Days run away like wild horses over the hill

A poem by Charles Bukowski.

Things doesn't always work the way they should. Back from workout the shower was cold, water spilled all over the floor, Internet was down when I needed my e-mail account, the fridge is (still) full of ice and will not close properly and the lightbulb went out...

Charming, like Spain twenty years ago.

I forgive everything when the repairman-magician comes and fix the hot water. He gets his tip and I get a kiss on the cheek.

And I forgive everything when I read in Clarin that the average household has 21,50 pesos a day to buy necessary groceries.

I just go and do some more workout.

Time is slow. Los porteños are informal and always late. Everybody is late because everybody depends on the public transport (el subte, the buses or the taxis) which is either on strike, generally late or plainly stuck in traffic. And everybody knows that everybody else has the same excuse for being late.

Mornings are fresh and slightly foggy until the sun breaks through around ten. Trees are flowering, most of the species particular to the continent: lapachos (pink in september), bella sombra (ombú), gum tree, palos borrachos (white in february) and jacaranda (about to flower lila) and a whole lot of others I haven't figured yet.

The smell is thick with parrillo (argentine grill) every evening after eight.