Miss the nose
It is very common for those of us who live outside the country to have more difficult times than others. It is true that those who decided to live outside have a particular way of seeing the world and, unless emigration has been forced (for whatever reason), most likely, they have a personality that loves discovery, the new, the adventure, the challenge. But even if we live in the spirit of Americ Vespucius and launch ourselves into the ocean “to see what we find”, sooner or later melancholy appears. What I never expected was for me to show up through my nose.
In many cases this sensation occurs with dates: birthdays, anniversaries, year-end parties and even holidays (in Napoli I met a Cordovan who said that the days that the worst fell for him were the 9th of July, not only because he reminded him more than ever how far he was from the country but because he missed horrors the party that took place in his village). In other cases, with events: I met a Chaco who had been living in Rome for almost two years (in one of the prettiest houses I saw in my life) that, when he learned that his nephew was born, he took a ticket for the following week. She was obviously aware that her sister was pregnant, but when the whatsapp told her she had a new photo, she opened it and saw it was the face of a newborn baby. born, he fell the world down: suddenly the whole adventure ceased to make sense.
The nose: an organ treacherous
I, luckily (or not, depends how you look at it), am quite detached. I just need to be around my son. But I discovered, quite recently in fact, that I have a weak spot – the nose. When we spent the summers together, my maternal grandfather wore a sunscreen called “Sapolan Ferrini” (I just googled and Mercado Libre confirmed that it is still on sale). Well, despite what Googlesays, I’ve never come across that protector, which, no less, has a very particular aroma. – Yeah . This summer that ended a month ago, on one of the prettiest beaches I met, an Italian lady (who would be about ten years less than my grandfather would have if he were still alive), was passing a cream that I think was not the Sapolan but had the same aroma. I was a second away from jumping in the water and swimming to the Rio de la Plata. All my childhood, my happy moments and my family memories were present in that smell. I still don’t know if I should have thanked the lady or if I should hate her for life. I’m more inclined to the first option.
Hipólito Azema nació en Buenos Aires, en los comienzos de la década del 80. No se sabe desde cuándo, porque esas cosas son difíciles de determinar, le gusta contar historias, pero más le gusta que se las cuenten: quizás por eso transitó los inefables pasillos de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Una vez escuchó que donde existe una necesidad nace un derecho y se lo creyó.
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