The first few days I spent in Buenos Aires are a feverish haze in my memory. I was recovering from a terrible cold or flu, and I’d spend about twelve hours a day sleeping, and the other twelve wandering around the windy, cobble-stoned streets in a mild delirium.
I carried around a little black moleskin notebook in those days and it was amusing to read through my scribbled notes about rambling down narrow streets crowded with wrought-iron balconies, feeling dazzled by the colorful buildings and tiles, peeking into courtyards filled with light and overgrown with ferns. The Sunday antiques market was a delightful jumble of noise, food, junk and treasure. I spent all my pocket money buying fresh-squeezed orange juice after fresh-squeezed orange juice, and tipping the tango dancers on street corners that had me mesmerized. I walked for hours and hours, letting the winter air cool my overheated skin, indulging in way too many Argentine gelatos, and slowly falling in love with Buenos Aires.