It’s hot. I’m walking home after a birthday party. I’ve eaten too much dulce de leche cake and I’m feeling a little sick. The party was of a four year old, so it’s only 8pm but I feel worn out and sticky, resembling the remnants of the cake no doubt.
I wait for the green (yellow) man and cross the busy street with the masses. No one walks quickly, it’s too humid to be in a rush, plus it’s Saturday so that means that doing as little as possible is not only desirable but expected. The shops on the side streets are obeying this rule, they have their shutters down and the lights off, but on the main avenue it’s business as usual.
A clothing shop boasts ventas por mayor y menor. My latest Buenos Aires revelation is that this claim doesn’t advertise sales for old and young people, but in fact brags you can buy in bulk or normally. I marvel again at this discovery as I pass a shop with floor to ceiling tupperware. It says descuentos por mayor. A few months ago I would’ve thought that pensioners had a discount, but now I get that the more plastic bins you buy, the cheaper they become. I wonder whether I might need a tupperware bin. I don’t. I walk on.
I attempt to get out cash at 5 cash machines in 3 different banks before I eventually find one that has some money. To enter the cash machine booth I have to swipe my card to open the door. Everytime I do this I feel sure I am going to swipe the wrong way and be stuck there like an idiot for 10 minutes turning my card this way and that before I get it right. This happens. There is a woman waiting inside the bank and she watches me struggle, not bothering to open the door for me. She also lets me try out the cash machine she has just discovered has no money in it before looking at me with a “this country” shake of the head. I imagine she blames the newly reelected president for the lack of money in the bank.
She is wearing white trousers and a cream top. I wonder what it about these colours that either signify someone as rich (Buenos Aires) or poor (council estate in England). She has strappy sandals and dyed blonde hair. She’s carrying several shopping bags and has painted nails. I know she has strappy sandals, painted nails and shopping bags before I even look.
When I do eventually find a cash machine that works, I feel surprised to hear the whir of the money coming out. It’s so shocking I almost walk away with my prize and leave my bank card in the machine. But then I remember for the hundreth time that here the money comes out before the card. And I remember that when I lost my last card it took a month and several hours of queues to get a new one. I retrieve card, money and receipt, and wonder why the security guard is staring at me.
I continue, past the bazaar selling chrismas lights and santa figuerines, past the man on the street selling holographic religious placemats, and past the flower stand, with its welcome whiff of jasmine.
I take a left, down a dimly lit street, the trees cast shadows on the cracked pavement, making the hazardous holes in the road difficult to make out. A thin woman walks past with a tiny white poodle on a lead. It has a bow on top of its head. A chubby man walks past with two bigger dogs, and shouts at them in an attempt to lure them away from the rubbish bags they are so eager to sniff.
At the next set of rubbish a man rummages through the bags, looking for cardboard to add to his haul. His pile is already far taller than him, and he wears the flourescent clothing of his trade.
I cross another main street, and am narrowly missed by a motorbike which whizzes past me, ignoring the red traffic light. I realise my shoes hurt and stop to adjust them, I read the sign for the gym next to me, it boasts pilates, reggateon and aerolatino. I don’t know what aerolatino is.
Ahead, a girl jumps on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. He wears a helmet yet she carries hers like a fashion accessory. They whiz off into the night. A breeze whooshes softly by, welcome in the stuffy night air. Drip, drip, drip go the air conditioning units above my head. They leave pools of water on the floor. they leave drops of what is probably other people’s sweat on my shoulder.
I turn another corner and, focused on the pavement, I nearly bash into a woman carrying her shopping bags. Perdon – sorry, we say, Nooo, esta bien – it’s ok, we reassure each other, and we continue on.
I’m nearly home now, and I walk past the estacionamiento – car park. The old man who works there has abandoned his usual glass office, he’s rolled out the wheely chairs and sits in front of the cars, proudly guarding those under his care whilst he contemplates the street before him. He looks at his watch. I look at the empty chair beside him. He looks at me and for a moment I think he’s going to say something. A younger guy approaches the other chair, mate in hand. Hollaa hermosaa – hello beautiful he winks at me. The older guy takes the mate and nods his head.
I look up, and notice for the first time that a couple of the apartments have fairy lights on their balconys. Garish blue and green flash at me from the 5th floor. A softer yellow set keep a watchful eye from the highest flat.
I also notice that the doorways of a couple of apartment blocks have christmas trees in them. I wonder if my building will get a christmas tree. I doubt it. I also wonder if I’m supposed to give my porter, or portero, some kind of christmas tip.
I walk in the door, “buenas noches”, Washington, my portero is sitting on the step, his usual perch. H always has a contented look in his eye, whether he’s taking out the rubbish or cleaning the floor at 9 in the morning. “Buenas noches joven” he responds. We smile. And I’m home.
Thoughts from a Latin Land 