I love this city because I love the trees

My childhood best friend is the one who has always loved pink. But here, in this place of flamingos and peachy facades, the color comes alive. This city is one of two continents--the stones of South America but a language that blurs with Italian (ciao), twisted handmade pastas that compliment traditional parillas and flan. I love the mate. I love the balconies. I love the men's eyes.

No matter which way I walk, I end up in the same place, defeated by the circle that does not mirror my own city, my legs tired, my hair matted and my body so much more alive than it was before I left. I end up either on the Plaza de Mayo or on Florida Street, which reminds me of a summery Times Square with beautiful bras. Yes, beautiful bras. The underwear here are outstanding, almost as outstanding as the squash ravioli or the overhung gardens or the idea of seeing a penguin colony.

I want a penguin. Not a live animal but the cool ceramic jars that are used to pour wine in the middle of the country. The wine is a whole other beauty. The taste. The price. The normalcy of sitting outside not with a glass but a bottle, at street level or on balconies with pathetic views but perfect breezes. No bottle is ever re-corked.

I am looking forward to the beach, although the highrises are terrifying. I am looking forward to a wine tour by bike and turquoise lakes and other natural wonders that remind me of little more than jurassic park. I am looking forward to a bathtub in Bariloche. Horsebackriding with my hair braided. Infamous patigonian chocolates.

My tongue hurts. I burn it on the mate and the metal bombilla because I have no patience. I can't say this has helped me kick my coffee addiction, just added another exciting prospect to my palate. The family we stayed with put their hot water in a thermos that reminded me of play kitchens. They had a little yapping dog and an odd collection of antiques, like an extra iron door that they employed as decor. I know from their 1800 home--chorizo (sausage) style, I was informed--where Gabriel Garcia Marquez gathered his magic. There was a single red rose, right out of Beauty and the Beast. Religious emblems made from plastic. High necked wooden beds and a bathroom that spoke freedom in its very form: no confinement for the shower, a perfect, pool-blue wooden chair. Who wouldn't see ghosts in these homes that they wanted to spill onto paper? Or angels? Or fragile, magical men?

In a way I am finished with worrying. I cannot say the last year has not taken its toll on me but I have a desire to live from day to day, letting certain things not work out. I am tired of worrying and tired of worriers. What I live for, really, are the moments of each day when I am alive in the second, the minute, the hour and not the past. When I can look beyond the memories that haunt me and smile. When I forget how far I have walked or where I have walked and am glad to be lost.

I love this city because I love the music in the streets, because I love the lackadaisical lateness, I love the light.

I love this city because I love the trees.