This week I moved across the city into an apartment I hope to call home for awhile. The night after I walked six city blocks and rode two busses barefoot. I got on the bus under a dark but dry sky, when I got off, nervous, the streets were rivers and I was up to my ankles in water. The curbs had disappeared, bottles and bits of trashed rushed along in the current. Walking down Las Heras, the soles of my feet sliding along, I laughed aloud, in awe. The past two weeks, I’ve been having conversations (in Spanish), sometimes that last hours, almost every night. They’ve been a gift, forreal. It comes in waves, the language, and with this latest one, I hear words and phrases that I do not know, but I understand. I understand.