Throughout its roller-coaster history, Argentina has counted on one constant: tango.
por Suan Pineda
Buenos Aires ~ His rancid odor, of midnight smoke soaked in days-old liquor, broods around me. Somehow, intense smells at either end of the spectrum incite the same reaction. Heavy cologne. Sewer water. It’s the same. The man dangles a bottle in his trembling, muddy hands, and tumbles toward me. And his beard — his beard is the bearer of many wandering nights, like this one. I prepare to sidestep him as he approaches me, but the zigzagging couples shish-shinging their feet on an improvised dance floor detour his path.