The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison

this.
    I walk on, the neighborhood offering little in the way of a visual salve but much in the way of distraction. A stylish boutique window displays gorgeous leather shoes and handbags—with posh price tags to match, no doubt. I remind myself that a woman with no paycheck has to watch her spending.
    Farther down, an old woman sits cross-legged on an old tablecloth, sandwich bags filled with herbs and spices spread out around her. The sun-dried faces of old men on the corner arguing gently over a chessboard contain at once a heartbreaking humility and a fierce pride. When I pass, they tip their heads in acknowledgment but offer no smiles. I return the gesture with as much gravitas as I can muster in a sundress and flip-flops. Stopping at a corner to let a motorcycle pass, I notice the concrete slab is marked with an elaborate emblem and the year 1887. Just ahead on a plain gray wall, artful graffiti calls out against the country’s latest president. From this surface view, the contradictions are wondrous. I’m beginning to wish I paid more attention in that Latin American history class I took sophomore year.
    One thing is clear: I am out of place in more ways than I can list. Different country? I feel like I’ve been beamed down from another planet. I don’t even look right. In Seattle, my blond hair and mostly black wardrobe were as common as a rainy day. Before I left, I had a ridiculous notion that, with a few subtle tweaks, I could blend right in here. I wasn’t about to dye my hair brown (I’ve had enough life-altering traumas for a while, thank you), but I did bring only the most summery clothes I owned. I didn’t exactly imagine a city bustling with women in tiered, multicolored skirts and flowing peasant blouses—okay, maybe I did a little bit—but I expected a bit more Latin flavor. Yet aside from the woman selling spices, everyone here dresses a heck of a lot like the people in Seattle. In fact, despite the warm spring day, most people are wearing pants or jeans, sweaters, and jackets just as they are on my side of the world where it’s autumn. And if my sundress doesn’t make me feel displaced enough, my blond hair clinches the deal. In a city where the locals look like extras from a Fellini film, I might as well be wearing a neon sign that reads AMERICANA .
    The more I walk, the more my shoulders round in. My step becomes heavier and more condensed. I pull my shoulder bag tight against my side. It’s a stance I recall from my first day at college when I realized too late that I had gotten my outfit completely wrong (it would take me a few weeks to master the post-grunge, neo-hippie look so popular at the time). I am trying to shrink myself. I know that I can’t prevent other people from noticing me, but I can minimize how much I notice me.
    As I consider turning around and heading back to the house empty-handed, a young boy tears past me, laughing. He holds an ice cream cone out in front of him like an Olympic torch. Another boy, older, his brother I’m guessing, chases after him. He brushes against me as he passes and stops abruptly.
“Excúseme, señora
.
Excúseme.”
Is it the running or is he blushing? He blurts a string of excited Spanish at me, pointing after his brother, fully unaware that I, the strange, blond, incorrectly dressed woman, can’t understand a word he is saying.
    “
Está bien,
” I manage, surprising myself more than a little, and I smile. He grins shyly before darting away to find his ice cream thief. I resume my walk, still smiling. My shoulders straighten somewhat. My stride grows a touch braver. Maybe it’s not so very horrible being out here in this strange city, because maybe it’s really not that strange after all.
    This new optimism lasts a whole thirty seconds. Then I turn onto a busy street.
    Cars, people, dogs, all loud and impatient and seemingly indifferent to one another, swarm every inch of concrete. Kiosks selling everything from cigarettes to underwear