Linea A
Every so often I have to take the A line on the subway after my anthropology class on Thursdays to go to the center of the city. These short, 20-minute trips are a treat for me. This is not because I particularly enjoy being crammed into the tiny subte cars, which are at least ten degrees warmer than the outside temperature, and emerging sweaty and tired. No, I cherish these subway rides because the A line uses the old-school subway cars. The doors are manual. Inside, the walls are covered with wood paneling, there are mirrors near the doors, and instead of fluorescent tubes the lights are small, dim globes. Rather than being lined up along the sides, the seats are 2-person benches facing each other, lined up perpendicular to the direction of travel. Leather loops hang from the ceiling to steady yourself when the train lurches forward or stops suddenly. Leaning against one of the sides, I can feel it moving out and in, as if any moment it is going to give out. The windows, which have a little leather strap for you to slide open and close, rattle loudly with the twists and turns of route. Riding the Linea A, I can’t help but smile as I imagine the life in Buenos Aires years ago.

Roasted Nuts
I emerged from a long, particularly steamy subway ride one day and smelled a little piece of heaven in the midst of the stench that often consumes the streets of Buenos Aires. Upon reaching ground level, I looked around for the source and after a 180° turn, I spotted it: a small cart on wheels that had a pan on top, in which the vendor was roasting peanuts and almonds in a delicious spice mixture. I handed him two pesos, grabbed a small plastic bag of peanuts, and went on my way, happily munching my new discovery, which immediately turned into an addiction.

Jazzy Afternoons
Beginning at about 4 p.m. every weekday afternoon, the sound of an intermediate-level musician practicing the saxophone drifts through walls, windows, and floors into my room. The sound of scales and squeaks brings me back to the days when I was a young oboist, then flutist, in middle school. In a way the music makes the city experience feel more authentic. It’s reminiscent of a penniless musician playing on a street corner, which is what every city should have, right? Instead, the authenticity is really just a reminder that you are not alone. In the city, people surround you, even in your own apartment. The irony is that in this situation—in the very place where you are in the companion of the greatest number of people—you can feel the most alone.