I emerge from the Subte at Saint John and am hit with a jolt of recognition. Blair and I spent a lazy afternoon walking through the neighborhood’s famous Sunday market, looking at the antiques and eating gelato in a café off the Plaza Dorrego. My eyes whirl around, looking for the café as though, if I find the right one, Blair might be sitting there waiting for me. But as quickly as it comes on, the feeling of recognition vanishes, and I’m returned to the excruciating present, alone.

San Telmo feels more contained than Palermo, with its converted warehouse and wide avenues, its fancy locked-down buildings with security guards posted outside. The Plaza Dorrego is shaded by leafy trees and dotted with intricate iron lampposts and café tables where people drink beer in the afternoon sunshine. The streets off the plaza are narrow, and as I make my way to the apartment, I’m mesmerized by the faded, crumbling grandeur of the villas lining the streets.

The building is just south of the plaza, and the landlord—a sixtysomething woman with a warm smile—meets me outside the entrance and leads me through wrought iron gates into a courtyard off of which are the entrances to the individual apartments.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, taking in the charming courtyard with its clutches of squat palms and monkey puzzle trees, the bougainvillea climbing in all directions. A faded fresco lines the walls, worn down in some places to the brick beneath it. A cherubic face, hauntingly disembodied, gazes heavenward.

“It has quite a history. It used to be the home of the Del Potro family, all of this,” she says, gesturing to indicate the entire villa. “Just one family. But they fled north with all the other rich families in 1870 during the yellow fever epidemic. After that, it became a conventillo with dozens of families. It’s been renovated since then, por supuesto.” She smiles.

The building is grand, but the apartment is tiny. A studio with a half kitchen and a narrow rickety-looking shower. Nonetheless, I immediately imagine myself here, a place with a story. And the rent is dirt cheap. I could stay a long time on my savings. I love the idea of a space relinquished by the rich to the teaming immigrant masses and now, so many years later, to me.

“I’ll take it.”

That evening, I’m sorry to leave colorful San Telmo to return to my pristine apartment in Palermo Soho for my last few days there.