It occurred to her, after some waiting and some Malbec, that this visit may not be so much about dancing-
but, perhaps, about everything but dancing. German was to come and they’d go to Viva La Pepa-but somehow wires crossed and he thought the message she’d sent the night before about not going out because of the sore throat, was from this night. So there she was all dressed up and nowhere to go. Of course she could go alone and she had before, but not this trip-not yet. So she found her Spanish books and began to study a little, a good use of time she reasoned.
In the morning she had finished a lovely novel called “Still life with Bread Crumbs,” a love story in the end-deftly crafted with excellent taste about an older woman, yet still quite vital, and a somewhat younger fellow. The characters and the story had great dignity and she wished she could one day write in this way-like Anna Quindlen.
After that she took a long walk to check out the local street fair in Palermo; but, sadly there was nothing of interest to see.
She stopped at a cafe on the walk back to her hotel to grab a meal as she hadn’t yet eaten that day and it was late , 5pm or–17:00 in Buenas Aires. She was still adjusting to the time thing. The salmon and the Quilmes were great, really hit the spot. But, all the while she was eating a strange fellow haunted her. He was not tall–maybe 5’8″ at most-very lean and wore no shirt–his pants were tattered and dirty and he had no shoes. He had a short beard and looked a bit like he could play “Jesus.” He stood in the street and dared traffic to hit him. He pointed at cars and people. He glared at me from across the road, his head cocked. He wandered from one side of the intersection to the other and sometimes stood in the center of the road, mouthing words but she heard none. She wondered if she should offer him her supper, but was a little anxious to get close. She asked the waitress about him and learned the neighbors see him as harmless as he’s not aggressive. They think he’s drugged out or skitzi–or both. He lives thru a doorway across the street from the restaurant where she sat outside, the lone customer at that late Sunday hour. As the sun receded, he went into his place and returned with a bright orange t-shirt which he donned and continued his practice. He is the Garasene demoniac, she thought-and wished she could cast out his demons and set him free. But since God didn’t give her that charge, she finished her supper and went her way to her milonga class.  It wasn’t fabulous -hard to do  agreat class for 6 people ranging from 2 weeks experience to 14 yrs–but at least she was moving. Happily the fan in her little 3rd story room decided to work again. Thank god for such favors! Now, could God please recall all the mosquitoes?