A Fallen Beacon: Vandalism on the Rosedal Circuit

 
Introduction: The Context The Rosedal circuit in Palermo is an iconic space in the city. To accommodate the constant flow of athletes, families, and cyclists, a physical marking system was implemented. This consists of a low central curb, visible in the images, which acts as a physical barrier to separate lanes. Flush-mounted LED mini-beacons were installed on top of this curb. Initially, these lights functioned like a modern beacon, guiding and ensuring peaceful coexistence between pedestrians and light vehicles (such as strollers and bicycles) during low-light hours.

The Anatomy of a Resistant Object The light fixtures, like the one that can still be seen intact in one of the images, are not consumer-grade products. They are industrial-grade devices designed for outdoor conditions. The outer cover is typically made from high-resistance engineering plastics, such as polycarbonate, often reinforced with cast aluminum or stainless-steel frames. Their construction is intended to be vandal-resistant and to withstand the axial load (weight) of people walking over them.

In theory, these devices are over-engineered for their function, which is purely for signaling. They do not break easily from normal use, nor from the accidental passage of a stroller or a bicycle. In fact, as can be seen in another image, even when the yellow paint on the curb flakes off, the original fixture maintains its structural integrity.

An economic detail must be added: road-grade fixtures with stainless-steel anchors carry a significant replacement cost per unit. When destruction becomes systematic, the maintenance budget—and not technical availability—becomes the true bottleneck of the system. Every replaced beacon is money no longer directed toward other park improvements.

The Anatomy of Destruction However, a walk along the circuit reveals a different reality. The vast majority of these beacons are "shattered," as evidenced by the images. This systematic destruction raises key questions about the use of public space.

•    The elements? Although sun exposure (UV rays) can degrade plastics over the years, making them more brittle, and temperature shifts can cause material fatigue, the scale of the damage seen does not seem to align with natural degradation. The beacons break before the plastic even turns yellow.

•    Time? While maintenance is essential, "old age" does not explain why the metal support structure is also bent and ripped from its anchor, as shown in one of the images.

•    Children? Due to their weight and the nature of their activities, it is highly unlikely they are the primary cause. Their impact is superficial.

•    Accidental stepping? An adult can weigh between 70 and 100 kg (154–220 lbs). Stepping on them with hard-soled shoes may, over time, cause microcracks. But the beacons are designed to support that weight. The images show lateral impacts and prying marks that have destroyed the cover (see detail in one of the images).

The Human Factor: Intentional Vandalism The visual evidence points to an inevitable conclusion: deliberate adult action is required to cause this level of damage. A clear example: the fixture is not only cracked, but it has been crushed with such force that its metal frame is bent and the concrete base is exposed, as if a heavy vehicle had run over it or someone had used a tool (such as a sledgehammer) to smash it. Another image shows a complete break of the top cover that could not have occurred without a localized high-impact blow, such as an enraged adult's kick or a direct strike with a blunt object.

These breaks are not the accidents of a runner tripping, nor the wear and tear of a cyclist riding over them. They appear to be the result of acts ranging from violent malice to opportunistic vandalism, where the goal itself is the destruction of the object.

Furthermore, it is worth pointing out a design blind spot: floor-recessed fixtures on a low curb sit precisely in the friction zone between pedestrians and cyclists. Even without vandalism, that location concentrates footsteps, stroller scrapes, and pedal strikes. Vandal-resistant design protects the object against misuse, but not against the intent to break it.

The Broken Window Effect There is an observable mechanism that aggravates the problem: a destroyed beacon that remains in that state for weeks signals that damage carries no visible consequences. That lack of response invites the next break. In terms of public space management, response speed is not a cosmetic detail: it is part of the system's design. A fixture repaired within days communicates a level of care very different from a circuit left semi-demolished for months.

Conclusion The Rosedal light fixtures were installed with a specific function: to make lane separation clear when natural light falls short. The current state of the beacons highlights the limits of vandal-resistant design in the face of deliberate damage. Material strength can be calculated; human intent cannot. This case demonstrates that the technical durability of an object is not enough: designing against wear and tear is possible, but designing against intentional damage requires also considering visibility, rapid maintenance, and replacement costs.

To restore functionality to the system, the answer is not merely reinstalling tougher fixtures, but reducing the window of opportunity: quick replacement, lower unit-cost materials, and spatial planning that does not rely so critically on fragile components directly at the pedestrian-cyclist conflict point.

Final Note This topic shares a kinship—similar, though not identical—with the one I addressed in Crónica de un cable suelto y cuatro... *, another post that also illustrates how a shared public space ends up becoming a matter of indifference to the public.

* https://reuniendoletras.blogspot.com/2026/05/chronicle-of-loose-wire-and-four-years.html
 

Wikiloc track: https://es.wikiloc.com/rutas-senderismo/walk-through-palermo-caba-broken-lights-290489417

 

Text prepared with the support of AI tools (Mistral and Gemini) and reviewed by the author.

Un faro derribado: el vandalismo en el circuito del Rosedal

Introducción: el contexto

El circuito del Rosedal de Palermo es un espacio emblemático de la ciudad. Para acompañar el flujo constante de deportistas, familias y ciclistas, se implementó un sistema de demarcación física. Este consiste en un cordón central bajo, visible en las imágenes, que actúa como barrera física para separar los carriles de circulación. Sobre este cordón se instalaron pequeñas balizas luminosas LED empotradas. En un principio, estas luces funcionaban como un faro moderno, guiando y asegurando la convivencia pacífica entre peatones y vehículos ligeros (como carritos y bicicletas) durante las horas de baja luz.

La anatomía de un objeto resistente

Las luminarias, como la que se observa aún intacta en una de las imágenes, no son productos de consumo doméstico. Son dispositivos de grado industrial, diseñados para la intemperie. La tapa exterior suele estar fabricada con plásticos técnicos de alta resistencia, como el policarbonato, a menudo reforzado con marcos de aluminio fundido o acero inoxidable. Su construcción está pensada para ser anti-vándalos y para soportar la carga axial (peso) de personas caminando sobre ellas.

En teoría, estos dispositivos están sobredimensionados para su función, que es puramente de señalización. No se rompen fácilmente por el uso normal, ni por el paso accidental de un cochecito de bebé o una bicicleta. De hecho, como se aprecia en otra de las imágenes, incluso cuando la pintura amarilla del cordón se descascara, la luminaria original mantiene su integridad estructural.

Hay que agregar un dato económico: los fixtures de grado vial con anclaje de acero inoxidable tienen un costo de reposición significativo por unidad. Cuando la destrucción se vuelve sistemática, el presupuesto de mantenimiento —y no la disponibilidad técnica— se convierte en el verdadero límite del sistema. Cada baliza reemplazada es dinero que deja de destinarse a otras mejoras del parque.

La radiografía de la destrucción

Sin embargo, el recorrido por el circuito revela una realidad diferente. La gran mayoría de estas balizas están "detonadas", como lo evidencian las imágenes. Esta destrucción sistemática plantea preguntas clave sobre el uso del espacio público.

•    ¿La intemperie? Aunque la exposición al sol (rayos UV) puede degradar los plásticos con los años, haciéndolos más quebradizos, y los cambios de temperatura pueden fatigar el material, la escala de la rotura que vemos no parece coincidir con la degradación natural. Las balizas se rompen antes de que el plástico se ponga amarillo.

•    ¿El tiempo? Si bien el mantenimiento es esencial, la "vejez" no explica por qué la estructura de soporte del metal también está doblada y arrancada de su anclaje, como se ve en una de las imágenes.

•    ¿Los niños? Por su peso y la naturaleza de sus actividades, es altamente improbable que sean los principales causantes. Su impacto es superficial.

•    ¿Pisarlas accidentalmente? Un adulto puede pesar entre 70 y 100 kg. Pisarlas con un zapato de suela dura puede, con el tiempo, causar microfisuras. Pero las balizas están diseñadas para soportar ese peso. Las imágenes muestran impactos laterales y palancazos que han destrozado la cubierta (ver el detalle en una de las imágenes).

El factor humano: vandalismo intencionado

La evidencia visual sugiere una conclusión inevitable: se requiere una acción adulta y voluntaria para causar este nivel de daño. Un ejemplo claro: la luminaria no solo está agrietada, sino que ha sido aplastada con tanta fuerza que su soporte metálico se ha doblado y la base de hormigón está expuesta, como si un vehículo pesado la hubiera pisado o alguien hubiera utilizado una herramienta (como una masa) para destrozarla. Otra imagen muestra una rotura completa de la tapa superior que no pudo ocurrir sin un golpe de alto impacto localizado, como una patada de un adulto enfurecido o un golpe directo con un objeto contundente.

Estas roturas no son accidentes de un corredor que se tropieza, ni el desgaste de un ciclista que pasa por encima. Parecen el resultado de actos que oscilan entre el ensañamiento violento y el vandalismo oportunista, donde el objetivo es la destrucción del objeto mismo.

Conviene señalar, además, un punto ciego de diseño: las luminarias empotradas en un cordón bajo están exactamente en la zona de fricción entre peatones y ciclistas. Incluso sin vandalismo, ese emplazamiento concentra pisadas, roces de carritos y golpes de pedales. El diseño anti-vándalo protege el objeto contra el uso abusivo, pero no contra la intención de romperlo.

 

El efecto ventana rota
Hay un mecanismo observable que agrava el problema: una baliza destruida que permanece en ese estado durante semanas señala que el daño no tiene consecuencias visibles. Ese vacío de respuesta facilita la siguiente rotura. En términos de gestión del espacio público, la rapidez de reposición no es un detalle cosmético: es parte del diseño del sistema. Una luminaria reparada en días comunica un cuidado distinto al que comunica un circuito semidemolido durante meses.

Conclusión

Las luminarias del Rosedal se instalaron con una función concreta: hacer legible la separación de carriles cuando la luz natural no alcanza. El estado actual de las balizas muestra los límites del diseño anti-vándalo frente al daño deliberado. La resistencia de los materiales puede calcularse; la intencionalidad humana, no. El caso muestra que la durabilidad técnica de un objeto no alcanza: diseñar contra el desgaste es posible, pero diseñar contra el daño intencional obliga a pensar también en visibilidad, mantenimiento rápido y costos de reposición.

Para que el sistema vuelva a funcionar, la respuesta no es solo reinstalar luminarias más resistentes, sino reducir la ventana de oportunidad: reposición rápida, materiales de menor costo unitario y una zonificación que no dependa tan críticamente de componentes frágiles en el punto de conflicto peatón-ciclista.

Nota final

Este tema guarda un parentesco —parecido, aunque no idéntico— con el que abordé en Cronica de un cable suelto y cuatro... * , otra entrada donde también se ve cómo un espacio de uso común termina siendo indiferente para los comunes.

* https://reuniendoletras.blogspot.com/2026/05/cronica-de-un-cable-suelto-y-cuatro.html
 

** Texto elaborado con el apoyo de herramientas de IA (Mistral y Gemini) y revisado por el autor.

Enlace a Wikiloc: https://es.wikiloc.com/rutas-senderismo/caminata-por-palermo-caba-luces-rotas-290489291

Girandomédulas: Chronicle of a Book Rescued from the Sidewalk, a Poem for Oliverio Girondo, and Three Laps Around the Rosedal

 

«Yo no tengo ni deseo tener sangre de estatua...
Mejor reírse de uno mismo, excederse de humano»

(“I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood... / 
Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human”)

— María del Mar Estrella, Girandomédulas, p. 37

Chronicle of the Find: An Object Released on the Sidewalk

Urban chance in Buenos Aires rarely presents itself with violence: it arrives with the stealth of things rested at the edge of the curb, half a meter from the footsteps of strangers. There, exposed to traffic, appeared the copy: Fuegos Ceremoniales (Ceremonial Fires), by María del Mar Estrella, published in 2007 by Vinciguerra under its Metáfora Collection. A textured hardcover book, the kind that invites touch before reading, with that sober paper weight that promises permanence. Someone discarded it. Someone, once upon a time, chose it.

Upon opening it, the first sign of its private life rests on the flyleaf, penned in ink with a fluid script:

«A mi querida amiga y poeta Susana, con cariño y en hermandad de palabra.»
(“To my dear friend and poet Susana, with affection and in sisterhood of the word.”)
May 2, 2015.

Eight years elapsed between the press (2007) and the author’s affectionate gesture (2015). And then, more than a decade until the copy ended up on the street.

Facing this scene, one cannot help but wonder what route the object took to the sidewalk. Four hypotheses come to mind:

1.    The dissolution of the bond. The “sisterhood of the word” expired. Letting go of the object is an attempt to erase the material proof of the link: if the gifted book no longer exists, it is as though the affection was never on the bookshelf.

2.    Death or the clearing out of a personal library. The passing of the recipient and the subsequent cleanout by indifferent heirs, who dispatch whole boxes to the public street without even opening the cover. The inscription becomes invisible to anyone who cannot read the interior of others' bonds.

3.    Implicit devaluation. The gift was never truly appreciated in its proper measure and slowly rolled toward discard: first a shelf, then a box, then the street.

4.    A ritual of detachment and circulation. The noblest and most poetic hypothesis. The book was not discarded out of contempt: tucked between its final pages was a bookmark from another publisher—unequivocal evidence that someone traversed the text all the way to the last line. Its mission fulfilled with that reader, the book was liberated so it could find the next one. It is the age-old practice of book-sowing: the work, once read, returns to the city’s flow. The bookmark acts like a message cast into the river: “I made it this far; now it’s your turn.”

There is no way to know which hypothesis is true, or if others exist that escape me, and that ignorance is part of the find. The object tells what it tells; the rest is interpretation. But the book contained more layers.

A Pantheon in Verse

Fuegos Ceremoniales has an unusual structure: each poem is explicitly dedicated to a giant of literature, and each dedication adds an attribute, as if the author were constructing a museum of busts in verse:

•    Standing before the light (To Julio Cortázar: sentiment)
•    Shadows on the wall (To Ernesto Sabato: commitment)
•    The prodigal (To Alejandra Pizarnik: anguish / tearing)
•    Night notebook (To Jorge Luis Borges: memory)
•    Terrestrial tool (To José Pedroni: hope)
•    Chance and circumstance (To Alfonsina Storni: challenge)
•    Sower of dreams (To Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez: devotion)
•    Girandomédulas (To Oliverio Girondo: irony)
•    Circle of fire (To Enrique Molina: eroticism)
•    Under the sign of a wing (To Olga Orozco: mystery)

  And so it continues with many more…

Cortázar, Sabato, Pizarnik, Borges, Pedroni, Storni, Girondo, Molina, Orozco: this is not a dedication to a “nobody,” to an indistinct figure. It is a national pantheon, and each poem seeks its place in the shadow of a giant. One of the names, however, is not an aspiration but a heritage: Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez, a Spanish-Argentine academic and poet, was the author's father. María del Mar Estrella, born in Buenos Aires in 1941, is the daughter of that poet and boasts over fifty years of uninterrupted writing and seven published books, starting with El poblador (RdC Publishing). This reframes everything: we are not before an unknown coasting on the fame of others, but a poet with her own trajectory, raised in a home where the busts of the pantheon were, at least one of them, the living room family portrait.

The Seven Pages of Validation

And then appears the other peculiarity, the uncomfortable one: at the end of the volume, under the title “About María del Mar Estrella,” the author deploys nearly seven pages reproducing praise and commentary from established authors who wrote to her throughout her career. Apparently, she didn’t just dedicate poems: she wrote in person to many of the living (this is my conjecture) and received responses. And she published those responses. One of them decrees: “María del Mar will no longer be forgotten.”

The scene thus takes on its most ironic shade: a book designed to ensure the legitimation and endurance of its author through the endorsement of literary authorities ends up abandoned on the paving stones. The phrase “she will no longer be forgotten” coexists within the very same object alongside a forgotten bookmark and a street that remembers nothing.

Before judging, a shift of focus is in order. First: the search for validation is not a personal flaw of María del Mar Estrella; it is a trait of the creative condition—of every creator who knows that ink guarantees nothing and signs the world hoping someone will sign back. She was merely more transparent than others when showcasing her pats on the back. Second: the 2015 dedication is the record of genuine affection at a given moment; that it ends up on the sidewalk speaks to the implacable passage of time, of how libraries are scattered, not to the falsity of the affection. The paradox is melancholy, almost tragic, and deserves respect rather than mockery. Third: the noblest twist of this story is the act of rescue itself. Instead of ending up in a dumpster or ruined by rain, the copy was picked up by someone who took the trouble to read it completely, analyze it, and take it for a walk. If anyone should be grateful for this ending, it is the word itself, which keeps circulating.

The street is the great equalizer: it evaporates vanity and dutiful praise, but it also restores books to their primary function: finding readers, one at a time, by chance.

The Motivation for the Walk: Turning the Marrow (Girando la Médula)

Among the first ten poems of the pantheon, one leaped off the page on its own merits: Girandomédulas, page 37, expressly dedicated “To Oliverio Girondo: irony.” It is worth transcribing a fragment:

(Through what crazy lock does it subversively penetrate
and winding up leisure
makes the blood dance on the truth of a single edge?
Immodest, perverse provocateur, irony distracts
prowling in a twilight streetcar
like a scarecrow crawling
in the masmédula of weeping.)

Ladies and gentlemen: here you have
a pin or filigree or convincing cyanide kiss;
depending on which hand releases it, which lips pronounce it
it will be a subtle feast or a crude bacchanal
scandal of puritan hypocrisy.

(Girandomédulas pulls the trigger against the ghost of doubt
fires
astride a nomadic and sharp vigil
while the girls of Flores agonize
clenching groans in their marble muscles.)

I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood...
Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human

(and it continues)

La masmédula: The Word Buried in the Title

The title is a portmanteau word that only opens with the right key: girando (turning/spinning) + masmédula. It is not abstract anatomy: “en la masmédula del llanto” directly quotes the title of Oliverio Girondo's final poetry book, En la masmédula (1956), the deepest and most anguish-ridden work by the author of Veinte poemas para ser leídos en el tranvía (Twenty Poems to Be Read on the Streetcar). The marrow (médula) in Estrella's title isn't generic bone marrow: it is Girondo’s marrow—his final word—quoted and turned.

And the poem is stitched with Girondian nods that confirm the operation:

•    “Ladies and gentlemen: here you have” — The formula of the buffoonish lecturer that Girondo premiered in Espantapájaros (Scarecrow, 1932), the manifesto-book of his I that mocks all solemnity.

•    “prowling in a twilight streetcar” — Impossible not to read there the streetcar of his foundational 1922 title, Twenty Poems to Be Read on the Streetcar.

•    “like a scarecrow crawling” — The scarecrow, Girondo’s alter ego, reappears crawling within the tribute itself.

•    “while the girls of Flores agonize / clenching groans in their marble muscles” — An image of masmedular pedigree, baroque and piercing.

•    “I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood” — The anti-statue: he who does not want to be a monument, he who chooses to laugh at himself.

Estrella does not merely dedicate a poem to Girondo: she dresses up as Girondo, mimics his syntax, borrows his bestiary, and spins it. And here lies the object's greatest irony: the poem she dedicated to the great Argentine ironist met—she, her book—the most Girondian ending possible: the sidewalk, where the scarecrow from the beginning ends up “crawling in the masmédula” of urban discard. Girondo would have signed off on that script.

The Geometry of the Concept

On that basis, the walk organized itself, because the poem and the surname trace a mental map in the shape of a circle:

•    Girondo / Giro: The surname carries rotation inscribed within it. Giro (turn/spin). Going in circles.

•    Hondo (Deep): The deep, the concave. And the deep, stretching the thread, is a pit or well; and a pit, almost by definition, is round.

•    Marrow (Médula): The center, the core, the internal axis. Turning the marrow (girar la médula) is stirring one's depths while one's feet trace the circle on the outside.

•    Rosedal / Laps: The walk materializes the concept: tracing around the lake is literally a deep turn (giro hondo) with water at the center.

The natural response to the reading was to translate the text into physical movement: the book in the pocket and laps around the Lake at Palermo's Rosedal, whose perimeter of approximately 1.6 km is the classic circuit for park walkers and runners.

Why the Rosedal: The Coincidence That Is No Coincidence

There is an extra argument, almost scandalous in its exactness: the Rosedal, designed by Carlos Thays based on a project inaugurated in 1914, preserves among its rosebushes a collection of writers' busts—the so-called Paseo de los Poetas (Poets' Walk)—with over two dozen sculptures of authors from around the world. That is to say: walking through the Rosedal is literally walking among poets turned into marble and bronze. And the book in the pocket is precisely that: a stroll of poets turned into busts of ink—“marble muscles,” “statue's blood”—each with its dedicated pedestal.

The physical stage and the stage of the book are the exact same stage. The poem's question (“Through what crazy lock does it subversively penetrate?”) finds its urban answer: the street was that crazy lock through which the object filtered out here. Add the White Bridge—the Puente de los Enamorados (Lovers' Bridge), to cross from one shore to the other without getting wet, like promised relationships—the Andalusian Patio donated by Seville in 1929 with its fountain and tiles, and facing it, the Eduardo Sívori Museum, and the apparatus is complete.

Book–Poem–Walk Relationship: The Three Concentric Laps

The journey was framed as a pedestrian essay in three laps around the lake, each with its own axis of reflection. Three times 1.6 km: almost five kilometers of circles for a book that left one circle—the printing press—and returned to another—that of the street.

First Lap: Surface and Legitimation

The Rosedal in bloom is pure surface: petals, fragrances, nature’s ornamentation organized by the landscape architect's hand. Upon that surface, the busts: marble poets who no longer breathe, monuments the park exhibits as proof of its own nobility. It is impossible not to think of the seven final pages of the book, of the pantheon of dedications, of the author taking shelter under the shadow of giants and printing their applause as a shield against oblivion.
The irony of the first lap: whoever seeks the immortality of the statue ends up on the curb. But also the reversal: the true validation of the book did not come through the signatures of the masters, but through this moment in which an anonymous walker rescues it and reads it completely. The street, which equalizes, also redeems.

Second Lap: Sisterhood and Detachment

On the second turn, the focus shifts to the handwritten dedication. “Sisterhood of the word and dispute” is the trace of a genuine affection that included its own disagreement: a bond known to be two-way. Relationships change, libraries dissolve, people part with objects, and what was once blue ink of affection is today paper baking under the sun on the curb. There is no trauma in this: there is only the passage of time.

The bookmark from another publisher between the last pages is material testimony that the reading was completed. If the abandonment was an act of surrender rather than contempt, then the second lap is walked as a ritual of detachment: someone let the book go so that the word could continue its course. Urban sowing works if someone gathers. It was gathered.

On the physical plane, this lap has its iconic moment: understanding that spaces are also dedications—the Andalusian Patio was left by Seville for Buenos Aires in 1929, and the city continues to read it.

Third Lap: The Masmédula and the Turn

The final lap integrates the entire game: Giro — Hondo — Médula — Rosedal. The lake is the pit, the deep filled with water; the marrow is the unseen center, the axis of oneself; spinning around it is the only way to encircle depth without falling into it. Walking in circles while contemplating the futility of human recognition is, literally, turning the marrow: stirring the core while the feet repeat the outline.

The poem—and with it the entire book—finds its proper scale: not that of the monument, but that of the body that turns and laughs at itself. “I do not have nor do I wish to have statue’s blood... Better to laugh at oneself, to be excessively human.” The circle closes with the Girondian decree: the book that sought to erect itself as a printed monument finds its human dimension in discard, in chance, and in the act of walking.

The Final Paradox

If the author were ever to find out, the irony would reach its peak: a poem dedicated to Oliverio Girondo about irony comes to life precisely through the most ironic event possible—discard, chance, rescue, and the walk. But there is something even deeper: the book that wanted not to be forgotten will not be remembered for its seven pages of crowning praise, but for the gap it left in a bookshelf and the knot it formed in a stranger’s pocket. The true life of the word occurred not in the fixed ink of the press, but in motion: from the press to the friend, from the friend to the sidewalk, from the sidewalk to the pocket, from the pocket to the loop around the lake.

And this chronicle is the next link in the chain. The found word keeps circulating. One open question remains, that of all sowing: when this book finishes fulfilling its mission with this reader, will it return to the street to find the next one? The bookmark already left its message: “I made it this far; now it’s your turn.”

Sources and Verifications

•    Biographical details of María del Mar Estrella (daughter of Fermín Estrella Gutiérrez, born in 1941, fifty years of writing, seven books): RdC Publishing https://rdcpublishing.com.ar/artista.php?id=167
•    Lake Rosedal Circuit, ~1.6 km: Meteored https://www.meteored.com.ar/noticias/actualidad/el-rosedal-de-palermo-el-pulmon-verde-de-buenos-aires-aire-libre.html and Pacer Map https://www.mypacer.com/es/routes/327892/lago-del-rosedal-caminar-y-correr-sendero-palermo-buenos-aires-argentina
•    Design by Carlos Thays (1914) and collection of writers' busts: Alquiler Argentina https://www.alquilerargentina.com/blog/paseos-y-excursiones/recorriendo-el-rosedal-de-palermo.html
•    Andalusian Patio (donation from Seville, 1929), White Bridge, Sívori Museum: Buenos Aires 123 https://www.buenosaires123.com.ar/paseos/rosedal.html
•    Poem Girandomédulas (p. 37), index of dedications, handwritten dedication from 2015, and publication details: transcription from the found copy itself.
•    https://www.cultura.gob.ar/oliverio-girondo-7-poemas-imperdibles_7045/
•    https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/portales/oliverio_girondo/su_obra_literaria/

Wikiloc track: https://es.wikiloc.com/rutas-senderismo/walk-through-palermo-caba-maria-del-mar-estrella-girandomedulas-book-poetry-290489244

 

With AI help. (Gemini)