Euphoric at Home

Queridos amigos,

I can't tell you how euphoric I feel to be safe in the United Stages again.  I never felt threatened in Argentina, but there were always the potholes in the street, a language with a different vocabulary than the Spanish I had learned, a peso in which you were deluged with bills and more bills, some of them of less value of a dime, the word of "miedo" on everyone's tongue:  fear of rising gas, water, and electricity plus shrinking social security, and the explosions on the streets when I went with Tom for his final lecture at San Andres City College near the Ministry of Labor.

There were the succulent steak dinners following his lectures, but I also can't tell you how thrilled I was to visit the fruits and vegetables this morning at Trader Joe's.  In Buenos Aires fruits and vegetables were prized displays, arranged in boxes like precious gifts covered with Saran Wrap so no one could steal or pinch them.  It's too cold in the Argentine winter to grow many vegetables or fruits.  My mouth watered during our meat-infused month when I passed the outdoor display of Brussels sprouts.  I had forgotten the time for them.
It's "repollitos de Bruselas."  I found them  at Trader Joe's and that's what I'm cooking tonight for supper at Tom's house.

When Tom and I got to the airport to leave Baires we ran into the porter Dario who had met us when we first landed a month ago.  He asked about Yasmin and the children who returned a week earlier for school schedules.  He found a wheelchair for me and whisked me through the visa and custom's process.  Because of the kind Latin disposition toward the elderly and people with disablities, it is heavenly to travel there.  Dario said to let him know (he has a Facebook account) when next we came and he would meet us.  Despite my passion
for American fruits and vegetables, I don't think I could find replacements for dear friends we made in only a month:  Paula, Tom's counterpart, who drove us all through the city and offered me my first view of  The Rio de la Plata.  Peter, an immigrant from Scotland who offered me a valued place in his magazine, and Marlen, a widow like myself, who invited us into her home in beautiful Ricoleta, the area of lovely parks and museums.  It was Marlen who demystified us about the the explosions that night.  It may have been in protest of one of the mothers of the desapracidos, the dissidents who had been tossed out of airplanes during the "dirty war."  This mother was granted repatriation for her group but then was later criticized for vanishing with the money.

This morning I was able to see my grandchildren off to Andrew's first grade and Linda's Junior High.   What a blessing to live this long in good health and except for traveling, able to take long walks on my own two feet. What a blessing to return and still carry the prospect of returning to Argentina in the future.  At the bottom of my purse I found four 100 peso notes so I am good to go.

Abrazos y todos!