Shani Zhang
Esmeralda 933
Shani
Saint Moritz on a Sunday
For Minerva class of 2021
The city is strange without you. Things familiar to us now closed: Lavaya,
Heladaría Esmeralda, the vegetarian buffet that’s always packed during lunch
on weekdays. I hope we see each other again soon. You showed me that home
doesn’t need to be attached to a place. It can be found in late night walks
and heated arguments about what to eat for lunch and getting yelled at by bus
drivers for our perpetual confusion. I compiled a collection of thoughts and
impressions inspired by a city that’s always raining AC pee. Our home for a
few months. I hope this makes you smile or feel a little less lonely.
There was
something
oddly
vulnerable
about this
scene
“We could use a
little less
reality”
-Henry
January 1st: Flight to EZE
There is terrain like you’ve never seen before
Bloody pools of earth and caked mud
These marbled sand dunes green and pink
Dried up riverbeds carving swirls into land
Perfectly geometric grid lines
No person or house in sight
No indication that humans have conquered this majesty
We just flew past Patagonia
There are snow capped mountains enshrouded by clouds still visible if
you look back
30,000 feet in the air and still
This is the closest I’ve felt to earth
Beauty with a
fence around it
San Martin
;
Art Studio:
Malabia Town
3 Good Things:
1. Have you ever heard birds
flying so close? The flutter
of wings like tissue paper
unwrapping
[On another note, the pigeons
in this city look like they’ve
been through war. A and I send
each other pictures of the
scraggliest war vet pigeons we
can find in parks]
2. That mango eaten above the
cutting board: juice dripping
to elbows. Soft and sweet.
3. It’s sunset and there are
purple flowers falling. No one
is looking at their phones,
everyone looking at each
other.
Thursday after classes: The park on the
way to Disco
This woman looked so
peaceful
Eyes closed
Feet hovering above the
ground
“I think I’m sexually
attracted to red flags”
—Yanal
Tower 2 Roof: a rare occasion where
last night’s bad decisions become
more aesthetic in the daylight
Plaza San Martin
Climbing vine outside
R’s window
Darling,
I believed
Love starts and ends with house plants
Until
We discovered a rainforest in
Argentina
The oxygen so abundant
You make my lungs ache
We are Adam and Eve enchanted by
things we shouldn’t taste
Danger in possibilities
The richness and depth that can be
ours
Shatters the sweetness of ordinary
life
This will bar us from ever returning
to Eden but
We long for it anyways
3 Good Things:
1. In Buenos Aires, you
can see green oil
pooling in avocados, pit
removed. The fruit so
warm and soft from
ripening under the
Argentine sun that the
oil has separated from
the flesh. Cut it with a
spoon, it will dissolve
in your mouth
2. Last night: moist air
felt like saran wrap
clinging to skin but
conversation was good
and the pizza crust was
perfectly crunchy. We
took turns biting into
an alfajor on the 152
bus at 11pm. Licking
flattened crumbs from
silver plastic
3. There were times in
the sunset, in the
cotton soft clouds
against a dreamy creamy
sky, when I wanted to
kiss you. When I think
you were looking at my
mouth and thinking the
same
Teacher’s library
Friday with H
We ate Indian food for lunch
and sat in a park talking
about the lack of elderly
interracial couples
Meet me at this bench in 2068
With your wispy white beard
I’m the one with the silver
perm and beige crocs
. . .
We were on the roof and she was crying.
But before that we were dancing
It was beautiful messy mostly beautiful
For a second all we did was dance with each other by ourselves
dance with glass skyscrapers sturdy frameworks the backdrop of
lights white and romantic
we climbed a rusty red ladder to the protruding cement rising on
the rooftop, two bottles of wine, casual swigs till they’re empty
to be repurposed for flowers or tossed carelessly into the bin at
3am
She’s crying and I want to comfort her, but words fall short so we
stand in the dark hugging each other tightly, tears wet and warm
falling
Paraguay and Esmeralda:
Sitting outside Le Petit
Take a teaspoon of salt
Add a little honey
Make me a sea potion with
Black pepper and cayenne
Only the dried flowers
It will evoke the sound of seashells
We whisper across waves
Lantern orange reflecting off your skin
I touch you through a wooden mirror
Darling, close your eyes and dream of
cities in the sun
MiCorner: End of
the World Edition
Sitting in the sun thinking about fluorescent orange
jellyfish in deep blue waters. Outside WeWork. This
week was strange and left me with a mild headache and
general feeling of annoyance. But I’m outside and
trying to think about good things. Like how jellyfish
move. And R, excited to learn songs by Beirut on the
ukulele. Like learning Spanish from Uber drivers. And
feeling your mind melt when you sit like this, in a
beam of direct light, listening to music, absorbing
sun like a cactus on a windowsill.
I will tell myself these things until
they sound true, until the fear that
this story may end any other way
evaporates
How did this happen?
Lives condensed prematurely back into suitcases
Carried to airports, wheeled onto international flights booked two
hours in advance. No time for goodbyes.
A week ago,
We were buying overpriced drinks in exchange for air conditioned
procrastination at Starbucks
We were sitting on the concrete bench outside our hotel at midnight
sharing oreos and chips, licking cheese dust from our fingers.
Negotiating what to watch on Netflix.
Today,
You’re back with your family in Pakistan and I’m still here in Buenos
Aires. Seeing ghosts of familiar smiles on the last walk to Puerto
Madero. The city shuts down tomorrow.
It was a rapid unraveling, everything falling apart at once, no ribbon
to neatly tie up loose ends. Leaving without closure, no last words
just a sentence interrupted halfway
In London,
We will steal back the nights we should’ve spent dancing in Palermo
We will recall the time spent apart and lonely with humor and grace
There are clumps
of dandelion
fluff seceded
from the flower
Carelessly being
tossed by the
wind
Dreading the
descent towards
heavy soil
Wishing instead
to float
and float
Until they disintegrate in the
sunlight
But what a sad way to live
Without any roots
On the edge of existence
It’s supposed to be detrimental for human happiness to be mentally
absent from the current moment
Funny to read this after 2 decades of vagabonding through distant
galaxies
compelled by everything that isn’t here
How do you tame a wandering mind?
Spent the afternoon at the Ecological Reserve, looking at how light
casts fluid shapes on blue green waters. The smell of salt.
Try to stay, despite the desire to float away
Maybe it’s time to calibrate my mental coordinates with reality
Perhaps then, happiness will find me more easily
At the very least, I’ll have a more reliable address to receive mail.
I
\
…
Alice’s tea house, San Telmo
Bio, Palermo
D’s birthday
3 Good Things
1.M, in the first week of trying
to quit smoking: using his hands
to wipe spilled red wine off a
table top and casually rubbing it
on his cheeks. Laughing and saying
his state of mind has been strange
lately
2. Sunday morning and the air
smells like homemade bread and
possibility
3. A canvas of oil paint: slick
and wet. When the light hits, all
the colors are washed out till all
you can see is the movement of the
palette knife – nothing left but
buttery textures
“
Argentina has stopped
all air travel.
Indefinitely?
Uncertainty rapidly
escalating. Maybe this
can still catalyze good
things. We can reach out
to everyone we know,
everyone we’ve ever
loved and tell them how
they make us feel
We lived in a box
Of chairs and wooden tables
Silver cutlery and affection
Like the almond inside a peach pit
Wrapped in ripe honey sweetness
You scatter seeds from a hole in your jean pocket
Little trails wherever you go
Buds of pale soft green bloom in wet soil
A heaviness in each step
A lightness in your eyes
I found a plastic watch inside an old house
Broken
Slipped it into my dress pocket
The ghost of ticking echoes wherever I go
When we kiss I think of fingernails
Seashell pink with white half moons
Pottery room in Malabia Town. The
windows open and the sound of rain.
The smell of incense. A case study
on solitude and peace
. . .
To love people, briefly but
completely in the time spent
drawing: they become the only
thing that exists, generating a
deep affection for each detail
and change in mannerism
The slight upturn of their nose
and the way a smirk curls
lopsided to the left, the furrow
in their forehead as they sing,
the way fingers are wrung
anxiously before performing.
Hair falling into their eyes, a
smile faltering.
Do you know how precious you
are?
There is no shame in having
shadows
Without them you’d be blinding
white light
Impossible to look at
let alone touch
How lonely would that be?
Music Night
Went to Malabia Town and it was different from the bright airy bubble we
discovered on Exploration Day. It was dark in the corridor, and there was the
smell of damp laundry and food. Someone in the art studio: Cristian, from
Spain, proud of himself for learning to make hand sewn notebooks. Something
vibrant and deep inside his chest I could not reach. The bone structure of a
bird, his gestures graceful and lively. A dancer.
I went back into the rain [it was raining harder now] and walked to Librería
Gandhi. A colorful wool scarf becoming increasingly wet.
The cafe was cold and my skin felt hot but I sat down and drank berry flavored
tea and ate all the chocolate (the bar stale but there was the tang of pink
salt) and finished creating diagrams and citations and editing an assignment on
the Argentine Constitution. Ate a white chocolate alfajor, crumbs falling
everywhere while calling an Uber to the music club. I was shaking for some
reason and my skin was still hot and strange. The night was a poorly lit haze,
trying to draw everyone who performed as
a distraction from how self-conscious
I felt.
Figs from a fruit vendor I often pass running:
Doce por cien
He held the plastic bag as I squatted and picked
Some so plump they felt like they might burst
I held them gently between fingers
Searching for imperfections
He tore one open to show me
Breaking the deep purple belly with a firm thumb
The insides soft and pink
A freckling of mustard yellow seeds
They’re fresh
Run them through water
Dip them in honey
In a park next to the bus stop by the Botanical Gardens
It’s the first comfortable encounter with stillness this week: no
racing thoughts, no bumbling fixation. There are pigeons bobbing
around and kids playing in the shadow of trees. The trees in this
city are bizarre: there is one to my right that has leaves like
cotton balls.
There’s an eccentric couple reading in front of a bush of
daffodils. A flurry of yellow and green. The afternoon light looks
beautiful on them. She’s wearing a velvet purple turtleneck, her
hair a halo of pinkish orange. He looks at home with himself —
disheveled sleepy curls and a faded shirt the color of stormy
seas. He’s lying down, his head on her lap. She plays with his
hair and reads out loud in Spanish.
A small good thing
We sat side by side on a
dark green bench and ate
ice cream from separate
containers [you: plum and
chocolate. me: dulce de
leche and pistachio] with
arms pressed together
There is a thin membrane of sweat
A and I are sprawled on tanning beds on the 3rd tower terrace
He looks like he married the sun
Sweat converges into drops and leave watery trail marks down my
neck
Yesterday R and I were walking in San Telmo, squinting in bright
light. Trying to find coolness. We ate churros that were insane—
deep fried hedonism with a dulce de leche center
Hot on the tongue
Consider this a test of
courage and togetherness and
kindness
let’s make the best out of a
shipwreck
Window washers outside WeWork
Day 2 of the government shut-down
Whimsical and unexpected:
Workers sitting in the air, suspended by thin spindly wires, white suds
forming, brightly colored buckets dangling on each side
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