The fruitless search for Cortazar in translation has made me realize I’m living in a Cortazar story. I don’t need the words; I have the images. We wake at 10 and roust about for our daily coffee and medialunas at 11. Four o’clock naps wake to the sound of birds in our garden and every night is a new chapter in urban discovery. The trick to speaking Porteno is sounding amused and slightly stoned. Always ask what’s up. Say thank you and string together sentences with “emmm” not “um”.
If I were the paranoid type I’d wonder why the Portenos are so controlled and kind. But I feel invited to walk down those darkened leafy cobblestone streets. My head is like a cotton swab after navigating the Recoleta traffic but that’s nothing a choice cut of bife won’t fix.
Buenos Aires is many cities. It is New York on slow down or Paris with more dogs. Or maybe Austin without the cowboy hats and enchilada bars. Getting lost is the point.
