Rosario, Argentina → Madrid · Malasaña

Jul 6, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the heat is oppressive today; it seems to wrap around my mind as much as my body. i spent the morning in the flat, the faint hum of the fan my only companion, flipping through old essays about the dispersion of culture, a concept that feels too immediate lately. the books line the walls, familiar yet suffocating, like a jumble of memories whispering secrets in the quiet.

   after lunch, i walked to a café in malasaña, the familiar scent of roasted coffee grounding me. sat by the window, scribbled notes for the translation project due next week. it's a challenging piece, layered and rich — the way benjamin would appreciate. i keep circling back to certain phrases, wanting them to resonate but feeling the weight of my own dislocation. who am i translating for, if not for myself?

   the reading group meets on friday. i'm still pondering what to bring for discussion. perhaps something from borges, a text that straddles the labyrinth of identity. it just feels fitting, like trying to grasp something elusive. i can hear my son’s voice in my head, reminding me to embrace the chaos rather than seek closure.

   as i walked home, the sun dipped low, casting elongated shadows. the heat, still heavy, promised a storm, a shift in the air. the kind of change that feels like an ending, but isn’t quite.

Jul 7, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the heat bears down relentlessly. spent the morning at my flat, with the windows flung open wide, trying to coax a breath of air. it feels like an act of futility. I lurked among the books, tracing the spines as if they could give me solace, but the truth is, the oppressive weight of the weather has seeped into my thoughts.

   had a long email exchange with my son, a litany of his updates from Buenos Aires. he complains of the same heat, but I suspect he finds it different, somehow. a sense of home in a discomfort I can hardly remember. I miss those chaotic summer evenings in Rosario when the air buzzed with life, not this stifling silence.

   in the afternoon, I ventured to a café on the corner, the one with an outdoor terrace. ordered my usual, but the taste was dulled by the humidity. there, I read some Borges—an old collection of essays. he always offers a glimpse into the metaphysical even as I drown in the mundane.

   the evening brings no relief; the curtains are drawn, but the heat continues to loom. I feel as if the walls are closing in, pressed by the weight of my own nostalgia and the sun that refuses to set. perhaps tomorrow will be different, perhaps not. for now, I’ll just listen to the distant chatter of the evening crowd and let it wash over me, a reminder that life persists, even in the thick of stifling heat.

Jul 15, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the languor of this heat settles in like an old friend. today, i found myself wandering through malasaña, seeking refuge in the shadows of the narrow streets. there’s a new café that opened on calle manuela malasaña, an inviting space with vintage decor that whispers of nostalgia. the barista, a young man with a mop of curls, served me a perfect espresso. i could almost hear my son’s voice teasing me about my growing reliance on caffeine, “mamá, you’re becoming more italian by the day!”

   back at the flat, the air felt thick, reminiscent of those summer afternoons in rosario, when the heat stifled thought. yet, i managed to pen a few lines for my translation project. the rhythm of words flowed with a certain ease, almost as if they were dancing under the weight of the afternoon light.

   i paused, contemplating the idea of home — a term that feels both expansive and confining. it flickers between the walls of this small, book-lined flat and the familiar streets of buenos aires. in moments like these, the distance from my son and parents sharpens into a palpable ache. i let my thoughts drift to the idea of diaspora, how the pieces of my life seem scattered across three cities, fragmented but rich.

   the evening sky darkens, promising a coolness that seems to herald a change. perhaps it will bring clarity, or at least a reprieve from the relentless summer embrace.

Aug 7, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   another day of sweltering heat in malasaña. the sun has taken on a malevolent quality, almost daring me to step outside. yet, i ventured into the thick of it, my destination a small café where the shaded tables seemed a refuge from the relentless glare. there, among the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of conversations, i scribbled notes for my latest translation. the words flowed, like agua fresca, refreshing despite the warmth.

   i watched a couple at the next table, their laughter sharp and bright, a reminder of what once was, perhaps. a twinge of nostalgia crept in, uninvited, as i recalled afternoons spent in similar cafés with my son, sharing stories and dreams. now, he is so far away, navigating his own life in buenos aires.

   the evening brings a slight reprieve — a soft breeze rustles through the leaves, whispering promises of cooler days ahead. i return to my flat, the stacks of books lining the walls feeling both comforting and oppressive, a reminder of the intellectual journeys still unfinished. tonight, as the twilight deepens, i will continue to wrestle with my own thoughts, much like the characters in the stories i translate. a quiet battle, but one that feels at once familiar and oddly exhilarating.

Sep 9, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the heat finally relented, just a little, as if conceding some ground. a light breeze this afternoon, almost teasing. i sat at my desk with the windows still open, the scent of the nearby café mingling with the dust of books piling around me. spent the morning revising a piece on borges — the way he intertwines memory and language, how it resonates with my own fragmented life.

   i did a long email session with my son, his words a balm. he talked of starting a new job, the excitement and trepidation mingling in his tone. how strange it is to see him stepping into this world while i grapple with the echoes of my own past. i wish i could be there, to share a café cortado, to offer him some fatherly wisdom, but distance renders me a mere specter.

   in the evening, i joined the reading group. we discussed hernández's poetry, the layers of longing that permeate his lines. each voice in the room added a color to the conversation, weaving the tapestry of our shared literary love. there is something vital in that exchange, something that quenches a thirst i didn’t realize i had.

   as the sun set, the light softened. it felt like a gentle farewell, a reminder of the beauty in transition. the sky turned a bruised lavender, and for a moment, the weight of time slipped away.

Nov 16, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the chill in the air today is a stark reminder that autumn has arrived, bringing with it a kind of melancholic clarity. i stepped out to the café on calle del Pez, the one with the crooked tables and that old espresso machine that sputters like an aging poet. the usual crowd was there, discussing the latest novelties in literature, while i scribbled notes on my translation of calvino. the text seems to dance, words twisting in unexpected ways, much like my own thoughts.

   later, a long email from my son. he's considering a project that would take him to israel next summer. i felt a pang—so many miles between us, yet our shared love for storytelling bridges that distance, even if just a little. he asks about the books i’m reading, a sweet reminder of the late nights we spent in our cluttered living room in buenos aires.

   as i walked back, the streets felt different—quiet, reflective. malasaña takes on an almost desolate beauty under these gray skies. the leaves swirl down from the trees, and i can’t help but feel the weight of time. sometimes, nostalgia is a heavy coat to wear. i caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window: a woman marked by the passage of time, yet still searching for significance in the spaces between. the breeze carried the scent of damp earth and distant conversations. winter is coming.

Nov 28, 2022

1. Diary

   "the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." — oscar wilde

   the chill deepened today, wrapping itself around malasaña like a shroud. i ventured out for a late afternoon café con leche, the warmth of the cup a small solace against the bite of the air. i found myself thinking of the way the leaves on the trees danced, a choreography of surrender, just like the last throes of autumn — a reminder of how even decay holds its beauty.

   the small reading group met this evening to discuss a collection of essays by roberto bolaño. the conversation wandered, as it often does, into the labyrinth of identity and belonging. maría, in her exuberance, brought up the notion of exile. “but we are not exiles,” she insisted, “just bodies in transit.” it struck me how our discussions often traverse the spaces between our different histories — argentine, israeli, and european, threads woven into our stories.

   i returned home later than usual, my heart heavy yet light with the exchange, the weight of words swirling like the smoke from the bartender's lit cigarette outside. the flat feels distinctly colder, as though it, too, is aware of the shifting seasons and my own quiet transformations. perhaps i should hang a shiv‘a candle for those moments of warmth — for the past, for my son, and for the ritual of connection that seems to elude me in this new life.

   the night sky is a deep blue now, stars flickering like distant memories.

Dec 24, 2022

1. Diary

   "la vida es sueño" — calderón de la barca

   the streets of malasaña are quiet this morning, as if holding their breath for the holiday. a soft patina of frost covers the rooftops, the sky a slate gray, promising snow. it reminds me of rosario winters, though here it carries a different weight, an echo of absence rather than nostalgia.

   i spent the morning writing, a slow unspooling of thoughts, the café buzzing softly around me. the barista, a young man who speaks Italian, laughed at my attempt to order in his language — “non ti preoccupare,” he said, “your Spanish is perfect.” it felt both comforting and melancholy, a reminder of the multilingual tapestry of my life.

   my son wrote this week, his email filled with plans for the New Year. he’s navigating his own post-divorce landscape, carving out a space that feels true to him. i find myself wanting to reach through the screen, to lend him the wisdom that feels so elusive in my own life, yet perhaps it’s the shared experience of uncertainty that binds us now.

   tonight, i’ll gather with my small reading group, a few familiar faces over wine and words, sharing fragments of thought on latin american narratives. it feels vital, like a ritual. as the light dims, i feel the chill deepen outside, a reminder of ages passing—of stories unwritten, of memories fading. the frost will mute the noise, but here, in our tiny enclave of voices, we will keep the warmth alive.

Feb 5, 2023

1. Diary

   "la vida es sueño" — calderón de la barca

   the morning light filtered through the small window of my flat, illuminating the spines of books that seemed to whisper to one another in a secret language. today, i found myself lost in a labyrinth of translation, wrestling with a particularly stubborn passage from a novel by roberto bolaño. it’s always the subtleties that escape me, like shadows dancing just out of reach.

   i ventured to my usual café, the one on calle pez, where the barista, a young man from bilbao, greeted me with a smile. we spoke briefly about the latest football match — barça's dismal performance elicited a bitter chuckle from him. the café was alive with the chatter of students, intellectuals debating the role of the avant-garde in contemporary literature. i sat in a corner, my notebook open, pen hovering, absorbing their ideas.

   i exchanged a few messages with my son, who is preparing for yet another round of interviews. his words brought me a flash of pride, and yet a pang of nostalgia for the days when his laughter filled the house. the distance, both physical and emotional, has become an ache i carry lightly, a reminder of the complexities of love and separation.

   as the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, the shadows outside deepened, and i returned home, the air cooling. the chill of madrid reminds me of rosario, of winters spent wrapped in blankets, reading. the melancholic beauty of endings hangs in the air, a familiar companion.

Feb 6, 2023

1. Diary

   "el tiempo es un río que me arrastra" — heráclito

   the chill has settled in once more, the kind that sinks into your bones and lingers, echoing the weight of absence. today, i found solace in the small rituals of my flat. the warmth of coffee cradled between my hands, the rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of old paper. i spent hours weaving words into a translation for a friend’s manuscript, an elegy of sorts, each sentence a bridge between lives.

   the afternoon slipped away as i prepared for our weekly café session, a gathering of minds seeking refuge in the company of literature. i mulled over the latest pieces from our reading group—each story a fragment of the diaspora woven into an intricate tapestry. a discussion awaited, one that would flit between laughter and the poignant silences that linger when words brush the surface of our shared histories.

   i thought of my son in buenos aires, the distance stretching like an unbroken string, pulling taut during moments of connection. his long emails, punctuated by small joys and the challenges of adult life, serve as reminders of the threads that remain, even as time reshapes our worlds.

   as night fell, the weather outside mirrored my mood—a low fog crept into malasaña, obscuring the familiar streets. it felt like a quiet ending, an invitation to retreat into the pages of another book, to escape just a little longer from the weight of time.

Feb 26, 2023

1. Diary

   "nada es verdad, todo está permitido" — omar al-mukhayyar

   the wind howled through the narrow streets of malasaña today, a stark reminder of the lingering chill. even the cats seemed to huddle closer together, seeking warmth in doorways. i spent the morning wrapped in a shawl, surrounded by the comforting clutter of my small flat. the books, those faithful companions, offered solace as i worked through a translation of a piece by silvina ocampo. her words have an uncanny way of capturing the ephemeral — the way life shifts beneath our feet, like shadows at dusk.

   my son emailed me yesterday, full of plans for spring in buenos aires. his enthusiasm sparked a pang of longing; the distance between us is palpable, yet his voice rises in my mind like a familiar tune. i often wonder how he interprets my life here, this patchwork existence in madrid, where every café feels like an echo of conversations past.

   in the late afternoon, i made my way to a nearby librería, its scent of old paper mingling with the newly opened volumes. purchased a collection of essays by borges, a familiar thrill coursed through me. i started a small reading group recently — an informal gathering of fellow expats and locals, all navigating our own translations of life into this foreign fabric.

   the evening sky turned to a somber grey, reminding me of the rain-soaked streets back home. as i sat at my desk, the wind rattled the window panes, a constant reminder that the world spins on, indifferent. yet here, in this solitary moment, the warmth of words surrounds me, a refuge from the chill outside.

Mar 24, 2023

1. Diary

   “en un lugar de la mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme” — cervantes

   the light today, almost spring-like, carried an unusual warmth. i took my usual seat at la casa de la palabra, surrounded by the familiar chaos of scattered papers and half-finished manuscripts. the café was buzzing; voices mingled, an orchestra of ideas, nostalgia, laughter. as i sipped my café con leche, i found myself thinking of my son. how strange it is, this distance — the texts we share, bridging the miles like old letters.

   the reading group met later in the day; we dissected cortázar’s “rayuela.” there’s something exhilarating about discussing the labyrinthine structure and the students' fresh interpretations. it reminded me of my own early days in literature, the way words once felt like promises unfulfilled.

   afterwards, i wandered through malasaña’s narrow streets, observing the changes. a new gallery opened, a testament to the vibrant pulse of art here, yet the whispers of the past lingered. the cats slinked around, indifferent, as if they held all the secrets of the neighborhood.

   the evening settled in with a chill, a stark contrast to the warmth of the day. a soft rain began to fall, blurring the edges of everything. i returned home to my flat, the books waiting, always waiting, like old friends eager to share their stories again.

Apr 3, 2023

1. Diary

   "el tiempo es un río que me arrastra" — heráclito

   the chill persists, a stubborn friend, reminding me of faces in faded photographs. the days blend, each dragging a weight of absence. today, i ventured to the rastro, hoping for a flicker of something — a book, an artifact, a trinket to tether my thoughts. the market thrummed with life, laughter mingling with the haggling of vendors and the occasional bark from a dog. an old volume of cortázar caught my eye; its pages were yellowed, the spine cracked, but it pulsed with possibility.

   returned home, the flat still small, yet warm from the sun that dared to peer through the clouds. my desk is cluttered with stacks of paper, each a fragment of thought, a disjointed echo of conversations with my son. we spoke of his plans to visit soon; a brief truce against the distance between us.

   as evening draped its cloak over the city, i felt the familiar tug of nostalgia. the darkness mirrored the shadows of my past, those lingering specters that haunt the corridors of my mind. i lit a candle, the flicker casting a dance on the walls, momentarily dispelling the weight of solitude.

   the weather outside mirrored my thoughts, a reluctant warmth struggling against the chill, as if to remind me that spring is coming, like a whisper on the wind.

Apr 9, 2023

1. Diary

   “la vida es un sueño” — calderón de la barca

   the wind has shifted, bringing with it a strange clarity. an azure sky held the promise of a warmer day. i took my notebook to the cafe, the familiar smell of coffee and the sound of anxious chatter encasing me like a blanket. sat in the corner, my usual spot, with the light filtering through the window, illuminating the pages with a gentle glow. worked through the translation of a text by borges, the infinite complexities of language ebbing and flowing, much like my own thoughts on identity and displacement.

   an email from my son in buenos aires — he spoke of his new job and the uncertainties that accompany it. how easy to drift into nostalgia, thinking of his childhood, the way he laughed over small things. sometimes i wonder if i did enough for him, if my choices carved a path worth walking.

   later in the evening, the light dimmed, and shadows grew long. the chill returned, wrapping around malasaña like a shroud. reminded me of those autumn nights in rosario, sitting on the balcony with a book in hand, yet now that ritual feels like a distant shore. tonight, the only sound is the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of conversation from below. as i sip my tea, the warmth seeps into my bones, a small comfort against the weight of absence.

Apr 24, 2023

1. Diary

   “el hombre que no lee, no vive” — unamuno

   the sun broke through again today, enveloping the small flat in a golden embrace. i lingered over coffee at la casa de la paloma, the book-lined walls whispering familiar tales. my notebook filled with scattered thoughts, fragments of essays tumbling like autumn leaves, each a reminder of the diaspora that lingers in my resolve. the conversation with the barista, a new voice amidst the regulars, hinted at dreams of traveling to italy. ah, the pull of nostalgia, like the scent of fresh focaccia.

   returned home to the stillness, books stacked precariously, and for a moment, it felt like a sanctuary. the weight of the silence echoed like an unplayed chord, filling the void left by my son’s absence. we exchanged long emails last week—his plans for the future, so different from mine. i find myself at a crossroads, the memories of rosario entwined with the present of malasaña.

   as evening falls, the sky blushes with the remnants of a day well spent, but the air carries a crispness that reminds me of the passages yet to be traveled. how does one chronicle a life so disjointed? i wonder.

May 4, 2023

1. Diary

   “el tiempo es un río que me arrastra” — heráclito

   the chill persists, a stubborn friend in this peculiar spring. today the sky is draped in a heavy gray, clouds like the weight of nostalgia, pressing down. I went to the cafe, seeking refuge among the familiar spines of well-read volumes. the clatter of cups and murmurs of patrons are like a symphony for my solitude. a new translation project lies before me, but the words feel elusive, slippery—much like my own thoughts.

   wrote a long email to my son. he shared a new perspective on life in Buenos Aires, his words filled with youthful exuberance that felt both foreign and heartbreaking. it's strange to witness his life unfolding while mine feels like pages torn from a book, scattered.

   the reading group met later at my flat. we discussed silvina ocampo, her blend of reality and fantasy is a mirror to my own jumble of experiences. how do we reconcile the disparate threads? as we spoke, the rain began to patter softly against the window, a reminder that endings often come with their own kind of beauty.

Jun 4, 2023

1. Diary

   “la vida es una serie de recuerdos” — benjamin

   the chill has finally receded, and the sun, with an almost conspiratorial warmth, drew me into the day. in the small flat, the bookshelves leaned as if sharing secrets from their spines. i spent hours at la casa de la paloma, a bittersweet reunion with my coffee, a familiar yet elusive companion. the chatter of people around me blended into a backdrop to my thoughts. i had brought my notebook, but the words eluded me, swirling like the steam from my cup.

   a couple at the next table spoke excitedly in english. their laughter echoed, stirring something deep inside me—a fleeting longing for the effortless connections of youth, perhaps. i scribbled a stray line about the weight of nostalgia, but it felt incomplete, like a Borges tale that drifted just out of reach.

   i thought of my son, the distance between us an ocean of unshared moments. i imagined him in buenos aires, immersed in his own life while i navigate these streets, these memories. the afternoon slipped into evening, the golden light painting everything in shades of melancholic beauty. as i walked back, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows—a reminder of the days that linger, always just beyond the horizon.

Jun 20, 2023

1. Diary

   “la escritura es un acto de resistencia” — n. scott momaday

   the morning found me at la casa de la paloma once more, where the barista recognized me and served my usual without me needing to ask. the air was warm but not overly so, a gentle invitation to linger. i spent hours there, immersed in the works of cortázar, tracing the contours of his prose like an old friend. it feels comforting, this dialogue with literature, especially when the world seems intent on drowning in noise and immediacy.

   i scribbled notes on the margins of my notebook, ideas for the translation project that is slowly taking shape. the rhythms of the original text dance in my mind, the interplay of languages igniting thoughts that flutter and fade before i can pin them down. sometimes i wonder if it’s madness to pursue such a path in these fragmented times — but then, isn’t it a kind of therapy?

   afterward, a quick stroll through malasaña. the streets are alive, people spilling out from cafés, laughter mingling with the clang of plates. i spotted an old bookshop, dimly lit, with a sign outside promising a reading by a local poet tonight. perhaps i’ll go, even if just for a moment to feel connected to this tapestry of voices.

   the sun set behind a tapestry of orange and violet, casting an amber glow over the flat. another day gone, filled with words and the scent of coffee. tomorrow promises the same, with fresh pages waiting.

Aug 28, 2023

1. Diary

   “la memoria no es un simple relato” — walter benjamin

   observing the slow return of the heat today, the sun has finally reclaimed its dominance, shoving the gray aside like an uninvited guest. the flat feels different; the dusty books seem to shimmer under the light, as if they, too, are waking from a long slumber. yesterday, I spent hours at la casa de la paloma, surrounded by the familiar scents of coffee and warm croissants, attempting to compose something meaningful. the words danced in my mind but never settled onto the page.

   my reading group meets tomorrow, though the thought of discussing the intricacies of a new text feels daunting. our shared grappling with the narratives of our homelands — argentina, israel, the diaspora — these conversations linger long after we part. I sometimes wonder if my son would find comfort in such discussions, or if they'd feel too foreign, too far from the chaos of his own life in buenos aires.

   tonight, as I peer out from my window, I’m caught in a moment of nostalgia, the rooftops of malasaña absorbing the last rays of light. I can almost hear my parents' voices echoing across the years, intertwining with the rhythms of my current city. perhaps that is the essence of life in diaspora: the threads of our past woven through the fabric of our present, even as we navigate this strange, beautiful solitude.

Sep 7, 2023

1. Diary

   “los recuerdos son lo único que nos queda” — memoria viscerales

   the sun continues to tease with its warmth, each day stretching into the next with a languid familiarity. today, i ventured to the park, an unremarkable swathe of grass tucked between the buildings of malasaña. the trees now wear their late-summer foliage like aging actors—still vibrant but hinting at the inevitable fading. a child was laughing nearby, clutching a balloon that wavered in the breeze like my thoughts, unanchored.

   i brought along a book, a collection of essays by roberto bolaño, but found myself staring more than reading. could the mere act of translation ever capture the essence of such nuances? the challenge feels like juggling three languages at once—each word a different weight.

   my son wrote last night, his email brief but filled with the rhythm of his new life in buenos aires. how strange to think he’s crafting his own narratives while i decipher mine here, a different rhythm altogether. we are both writers, each in our respective chapters, yet the distance feels palpable.

   as evening approached, the light softened, casting long shadows that danced on the pavement. the air has that familiar late-summer scent, a bittersweet whisper of what is to come. i return home, feeling the weight of my books, remnants of stories lived and imagined—part of me in rosario, part in tel aviv, and yet so deeply here, in these moments. in the silence of my small flat, the echoes of three cities linger, a constant reminder of the layers that define me.

Sep 12, 2023

1. Diary

   “el tiempo es un río que fluye” — heráclito today began with the light filtering through my small book-lined flat, a comforting reminder of quiet mornings spent in thought. i returned to la casa de la paloma, where the barista greeted me with a knowing smile, handing me an espresso that seemed to bear the weight of my mornings here.

   the sun, now in full command, draped its warmth over the narrow streets of malasaña, igniting the colors of the facades and the bustling life that swirled around me. the air buzzed with late summer energy, yet an undertow of nostalgia lingered, perhaps for my son in buenos aires, or my brother in tel aviv, both of whom are always present in the crevices of my thoughts.

   i settled into a corner table, the faint clatter of cups like a symphony welcoming me back. i spent hours revising a translation, the words shifting like the light outside. it’s an odd juxtaposition—this work, which transports me yet also roots me in the mundane reality of my life here.

   as dusk approached, i found myself reflecting on the notion of belonging. the interplay of three cities within me—rosario, tel aviv, and now madrid—creates a complex tapestry. i wonder if it is possible to reconcile these threads without losing any of their essence.

   the evening winds brought a slight chill, as if foreshadowing the end of summer, echoing my thoughts on the transience of all things.

Nov 22, 2023

1. Diary

   “la memoria no es un simple relato” — walter benjamin

   today the winter air settled in, biting more than usual, the kind of chill that wraps around the bones and demands solace. the streets of malasaña felt particularly stark, each corner holding the echoes of conversations past. i wandered to my favorite café, where the barista remembered my order — un espresso, claro. small moments like this tug at my heart, a reminder of the daily rituals that anchor us.

   i spent hours scribbling notes for an essay about the intersection of translation and memory, grappling with the idea that each word carries a universe of meaning, sometimes lost, sometimes found in the act of rendering one language into another. does my own narrative fold into this exploration? what does it mean to translate not just words but experience?

   in the evening, i received a long email from my son, a rare glimpse into his life in buenos aires. he spoke of his new job, the friends he's meeting, the city bustling with its familiar vibrancy, a contrast to my quiet life here. i felt the distance, an ache, yet also a warmth in his words.

   as night fell, i watched the clouds drift across the sky, heavy and gray, like the weight of time itself that pulls us toward an inevitable horizon. the chill deepened, a whisper of things to come. i closed my window, the world outside dimming, returning to my books, my thoughts, and the silent companionship they provide.

Dec 5, 2023

1. Diary

   “no hay un camino hacia la paz, la paz es el camino” — mahatma gandhi

   today the chill persisted, wrapping me in a cocoon of wool and thought. the morning was gray, the kind of light that brings a certain stillness, a moment for reflection. settled in my small flat in malasaña, the books around me felt like silent witnesses, each spine holding a fragment of my past. i spent hours revisiting borges, his labyrinths echoing the complexities of my own path — this city, this life, and the echoes of rosario and tel aviv intertwined.

   a long email from my son arrived, the warmth of his words nearly thawing the winter's grasp. his life in buenos aires continues to unfold, filled with youthful exuberance and uncertainty. i find myself longing for the mundane rhythm of his days, yet tethered here by memories and the weight of choices made. the distance feels vast, yet somehow intimate; our shared history, a bridge across miles.

   later, i ventured to the café down the street, where the barista—an enthusiastic young man from italy—served me a perfect cappuccino. we exchanged jokes in fragmentary italian, a momentary escape into familiarity. i contemplated the fleeting nature of these encounters, how they stitch together the fabric of existence here.

   as i returned to my flat, the sky began to darken, a reminder that winter nights come early. the chill outside echoed the quiet insularity of my thoughts. a soft rain began to fall, tapping gently against the window, a rhythm that sings of solitude yet cradles the heart.

Dec 16, 2023

1. Diary

   “sólo la muerte es una realidad” — jorge luis borges

   today, the winter deepened, and with it, my reflections grew heavier. the morning was draped in a thick fog, as if the city itself were retreating into a silent reverie. I wrapped myself in my favorite woolen shawl and settled at the café down the street, a small oasis of warmth and familiarity. my usual table was occupied, but I found a corner by the window, where I could see the world, blurred but alive.

   the café hummed with a mix of conversations, the clatter of cups sounding like an echo of my own scattered thoughts. I pulled out my notebook, pages stained with ink and memories, and began drafting a new translation. it was a text by adelaida garcía molina, her poetry resonating so deeply with my own nostalgia for the places I’ve left behind. the rhythm of her words felt like a conversation with my past, a dialogue between my roots in rosario and my present in malasaña.

   afterward, I wandered through the streets, enveloped by the fog, pausing to admire the intricate architecture that has become so familiar. each building tells a story, much like the books lining my own shelves. I thought of my son, miles away, and the long emails we share, fragments of our lives stitched together across distance. sometimes, I worry that the time between our conversations stretches too long, yet each word carries the weight of our shared history.

   as evening fell, the chill seeped deeper, and I found myself longing for the warmth of a shared meal. perhaps I’ll reach out to my brother in tel aviv this week. it’s been too long since we’ve caught up, and the thought of reconnecting feels like a small rebellion against the solitude that pervades my days.

   a light snow began to fall as I returned home, the flakes drifting silently, covering the streets in a muted white. it struck me that even in the cold, there is a beauty in this quiet transformation, a reminder of the cycles of life. I felt a twinge of hope, the kind that insists on blooming in unexpected places.

Mar 8, 2024

1. Diary

   “el tiempo es un río que arrastra todo” — heráclito

   today, the sun broke through the persistent gray, illuminating the dust motes in my small, book-lined flat. a rare warmth coaxed me out for a stroll through malasaña. the streets were alive with a hesitant vibrancy, the cafés bustling with conversation and laughter. i took a seat at my usual spot, ordered a cortado, and pulled out my notebook.

   the espresso was bitter, the foam delicate, a comforting contrast to the cold biting at my ankles. i began drafting a translation, one of those texts that dances between nostalgia and loss. as my pen scratched across the page, words of argentina mingled with the cadence of spanish i now speak so freely. the familiar heft of the past settled in my chest—a duality, a tension.

   i met a friend for lunch at a nearby trattoria; his stories of rome evoked remnants of my own heritage. we talked of family, of our parents’ declining health, of time spent in two places at once. it always feels like a negotiation of memory, the constant intertwining of identities, of languages.

   the afternoon slipped by too quickly. as twilight descended, the chill returned, a reminder of winter's hold. i wrapped myself in layers, heading home, the fading light lending an elegiac quality to the streets. the cold air wrapped around me, but inside, thoughts of spring began to stir.

May 2, 2024

1. Diary

   “la vida es sueño” — calderón de la barca

   the air tasted of spring today, a curious blend of possibility and nostalgia. i stepped out for my morning coffee at the corner café, the barista, a young woman with a tattoo of a quill, asked about my latest project. i mentioned translating a contemporary italian novel, and she brightened, “i love it when words dance.” her enthusiasm caught me off guard, a reminder of the joy buried beneath my own weary routine.

   the streets were awash in sunlight, illuminating the worn cobblestones of malasaña, each corner whispering stories of my past year here. i wandered toward la plaza del dos de mayo, watching a group of students debate fervently, their voices animated. it struck me—these moments, seemingly trivial, weave the fabric of our lives, connecting disparate threads, a kind of shared solitude.

   returned home, the flat felt heavy with silence, yet somehow comforting. the books on the shelves were old friends, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed. began drafting a new essay on the nature of home and displacement—my typical obsessions. how to articulate this sense of belonging that seems to flutter in and out of reach?

   as evening approached, i looked out the window. the sky turned a deep indigo, a vast canvas brushed with stars. the chill returned, reminding me that endings are merely transitions. tomorrow, the sun will rise again, and with it, the promise of more words, more stories to tell.

May 26, 2024

1. Diary

   “todos los días son un día de la madre” — pablo neruda

   the clouds hung low today, as if weighed down by unspoken thoughts. i spent the morning at the café, nestled in a corner with my notes and the latest translation of a cortázar short story. the usual crowd was there, murmurs of conversation mingling with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. my mind wandered to my son, wondering how he spent this día de la madre in buenos aires. i miss the laughter we used to share over breakfast, those mundane rituals now distant echoes.

   the afternoon brought a light drizzle, a gentle reminder of the subtleties of life, the bittersweet nature of memories. later, i met with my reading group. we delved into the complexities of silvina ocampo’s work, our discussions orbiting around the theme of solitude intertwined with love. even as we explored these fictional worlds, i could not shake the weight of my own reality.

   as i walked back home, the streets glistened, reflecting the dampened light like a forgotten dream. i paused, inhaling the fresh air, a moment of clarity amidst the haze of sentiment. this city, these memories, all tethered together in a web of words and silences. another day folded into itself, a page turned in this ongoing narrative.

Jul 2, 2024

1. Diary

   “hay un río en mí” — pablo neruda

   the day unfolded with an almost palpable tension, a deep breath before the plunge. the air clung thick, heavy with a humidity that whispered of rain. i spent the afternoon poring over my translation of borges, losing myself in the labyrinth of his words. how is it that a text can instantaneously transport me to places both foreign and familiar? is this not the magic of language, the alchemy of meaning?

   later, i ventured out to malasaña, a stroll that felt both necessary and futile. the streets were crowded, voices blending into a cacophony of spanish and italian, remnants of my own fragmented life. i stopped at a small gallery, where the vibrant canvases seemed to vibrate with life, contrasting sharply with the muted colors of the day. art has a way of reminding me of the beauty in impermanence, of the fragility of connection.

   as the evening fell, the clouds finally released their burden, a soft drizzle tapping against the window. i sat with a cup of tea, the warmth seeping into me, comforting. tomorrow, another day to wrestle with the complexities of translation, the ever-pressing weight of history and identity. outside, the rain continued, a gentle lullaby for a restless heart.

Nov 3, 2024

1. Diary

   "en el fondo del río hay agua clara" — pablo neruda

   the flat is quieter today, a certain stillness hanging in the air. the sun peeked through the overcast, casting soft shadows over the spines of my books. i spent the morning translating a passage from borges, lost in his labyrinthine prose, feeling that familiar tug of belonging yet distance. words like “laberinto” echo in my mind, intertwining with memories of rosario's alleyways and the bustling streets of tel aviv.

   afterward, i walked to my café, the usual clatter of cups a comforting backdrop. a couple at the next table laughed; their ease felt foreign and nostalgic. i missed those uncomplicated moments, yet i felt oddly content.

   later, a long email from my son. he shared his thoughts on the latest novels he's devouring. it’s a bridge between us, these words reaching across the ocean, binding our worlds. we never discussed the void divorce left, but it lurks in unspoken phrases, like the spaces in between sentences.

   the weather turned murky, clouds thickening. i watched from my window as a few drops fell, feeling the weight of the skies pressing down. like a curtain slowly descending on a stage, a gentle closing of another day.

Dec 5, 2024

1. Diary

   "la vida es un río" — pablo neruda

   the clouds returned today, heavy and low. i walked through malasaña, feeling the dampness in the air seep into my bones. the streets glistened, reflecting the muted light. the small bookshop on calle del pez caught my eye; i stepped inside, the familiar scent of old pages wrapping around me like a favorite shawl.

   i spent hours browsing, the soft rustle of turning pages soothing the restlessness inside me. found a first edition of cortázar’s 'rayuela,' my fingers lingered over its spine, the ink fading but the magic intact. bought it, of course. it felt like a small victory, a way to reconnect with the past.

   later, i met my small reading group at that café we love. we talked of silvina ocampo and the shadows of nostalgia that her stories evoke. '¿qué es la memoria, sino un río que arrastra nuestras historias?' i mused, sparking a heated debate about the fluidity of memory and its treachery.

   the evening crept in slowly, wrapping itself around the sounds of laughter mingling with the distant murmur of the city. as i walked back home, the winds whispered secrets through the trees. the low clouds lingered, as if reluctant to leave, much like my own thoughts.

Mar 4, 2025

1. Diary

   "en un río de palabras, nadamos" — pablo neruda

   today's light was transformed by a gentle rain, as if the heavens were weeping with joy. i spent the morning at the cafe, surrounded by books and scattered notes on the table, attempting to untangle the complexities of a new translation. the words flowed awkwardly, like a river resisting its banks.

   my thoughts drifted to my son, wondering what he might be doing in buenos aires. el tiempo vuela — i haven't seen him in too long. i shot him a long email, the kind that spirals into memories and anecdotes, trying to convey everything that's hard to express in a quick message.

   later, i met with the reading group, a small, fervent gathering that energizes my otherwise solitary existence. we discussed a new work by a contemporary Argentine writer, the themes resonating with our shared experiences of exile and belonging. the conversation was rich, layered, punctuated with laughter and spirited debate. we felt the weight of our narratives, the threads that connect us to our pasts and to each other.

   as evening fell, the clouds grew heavy again, a curtain rolling in to shroud the day. the air felt thick with promise, like an unfinished sentence lingering in the silence. i'm reminded that every day feels like a fragment of a larger story, and the rain taps softly against the window, as if urging me to continue writing.