Dear Buenos Aires...

I’ve always wrote down my thoughts, ideas, and fantasies. I kept them away from unknown eyes, locked in diaries, notebooks and on old paper tissues. Would write everything that touched me, that made me smile or cry, but when my notebooks were full, or scratched and written until you couldn’t find the smallest white spot…I would burn or rip them, so that no one could see the real me. 

This writing process was a successful and quite cheap form of therapy. I would open up, throw my invisible mask away, and speak freely about my surrounding, fears, problems and love for life.

The years have passed, and now I regret all those torn pages. What wouldn’t I give to have them back? Unconsciously and willingly, I just throw away some wonderful memories. 

If I would be a talented artist as mom, I would take out my brush, and pencil that late December sunset, from Budapest. Maybe this way, people will finally understand why the Hungarian capital is so much more than a regular Eastern European city, as someone ones told me. The image of the Danube, guarding the former imperial capital, the imposing architectural masterpieces which are a continuous reminder of its glorious past, all what makes Budapest really Budapest, could now be, a touchable memory, something that remains in time and can be seen also by others. 

Or if I would have Julia’s or Greg’s talent with pictures and colors, now everyone could see the real soul of Rome and the passions it awakes in me, each time I recall her from the most secret corners of my memory.

In lack of any real artistic talent, what comes close to a gift is my way with words.  So, I’ve decided to write absolutely everything down, without erasing or concealing anything.

Starting today, querida Buenos Aires, I’m in a relationship with you! You are my muse, my fount of inspiration, my lover and friend. I’ll love you and hate you simultaneously, I’ll court you until you’ll grant me your most sacred secrets and until my heart will be so full of love and desperation, that I’ll need to cry over and over again, in a last attempt to free my heart from you.

I’ll write you love letters, angry notes… I’ll write about your ever changing colors, the fragrances blown by the humid air, those smiley habitants and the crazy, always on the run European tourists, the tapas and nightlife, heartaches and disillusions, and all those mixed emotions which you awake in me.

In years from now, when I’ll have gray hair and those wrinkles will be an integrated part of my mirror reflection, I won’t depend on the power of that ever fading memory, but on those written pages. Through them, my grandkids will be able to see my Argentina and my Buenos Aires.