Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales, Chile

Caption, ¨This was the best of three attempts. You can see the storm coming in the upper right.¨

I see a pattern developing in my bike traveling; I need at least a day of rest and recuperation for every day I spend on the bike. I never intended for this to be a purely biking endeavor, rather I wanted to travel and use the bike as the mode of transport. It turns out that if you are traveling by bike that it becomes the main part of your experience. It cuts down on contact time with other travelers and that for me is the most entertaining, eye-opening part of the travel experience. Hearing other viewpoints and what people sacrificed in order to travel or how it is important to them or what they do or their family, so on and so forth, are the things I daydream about in the years to come, and not the statistics or fact that I biked 250km against the wind with 1,500 meters of incline in three days. You can keep your stats.

I tried biking with team 'Personality Plus' from Switzerland but that did not jive for either party so I left Punta Arenas, alone again, with my mind in a haze. The haze was part confusion and part meditative. The former being why am I going to battle the elements of cold and wind again, and the later the natural birth of the unique state to endure those elements.

Caption, ¨This was called ´Monument to the wind´. Interestingly enough these giant metal structures did not move in the wind, but their presence was at least an acknowledgement to me that the locals admit it is a windy place.¨

Starting the day I had every intention to bike 50 or 60km, a short day, and find a place to camp in the wilderness. The headwinds proved to be consistent but relatively light so I was able to fight fight fight until I got the tipping point of being able to reach the next town, only 100km away. At km 85 the wind turned on all its fury and I was left dry crying the remaining 15km to reach the campsite and water in Villa Telhuenin, which took 2.5 hours. I wanted to stop along the way but there was no shelter from the wind for miles- only a flat prairie with little desert shrubs and sickly wind slapped flowers with arched backs desperately clinging to the thin soil, like me desperately clinging to my bike.

Caption, ¨This photo is not for you but a memory photo for me, and how I felt in this exact moment. Really I should delete it as to not remember.¨

Believe it or not there is another solo Swiss German biker setting up camp when I arrive. We chatted for a bit while propping up our tents and making food. We compared notes and observations of the day´s ride, none of which were very profound. ¨Last 15 km were tough.¨ Agreed. And then nothing more. The guy is 35, an independent carpenter with no girlfriend or kids, and as mentioned, also a Swiss German.
¨I have noticed some big differences between the Swiss if they are from the Italian, French or German part,¨ I threw out the comment to see if he would even care.
¨How so?¨ was the curious response.
¨Well, if you meet a biker from Switzerland 9 times out of 10 it will be from the German part. The Swiss Italians cannot be bothered with the inconvenience and do not see the point, and even more so for the Swiss French who are connoisseurs of fine wines, fine food and fine living. That most certainly excludes a lifestyle of bike touring. The Swiss Germans are the only ones organized or stubborn enough to bike tour, and they love it. I think more than any other country, or so it seems,¨ I explained.
Like a well-made Swiss German machine his mechanical reply is, ¨I would have to agree with your observations.¨
What?! Did he just say that? This is surreal.
The conversation then mainly went into biking and camping gear pros and cons. Keep it factual. My mind started to wander and think about the ´types´ that bike tour, at least those that bike tour alone. They are strange. Are they biking from something or trying to prove something or perhaps a little of both? I guess the same can be said for all solo artists like the extreme hiker or mountaineer. What is that wild look in their eye that drives them? And come to think of it, are not I one of them as well? I like to think I am not one of them because I would prefer to bike with someone else, but then I cannot stand the company of what I deem ´incompatibles´ and that puts me right back into the same group I just mentioned.
The Swiss German recoils into his own shell of a world and I get the impression he would rather eat, and bike alone the next day. I am right.

Briskness hung in the blue air of a long overdue sunset while I greedily ate dinner. In the process I nearly ate the tips of my fingers off. ¨Food me,¨ is the most profound thing I can think at the moment. Your jaw muscles cramp and give out before your stomach gets full. The legs are like unappreciative children- taking, taking without a thought except being satisfied. Try as I might to feed them and do my best, just like a parent, it is like throwing pubic hairs on a fire- they go up in smoke before they even hit the flames.

My brain has turned into cycling putty. Does the brain need stimuli from its surroundings to create thoughts? Perhaps I am happy like a Buddhist is happy. All thoughts are blown clear, in one ear and out the other. Happy like a clueless monk. Not sad cause you need a thought to be sad. Happiness a default state from a lack of thoughts? Perhaps. Ignorance is bliss, and this landscape is bliss inducing.

Morning. Dew and a grumbling stomach. The Swiss German has already packed camp and split.

Shadows of showers approach and I hop back in the saddle to try and outrun the weather. Rain means lighter wind, but then again, you are getting wet. From a squinty grimace I can see an abandoned farm house about 500 meters on the other side of a barb-wired fence keeping sheep and ostriches from becoming road kill. Each of the four bags were removed from my bike and I threw my bike over the fence, only getting one sensitive underarm caught in the barb wire. The animals scattered as I approached the empty hut with broken windows and I cautiously scanned for any guard dogs. None seen. Although there is a lock on the door it is only for appearance and I am able to get inside and take a respite from the weather and cook up a warm spaghetti meal for myself, and then take a one hour nap on my blue roll out foam while listening to my iPod on my little battery powered speakers. I am in squatter heaven. All it takes is a little trespassing to feel so free free free! I slept like a baby with mononucleosis, and upon waking the clouds had dissipated. Voila! I considered staying the night in this wind and water proof miracle of modern engineering- never had shelter been so appreciated.

I decided to take advantage of the good weather and pushed onward. Good choice. 30 min later it is raining again and I am looking for a place to set up camp, in the rain. That is always fun.
I pulled up to 90km for the day and found another great spot under some trees in a field of sheep, again, just a barb-wired fence jump away. My wind and rain tree block I had picked from the roadside also happened to be the best spot for the sheep to take cover. They scattered as I approached and I was left to find a sheep poop heaven of a camp ground. Along the route I have seen sign-posts warning of mine fields (you want to make sure NOT to hop those fences and camp there!) left over from the cold war between Chile and Argentina in the late 70's. Now I am in a different minefield of sorts, a sheep shit mine field. I cleared a place and put down the tarp and read in my tent under the pitter patter of rain droplets collecting and dropping from the tree above. Nature's drum solo played all night accompanied by the ¨blahahahah, blahahahaah¨ of the woolly clad singers. At times I do enjoy this parsimonious existence. In the morning, like the fog in my eyes, the countryside looked like gorillas in the mist. Goose bumps wont do, I had pterodactyl bumps.

Caption, ¨Sheep shit mine field.¨

The always predictably unpredictable weather continued. The wind subsided and I flew through the countryside like a horse freed from pulling a wagon. 26km in one hour. I stopped to refuel and unload. The well water I have been drinking gives me stomach cramps with period-like bloating (ladies, you know what I am talking about). My movements are profound as they are poetic and I imagine a tracker being mistaken for an existence of a Shetland pony in the area. These are not your feeble ´ribbon´ India traveling breed of movements. These make you want to light a pipe, nestle one hand under your elbow and ponder with a confidently tilted head.

Lighter and hopped up on chocolate I sang at the top of my lungs until I gasped for air while pumping as hard as I could. I thought the chain would break or my wheels would dissolve into gummy bears. The downhill joy of arriving into Puerto Natales had me yelping like a wolf with its nuts in a rat trap. Pure animalistic joy and a smile that I could feel giving me permanent wrinkles. Arriving in Puerto Natales damp and rainbows burned in my cornea I had finished another leg of a journey that has no end point.

Caption, ¨One of the many rainbows. Sometimes you see something amazing and you cannot muster the ganas to stop the flow of biking to take the photo to remember the moment. This time I did even though it was the least spectacular.

Where does the time go?

It was another pointless test of endurance on a 50 hour bus ride departing from my ´home´ in Buenos Aires for a return to the saddle starting in Ushuaia and heading North without a destination. The 50 hours passed uneventfully where I read, listened to music while watching the seemingly endless treeless Patagonia tundra passing, and fell in love with an Italian for an hour while sitting next to a Chilean lady breastfeeding her 2 year old child every 10 minutes. The kids was asking for ´teta´, meaning tit.

Caption: ¨Ushuaia, the southern most city in the world, so they say.¨
Caption: ¨Good wine, great steaks and better conversations. New found friends from Wales and Bulgaria.¨

I would take breaks from my all consuming book, Mysteries by Knut Hamsun, to watch the happiest animals playing I have ever seen. Horses were bucking and chasing each other like kids playing tag in nature´s yawning expanses. Lamas and big fluffy sheep were bumping and bounding over each other while curious foxes darted across the road. The land gets flatter, more windy, and the days longer the farther south we get until we finally arrive at the bottom of South America in a town called Ushuaia on the island of Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire).

Caption, ¨An hour before the storm.¨

After taking a month break from riding I was anxious to get going so instead of trekking in the National Park of Tierra del Fuego I opted to purchase 4 days worth of food and hit the road going north immediately. It was a good choice. I left and right away within the first 50km a storm rolled in and I took cover next to a lake appropriately named Lago Escondido (Hidden Lake). I found a path and maneuvered my bike on foot down to the waterfront with a curious excitement in my belly. It was pure wilderness camping on the bank of a unpopulated lake. It was the perfect spot. Alone. I mean really alone. I cooked up a pasta, took some clean water from the lake that was once a clear blue glacier, and then saw the storm come in. The wind and rain battered my little tent with me in it for 24 hours straight. Great, is this what biking Patagonia is going to be like? The wind gusts gave birth to Wizard of Oz dreams of fly spinning up into the air. I read, and ate, and slept, and read, and ate, and slept. When I finally poked my head outside the tent the surrounding hills were covered in a layer of powder sugar snow. Is this summertime?

Caption, ¨An hour later once the storm rolled in. Looks and felt foreboding.¨

I continued onward until I made it to Tolhuin situated on the banks of the Lago Fagnano. This is where the wind starts and really does not stop until you get 500 km North. The winds get up to 120kph and create 3 meter waves (9 foot) in the lake from the wind swell. It is really not so much a gust as a constant blast of wind, like sticking your head out a car doing 60 mph. Now try to ride your bike in that with full luggage bags that act as open umbrellas towed behind you. Luckily there was a camp ground with wind breaks set up so your tent does not blow away.

The wind blows and blows, and blows your body heat away, then blows your moisture out of your skin and eyeballs, and eventually blows your patience away. I continued North. Wait, did I mention that most of the people bike WITH the wind, going South, not like me, going North right into the headwind? It doubles the travel time and takes 3x the effort and energy. At first I thought, ¨Well, against the wind, how bad can it be?¨ Let me tell you, far worse than one imagines.

As I was saying, I continued North to Rio Grande and did some more wilderness camping along the way in a field filled with sheep and guanacos (lamas). These curious creatures would come check me out then get frightened and scamper off. Birds flew into my tree area protected from the wind and chirped away while I read my book and jotted down some notes basking in the sun under my cowboy hat. This was a truly peaceful spot, and I think the fox I saw agreed with me too. Thoughts flew around my head along with the birds. Is the experience about enduring or to give you a new appreciation of creature comforts you have once the experience is over? At this moment the experience is the enjoyable part. I have comfort, food, water, time, and great weather- from my protected spot, in a good warm mood, I can hear the invisible hand of the wind pass over the tree tops and it sounds like a roller coaster made of cotton candy passing- but only 48 hours ago I was just surviving to get out of an uncomfortable situation. Then a quote from my book Mysteries makes me laugh out loud, ¨The world maintains that no rational man or woman would have chosen this way of life - therefore it is madness.¨ I guess so. It makes me realize that I am strange, even for strangers in strange lands. A ´list´ of items to check off in life does not exist for me, rather I have whims. Yes, I agree, the word whim is as flimsy as it sounds but somehow it has gotten me this far.
Caption,¨Direccion Obligatoria. Ya, sometimes it feels that way in life.¨

Caption, ¨Whimsical camping.¨

The next morning I get up yet again without the sound of an alarm clock. A breakfast of dried fruits, nuts, oats and chocolate fill up the gas tank for 2 hours of pedaling before the next gas stop. Exactly 2 hours later the last of the trees were behind me and the wind began punishing me for everything I did in my life and my last life and my future lives. A constant 40kph headwind was being grounded against by my two steeds and Falcor, my thighs and my bike respectively, while tucked into a ball and wind tears arched down my cheeks. It was a grueling ride and once I got to Rio Grande I checked into a hostel to recuperate and think about what the hell I was doing in Patagonia battling these winds. Talking to the local I was griping about the strong wind and he says, ¨Strong Wind?¨ with a hearty chuckle. ¨This is a breeze!,¨ and he continued to laugh.
¨Oh, jesus and baby jesus,¨ I thought. No way. This is bad.
The trees in Patagonia are bent over and wind blown to one side, as crooked as my back will be after this experience.

Caption, ¨I was thinking, why would anyone live here? I still am wondering.¨

Rio Grande is a wind scorched forlorn shack-filled shit box designed with all the love and personality that only a gas company could urban plan, its only industry besides sport trout fishing.

I left after two nights rest from Rio Grande with a Swiss German couple that had just started their trip that is scheduled to last 2 years all the way up to Alaska. And I do mean ´scheduled´ in the way that only a Swiss German could plan it with GPS, laptop, personally designed biking shirts, and an alternator that can charge all their electronic devices from the motion of the wheels. It is a classic case where technology trumps common sense. They have spent a small fortune with every outdoor/biking gadget ever invented and have managed to pack their entire house, including, I think, a kitchen sink and their couch with them. They have too much shit. The bike frames look like a paper clip about to buckle under the strain. I love getting behind them and watching them ride these two sloppy drunk cows down the road struggling against the wind. While they are both ´in shape´ they are still getting used to the weight and the long days in the saddle. It makes me realize that I am in now fit and can ride, although before I did not notice it. I rode in the front of them to break the intense headwind, but they still could not keep up and told me, ¨You take off like a rocket!¨
¨No, you just have too much shit,¨ I tell them, but it is a little bit of both that is true. I call out, ¨Ok, lets take a rest for food and water. It´s been about two hours.¨
The Swiss German reply was,¨It will be two hours at 8:17¨.
I am not joking. He said 8:17: We had to ride until 8:17 to stop even though I called out a rest at 8:10.

Caption,¨The sloppy drunk overloaded Swiss German water buffalos before the crash. End of pavement.¨

It is the first time since I started in Sept that I have biked with company. There are positive and negatives. In general company is nice, but then again we are talking about all the spontaneity and exciting conversation of a sweet, but dorky Swiss German couple that has the same sense of humor as a Whiffle ball bat, wait, that is not fair to the Whiffle ball bat, a bicycle pump.
There are often outbursts of Swiss German words coming from either one of the couple as if they hit their thumb with a hammer or they forgot one of their massive bags at a stop 100km behind, or their tent is on fire, but nope; it is usually about something like, ¨Where did I put that sausage?¨ Meanwhile I have sprung to my feet ready to attend to a tragedy.

Two Italian men bikers approach us and we exchange pleasantries. They continue on and the Swiss German couple remarks, ¨They were so typically Italian.¨ HA! I thought, I am sure they thought the same about you two, and come to think about it, me too, being American.

Caption, ¨Shelter.¨

Our days started earlier now because the winds pick up at 9am and are strong until 6pm, but it is light out until nearly 11pm so we can always ride in the evenings too. The Swiss Germans, who when unpacked look as if grenades have gone off in their bags, need 2 hours to get prepared in the morning. I tell them to wake me up half way through packing, and we leave at 6am each morning. By 8am the winds hit and by 10am the winds reach up to 70 or 90 kph and make traveling impossible. We would take refuge in a river gully, or behind a shed, and make pasta and read while being baked in the sun cause there is no shade now, not until you reach the city. With a mild headwind we can still make 15kph an hour but with wind it drops down to about 4kph and that is with every ounce of force you have in your body. The wind blasting past your ears is deafening and really annoying (again, picture head out the window on the freeway). It is so bad that I put in ear plugs and I can hear my deep breathing and pounding heart. This cannot be good for you. We still manage to average 50 to 60km a day by riding in the mornings and evenings.

Caption, ¨All trees have blown away. Flat flat flat.¨

We are riding on ´ripio´, or dirt/pebble roads. I tell the couple to watch out cause the load they are carrying can be a little dangerous and make a tire slide out. Less than an hour later the guy does a full shoulder face plant at 20kph into the ground with his feet locked into the pedals. A pure pancake slap to the ground, and skid. Ouchie. I almost ran over his head but managed to stop. He was banged up but luckily no broken collar bone or arm. I was expecting the worse from how he fell. As graceful as a giraffe on ice skates.

Caption, ¨Look at that proud smile. I thought he was done for.¨

Once in a while we pass people biking south and they are chipper as can be with big smiles painted on their faces. We are dug into WW I bunkers waiting for a respite to continue the drudgery. It is a relatively fun free experience. My hands are so wind chapped and used from setting up camp and tinkering with the bike that they have started to crack in the folds making them painful to move. No showers. The filth is caked on. Hair is heavy and oiled. We continue to ride. We wake up and it is 4 C degrees, and with wind chill it goes down to -5 C degrees.

My notes from my journal are short and sweet. ¨Tierra del Fuego can kiss my ass!¨ I have also had a spate of strange nightmares that I wont go into at the moment. You get the idea, it´s a constant torment. I realize that a day without wind or rain in Patagonia does not exist and I will have to deal with that reality. I justify everything by hoping this wind will get me over my hatred of wind. I have always disliked wind since I was a kid, so in comparison, after this trip of a month battling against the wind, nothing will seem windy ever again. I will be old and my kids will be able to say, ¨We know, we know...when you were in Patagonia, now that was windy. This is nothing...¨.

On the bright side I have never been so happy for a windless moment. Ever. It´s so nice it makes you believe in God. The countryside, with innocent puffy white clouds seemingly impervious to the winds, is postcard perfect and puts bubbles in your blood when the beauty catches you off-guard.

Caption, ¨Blood bubbles.¨

Slow days of fast wind. My moods swing with the weather. The couple wants to go slowly, but I want to get out of the elements and on the last day I push myself 85km in headwinds to make the boat from Porvenir to Punta Arenas where a hot shower and a windproof bed awaits. The couple wants to take it easy, and that is fine. With my new found freedom I took off like a ferret released from a cage. I put on music and smiled and sweat the whole way to the boat. It was liberating.

Caption, ¨Dinner.¨

I am now ´a free man´ again and resting in Punta Arenas for 4 nights. I am leaving tomorrow alone, and would have left this morning but the bike shops were closed yesterday, Sunday. So instead I leave Tuesday morning to battle more wind all the way to Puerto Natales (250km) where I will be meeting up with Amy, my friend from Madrid, to continue biking together. Much welcome company.

B.A. Travel Romance Revisited

I remember holding in my hands Grandma´s stiff wrinkled finger when I was no more than 5 or 6 years old. Leaning over, she was showing me a thorn from a rose bush buried in her skin from when she had fallen a year ago. It was just now working its way to the surface. With the other hand she pointed to the bushes in the backyard and told me to go play, have fun, but be careful of the thorns. Thorns. Splinters. Splinters of the past. Sometimes they get so deep under the skin and you cannot get them out. Three quick long years have passed since the last time I saw Maggi here in Buenos Aires. The weather and the women are exactly the same as before; hot. But why am I here again? I make it a rule not to revisit places unless it is for a good reason. Am I retracing steps to make sure I did not miss anything? Does time change soured relations into good ones?

Wandering the streets I find myself happy to be back in civilization because it is familiar and offers a degree of anonymity but then I get this creeping feeling up my spine. Looking around I see responsible people hustling to work, buying groceries for the family and driving nice cars. In a nutshell, sensible and the opposite of me. Being in a dusty backpacker town in Ecuador or Colombia you have the weak pretense of ´exploring´, but here in a real city you are long haired loafer.

Maggi is one of these responsible city dwellers and absorbs me effortlessly into her life´s routine. She houses me and goes to work with regular hours leaving me this strange isolated life outside the hostel world. I soak up the solitude and immerse myself in reading, writing emails and dancing naked in front of mirrors. It´s nice to have a home on the road and take a break from the meet and greet sessions and the unsettling electric bustle of the hostel circuit.

South of the equator and it is a humid summertime Christmas and New Year. The first round of socializing is with the family for the ever-so-delicate and awkward traveler´s Christmas Story, in Spanish. The family is cautiously happy to see me revisit their daughter and sister. Lets say there was less gusto seen in their faces than the first time I blew through town. Obviously they know the story will be much like the last time I was here- a friendly visit and a departure leaving their loved one sadder than before I was there.

At least I can speak with them in Spanish on this visit and get to know them on a different level. The father translates for a living and is fluent in English so we indulge in side conversations. The younger gay brother knows 4 words in English- funny enough they happen to be ¨blow job¨ and ¨cum shot¨- so we were able to get to know each other on this trip much better than before. Most of Christmas Eve I spent nursing a glass of Sprite attentively listening to a 6 way conversation about people I have never met and trying to wrap my head around this new Argentinian accent. Maggi would reach out to touch my knee, check on me and ask if I was bored because I was not speaking. I was fine, but completely lost. I did what I always do in these situations- find the outcast of the group, someone who is equally as lost as I am, and start a conversation with them. You can always count on Grandma.
Caption, ¨Brother with 4 word English vocabulary, on the right. Other brother with his Penelope Cruz looking girlfriend. Damn you Argentina!¨

Grandma is 91 years old and frighteningly sharp. Her son came over with a filled glass in each hand, ¨Mom, do you want wine or Coca-Cola?¨
¨Wine,¨ she says. ¨Which one is the wine?¨
¨They are both wine, mother.¨
¨Well give me both then,¨ laughing at her own cleverness. She was sweet and reminded me of my own grandmother, and like her, she had lived a great life and each laugh was a laugh in the face of death cheated. Ready to go, but enjoying each extra moment. You are defenseless talking to a woman like this and you sit back to soak up the knowledge and emanating light. Maggi´s Grandma spoke sentences in English, German, French, and Italian to test my language skills. I failed miserably, of course. When you are that old you are allowed to show off like that. She recounted stories of her childhood of how the siblings went off to Europe to learn languages, ¨The boys would learn German and the girls French or English. The journey to Europe took 19 days; this was in the 1920´s, you know.¨ Argentina, or I guess I should say Buenos Aires, has always considered itself connected with Europe even though it is geographically connected with the rest of Latin America. Argentina has a deep disdain for its neighbors and will take a trip to Europe thousands of kilometers away rather than step foot in a place like Bolivia or Ecuador. I enjoy talking to the idealistic Argentinian Marxist as much as the racist Grandma. Both fascinate me, although I do not agree with either of them, but neither offends me with their polarized views because they are products of their environments. Are not we all?

Later I rejoin the group conversation when the rhythm has slowed down from the initial excitement of seeing each other and now I am able to keep pace and contribute. No questions are asked about my life or my stupid biking mission and I know why; Maggi has briefed them beforehand. My story, and reputation, has preceded me. I feel as if the frosty reception received earlier in the night has begun to melt and they begrudgingly accept Maggí´s judgment in allowing me back in her life, if even for a short period, and they do the same.

Maggi is great. She lets me be me by spending the day reading, writing, cooking and listening to music. It goes well with her temperament since she needs the first 8 hours of the day to wake up, thus allowing us to do our separate things. Each day we have a deep talk and an intimate moment. We see the craziness within each of us, laugh and bask in it, and proceed with realistic happiness and one foot cautiously covering the break.

Caption, ¨Maggi.¨

The next gathering is a family affair along with Maggí´s friends for New Year´s. New Year is a strange time of year. The expectations of what you will be doing when the clock strikes midnight mixed with the resolutions and sadness of hoping for a new year.

Maggi´s friends, like the family, is less excited to see me, and for a mix of confusing reasons so am I.

Like a scientist taking a random sample at different times in the same location for a study I notice that the couples that were couples three years ago are still together and the single ones are still single and searching. Could that be a coincidence? Then I think about me traveling 3 years ago as well, and what my friends were doing three years ago, and nearly all of them are doing the same thing. Does time move that fast, or that slow? Does that show the true paths, or path of least resistance, of each of those people? Am I ´doomed´ to continue my world meanderings like a scrap of paper in the wind?

I was being paranoid and the friends all warmed up to me with cold drinks. Genuine hugs and smiles were shared amongst playing catch up on each others lives. I was amazed on how much you can remember about a group of people met for a short period of time so long ago. I already know the over-dramatic sigh and look from the corner of the eye of Sebastian to his girlfriend, the curious way Nati ashes her cigarette, and the smell of Maggi´s neck. The older I get the more I perceive that each day is important, and each interaction with people and your surroundings leaves its mark, forever. Nostalgic brain slivers and heart splinters.

Getting up to fill my glass I run into another Grandma. She pulls out a chair for me and slaps the cushion for me to take a seat. She wants to know where I have been and where I am going. She is another treasure chest full of memories and iridescence. Her thin lips moved and her eyes danced as she told me where to go in Patagonia, the languages she speaks, and crossword puzzles she does. ¨If you want strong legs then you bike, if you want a strong mind then you do crossword puzzles.¨ And she is right. Speaking with her gave me that fleeting sentiment to take care of yourself, just in case you live that long. She stood up from her chair and with a flair for dramatics she looked down on me, ¨Guess how old I am?¨
Hmm, these kinds of questions I hate, ¨55?¨
¨Ha! Higher!¨
¨65?¨ A head shake, ¨75?¨, a prouder head shake, ¨82?¨, not yet, ¨87?¨.
¨Ok, now you have gone to far. 85,¨ and she stood there with her chin up and looking off to nowhere in particular to let me study her. I was looking at a triumphant 4 year old child pleased with itself while receiving praise from the parents for not wetting the bed the night before, not an 85 year old woman with a life time worth of living. I wanted to give her a big hug. She was too adorable. It is the big circle of life before our very eyes, from child to adult to child again.

Caption, ¨Maggi´s dad celebrating New Year´s like a real Argentinian man- cig in one hand and a gun that sounded like a goddamn hand cannon. In blue is his novia from Paraguay and next to her, one of the lovely grandmas who was up until 4am chatting the night away.¨

Now the Aunt wants a go at me and waves me over. She is sitting in a corner flanked by her husband and Maggi´s step mother from Paraguay. Like most conversations of the evening we have to start with the topic of languages. ¨So you have an Italian passport? Do you speak Italian?¨ she asks me.
¨Nope,¨ slightly ashamed but we are speaking in Spanish.
¨Oh,¨ shaking her head, ¨this is horrrrrrrible.¨
¨I know. Thank you,¨ is all I can muster to say but I really want to do is give her a compliment on her voice. It´s deep and sexy. Well sexy if you think sounding like a man with vocal chords bathed in whiskey and hickory smoked with Marlboros for 40 years is sexy. She should opt for the more natural sounding robotic voice box replacement surgery so as to not scare the children.
¨I speak Italian,¨ of course she does.
The meek husband adds to the conversation for the first time, ¨The most common error Argentinians make is believing that they can speak Italian.¨ I love this guy. Unfortunately it is the last time I hear his voice until goodbyes at the end of the night. The Aunt goes on a vicious monologue. ¨Well my grandmother was from Milan...¨ she goes on speak about 6 grandparents in all (huh?) and she speaks each of their languages, carried in the blood I suppose, from each different country. She goes on rambling about languages for the next 15 minutes throwing in an English word here and there just to show me she speaks fluently, which she does not.
She made the mistake of leaving a slight pause to catch her breath in her pontificating and I was able to ask Maggi´s step-mom a question to include someone else in the conversation, ¨So I know they speak a different language there in Paraguay.¨
She replies, ¨Yes, it´s Guaraní¨
And then wouldn´t you know, the Aunt is an expert on Paraguay and Guaraní too! Never mind the lady who was born there and speaks the language. This speech was a tactless and clueless masterpiece. ¨Oh yes, I know all about Guaraní since I had three servants from Paraguay. This was back when I had my other husband. When I had money.¨ The husband gets up and walks away while she continues digging the hole she is quite comfortable sitting in, ¨You see, I am from the city but I am not like the city folk. It´s as if I am provincial. I speak to everyone, even to all my servants, which is why I know about Guaraní. And I would treat them all very well. Well except one who stole from me. I had to throw her out. And I threw her out with the police, I did. The funny thing about Guaraní is soup means tortilla. I did not know this so I had my servant make a ´soup´ for my guests and out comes this embarrassing thing. I told her no, that will not do. You have to make a proper soup. She returned later with another soup but it was like no soup I had seen before....¨ and on and on she went until Maggi´s step mom got up as well and left me alone with this raspy woman who knows everything except for the fact she is annoying. I see Maggi sitting on the couch laughing and talking to her friends. I am trapped in a whirlpool and there is no way to gracefully exit. Maggí calls out, ¨Come here, you need to meet my friend,¨ and I excused myself from the table. Saved.

Back on the white leather couch with the 30 year old ´kids´ they are all laughing. ¨You got caught by my Aunt. We were enjoying you suffer from here,¨ now everyone is taking enjoyment from my pain. Ha Ha.
Lying, ¨Ya, well I could have taken another two hours.¨
The whole group in disbelief, ¨No, no, it´s not true!¨
Maggi chimes in, ¨Ya, it´s true. He is like an Anthropologist. He is doing research.¨ This makes me laugh. It´s funny to see how others see you.

Sebastian turns to me, ¨Lets speak English. I want to practice my English.¨ This is always entertaining. Everyone in the group has studied English for at least 7 years but only 2 of them can really speak. Usually conversations start awkwardly with phrases like, ¨What do you want to talk ABOUT?¨ But this time it starts differently. Sebastian´s girlfriend can hardly put a sentence together so he turns to her and says, ¨Your sphincter is too loose.¨ Then he turns to me and gives me the sly wink that only a genius can do. Sebastian is one of those rare characters you meet once in a blue moon. Blessed with a giant presence; he is as intelligent as he is compassionate. He is likable with no effort.
Caption: ¨Sebastian, on the right.¨

With the impetus of just finishing an endless round of toasting with RedBull and champagne I am rife with giggles while Sebastian is on his feet acting out his story of constipation on his last road trip. I was laughing so hard that I forgot I was hearing the story in Spanish. It was one of those times when you realize you are in the moment and that realization makes the bubble pop on the magic. Like the biggest lies of all time, ¨I love you¨ and ¨I am so happy right now¨, both are better never said leaving the lips. They are moments that can only be felt and not said. The act of putting crude and coarse words to such beautiful ephemeral feelings separates you from the act and ruins it.
I really should have made a New Year´s resolution to quit moralizing. I hear it is harder than nicotine to kick.

With the holiday festivities behind I find myself daydreaming on a bus in the city, listening to music and looking out the window thinking of the fireworks that accompanied both Christmas and New Years. It was like Baghdad. After the 113 hour bus ride I notice city rides are so short you get interrupted by arriving at your destination just as you get lost in a thought.
The bus pulls away and I am walking the streets in autopilot to a park. Staring down I try to grasp at that aborted thought but it´s lost forever with the bus fumes. A hopeless feeling, like a scrap of paper with an important number blowing out of your hands and off the balcony on the 11th story. Lost thoughts, lost memories. Maybe that is why I am back here in Buenos Aires. To revisit lost memories. Memories buried in the skin that would never be triggered if you did not retrace your steps. Sad to think of memories that will never return. Nostalgia lost.

The buses´ pneumatic hiss and hiss and hiss bite my ears like snakes hugging the gutters up and down the streets. The svelte women of B.A. pass by me with a runway determination but I know that aloof look is fueled by a sour feeling from smoking cigarettes on an empty stomach. These women will only look at you if you have another girl in hand, and that makes me smile. My heart swells with something like joy. I come across an old friend; a wooden bench where I spent past afternoons losing myself. Like looking into a mirror for the first time in 3 years I see the changes in the bench, the changes in me. Sitting down with a creak, nostalgia grabs me by the throat.
Things are familiarly different. The lacquer has worn off and some of the wooden slats are cracked. Running my hands over the back of the bench absentmindedly I watch the rollerbladers and joggers stopping for their smoke breaks. ¨Ouch! Dammit.¨ A splinter in my finger. I shift in my seat and hear my heart creak. Digging at the sliver I cannot reach. Love weary and false kisses.