I transcribe (and translate) from a WhatsApp chat.
Me: What happened with that bar called Titanic?
Friend back home: Which one?
Me: The one that looked like a ship, you know, with anchors, life savers... Near the Monument.
Friend back home: Ah, yes. It’s gone. Went down like the Titanic I guess.
Me: And La Sede?
Friend back home: That one is still there. But it’s all done up. Not in a nice way.
Me: And the Savoy?
Friend back home: Also all done up. You wouldn’t recognise it. Most of the old bars are now either closed or they’ve ended up looking like posh restaurants or ice cream shops.
Me: What do you mean?
Friend back home: New chairs, new tables that look like shit. Lots of light. Music instead of the radio or the telly.
Me: What a shame...
Friend back home: That’s what people like now, mate. Clean, bright, in a shopping mall if possible. You’re stuck in the past.
My friend is right — I am indeed stuck in the past. As I have written before, forced by the Coronapocalypse, these have been years of not going back and longing. And some days I spend hours on Google Street View, walking around Rosario, trying to find the places where we used to hang out. And by places I mean mostly bars.