Flying sola
For some reason, this computer is being down right stubborn (yes.. computers can be stubborn) about loading more photos, so I'm going to write a few words for now and then finish posting the rest of my photos from Rosario later today or tomorrow.
I got into Bariloche this morning after a 20 plus hour bus ride. The bus ride was actually quite pleasant, complete with food service, reclining seats and a good book (Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum) . While on board I wrote these thoughts in my journal:
-The old man in the quiet coffee shop in the bus terminal in Santa Rosa with whom I chatted during a 15 min. leg stretch while drinking a cup of coffee with milk, but free of sweetener of any sort -- how this country is obsessed with sugar, or sweetener to be more accurate, the calorie free way of making everything and anything tongue-numbingly tasty seems to be a forceful trend which worked it's way into the coffee served on the bus.
-The endlessly flat landscape sprinkled by cows and hay, an occasional tree. Bathed in green. Soaked in boiling sun until washed away by the watery torrents of the still warm evening. Flat. Endlessly, vastly, widely, visibly flat.
-The 12 year girl who sits across the isle starstruck. Utterly and completely starstruck. Unable to peel her gaze away from my braided pig tails, white cardigan and smiles sent in her direction. Eventually she works up the nerve to ask me where I'm from and how old I am. I try, maybe futilely, to explain where Alaska is located. She tells me she thought I was 27. We chat.
- My eyes creek open under the whisper of the morning. The glow outside the window catches my attention, instantly waking up my travel-weary body. Pinks, oranges, yellows and golds sing on the dry canyon landscapes, silver lakes, dense clouds and vast spaces. A big deep breath. A calm. I'm almost to the mountains, I'm almost home.
-Sola? It's always, or usually, asked with the same disbelieving look. Yep, I am traveling alone and I even enjoy traveling alone. Not that there aren't moments that I long for the reassurance of a travel mate. But how would I talk to the old man in the cafe where I ordered sweetener-free coffee if I was preoccupied talking to a travel mate? How would I learn that this old man is a rare exception to the Argentine mentality? That he shows only surprise, but not fear that I'm "flying sola?"
On a side note, chatting with some fellow travelers from London in the Hostel this morning was really nice. Every now and then it's good to be able to tell a story, without simultaneously having to run through a catalogue of verb conjugations =)
I got into Bariloche this morning after a 20 plus hour bus ride. The bus ride was actually quite pleasant, complete with food service, reclining seats and a good book (Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum) . While on board I wrote these thoughts in my journal:
-The old man in the quiet coffee shop in the bus terminal in Santa Rosa with whom I chatted during a 15 min. leg stretch while drinking a cup of coffee with milk, but free of sweetener of any sort -- how this country is obsessed with sugar, or sweetener to be more accurate, the calorie free way of making everything and anything tongue-numbingly tasty seems to be a forceful trend which worked it's way into the coffee served on the bus.
-The endlessly flat landscape sprinkled by cows and hay, an occasional tree. Bathed in green. Soaked in boiling sun until washed away by the watery torrents of the still warm evening. Flat. Endlessly, vastly, widely, visibly flat.
-The 12 year girl who sits across the isle starstruck. Utterly and completely starstruck. Unable to peel her gaze away from my braided pig tails, white cardigan and smiles sent in her direction. Eventually she works up the nerve to ask me where I'm from and how old I am. I try, maybe futilely, to explain where Alaska is located. She tells me she thought I was 27. We chat.
- My eyes creek open under the whisper of the morning. The glow outside the window catches my attention, instantly waking up my travel-weary body. Pinks, oranges, yellows and golds sing on the dry canyon landscapes, silver lakes, dense clouds and vast spaces. A big deep breath. A calm. I'm almost to the mountains, I'm almost home.
-Sola? It's always, or usually, asked with the same disbelieving look. Yep, I am traveling alone and I even enjoy traveling alone. Not that there aren't moments that I long for the reassurance of a travel mate. But how would I talk to the old man in the cafe where I ordered sweetener-free coffee if I was preoccupied talking to a travel mate? How would I learn that this old man is a rare exception to the Argentine mentality? That he shows only surprise, but not fear that I'm "flying sola?"
On a side note, chatting with some fellow travelers from London in the Hostel this morning was really nice. Every now and then it's good to be able to tell a story, without simultaneously having to run through a catalogue of verb conjugations =)
posted by Amy | 8:12 AM
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