Today I woke up in the
middle of pale yellow walls - pale green sheets - white diffuse light
flooding the apartment - bright blue sky - dynamic yet soft sounds of
the city - and this image of Buenos Aires, sunbathed, disorganized,
peaceful, so genuinely South American, with light-colored, slightly
worn-out buildings sprawling into the distance. The buildings here have
terraces with lounging chairs - plants - clothes hanging to dry. They
are as welcoming and human as the Argentine people: the buildings
sunbathe and watch the traffic on the street, unaware of time. I'm
guessing the little produce store at the corner, with its
less-than-perfect vegetables, irregular fruits exposed on the sidewalk -
being bagged and handed in slowly - with care - showing the same
complete disregard for the equivalence between time and money.
Cradled by the lazy, patient humming of Buenos Aires and its ethereal feel of being suspended in time, today I woke up in the middle of my past. Memories of a late spring day in Sao Paulo, hot as hell, the asphalt burning under my feet, confusion of cars, people, fumes, tall buildings on Avenida Paulista, tropical fruits sold on the street, my mom taking me places to take the TOEFL and GRE and the sense of excitement and anticipation as I prepared to immigrate. Me: twenty-two years old and getting ready to leave, getting ready for the California of my dreams, 15 hours away by plane.
Today I woke up and it was eleven years ago.
I perceive Buenos Aires as the Sao Paulo of my grandparents, Sao Paulo of the Italian neighborhoods of Braz, Bela Vista, Mooca and Bexiga. Buenos Aires feels like a past that I miss even though it was before my times. How to explain that I feel nostalgic for experiences that I have not lived? For the time when my parents were young, when my mom wore a swim suit on the beach with her teenage friends, when my grandmother was a little girl the age of my niece?
The passage of time is inconceivable to me. What an absurd notion - time? years gone by??? Countless experiences, some still so fresh on my mind that I could have lived them yesterday (did I?), some hidden in the recesses of my brain to resurface only at random moments, some most likely lost forever? It's all laughable, really. There is no logic to the passage of time.
Is it possible to ever return to South America?
Cradled by the lazy, patient humming of Buenos Aires and its ethereal feel of being suspended in time, today I woke up in the middle of my past. Memories of a late spring day in Sao Paulo, hot as hell, the asphalt burning under my feet, confusion of cars, people, fumes, tall buildings on Avenida Paulista, tropical fruits sold on the street, my mom taking me places to take the TOEFL and GRE and the sense of excitement and anticipation as I prepared to immigrate. Me: twenty-two years old and getting ready to leave, getting ready for the California of my dreams, 15 hours away by plane.
Today I woke up and it was eleven years ago.
I perceive Buenos Aires as the Sao Paulo of my grandparents, Sao Paulo of the Italian neighborhoods of Braz, Bela Vista, Mooca and Bexiga. Buenos Aires feels like a past that I miss even though it was before my times. How to explain that I feel nostalgic for experiences that I have not lived? For the time when my parents were young, when my mom wore a swim suit on the beach with her teenage friends, when my grandmother was a little girl the age of my niece?
The passage of time is inconceivable to me. What an absurd notion - time? years gone by??? Countless experiences, some still so fresh on my mind that I could have lived them yesterday (did I?), some hidden in the recesses of my brain to resurface only at random moments, some most likely lost forever? It's all laughable, really. There is no logic to the passage of time.
Is it possible to ever return to South America?
