OH MY GOSH I WROTE A REAL BLOG

Love Yourself

I realized I should probably update this with something of content, rather than a sappy montage of my emotional vomit. J

November 14, 2011

Well, I’m all packed. And by all packed I mean I’m not even close to all packed, but some articles of clothing are folded and in my suitcase, which is new for me.

Most of my friends left for the States (or other travel destinations) this past Saturday, so I’ve been enjoying the city sunshine by myself, while missing them, and saying my goodbyes to the rest of my new loves here in Buenos Aires. And on Wednesday morning at 6 am (KILL ME) I fly out to Quito, Ecuador to see an old love, Sara Randolph.

I.                    CANT.           WAIT.

The last couple of weeks have been a rollercoaster.  I’ve been weirdly emotional—mostly because I am saying so many sporadic goodbyes, preparing myself to return to the States, and getting everything set up for my return in March, for the next semester.  

Otherwise, my life has been a sort of rollercoaster in itself, and I’ve learned a lot lately, with the most recent happenings. I guess, what I’ve learned, is that life never turns out the way you expect it to—which is oddly beautiful and so incredibly frustrating.  For example: I lost my keys two weeks before moving out, the same night that I lost my ticket to the Strokes. I bawled my little eyes out to my host family, who hugged me and threw me a pity party. I bought another ticket and still saw them, and almost cried they were so good. My headphones were stolen. I saw the most beautiful waterfalls in the world, and was literally short of breath. The first day we tried to go, it torrential down poured. I moshed for ten straight hours and fell madly in love with David Guetta and electronic music festivals. We moshed until the sun came up.  It took us 3 hours to get home the next day. I stopped eating sugar. I went to GayPride where 100,000 other people were rooting for equality. I stopped drinking alcohol (for the most part).   I said goodbye to some of the best (and weirdest) people I know, with a promise lingering that we’ll see each other again. I started running again. My host family charged me a hundred bucks to stay an extra 3 days. They also told me I looked pretty today. And the list goes on…

How could I possibly complain about any of the bad things on that list, with all of the overwhelming beauty?

Regarding  the upcomings: seeing Sara, seeing Ecuador, going home, landing on Thanksgiving. Seeing little Chase. Seeing the family. Being home for the opening of the new restaurant. Making money. Leaving the 5^th of January, meeting up with Sarah Abel (a kiwi from NZ with an American accent) and travelling from Costa Rica back down to Buenos Aires, to start a whole new adventure.

More updates to come.

For now, I’m meeting my girlfriends at The Office, for half priced heavenly hamburgers made with Argentine meat. Jealous?

Xoxo,  B

Ode to Them

She said you're a ramblin' man

You ain't ever gonna change

You got a gypsy soul to blame

And you were born for leavin'

A couple years back, I told my mother that, someday, I would live in New York City.

I felt her frustration as she breathed loudly over the telephone. I immediately regretted saying it, but I knew it was true and awaited her response.

“Bry, everything is always about place for you. You are all about the place.”

“Well—“ I couldn’t respond.

I didn’t know how to answer and so I sat, bewildered and silent on the other end. For some reason, I was bothered by the comment. It was partially true—I had always associated my happiness and identity with place: I was a born traveler and staying in one place for too long made me antsy and hungry for more. I was a natural wanderer; it was in my bones. I knew that there was probably a deep rooted reason for my always wanting to be moving, learning, experiencing. I thrived off of change—I was happiest in movement, in a new, bigger place—somewhere I could feel bigger. I understood that. But I had never taken into consideration that maybe my mother was right: place was the reason I was addicted to travelling. I’d never taken into consideration that maybe goodbyes were easy for me, that I could leave easily, that I was born for leavin’.

That night I pulled out my journal and wrote in gigantic, furious script: Today, I change my perspective on travel—on life. Life is not about place, tangible things, money. It is, above all, about the people who give me the shivers, change me, the people who I love with everything that I am, the people who bring me down to earth, who I can be myself around, and who make me better. From now on, my ultimate goal while travelling is find this.

Before I left for Argentina, I tore that page, ragged from my journal, and shoved it into my new one, to remind me of my new task at hand.

*                 *                  *

For some reason, even since the beginning of this big adventure called “STUDY ABROAD," my friends and I in Buenos Aires are always plunging head-first into deep, philosophical conversation.

Maybe it’s because we knew, from the beginning, from those awkward introductions, that we were trudging bravely into a short lived relationship, with a promise of leaving at the end of the four months abroad. We needed to cut straight to the chase: “What are your passions, what are you all about? Tell me everything I ever need to know—including your deepest darkest secrets. You only have four months: Go.” 

Or maybe it was just because all of us were changing substantially and we justified it constantly by saying it out loud. Or maybe we’re just “those type of people.” We’ll probably never know.

Regardless of the reason, and with less than 5 days remaining with these incredible people, I can’t stop thinking about friendship while travelling. What a strange way to begin a relationship: with a taxi ride to take you away—already pre-paid and anticipated. A time limit. A contract that says you’ll hop on a plane, leave your fairytale life behind, and maybe never see the person you spent every waking moment with for the past four months again. You sign on the line that promises a pre-planned, masochistic, dreadful goodbye.

Nonetheless, we did it. We closed our eyes, didn’t hold back, signed our hearts away, and fell in love.

Now, I have less than a week and final exams coming out my ears to get everything out on the table, before we set foot into our new adventures as separate people. After a million seconds of contemplation as to how to repay you all, I decided: What better way than a letter? A dedication. A blogged thank you card. A tear jerking, overly-sappy and probably melodramatic publication of my love for you.

And so she wrote. 

Addressed to: You know who you are.

Dearest loves,

Where to even start? It seems like just yesterday, we were in the stuffy ISA office, introducing ourselves with shaky voices and hazy eyes, in a city bigger than our dreams and more polluted than our first impressions. We were awkward. Really awkward. We thought we would always be awkward, always be uncomfortable. We didn’t see the end, and now it’s here. After four short months, we’re here— 100 plus blog posts later, lessons learned, arguments under our belt, and a readiness to head home. We’re no longer scared of the awkward questions, and we don’t give a shit about getting drunk at the dance clubs—we just wanna dance, together. (Plus, we can’t afford it.) We’ve danced in the streets, flirted with homesickness, but found each other instead of tears. We’ve drifted apart, come back together, dug deeper, and fallen in love.

How lucky are we?

To be fair, this letter will never be adequate. I’ve sat hours on my bed with blank sheets of paper to write your goodbye letters. Nothing. It will never be enough to explain the jump in my stomach when someone talks about your departure. I will always change the subject. What about the feeling of loneliness that I haven’t been able to explain for the last two weeks? All because I subconsciously know that I’m going to miss you, your laugh, our laughs, our lives we’ve made here together. Bitching together. Just being.

I guess that’s what you’ve taught me, after all: how to be. How to be happy, how to be sad, how to be here.

And after everything, I’ll watch you get on the bus, probably make a joke to avoid flushed wet cheeks, and say, hesitantly, “We’ll see each other.” My hands will be shaking but I won’t notice until afterwards. I’ll wave goodbye and say chau from afar, hold back the tears until the bus skids away.

But what I really want to say is, very simply: Thank you. You were more than I expected to find, you were more than I deserved. You were the reason Buenos Aires was so life-changing, the reason I got up when I missed home more than anything. The reason I kept breathing some days. You were the reason I laughed, the reason I changed, the reason I had the time of my life for the last 4 months. You are the reason.  

But most importantly,you are proof that I am not, after all, just about the place. 

I’ll miss you.

Xox, B

You Might Be in Buenos Aires If:

Your teacher shows up 20 minutes late to class, and doesn't apologize.

You’re in the gym dressing room, and 4 out of 5 women have fake boobs.

In 75 degree weather, people are still wearing full length mink coats, scarves, boots, and sunglasses.

You’re on the bus, and there are 4 sickeningly beautiful couples swapping spit.

You’re in the boliche (club) for less than five minutes and 17 Portenos have already tried to kiss you.

You’ve stepped in dog shit today. Twice.

You don't eat dinner until 930, and you don't go out to the clubs until 2 am. 

You take a nap in between the two ^. 

Food delivery is FREE!

The men have long hair, and are prettier than the women.

Every single piece of graffiti is political.

Every fight you hear is political.

All your classes are political.

90% of your conversations end up being political.

The babies are fat and so cute you could die.

Calle is “cah-shay” and llaves are “chaw-vays.”

You go to the park and people are doing one of two things: rollerblading or drinking mate.

The most expensive bottle of red on the menu is 15 USD.

Likewise, the steaks are massive and unbelievably cheap.

You hear this phrase at least once a week: “Well, my parents are Italian, but I am argentine. (I love this)

People are having a picnic on the side of the highway. 

When you say “gracias," the person responds with “NOOOO Por favor”

There are a million kioscos (street convenient store) and they are the most useful thing ever once the stores have closed at 10pm.

Somewhere, there is always a soccer game on.

They salt their food four times, sometimes five.

You’ve eaten 12 medialunas (moon shaped pastry heaven) and 3 empanadas.  In one day.

Three people today have pulled their eye lid toward their cheek, widened their eyes and said, “cuidado.” (Be careful)

You wake up every morning without fail, to a drill sawing deep into your forehead—or more accurately: construction.

The people are beautiful. (Honestly, all of them)

Christina, the current president, is hanging everywhere you go: and the pictures could definitely use a little photoshopping. 

There are hundreds of book stores.

And boutiques—all empty (sadly) but great for window shopping.

The streets are cobblestone and always full of life.

When sun comes out and the temperature rises, the city comes alive—a sign of spring, of love, of the Porteno culture: social, loud, exciting, and posh.

       

When It Finally Becomes Home.

It’s a funny thing, the definition of home:

Home

[hohm]  noun, adjective, adverb, verb, homed, hom·ing.

noun

1.    a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household.

2.      An environment offering security and happiness.

3.      A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin.

Four weeks ago:

I find myself on the side of the road, alone, and miserably lost. My eyes are leaking, hazy in the fresh spring sunlight and I complain, out loud, that I wished I had sunglasses. Or a map, for God’s sake. I realize how crazy I look, talking to myself, mumbling curse words to the cracked sidewalk and massive buildings of Buenos Aires. I continue talking, convincing myself it’s the only way I will refrain from actually going crazy. I start to hum some Bob Dylan “Blowin’ in the wind” and consciously decide to stop mentally bitching and enjoy the walk, into oblivion and into a direction that I have no idea whether is toward home or not.

I just spent my last 15 pesos on a museum full of modern art, full of color, scribbling names of brilliant artists into my journal and jotting down my favorite pieces. A taxi or a coffee at this point is off limits without money, so I continue walking.

“I want to go alone,” I had told my roommate earlier in the day, freeing her from following me through the museum, waiting impatiently for me to find myself. “I need to get out by myself and go spend some time with some art.” Which, in reality, translated to: I feel lonely today, and I’m looking for something—anything to remind me of my Mama’s laugh, my baby cousin’s chubby hands, or the smell of my little blue truck. Mountains. My bed. Home.

This was the first time I really allowed myself to feel homesick. Although hesitant, I finally felt that knot in my stomach that many of my friends had explained to me before. You’re fine, Bryanna. You’re being dramatic. You’re in the coolest city in the world and you’re in a museum full of brilliance and magic. Isn’t this what you wanted? This is what you wanted, this is exactly what you wanted.

And so I walked, humming and talking to myself, muttering things unintelligible, letting myself go a little crazy. For the first time since arriving in beautiful Buenos Aires, I cried. Tears of sadness and tears of loneliness; the undeniable tears that come with change, that sting our face and remind us that we’re human. The tears that reminded me that, no, I am not untouchable.

Two weeks ago

I lie down on the flat ground, the salted clay beneath me molds to my body and I breathe out, loudly. There are miles of flat ground on all sides of me and I see a silhouette of someone else in the far distance. I stare up at the first stars I’ve seen in almost two months, and remember what our guide told us two days before. 

“Try to be where you are.”

So I lay there, and decide this is a prime time for soul searching. For finding myself. 

But for whatever reason, the only place I can be is with my new group of inspiring friends back at the campfire, belly laughing at inappropriate “I’ve-never-ever” jokes and speaking about our passions. The campfire where we all sat, dirty from the weekend in the mountains and in our smoky sweatpants, getting to know new people, the people I’ve “known” for almost two months, but only scratching the surface of their worlds tonight. The campfire where no one was bragging or complaining, just sharing stories and s’mores, and a whole lotta love.

While I lay there on top of the salty earth, in a silent galaxy of being alone, I feel so surrounded.  I close my eyes, a smile across my face at the thought of finally feeling like I belong.

This weekend

I sit on the curb at 3 am two blocks from my apartment, waiting for Alexis to catch the bus home. This has become a ritual of ours, so much so that we have a new friend across the street who works at the kiosco with whom we chat with in bad Spanish and has caught Alexis, more than once, dancing to await the arrival of the infamous 64.

We both sit there telling eachother yet another story of ours, and discussing the night we just had. It was just a casual Saturday night filled with spicy Mexican food (IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND IN BUENOS AIRES), new girlfriends, a spontaneous costume party, and too many laughs in between.

Her feisty, booming voice rings familiar in my ear. “I am just thinkin’ ‘bout that dulce de leche Imma have right when I get home. It’s on my list of things to eat.”

We laugh.

Our conversation and laughing pains tonight remind me of the night before, when four of us sat in the top of Starbucks, avoiding the crazy nightlife of Buenos Aires (we were exhausted from the 6 hours of dancing the night before) just talking. We quickly progressed (as close friends always seem to) into the deepest parts of ourselves, even bringing tears to the surface and latching together, closer as friends.

We spoke of family, of regret, of home. We skipped the clubs that night and decided to just hang out in a couple of unpopular night hubs—Starbucks and La continental empanadas.  And soon after, we found ourselves full of empanadas, singing and dancing in the street to music in Spanish, careless of the looks we were getting from our bystanders. We were falling deeper in love with the city, and we didn’t even know it.

These are the moments, I thought, that I'll never be able to truly capture with words.  

And later that night, in bed, I found myself crying for the second time in Buenos Aires.

Not because I missed home, but because I’d found it. 

Dear Tennyson, no one said it better.

From a tattered book with ripped pages, I turned to Tennyson's Ulysses:

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
  Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
  Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
  That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
  Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
  Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
  For always roaming with a hungry heart
  Much have I seen and known; cities of men
  And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
  Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
  And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
  Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
  I am a part of all that I have met;
  Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
  Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
  For ever and for ever when I move.

When a narrative isn't adequate, write a poem.

 Small Face

      

Her eyes are slanted inward,

Into her smile of slanted teeth.

You’re crazy, she giggles

In high pitched Spanish, black

Hair hugging a round face creased

with sorrow and experience.

She hugs me from the side, nuzzles

that small face into my breast, beaming

over the barrier of language. That

small face wished more than twice,

more than anything, all her might,

to die in that very moment, life

kicking her around, to the ground,

all over the world. Her voice soars

when she talks about her home,

home in Paraguay, with her five

hijos and a husband who sent

her to work, to make chump change

so they don’t lose the farm. Simple

clothes as gifts hug her body, barely

buying a dress for the boda of her oldest,

she says she’ll just rent it, she doesn’t

know how to shop. Liquid doesnt escape

her ducts without optimistic

inspiration and a smile: “it’s over,

so it’s okay now. Don’t cry.” Fermina

has never seen the city. Terrified

of transport, she grips our arms, fingernails,

out in the big mundo, full of the mujeres

who shoved a knife to her chest

and took her wedding ring and money,

savings lost. She cried when we invited 

her to the tango show, mostly friendless 

here in this lonely city, tourists trekking, 

stomping, parading over

her small face.

 Her homemade empanadas bake

and make the whole house smell

like love, like salt and a dash of pain.

We are the first people, she says, 

to listen to her story.

Fermina, you’re a lover and I’m a runner,

Running to forget about people like you—real

people who feel this life with every pore, every speck

of struggle, sanity, while I run away

from the smile across your face, filled

with more love than I could give if I wished hard

on our stars, shared. Fermina,

teach me to care like you do, drowning

in humanity, swallowing reality

breathing busy but grinning anyways,

giving always, giving me chills,

pouring into me real life, Waking me

from this dream.

Why We Still Have Girls' Nights

"We made a deal ages ago. Men, babies--doesn't matter. We're soulmates." -Sex and the City 

                                    ~                        ~                        ~

The most frustrating thing for a writer is, of course, not being able to write.

If you’re a writer of any sort, you know exactly what I’m talking about: the unsettling pit in your stomach when you have too much to say, but no way to say it. The angst you feel about every situation because, really, you should be at home writing, but you physically cannot force your brain to put your thoughts into coherent sentences. You lose hair. Your nails are bitten down to the nubs. You sleep too much because your sleep is mediocre and full of stressful tossing and turning, just in case your next idea comes to you in a dream. You make all situations melodramatic because—hey, that’s what writers do anyways—and maybe missing the bus because you needed Starbucks coffee in a foreign country was worthy of writing about. Or maybe not.

So, after about six days of miserable writer’s block, I have discovered a new cure.

Beer.

And chocolate.

And boy-talk.

But mostly, all of the above—with your girlfriends.

Well, maybe not a cure. But at least a bit of alleviation of the pain that is writer’s block.

But really, what can’t a good girls’ night cure?

Last night, me and four of the coolest chicks in Buenos Aires stumbled into a little German pub in a trendy little area of the city called Las Canitas, a mere six blocks from my apartment.

“God,” I groaned, desperately confused at the menu, trudging, inept in the world of Spanish once again. “What I wouldn’t give for a good wheat beer.”

Emma, with her hood on, eyebrow piercing, rubber smile and fluency in Spanish, said, “There’s a whole list right there.” And pointed to the area on the menu where I could pay 33 pesos (or approximately 8 USD) for a good, blurry wheat beer that would be the savior to my taste buds for the night.

I giddily ordered the wheat beer, while the girls got other various overpriced drinks, and we began to talk.

And then I remembered why I love my girlfriends so much.

I remembered that it doesn’t matter your geographical location; girl time is always necessary.

Last night, writer’s block and all, I sat drinking wheat beer in a bar, in the southern hemisphere of our massive, crazy world for three hours with a feisty black girl, a wannabe (and actually) hipster to the core, a sweet badass, and a laidback health nut who are all worlds different than I am. And no surprise at all: we had one of the best, most inappropriate, funniest, inspirational conversations ever. We laughed. We talked about serious things, funny things, family things. We analyzed the difficulties of life, of traveling, of our new city. We talked about boys. We, cliché as ever, bonded.

It was beautiful.

Later that night, after three hours of gawking with the girls at sexy guys across the pub, being hit on by two men who were clearly over the hill about ten years ago, and a pot of incredible chocolate fondue,  we walked Nena, (the sweet badass) to the bus stop. We stood, full of beer and chocolate, frozen from the Buenos Aires wind at 2 am together without complaining, and laughed as Nena missed the bus because we were beso-ing each other’s cheeks for too long. After a little more inappropriate conversation and seeing Nena off on the second attempt, we all went our separate ways home, to our different parts of the city.

And so there I was, after an epic night: awake and frustrated, journal open to sad, blank pages. But then I got to thinking: Every single one of us that sat at that table has immensely different interests, different tastes in drinks, different religious views, different backgrounds, different goals and different reasons for travelling.

But there we were: together.

The only thing, other than our chromosome count, that we all have in common is that we were brave enough to choose Buenos Aires as our next destination. We all ended up here, somehow, together. Together and so different, we had one of the best Buenos Aires nights so far, at a little hole in the wall German pub over some delicious chocolate, good beer and sappy, wonderful conversation.

How cool is that?

Cool enough to write about, I’d say.

Visuals of Buenos Aires

Since I just journaled for too many hours, my mind wants less reflection and more visuals. (As do you, I'm sure, after reading my wordy posts.)

Sorry about my lack of photography/video skills, they don't do justice for lovely Buenos Aires. They will, however, give you a slight view of the rich culture of art, music, and expression here in the city of Tango and empanadas.

I'll post some substance tonight.

Love and xoxo from Argentina.

B

<3 to all of you!

But I don't wanna shower!

I have not showered in three days. 

It has nothing to do with the fact that every time I shower I spend approximately 5 stressful, naked minutes using all my might violently squee-gee-ing the water into the drain in the middle of the floor, in the meantime trying to avoid chipping the rusty paint from the door, only to return to the bathroom for a quick teeth brushing session, and soak my socks twenty minutes later. (See picture to the right; not to scale)


It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm super busy-- sleeping through my 4 oclock class (yes, PM) or having a copious amount of time to facebook, write, sit in a cafe for hours on end, play my guitar, go on walks, meet some sexy South American men and speak bad Spanish in an attempt to flirt over some fernet, or sit in an ice cream shop with girlfriends for hours discussing pointless, but nonetheless, necessary and philosophical topics. 


It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm super clean. In fact, there are too many reasons (mostly being that I walk everywhere, and am so out of shape that I'm a little misty after walking up a small gradient...) that I should probably shower daily. 


Nor am I in a non-showering competition of any sort....


Nope.
None of these reasons suffice. 
It is simply because...
Ready?


Buenos 
Aires
makes 
people
lazy. 


It's not just me, I promise you. 


Do you know any other city where you're allowed to order a cafe doble solo for 16 pesos (4$US) and sit for 3 hours, just talking about nothing?


I don't.


Do you know any other city that waits until 3 am to go out on the weekends? In the meantime, spends 5 hours beforehand eating, drinking wine, shmoozing. 


Nope. 


Do you know any other city that justifies, openly, not being productive? 


Nope again. 


I'm telling you, Portenos don't move like the rest of the world. 
They take their time. 
They don't live to work. 
Or hurry. 


They simply live. 
Love. 
Talk. 
Drink wine. 
Give enough besos to make me uncomfortable. 
Yell about politics. 
Yell about everything.
Skip class.
Move slowly. 
Breeeeeathe. 


Living. 


What a concept, eh? 


I think I'll wait until tomorrow to shower. 


In the meantime, I'll be living. 
B 
(xoxo)

Dear Mountain air, I've missed you. 

A seriously heartbreaking moment when the man who weaved a beaded hemp string chopped a chunk of my hair out. I wonder if the people in Mendoza thought it was weird when I walked around talking to it?

Umm hello  I'm in love with all of you.

Beauty in the Chaos

Travelling isn’t supposed to be easy.

Or comfortable.

Or simple.

It’s filled with passion, with vicious discomfort, too many awkward moments to count, gut-wrenching culture shock, painful goodbyes, occasional loneliness, short-lived relationships, chaos, language barriers, messes.

Life is messy.

Travelling is messier.

~                           ~                          ~

This past Friday marked one month for me here in beautiful Buenos Aires, Argentina . It feels like just yesterday that I was stepping off the airplane, shaking anxious, hazy blue eyes staring into the city that I thought I’d never know. Now I’m here, still trying to find the heart of the city, spiraling each day a little more each day into the culture, the people, the language. Losing myself.

Nobody ever told me; travelling isn’t about finding yourself.

It’s about losing yourself.  

What a concept—losing yourself. What, really, does it mean?

 I suppose it means the time that I sat with my host sister in the kitchen talking about Argentina’s history for three hours instead of going out that night. Her brown eyes shined in the dim kitchen light as she imagined the pain of the 1970’s when her fellow Argentines endured the brutal dictatorship. Her English isn’t perfect and as she stared at the table with sad eyes, her voice cracked. I’ll never forget that night, when she conveyed so much passion about her country that it gave me a funny feeling in my stomach.

Or I suppose it means meeting a stranger on the collectivo (bus), and the next night meeting him and his friends, without reservation, for an apartment party full of wine, intelligent conversation and Argentine culture.

Maybe losing yourself is simply getting wild at a gay club, hands in the air to terrible poppy music that we don’t play on loud speakers nearly enough—and all your fabulous gay friends dancing ‘round you.

Maybe it’s staring, freezing and shivering, at the Andes Mountains. Or at the tallest mountain in the Americas: Aconcagua—breathtaking and massive.

Maybe it’s walking through a park on a sunny day for hours. Watching the couples kiss. The children play. The people laugh.

Maybe it’s the twinge of homesickness I feel when I hear my Mom’s voice.

Or the comfort I take in seeing my friends here. And meeting new ones every day.

Maybe it's getting a beaded yarn into your hair. In the meantime, a chunk of your hair gets cut out.

Or getting a sunburn in the moutains.

Perhaps losing yourself is standing in line with friends—freezing and eating mobile medialunas—waiting for tickets to the final “world cup” of tango.

Or giving 10 pesos to an artist who has no hands, so he uses his toes.

Or 5 pesos to a cold homeless man.

Visiting a winery in Mendoza, and understanding the tour in Spanish.            

Or getting miserably lost and loving it.               

Meeting people with endless stories, accents, skin colors, travel tips, backgrounds, reasons for wanting to lose themselves in this crazy, crazy world.

Watching the street musicians enter their own world--eyes hazy with creativity and fervor. Or wondering what it would be like to wake up every day, knowing that was your job. Truly, the life.

Or buying handmade jewelry for way-too-cheap.

Seeing the artists in action at the markets.

Seeing the poverty and yearning to do something about it. Wishing with everything that I am that the cycle would end somewhere. (Please, if anyone knows any volunteer programs in BA, send me a message)

Watching the children, no matter their skin color, demographic, class, or situation. Watching them laugh, play, be curious, learn.

                                  ~                                     ~                                    ~

Or maybe, it’s simply having the opportunity to touch, first hand, a completely different culture.

Perhaps it’s realizing that all of this is actually real.

Or maybe it’s not? I'm not sure I'll ever be certain it is.

Either way,

We close our eyes, take each day one at a time, spiral into self oblivion,

admit we know nothing,

And lose ourselves.