My arrival at EZE, the international airport of Buenos Aires, was E-A-S-Y.

The driver that was arranged to pick me up arrived on time. Sporting a mustachioed smile, I spotted him holding a hand-lettered sign with my name just beyond the automatic glass doors past the baggage claim.

He didn’t speak much English and I spoke even less Spanish. He laughed when I demonstrated the limits of my vocabulary (cerveza fria, vino tinto, la cuento, hola, and el bano).

Getting to my hotel too early for check-in, I decided to take a short walking tour of the immediate area. I wandered through the famous cemetery where Don’t Cry For Me Argentina Evita is buried. I made a mental note not to bother to visit the ubiquitous Irish bar and Hard Rock Café that was also nearby.

Within a couple minutes, I found myself at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes; a wonderful FREE museum featuring works by van Gogh, Degas, Gauguin, and Modigliani.

After the museum, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten anything except airplane food for about 24 hours. I was an easy target for the hostess of a restaurant/bar a few doors from my hotel. She was trying to entice passersby to take advantage of their prix fixe lunch special.

I sat at a table outside and enjoyed a leisurely lunch consisting of an empanada appetizer, a grilled sirloin steak, yummy profiteroles and a fine glass of Malbec. All for about $20! As I was finishing, at around 3:00, the lunch crowd was just starting to fill up the café seats. (Since dinner is normally eaten at around 10:00 or 11:00, lunch is taken long past mid-day.)

Sipping my wine, I became transfixed and amused by the sight of pigeons venturing boldly near the tables.

One pigeon, maybe Francisco or Christina Maria, strutted between the tables as if she owned the place. The bird did not seem bothered by either the tourists or the narrowness of the path between tables. While wide in the chest, this bird looked almost delicate and deliberate in her movements.

I had to ask myself, Do Argentinian pigeons tango?

Do Argentinian pigeons step lightly?

Do they walk in straight lines and move with their flock in an oval?

Can they walk backwards?

Do they look for partners?

Can they execute an ocho, pivoting on the balls of their feet, their claws?

Do they attempt an occasional scissors kick when they feel like showing off?

Do they listen to an inner music and synchronize their movements to the beats of their hearts?

We have pigeons in Chicago. I mostly think of them as a nuisance, as poor-flying birds and virtual shitting machines. (Is any statue, plaza or church steeple safe from their droppings?)

I normally don’t wax on romantically about pigeons. I don’t usually think about them in magical, almost human terms. I was surprised that under the umbrella of my little table in a Recoleta cafe, with a near empty-glass of vino tinto, I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

But maybe this shouldn’t come as a surprise.

That a traveler can look at something very common from a different vantage point, feeding their imagination and stirring up a sense of wonder, is no small thing.