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I’ll Never Miss Home
But I’ll always remember the details.
On a street somewhere in Buenos Aires, stone men hold up the world.
I can’t tell you the street name. Walked across it once a week for three years but never remembered it. Never bothered to look. I was too busy taking in the carved pillars of men, the weight of a mid-rise hoisted onto their shoulders. The dead, hollowed eyes of gargoyles, mouths grimacing from the responsibility. With the chest and bisceps of a Mr. Olympia, ornate carvings along balconies and arched windows further accented them.
Approaching the wide avenue, I’d see the building, reliefs carved above a Starbucks, because corporate colonization picked up where Manifest Destiny left off. I never went in for a coffee. Despite one of the few locations in the city offering traditional drip coffee, I crossed only for the architectural view.
There are fine examples of European design throughout Buenos Aires. Ironically, it’s the French, Italian, and Belgian influences that make the capital such a draw, though I’d argue calling it the “Paris of South America” doesn’t do either it — or Paris — justice. Each is its own.
