I write a bad English to demonstrate the vanity of perfectionism. The text I will produce must be valueless; I envision loose threads in the tissue of your meaning. I don’t know, I don’t know. I am sitting in a plane again that flies through thin air. It will bring me to Buenos Aires, the enormous Argentinian Capital at the earh-colored Rio Plata. It is the last step I organized in advance. After this, I will let the wind take me on for a while, like a flower seed reluctant to fall onto fertile soil. On board of the plane I am offered a meal and I meet some people. After introducing myself and some advanced smalltalk, I am offered a ride and even a place to stay. This tiny thing called luck is never running out.
Luck! A positive experience coming suddenly and out of the blue, an experience that makes you feel alive. You can stand on a green hilltop your arms stretched towards the sky and wait for it to befall you, but it probably won’t. You sigh and you climb down the hill and when you come down you meet a wonderful person.
So my luck hasn’t run out yet. I was brought into town with a comfortable SUV and invited by a friendly young student couple that lives in the Palermo neighbourhood, right in the center of Buenos Aires. We walked the streets and got some money at a presumably corrupt bank. With everything settled, we went home to relax and, in my case, to dream about a doorframe with large rusty hinges that catch the eye because there is no door.
February 26. Beautiful skies.
