So I took a walk tonight.  I was in search of an ATM that wasn't out
of money, so that we could get cash to pay rent.  I guess the banks
here don't restock their ATMs on Sundays, so ATMs are often out of
cash, receipt paper, or both.

I took the bus down to Cabildo, in the area where we stayed when we
first came to Buenos Aires in November 2006.  We stayed with Mariana
Ponzi and her family; she was organizing a huge pillow fight (the
Lucha de Almohadas de Buenos Aires, perhaps history's largest) on my
birthday, and was excited to hear our stories of the famous San
Francisco Valentine's Day pillow fight.

The first two ATMs I tried were out of money, and I didn't know where
to look for more, so I strolled along Avenida Cabildo in the hot
summer night.  A young couple were weighing themselves on a digital
scale in front of a pharmacy, so I weighed myself as well; alarmingly,
I apparently weigh 109 kilograms, about 25 more than I ought to.
Maybe that's why my knees and ankles hurt so often.

I saw a huge RENT, EL MUSICAL banner strung over a nearby park,
illuminated from behind by the park's streetlights.  I walked over to
check it out, and was ambushed by live music from a crowded street
along one side of the park.

RENT is apparently playing at the KONEX Cultural Center in a few
weeks.  I have fond memories of seeing it in the previous millennium
in Cincinnati with a group of close friends.  I plan to see it here as
well, but I may have more difficulty understanding it in Spanish.

Thousands of people crowded the street, many of them carying laurel
branches, and after a while the music stopped and a priest started
speaking.  I stood and listened for a bit.  He was saying Mass in the
street, maybe because it was the beginning of Semana Santa and the
thousands and thousands of people in the street wouldn't have fit into
the church.

Across the street, the Mass crowd faded into the park, which was full
of its usual Sunday evening merchants; it was only 21:00, an hour
after dark, so they hadn't closed up their shops yet.  Fortunately, I
didn't spot any moneychangers, so I was saved the temptation of
overturning their tables.

Around the corner, I finally found an ATM that was only out of small
bills --- it still had enough AR$100 bills to allow us to pay the
rent.

I listened to the Mass for a while.  I'd never heard the Lord's Prayer
in Spanish before; the priest left out the bit about the kingdom, the
power, and the glory.  Even though I didn't grow up in the Catholic
Church, the emotions of the crowd moved me nearly to tears.

I thought maybe I'd walk by where Mariana used to live before she
moved to Spain, where we'd stayed when we first arrived here; it was
only a couple of blocks away from the Mass, across some granite
crosswalks and past a cinema.

Halfway there, a drunk guy carrying a yellow washcloth and missing
some teeth beat his chest at me and said he was "¡loco!"  I grinned
and said I was too, and he shook my hand.  He asked if I was from
Germany; I explained that I was born in the US, but now I live in
Argentina.  He welcomed me to Argentina with great enthusiasm, 17
months late, gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, and sent me on
my way.  I wished him luck.  I was happy to find that my wallet was
still in my pocket, and sad that I felt the need to check.

I walked a bit past Mariana's old apartment building without noticing,
but I thought I recognized the restaurant on the corner, so I turned
around the corner to see if the other restaurant I remembered was
still there.  This was an instance of the empanadas chain "1810", the
first place our tongues were ever blessed with the flavor of Argentine
empanadas horneadas.  Next door was a kiosco, the first place I'd
tasted an alfajor, although I didn't know that was what it was called
at the time.

The "1810" instance had tripled in size, devouring the restaurant next
door, and it was full of customers, which I suppose is a sign that the
Argentine economy is more or less functioning.

I unbuttoned my shirt a bit to cool off and went over to Cabildo to
wait for the bus home.  About ten or fifteen buses to the wrong place
passed me before I finally found a stop for the bus route that goes to
our house; six minutes later, there was my bus.

I love Argentina.