Lucky to be alive!

I`m starting to realize that I`m crazy. From the moment I arrived in Buenos Aires, I`ve been meeting travellers. The first order of business, of course, is to exchange names, nationalities, and the amount of time that you`re travelling. Some the first folks I encountered told tales of anywhere from 4 mo. to a year and a half of travel. At first I was shocked that anyone would have the resources to travel that long. However, the more people I meet, the more I realize that I`m doing something almost entirely original. It`s completely common for travellers to find a town they like, spend four or five days eating, reading, sleeping, and exploring a little, and then move on to the next destination (which can be done relatively cheaply). Counter to that, my most  predictable  move is to read up on a town before arrival, decide what I`m going to do there and when I`m going to do it, arrive at the town, research onward departure times, find a hostel, have my planned adventure, leave. In fact, it`s a bit rare for me to spend more than one night in a town. I want to see as much as I can! People I meet think I`m insane, though.

Something else I`m learning about travelling, though, is that almost everyone I meet is travelling on an “around the world ticket.” Little did I know, there are conglomerates of airlines that sell tickets charging by the continent (not by the flight). Travel has to be completed within a year of your departure, and the ticket includes four free flights within each continent if you so choose to use them. Your route has to be set before the trip (i.e. Europe, Asia, Australia, U.S., Europe) and costs $75 to change. You pre-select your dates for flights between continents, but the dates can be changed, free of charge, as long as you don`t exceed your year of travel. The tickets cost around $3000. I really hope I am able to take the opportunity to do something like this while I`m young!

Now back to the travel stories. Winnie, Delfin, and I arrived in Salta after hailing the bus in the desert around 10 p.m. We were approached by the commonplace gang of hostel hawkers, which is always a bad thing when you`re in a group. What happens is this: each group member`s attention becomes occupied by a different vendor resulting in mass confusion along with continuing pressure from all the pamphlet wavers. AND we still needed to find out about onward tickets for the morning! Finally we told the group of travel maulers to hold while we searched. Winnie and Delfin found a bus that left for their next destination at 10 the following morning. Lucky me, it turns out departures to Chile, where I was headed, are only available on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning. Glory be, it was Tuesday night. As I waited for Delfin and Winnie to finish their ticket business, the disappointment of having to spend excess time in a city started to sink in. I cursed myself for not having the E.S.P. to know that this would happen so that I could have spent the extra time in Cafayate. I recovered quickly, however, as there was my delicious goat cheese purchase to be taken advantage of, along with the wine purchased by my travel-mates.

Delfin got us talked into a hostel farther away from the bus station than I wanted to be, but I acquiesced, given the hour. I decided I would look for my own the following day after I accompanied them to the station to purchase my ticket (my agency was closed upon our arrival). Ten minutes and one peso later (roughly 30 cents), we found ourselves in front of our hostel-to-be. The rooms and kitchen were standard. Our bathroom lacked a shower curtain, but I am told that is a common phenomenon in Argentina. And showers aren`t like they are in the U.S. In all the countries I`ve travelled in, the shower is merely a two inch depression in the floor with a curtain between it and the rest of the bathroom. So, if you can imagine this, you have no problem fathoming the sopping wet mess that results. Also, the hostel`s attempt at creating unique and defined spaces left most of the communal areas looking like they were under construction. Nonetheless, within thirty minutes we were happily enjoying our cheese and wine (and pizza that Delfin had ordered on the sly). After an extensive conversation about recreational drugs (turns out Delfin is quite the dabbler), I headed out to find a telephone office to make a sanity-maintenance phone call.

Breakfast the next morning was by far the most stellar I`ve seen in the way of palatable eats. For the first time at a hostel, I wanted seconds! And, I`m ashamed to admit, I keep getting lured into the coffee drinking business that goes on here. I`ve gone this long without getting hooked; I can`t give in! True to form (this holds true only for my travels here), I was the first one ready to go on account of my lack of luggage to be packed. Delfin and Winnie made their bus with a few minutes to spare, and I faced the music regarding a necessary 7 a.m. departure (the busses of both companies leave at this time) the next morning. That left me with 21 hours to kill. I made myself a to-do list which included a hostel search (closer to bus, please!), laundry, sunshine enjoyment, book completion, and internet, in that order. On my way to “Backpacker`s Hostel,” which I was referred to via a flyer from the night before, I had to trek past the town`s biggest park, San Martìn. Backpack on, purse dangling by my side, small map in hand, a bag of food trailing on my left side, and jeans rolled up to avoid my wet sandal straps (thank you shower), I plunged into the city, constantly scanning street signs and store fronts. I walked alongside the outer edge of the park for what seemed like ages. Finally, I glanced down to consult my map as I overtook an older couple on their right side. As I squinted at the tiny print on the map in hand, my world suddenly disappeared from underneath me. Some tree planting projects were taking place at the edge of the park, and my overtaking of the couple via a “mound of dirt” just off the side walk left me knee-deep in a slime hole complete with mud, clay, sticks, dirt, trash, and who knows what else! I let out a yelp as I realized everything I owned was about to be plunged into the murk and somehow managed a leap up out of the vacuum-seal muck onto the sidewalk. I quickly surveyed the damage, and to my dismay found that my rolled up jeans, my bare calves, my sandals, and my all ten of my little toes were covered in mud-slime. A man walking by had unwittingly become the victim of a few flying mud splatters and had the nerve to ask me what I thought I was doing. “Oh, sorry, sir. I was just enjoying my mud bath and free laundry service here in the park. I didn`t mean to disturb you. Thanks for helping me out of the tub, though.” Argh. I wish my Spanish was good enough to lay THAT one on him!

I found the hostel I had gone looking for shortly thereafter, and settled in after cleaning myself up. Laundry service was offered for a few pesos more than usual, so after scanning the availability (or lack thereof) of a lavendarìa within a few blocks of my new abode, I handed over my wash. With the sun shining and book in hand, I took off for the nearest plaza (a park with grass you can`t lie down on). I brought two books down here with me (thank you, Laurel, for the fantastic recommendations!) and was itching to get rid of the bulk of my 500-page novel. I found a bench in the sun, and slowly  rotisseried  myself as I devoured the chapters, wrote in my journal, and just stared at the trees and sky deep in thought. The plaza is an excellent place to spend time on account of the people, the pigeons, and the goings-on about the city. It`s really nice to be around the joyful and lively happenings that almost inevitably fill a city park. The pigeons cooing at my feet and the unbelievable amount of noise they make when they all take flight on account of a stray dog were definitely a plaza trademark. The synthetic bell that chimed the quarter hour all day served as a nice benchmark insofar as just how much time I was piddling away. A protest during the afternoon kept distracting me from my final chapters. The ice cream man (a commercially-supplied cooler strapped to the handle-bars of a bicycle made me feel like a kid again. It was interesting and educational to notice all the vendors constantly strolling by and  peddling  their wares. I`ve never really thought about how incredibly stable the economy is in the U.S. There are so many people down here who have to make their living by walking around with a box of strawberries, or pedaling around a basket of lunchtime delights. Their work isn`t done until they`ve sold the last drop after being rejected who-knows-how-many times and walking who-knows-how-many miles. Hence, the title of my e-mail. I started thinking about how truly thankful I am to have the means, financially, mentally, and physically, to live the life that I am living. I am so lucky to be able to afford to spend the entire day reading in the park instead of  peddling  strawberries or shoe-shines to feed my kids. I am so lucky to have two (almost normal) legs to climb the four sets of stairs at my hostel, two arms to tote all my gear, corrected-to-normal vision, normal hearing, a history of adequate nourishment (thanks Mom & Dad!). I am so thankful for the incredibly privileged life I have led.

As nice as it was to have an entire day with relaxing as the principle item on the agenda, I could only manage to enjoy about five hours of it before I felt utterly useless and slightly lame. By then it was too late to make my way to any tourist-draws, so I resigned myself (quite happily) to getting some groceries and making dinner. (Also thankful to be able to afford what ever I want at the grocery store.) After the creativity-free pasta dinner I made myself, I spent a little time online while listening to the desk-employee and his friends play soccer on a Playstation. Argentinians are INSANE about soccer… to the tune of killing a player who once scored the winning goal for the opposing team in some all-important game. To my chagrin, the acoustics in the room were abnormally impressive. Longing for the earplugs in my backpack back at the hostel, I cut short my typing after I couldn`t bear to hear another playstation-induced scream of protest or victory. I headed back to call it a night, repacked my bag with my fresh laundry, and awoke to the flip side of water shortages at hostels. Instead of only cold, I got only hot, scalding hot, water. No shower for me! Breakfast brought an offer of a taxi to the station with a young Dutch woman.

Chile, here I come! (again.)