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.