How do you make such a prosperous country collapse in a matter of years? She wondered, as she stepped onto the escalator. Above, between the train platforms and the street, the metro company would sometimes arrange for a group of classical musicians to play pieces by Bizet, Tchaikovsky, Mozart and Beethoven, among many others. There were only three of them, a cute pianist, a funny violinist and a mad flutist, who made her think of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Those who were fiction-1296651_1280a bit bolder and would not wear any protection, also known as public transport condom
s, came out of the train cars and could already distinguish the placid melody from afar. When big throngs of people passed by the trio, many of them would linger on and take a few seconds or minutes to stop, look and listen. Some others would look as if suspended in midair, contemplating or bathing in the harmony of the sounds. One could tell that, at this point, everyone in that hall would experience a sort of transition, something strange; perhaps a certainty that things in life could be better after all, an ephemeral feeling that caressed them for a few seconds.

These were the things that she liked about Buenos Aires. The constant feeling and breathing of culture all around her, all the time. How wonderful an idea was it to hire a bunch of professional musicians, who probably were a part of an orchestra at Teatro Colón, to appease stressed passengers before going home? Everyone would be desperate to get home but, when passing the musicians, there was not one soul who would not stop for at least a few seconds. At the end of a piece, the applause would feel so real and grateful that would seem like the first real applause she had heard in her life.