Buenos Aires, Argentina, April 3, 2000

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Dusk in Buenos Aires, air pollution thick and brown, a fascinating hue. As if all of the buildings and cars were filtered through colored glass, or I had my shades on. I was in the San Telmo neighborhood, its cobblestone streets, antique shops, chipping paint, and murals to the tango give a feeling that the people there are more proud of what happened than of what is happening, but that is not true. The Argentines love who they are, their culture, and their city. Much of what makes them confident may be in the past, but it invigorates their present spirit.

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In the afternoon I had been on Calle Lavalle, a street open only to pedestrian traffic. A man and a woman, both in their late forties or early fifties by their looks, were dancing the tango. A box to collect tips sat on the ground in front of a tiny radio. It was early afternoon but they were dressed up for a night on the town: he in a suit with a small 1940’s style hat and she in fishnet stockings and a bold, tight red dress. Buenos Aires is full of beautiful women, but this dancer stood out above them, going through intricate moves with powerful, sexy grace. As the two dancers flowed together, they made the strenuous effortless, the intricate easy. I am not a fan of watching dancers, ice skaters or street performers, but I was impressed to the point of being moved. These two were not going anywhere near surrendering their youth. Their best days weren’t behind them, not by a long shot. I wanted to take something of them with me from Buenos Aires, that we can let the bright energy of our younger days carry us forward if we latch onto it stubbornly, proudly, because it is still in there like words from a language we learned a long time ago and almost forgot. The good that inspired our past can inspire us now, as long as we’re still alive to that wonder and energy. I wanted to find a way to be like them when I got older, and carry my head held high forever, never surrendering to inactivity, to television, to stagnation. I wanted to be like the guy in the hat, fifty and dancing with the hottest woman in town.

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Afterwards I walked into a coffeehouse, full of old men in serious cardigan sweaters and collared shirts. They had sharp haircuts and shiny shoes. When another one entered most of the rest knew who he was and they greeted him with a flurry of "hola" and often some sort of inside joke. The wait staff was also older, in white coats and bow ties they looked like they stepped out of a time capsule that had left their skin wrinkled. On the wall brass nautical clocks framed to a pastel green background had the correct time in four cities: Buenos Aires, Madrid, Rome, and Athens. Their world, their culture, flowed back through time to ancient Greece. I had a bitter cup of espresso and took a look around. This was where the movers and shakers from the 1960s were out to pasture, but they still had some piss and vinegar left in them, manifested in animated arguments with fierce gestures and loud opinions. I couldn’t understand most of the words, but I wanted to stay, so I lingered on long after my cup was empty.