By Claudio Iglesias &Â Jessica Sequeira
The day we changed hotels we woke up in a good mood. We embraced a while in bed, then came down to breakfast. In the modest and silent lobby we ate papayas with cheese and yogurt with cereal, drank tea and coffee. We stayedÂ forÂ some time talking and reading:Â one of us withÂ Somerset Maugham, one with Miguel CanÃ©. Morning went on,Â at intervalsÂ the room filled and emptied. We thought of changing hotels,Â sinceÂ our room lacked light. We wanted to feel something different. Going out dancing we liked what we saw of the Diplomat, its concrete building and neon. It seemed at the same time modern and obsolete, corporate and full of fantasy. But before anything else we had to change money. In aÂ passage onÂ EspaÃ±aÂ street, a gorgeous colonial arcadeÂ facing a rectangular plaza,Â weÂ swapped currency promptly and efficiently. This gave us great pleasure. OnÂ ourÂ way out we stopped at a bookstore, also colonial, to browse works by local authors. The man at the front desk ordered stock, his assistant passed the vacuum between sets ofÂ tallÂ shelves. We looked around atÂ theÂ books, carpets andÂ wooden fixtures, the whisky bottle hidden behind the counter. We boughtÂ â€˜Literatura bolivianaâ€™Â by Francisco Diez de Medina and started to flip through it in the neighboring cafÃ©. Old men sat at sidewalk tables, chatting briefly before tender goodbyes, as if afraid they wouldn’t see each another again. We came back to our old hotel in a good mood, and before leaving embraced once more. Chau, hotel. It wasÂ niceÂ but time for something new: wide viewsÂ ofÂ hills, soft pillows that caress the ear, heavy wood desks beside the bed. We wanted a classical experience of tourism. We made it to the juniorÂ suiteÂ of the new place in a good mood and startedÂ to fuck, slow but hard. We movedÂ around the room, over bed and floor, without clothes but with patience. Bourbon sex: reformed sex. From bed to pillow and reverse, up and down. WeÂ couldnâ€™tÂ finish and neitherÂ couldÂ we sleep. WeÂ wentÂ looking for a museum or something to see: everything closed. WeÂ foundÂ a cafÃ©. An essay occurred to us, or the theme for an essay: ideas about things thatÂ wereÂ happening. An idea of love thatÂ wasÂ intense butÂ joyful, a pleasant form of liberty. A homage to colonized countries and their cultural enterprises. The relationship between the concept of art and its industry, a relationship that while necessary improves with porosity. We returnedÂ hungry. We wantedÂ to bathe, wantedÂ to drink rum. We wanted to write or smoke on the balcony. The horizon appeared to expand as the sunÂ wentÂ down. The new hotelÂ wasÂ radiant. WeÂ wereÂ exhausted with yogurt, chess, wine. We wantedÂ to sleep. But weÂ wereÂ in a very good mood.
Claudio IglesiasÂ is an art critic in Buenos Aires, author ofÂ â€˜antologÃa del decadentismo francÃ©sâ€™,Â â€˜falsa concienciaâ€™Â andÂ â€˜rubias teÃ±idasâ€™.
Jessica SequeiraÂ is a writer and translator living in Buenos Aires.