Sleeping with the Stars in Buenos Aires, Argentina – ooAmericaS Writing, 1

Dec. 9

Summer. The birth of the Americas, witnessed here

From sleep depraved to torpor soporific

The rules of extents, of extremes, deported to the last,

Writing from the first smells, and not last, of fish, of City newly discovered

From the ripe age of Thirty, or Now

Paris left in the dust of turmoiled jet fuel, soon as replaced by the Paris of the South,

Sleepy, dream-eyed, first wading through the frozen fogs of Frankfurt, dazed

Confused: only in its name. Knowing where to head, where to lean

The next, straddled, separated, alone, Alone

For the first time since long, asleep, dreams again, knocking, knocked aside

Smiles, gauchos, jerseys, a sports team maybe, ladies, mamas, smiling bucolic,

Blue-eyed and tanned skinned, the men, blond, brunettes, pointy, generous breasts, the women

Sleep, sleep – alone – where is she?

She

There, curled, in a ball, missing me, I think, I hope, she says

Tucked in a world of her own dreams, of her own makings,

Our lives a mere resting point, meeting point, a chance occurrence, an encounter fated,

Miracle, like all the others, yours, mine, theirs, like all the others

Warping through space, time, by no choice of our own, by only choice of ours,

Then

Change, two points better, a few yards from the venerable National Bank,

Peddlers, offering better-rated change, dressed poshly, smoothly, in pink and white striped shirts,

Calmly, coolly, with no fear of dishonesty,

A systemized flaw, a corrupt system, which feels nice to everybody

Is mean to everybody – us knowing and unknowing

In and out of the airport, the mid-morning heat, refreshing yet, dry, dry as in comforting, a surprise

A taxi, four hundred, instead of four hundred fifty, we have a hotel, small luxuries

To pay for the paved fatigue

We have not yet left. Not yet, until we rest

The road, open, new, unfettered

Boring, exciting. A race track, horses guessed, a stadium, the land of football

High-rises, parallel, not crumbling, but you can guess the inside,

The same as the world: Korea, France

Street Art, billboards, fashion and fast-foods, Burger Kings not seen

Mc Donalds in place offering an

Angry Combo. Angry? Market research at its finest. Angry birds.

The exit, a few people, the first, the city rising, rising, in the cool morning air

Trees, wallowed and wallowing, teary eyed, droopy leaves shading the concrete sidewalks

More streetart, people in pants, in shorts, in shoes and sandals, all kinds of people, workers mostly,

A city, a country to behold

Avenida de la Independencia, more coffee houses, empty terraces which will fill up later, shops, bus stops with calm, sage people, patiently waiting their turn

the Subte,

There

Avenida Corrientes

A little old lady, a squeaky voice, affected? Why, I can’t think why

Greets us in the lobby, carved woodings of Mayan princes and princesses

It is a homestay, not a hotel

We are here early

She sits us in a kitchen, a clock chimes neatly on the soft wall-papered wall, yellowed, warm, of another time

The home itself clean, modern, at the heart of the city

Three women, her daughters? Perhaps, in a way, though, most definitely

She lets us in, apologizes for the delay

The sheets are now ironed, the room is swept, the air conditioning unit is there

Close the wooden blinds, Keep the room cool during the upcoming day

We will sleep, we have not yet arrived, here where we are, in blooming Buenos Aires.