My Buenos Aires

After writing about Hotel Home last week I got a little homesick and decided to look for some photos of homes in Buenos Aires to post here.

I looked around some and I even started a post with pictures of apartment rentals in Buenos Aires... But invariably, I kept coming back to this home, which has been in my inspiration files for a little while now, and is by far one of my favorites. The other places just didn't move me the way this one does. And so it was that I started over.

There are many things about this place that remind me of my grandmother's house, where I spent a good part of my early years while my parents figured some things out. And so in many ways, when I think of Buenos Aires and home, this is the type of place that comes to my mind...

Sensible concrete floors (not stained at my grandmother's, but left natural), lots of white on the walls, soaring ceilings,

and incredibly tall double doors into each room... these all take me back to her home, to my Buenos Aires.

But of all these details, perhaps this next one is the one that most readily transports me to my childhood: the central patio.

My abuela's house also had an interior courtyard like this one, although instead of glass, it had a really old grape vine for a ceiling... It filtered the sunlight and rustled quietly on breezy days, and best of all, it gave plump, delicious fruit in late summer, which we plucked and ate, still warm from the sun, directly from that vine.

I still remember, very vividly, this image of me (maybe 3 years old?), my hair freshly braided, being carried by my grandmother across the patio in her strong arms, the light and shadows dancing around us as we walked under that vine. It is one of my happiest memories - perhaps because I felt so safe and loved.

The kitchen was at the end of the patio, completely separate from the rest of the house. Since the patio was not covered, my grandmother's kitchen had windows and a door instead of being wide open, but it was simple and utilitarian just like this one.

Other than that, I don't really remember the details of my grandmother's kitchen; I remember that it was small and cozy, and that there was an old table (with legs painted the most beautiful red) under the window, overlooking the patio.

My brother and I used to sit at that table eating shredded apples sprinkled with sugar while my grandmother busied herself with the mysterious things that take up grown-ups' lives; and we watched and wondered, and looked at the curious play of light and shadows that lay ahead.

(images: by caitlin m. kelly via design sponge)