It’s how I always thought it should be: a string of diffuse and magical happenings super-imposed on each other but offered without much fanfare. Gatherings where all the people who needed to be there just were. Nights full of the unexpected that you somehow knew would one day come your way.
This piece hails from the vault. It is a true story peopled with some colorful characters from the Argentine cultural scene: an artist who used to hang out with Andy Warhol and built a Parthenon of books and an impresario who lived in a glam church. It also hails from a time when three pesos still meant something.
I have an old pair of cowboy boots. They have ridden long in stirrups, rested heavily on gas pedals across entire continents, and crunched over countless other miles when I had neither horse nor car to my name. They are the relics of a life lived on two feet.
