I'm spending my last day decidedly on the train. The bumpy ride to Retiro, the heavy swaying. Ironically, there's a trio wrapped in casual French to my right, across the aisle. Just like Paris. I'm sitting just by the coupling, and when I look down I can see the tracks through the gap between the cars, trotting by on squeals and the iron nail on chalkboard sound of metal against metal that's become somewhat of a soothing sound in the vacuum left by real music to my ears. It's the sound of worlds colliding in my mind.
Paris, Bali, California. This city, Buenos Aires. The lot, all blending together like all the colors of things down the drain. What's lasting is a light cool azul to the eyes before it's washed away by the cleansing water of imminent air travel. Recycled air and changing time-zones. I'd told Ricardo that the noise, the city sounds, screeched drawn out duldrum, bells and horns and sirens and the sounds of cars and buses and thousands of people talking and thinking to themselves. all reflected off the high city walled near Palermo. The sound at 5:00 rushed hours in central neighborhoods, think sidewalks and coffee. I told him that these are the things, the sounds with eyes on the buildings above, these are the what, the mysterious key to put my restless mind at ease.
Maybe I was just trying to be poetic. To impress. But I think it's true. That static white noise does something to drop thought, the way I always wish for when the thinks' too much. It's desperate insanity (or let's say for the sake of my mental well being, for some semblance of sanity, that's right, that it's malignant genius) that seeks static backgrounds and loss of thought for nothing if but a few seconds, maybe a minute.
When I look back down at the streets, I already know what I'm going to miss the most. The women. The female landscape of this city. Italian and Spanish descendants make beautiful foot-traffic, especially when everybody walks. It makes me want to move to a walking city. Something spread out like Paris. Maybe New York. Not San Francisco though, the city's too small and the public transit too on point to really put the miles in like they do here. For me Buenos Aires is a city of great legs.
And good food too. Last meals now. Last supper perhaps, but early, 'round lunchtime. I was thinking about some asado, but I panicked and just ordered the Plato del Dia. Two thick milanesas, thick breaded patties and rice that seemed to be marinating in butter. The rice was rich yellow, the pollo, juicy. It was fucking delicious. In a bare-bones simplistic sort of way. Just my style. Something heavy to hold me over 'til California.
