I have three weeks left in Buenos Aires.

In the plaza at the UBA today, instead of focusing on the 80-page reading in my hand, I couldn’t help but scan the scene: adolescents kicking around a decrepit soccer ball; guys with beards and bracelets strolling; gals with cigarettes in hand, chatting.

Friends kissing each other on the cheek to say hello.  Later on, students shouting the words to the march of Juan Peron, accompanied by bass drums.

The rides home on the bus after my night class on Wednesdays. The women at the Laundromat, for whom I buy pastries in return for getting a discount on my clothes. The Peruvian restaurant where I go every Sunday for lunch. Another restaurant where I buy empanadas on Mondays and Tuesdays, empanadas that are as mediocre as they can get but I go there anyway because that means I can chat with the waiter there about life at large and goof around with her 7-year-old son.

I met a jewelry maker today on my way to class. He travels across Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, a free spirit, and we talked about politics and, well, traveling.

I can’t believe I’m going to lose all of this soon. At the same time, I know it was never really mine, at least not to keep.

Four months isn’t long enough.

Location: Avenida Paraguay, Buenos Aires, Argentina