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.

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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.

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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.