BsAs: Cemetery

I'm at a cemetery writing, sitting just outside on a little stoop with other cool kids listening to a guy play a sideways guitar with a little metal pipe.  It feels oddly American.  But then again, so does most everything else in this country.  The style of it, although I'm not used to cold cities.  Maybe this is what Austin's like.  More Spanish, of course, but cool.  Buenos Aires is a cool city.

That's what it is in the winter.  In July.  It's chilly, and all the stone looks cold.  Recoleta is a big walled thing.  And inside is not a grassy field of tombstones, no, it's a maze of mausoleums.  Ancient tombs, each it's own grand structure.  I wish I was buried in here.  Despite the loud artisan markets outside the walls, there is a palpable quiet that whispers down the long skinny footpaths.  I want to come back here at night when there's no sun and maybe a full moon.  I'm sure it's amazing, although I'm not certain if it's open at that lovely hour; midnight, when the spirits are the strongest.  I wonder what they would whisper to me then.  I wonder what they would say.

But before all that, I should really brush up on my Spanish.

Seriously though.