Holden Caufield and the Blogger in the Rye

I'm home now. I've been here for 2 days, more or less. I'm still a bit out of time, what with the 20-hour red-eye home, very very little sleep the next night, jetlag, fatigue, culture shock and a prevailing sadness to be away from a place that was so wonderful, that truly started to feel like "home" after such a relatively short time. (LA didn't feel like home until years after my arrival.) But despite all this, I can't help but smile and be so grateful for the times I had.

As I said in the first entry of this blog (I think it was the first; I'll check...), I have never been a faithful diarist. And I fear this will be no exception. Whereas I usually succomb to laziness, inertia, distraction, this trip I was usually consumed by an eagerness, an excitement to get and and see, and do, and not waste time in front of the monitor.

I could have told you more about Laura and Natalia, about Boedo, about Bar El Chino in (Nuevo) Pompeya. I could have told you more about finally making it to Teatro Colon and seeing an amazing opera, "Johnny Spielt Auf" by Ernst Krenek, more about Paula and her friends, endless last strolls on the streets of BA, all the "helados" I ate, the one I really had a crush on, the dirt, the dogshit, the grafitti, the sadness of the goodbyes...

But unlike Holden Caufield, I actually DO feel like telling you about this and whatever else. And I will. And there will be more pix too. So it will be out of chronological order. That's not so terrible, is it?