Argentina is beautiful. My driver he swerves between lanes, with no caution for the dotted white lines. He points out the futbol fields and the houses of worship with the glee of a school-boy.
It is 8 am and the sun is already dominating. The highway, the airport is flanked by a savannah dotted with a myriad of trees. South America. In minutes the trees are replaced with crude apartments. On the façade of these buildings I can see the handiwork of their creators, hundreds of men who have smeared plaster over concrete. La ciudad. I recognize from my guidebook, the Korean and Jewish neighborhood, my driver points out another church and we zip off the expressway, crossing two lanes at once onto the off ramp an into a city surprisingly awake and about for a Christmas morning.
Men grab their crotches and lean against bus stops to take the place of their spines. Women walk with ferocious vigor and purpose. I am at Todd’s.
My driver zooms off. I never caught his name.
I am now settled into Todd’s place – we each have a station to work at, at the table by the window, computers mirroring one another. I love the sharing and the autonomy of the moments.
We venture outside, Todd sharing with me his adopted home. Quickly, in the comfort of a massive foreign space -- surrounded by another language and protected by a canopy of trees that line every avenue -- we begin to return to our familiar proximity, living in and articulating our fears and dreams and the unique anxiety that surrounds us both. I am with Todd. I am at home.