that afternoon, summer was turning into fall, dark clouds wouldn't dispel. earlier, i was in a little boutique called red, chatting with the milano owner called marco, buying a diesel sweatshirt with the word "valiente" on the back. he said, this is inspired by south american peasantry. i laughed, it was a kindred split second, our fascination with south america. but of course he chose to live here, and had witnessed the poverty in some remote corners in argentina that's unimaginable in buenos aires, and i chose not to, and i hadn't even thought of a plan to venture out of the city.
argentina didn't inspire me, there's this self-consciousness that destroyed every trace of high mystery. yet, it resonated with me, deeply. it is such a hard, yet beautiful country.
later, i was in a little cafe sipping tea, waiting for the evening, availing myself to random thoughts. through the window, i looked at the people on the street, at their heavy glances, the dusky colours of of their outfits. i thought of marco's words, that this place was italy twenty years ago. dogs played in all their glorious doggy ways, not knowing a problem in the world. all of a sudden tears came out of no where, poured out of me like sweat. i didn't panic, or felt ashamed. nobody knew who i was. if i didn't find inspiration, i found reasons to be brave again. nothing made sense, they just came together in me, silently.
a nick drake song was playing. i knew it so well, i could almost tell you which album was that from, which track was it. i just couldn't name it.
a young man was selling some flimsy-looking weekly. he was leaving a copy on everyone's table then coming back to collect money from whoever deciding to keep it. a trick of dignified begging used worldwide, but i saw more of it here, more frequently. i flipped through mine, and decided that it's an interesting souvenir. had no change on me, so i went through the trouble of breaking a big note with my non-existent spanish, and paid him. he smiled and thanked me, went on his business, and i returned to my self-absorption. then i found him standing at my table again. i was startled, because it was a good hour or so later. he was well-groomed, cleanly dressed. he looked a little less european than your average argentinean with italian or spanish roots, with prominent cheekbones, widely set eyes, a broad mouth, and very dark skin. could he have more native blood? could he be one of the new poors of argentina? or was i being that polisci sophomore? i thought of that young beggar boy in "nine queens", who also has a beautiful smile. the two faces started to blend. he kept smiling, it was so beautiful yet there's something servile in it, which pained me and bored me. in my sweet, gentle oriental mannerism, i said in a very neutral english, i'm so sorry, but i don't speak spanish. that was the truth, but that wasn't what i was communicating. he must have understood, because he uttered something again, smiled again, and left again. i knew that i wasn't going to forget his smile. my heart was filled with pity for him, which was probably uncalled for, and a slight shame. the little we gave, it was accepted with too much gratitude, and that weighted me down. that afternoon, summer was turning into fall, and dark clouds wouldn't dispel. nick drake's voice came from 20, or maybe 30 years ago.
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Posted by: Hotel In Quito | February 25, 2010 at 06:58 AM