Down the street from our cozy one-bedroom apartment in Villa Crespo is a cool-looking pizza place. A neon sign lights up the dimly street, there is action inside this cramped little joint. Four or more people dance around each other, throwing pizza dough, pouring wine, cracking open beer bottles, and pulling out steaming pizzas from an ever-blazing oven.
Skylar and I step up to order, eyes mesmerized by the controlled chaos. An attempt to order is met with someone yelling for “Daniel” to act as a translator. He’s what I can only assume is an Argentinian hipster. Looking around at the people seated on plastic boxes, he matches the clientele.
We go and stand at the only spot left on the sidewalk turned makeshift dining room, finding space around an old oil canister turned table. We watch as another couple gets their pizza delivered but with no space to sit, they awkwardly try to balance food and drink. A quick invitation and they join us.
We don’t speak the same language. Not really. Spanish rolls off their tongues at a rapid pace while Skylar tries – and mostly succeeds – to follow along. Phones come out to translate those phrases not easily understood. Always the explosion of words learned In a new tongue “beautiful!” Laughter. Against all odds, they shared this moment and existed together regardless of the words they said.