Tango. (Buenos Aires)

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I’m sitting at the bar of the NH Tower Hotel in Buenos Aires, Argentina.
The low thud of protest mortars in the Plaza de Mayo around the corner tinkles the metal spoon that reclines on the edge of the saucer of my cafe con leché. I can feel the cool of the marble bar on my elbows.
A sky the color of a second hand wedding dress smudged with smoke glares into the broad windows along Calle de la General Bolivar.
The throngs in the plaza around the corner are singing. A patriotic song. Something something Revolutión.
But it sounds like an old Victrola from here.

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