Buenos Aires is chaos.
The city runs, it’s in a hurry, it doesn’t stop, and horns blare as soon as a distracted driver doesn’t move when the light turns green. In the morning, the smell of medialunas makes my mouth water, and around the next corner, the stench of urine is so strong it makes me wrinkle my nose. The typical coffee shops timidly appear here and there, overshadowed by giants like Starbucks. But let’s be clear, who can afford a 70 pesos coffee in Argentina?
Men in suits and ties rush past me while homeless people sleep off their hangovers on street corners. On the subway, I cling to my bag like ivy on a wall. On the street, I make sure to look at my phone as little as possible; I’m afraid someone will grab it and run off. At first, this skepticism was just a feeling, until it happened to a friend of mine last week.
In a bar, the man next to me urges me to keep my phone, which is on the counter, closer to me; a young boy who was begging had his eye on it more than once, he tells me. Buenos Aires is tiring; it’s hard to let your guard down. My Argentinian friends laugh and good-naturedly tease me: “You Europeans, you’re just not used to it.”
The city sucks you so deep into its vortex that by evening, you’re simply exhausted. Then there are nights when, on the way home, the city seems empty, almost uninhabited. The streets, clear of cars and buses, seem immense to me, and as I cross the pedestrian stripes, I enjoy every single step of a slow walk. I take my time; I enjoy the street.
I’m lucky enough to live in the barrio of San Telmo, which means I have to cross Plaza de Mayo and greet the Casa Rosada, the heart of this country’s love, hate, and contradictions. Evita appeared on that balcony, Peronism was born in this square, and this is where las madres de Plaza de Mayo gather every Thursday, walking ten times around the obelisk in protest.
Where are their children? Where are the desaparecidos?
This is where the grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo gather. Where are their grandchildren? Snatched from the arms of violated mothers and then entrusted to the families of henchmen and friends of the regime.
The Casa Rosada, austere and composed, returns my greeting. I am alone in the square and I stand for a moment in front of it, not as a sign of defiance, I wouldn’t dare. It’s simply that the feeling it evokes, that deep love and hate, is so powerful that I can feel it too.
All I can do is look at it and think, in silence.