Despedido
The drive out of town was the worst, with every passing block feeling like a millimeter of a sword being withdrawn ever-so-slowly from my chest. It reminded me of being forced to withdraw from a lover before the relationship had run its course. I wanted to reach back, clutch every street block, grasp at the ornate wrought iron on each door, caress each stone face adorning an arch, crane my neck up once more to admire another set of tall slatted windows. Gather a dozen facturas, a cafe doble con leche, mate, fernetcola, malbec, bife de chorizo, 3 empanadas, and side of mashed potatoes, arrange them carefully on an inexpensive cardboard tray, wrap it in newsprint, tape it up and take it with me for all time.
Buenos Aires and I were just finally getting to know - and like - each other. They say there's no wrath like that of a lover scorned. Maybe it was the wrath of Nuestra Señora Santa María del Buen Ayre that struck me on the last day of my trip as Stephanie and I triumphantly returned from an exploratory photo journey in the maintenance sheds of Buenos Aires' huge train system. Snatching my closest travel companion - the camera I'd borrowed from Una, along with it Stephanie's extra CF card carrying our illicitly-obtained imagery - was about a vengeful move as any. It was but a heartbeat between the act itself and my realization of the crime, but it was enough. Squeezing the hollow shell of my camera bag, my heart sank, then tried to polevault out of my chest.
I hollered to Stephanie - "Get off the train, get off the train!" but I was too late; the doors slammed shut and the train left the platform. I swore, and for lack of a better target on the crowded train, slapped the tin ceiling of the car as hard as I could. It resonated. People stared, and I cared not. There was nothing left to lose. I was in shock, dismay, panic.
Stephanie helped me grieve, and coaxed me to acceptance. Given the helpless nature of the situation and not wanting to make my last day even more of a drag, I tried to crack a joke. "Now where am I going to get glamour shots for the Sun?" She made me stop on a footbridge to take a few moody shots of yours truly contemplating the traintracks below. This morning, we had felt like we owned the secrets of the train system, but just an hour later, we were victim to it. We sulked over pizza and beer; I thought the tormented state of my gut might reject it but it was, in fact, what I needed to clear my head. I stole a few drags off her cigarettes.
Losing a camera is a strange thing. In a country with so much disparity and crime, one could easily be discouraged from taking a photo in any number of situations. So taking photos and avoiding theft is a constant balancing of priorities. Mitigating risk, staying on your toes, knowing when to play dumb and when to play smart, and the occasional moment of balls-out hubris. I thought I had been getting good at this, but somehow, I failed. And I'll be dissecting the play-by-play for years to come.
Buenos Aires and I were just finally getting to know - and like - each other. They say there's no wrath like that of a lover scorned. Maybe it was the wrath of Nuestra Señora Santa María del Buen Ayre that struck me on the last day of my trip as Stephanie and I triumphantly returned from an exploratory photo journey in the maintenance sheds of Buenos Aires' huge train system. Snatching my closest travel companion - the camera I'd borrowed from Una, along with it Stephanie's extra CF card carrying our illicitly-obtained imagery - was about a vengeful move as any. It was but a heartbeat between the act itself and my realization of the crime, but it was enough. Squeezing the hollow shell of my camera bag, my heart sank, then tried to polevault out of my chest.
I hollered to Stephanie - "Get off the train, get off the train!" but I was too late; the doors slammed shut and the train left the platform. I swore, and for lack of a better target on the crowded train, slapped the tin ceiling of the car as hard as I could. It resonated. People stared, and I cared not. There was nothing left to lose. I was in shock, dismay, panic.
Stephanie helped me grieve, and coaxed me to acceptance. Given the helpless nature of the situation and not wanting to make my last day even more of a drag, I tried to crack a joke. "Now where am I going to get glamour shots for the Sun?" She made me stop on a footbridge to take a few moody shots of yours truly contemplating the traintracks below. This morning, we had felt like we owned the secrets of the train system, but just an hour later, we were victim to it. We sulked over pizza and beer; I thought the tormented state of my gut might reject it but it was, in fact, what I needed to clear my head. I stole a few drags off her cigarettes.
Losing a camera is a strange thing. In a country with so much disparity and crime, one could easily be discouraged from taking a photo in any number of situations. So taking photos and avoiding theft is a constant balancing of priorities. Mitigating risk, staying on your toes, knowing when to play dumb and when to play smart, and the occasional moment of balls-out hubris. I thought I had been getting good at this, but somehow, I failed. And I'll be dissecting the play-by-play for years to come.