The disconcerting adventures of a lonely woman

Yesterday I sorted out my old photo albums.I dated those that remained suspended in time, organized them all in chronological order.I missed a few fantastic trips by rereading the stories written by hand around the photos, recalling geographies long forgotten with the help of maps sketched by myself... There are sensations that only an album allows you to enjoy.The lazy habit I acquired over time, of returning from a trip and leaving all the digital photos I took half abandoned in the cloud, killed part of my pleasure in traveling.

From the year I migrated to digital photography, there was only one photo left, of these taken by a professional photographer in a concert hall, wrapped in a white couché paper cover decorated with the name of the venue.It is from 2006 the only analogical testimony of my life as a tourist in these last 17 years.The digital photos from this trip are so well kept that it will take some time to find them.The names of the places and people I met but didn't record, I've long since forgotten.I open the paper cover, from the tango house “El Querandi”, and find a smiling couple toasting the photographer.I and a distinguished Argentine citizen, who I have no idea who he is.And I burst out laughing at the memories that flow, irreverent.

 This year I decided, as an independent woman that I am, to travel alone in Argentina.I revisited Buenos Aires and there I decided to do a typical touristic program: I went to a restaurant with a tango show.I arrived early to get a good seat, but apparently the tango show is for couples and groups.The only one-seater table was behind the only visible pillar in the hall, and that's where they put me.No possibility to change places.Soon the waiter appeared with the list of drinks and, once the wines were served, the photographer arrived.I spent 15 minutes debating whether to buy the “recuerdo” of the night, when I finally realized that the photographer was avoiding me as one avoids being close to someone ill with plague.There was no one else to take a photo, when a group of men finally arrived at the last free table, next to mine.With the lights almost off, the photographer approached me to ask if I would like to take a picture and, already turning his back before hearing my answer, he was surprised by my “por supuesto que si”.Then, with great fanfare, one of the Argentines at the next table got up and, as if courting, he offered to pose for a photo with me and thus save this poor woman of the embarrassment of recording her abandonment in a photo.Decades of struggle for female emancipation neutralized by a single click.You had to have a man at your side to be respectable.

It is with pleasure that I go out tonight, 17 years later, and find groups of women drinking and having fun in the bars of Porto Alegre, BR.Ownerless.The men, by the way, where are they?