It fades in and out but mostly it follows me, snaking its way through the crowded sidewalks, inhabiting the headphones of the man next to me on the Subte. I like to think of it as Argentinian, like some quintessential national song that everyone here listens to, but somewhere along the way my brainwaves have twisted it into something less positive – the sound of a timer, ticking away my time here.
Three months is an awkward amount of time for a stay in a foreign country. It’s too long to be a vacation in yet too short to qualify as a move. So what is this sixth grade girlfriend of a trip? Is that not what all travel is, just a tease? I cringe to think of how the bond I have formed with this city will be severed when I board that plane, how the relationships I've cultivated will be put on hold.
I find myself channeling a lot of this tension into spending. I frequent the local crafts fairs, buying knick-knacks almost compulsively. But it’s not the matte gourd or the alpaca sweater that I want so much as Buenos Aires itself. It makes me nervous to know that, no matter what, I can’t pack away this country in my suitcase. The fruit stands, the cafes, the bookstores, the pulsating rhythm that follows me throughout the day and keeps this city alive until all hours of the night is all too intangible to bring home with me so instead I buy up one piece here and one piece there in a desperate attempt to recreate the whole.
In yet it's killing me. When I think of all the beautiful places I’ve traveled, all the places I'd like to live, it makes so anxious I want to explode. At least then I could leave a few parts here to enjoy Buenos Aires, and the rest could be flown back to the States.
