Walking

An Argentine woman, breathtakingly gorgeous in the natural beauty, unkempt hair sort of way, walks with speed and grace down Cabildo Ave, the main street that bisects her neighborhood, se llama Belgrano. She is intent on getting wherever she is going, and quickly. She seems to walk with their eyes directed at a point somewhere in-between straight ahead and directly down at her feet; a line of vision that creates a 45 degree angle at the point where it meets the wide and unevenly paved sidewalk upon which she walks. Her gate is steady; she dodges with a certain suaveness the cars that speed her direction and which have little regard for the well-being of pedestrians. She manages with equal suaveness the varying mediums of the ground beneath her fashionable leather boots, de la ultima moda. Broken sidewalk, wet cement, innumerable mounds of dog poop present no obstacle to her steadfastness. Nor do the "catcalls" of the men, equally beautiful, who walk past her in the opposite direction. She has grown accustomed to ignoring the frequent iQue linda, chica! A simple flick of her wrist in the direction of the man suffices, and the city-wise Argentine woman continues on her way.

The rejected man takes no offense, and proceeds with his attempts to becharm the next woman who crosses his path. A girl from the US, studying abroad and identifiable as an extranjera due to her curious clothing and the city map that she grips tightly with a nervous hand, poorly disguised, becomes his next candidate. The girl struggles a little with the car-dodging that the Argentine woman managed with such elegance. She is perplexed yet impressed with how both pedestrian and automotive traffic somehow function in this city of inconsistent signals and zero stop signs. Unlike the portena, the foreigner makes eye contact with the man; his barely discernible call catches her off guard. Her thoughts become interrupted in her momentary quest to locate the source of the comment; previously a mezcla of Spanish and English, her thoughts become a mezcla of confusion, intrigue, and panic. But the eye contact between the two street-goers lasts for only a brief moment, as the girl, remembering that she is supposed to mimic the behavior of the suave and fashionable portenas, quickly diverts her gaze and focuses instead upon that point 45 degrees between straight ahead and directly below. She flicks her wrist and continues on.