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The traders from Nigeria and Senegal left more than a year ago. I imagine they returned to Buenos Aires where the winters are mild and the possibilities for someone manning a stall and selling clothing or any merchandise are more ample, even if the risks are greater. I thought of how I hadn´t seen Dabo or Clemence in a long while when the snow fell in August and actually stayed on the ground rather than melt away in the wet cold air. Dabo always made me feel silly and managed to get me to spend the little money I had. I liked Clemence better: like his name somewhat suggests, he was a kinder soul. The snow had covered the ground for only a few days but that had been enough to change the mood of the city. Curious rambles on the snow-covered sand punctuated with snowball fights became bitter crouching walks on slushy sidewalks. The sounds of sliding screeching tires were followed occasionally by a loud thud on the first day or so. Then the roads cleared and people continued to drive more cautiously, just in case.

As Argentina and Morales fought over gas supplies and pricing we had had to run the gas heaters less and less. I managed to find a small woodstove for sale in Caisamar and we placed it in the living room with the pipe bent out through the
glass doors that lead onto the balcony. I collect branches and clippings from the furious prunings that are applied to any sidewalk tree that ventures much beyond a bush in stature. In Renfrew, my parents had a wood/electric furnace and a 49 acre woodlot and I would spend hours in the bush with a bucksaw collecting over ten face chords to get us through the next winter. Those hours were spread over months of course rather than a week or two with a chainsaw. Somehow pulling these branches from a pile on the sidewalk helped me remember that piece of land. I didn´t care about the hostile stares from the abuelitas as I placed my stash of wood into my backpack. I was too busy trying not to break down thinking of how my parents had died. David´s last email was confusing and I still don´t know if it was the Hanta Virus or a new outbreak of Swine Flu that did them in. I can´t google either disease yet - it´s too masochistic and with the recent power cuts, I´d rather quickly check my inbox than wander from site to site to see how exactly they spent their last moments of life. David mentoned cremation ( it had always been their wish ) and sometimes in the early morning I think of the ashes and where he might be keeping them. But I still can´t grieve.

The cold isn´t bad right now, thank god. But for early December, it is still cool, at times almost cold. The trees around town are fully flowering by now and it makes me feel a little guilty when I scavenge amongst the pruned stubs of what had recently been a rather promising shade tree. Parque Camet is rumoured to be unsafe so I´ve had to curtail my visits to that hunting ground. La Canchita de Los Bomberos was the scene of a lynching a few days ago - a Lithuanian who had pitched his tent in the dense copse of trees. He was doing Argentina on the cheap and all the hostels were full so he had had to settle for the illegal campground a few short blocks from our building. Supposedly he had fought back when they tried to rob him. The neighbours had complained repeatedly about the campground and now a Judge Curette was conducting a full investigation. The Lithuanian embassy had threatened trade retaliations and then quickly backed down after a new ambassador was rushed down to Buenos Aires. Store owners are worried about another holiday wave of crime this coming summer when the thieves or chorros follow the vacationing crowds down to the coast. A few will only serve those they know and trust. But most remain open as much as they dare. Isadora has managed to keep food on the table with her shifts at the salon as I am reluctant to spend too much of what´s left of the money David sent. I don´t know what wears us down more, our furious arguments or the fear of hunger. We eat well enough if not often enough. And the strain of not hearing from Diego in Miami is eating at her more than she´ll admit. Oriana thinks her father is doing fine and that he´ll soon get back in touch with us, but Isadora is more prone to dramatic scenes where she sobs that he´s lost to her forever. I try to comfort her even if it has been less than two months since he last called ...

So the afternoon is almost over and the light in the sky would be lovely if I were happy or stuffed with food or calm, but I have enough of my self left to know that it is lovely even if I can´t feel it that way. Matts and Mikal have promised us a feast of barbequed potatoes up on the terrace where the quincho squats and where they pitched their tents some months ago. Isadora has been worried that building inspectors will find out about them and fine Rojas who will raise our rents to cover the costs. I doubt it. I wonder how much rent he charges them? I also wonder how the hell they keep their beards so trim - elegant stubbles really . And I wonder why no one has robbed us yet. All the crime stories everywhere - always darkened by the comments that the ¨real¨ rate is much much higher because many go unreported. And nothing happens to us. We shop when she´s paid and we argue how to spend the money. And I relent and spend too little of mine. And Isadora still smokes. And no one robs us; despite pandemics and floods and dwindling suppies of natural gas. No one robs us in this pleasant maritime resort town where surfers and skateboarders and retirees and the rest of us coexist. Not that we have much to steal anyway ...