If I have yet to reveal my over sentimental nature, this post will give me away.
A naive 19 years in a country not her own, believing in all of the most blind of love stories, knowing that she had yet to create her own. I didn't enter into this journey thinking of meeting someone. I think the fact that I wasn't actively looking for someone to interact with in a romantic endeavor made the whole experience more intoxicating. I had, in fact, left someone home waiting for me. He sent me off at the airport with a single long stem rose. But somehow the 5000 miles made it feel like another life.
The dance was the first event of a week long conference for all of the young single adults in the region. A 'convencion', they called it. And I had every hope that my bright eyed friend, whose name I had familiarized on the tip of my tongue and out through my lips, would be in attendance in the rest of the festivities. He had a friend and by this time I recognized that wherever this friend was, he would be as well. The 'convencion' was held out of the city on a small 'camping' resort, dedicated to reviving the glories of gauchos and asado; traditional Argentine life.
We went by bus, meeting in a public plaza, where for the first time I was genuinely aware of the possibility of being pick pocketed. We loaded our bags, tents, instruments and selves onto the bus and headed out of the city, stopping on a highway and walking a few blocks to the large scenic 'camping'. It was late in the afternoon and after setting up our tent there was a talent show, where my brother David was to perform and asked that I accompany him on a very appropriate Allison Krauss "When you say nothing at all". When it was our turn I looked out nervously for Ariel, my eyes fell on his friend, whose name is Sergio. It set me at ease but sent me searching from face to face for hose dimples and jet black hair. He was nowhere in sight. After the song Sergio came over to 'saludar'. Somehow I asked him where Ariel was. He tried hard to tell me, but either the music was too loud or I was too stubborn. I left the crowded room determined that I would find him.
Walking out into the fresh air, there were smells I had never experimented. A sweet freshness had settled over the grass and pathways where couples lingered or wandered directionless. I wandered too and a part of me that I disliked wanted to be one of those couples until finally there was someone far off, maybe 50 yards away, who I wanted to see. As I approached his figure, amidst fruit trees, I saw hands resting, clasping each other, sitting casual, relaxed, but thoughtful, on a stool. The light was fading fast and I barely recognized him from behind. I walked, not too quickly toward him, not really knowing how I was going to explain why I had come looking for him. Thus far it was nothing more than a crush. Maybe he was enjoying a quiet moment alone in the fresh air. As I approached I called out a hello, but he didn't respond. In fact he didn't even move. Suddenly I felt embarrassed that I had thought so intently on finding him, strayed back toward one of the many paths and walked on. For a few minutes I walked, thinking on the unexpected vacant response. I suddenly disliked myself. The idea of being dependent emotionally on this person, who I hardly knew. It struck me how ridiculous it was that in this new place, full of so many new experiences I would pine away for someone whose life was so far from my own that I didn't even illicit a response from a cordial hello. Suddenly I disliked him, feeling hurt and embarrassed.
By this time the sun was setting and the light still glimmered on the corners of things. That freshness in the air had turned to thick dew under my shoes but the smells were still thick with the sweetness of jasmine. A sense of self preservation convinced me that I was going to forget about Ariel and enjoy this crisp autumn night. It was probably at about this time that I pulled my headphones out of my hoody. I put Toad the Wet Sprocket in the disc-man and turned up the volume to drown out any thoughts of Ariel. Toad the Wet Sprocket can be a religious experience, especially when you're alone in a new country, it's dark and you don't know where you're wandering off to.
It was over a hedge and through a fence with dew covered grass under my feet. I wandered past trees, through futbal fields and found myself under a great geometric cement structure. Looking up there were narrow stairs leading upward, over a ladder or two and to a water tank high above. I gravitate to high structures with narrow limbs and the invitation to climb was too great to resist. Up it was. I climbed until I was barred by three thick cords strung across the next set of vertical rungs. I knew from stories I'd heard that if I touched the cords my brother might have to send out a search party to find me. This was South America and its generally known that one can pirate electricity from a neighbors line or the main if one is covert and able. I stretched my legs past the thick lines and pulled my body up and through the hole between them to the platform above. One last stretch of ladder led to one last platform, just wide enough to sit cross legged and stretch my spine upward and back until I was lying looking backward at the flat night sky, thick with cloud cover.
No stars lit up the night and Toad was the only thing in my head keeping my thoughts focused on smells and simple sensations. I belted out every line to a smooth strung guitar and familiar melody. Ear buds drown out the sound of my voice until the song ended and silenced me out of that loud moment into the quiet of night along with one other thing. It was rain, pushed at an angle by a firm breeze, striking me, first lightly then growing in intensity. Looking out, there were no more rays to paint my face or see the shimmering countryside. I could barely make out the rise and fall of trees on the horizon. Nothing closer or farther than anything else, just two shades of dark and darker with patches of street lamps and porch stoops lighting up below. It was silent for a moment until the next sensation made me take my headphones off. Dogs, a dozen of them calling to each other, singing of passersby and smells on the breeze. I became aware that I was quite alone here with my thoughts. I inhaled deeply and listened, cupping my hands to my ears to funnel in the sound. It was the sound of vulnerability, far from anyplace home to me. I sat for some time in that spot, looking out at the night, listening, feeling hard drops on my cheeks, wetting my hair. In that moment I knew I didn't need any other thing or one to be in that moment. It was more than enough and it would stay with me.
After a time of soaking that in I made my way back down, past the electrical wires and back to camp. I was disoriented from the climb, but had a renewed sense of purpose. I was here to live and breath whatever Argentina meant or was; the humidity, the sweet and salty scents, the rain, the food, the people.
The next day, as the 'convencion' continued. I was with my brother, the Ubillus, and some other friends; playing, always playing at whatever game we could invent. At one point we wandered to where I had passed Ariel the night before. Probably looking for a tree to climb or a ball. I found there a man, sitting, looking at the ground with his hands resting, clasping each other, relaxed but thoughtful, on a stool. He was made of plaster and paint and enjoying one permanent, thoughtful, quiet moment alone.
A naive 19 years in a country not her own, believing in all of the most blind of love stories, knowing that she had yet to create her own. I didn't enter into this journey thinking of meeting someone. I think the fact that I wasn't actively looking for someone to interact with in a romantic endeavor made the whole experience more intoxicating. I had, in fact, left someone home waiting for me. He sent me off at the airport with a single long stem rose. But somehow the 5000 miles made it feel like another life.
The dance was the first event of a week long conference for all of the young single adults in the region. A 'convencion', they called it. And I had every hope that my bright eyed friend, whose name I had familiarized on the tip of my tongue and out through my lips, would be in attendance in the rest of the festivities. He had a friend and by this time I recognized that wherever this friend was, he would be as well. The 'convencion' was held out of the city on a small 'camping' resort, dedicated to reviving the glories of gauchos and asado; traditional Argentine life.
We went by bus, meeting in a public plaza, where for the first time I was genuinely aware of the possibility of being pick pocketed. We loaded our bags, tents, instruments and selves onto the bus and headed out of the city, stopping on a highway and walking a few blocks to the large scenic 'camping'. It was late in the afternoon and after setting up our tent there was a talent show, where my brother David was to perform and asked that I accompany him on a very appropriate Allison Krauss "When you say nothing at all". When it was our turn I looked out nervously for Ariel, my eyes fell on his friend, whose name is Sergio. It set me at ease but sent me searching from face to face for hose dimples and jet black hair. He was nowhere in sight. After the song Sergio came over to 'saludar'. Somehow I asked him where Ariel was. He tried hard to tell me, but either the music was too loud or I was too stubborn. I left the crowded room determined that I would find him.
Walking out into the fresh air, there were smells I had never experimented. A sweet freshness had settled over the grass and pathways where couples lingered or wandered directionless. I wandered too and a part of me that I disliked wanted to be one of those couples until finally there was someone far off, maybe 50 yards away, who I wanted to see. As I approached his figure, amidst fruit trees, I saw hands resting, clasping each other, sitting casual, relaxed, but thoughtful, on a stool. The light was fading fast and I barely recognized him from behind. I walked, not too quickly toward him, not really knowing how I was going to explain why I had come looking for him. Thus far it was nothing more than a crush. Maybe he was enjoying a quiet moment alone in the fresh air. As I approached I called out a hello, but he didn't respond. In fact he didn't even move. Suddenly I felt embarrassed that I had thought so intently on finding him, strayed back toward one of the many paths and walked on. For a few minutes I walked, thinking on the unexpected vacant response. I suddenly disliked myself. The idea of being dependent emotionally on this person, who I hardly knew. It struck me how ridiculous it was that in this new place, full of so many new experiences I would pine away for someone whose life was so far from my own that I didn't even illicit a response from a cordial hello. Suddenly I disliked him, feeling hurt and embarrassed.
By this time the sun was setting and the light still glimmered on the corners of things. That freshness in the air had turned to thick dew under my shoes but the smells were still thick with the sweetness of jasmine. A sense of self preservation convinced me that I was going to forget about Ariel and enjoy this crisp autumn night. It was probably at about this time that I pulled my headphones out of my hoody. I put Toad the Wet Sprocket in the disc-man and turned up the volume to drown out any thoughts of Ariel. Toad the Wet Sprocket can be a religious experience, especially when you're alone in a new country, it's dark and you don't know where you're wandering off to.
It was over a hedge and through a fence with dew covered grass under my feet. I wandered past trees, through futbal fields and found myself under a great geometric cement structure. Looking up there were narrow stairs leading upward, over a ladder or two and to a water tank high above. I gravitate to high structures with narrow limbs and the invitation to climb was too great to resist. Up it was. I climbed until I was barred by three thick cords strung across the next set of vertical rungs. I knew from stories I'd heard that if I touched the cords my brother might have to send out a search party to find me. This was South America and its generally known that one can pirate electricity from a neighbors line or the main if one is covert and able. I stretched my legs past the thick lines and pulled my body up and through the hole between them to the platform above. One last stretch of ladder led to one last platform, just wide enough to sit cross legged and stretch my spine upward and back until I was lying looking backward at the flat night sky, thick with cloud cover.
No stars lit up the night and Toad was the only thing in my head keeping my thoughts focused on smells and simple sensations. I belted out every line to a smooth strung guitar and familiar melody. Ear buds drown out the sound of my voice until the song ended and silenced me out of that loud moment into the quiet of night along with one other thing. It was rain, pushed at an angle by a firm breeze, striking me, first lightly then growing in intensity. Looking out, there were no more rays to paint my face or see the shimmering countryside. I could barely make out the rise and fall of trees on the horizon. Nothing closer or farther than anything else, just two shades of dark and darker with patches of street lamps and porch stoops lighting up below. It was silent for a moment until the next sensation made me take my headphones off. Dogs, a dozen of them calling to each other, singing of passersby and smells on the breeze. I became aware that I was quite alone here with my thoughts. I inhaled deeply and listened, cupping my hands to my ears to funnel in the sound. It was the sound of vulnerability, far from anyplace home to me. I sat for some time in that spot, looking out at the night, listening, feeling hard drops on my cheeks, wetting my hair. In that moment I knew I didn't need any other thing or one to be in that moment. It was more than enough and it would stay with me.
After a time of soaking that in I made my way back down, past the electrical wires and back to camp. I was disoriented from the climb, but had a renewed sense of purpose. I was here to live and breath whatever Argentina meant or was; the humidity, the sweet and salty scents, the rain, the food, the people.
The next day, as the 'convencion' continued. I was with my brother, the Ubillus, and some other friends; playing, always playing at whatever game we could invent. At one point we wandered to where I had passed Ariel the night before. Probably looking for a tree to climb or a ball. I found there a man, sitting, looking at the ground with his hands resting, clasping each other, relaxed but thoughtful, on a stool. He was made of plaster and paint and enjoying one permanent, thoughtful, quiet moment alone.
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