Buenos Aires, Argentina I


After getting in to the terminal at Jorge Newbery, I had a cafe con leche frio beside a living effigy of Peron, on the arrivals concourse. He had the nose of a Roman, the gait of a Parisian, looked like he had been reared in the thirties in Dublin. In his late 60s I would guess, the hair was still thick black, greying and long thrown, in a back slick away from his stately visage. A remnant of the Pernonian era, a relic, a face from the past, with all of the wit and presence of an elder statesman, who lent an enduring value to the cash drawn from his chest pocket. He spoke with familiarity to the young waitress, senorita, giving her lessons in her service of him, recounting the bill, clarifying and defining roles, instilling order in world of micro commerce. No Spanish required for that lesson.

Argentina proper, old Argentina left in his navy blazer and grey slacks; shirt and tie, the city his office; chin-up atop his towering triangular frame, the cut of a gentleman rugby player, he could have been from Mullingar.

From the airport I know that I will be back here soon. Better prepared and in company, Buenos Aires is to be seen, and experienced in depth.

Leaving El Capital behind I cannot help but be impressed by its unbelievable size and density. Skyscrapers pepper the waterfront and rove deep into the large urban blocks kilometers back from that prime real estate.

Boca Juniors home ground can be seen, the cauldron pit of fervent fanaticism, dormant in the light of the orange evening sun, it's high bowl shape casting a deep inner shadow to the pitch at pot bottom.

The city is white, and all of the vertical edifices stand in the glow of the setting sun. It is of a scale that commands only marvel. What awaits below for my return..... !