Making my way up Santa Fe avenue (which I have spent a considerable amount of time doing for the six years I've lived in Buenos Aires, always living on it or near it, or transiting it in my meanderings and commutes) at 5 in the morning with my head abuzz, I am suddenly struck by the ease with which I navigate this street; not "ease" as in dexterity, but "ease" as in comfort. A lack of pretense or performance, a far cry from the general stand-offishness of a nighttime stroll through the streets of Barranquilla, or the downright hostility of a Bogotá evening. This city, that is often a tumultuous pain in the ass, often a mess of civil unrest with bureaucratic black holes of disorganization and wildly fluctuating weather, that serves as a symbol and venue of my independence-- this city resonates with me at a frequency no other city ever did, in a thousand and one wonderful ways. And it has truly become, in more ways than I have ever known, my home. A smattering of culture and art and sighs and grunts that find me, for once, being gladly and irrepressibly me.
And then I get to my apartment, content with my sudden realization. I have a glass of water and I look out my window towards good old Santa Fe, whose last rumbling vestiges of Doppling traffic lull me to sleep at the break of day.
This stain on the carpet, this drink in my hand.
- An epiphany of home.