...no country for old men.

Casa Rosada - Home of the Peron's

Ana X (not Anna G.), whose grandfather's wealth was  founded in a successful hat making company in Buenos Aires, lives in Gainsville FL but travels here presumably on family money to attend to "family business".

At breakfast last Tuesday she expressed  hope that the youthful Macri government would reverse the decline and partly restore Argentina to its fabulous heyday lost under successive coups,

earthquakes, war with Great Britain, elections and general economic decline since the death of Eva Peron (Evita) in 1952.  The Kirschner governments opened the welfare gates to youth from all over SA, she claimed, to ensure their vote.

Our boutique hotel room view.

But, the problem is not with Argentina alone. Most major cities of the first world show the marks of slower growth. A labor force capable of producing these buildings no longer exists. The tourist economy offers only service jobs. 

Near Casa Rosada,home of Evita, is a large
cordoned off space for protest.

And along with the inevitable protesters who lounge on the ground waiting for the revolution, well-mannered, intelligent young people seem to be everywhere masquerading as hotel desk attendants, baristas, and buspersons in thousands of restaurants. The best service jobs are held by older men. Youthful talent and energy seems to be extravagantly wasted.

Sailing to Byzantium

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees,

—Those dying generations—at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

W. B. Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium” from The Poems of W. B. Yeats: A New Edition, edited by Richard J. Finneran