They each know something about me: my fruit of choice (I prefer strawberries to apples), my favorite ingredients on my salad (lentils & olives), what time I go out and then come home (late and later), my daily route to school (straight down O’higgins, left on Zabala), my North American outlet (Lost dvds).  

I don’t know anything about them.  They have entered into my life but they do not let me into theirs.  There is an invisible wall and I don’t know if I want to break it down.  They don’t reveal any information, I’ve never seen them out of context, I know nothing personal about them.  This is what I know: the place a block away where I buy fruit is owned by a man, and his three sons work there every day for him. One of the boys is young, and would probably be in Junior High.  But it is clear he does not go to school.  The other two are probably around my age, and seem like they would be fun to hang out with.  But our conversation never goes beyond the usual small talk, as they weigh my grapes in the plastic bag.  Here is something else I know: There are three different doormen at my building.  One is friendly and always asks how I am. Another is the night doorman; he is quiet and likes to do the word games in the newspaper.  The third is young and I have never heard him say anything else except “Hola.” 

 Is it just that I’m not interested? Is it that I am too busy going about my time here and I don’t even realize that these are the people I rely on every day?  All of these people are constants, signs that I have formed a routine here without even knowing it.  Do they recognize and remember me like I remember them?  Do they anticipate seeing me every day, or am I just another one of their customers, just another North American passing through their town for some time, easily replaceable?

I will never see these people again.  Even if I come back to Buenos Aires, it will not be the same.  I will not be the same.  So the question is, how do I leave my mark, my fingerprint on this city I’ve grown to love so much?  Or rather, should I leave my mark?  Or should I just walk away in less than two months with my memories all for myself and whatever other North Americans I choose to share them with (though they will never truly understand)?  Do these Argentines think of me? Are they saying to their wives at the dinner table, “Honey, today that girl I was telling you about walked all the way home in the rain without an umbrella. I was about to offer her mine…”  I am probably being idealistic, and maybe even a little bit selfish to think that they would spend their free time talking about me and my habits.  

And when I leave, do I say goodbye? Or do I leave without a trace, leave them guessing where I’ve gone?  I don’t even know their names.

 

                        *the sunrise out my apartment balcony