This time leaving felt like staying. Or. Let me try that again. This time leaving felt like not leaving, like staying. Ok apparently I really can't put into words what leaving Buenos Aires felt like this third time around. But it hurt less than the previous times. Because it felt less like goodbye.
First I left my hostel. My home. And returned to Tayla's apartment. In all my time at the hostel over the past 3 years, I never took a photo of the actual building, so this time, while my papa Alberto waited for a taxi with me, I took a photo. On the first floor is Cilantro. Cilantro used to be this incredible restaurant that had just opened when I first visited. It was our restaurant. We knew the owners, I became close with the manager, who was staying at the hostel when I met him because his girlfriend wanted him to propose and he didn't want to, so she kicked him out. We used to sit at our own table, I would smoke all of Morris' cigarettes, drink té salud, drink these weird shots of some sweet green alcoholic cocktail, eat pretty decent Asian fusion food. Now Morris has moved to Brasil, someone was apparently shot in Cilantro in the past few months, everything in it looks dirty and old, and it's got a drastically different atmosphere. But my hostel. My hostel has only gotten better. Cleaner. More peaceful. Perfect in every way.
Then I did one of my favorite things. I walked to medialunas del abuelo, bought my 3 facturas, and took them to the park outside the Recoleta cemetery to eat them on a bench while watching all the people at the fería.
I forgot what time it was, as I am wont to do when traveling alone [which is why I love traveling alone], and realized I had to book it to Scalabrini Ortiz station to meet my friends so we could take a bus to the sala de tango for dinner and a tango class. And while "booking it," I stopped to take lots of photos of street art. Because really, isn't that what I'm here for? Well no, but still, when I pass up a photo of street art, it physically hurts me a little bit. So if I'm ever late to meet you, it's probably because I had to stop to take photos of street art.
I still managed to make it to the station on time, and we went to the tango place. Took photos outside against the beautifully graffitied wall.
Then I overcame a fear of mine: public dance class. I was awkward. It was unbearably hot inside. But after an hour, I'd forgotten everything that was weighing heavy over me.
Whenever I'm in a night club, a dance club, a late night restaurant in Argentina or Chile, I always remember something someone told me once about how during the Dirty War in Argentina and the coup in Chile, there was a curfew, so people would leave their houses before curfew, then spend all night eating and drinking and dancing in a sala of some sort before they could go home in the morning. This is supposedly why people eat late in these countries? I don't know if that's true, but when I'm out late dancing, eating, I feel the history of these countries, the thing that drew me here to begin with. And the moon starts to look different. And time starts to feel different. And I am missing, but here.