Christmas at Hilton

Midsummer passed leaving the city "India before-monsoon-hot", sweating with 36ºC.
We sneak into the Hilton, luxuriating by the pool with sky-high umbrella drinks and arrogant faces.
That was also the day to commemorate the economic collapse of 2001. December wages never came, the banks ran out of money. Every time the banks run out of money, I feel a chill running down my back.
Christmas eve best spent in a tranquil spa, massaged, chocolate-smeared and trimmed from head to toe.
Later dining on underestimated Mendozan, tannin-toxic red wines and beef best eaten with a spoon. Followed by chocolate-and-liqueur-creamcake threatening to sag in its own juices.
Nightsky exploding with fireworks from midnight until five. Can you catch the priest's soothing speech adressing lonely souls at midnight mass?
"I'm not there", Narcotango and Incubus floating from the stereo.
Boliches go crazy with youngsters tired of old folks.
The city which never sleeps, now sleep in the christmas intoxication. I can hear the birds sing.
A slow bus snails down the road. Christmas-break at the soccer-fields, my old man can rest...