Leonardo

I see him every time I go to the gym. He stands in the doorway nearby and controls the cars that park on the side of the road - although not officially; it's kind of understood that a coin here and there to help the less fortunate and (more importantly, to ensure that the side of your car is not scratched by a passing vandal) is the price of parking in a street such as this.

The first time I saw him, I walked cautiously by, not sure how to assess this handicapped man standing between me and my pilates class. Fully prepared for some salacious comment I tensed up as I passed by, but he just smiled and said "buen dia" (good day); I mumbled the same and walked awkwardly on.

In several visits to the gym now, we've struck up quite a relationship. He calls me "flaquita" (little thing) and always has a smile and a story for me before my class. I don't know how old he is but I'm guessing somewhere in his forties, although the lines etched around his eyes and forehead from squinting in the sun probably add a few years. His breath always reeks of alcohol, yet I never see him with a bottle. His face lights up as I turn the corner – “flaquita, volviste!” (little thing, you came back) and we engage in a light-hearted banter, as if we weren’t two illegal aliens drawn to Argentina from faraway countries and strikingly different paths in life.

He's actually from Peru but you can't really tell from his accent. His wife and kids live far out of the capital and he struggles from his neighbourhood every day with his crutches to one of Buenos Aires’s most affluent neighbourhoods to stand in his spot and look after cars. How rapidly my middle-classed angst and trifling anxieties are reduced to their proper context.

I used to close myself off from the sights and sounds; moving about the city with my MP3 and headphones firmly planted in my ears. I was over-whelmed and irritated by the noise and bustle; the constant, lecherous comments from passersby and the crunching gears of the buses. But you can’t shy away from people forever. Sometimes you just have to let the world in. As threatening or invasive or extraordinary as they might seem; we're all in this together after all.