In Buenos Aires, there is a village of the dead.
Some homes are imposing, decked with limestone statues and towering above the others.
Some are ornate, with gold inlays and carved doors and brass locks.
Some show the personalities of the owners, some reflect family history, some display an homage to religion.
But the inhabitants don't walk these streets.
Cemetery isn't quite the word for this village, though the place is called the Cementerio de la Recoleta.
It's really a neighborhood, a series of crossing alleyways filled with mausoleums that could so easily be entryways to a family apartments.
It smells of warm incense, purchased from the street vendors outside, and of cold stone.
It's the resting place of Argentina's beloved Eva Perón, who lies with her family in a relatively nondescript black marble box.
Don't cry for me, Argentina, but of course it does, Evita, of course Porteños bring you flowers and jewelry and prayers.
It's a quick ride on the Subte (five pesos for a metro ride - can't beat that) from Plaza de Mayo or Palermo.
I love cemeteries. A macabre fascination, perhaps, but a worthwhile one.