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The crumbling part of the facade is what interests me. The north wing of the Asilo Unzué has already been renovated, but the main building remains to be refurbished, it´s pockmarked plaster and faded wooden shutters sadly awaiting the scaffolding that slowly creeps around the buildng, months at a time. Despite the optimistic billboard with Presidenta Fernandez´s name writ large, it appears funds are scarce and the work is proceeding at a bare trickle. I shift my weight and cross my legs. This parapet is low and behind me it´s easily a twenty foot drop down to the concrete apron that borders the sand. But I´m tucked beside a lampost with the sea to my back and this aging refuge and chapel in front of me. What interests me is imagining what the front will look like once renovated. It´s an exercise in stubborness seeing I barely have to shift my glance towards the renovated wing to realize what the main building will look like. There was a pensioner gazing at it rapturously a few days ago, seated just where I am now and I decided to see if I could discover some of his ecstasy for myself. But all I see is architecture; moldings, lintels, tiles and railings and shutters. It´s early evening and the sun is still up but this part of the boardwalk is not too crowded at this hour. Everyone´s getting ready for their New Year´s Eve celebrations. Mostly at home with family, unlike Canada. I bought the champagne yesterday and Diego took his brand new Ford Flex and bought a ridiculous amount of meat at Carnes Angus way out on Avenida T Edison. The stuff has to be cooked tonight - no room for it in the fridge, never mind its tiny freezer. Matts and Mikal are adding potatoes and vegetables ... whether roasted or not I´m unsure. Mikal is now a meat eater again and I´m not sure how long they´ll last togethere. We´ll see. Strange. They live in the penthouse. That is, the small apartment next to the terrace. The tents are for camping trips around the coast and for hot summer evenings. I swear I thought they lived in the tents, but when Diego emerged from the penthouse with Matts I realized I had been mistaken. The sun slips below the Unzué although it still has a ways to go before hiding behind the houses and then slipping below the horizon - the pampa that starts some 10 kilometers from this shoreline. A small devoted crowd still attends mass on weekends but I can´t see what inspires them. Only decay and dogged attempts at renewal.

Eyyyyyyy!!

Who´s yelling? The wind makes it hard to tell ...

Eyyyyyyy!! Loco ... !!

The upper part of the terrace. An arm waving. It´s Isadora. Is something wrong? No ... I doubt it. They just want me to join them up on the terrace. I stand up and gaze at the sea for a long moment. The beach is scattered with tourists and locals straggling along the sand and enjoying the summer evening. Some surfers are still at it, divided into several pods of 3 to 5 each. All this food and booze after a miserable winter of cutting corners just to keep 3 meals on the table. Isadora argued with Diego today about him letting Oriana drive the pickup truck. We argued about the charcoal and the food and the champagne. A squabbling family, like anywhere. I´d like to swim out to sea but the currents are strong and the water cool even this time of year. And the waves are a problem. So I stroll along the boardwalk and cross at the light at Falkner, moving steadily towards what is surely a noisy patio four floors up.

The popping sounds make us all pause, but we remain smiling and hopeful that it´s just what it sounds like - firecrackers.

Ah, mira ahi.

Oriana is pointing towards San Juan and yes we see some fireworks ascend from someone´s backyard so we all relax and gulp or sip at our Reginato. I was unable to get any Saint Lambert this time around. Hopefully the seven bottles should be enough. Isadora was furious, but I finally convinced her that with the four of us plus Matts and Mikal plus Greta and Irma, it was barely enough. Oriana and Diego had had to come pick us up at the Vinoteca to help me get the bubbly back home. Amazing how indispensable a vehicle becomes in merely a matter of days. But I had declined the ride back home and instead had walked, nearly tripping over a broken tile on Marmol just past Rio Negro. A jolt of adrenaline had straightened me in time but was it a worrying sign? Oriana wasn´t drinking much; probably saving up for some other party with her friends.

The food´s finally ready and Matts brings me some roasted potatoes and his accent reminds me suddenly of my mother. I creak and cringe inside and the dam breaks and I have to fight not to weep. I scurry up the steps to the upper terrace not looking at anyone. The tears don´t come however, and I stare at the sea ignoring Freddy the kid from apartment six who´s sucking face and grinding with his girlfriend over in the other corner. I hadn´t even noticed them at first. Finally. The sea is so lovely and the night so perfect and I feel my past crumbling off me in a sudden aching release. The Onas of Tierra del Fuego apparently describe depression through the metaphor of a crab who´s awaiting a new shell, according to Chatwin. Mine is melting off me right now and the tears flow and I gasp and heave. Nothing is static. Nothing at all. Maybe absolute zero. But nothing else. Space is full of dust they say. Nothingness is something, something increasingly observed and measured. But nothingness itself won´t stay still either just because we want to measure it I´ll bet. I look down at the sidewalk and feel a curious connection with the perspective. As if I was up on our rooftop in Venezuela looking out at the playground across the street. Maybe it´s just me opening up my eyes again and letting my mind cool down for a moment.

Amor, que haces?

It´s Isa coming towards me. Freddy and his girl have left. We´re alone up here. I hug her and cry some more. I whisper,

I was thinking of the holidays back in Cabimas.
Ya se.

She kisses my wet cheeks and hugs me again and then we head back down to join the party.