with their different cologne smells, embracing me back.

I thought of the colectivos, buses, that cruise through the streets of Buenos Aires, always full at all hours, full of people who do this every day, who are tired after a day of work, or perhaps tired from another day of no work.

I thought of the train through the province, the people that get on to sell things, barefoot children in tow, perhaps this being their only income, and the passengers who are perhaps more accustomed than I am to the contradictions outside the window, of poverty and shantytowns right next to the homes of the well-off.  I thought of the strange, “wild-west” feeling when I get off the train in a certain little town in the province, the little center that seems to have been thrown together with whatever available materials but is bustling nonetheless.

I thought of the cypresses at Chacarita which, while not quite as old and knowing as the ones in Italy, give me comfort.  I thought of the gasista who came to upgrade our gaslines and did his work but then left all his equipment in the house and has not come back for it.  I thought of the construction worker outside who was humming “Naranjo en Flor” while he hammered away, a favorite Tango of mine.  I thought of the essence of Tango that oozes through the city in the most unexpected places and how I feel sorry for people who are too skeptical or ignorant to notice it.

I thought of the way I feel when I dance in the magical milonga of La Glorieta and look out from the gazebo and see apartment buildings peaking out from behind the trees.  I thought of Argentine cumbia and how while I don’t like it too much, it is definitely a part of this city and its identity, in a strange way.

I thought of my terrace and my sage plant, the strong Argentine sun that makes the terracotta tiles too hot.  I thought about the facial expressions and posture of people in cafes, and how some people here really have seen the worst.

I thought of how freely the women down here move their bodies when they dance, and how some of the critical tango tourists I’ve met would never really understand that what they are seeing really IS tango, and that regardless of their expectations, it is a dance of the people of this city.  I thought about the Spanish I speak every day when running errands, out and about, and how it’s always so heartwarming to hear people say “no, a vos” after I say, “gracias”.  I thought of the waitress in the little restaurant in my neighborhood and her natural beauty and laid-back way of saying and doing things that just makes you so comfortable.

I thought of all the growth I have experienced while being here.  I thought about the wonderful visitors I’ve met with who have a curiosity similar to mine, and what a joy it is to share with them.  I thought about how lucky I am because a lot of foreigners would never have the chance (or perhaps desire) to go beyond their own preconceptions of Buenos Aires and really experience it for what it is.

These are the things I thought of but I just couldn’t come up with the words.  All of these visions flashed before me and struck my heart and, speechless, I began to cry.