A Little Taste of Civilization

I felt everyone´s eyes burning on me as I walked into the restaurant. I was too tired to care. It reminded me of my days back at Holy Cross when my buddies and I would grab a cheap beer and a hotdog down at the local dive bar called Herbie´s. We would shuffle in, and every local would turn in their seats and stare with intense disdain. I caught the same looks now in the restaurant. It must be the pack I thought. My bag never fails to draw attention. Since I started this trip a little under a month ago, my pack grew. It started as the size of an average 11 year old boy. Now it is a hefty adolescent whose parents have let it fall victim to a critical eating disorder. Its an awkward sight as well. Sneakers hang from a caribeaner which also holds a tin pot. In the pot is a canister of cooking fuel, and a wooden spoon that protrudes out. A plastic cup sits like a hat on the handle of the spoon. Walking around I feel as though I am wearing a classic one man band outfit with the big base drum on my back, cymbals hanging everywhere. Im just missing the harmonica and tambourine. The bag is literally filled to the brim. Not the slightest bit of space for anything. When leaving the last camp site I had to force feed myself three bags of nuts. There was simply no room for them. The bag looms over my head and extends far out on each side. Before making any moves, I have to plot my steps and gauge the space. I spotted a table in the corner where I could drop my bag. It had a safe, wide route to the table. Perfect.

Now seated, and my bag stowed across the table from me, I continued to captivate the attention of my fellow patrons. After ordering my steak, I went to the bathroom. It was the first time I had seen my reflection in a week. So this is what they are staring at. A bewildered person I did not know stared back at me in the mirror. The lower half of my face beamed in a bright blond beard. The limits of my facial hair were marked with a line of sunblock mixed with dirt. Beneath each nostril was dirt. Just below my hair line was an inch wide line of dirt. Every crease of my face and neck was defined with dirt. My nose was cast in several shades of red and pink- as if a painter had placed the tones with a pallet knife. My hair was tangled into four main nests. Looking down, my clothes were darkened with sweat. They must think im a beggar, I laughed to myself. Here for some free bread and water.

Sitting there, my first time indoors in nine days, I reflected on the last month. With each day my the traveling lifestyle becomes the norm and the former comforts of home fade into memory. An increased awareness of people has developed within. For instance, I can determine with considerable accuracy where someone is from by watching their mouth move. Argentines form their words quickly and with a grace that resembles the tango. Israelis drag their words along, and they seem to be in some discomfort when they speak. Aussies and Americas open their mouths wider than others.

My ear has also become tuned to various forms of Spanish. Argentines speak a distinct Spanish. Instead of using the you informal tense (tú) when speaking to someone, they use the vosotros form (which translates as ´yall´ in English). They also have a range of words only used in Argentina. This was a point of great confusion in the beginning. Before I came on this trip, Spanish was just Spanish to me. Now, when I speak to someone from Mexico for instance, I am immediately aware of the regional differences.

The idiosyncrasies of Argentina creep into my sense of normalcy. Toilet paper is not flushed here. It is thrown out in a barrel. ATMs only give hundred peso notes, but stores often refuse to change them. Soap is a rarity in most places. Smoking is allowed in bars which guarantees the need to wash one´s clothing after a night at the club. Dinner is served at 11. A night out at the bars begins at 1230 and ends at six or seven in the morning. Empanadas are the best cheap meal. Everyday I feel more at home here.

After spending a few days healing in Bariloche, I am taking a 36 hour bus ride south to Chalten. There I will hike, camp and fish around Mt. Fitzroy. The southern part of Argentinean Patagonia is spectacular. I can´t wait!