13.1 Argentina : A Rainy Day in B.A.


In Buenos Aires it rains big drops that pool into swirling streams across cobble stone streets, unable to find a drain. Eli and I spent the day inside, after the movie theatre fiasco yesterday, only venturing out for a cup of tea and a trip to the bookstore.

I've gotten used to the way that the Spanish here melts around me, like the sounds in a crowded restaurant. I feel as if English is a made-up language I use to speak to myself, and to hear it from Eli is like pillow talk. Something only we share, private and personal.

Listening to the rain outside, and smelling the worn, warm pages in this book store I feel like I am in a more poetic version of my own life. A version where the sounds of words and the sound of rain mean more, because they are carefully chosen, the way good writers do.

Flutter. Twirl. I wonder where these words were living, and why they didn't feel like wings and blossoms before. I don't want to lose their new meaning, their movement, their intimacy. Or go back to a time where rainfall meant dread, not Eli smiling to me, somewhere in the murmurings of lluvia, and saying in words only for each other: "lets go build some paperboats for these little rivers."


  1. hello... hapi blogging... have a nice day! just visiting here....


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