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On a whim, I took the subway to the very last station. Heading for the outskirts of the city is like rumbling across the troubled expanse of 20th Century Argentina. You descend through preening stations of ornate tile proud to be gateways to the first underground system in South America but you exit from stations added in recent years via unlovely orifices at the end of long, joyless passageways. They are stations built by people whose only talent is squashing illusions.
As I rode the escalator to the surface I began to regret my harsh thoughts. Joyless though it may have been, the station had boasted air conditioning. Above ground, the air was thick and warm. As if on cue, drops of perspiration welled-up on my forehead; my shirt began to feel like a straight-jacket.
I looked around the unfamiliar world on the outskirts. The avenue was broad. It was clearly an important artery of transit in and out of the city but traffic today was light and most businesses that lined it had their metal shutters rolled down for the summer holidays. No matter what crisis the country is facing — and there is always a crisis — Argentines find a way to go on vacation.
For this reason January and February are my very favorite months. The city slows to a melifluous halt. Little gets done. People sit on the shadow side of the street in flip-flops and shorts passing the tereré. Life becomes one long siesta. The vast city becomes a provincial town.
Dealing with the heat becomes the only story. Complaining about it is a sure-fire way to start a conversation with anyone. Young bus drivers snarl at you because their lack of seniority means that they must stay behind while their older colleagues parade their abundant toasted paunches like trophies at the beach. The air is warm and, at night, lustful. Quick storms that douse the city and take the edge off are prayed for, welcomed, but soon scurry off. The heat rises from the sidewalks to the drip-drip discharge of air conditioning units. Without all the bustle around me, I find myself getting close to her again.
In summer she is open and languid. She dislikes the heat and wears as little as possible around the house. We have been at this elaborate courtship for decades. Both of us get swept up in our lives, our obsessions. Sometimes we tip-toe around each other, inhabiting vaguely the peripheral space, staying out of direct lines of sight. But I know that when I reach out, she will always be there, expectant.
I cross to the side of the street where there is shade. I had intended to explore the neighborhood but I should have set out earlier; it is too hot. So I look for a cafe where I can sit and write. So long as it has a fan, I’ll be good.
On a corner I pass an antique shop that is five stories high, piled floor to ceiling with left-overs from the past. It is so crammed that pieces of furniture stick out the windows. A salesman eyed me from his crevice in the shadows like a scorpion, daring me to enter — but I’m no fool. I took a photo and fled to a YPF station where two young baristas, on hearing my accent, speak to me in English and end each foray with a giggle. Their coffee is surprisingly good and the place is cool and spotless.
I feel her drawing me out into the city, offering me the delights she knows I crave. For several hours, I scribble away wildly at my table surrounded by travellers leaving town, older couples reading the newspaper together, salespeople in matching polo shirts preparing to visit a client, a woman deeply tanned in shorts and sandles with a small rolling suitcase beside her table. A young man with a ponytail and floor-to-ceiling black clothes plops himself down at the table before me and cracks open a thick textbook. His electric urgency suggests he’s not sure he’ll pass the coming exam.
We are all gathered here on the edge. Perhaps it is the end of the line or perhaps it is the start of a new time.
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