HOMES

Brazilian Airlines scoop me right out of my city and toss me to Rio, then drop me in Buenos Aires at 2am. Adrian drives his old little taxi slowly into the sleeping city, he talks about futbol as my mind travels back to this country’s Dirty War when these doors were kicked in and young activists like us were stolen out their beds, tortured, murdered and disappeared. ‘Every player wants to go to Europe’ Adrian explains. ‘Como no, I’m sure they do, I reply. The country has gone through an economic crisis in recent years but my friend says, ‘things are ok.... not good, not bad.’ We pass Parque Lezama and pull up outside Uspallata 489 where I will be calling home for the next few months. I think I’ve gotten good at making homes. I get out the car, step into the middle of the empty street and call up to the third floor: “Princesa!” She puts her head out the window and smiles. Home. The morning comes, the sun rises on a cold and crowded city where the ghosts of 30,000 people disappeared whisper dreams of revolutions, demands of rebellion and the simple human desire to at least be remembered. I can hear them sing.

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