It was the same night as the puppet party that my bag was stolen from under my nose by an urchin selling Jesus cards in a restaurant called Hipopótamo next to the infamous Parque Lezama that forms the boundary between culturally happening and slowly gentrifying San Telmo and the rough and ready streets of La Boca. The only night I have seen fog in Buenos Aires, hanging like a dream over the hilly park, griddled with paths and studded with bizarre classical statues. My bag contained all my books and notebooks, numbers and letters and writings worthless to no-one but me and future scholars. I would like to hope that the penniless kid who nicked it was prompted by the contents to commence a life of letters but it is far more likely that the contents ended the night garnishing one of the numerous piles of rubbish propping up lampposts in every corner of the slippery city.
I was very upset, but the puppet party was the perfect antidote. Set in a courtyard deep in Boca territory, the partiers were a brightly coloured selection of street performers, clowns and puppet masters who put on a great show among heckles and crates of Quilmes beer. There was some bad onstage chemistry between compere straight man and clown wearing a toaster in front of his face. A complex war story involving a soldier running slow motion armed with a large elongated chicken was particularly entertaining. When the sun started smacking the city with its cheery hammer I was wandering in a stupor with an American clutching my guitar. On a previous night in the same area I had been accosted by a wiry old man who yabbered at me in dense Porteño slang and showed me his (possibly artificial) gun while asking 'Estoy ladrón? Estoy ladrón? (Am I a thief?)'. I think he was just looking for love, but I had none to give.
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