I thought back to the surgery I had endured in 1983/4 where much of my spine had been fused and my fibulas had been used to make struts to prevent the vertebrae from collapsing. Scars from knee to ankle on both legs bear witness to the removal of the bones. On top of that I take weekly pills to ward off the effects of osteoporosis. My shrunken thoracic cavity allows room for the equivalent of one lung to expand. It doesn't take too much exertion to get puffed. I am 4ft 10 inches tall. I lay in that bathtub marveling at the accomplishment. It was a silent nod of approval I gave myself. I also knew I would not set myself a task like this to accomplish in the future. I was relieved I had been able to satisfy this desire now, not next year. Next year might have been too late.

After my bath I went down to the hotel restaurant for dinner and was delighted to join three other guests who had been on the expedition. We did not know the other was at this hotel. We shared a bottle of Argentinean wine and reminisced. It was a perfect conclusion.

I got an extra hour’s sleep that night as the clocks went forward. At the appointed time I was in the lobby meeting with my guide and taxi driver whom I had hired for a morning sightseeing tour of Buenos Aries. My guide was a retired schoolteacher, lively, attentive and knowledgeable. She wanted to create a visit to her city, which satisfied my needs not her own. I explained that I had spent a day in Buenos Aries in January 2006 when I had arrived on a cruise ship. We had taken the free shuttle from the ship to a down town jewelry store and from there had walked to the Plaza de Mayo. I told her I wanted to return there and needed to know more about what I had witnessed then. But first our car took us to venues I had not seen but were part of the tourist circuit.

We stopped in one of the many parks in Buenos Aries to view the Floris Genérica - a huge steel and aluminum sculpture of a flower which opens and closes at sunrise and sunset using hydraulic machinery. It was donated by architect Eduardo Catalo in 2002. It stands in the centre of the Plaza Naciones Unidas (United Nations Plaza) in a reflecting pool. Each of the six petals measures 13 meters long and 7 meters wide.

                                                                                           
Trees were in blossom everywhere and a Sunday morning relaxation pervaded the air. We stopped at the raw statue honoring Eva Perόn, the first lady who was adored by the working class and despised by the elite. We entered the Recoleto district to see its famous cemetery where Eva Perόn now lies. She is in the mausoleum of her father’s family – the father who had not acknowledged her as his illegitimate child.



         

My guide, Estela, told me the stories of others in the cemetery as we meandered the narrow streets with the stone and metal and glass little houses. She made me press my face against the glass to see statues and steps leading to vaults below. She told me the story of one 18 year old girl’s coffin that had moved. They opened it to find her definitely dead but there were scratch marks on the inside of the lid…she had had narcolepsy. Estela’s tales continued as we strolled, occasionally a contented cat would pass by or be lying in the sun. Then the peace would be broken by a chattering group of camera wheedling tourists intent on seeing Evita’s austere resting place and because they had seen so little else, would leave not knowing the beauty of the place.

We drove through the San Telmo district, an area of former stately mansion houses set on cobbled streets abandoned when yellow fever struck. Later the mansions were divided into rooming houses for immigrant workers.

La Boca was a factory and dock area where sailors, waiting their turn with the prostitutes, would dance together, a dance which would eventually become the more respectable tango. In 1954 the rail line was abandoned and the depressed area needed a facelift and rejuvenation. Benito Quinquela Martin was a wealthy artist who had friends in high places. Abandoned as a new born he grew up in an orphanage in La Boca. When he returned a famous man he gathered his many mural painting friends and for three years they painted the houses of La Boca - all the colours of the rainbow. Martin asked for the paint from local merchants; those who did not cooperate with the project learned to their chagrin how powerful the artist was – or so the story went according to Estela.



Today La Boca’s main street, the Caminito, is a vibrant area by daylight with tourists, tango music, cafes and opportunity to dance the tango with a professional and have a photograph taken. We stopped for coffee in a café where the locals go and Estela encouraged me to eat empanadas made from ground beef, egg, onions and peppers.
 
At last we came to the Plaza de Mayo. Within the dark cathedral mass was taking place. It was Palm Sunday and the faithful had come to church bearing olive branches. I was last there on January 26, 2006. Then I had walked, passing immobile guarding soldiers, around the tomb of General San Martin, the leader who had won the fight for independence from Spain. The black tomb is flanked by three life-size female statues representing Argentina, Peru and Chile who had all been countries with the same quest. But this day the tomb area gates were locked and there was no military guard of honor on duty.


Coming back out in to the bright sunlight we crossed the road and had another passing gaze at the Casa Rosada and as corny images are want to cross the excited mind, the tune of Don’t Cry for me Argentina stuck in my head. But this was quickly erased by our approach of the Piramidal column in the middle of the Plaza de Mayo. Now my mind went back to 2006.

A museum park was opened so that no one can forget the power of state terrorism. The names of those kidnapped, detained, tortured, murdered or still missing are honoured on the banks of the River Plate, the river into which so many were dropped to their death from planes.

 Thursday 26 March 2006 

 Sunday 16 March 2008

In the area where I had marched with the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo on March 26, 2006, I stood again. Estela took my photograph. There were placards for a union demonstration about the non recognition of Argentinean soldiers who had fallen during the Falkland’s war of 1982. Estela had pointed out to me the war memorial for the Falklands war which stands opposite an old monument which was once called the British monument – now disrespectfully just called "the Tower."

What serendipitous events embrace me in Buenos Aries. My first visit to the Plaza de Mayo had me witnessing the final Thursday march of the Mothers. On this day the protest was about the soldiers who had fought in the Falklands in 1982. I had recently walked where they had walked, seen relics abandoned on hillsides and in the museum in Stanley. I had seen areas of land still filled with their land mines. All is connected.

I parted company with Estela on the banks of the River Plate in the Puerto Madero district, the old port. Previously left to decay, the newly rejuvenated dock area is now a trendy part of town, all of its streets being named after noteworthy women. We looked at a foot bridge completed in 2001 called the Woman’s Bridge, the Puente de la Mujer. She drew my attention to the fact that two structures built in the modern era were this bridge and the massive metal flower the following year. She was proud of the feminine parallel and absence of militarism in both creations.

We waved good bye. My driver wove his way out to the highway and we headed to the airport. I was on my way home.

Here I am a woman in my 60s yet I feel, on this trip, as if I had experienced a coming of age event. A new me was to walk off the plane in Toronto next morning. A me, hopefully, better equipt to face my future.