The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison

Author:Jessica Morrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Book Group USA
Published: 2008-04-14T04:00:00+00:00

Mateo and I decide to walk back to Andrea’s, enjoying the manicured streets of Recoleta, Buenos Aires’ wealthiest neighborhood. He could suggest we walk to Canada right now and I’d happily oblige. The proximity of our bodies on the sidewalk is enough to make me ecstatic. His elbow rubs against mine as we walk, and neither of us moves farther apart. I’ve got goose bumps on my goose bumps. Mateo likes me.

Recoleta is a far cry from the young, hip, artfully decaying Pa-lermo Viejo. Suited men climb into SUVs. Despite the heat, several women parade in fur. Wealth is alive and well in these few square miles. Where wealth has faltered, pride has taken its place. As we walk, Mateo points out historic homes and various architectural treasures, as well as things that have been lost over time in the name of progress. I remark that I can’t imagine the area being more beautiful than it is right now. This sets Mateo on a rant against the fumblings of his country’s ever shifting government. The things I have only read about in guidebooks and on websites, he makes alive and real. He speaks with such fiery eloquence, gesturing excitedly—the city’s Italian influence, I imagine—to punctuate each point with jabbing fists, curling fingers, sweeping palms. He is passionate and utterly adorable.

Mateo is dissecting the last election and the misconduct of the IMF, and I am thinking this might be one of the most perfect afternoons I’ve ever spent. Then he stops abruptly and pulls me into a spare, brightly lit shop. “Where are we going?” I ask, but one look around and it’s obvious. There is a pimply young guy behind the counter wearing a badly fitted blue polyester vest. There are buckets and buckets of ice cream everywhere.

“Helado,” he whispers in my ear. And helado to you, too, I think with a small smile.

The Argentine ice cream is sinfully creamy and intensely flavored. We sample flavors until the man waiting behind us sighs audibly. Minutes later, we are back on the street, deep into the IMF again, our hands dripping chocolate and pistachio. I am strolling historic streets in Buenos Aires, one of the largest cities in the world, with a brilliant, passionate, sexy Argentine who has green eyes and a devilish smile, discussing politics and eating ice cream. This is the most perfect afternoon ever. No contest.

The sky is easing into dusk as Mateo and I near Andrea’s neighborhood. This has always been my favorite time of day. Every light glows gold against the deepest blue imaginable. In Palermo Viejo, dusk is sadly sweet. The daytime street life of focused shoppers, lazy college students, and playful children is replaced by the culture of night. Transvestite prostitutes have taken their places, leaning against homes locked up tight against the coming dark. In a few hours, the city’s poorest will begin their nightly shift of rummaging through garbage bags for bits of metal, paper, and twine that can be redeemed at recycling depots.

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