There are hundreds walking. Going home? Walking like me? Hundreds more at a disco club located under an overhead rail line. The bass beat throbs through the area.
The moon is full and bright and a few stars can be seen in the darkness above. Buenos Aires lives up to its name with little in the way of obvious pollution. The winds take it down into the valley where it becomes someone else's problem perhaps?
An early morning busker plays in a subte station. Is he on his way home, or has he just arrived? His music echoes through the tunnels.
Afer 6:00 the sun begins to rise and the heat with it. The parks, quiet before,are now filled with the sounds of a million birds.
By 6:30 the avenidas fill with traffic. The city, never fully at rest, begins another day.
And I return home, and to bed.