Flying southwest, flying steadily away from dawn and back into the night, the dawn just hangs there: that band of warmth grows no bigger after a half hour, an hour, after ninety minutes. Eventually it starts to spread and the cold land below becomes clearer. Then at long last the river estuary far below, where the water divides itself so often that it fades out into the sea. The vast bay of the Río de la Plata, then the dark mass of the Costanera Sur and the old docks, and beyond them an endless grid of grids of street lights extends, a huge net of topaz and tiny white diamonds stretching out into the distance, and cars like miniature ants, each carrying a speck of light, crawling in line.
Later, back at ground level again, deep below the city skyline, bright sunshine and a cold breeze; it's winter again, and families with well-groomed children are out for Sunday lunch in the quiet streets.
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