I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes

—Rolling Stones, Paint it Black

—§—

Nights in Buenos Aires are balmy. Young couples walk along streets strung with festive ropes of lights. The girls are so pretty; they make my teeth ache.

I'm remembering when I was a teenager in New Jersey, strolling hand-in hand down the midway at Lake Hopatcong Amusement Park with Alix Acheson. Alix with her long, long hair and pullover sweaters. It was a warm, humid night, filled with the mystery of new love.

I lived in a trouble-free world then. Well, except for my frustrations with Alix's coy reticence. Here in BsAs, evenings in my Recoleta neighborhood revive the old sense of mystery, of possibility.

Cafés, theaters, and bookstores line broad sidewalks. People sit outside eating pizza and drinking coffee. Everything is in motion.

Even the street performers are pretty good. This man is playing from his own hand-written arrangements—a serious musician. Neighborhoods feel safe and wholesome. Young women wear diaphanous dresses. They are catered to by intense young men. The night is for pairing up, for romance.

—§—

We're gonna come around at twelve
With some Puerto Rican girls that are just dyin' to meet you.

—Rolling Stones, Miss You

A ten-minute taxi ride across town, a different kind of love awaits.

She doesn't look like she's actually hoping for a date, does she? She's tired and bored—just going through the motions. Whatever might come from your encounter with her, it'll bear little resemblance to those early dates at Lake Hopatcong. You and she are long past the days of young love. Honestly, you'll experience more intimacy with your barber.

Can you sink any lower? You can. A row of public telephones stretches along pedestrianized Florida Street. Each has a half-dozen business cards stuck to it.

The cards bear the address and phone number of Rocio, who describes herself as a rubia infernal—a blonde hellcat. She doesn't specify the services she's offering, but lest you misunderstand, she includes her photograph, posed on hands and knees in her underwear, her butt facing the camera. Not her best side.

She devotes precious space on her card announcing that her facilities are air conditioned. "Air conditioned! Hey, that does it for me. What are we waiting for?"

I think maybe Rocio could use a marketing consultant.

—§—

It's 2 AM. Dinner is over. We're walking through a mall where a surprising number of businesses are still open, mostly fast food places.

We encounter an old guy with a huge bushy beard. He has hundreds of pieces of silver jewelry spread out on a blanket on the sidewalk. Jean and Judy walk over. Bill and I look at each other. The night's not over yet.

Twenty minutes later, out two girls have made the jeweler's night for him. Those two can shop anywhere, anytime.

It's a sign of how priorities shift with age, that Bill and I patiently stand by while the ladies add to their burgeoning jewelry boxes. Long gone are thoughts of Rocio and the bar lady and the sweet little butterflies that inhabit the Recoleta cafes.