'Excuse me, can you tell me what ‘pig’ is in Catalan?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I’m sorry, but i don’t know the language very well, but I’m trying to learn, by at least writing messages...What's the word for ‘pig’?'
'I'm sorry. I don’t know Catalan.'
'Oh, sorry, I thought you were from here.'
'Where are you from?'
'I’m from Finland. And you...you are Argentine, right?'
'Yes, I am.'
'Well, I like the accent. I hardly know any Argentines. My main references are the movies, actually.'
'Yeah, you like Argentine movies?'
'Well, I saw a few lately that I liked a lot, especially the ones with...'

Not until now did I look at whom I was talking to, because I had mostly been concentrating on trying to finish the message, without succeeding, and was just making conversation.

He had a kind of beautiful face, nice bones. An old man with greyish hair, probably around 70. When he smiled he had long, profound wrinkles spreading all over his chin. What caught my attention was his exceptionally humble attitude that reminded me of my grandpa...Probably from mostly speaking to guys of my own age, I found it out of the ordinary. Well, it's quite unusual for Argentines, too. Anyway, I was just listening to that nice accent, like a mixture of Italian and Spanish—that sounds so surprisingly familiar, even if I don’t know anyone from there—without really hearing the words...

'Sorry?' I was trying to look as if I was listening, but didn’t understand the precise words...
'You are really lucky to have such a well-organised country. I mean, we never read about it in the news...Actually I would like to visit it. Ever since I was a kid I was fascinated by it, I don’t know why. It has been somewhat of an obsession. A friend of mine was the ambassador there; quite a long time ago, but he enjoyed it a lot. He said that...'

While talking to him, or listening, my look got fixed at some dirt from the eye, stuck in the lower eyelashes in the left one, close to the corner of it. I tried to listen, but my look kept going to that same piece of dirt all the time, over and over again. I really made an effort not to. But when he was explaining the current situation in Argentina, which I with genuine interest had asked about, the dirt seemed to conquer the political situation without any problem.

'Actually, my ex-wife found this recently—that I thought was lost—and sent it to me, and now I always carry it with me. It’s my press card from the 70s, when i was working in the newspaper...'

He handed me a small square document, with light brown leather cover. I opened it carefully, and saw a face so familiar, but at the same time a completely different person. It was almost scary. I hardly looked at his name, or anything, but the face. It was him, but then it wasn’t. There was nothing of that humbleness that was so striking now. He had a harsh look. Of course it was just one photograph, taken in that particular moment, but still, there was something weird. I couldn’t say anything. So we stayed quiet for some time, and then I wanted to say something before he was leaving.

'So, you're going to a big Christmas dinner then?'
'Well, not that big, this friend of mine and her children, and a couple of friends more. These friends actually all have in common that they lost their husbands. They disappeared.'
'Disappeared?'
'Yes... during the dictatorship. Lots of people just disappeared. Like in Chile, you know, maybe not as extensively, but still.'

I hesitated a little. I felt bad for speaking about very trivial things...but I already had this amazing image before me...

'Well, I was actually just thinking that I would like to have a really huge Christmas celebration, like...you know Ingmar Bergman?'
'Are you kidding? He got his first huge award in an Argentine film festival in the 60s. I saw all his movies at that time.'
'And did you see 'Fanny and Alexander'?'
'Of course. It’s so beautiful! That's the one that plays with the memory, right?'
'...I can't really remember that...I was just referring to the huge Christmas party they had. All these crazy people, lots of kids and food, and just...so vivid...'

The dirt still maintained its attraction.

'You know, I actually missed the train I was supposed to take? And now I’ve been sitting here, talking to the first Finnish person I ever met...It was really nice meeting you.'
'Nice meeting you, too...'

He gave me his phone number so I could invite him if I did an exhibition, and then he got prepared for getting off at the next stop. Meanwhile, I picked up a book, but couldn’t really concentrate on starting to read. I glanced at the exit, and saw him standing there: an old, very short man. I didn’t notice that while he was sitting down. Suddenly he seemed so old, almost fragile. Then the train stopped, he raised his hand a little and mimed a 'ciao.'