I am eating lunch at Dos Escudos, as Carlos and I have done for nine consecutive years––interacting with the servers—three women and a Middle-Eastern looking server, Martín.
I realize in a new way that this trip is no vacation and no distraction from my lingering agony. On the contrary, everything here is drenched in memories I dearly welcome.
Right now, in my mind’s eye, Carlos and I are sitting here, at this café. Along with the macchiato and the remembrances, I am savoring last night’s show at our majestic opera house, the Teatro Colón…
I enter this other world of quietude, empathy, understanding, and the luxury of not being judged. As I begin to turn my gaze inside, a leftover experience forms in my mind. I share it.
“I get anxious having dinner by myself in Buenos Aires. I didn’t feel that way in the United States.” I share with Dr. Novelli the associations that came to me at Rodi restaurant last night.
Perfume without aroma,
White dove riding on the wind,
A stranger to myself,
My self in grief
Bits of my loved dead ones.
My roots! Where are they?
The unconscious dynamic Dr. Novelli and I discover in this session brings about an awareness that makes my anxiety at dinner time cease.
As I leave the session, I mention that my initially warm companionship with Gustavo has turned brittle after four weeks.
Mindlessly, I cross Callao Avenue and reach the opposite sidewalk soaking wet. By now my umbrella is dancing to the whims of the wind. Why not? I discard my cover and let the rain fall on me. Its coolness wakes my senses.