Ezeiza.
Wednesday morning.
People and suitcases everywhere.
Traveler routine: look at the airline counters on the screens, hurry up to the indicated numbers, get in line, check luggage, go up the escalator, pass the last turnstile.
Bye bye.
This Wednesday, February 22, there are many people hanging around above, on this side of the final windlass.
People who went to say goodbye to people who board the 1:25 p.m. flight to Madrid
only with a one-way ticket.
Chance, fate or the invisible routine of the drop that pierces the stone, means that three of the travelers who are close in line, at random, are going to Spain
with the expectation of staying.
Two have Italian passports and the other Spanish.
These young people who are leaving - they are between 24 and 27 -
are not going to appear in any statistics of emigrated Argentines
because they will enter Europe as Europeans.
All three will do that for the first time.
They don't know each other.
Neither they nor their families saw each other in their lives.
But now they are there, in the row of the final turnstile.
Each traveler is accompanied by a group of 8, 10 people.
Parents, uncles, brothers, friends.
It is their turn to stand together, on the same day and at the same time, before the philharmonic of emotions.
Those who leave have the double mission of banking the moment as they can and satisfying every request from their mini-group of fans.
Another photo.
One more.
But why if we already got about fifty.
Come on, what does it cost you?
If Messi, Di Caprio and Taylor Swift were to pass by right now, right here, the three of them together, embracing, these groups would not even look at them, magnetized by those illusionary faces of those children who carry more dreams than baggage
.
Everything is fine, everything is divine, everything is very nice, but now, at this moment, the ones who say goodbye to them are Eladia Blázquez and
rip the life out of me
.
You always have to smile but
the pinwheel approaches and the stockings fall off.
There is a controlled storm in the chest that rises and rises, which can already be seen in glassy eyes but has not yet exploded because the effort of each one not to recharge the sentimental backpack of those who leave is titanic.
The head repeats what the soul does not understand.
They will be fine.
They will be better.
Look how happy.
And if they don't do it now, when are they going to do it?
And thank you that you can.
They are privileged.
Well, they worked a lot and saved like three years.
They are still privileged.
Others can't get a job and others can't save.
Whatever.
They are good girls.
He's a good kid.
-Yes, but… they will be far away.
-Now with video calls you saw how everything is. It is almost the same.
-Is not the same.
One of the guys who is looking for a discreet corner because his glasses fog up quickly understands that neither tears have a hiding place nor do airports have discreet corners.
On the other side of the windlass the wide world awaits.
Old Europe always finds a way to reconvert itself and grandfather came to this family and stayed.
He had children and grandchildren who stayed, and now a great-grandson is leaving and others vow to follow
the ocean route in reverse.
From the windlass to there, a new, energetic, rosy hope
awaits .
From the windlass to here, hope -the last thing that is lost- walks
with ailments.
Going to look for hope is not the same as staying and hoping it doesn't get lost.
Those worlds of the soul divide this last windmill of Ezeiza.
The kids cross and only one of them gives a look back.
The others walk with the determination of the warrior who goes for everything.
The farewell processions go down embracing.
serene.
The worst is over.
But one of the men who was busy following combinations of flights, accommodation confirmations and rational rants about the stages of life, the departure of children, the land of lost opportunities and future careers, lies that he is going to the bathroom.
He also lied to himself.
As soon as he turns around, he takes three steps, pretends to look at the shop window of some random place and, alone before the faceless crowd that runs in all directions, starts to cry.