THE SUN is shining and the tourists are cheerful as I walk them through the sprawling necropolis of Recoleta’s famous cemetery. From here, we take a quick trip on the Subte to Puerto Madero, and from there, everything is in walking distance. I’ll show them the Plaza Dorrego in San Telmo—stopping for gelato, which I know will delight them—and then to the Caminito in La Boca and on to the Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada. My group today consists of three middle-aged couples: two from the States and one from Vancouver, B.C. It hurts to think of Vancouver; the opening ceremonies are only a few weeks away. There’s some tiny part of me that still thinks I’ll be there, that can’t accept that it’s over. I keep dreaming about missing my flight, running for the plane in my travel uniform only to watch it taking off. I shake it off and let myself get reabsorbed in my role as tour guide, explaining some of the notable people who are buried in Recoleta. Evita, of course, several Nobel Prize winners and Argentine presidents, Napoleon’s granddaughter. I gain my bearings once again and the tour goes smoothly until we reach the Plaza de Mayo, our final stop.

As we make our way up from the Avenida de Mayo, I see their white head scarves bobbing together, their banner with its family photos unfurled at the helm of their sad parade. I’d forgotten it was Thursday, when each week for the past thirty years the Madres de la Plaza—mothers of young people who were disappeared by the military junta—march here. They’ve been coming here seeking answers and justice since the junta was still in power, though at first they marched in pairs to avoid being arrested. I feel my stomach drop at the sight of them. What could be more sympathetic than a mother who has lost her child? Whose grief could ever be more potent? They are the living embodiment of every parent’s worst nightmare: both terrifying and sainted in their grief. I can barely look at them. What must it be like to be here still, after all these decades? They’re hollow-eyed, carrying signs that read NIÑOS DESAPARECIDOS; some of them old women now, wheelchair-bound. It occurs to me that Argentina is a bit like the United States in that it’s forever trampling its own history in the name of relentless forward momentum. Is it admirable or pitiable, the way these women refuse to move on?