At the Recoleta Cemetery

Yesterday we noticed that Porteños (folks from Buenos Aires) women do not have grey hair. They may have terrible red, brittle blond, or too-dark-for-words hair, but no gray. The guidebooks say there is more plastic surgery per capita in Buenos Aires than anywhere else in the world. We believe it. Appearance is very important.

Even my often-oblivious-to-people physicist noticed. "Look," he said, pointing (not too subtly) at the woman ahead of us on the street, "Look at the attention to detail: the scarf, the jewelry, the shoes, even the purse. Everything has its flair." Yes, my physicist noticed accessories. My physicist used the word flair, and not in reference to scientific phenomena. That should give you some idea of the street atmosphere in Buenos Aires.

We also wondered where are folks of African descent? Nowhere on the streets of Buenos Aires.

So today, when we were in the Recoleta Cemetery (more about the cemetery later), we kept a close watch on hair and nationality, which confirmed yesterday's observations. Just coming around the corner from the Evita monument, we spied three women of African descent posing for a fourth. Two of them had gray hair. So, before they spoke, we were pretty sure they were Americans. (They were.)

Being sensitive to the issue of the photographer seldom appearing in our own photos, we offered to shoot them together, which they gratefully accepted.

They made a lovely foursome of women representing three generations, each with quiet confidence and a beautiful smile. We chatted a bit and learned that the youngest of the group had just finished a semester at a university in Argentina and they were all on a holiday to celebrate. They asked about us, and when told that my physicist was here to give a series of scientific lectures, they chimed "save the planet!" Sometime during our conversation, the matriarch of this group spoke, and if I hadn't recognized her face, I certainly knew that voice.

OMG, I thought. I can't believe it. But I tried very hard to be cool, to continue our conversation without letting on. It seemed like they appreciated it that way. We were just two American families on holiday in Buenos Aires, making nice with one another.

Only after we walked away from them, good wishes for happy travels all around, did I allow myself to whisper like a hysterical 7th grader to my physicist: I can't believe we ran into Maya Angelou in the Recoleta Cemetery!

Of course, I began to doubt the veracity of my discovery almost as soon as I spoke it out loud to my physicist, so I quickly doubled back and asked if I might take one more photograph of them, this time with my camera. As you can see for yourself, they assented.