This must be the place...

A new light fell upon the city as I departed my hostel and made my way to the Retiro Bus Station to set out southwest to Bariloche. This new light was not an optimistic light. Rather, the city was cast in sad shades of reality. Managing my way down the crowded streets, swaying left and right from my systematically stuffed pack, a small boy approached me. With matted hair and sleep in his eyes, he raised his small soiled palm to me. ¨Monera¨, he pleaded. The boy´s sullen eyes told the sad story of his missing childhood. Emptying my pockets of change into the cradle of his hands, I walked away entirely numbed to the commotion around me. I had never witnessed a child, so young and so vulnerable, pleading for money. With the image tattooed on my conscience, the city brimmed with displays of this travesty. Walking along the Avenidad de Libertad towards the bus station, I saw a small boy dressed up in a Santa costume- beard and all. The boy´s brow glistened in the midday heat as he marched down the line of cars with both hands out to receive any change. His mother sat slumped amidst the exhaust, waiting for the boy to return. For the rest of the day, my mind returned to these scenes and struggled to rationalize them. In the end, there were no answers.

At 1910, I boarded the luxury coach to head to San Carlos de Bariloche. Escaping from the sweltering scene of the bus station, I entered the air conditioned bus, slid into my seat and let cool relief wash over me. I was leaving the city. Dios Mio.

14 hours later I woke to the roar of the down shifting bus. Casting my gaze past my fellow passenger Carlos, a name I only new from scanning the seat assignments when first entering, I let my eyes glaze to the passing landscape. Over the next five hours, I watched the scenery bloom. First was the vast nothingness of arid planes that reached for the horizon. Then came ranges of stripmined peaks. As the hours past, these plateaus gave way to powerful mountains and deep blue lakes. Excitement boiled in my chest with each new scene. I danced from window to window. Gripping my chest, I futilely sought to curb my elation. I must have looked like a small child moments away from wetting himself.



Finally after 21 hours, the bus turned off to the Bariloche station. Emerging from the coach, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. The air was cool, clean, and immensely satisfying. I stood there for several moments, pulling at the air with my lungs. I felt liberated. Liberated from the city. Liberated from the bus. Liberated from all the fantasies I brewed for months. Beholding the humbling landscape was like seeing my family again. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. Slipping into a cab, paralyzed in a painful smile, I rolled down my window and popped my head out. Bob Marley´s ´Is this Love played on the cabby´s radio. I was there. I was here. I was home. PATAGONIA.