The sky slowly clears over the fair city, the weathered buildings. The rough city. The gritty city. But no matter how you see it, one cannot deny it's passion. This isn't Paris. This is more, think if Paris had open doors. Sans pretentiousness. There's a beating heart in this place, like something out of the chest. It's got more wrinkles in the face, this city Buenos Aires, but that's what makes it beautiful. The cracks in the skin, the definition. It's so lovely to look at, in every strange way, with every skinny building, the mind shoots up with the eyes into powder blue with white clouds slowly retreating into thin air.
This is victory. A deafening roar, wild jumping and grabbing and pushing and shoving with pure joy, and everyone smiles or cries or chugs beer. Replays of the pass play over and over, Messi to Di Maria in the final minutes of overtime. Pockets of people pick up national futbol chants and songs and sing loud so that the music spreads at the tops of lungs. It's victory for a whole nation, all Argentina, the exultation is palpable in the streets, in the bars, in the cafes, but most of all, in the park, where the match screams on a big screen, thirty feet high, at the bottom of the hill at Plaza San Martin.
