[oom; 2008: what's new, buenos aires?]
Ouranos is not at all surprised to find himself once again walking the streets of Buenos Aires, squinting against the harsh sunlight, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, Melania hobbling along with her little puppylegs at his side. He is, however, surprised to find that his feet are directing him toward the old home that he mentioned briefly to Paul. It's been years -- decades, maybe, he hasn't been keeping track -- since he was last in the small three-story apartment he called home for only two years before growing disinterested in the city and abandoning it in favor of places across the ocean.
It doesn't take him long to figure out the way to La Boca, a relatively small, very European neighborhood near the water, and once he's there, there's no mistaking it. This is his old home, for sure, and all the things that drew him there so long ago are still very intact. The buildings that sit along the Camnito are still horrifically bright and colorful, their walls pulsing with the frantic beat of the tango, and the people outside -- tourists and natives alike -- all seem to be moving along with the hurried pace of the music.
(He has to duck every few feet, as tourists can't seem to stop snapping photos of the buildings in front of them. He can't blame them, really, but that doesn't mean he won't mutter impolite things under his breath.)
His old home isn't on this busy, blinding street -- it's one block over, wedged uncomfortably between two buildings that look exactly the same. They're not as colorful as the ones on the Camnito, that's for sure (Ouranos isn't sure there are buildings that colorful anywhere), but you've got to give them credit for trying. The building he used to live in was once yellow and pink, but it's not anymore, which is why he walks right past it.
It takes him a few minutes to realize he's missed his target, so he backtracks.
"Huh. They painted it."
Now it's a faded green and orange. He's not sure which combination he prefers.
The buildings on this street never had any sophisticated security, which is why there is no doorman waiting to greet him like Alistair, no buzzer system, just a heavy wooden door with creaky hinges.
So he walks inside, unimpeded, Mel following at his heels, and takes a quick look around. The interior, for the most part, is just as he remembers it: dull, old, falling apart. The stairs moan under his footsteps and the floorboards do the same (theirs is more of a high pitched whine, actually), and he stops at the doorway of his old landlord.
He knocks once, twice, struggling to remember the fellow's name before he comes to the door. It was something Italian-sounding, but he can't --
The man who answers the door is a good foot-and-a-half shorter than Ouranos, and much pudgier around the middle. His face is half covered in shaving foam, half clean-shaven, and his abundance of chest hair is sticking out from his wifebeater in all directions. He takes a good look at the god, assumes him to be a tourist, and asks with a heavy accent, "Can I help you?"
Darío.
"... you don't remember me, do you?"
The man, Darío Correa, studies Ouranos for a very long time. Eventually, the puppy sniffing at his pantleg catches his attention and he looks down at it, thick black brows furrowing like caterpillars crawling across his forehead.
"There are no dogs allowed in this building, Oliver."
Ouranos can't help but grin. Widely. "Sorry," he says, sounding a little sheepish. "I forgot. It's been --"
"A while, yes, I know. And you are back here because... ?"
"I don't know, thought I might owe you some ungodly amount of rent or something."
That makes Darío laugh. Loudly. It's almost a cackle, really. "Ha! You think I kept your apartment for you? After, what, nine years? Ten? I let some man from Peru take the place a month after you'd gone. Then it was a woman from some American state, and then a married couple from Palermo. No one's there, now -- barely anyone lives in this shit building, anymore." He pauses for a moment, beckoning for Ouranos to come inside. "I need to finish shaving. Maybe when I'm done I'll remember where I had all your possessions sent. Don't let your dog pee on anything."
"You got rid of my stuff?"
The only response he gets is the sound of running water.
"His English has gotten much better," he remarks to Mel, who is busy sniffing around the floor. "... you'd better not pee on anything."
It doesn't take him long to figure out the way to La Boca, a relatively small, very European neighborhood near the water, and once he's there, there's no mistaking it. This is his old home, for sure, and all the things that drew him there so long ago are still very intact. The buildings that sit along the Camnito are still horrifically bright and colorful, their walls pulsing with the frantic beat of the tango, and the people outside -- tourists and natives alike -- all seem to be moving along with the hurried pace of the music.
(He has to duck every few feet, as tourists can't seem to stop snapping photos of the buildings in front of them. He can't blame them, really, but that doesn't mean he won't mutter impolite things under his breath.)
His old home isn't on this busy, blinding street -- it's one block over, wedged uncomfortably between two buildings that look exactly the same. They're not as colorful as the ones on the Camnito, that's for sure (Ouranos isn't sure there are buildings that colorful anywhere), but you've got to give them credit for trying. The building he used to live in was once yellow and pink, but it's not anymore, which is why he walks right past it.
It takes him a few minutes to realize he's missed his target, so he backtracks.
"Huh. They painted it."
Now it's a faded green and orange. He's not sure which combination he prefers.
The buildings on this street never had any sophisticated security, which is why there is no doorman waiting to greet him like Alistair, no buzzer system, just a heavy wooden door with creaky hinges.
So he walks inside, unimpeded, Mel following at his heels, and takes a quick look around. The interior, for the most part, is just as he remembers it: dull, old, falling apart. The stairs moan under his footsteps and the floorboards do the same (theirs is more of a high pitched whine, actually), and he stops at the doorway of his old landlord.
He knocks once, twice, struggling to remember the fellow's name before he comes to the door. It was something Italian-sounding, but he can't --
The man who answers the door is a good foot-and-a-half shorter than Ouranos, and much pudgier around the middle. His face is half covered in shaving foam, half clean-shaven, and his abundance of chest hair is sticking out from his wifebeater in all directions. He takes a good look at the god, assumes him to be a tourist, and asks with a heavy accent, "Can I help you?"
Darío.
"... you don't remember me, do you?"
The man, Darío Correa, studies Ouranos for a very long time. Eventually, the puppy sniffing at his pantleg catches his attention and he looks down at it, thick black brows furrowing like caterpillars crawling across his forehead.
"There are no dogs allowed in this building, Oliver."
Ouranos can't help but grin. Widely. "Sorry," he says, sounding a little sheepish. "I forgot. It's been --"
"A while, yes, I know. And you are back here because... ?"
"I don't know, thought I might owe you some ungodly amount of rent or something."
That makes Darío laugh. Loudly. It's almost a cackle, really. "Ha! You think I kept your apartment for you? After, what, nine years? Ten? I let some man from Peru take the place a month after you'd gone. Then it was a woman from some American state, and then a married couple from Palermo. No one's there, now -- barely anyone lives in this shit building, anymore." He pauses for a moment, beckoning for Ouranos to come inside. "I need to finish shaving. Maybe when I'm done I'll remember where I had all your possessions sent. Don't let your dog pee on anything."
"You got rid of my stuff?"
The only response he gets is the sound of running water.
"His English has gotten much better," he remarks to Mel, who is busy sniffing around the floor. "... you'd better not pee on anything."