Carlos Caso-Rosendi

Construction crews  dig holes all over the city to replace the antiquated patched-up network of water, sewer, gas, and electrical pipes neglected by Peronist politicos since 1946. The city is uglier than it was in the 20’s — perhaps her prettiest time — today it is a mere blob of concrete sitting by the Rio de la Plata but one can catch some of her old splendor in some neighborhoods that the beastly wrecking balls  have not visited yet.

Wind blows steady, temperature dropped to a pleasant 73-76 F and one can see a few smiling faces now that the oppressive heat is gone. It  is a welcomed change. I will see this last autumn in Buenos Aires from inside my apartment, just in case. I am an inconvenience to a number of greedy corrupt individuals and one must be careful. Two guys on a motorcycle—one’s the driver the other the shooter—can knock anyone walking down the street or driving a vehicle. They disappear and the “ever efficient” local DA’s will do less than nothing, inheritors as they are, of a justice system that is sharp as a bag of mice and swift as a snail on hot glue. Some judicial procedures hark back to the 15th century Spanish code forming a labyrinthine overgrowth of laws and regulations so arcane that virtually anything can be rendered illegal or perfectly legal. This is not a country of laws but a country of knaves that can twist the facts at will.

I imagine a time, far in the future, when some cataclysm will wipe this abomination of concrete towers filled with sadness. The tides of nature always return to the original point: ask the world before Noah. Where are their kings now? Where are their business moguls, their politicians, servants, criminals, and poor masses. They are gone, wiped out by mere water.

The Rio de la Plata, a brown river with a silvery name tells a perfect story of a race that has big sterling aspirations but is too simple to go past its ocre-brown mediocrity of disorder and knavish bad taste.