Sunday, 18 December 2016

Sleepy rainy Sunday in Buenos Aires

Sunday feels somehow different. It is a day when the tempo of the city slows, as if resting after a week of exertion.

I walk out early to see if Panaderia Sabor a Mas, the local baker, may be open. But the metal gates are down. Save for the Chinese run supermarket - a long thin shop that extends metres back into gloomy cold displays and hardware - the street is quiet. An old woman walks her dog. A roll shutter is pulled up to admit the morning light. The sound of a motorbike drones past the top of the street.

As I turn the block a fresh wave of air rattles the trees and swings a second floor balcony wind chime. It is as if a switch has been turned. Within seconds random droplets of water hit the sidewalk where they spread and evaporate. Then more drops catch the morning breeze. The skies open like a colander and streams of water bounce on wall tiles and the roofs of parked cars.

I reach the sanctuary of Casa Luna and make for the covered area at the rear of the house. Here rivulets of water spill from the garden across paths. The banana tree glistens and sways. Lights flicker. Small birds settle under roof eves. Cleo the house cat darts for cover as a crash of thunder announces the intention of the day.

Even with the downfall, Sunday still feels as if it has sleep in its eyes. I sit with the iPad to write. A crackling radio competes with the sound of the rain. A voice gives way to a tango.

It is the moment when I evaluate a first week as house co-manager. Being here in the rain is just a part of why I am here. The trip is not simply about travel, tango and the urgency of new experience; but chance to collect and reflect with purpose about meaning.

It is as if entering a new dimension of life; where sounds, colours and tastes have more significance than events. The clock ticks, but sometimes slows and pauses.

Now the smell of coffee breaks the reverie. Stephanie arrives with two steaming cups that clatter to the table, together with plates of fresh cut fruit. Sunday in Buenos Aires is not a chore. It is just a moment's pause between now and then.