Mi Buenos Aires Querido
Paris, Sunday 4:00 AM
Whoever said that there was nothing more you could do at the crack of dawn in Paris when you’ve lost your wallet, and you’re wearing a Broccoli costume was utterly wrong. I was just coming home from a party, and it was my intention to prove it as I stumbled down the dark hallway of my father’s apartment, squinting in the obscurity, arms stretched in front of my face not to trip on my suitcase.
We’ve all been there. Everything that is usually so familiar seems out of place, all senses are alert and we make room for an instinctive and animalistic reasoning. One, two, three slow and silent steps forward, then the table – sleek and angular – followed by the slight tinsel of the set of keys: the night was still young. I didn’t want to sleep.
Ezeiza, Monday 9 :30 AM
After 13 hours in comedy class, three crying babies, and about six cups of coffee, I finally arrived in Argentina.
My first day in Buenos Aires felt like a slap in the face – the good kind, obviously. It’s funny how you can feel like a stranger in your own house, and the next day feel at home on a different continent.
Buenos Aires truly is the Paris of the South: the coffee tastes like real coffee, the sidewalks are like a minefield of dog poop, the Porteños speak a slang that is very similar to the French verlan, not to mention that the local supermarket is a Carrefour.
Yet, everything seems different – more relaxed, simpler. Strangely, while I was wandering in the old district of Palermo, I couldn’t stop thinking about an article that I had read back in New York that reported that Buenos Aires was the world capital of eating disorders…
barnabyalive 