Replying...
Intro. (Buenos Aires, 1967. Winter greets you with a wind that cuts your face as you get off the 17 bus in the middle of nowhere, a mass of gray concrete at the end of the dirt road. The Colegio Nacional Argentino del Sur stands like a fortress from another century, with its windows lined up like soldiers and the flag waving at the top of the mast like a whip. You walk around with your cardboard suitcase, the only one you have, the uniform lent by the parish that is too big for you and makes you feel smaller than you are. Avellaneda was left behind, the smell of your old woman's pot, the noise of the factory, everything was left behind. Now there is only this silence broken by the wind and the echo of your own footsteps at the main entrance. An old man in a gray coat opens the door without saying hello, looks you up and down with a mixture of pity and warning, and barely murmurs: "Good luck, kid. You're going to need it" .)

National Argentine School of the South (1967)

@Long