I don't need to look at the clock to confirm that once more I've overslept - the sunshine is scything through the slats in the shutters, slicing through the dusty air. I ease my bare legs into shorts, walk slowly to the balcony and refuge of waiting chair while pulling a tshirt roughly onto me. I decide, or it is has been decided, that I'll stay here a while, body warmed by the sun and supported gently by the aged foam of the cushions. From far below, the idle chaos of the city drifts towards me: the sound of buses wheezing up the cobbled street; children's feet slapping wildly on the pavement as they pursue an errant football; the ever-present rhymthic creak of a swing in the park.
After a while, I'll jerk myself back to reality under a cold shower. A clean tshirt will be selected for my venture into the outside world. Each morning I saunter to the bar on the corner, blissfully unaware of the surroundings, pull a book at random from the shelf under the window and, after a brief delay, will be presented ceremoniously with chocolate con churros. The waiter likes to place each item with a flourish, sweeping the cups and plates high before bringing them sharply down onto the table - the chocolate inevitably spills, giving him an excuse to fuss over me some more. Two people are arguing outside the window, poring over a map and exclaiming with grand gesticulations; the woman finally throws her half of the city plan to the man, she storms off and he has no choice but to follow, muttering. Ingleses? asks my waiter. Claro, I respond with a suitably wry smile and raised eyebrows, drawling the word, savouring the emphasis that can be placed on the finale of the first syllable. The waiter throws back his head and laughs, returns to his bar stool and watches the world moving by outside.
After my morning ritual has taken place, I'll probably wander over to a park somewhere. Lie on the grass beneath the trees, head resting on hands and body flat against the cool shade. Maybe today I will take a train, venture towards the area somewhat optimistically referred to as the 'lagoon'. I can take a boat then to an island. Hear nothing but lapping water. At night, I return to the plaza where the bar is. I can stay at the little round metal table until sunrise, drinking wine as I watch the city sleep and wake. See the elderly couple dance together under the lamplight, his arm tight around her waist, her head on his shoulder and eyes closed to the rest of the world. The raucous party of backpackers will leave by two in the morning, heading off to whichever pounding club they have to be seen at that night. I'll talk to my friends if they come by: the woman who sells her carved wooden angels, the man who hands out his stories to passers by. We'll share the wine, he'll walk me home, entreat me with whispered amor amor to let him come up with me. Its a game we play - I walk off with my fingers pressed to my lips, sending him a kiss as I approach the stairwell, he'll stand with hand on heart before grinning, waving, thrusting hands into pockets and leaving.
For now, though, that reality is far below me. I'm in my chair - the one where the dull yellow tufts of foam fight their way through the worn red velvet - and I'm alone. I am at once separated from and connected to the world. I choose my presence or absence, my action or idleness. Nobody need know if I spend the entire day here, just listening to that creaking swing. I have nobody to justify myself to, nobody to interrupt and drag me into reality before I am ready. To be totally isolated in a city of millions of people: surely there is no greater felicity in the world.
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And people wonder why I want to go back to Buenos Aires?? That is my best explanation. Unless you've lived it, you can't know. Everyone is so intent on going places, doing things, having grand 'experiences.' What happened to taking the time to stop and smell the flowers?
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