Flying from Miami to Chile, the woman sitting next to me told me that everytime she sees the mountains out the window she cries. She cries because she knows shes coming home, to her patria. I missed it in February because we landed before the sun came up. Going to Argentina and looking out the window, I finally understood what she meant.
The collections of Marta Centaro, my host mom in Buenos Aires Argentina. Includes hundreds of cans from around the world, paintings, photos, little wooden owls and books with titles like "Medicinal Plants of Argentina" and "The explosion of Uruguan poetry". Amazing. Eclectic. Alive.
Marta is an artist, a philosopher, a beautiful women, even though she often pretends shes not. Also, the most expressive woman Ive ever met, besides my mom... the kind of woman you always want on your Charades team.
Drinking mate with Marta and Debra. Planning our trip, our dream to Machu Picchu.
Caminito, La Boca. Bright colors... tango in the street... good pasta. Tourist trap but I love it. Reveal in your inner tourist.
Chico Chico. The spitting image of Gus, only Chico Chico is worse. He bites. Marta brings out the hair dryer when he wont listen and then he turns into the nicest cat youve ever met.
Our Easter celebration in the hotel. Full of toliet paper, good music, good friends, and togas.
Tango. in the streets.
San Telmo. Buy anything you can think of... from finger puppets, to rugs, to old sunglasses from the 70s to Peron calendars.
I still havent written an entry of the day of the ESPINA. Story to come.
Buenos Aires. Radio taxis. Always an experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment