i can safely say that life is pretty good

Some travelers set out with a concrete goal. An objective. A mission. A certain route. Specified destinations. A list of must-see photo ops. An itinerary. A guide book.

And then there are...

Some travelers pack the basic necessities, perhaps a map, maybe a compass, probably a tent, a reliable knife, a smile, and full faith in fate.

Now I’ve had the opportunity to have both roles.

Experiences have been lodged firmly in my memory bank account. Available for withdrawal. Only to be slowly erased in the mystical unfolding of time’s passing. But I believe that although memories become hazy as they slip into the past tense, they undoubtedly have affected our being. They have helped create our present person. They are not so much recognizable as their former forms, but rather have synchronized with our bodies’ own wavelength, have merged, and have fused with the purpose of facing today’s journey. I may not be able to consciously recall every one of my adventures, but I know that I carry them with me.

I am a firm believer in that we are our experiences. We are what we have been through. They have taught us through mental and physical trial and error. And with every experience we accumulate, we are equipping ourselves with useful life tools for any future situation with find ourselves in. So my goal is to wade in, pant legs cuffed, ready to try new things, make mistakes, and learn learn learn. I know that I probably will stumble at first, but with practice, I can be a knowledgeable well-rounded individual. The key is to laugh, have confidence, and a positive attitude. The objective is to have many many experiences of very different varieties. Ready set go!

So Mendoza has captured me. It’s holding me hostage. Ransom has been set. It’s an unreasonable amount. And, with these warm sunny days and star filled nights, I’m finding less and less necessity to leave.

I’ve been experimenting with other recycled arts and crafts. The wallets aren’t selling too well. Using empty beer cans is my new favorite pastime. And old newspapers. Both are super versatile.

Meanwhile the winds from the Pacific Ocean are crossing over the Andes. They bring very warm winds followed by bitter cold. I may have to wait it out. Diego has no problem with me staying as long as I want. Provided that I keep cooking. And I have no problem doing just that. The kitchen is my haven. And I can’t complain, I’m in olive oil country afterall.

We also drink and brew beer.

There is a lot of music in this house. Constant music in fact. Many instruments. A single second does not pass without a melody, harmony, or symphonic concoction of the two. Sometimes it’s a note. A chord. An impromptu percussion outburst. I love it. The energy is great.

We watch a lot of soccer. Yell at the television. Mendoza has been invaded by Chileans for the Copa de America soccer tournament. The rowdy neighbors to our west have swarmed the city with their flags, face paint, and constant chanting (chi chi chi le le le…!). But sometimes they buy earrings, so I’m ok with them.

Between plaza sitting, song singing, soccer game watching, elaborate food preparing, pisco sour drinking, harmonica squealing, recycled art making, and the occasional mountain climbing… I’m having a pretty good time.

But I’m starting to feel the travel bug again. That squirming in the belly. The restless feet dance. Also the questions have started creeping up on me again. The routine. The comfort. All of them reaching their slimy tentacles towards me, drawing me in, and inviting me to stay for just one more drink. Inventing excuses. And seducing me with promises of foot massages and cuba libres.

But I don't let it get to me. I know I'll leave when the time is right. But until then...

embracing my inner hippie

Mendoza is a small city compared to larger cities. It's a large city compared to smaller cities. Some say that it's a beautiful city. Some say it's an ugly city. I'm learning that all things are relative.

Mendoza is a city. And like all cities, it repulses you at first with its mixture of cement and aggression. The air hangs in polluted clouds from the few sick trees. The nighttime sky is up-staged by the street lights, billboards, and dance clubs. The waters, if any, ooze with discarded consumables. Yes, the city is an unnatural infection on the Earth ... and then you realize that you're still here after 10 days. It sucks you in. It comforts you in its chaos. You feel a part of something bigger, a larger churning mass of bodies, currency, energy, and fashion. You can alternate being invisible and important. Life is unhealthy, but you chose to make excuses rather than life-style changes. Life is fast, and you love the adrenaline. Yup, it's very hard to leave the city.

So it comes as no big surprise that I'm still here. Yes, I got trapped. But I'm ok with it. Everything is flowing just fine.

So why am I still here? What am I doing with my time?

I've met some fantastic people. Diego, Caro, Anita, Fer, Ale, Vero, and Jero (from San Rafael) are all part of the Mendoza couchsurfing community. Among others of course. Diego is letting me stay at his house. I've, once again, invaded the kitchen of yet another house. Sauteeing veggies, kneading bread, simmering broths, spicing up casseroles, soups, salads... There is always a little fernet, pisco, wine or homebrewed beer involved. Of course. And then we hit the clubs. Dancing the night away to cumbia, reggaeton, rock. Suddenly it's almost 6am and they're turning on the lights and turning off the music. The next day starts slowly. Rinse repeat.

But it's not all partying. I promise. Remember those little recycled wallets made out of wine boxes? Well, I've made quite a bunch. And I sit in Plaza Independencia with my bike and my mate, trying to get tourists to buy them. Yes, I am a plaza hippie.

The plaza hippies are the best. They've taken me under their colorful dreadlocked wings. They give me suggestions, show me new art forms, patiently teach me how to juggle. Really really good fun. So there I am, sitting cross-legged on the ground, twisting wire into earrings. Still getting the hang of it. Practice practice practice. Inventing. Creating. Recycling!

What I love about it, is that it's fun. Art is fun. As kids, we are artists. We understood the importance of creativity, invention, and having fun. As adults, we lose that. We have more important responsibilities. We immerse ourselves in worry, stress, and deadlines. What happened to the fun?

Well, I don't know about you, but I'm taking my life back. This is MY life, world. I will do with it what I want, thank you very much. Life is so beautiful and so precious. I can't just let it pass. Every moment is a possibility. An opportunity. For growth, for beauty, for learning, and for happiness. So I'm going to take advantage, dammit. I'm going to learn creation. I'm going to learn to play the guitar. The harmonica. The vocal chords. I'm going to learn everything.

I've also been doing a lot of thinking. About my current goals, projects, mission. About the "what now?" and "what next?" questions. And I think I've figured out a few tenative answers.

What now?

Learn. Learn all those skills I've never had time, energy or interest in learning. Music. Art. Circus tricks. Magic. Whatever. Enrich my person. Add depth to my repertoire of life skills. Do a little bit of everything.

What next?

Cordoba. Sustainabilty living community. Perhaps even a real-ish type job.

When?

When the time is right.

mendoza and contemplation

It was cold in back of the police car. The seats were made of hard metal. I experienced an unescapable wave of claustrophobia provoked by the oppressive metal grates over the windows. And the handle-less doors didn’t help.

I became uneasy as I was carried further and further away from my Tioca, the first time in two months we had been separated. And I thought to myself disappointingly, Alisa, you really need to learn to keep your mouth shut.

The day had started innocently in the little store in San Carlos with my AMIGUIIIIIIIITOS.

I got a late start that day, but I wasn’t worried. I knew that beyond Tunuyán was Zapata, and there I would rely on the kindness and generosity of strangers and spend the night before moving on to Luján.

It was a sunny day on Route 40. And all was going according to plan when I arrived to the police checkpoint in Zapata. After a little persuading, the police officers promised me a place to sleep as soon as the bosses were gone. To pass the time, I drank mates and chatted with the gas station attendants across the highway. I listened to their stories and their dreams. I gave them a smile and an ear and some words of inspiration. They even let me shower. It had been a while since I had showered. I was very appreciative.

Around 7pm, the sun had gone down and I made my rounds around the little town. Clapping my hands to get attention and then asking for a place, any place, to throw my sleeping bag. No luck. I returned to the police officers. They gave me mate and a place by the fire. It had gotten really cold.

I hung out with Celeste, Diego, Daniel, Daniel, and Carlos. We exchanged stories. That’s when the debate started.

Now, I’m pretty laid back these days. My attitude leans towards the go-with-the-flow variety. I accept that everyone has his/her own path in life, myself included. I don’t live a conventional life, but I am very confident that I am living my life honestly, passionately, and with all the peace in my soul.

I don’t tell others how to live. And I don’t want others to tell me how to live. I have very little tolerance for people who chose to judge, criticize, insult my life and my life’s choices. And there is nothing I despise more than when people take out their own insecurities on others. I don’t care if they are a truck driver, a super market attendant, a PhD recipient, or a police officer. I get pretty fired up.

And that’s how I ended up gathering my things, loading them in the trunk, and sliding into the back of a police car. Fuming, but knowing that it was my decision to have argued with a police officer.

I ended up in Celeste’s apartment in downtown Tunuyán.

Celeste is a police officer who is also a backpacker. Don’t know why that combination strikes me as weird. But it does. She’s also the only female police officer in the area who is certified to drive the super badass police BMW motorcycles. And she opened up her apartment to a complete stranger. In my notebook, she's a pretty cool girl.

The next day I took control of her kitchen. Can you believe that she had never eaten broccoli?? Neither had her friend. I made them fans.

Then we loaded up everything into the car and drove all the way to Mendoza. I could have biked, but for various reasons I decided not to. I landed in Luz and Pablo’s apartment.

And here I am, still in Mendoza, almost a week later. I’m finding it very difficult to leave. I honestly don’t like Mendoza. I don’t really like the aggression. I don’t like the city itself. But there are a few pockets of very good people. The artesanos in the plaza, who teach me and share smiles. The couch surfers with their asados, dama juanas, and dancing until 6am.

Luz and Pablo, who took me bike riding through the park, let me wash my clothes, and allowed me crash with them in their apartment.

But I find myself deep in thought.

I find these days that life is making a whole lot of sense. I have figured out a lot of things. I’m centered. I’m at ease. I’m happy. Amazing that it takes a crazy wandering trip on bicycle to help me get things straight.

Perhaps there are people who don’t need this kind of trip to find answers to life’s questions. Perhaps they are born with this understanding. Perhaps they find it in their kitchen cabinet hiding behind the sugar. Perhaps they don’t even have to look for it. But I’m not sure I envy them.

Sometimes you have to go out and look for your truth. Sometimes you fall. But in order to pick yourself up, you HAVE to fall. And sometimes you end up having an amazing adventure.

When I set off from Bariloche, I had some pesky nagging questions in my head. I wasn’t fully at peace. I knew that I had to dust off my traveling shoes and say goodbye to my home and my friends to find those answers and that peace. I knew it would be difficult, but I knew that it was necessary. And it was. It truly was. I have found what I was looking for.

My objective was never a physical, geographical destination. I always threw out “Jujuy” for those people who needed that kind of concrete answer. I didn’t set out to cover the most ground, to do it the fastest, or to prove anything. I set out because I knew it had to be done. That it was my path. And that, tough as it is, it would all make sense to me at some undetermined place and time.

And here I am, two months into my journey, with a smile and radiating pure peace. I have achieved my goal.

So what does that mean? Is the trip over? Really? I mean, if I have achieved my objective for this trip, then it means it's over, right? Otherwise I'd just be traveling without my heart and soul. If this is all true, if this trip is over... What now?

All good questions. I have some thinking/reflecting/pondering to do.