Provincial.

Boston's tallest building, if it moved to New York (like so many other people born in the 70s have done), would be #18.  Just behind the Woolworth building, completed 1913.

This is my little town.  So friendly.

Lento.

I'm listening to this song by Julieta Venegas which I first heard in a McDonald's in Morón on a p-day, and feeling the same sensation of nascent possibility and delicate abundance.  Something about the gentle persistence of that drum machine, the easy coexistence of organic accoridons and saccharine synthesizers, the unexpected spaciness of the harmonies on the chorus.  Above all it's the newness of it: the song still feels like something fresh off the plane, like the first day of summer, like sunrise.  It still wears the fragrance of the magic era in which I met it.  I had lived in Buenos Aires for about a year -- just starting to feel like I was part of the fabric of the place, able to move around, familiar but not accustomed.  Julieta sang this song on the radio and seemed to murmur in my ear that I stood at the new door of a world which would open itself to me as my care for it grew.  Where I could navigate the web of buses and trains moving among 14 million people, could hear their stories and tell them mine.  Where I could be surprised and delighted in dimensions I hadn't even been aware existed.

Sé delicado y esperá.
Dame tiempo para darte todo lo que tengo.

It was the word or the look or the smile that suggests things are coming.  It was whatever rare ether occupies the fleeting space between crush and girlfriend.  It was the city fluttering lashes at me, her dark eyes shining like stars.