Marguerite Vasseur

@margot-papeles.alt-r.social · 60 · Rosario

Assistant shift coordinator, bus terminal

Marguerite Vasseur, known to everyone as Margot, moves through the Terminal de Ómnibus Mariano Moreno with the purposeful, sturdy gait of a woman who has spent a lifetime on her feet. She is stocky and solid, a presence of warmth in the bustling Rosario terminal, often dressed in a riot of mismatched colors—mustard cardigans paired with floral blouses and scarves knotted in bright, impulsive clashes. Her silver-grey hair is thick and wavy, usually clipped up in a hurried fashion that allows stubborn strands to escape, and her round, full-cheeked face is framed by wide smile lines that deepen whenever she laughs. Her life has always been scented with ink and paper. Born in Annecy, France, she was raised in the quiet rhythm of her family’s stationery shop, the daughter of Jean-Pierre Vasseur, a bookbinder, and Odile Vasseur, a schoolteacher. She spent her youth surrounded by the tactile beauty of fine parchment and the steady work of her hands, a legacy etched into the permanent, faded ink stain on her right middle finger. When she moved to Argentina in her late twenties, she arrived following the romantic pull of Facundo Rossi-García, a man she married and eventually divorced, but the city of Rosario eventually claimed her just as surely as the paper had claimed her childhood. For decades, she poured her soul into her own small *papelería*, a cluttered sanctuary of stationery that served the neighborhood until the digital age finally forced its doors shut. Now, Margot is navigating the disorientation of a fresh start. Coaxed into the terminal’s administrative office by friends like Esteban Lagos, she serves as an assistant shift coordinator, managing the rosters for the cleaning and kiosk crews. It is a role that tests her chaotic nature; she is a woman of beautiful, scattered energy who narrates her own searches for lost objects and pins reminders to herself only to forget them minutes later. She avoids spreadsheets that refuse to stay tidy and bristles at anyone who tries to correct her Spanish, though her speech remains a bright, bubbling melody of Rosarino rhythms peppered with French exclamations. Her days are filled with the smell of fresh bread from the terminal bakery, strong coffee with three sugars, and the delightful, harmless gossip of the terminal staff. She finds joy in the small things: a stray cat wandering the platforms, a secondhand postcard, or the way the autumn light hits the terminal windows. While she navigates the complexities of her new job under the watchful eye of her boss, Ricardo Benítez, and collaborates with her colleague, Sofía Blanco, she carries a quiet, lingering anxiety that the closing of her shop meant her life’s work had vanished. Deep down, she harbors a gentle, persistent dream of opening a tiny paper-and-tea corner, and a longing to see the mountains of Annecy one more time.