The Girl With The Purple Shirt

tango, vermicomposting, community-centered activities, self-sustainability

2011-09-27T08:57:00.003-03:00

let it come to no surprise to you, dear readers, that you will not hear from me for a while.

i am deeply immersed in my projects. striving to live self-sustainably, developing my artistic dimension, and loving every moment of life. i'm in too magical a place with a sun too gorgeous to not take advantage of every opportunity to learn, live, and love.

please stay tune. feel free to sign up as a follower of the blog so when i start blogging again (and, oh, the stories i will have to share!!), you will be notified!

all the best, the girl with the purple shirt

Waste not, want not.

2011-09-11T11:26:00.004-03:00

The house I live in is found a little more than a stone’s throw from downtown San Marcos Sierras. Distance has its consequences. It means I’m happily and peacefully isolated in my own little project haven. It also means that we aren’t frequented by garbage collectors… meaning that all the trash we produce is our responsibility. This presents a serious question: if we don’t want to be waist-deep in waste, what do we do with our trash??

Sure, we could load it all into bags, cart them into town and have them magically disappear. That would be the easy option. But have you ever stopped to think about what happens to your trash once it disappears from your doorstep?

If you live in Argentina, it is most likely discarded onto the ever-growing piles of trash known as the local dump. The plastic, Styrofoam, glass, wood, paper, metal and organic material are then left to sit and think about their existence. Everything is mixed together. The organic material, due to lack of oxygen, then begins to ferment, producing a very unpleasant odor. Then the wind picks up and carries whatever it can into the countryside. The plastic bags cling to trees in desperation. The soda bottles await their fate in roadside ditches. Candy wrappers are whisked into streams, rivers, lakes, and lagoons. Decorating the beautiful countryside, people’s back yards, and city streets with trash.

Or… It is sometimes lit on fire and burned. Mmmmm….

If you live in the United States, it is mostly likely dumped into a landfill or the ocean.

Tada! No more garbage!

But I say, no thank you! I don’t want to participate in that destruction of natural resources. I want to be able to walk through the mountains and not see a wine bottle or a crumpled bag of potato chips. I want to be able to swim in water that isn’t contaminated. I want to be able to breathe air that is transparent. I want to continue cultivating the earth and drinking waters from the streams. And, even if you aren’t as hippie-idealed as I am, perhaps you can agree with me that accumulation of trash can have negative impacts on us and the world around us.

Sure, we can talk about recycling. But recycling requires recycling plants, fossil fuel burning transportation and processing. And, yes, it may to more good than harm… but why not, instead, concentrate on consumption patterns? Why do we create so much trash? Perhaps it would be more effective if, instead of treating the symptoms of the problem, we figure out the source. Once we have the core, the origin of the issue, we can work to find the solution.

Look at each and everything thing that you throw out. And imagine how it would be to take responsibility for that trash. To cohabitate with it. To confront its existence and your role in bringing to reside in your possession. What would you DO with such material? Every candy wrapper. Every bottle of potable liquid beverage. Every sheet of paper. Every yogurt container. Milk carton. Piece of clothing. Tin can. Everything! Everything everything! Everything we consume, and then throw away, results in a huge quantity of primarily unbiodegradable crap.

One simple solution, consume less. Produce more. Make homemade! Things are easily made in your kitchen, bathroom, back yard. Don’t be tricked into believing that they can only be bought in the supermarket. That’s what marketers want you to believe. So many things from edibles to ant repellants can be made with a little research, your own hands, and a few minutes. Don’t have enough time? Turn off your television. Or your smart phone. You’ll discover you have more time than you thought.

And… if you do consume, try to buy local and without a lot of packaging. Bring your own Tupperware, or plastic bag, or jar to the store for your milk, honey, flour, and rice. Here in San Marcos I’ve joined a community-organized purchasing collective. Great way to meet the neighbors, save pesos on ingredients I use every day, and never set foot in a supermarket.

Once you’ve reduced the waste that you produce… now what do you do with the things you DO throw out?

We separate the organic from the inorganic. All organic (veggie kitchen scraps minus the citric, meat and dairy) become pet food.

Pets? Yes.

I have acquired, and now feel a compelling responsibility to care for, my new pets. Well, they pretty much care for themselves; my job is to make sure that they are well fed, that their environment retains a certain level of moisture, and that they are happy.

Not only are my pets emotionally satisfying, they are of the functional variety as well. They digest organic kitchen scraps and poop out rich organic matter that is very useful for gardening. They are very low maintenance and require very little care. They pretty much keep to themselves. True, they aren’t cuddly or fuzzy. They are fairly shy. They are awesome.

If you haven’t considered wiggly squiggly worm pets, I urge you to entertain the idea.

The worms love decomposing banana peels, squash skins, and coffee grounds. I just make sure to chop everything up before I bury it in their worm haven. The question becomes, what on earth did I do before I had earthworms??

And, honestly, it’s super easy to set up your own worm box. Here’s what we did.

Went to Geraldo the worm guy.

Got to dig out our own worms.

Carried them home.

Found a discarded crate.

Lined it with discarded pieces of wood and plastic bag.

Put shredded newspaper on the bottom.

Filled with dirt.

Installed worms.

Covered with dirt.

Covered with damp newspaper.

Covered with scrap pieces of wood.

Bury food scraps in different places.

Keep humid.

Keep fed.

If you don’t feel comfortable constructing your own worm home, there are complete worm kits (with instructional DVD) for sale online. They come with everything included. My father has one in his NewYork City apartment. He is a fan. Read about it on his blog:

Avoid giving the worms citric wastes. Instead, you can use your orange or lemon peels for jam making. See “orange peel jam”. Meat and dairy scraps should also avoided in your worm care; they are, however, welcomed by the dogs and cats.

The rest of the trash we try to reuse.

Plastic bottles are great for planting seeds. The reflective interior of potato chip bags are perfect for lining the solar oven. Jars are always in demand when preparing your homemade olives, jam, yogurt, dulce de leche. Paper products are used to start the fireplace or mud oven. I’ve begun to look at everything with a different perspective. How can I reuse this? How can I transform that? Hmmm… I need a smaller watering can, maybe I can use this bottle. Almost everything in the house is recycled, reused and overall waste is thus reduced.

That which does not serve any other purposes is, yes, burned. It’s not pleasant, but it is a reminder to keep conscious of the consequences of my consumer actions.

Epic Bike Trip Reaches Intermission.

2011-09-04T09:27:00.002-03:00

Over four months ago, a girl with purple shirt and a multicolored bicycle left comfort, certainty, and beautiful Patagonia in search of adventure. The direction was north, the path was uncertain, and a solid time frame was non existent. The decision to head off into the unknown, to let life play me like a puppet, to try something so different from anything I had ever done… was a very difficult decision to make. It meant throwing comfort to the wind and placing my life in the universe’s tentacles. It meant saying, ‘here goes everything’ and facing every bump in the road with positivity and eagerness to learn. However difficult and terrifying it seems, it meant following that little voice inside my heart, trusting that this is my path, and knowing that I’d understand why in the world I decided to embark on such a trip…when the time was right to know such information.

The reason I never put an actual physical geographical tangible destination to this trip is because having such an objective was exactly what this trip was NOT about. I knew that the road would wind. The wind would push. Opportunities would arise. Fate would step in. And that I would have to respond accordingly. And there was no telling where I would end up. Only I would stop when I knew the time was right.

Ladies and gentlemen, that time is now.

After four months, over 2,500 kilometers, one flat tire, many inexplicably kind strangers, uphills, downhills… I have arrived to many conclusions and to the first real intermission of this epic bike trip.

A new chapter has begun.

A chapter filled with high hopes and sustainable living projects. A chapter of local food production and appreciating nature. A chapter of goals of the longer term variety. A chapter of stability.

At least until I decide to do something else…

Traslasierra. Top Ten Things I thoroughly enjoyed.

2011-08-26T10:43:00.007-03:00

The magical Argentine province of Córdoba is divided straight down the middle by a mountain range called las sierras. Traslasierra, or behind las sierras, is the name given to the land in the shadow to the West of these mountains.

When we left Villa Dolores, we bordered the sierras’ western coast heading first south along route 14 slowly meandering through small town after smaller town until we reached the city of Merlo. There we promptly turned around and then headed north. North north north! Sneaking around the northern edge of the sierras and dropping into hippie town San Marcos Sierras.

The trip, like the hilly terrain, had its ups and downs. I struggled while trying to adapt to traveling with the company of another person. Being a fairly independent, know-what-I-want traveler, sometimes traveling with others can be a challenge. But perhaps it’s another thing to learn in this great quest of mine to learn absolutely everything I’m faced with.

Because I’m falling behind on my blog writing, I won’t go into details about this leg of the trip (mostly because I have newer fresher very exciting adventures to write about). But it was an amazing adventure and I don’t want to skip writing about it all together. Maybe a top ten list will suffice…

Traslasierra. Top Ten Things I thoroughly enjoyed.

In no particular order.

1. Climbing a walnut tree and harvesting the few lonely nuggets still hanging from the branches.

2. Meeting the apiculturist. Hearing his story. Meeting his bees. Eating the most delicious honey. Paradise for my taste buds. Paradise.

3. Artisan ice-cream in Merlo on a very hot day.

4. Nighttime truco tournament in the tent. After losing the first two nights, I launched a major comeback and won the next two nights. Especially interesting when there’s betting involved.

5. Countryside dirt roads. Wide open skies and vast prickly views. Of even more countryside. Singing at full volume into the wind. Waving to the families in scattered houses staggered along the twisting turning winding climbing road.

6. Museum Rocsen. The most satisfying museum I have ever been to. If you are every graced with the opportunity, I implore you to go explore it. You will not be under whelmed.

7. Experiencing for the first time, the wind-shield effect of traveling in pairs. It’s amazing. The first cyclist blocks the wind and the other cyclist tailgates. Basically rides for free. Then switch! Alternating being human shield, you use less energy and pedal the same distance. The laws of physics never cease to amaze me.

8. The Cordoobés accent.

9. The in-your-face contact with nature. Leaving the main road and disappearing into the back country. Barefoot. Listening to the trees; it‘d been a long time since the trees had talked to me… or maybe it‘d been a long time since I’d sat to really listen. Playing with cold stream water. Watching the moonrise over the glistening golden red sierras. Admiring the waxing moon as it slowly swells to full capacity, threatening to burst wide open, throwing moonlight shamelessly down at those brave enough to face it. Bouncing along unpaved dirt roads, avoiding rocks, thorns, and washboard bumpity bumps. Cooking by campfire, cautiously aware of the firewood used and the responsibility involved in aspects fire-related. Basking in the sun’s radiant energy cascading down from the cloudless sky.

And, 10. arriving to San Marcos Sierras

orange peel jam

2011-08-23T08:01:00.004-03:00

When orange trees are a common sidewalk occurrence, consumption of their citric fruits is almost morally obligatory. Whether in a orange-banana-honey smoothie or as a surprise ingredient in homemade goat-milk-farm-egg flan, fresh picked oranges are in abundance and always looking for ways to incorporate themselves into the daily menu.

But what to do with the peel? Sure, you can dry them and use them to flavor up your mate or you can place them near the crackling fireplace and fill the room with warmth and a citric aroma… but there are just so many peels. My newly inaugurated compost pail is easily overwhelmed when faced with too much citric acid; it craves a balanced diet. And our new pets, the earthworms, aren’t too well equipped to deal with citrics. So what to do with all those peels?

Orange peel jam. Obviously.

I first tried this delicious preserve over a bowl of creamy ice-cream at a get-together on a hot sunny day about a week ago. And I was sold instantly. So I decided to learn to make it.

Here’s what we did:

Obtained freshly picked oranges from our Tango teacher's backyard.

Washed six of them.

Juiced them.

Cut the peel into thin slices.

Lit a fire in the fireplace.

Boiled orange peels and some pulp in water over hot embers.

Added sugar.

Kept boiling jam.

Tasted jam.

Filled three jars.

Drank the leftover orange juice.

Yum.

More recipes to come :)

Recent happenings

2011-08-19T08:55:00.004-03:00

I’m falling way behind on my blogging. To tell you the truth, I’m finding it very hard to sit in front of a screen these days. And, even though there are so many beautiful things to write about, stories to tell, and laughter to share, I’m opting to dedicate myself to different activities and, in turn, neglecting my blog writing.

What in the universe am I so busy with to the point that I can’t document it? Let me give you a little inside glance to my recent happenings.

I’ve been waking up in the sparse moments before sunrise, feeling completely rested. Conversing profoundly with plant life. Painting. Reading Argentine poetry, sometimes outloud, listening to the sounds of each consonant patiently, yet decidedly, guide their vowel partners as they leap and slither and drip from my own lips. Picking arugula from the garden. Preparing “rifles” (the Cordobes beverage of choice). Dancing cumbia. Soaking up the sun’s rays. Eating homemade sausages and accompanying them with homemade bread. Waving at everyone. Communicating with water. Playing dominoes. Drinking herbal infusions. Learning to appreciate life’s elements. Getting the hang of the earth oven. Familiarizing myself with fresh goat milk. Repairing bicycle tire tubes. Singing. Smiling. Listening to the wind. Observing moon phases. Searching for my guitar. Eating lechon. Re-planting edible plants. Laughing at drunk hippies. Listening to my body and its relationship to everything around it. Getting soil under my fingernails. Licking local honey from the spoon. Registering the sun’s position in the sky, and contemplating how it affects everything. Eating freshly picked oranges from the Tango teacher’s backyard. Learning Tango and loving it. Using fresh local olive oil for a myriad of different purposes. Watching the Simpsons. Walking barefoot, feeling the breathing earth radiate through me. Learning to identify, and then sympathize, with native trees. Goat milk flan. Foot-powered washing machine. Compost. Politically prompted festivities. Local food production. Overwhelming bird song. Epiphanies. Hummus with fresh ginger. Climbing walnut trees and gently coaxing the nuts down. Walking on dusty dirt roads. Admiring, accepting, transmitting. Following the river, picking thorns from my flip flops. Finding peace. Writing. Breathing and thinking deeply. Cutting aloe vera from the patio for my sun burns. Being in nature, and realizing that here is where I’m meant to be. Skinny dipping. Learning and getting excited about building houses from the earth, with green roofs. Coming thiiiiiiiis close to eating a freshly picked avocado. Closing my eyes and not believing this is all real.

villa dolores. nothing short of awesome.

2011-08-15T22:14:00.006-03:00

Villa Dolores is where I fell in love with Córdoba. Who would have guessed? Villa Dolores is perhaps the most populated town in the Traslasierras. It’s not exceedingly beautiful. And, now that I’ve seen much more of Córdoba, it still surprises me that I decided then and there to fall head over heals. But I did. And I think it was the people.

Melisa was my couch surfing host for 5 nights. She is true Virgo and unexpected fernet-inspired partier. She’s a cordobesa and a world traveler. She’s interested in social change at small town level. And she found me a job for a day. She’s pretty awesome.

Thanks to Melisa, her family and friends, I found it very hard to have a boring time.

The first two days were rest days. I needed some rest days.

The third day was a work day…? Work? Yes, work.

It’s elections-season in the Province of Córdoba. And it’s obligatory for all citizens to vote. So, the campaign trucks are out in full swing. The plaza is colored with banners, the ground littered with pamphlets, and the streets full of cars with huge speakers blasting propaganda.

My job was to hand out political pamphlets. I was a promoter. Yes, the political t-shirt, tight pants, and makeup wearing girls who walk down the street getting all the attention. They asked me to wear high heals, (I don’t have high heals) but they didn’t ask me to actually know anything about the candidate. All they asked me to do was to look nice, give people pamphlets, and smile.

Now, this isn’t a job I’d normally take. Nor do I think I’ll follow this career line in the future. Why? Because I was paid to sell a political party with my image, not my knowledge. And that’s not in line with my normal philosophy. But they paid surprisingly well and it was only for 4 hours. So I whipped out my smile and started littering the streets with paper for a candidate I may actually have been interested in if they had taken the time to inform me.

That night the boys arrived. Guille, a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in three years, and Miguel, the French backpacking couch surfer, arrived. That night it also happened to be Emilce’s birthday, so we got rowdy in the YPF station in Villa de la Rosas dancing quarteto, drinking beer, and causing a ruckus.

That night we threw some mattresses on the floor, and crashed.

The fourth day, we walked a lot through the city. I laughed out loud when I saw the palo borracho tree in the park. And instantly wanted nothing more than to climb it

The sunset provoked a late afternoon bike ride. We picked oranges from the sidewalk trees. It’s exceeding beautiful to me when I walk down the street to accompanied by orange trees, branches heavy with fruit. Even if no one cares for the trees and their fruit is bitterly acidic. Having fruit trees adds color to an ordinary concrete sidewalk. The oranges may not be edible, but they are useful for juggling practice and for making daquiris. So we did both.

That night was the big party. To sum it up: fernet, wine, guitar, singing, empanadas, a very very delicious cake, some dancing, and a whole lot of ruckus-causing. Sadly I have no photos to publish.

The next morning left us almost out-of-commission. But we got up relatively early anyway. Why?? One word: LOCRO!

Locro is a typical Argentine dish. It’s a stew of beans, meat, bacon, squash… una bomba! I had never tried it. Melisa’s mother was appalled when she found out and a few days later she prepared my first locro.

Of couse we picked the hottest day of the week to eat it (it is normally a cold weather dish, check out the ingredient list!), but it was amazing. I ate two heaping bowls.

Delicious.

We packed up the mate and sat at the dique sipping and chatting.

Diego (yes, Diego from Mendoza) showed up on his motorcycle and joined in for the asado that night. Guitar, singing, food, drink… En fin, another amazing night.

The next day was departure day. After five spectacular event-packed days, we said goodbye to Melisa and her amazing clan of friends and family, and pedaled away.

We? Yes. I have found someone crazy enough to hop on a bike and accompany me for the next 200+ km.

The road less travelled

2011-08-12T16:50:00.003-03:00

Yes, that road. The one that passes through the unknown. The one that passes through long stretches of inhabitable countryside. The one that inspires philosophies The one that begs you to follow your heart.

On such road, important lessons are learned. Your instincts may take control. Your reason may shake hands with your imagination. Your intuition is tested.

Route 20 through the northern stretch of the San Luis Province is pretty desolate. Or so they told me. They told me that I would find nothing. And a whole lot of it.

I didn’t quite believe them. There is almost never nothing. There is almost always something.

And plus, if there really really wasn’t anything, just think of the adventure I would have!

I left La Tranca under a light dusting of precipitation. It was cold.

I passed a parked car on the side of the highway. I wouldn’t have stopped except that I saw a huge bag of bread in the back window. And I needed bread.

I slowed to a stop and asked the two guys sitting in the car if they would please sell me some of their bread. Hugo and Franco, two personalities from San Juan were on their way to go fishing for the weekend. Their car broke down and the third person, who I never met, went back for help. So, there they were sitting in the car waiting waiting waiting. They pulled out some bread and treated me to homemade sausages and whiskycola. People are awesome.

Back on the road with a fully belly and four graciously donated breads, I pedaled along. I passed the fork in the road and took, yes, the road less traveled.

I pedaled and pedaled. Urging myself to go a little bit further. I passed a few lonely houses. I laughed at people’s notions of this supposed nothingness.

And then I learned a few good lessons.

Number one. Arid countryside usually means thorns. Everywhere. I propped Tioca against a sign and went to use the bathroom. When I returned to the road, I noticed the tires decorated with thorns of all shapes, sizes and generosities. Oh no, it’s only a matter of time… Lesson: don’t go off road in prickly countryside if you don’t want to learn how to patch your tire tubes.

Number two. Just because there are houses doesn’t mean that there are people. Many gates were closed and locked. I clapped and clapped and yelled. Sometimes there just isn’t anyone home. And then, night approaches.

Number three. Sometimes country folks are a little creepy. I saw a purple pickup truck parked on the side of the road. Getting a little desperate for a place to sleep, I approached. The man in the truck gave me some advice. His green eyes and stutter caught my attention. But what really caught my attention was when he started following me at a distance. That’s when I started to get a little nervous.

I pedaled and pedaled. Getting more and more tired with every kilometer, every locked gate, and every abandoned house. I knew that there was a town in 60 kilometers, but that would mean night biking, which I wasn’t to keen on trying. Especially fatigued. Even with the absence of heavy traffic.

I finally found a gate that was closed, but not locked. I let myself in and found Leo. I was so relieved when he let me pitch my tent in his tool shed that I was speechless with gratitude. That night I drank sweet mate, made small talk, and dined a polenta-soy-wild quinoa concoction. That night, the grey sky blew a harsh, but understanding cold. And I wallowed in my relief.

In the middle of the night, the tapping of rain on the tin roof was silenced. In the morning, I opened the tent flap and understood why. SNOW! Huge white flakes cascaded down to the ground. Snow. Snow snow snow.

Tioca was quiet. I gave a loving pinch to each tire. Tada. The moment I’d been waiting for! My first flat tire of the trip! Leo helped me patch her up and soon I was ready for the next adventure.

Lujan was the next blip of human civilization on my radar. To get there I had 50km in front of me. Each day my body was getting a little more tired. But I wanted to arrive to Villa Dolores. So go go go!!

I passed the electrical plant. A nauseating monstrosity. I stood for a moment underneath thick wires that hummed a deathly terrifying hum. An electrical current buzzed through the air. Everything vibrated. It is horrifying the cancer that humans are to the planet. It depresses me.

Lujan is a small town with very very friendly people. It was a cold Sunday. Businesses were shut and no one walked the streets. In the province of San Luis, there is free WIFI in every city and town. I sat in the plaza and froze my fingers typing and skyping.

It was 6pm when I left. Usually the sun sets around 6:30. With 90 kilometers left to Villa Dolores, I decided to push just a little farther before resting for the night. The dusk was cold. My toes were numb. The sun settled beneath the horizon. I arrived to a chapel.

The family living behind the chapel treated me to mate and torta de rescoldo and allowed me to sleep in the chapel. I lit a candle before settling into my sleeping bag, thanking the saint who gave me the four sturdy walls and roof to spend the night.

The next day was very long. My legs were very tired. But I pushed and pushed the final part of the way to Villa Dolores. I passed Quines with very friendly people. I passed a lot of countryside. I was stopped by a family in a car who took photos of me. I arrived to the border of the province of Córdoba and shared mates with the police officer on duty. I witnessed the first snowy mountains I’d seen in many days. I pedaled and pedaled even when my body thought it could take no more. I arrived to Villa Dolores and kept pedaling.

I met Melisa in the GNC station at the other end of the city. I unloaded my bike, took my first shower in 6 long days, and fell in love with Cordoba. I had pedaled 430km of desolate countryside in 6 days. I had snow, wind, rain. I had my first flat tire. I experienced fear, joy, relief, and everything in between. But the toughest leg of the trip was behind me; I had made it.

Best leg of the epic bike journey, so far (part 1)

2011-08-07T02:15:00.004-03:00

There is a misunderstanding about balance. When we observe something in equilibrium, it appears unmoving, unchanging, and unwavering. But a true balance is never static. It is only achieved by the natural ebbing and flowing of the relevant forces. Balance is fluid. It requires flexibility, movement, and compassionate understanding.

There is a tendency, however, once balance is achieved, to want to hold on to it, preserve it, keep it from changing. But balanced can’t be controlled, it can’t be forced. It trembles and shutters and yearns for movement. And it must be allowed to flow. It must be allowed to create its own path, untethered. Life naturally tends towards balance, even if it appears to do quite the opposite. Our job is to accept this movement along its path, and ride along with it.

It’s much like… riding a bike, for example. Balance is more easily achieved while in motion. Measuring the differing forces at play, and using them to your advantage. It is much more difficult to balance while the bike is at a standstill. There are fewer movements to manipulate. You strain and struggle, and yet the bicycle almost always tends to end up pedal to the pavement.

It’s much like… life? Balance is more easily achieved when you move with it, bend with it, flow with it. Life will move. Use its movements to your advantage. Don’t force it. Don’t grab it by the collar and make it walk along at your side. Don’t try to control it. Don’t deny its movements. Let it flow. Flow with it. You will find productivity, happiness, and peace.

Or at least I have.

I left Mendoza on a beautiful sunny warm day. I took Route 40 north and then abruptly turned east. I passed countryside. I passed small shrines dedicated to various saints. I passed hand-painted signs advertising homemade goodies of the countryside variety. It felt really good to be back on the road. My legs thanked me. So did my mind. Especially after one month of city sitting. The open road was relieving.

That night I slept in a community center in the small town of Costa de Araujo, home to the annual Melon and Watermelon Festival. Oh how I wished that I could have been there for the actual festival. Instead, I ate an avocado with a spoon and played with colored pencils in the cold sparsely furnished hall.

The next day was epic. Sun so strong that I biked in a tank top and shorts No wind. I pedaled strong along Route 142. I bounced along the dirt road leading to the little dusty town of Asunción, where I stopped for water. A man painting his house gave me non invasive, non intrusive, friendly advice. The best kind, if you ask me.

I would have stayed longer, but my trip objective has changed.

Before Mendoza, my objective was to meander. To wander through little towns, learning, getting to know people places and experiences. To go, stop, turn around, laugh, stray from the main road, take it easy, learn patience, find peace.

After Mendoza, my objective was simple: Get to Córdoba!

So, I continued, muscles laughing and skin glistening under the summer-like sun. I made good time and soon arrived to the National Park Patrol station. There was a group of people finishing their lunch. I asked for innocent route advice… and soon after a guitar appeared. Shortly after, we started singing and dancing the chacarera. Spontaneous parties are the best time ever! I love people.

I hit the road once again. Soon I arrived to the Posta San Gabriel. An awesome family let me pitch my tent in their garage. The grandfather took me under his wing and urged me to share my story. We talked life philosophy with the daughters, while the grandchildren ran around giggling beauifully. After an episode of the Simpsons and a few rounds of mate, they let me sleep on a mattress on the living room floor. It was cold outside. I saw the most wonderful shooting star that night.

The next day was of the blustery variety. The sun and all its radiance hid behind the dark dark clouds. The menacing wind picked up and carried all that it could creep its gusty influence around. The grandfather wanted me to stay until the cold front moved on. Two or three days, he said.

He was right, it most certainly wasn’t the ideal biking day… or was it? Only one way to find out! I packed up everything, said goodbye and thank you, and took off. That day was my three month anniversary of beginning this whole bike trip deal, I couldn’t NOT bike. Right?

I passed Encón. And decided to keep going. I consulted with some police officers. I had to do 55km in 3-4 hours. Or else I wouldn’t make it to a decent place to spend the night. I made a decision. I was going to try it. Ready, set, PEDAL!

The wind was against me, as the gaucho on horseback had predicted. I openly laughed away my frustration. I waved to all the truck drivers. I sang and sang and made up songs. I pushed my mind and my body pretty harshly. I had to arrive. I couldn’t stay in the middle of the countryside. Not with all the wind and cold. Really not an option.

Needlesstosay, I made it. I was destroyed. Mentally and physically. But I made it.

That night I pitched the tent in the three-walled creeky shelter with gaping holes, thanks to an elderly couple‘s kindness. The wind howled. As did my stomach, but I was too tired to prepare anything edible. In the middle of the night, it started raining.

That’s when things got really interesting.

And then I left.

2011-08-02T10:47:00.006-03:00

After exactly a month in Mendoza, I’ve left.

One month. One month! Can you believe it?

One month is a long time when I was planning to stay for only a few days. One month is not a long time, in the grand scheme of universal happenings. But one month is one month. And it’s the perfect amount of time, because, well, it’s the amount of time I spent. And it couldn’t have been different, even if it wanted to be. Impossible.

But, let me tell you, leaving wasn’t an easy decision to make. I’ve made a space for myself here. Mendoza is a city like any other. But I’ve discovered that I can make myself comfortable any where I set my multicolored sneakers and mismatched socks. Like a winged tortoise. Like a chameleon with a hearty sense of adventure. Like an accordion crossing paths with a freshly plucked orange. Like a grizzly bear with a change of heart.

I left rather abruptly. I didn’t want to drag out my departure. There were many things I hadn’t done. There were many places I didn’t visit. There were many things that did not and will not happen…. But there always will be. It is impossible to do everything. So you must chose to do what is important to you. Do them. And move on.

The decision was made tough by the wonderful friendships I’ve had the extreme pleasure of weaving. My artesan friends who patiently let me into their beautiful world of creativity. My couch surfing friends who were my partying partners in dance clubbing, asado savoring, mate sharing, mountain climbing, and Sabina-soundtrack countryside driving. And Diego. Diego has a spark and energy that is unmatched. It’s no wonder that for three weeks we were almost inseparable. Climbing trees at 4am. Singing everything everywhere and at all hours. Watching really good movies. Cooking elaborate meals and then eating until bursting. Scheming. Yelling at the soccer game screen. Guitar and harmonica-ing. Making bad jokes and then laughing. Yes, the people here in Mendoza have won a very awesome place in my heart. It was very hard to leave.

But I did. And I feel good about it.

So where am I headed now? Towards Cordoba! Towards new adventures. I'm so excited!

i can safely say that life is pretty good

2011-07-22T12:44:00.006-03:00

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

2011-07-08T11:14:00.003-03:00

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

2011-07-04T16:04:00.006-03:00

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.

You were WHERE? Doing WHAT? Really????

2011-06-30T17:21:00.010-03:00

And just like that... I found myself hard at work in a small town corner store. Working the register, doing quick mental math, restocking beverages, chatting it up with the locals, and loving every moment of it.

So how did I get stuck in San Carlos? Let’s just say I’m a sucker for small town enthusiastic hospitality.

It all started when I pulled up and parked Tioca outside Despensa Miriam, across from the main plaza. I pulled out my thermos, my wallet, and bike lock. When I pushed through the door, they were all waiting for me. From the meat guys to the woman at cash register, from the customers to the little girl who stuck her tongue out at me (which I returned, of course). I was greeted with untethered enthusiasm. I was asked a million questions and given more than two earfuls of advice. Suddenly I was a celebrity.

I cooked up some soup on the stove in the back of the store, which I proceeded to eat with some pan casero in the plaza. Pablo, selling cds, asked for some mate. I offered him what was left of my soup. As he ate, he ranted his life philosophy at me. Vaguely similar to my own. To paraphrase: Live life. Now.

He ranted and paced the sidewalk. He gave me some advice, the best of luck, and a mix cd of Argentine rock. He was pure energy, of the ungraspable kind. A definite personality.

The guys in the Despensa let me unload my bike in a bare storage room above their store. They said I could stay there if I wanted. Amazing. I accepted.

With a lighter bike, I went for a ride. The sun had finally decided to dodge the clouds. I got sunburnt. I passed vineyards, farm houses, pomegranate trees. And suddenly everything in the world made perfect sense.

I love the people in this town. Such energy. Such friendliness. I’m blown away. Everyone wants to help, but it’s not because they expect something in return. It’s because they truly want to help you. It’s hardwired into them. I love it.

When I came back from my bike ride, Carlitos and Fabi threw me headfirst into the business. Soon I was selling bread and aspirin, sugary sodas and meat, mayonnaise and cigarettes. I performed my work with all of my ability. I showed off quick mental calculations. I served mates. I lifted heavy boxes. I small talked with the costumers. And I had a marvelous time.

That night, they invited me out. But it was already 1am when they were leaving. I wished I had more energy; I would have loved to join. But I knew that if I went, I would be a moody zombie. So I decided to stay home. Next time, I promised.

And this time there was a next time. And it presented itself faster than I expected.

When I woke up, I went straight to work. The morning was a busy shift. I worked the register and the veggie section. I overcame my fear of the potatoes, but I’m still nervous about the cold cuts. I reorganized the crackers and served sweet mates. I was the only one who had gotten a full night’s sleep, so I took charge on mentally calculating customer change.

At two thirty I went with Carlitos to Walter’s birthday lunch at the farmhouse down the dirt road. I rode Mechanica, the horse, without a proper saddle. We walked around the field and I let my feet dangle and swing to the beat of the horse’s stride. Carliots told me about his life. Good people often have bad things happen to them. And Carlitos is a very good person.

I watched as they pulled a whole roasted pig out of the chulengo oven and snuck an empanada from the basket to munch on. When the food was ready, all 20something of us sat down at the table to eat. And eat. And eat!

We talked life philosophy. There were so many opinions. Everyone was curious. I guess I was a novelty. And my story is somewhat off the beaten path. We were so immersed in conversation that no one watched the River soccer game. And then they offered me wine. And birthday cake.

As the wine flowed, people got rowdy, conversation volume raised to the nearly shouting level, and the fireplace crackled along for the ride. Someone opened the Fernet and mixed a pitcher. Soon everyone’s face glowed rosy cheeks and laugher abounded.

The ambiance was warm. I felt comfortable among strangers. They clapped me on the back like they had known me my entire life. I taught the kids a card trick. They taught me one in return. I sipped my drink. And joked along with the circus.

Then the truco game began. Oh boy. It was an animate six-person game. We bluffed and maneuvered and commanded the game. Our team was unstoppable. No one could believe a Yanki could play truco.

And every good birthday party has a crazy drunk uncle. This one was no exception. Except, well, we all were a little tipsy. And a little more than a bit crazy. So we all just laughed.

Then the kids brought out the guitar. They handed me a sword and a hat. We ate some more. They tried to persuade me not to leave the next day. And I left to warm smiles and kind words. That evening I honestly loved these people with all my heart.

Through my international bicycle meandering, I’m subjecting myself to many new situations. I’m learning that there are many many good people out there. People who will take you in as a stranger and release you as a friend. People who will feed you, put a roof over your head, and wish the very best for you. Yes, there are very very good people out there. And it is my genuine pleasure to meet them, share moments with them, and leave with the taste of good memories.

I knew I wasn't going to stay forever in San Carlos, although the guys didn't want me to leave. So, after two nights in this beautiful hospitable town, I packed my bike, restocked some sodas, sold some tortitas and waved as I pedaled off.

Little did I know that around midnight that night I'd be riding on the cold, hard, encaged backseat of a police car.

one small step for a trucker, one giant leap for a cyclist

2011-06-28T18:46:00.002-03:00

Chos Malal has two fantastic parks, curious locals, a river, and large expanses of farmland surrounding the town. My trucker buddies took good care of me. They wouldn’t let me pay for anything. We talked about all sort of philosophies. I served mates. We ate a lot of chicken milanesas and tomato salads. And I helped them unload crates of veggies from the trucks, despite their protests.

Sergio was the truck driver who took me from Chos Malal passing 518 km to San Rafael. A journey that would have taken me about 10 days. We arrived in 8 hours. I was blown away.

I saw nothing of the landscape. It was dark. We drove though the night, passing small towns and a whole lot of starlight. I held a small celebration as we crossed into the Province of Mendoza. Constant bumping reggaeton was the trip’s soundtrack.

We arrived to San Rafael at 6 o’clock. AM. Sergio couldn’t enter the city with the truck, so I unloaded my things on a darkened street corner. It was cold. The city was deserted. I had no idea where I was. And I hadn’t slept all night.

I pedaled through the city, paying attention to the street signs and waving to the early morning street cleaners. I must have done a few kilometers before I reached Jeronimo’s house.

Jeronimo was my Couchsurfing host. We exchanged a few words upon my arrival. I unloaded my bike as he went back to sleep. Unfortunately I wasn’t so lucky; I had trouble sleeping due to auditory disturbances of the snoring variety.

The small apartment was my home for two more nights. On the second night courteous and respectful Yanette and Robert, from the Netherlands arrived to the already overcrowded overly cluttered apartment. I cooked a colorful zapallo relleno accompanied by pan con ajo. They were well received. We stayed up late getting acquainted with Fernet and boys vs. girls truco.

The next day had me hungover and maneuvering the washing machine. I walked around the city pondering life. I like San Rafael. It’s a short-building city with trees. It’s happily nestled in wine and olive oil country. The landscape is completely different than what I’ve been pedaling through up until now. It’s a different climate up here. It’s a different vibe. I love the land. But it’s the people I’m having a hard time figuring out.

It seems that people in San Rafael are unsatisfied. I get the impression that they are not completely happy. A tremendous generalization, I know, but it’s the feeling I get. From the angry man who cursed me from his car window to the bakery woman afraid to go outside. There’s something missing from their lives. There’s something not quite settled. There’s a lack of something… Perhaps that something is peace.

With every day that passes I’m changing my life concept. I am making sense of a lot of things. I’m very much at peace. I’m living my adventure. And I’m loving everything about it.

The last night, we added one more person to the apartment, Lee, the Korean backpacker. What a character.

I cooked up some milanesas de berengena with an ensalada de arroz. Robert whipped out the guitar and we stretched our vocal chords. It was a beautiful night.

The next morning Jeronimo was going to Mendoza, so we were all evicted. I loaded my stuff into his car and drove under the cloudy sky to a small town. I announced that I wanted to get out and ride. I unloaded my stuff. It was cold. Very cold. My face burned in the wind. My fingers were numb in my gloves. But I was happy to be back on the road.

The landscape is so different here. Lots of vineyards. Lots of small towns one right after the other. Many more houses. Many more cars. A very luxurious road shoulder for bikers.

I turned right at the GNC station and pulled into San Carlos. No relation to San Carlos de Bariloche. A small town. My intention was to eat lunch and keep going on to Tunuyán. My intention turned out to be easily persuaded. Good thing I’m flexible.

small town, bigger town, and truckers

2011-06-25T09:56:00.002-03:00

Heading out of Chorriaca there is an uphill. It’s of the short and steep variety. The kind that give you a good-morning slap in the face. The kind that kindly takes your breath away. The kind that looks like it’s coming to an end… and then keeps on going. The kind that thanks you and wishes you’ll come again soon.

But it’s short. And afterwards you are graced with perhaps the longest gentlest downhill looking out over a slightly foggy heaven of nature’s beauty. It may make you, like it did to me, want to laugh out loud. I yelled a wooooopie into the crisp air. I burst into song. My lips beamed joy right back at the morning sun.

That day I waved at every passing vehicle. There weren’t many. It was a holiday. Flag day.

I pedaled into Naunauco about 50 km later. I followed the handmade signs to a deserted school, a deserted radio station, and some deserted houses. Where are all the people?

After a little while of walking around and knocking on windows, a door opened. Santiago and his children Florencia (12) and Gonzalo (10) were taking care of the school. They invited me in and we shared some mate with jammed bread. It was a boarding school during the week and, since it was a holiday, bunkbeds were unoccupied. I chose one.

Hot water shower! A luxury. The electricity came from giant solar panels and had to be used sparingly. Gigantic gas stoves were at my disposal and I concocted a mushroom-textured soy-rice dish as we played rummy and watch Portuguese films. The kids talked my ear off from a neighboring bunkbed until well past my bedtime. The stars were brilliant and the third-quarter waning moon caught my eye. I saw two satelites whizzing through the dark sky before the cold got the better of me and rushed me inside.

The next morning was an early one. Teachers arrived well before the sun came up. Small town folks are cordial, but distant to strangers. Situations like these require an extra dose of sociality and constant conversation interjections. I had to flash my charm and, even then, I was basically ignored.

Two small children helped me pack my bike and I gave them a ribbon each. The girl had a sweet smile and a sparkling personality. I told her that she could do the impossible, if she put her mind and heart to it. She understood instantly. I secretly wished her a beautiful adventurous life. She was six years old.

Everyone warmed up to me as I was leaving. We took a picture and the men took turns trying out my bike. I waved goodbye as I headed back down the gravel road to Route 40.

The day was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. But deceptive nonetheless. A light but persistent wind met me head-on. It made the ultra long uphill ultra difficult. I ended up walking Tioca for many many kilometers.

As I came to the crest of the uphill, my jaw dropped. Snow capped mountains peaked over the ridge. I overflowed with happiness and proceeded to commence my downhill coasting. The air was icy cold and within no time, my gloved fingers were numb. The mountains drew closer. I welcomed the change in landscape. Arid rolling hills are beautiful. But snow tipped mountains are gorgeous.

A few kilometers from Chos Malal, a road-bike cyclist was training. He pulled up next to me and we chatted. My laid back attitude of peaceful meandering tends to surprise everyone.

Perhaps it seems to you, dear reader, that I have a planned route with a planned time frame. I assure you that I don’t. There is nothing concrete about this trip, but the city streets. Everything is fluid. Many decisions are made in the moment depending on weather and current personal preference. My direction is north-ish. My schedule is when I feel like it. And my destination is when I don’t feel like traveling anymore. The moment I stop having fun is the moment I end this trip. Period.

Many people have a hard time wrapping their head around it. I did too, at first.

Chos Malal, once only a name and a dot on a map, is now a real tangible place in my memory bank account. A small town-city full of smiling friendly people who greet you on the street. But at the same time, it keeps me on edge.

I arrived to the sunny central plaza with a cellphone contact in my pocket. And before long I was invited inside and surrounded by truck drivers. I served mate and they gave me a bed and a milanesa dinner.

I’m not sure why truck drivers have such a bad reputation. Perhaps there are some bad ones out there, but the ones I tend to meet are the super friendly super hospitable super gentlemanly. Sure, they can be rough around the edges, but you would be too if you worked irregular hours driving big machinery and hauling heavy cargo. They have never made me feel uncomfortable in any way. And, in fact, they go out of their way to treat me well. Maybe I’m just lucky.

But they snore. And eat a lot of fast food. And keep unconventional schedules. But they trustingly leave me the key to their apartment, so I can sleep in, drink mate and type a blogpost. No complaints from this purple shirted girl.

back on the road. back into the countryside. sigh of relief.

2011-06-21T18:01:00.005-03:00

I don't think I can possibly describe how amazing it is to be back on the road. All I can do is beam my brightest smile and hope that its radiance reaches you. Perhaps the subtle vibrations on the Earth’s surface inspired by my frantic leaping in joy, will cause you to pause in reflective wonder at the universe’s magic. Maybe even my best wishes will be carried to you by a ripple chain reaction of good deeds originating from me and hopefully not ending with you. Anyway, I hope I got the point across. I’m in a good mood.

You may be surprised to find out that I have left Zapala. After about a month of building friendships and sharing moments, I have said great-bye and all-the-best to countless of amazing people. People who opened their hearts and homes to me. I am forever grateful.

But I can’t say that it was hard to say goodbye, I am very much overjoyed to be back on the road. Because of the ash-situation in Zapala, I hitchhed a ride with firecracker Marianoli. It’s not that I’m paranoid of inhaling ashes, it’s just that I’d prefer not to. So I rode the 53 km to Las Lajas in luxury. Hearing about the history of the land whizzing past my window and sharing my stories.

In Las Lajas, I had a contact. A friend of a friend. Which is more or less the way I roll these days. Carlitos lives at the crossroads in a little ski equipment rental cabin. The cabin was electricity-less and wood-stove heated. The way I like it. The cabin was tidy and had a jaw-dropping view of the snow topped Andes.

After three nights and two days making myself at home in the small everyone-knows-everyone-else town, going on short bike rides and long walks, and eating hand made morcilla-filling with my fingers… I was ready to leave. I packed up Tioca for the first time in over a month, said goodbye, and left.

The day was cool, cloudy and perfect. The road was exactly what the witchdoctor ordered. My body needed the exercise, my mind needed the open landscape, and my heart needed a reason to beat. The wind was everywhere, inconsistent, irrational and confused. The rolling hills hypnotized me as I smiled in content consent.

That night found me seated by a humble fire on the dirt floor of a humbler shelter, up a sandy dirt road, off of Route 40. It was cold. Much like the first impressions around here. Country folks always keep you at a distance at first. They need to figure you out. They offer you mate, torta frita, and a place by the fire. Slowly you warm up to them with your questions, your answers, and your smile. Then they warm up to you, like the heat of the fire sneaking up to your skin. Or like the sweet mate they hand you, warming your belly.

The elderly couple and their son let me sleep on their kitchen floor. A highly prized place to sleep. At least I had four walls and a roof. The cold air slithered in through the gaping holes, but at least I wasn’t outside. It gets cold, very cold, these days. The house was modest. No heating, no running water, no electricity, and one kerosene lamp. I had a fractioned carcass and a calendar honoring a religious saint as wall decorations. I was so grateful for this humble family to offer me everything. It’s amazing how those who have few material possessions, offer you everything they have.

The next morning, there was movement before the sun was even up. I blinked the sleepies out of my eyes and joined the mate round heading clockwise around the small crackling fire. The goats were bahbah-ing and head butting. The chickens were squawking. And, yes, the rooster cockle-doodle-dooed early early early in the morning. As I packed my bike, Consuelo handed me a bag of torta fritas for the journey. I thanked them with some chocolates, but they felt so insignificantly small compared to the hospitality I had received. They offered for me to stay another night. I thanked them for everything, but the trip must go on!

That day was a long day. Well... not really, but it felt like it. I knew I had to get to Chorriaca because, well, winter’s breath is painfully cold. I didn't necessarily like that obligation. The sky was cloudy. The flat arid landscape bored me. My body was tired. My legs didn’t want to go any farther. I saw the town from afar… but no matter how much I pedaled, it didn’t seem to be getting any closer. I tried singing to pass the time. Then ate a few torta fritas. Then talked a bit to myself. I rested plenty. And, of course, I lost myself in my thoughts.

I arrived via bumpy dirt road to the heart of the small town. Not only was it a Sunday, but also Fathers’ Day. I wasn’t expecting anything to be open. When I saw an open door, I jumped off the bike. I walked up and asked politely for hot water. I fielded the typical curious questions, my origin, my destination, my age, and wasn’t I scared to travel by myself? And, in turn, I asked them mine: did they know of any roof to sleep under? They glanced at each other nervously. No one wanting to be the first to jump to help this strange stranger from a strange place. Can you blame them?

Someone mentioned that the salón had a mattress, so I walked to the house, explained my story, and was given permission to spend the night. Success!

Fabiola, the radio woman, invited me over to the radio studio for mates. I am not one to turn down an opportunity to share mates and meet new people. I served mates while Guillermina talked on air.

I was wary at first by her religiousness; I didn‘t really want to have the god-talk with her. I have learned to try to dodge questions about my faith because I find it too difficult to explain. In any language. I believe what I believe. And I hope it is reflected in how I live. I don’t like to have to explain myself and I really don‘t like when people are condescending, pitying, or preachy.

Luckily that topic wasn’t touched. Her story, however, was inspiring. I listened intently, absorbing this woman’s strength through her words. I won’t related the whole thing here, but the moral of the story is:

1. Be a good person

2. Forgive and accept others

3. Never give up; there is always a solution even if you have to struggle for it.

That night I slept curled up near the smoky warmth of a wood-burning stove. Dreaming of far away lands and savoring the memories of far away friends.

I've been rather cranky lately.

2011-06-15T12:19:00.007-03:00

I think it's the weather. The novelty excitement of the ash-grey cloudy sky has worn off. The volcano is no longer amusing. I don't like breathing through my scarf. I don't like to worry about inhaling potentially lung-damaging material. I miss being outside. I miss the sun. I miss the blue sky. I miss the fresh air.

And most of all I miss biking. '

For the first few days, I made the most of my indoor confinement. Dedicating long hours to awkwardly strumming the guitar, decorating more wine-box wallets, reaching the high notes, cooking, and staring longingly out the window.

Then I got tired of this waiting game. I settled down in a moody funk and immersed myself in solitude and self-pity. I did nothing. A whole lot of nothing... And I hardly ever do nothing.

The weather didn't help. The lack of outdoor activities, fresh air, exercise, sunlight, and moonlight all contributed. I let it all build up and up and up... until...

I made a decision.

I decided that this journey must continue. I have two options: stay put and feel sorry for myself or go. And the first option isn't really an option. Furthermore, I'm the only one who can hotwire this adventure back into existence. No one is going to come do that for me. So, I decided to wipe the volcanic powder out of my eyes and shake off this negativity. And started saying my goodbyes.

I said goodbye to the city of Zapala. Thanking it for everything it had offered me. Acknowledging that this little dusty windy city is way more hospitable than it appears. For some reason I have stayed for about a month. That reason is the people. The amazing people. Thanks to all of them.

(More pictures to come when I get a better internet connection...)

I said goodbye to Agustín (and Maxy and Vanessa and Agustín's parents...).

I said goodbye to Vero (and Juan Carlos, Manuel, Brian, Kevin, Lois, Nora, the dogs, the horses, Piwi, and the sheep).

I said goodbye to Susana (and Quique and Matias).

I said goodbye and thank you. When people open up their hearts, take you in, and spoil you with hospitality... you treasure them forever.

So, where am I going???? I mean, hello, there are still volcanic ashes everywhere. Is biking really an option??

There's only one way to find out.

After much debate and many third party opinions... I've decided to take my chances with Route 40. Hopefully I can outbike the ashes, at least until Chos Malal. From there I'll try my luck flagging down four-wheeled motorized transportation into the Province of Mendoza. Plans subject to change. But for now, I'm sticking to them...!

Succumbing to publicity...

2011-06-12T14:47:00.003-03:00

Almost everyone I know will agree that, when given the opportunity, I will talk. And talk. And talk.

And when given the opportunity to talk on a TV program, I will accept.

I've uploaded my 20 minutes of fame to youtube in two parts. It's in Spanish, so whip out that dictionary and brush up on your Castellano! Enjoy!

Sucumbiendo a la publicidad... (Castellano)

Casi todos que me conocen ya saben que, cuando me dan la oportunidad, hablo. Y hablo. Y hablo.

Y cuando me dan la oportunidad de hablar en un programa de televisión, la voy a aceptar.

Subí mis 20 minutos de fama a youtube en dos partes. Está en castellano!! Disfrútenlo!

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrENOmLK-rM

Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCCwrylyjjc

The past week... Neuquén style!

2011-06-11T21:20:00.006-03:00

It was a beautiful Zapala day. Out of the blue, I got a call from Juanjo. The phone line almost errupted in excitement! I wasn't sure I heard right. They wanted me to do an interview for a TV station in Neuquén? What?! Even though it meant postponing my trip for yet another week, there was absolutely no chance I would decline.

Monday meant meat truck transportation to Neuquén for my Tuesday interview. As I waited for the truck to arrive, I stepped outside. Snow, I thought, as white flakes danced down from the cloudy sky. I caught a few on my hand. But they didn't melt. I brushed them off, and they left a grey streak. Ash!

Yes, a few days prior Volcano Puyehue had errupted and dumped ash all over my beloved Bariloche. Closing the airport, confining people to their homes to concoct end-of-the-world theories, and blanketing the city. On Monday the ash arrived to Zapala.

And in fact the ash cloud followed me to Cutral Co and even to Neuquén. Word has it that it has shut down airports as far away as Buenos Aires and Brazil! Nuts.

On Tuesday, Juanjo and I arrived at the TV studio. I was super excited.

I met Cata and Cristian in the studio and waited patiently for my turn.

I made friends with the makeup artist and the security guard. Then before I knew it: lights-camera-BIKE, I was on live TV!

It flew by! I maybe said half the things I wanted to mention. But I loved it! I am in the process of uploading the video to YouTube. Hang in there, tomorrow I hope to have it up and running!

And of course the interview ended by Juanjo whispering to the producer that I liked to sing. And so it was thus announced on air. Flustered, I denied it. And avoided the topic until the comercial break.

Cata mentioned that she was scheduled to sing at a bar the next day, and invited us along. We arrived fashionably late and sat at the bar sipping Fernet and Cola from straws.

Surprise! Cata announced through her microphone that for her next song, yes, yours truly would be accompanying her. Yikes. I shuffled my way to the stage.

After a few words, some applause, and a thorough throat-clearing... the music began.

We sang Alanis Moressette's "Hand in my pocket" and got a standing ovation! So much fun.

Neuquén, as always, proved to be a great time. Lots of Fernet, scowering the city for a used guitar, truco battles, good food, unexpected blackouts, and a healthy dose of eye-stinging and lung-burning ash.

Rafa and Gustavo, my truckdriving buddies, let me bum a ride with them for the third time. Again, they didn't let me pay for food, they gave me a goodhumored hardtime for my lifestyle choice, and they even bought a wine-box wallet each! I think that officially makes me a professional Artesan. Gracias chicos por toda la buena onda!!

So here I am, yet again, in Zapala. The weather has gotten wintry cold. I'm eager to get north, but sad to leave this place. So many wonderful people have made this pit stop amazing. It'll be tough to pedal away.

Coming soon... recordings of my TV and radio interviews!!

Puyehue arrives to Zapala.

2011-06-07T01:43:00.009-03:00

The ash from Volcano Puyehue blanketed Bariloche a few days ago. It has now reached Zapala... and even Neuquén. Clouds of ash hung in the air, stinging eyes and skyrocketing the facemask to fashion statement status. Here are a few pictures I took on June 6, 2011.

Puyehue llega a Zapala (castellano)

Hace un par de días la ceniza del volcan Pueyehue cubrió Bariloche. Ahora ya llegó a Zapala... encima hasta Neuquén. Nubes de cenizas se colgaban en el cielo, ardiendo ojos y haciendo que el barbijo fuese la última moda. Acá tienen unas fotos que saqué el 6 junio 2011.

Certainly not the best biking weather. Guess I'll be staying a little longer in Zapala.

No es el mejor clima para una pedalea. Supongo que me quedo un poco más tiempo en Zapala.

a small breath of magic

2011-06-05T10:28:00.007-03:00

When was the last time you woke up before the sun? When was the last time you saw the gum drop fiery caramel colors leaking in molasses fashion from the horizon? When was the last time you saw a symphony of hues so attune to one’s inner beauty? When was the last time you witnessed the sun’s first eyelash rays blink over the east? Perhaps you do it everyday, perhaps it’s routine, perhaps you’re so over it… but for me it’s a special rarity, like winning a seven scoop ice cream cone at costume karaoke.

You may say that I’m unlucky this time of year living in the Southern Hemisphere. Today is shorter that yesterday and, with every rotation of our planet, the starry night sneaks patiently forward invading our daylight hours. Yes, you may say I’m unlucky, but I say that I have a favorable advantage to wake up relatively late and still be graced with the universe’s celestial painting canvas.

So what am I doing awake before 9am? Aren’t I on vacation? What am I doing wearing work appropriate clothes and dry erase marker stains on my fingers? And what am I still doing in Zapala?!!

Yes, I came out of early retirement. I went back to the white board. I swam in the textbook waters and took the idiom express to the land of impromptu grammar games. But don’t worry, it was so temporary that it’s already over! I was offered four days of playing substitute teacher at an English institute. Yes, the dreaded substitute teacher position.

But subbing is where I shine. I don’t have to deal with deadlines, homework grading, lesson planning, and test writing. I just go with my enthusiasm, my energy, my stories, and my smile. As a substitute teacher, I’ve decided that my job is to inspire, not to be an overbearing vocabulary drill sergeant. And that’s what I love.

So I spent this week, bouncing around the classroom. Sometimes simultaneously raising my voice and arms in excitement, frantically scribbling/doodling on the board, jumping up onto chairs, and giving the smack-down of common sense. I had a good time. A very good time.

But I’m happy to be unemployed again.

Especially this week. This week I presented myself with two challenges. One. Learn to play the guitar. Two. Learn juggling. What a week to also have a full class schedule! I don’t pretend to want to learn everything or even just the basics about guitar or juggling. But rather the purpose of those goals is to push me to take the first step. Pick up a guitar! Pluck a string. Throw some objects in the air. Raid youtube’s wealth of instructional videos. Find local experts. Tread new waters. Add to my experience bank account. Have some fun.

It’s invigorating to challenge yourself to try something new.

But speaking of having fun, I’ll be honest with you all, I’m starting to worry about myself. I've been noticing some bizarre changes. For the past few days I have found myself spontaneously grinning. Out of nowhere, I have an uncontrollable smile erupting from my lips. Usually I'm alone. And doing nothing out of the ordinary. And suddenly I realize that I'm smiling. Chuckling even.

I don’t understand it at all. It kind of confuses me. But it feels good. It feels right. And... maybe I don't have to understand it.

Whatever it is, this inexplicable happiness, I like it. I want to nurture it. I want to harvest some new and fragrant experiences from its strong elegant vines.

I want to follow… no, create!… my life’s path. Let's go!

check this out!

2011-06-03T12:17:00.004-03:00

i found this blog and it makes me very very excited. jumping up on tabletops and waving my arms excited. smiling uncontrollably excited. write a blog post excited!

kate and john have combined travel + food + sustainability to create a mission and a journey that i find very admirable.

http://foodcyclist.com/

Trash Collecting = Arts and Crafts???

2011-06-01T11:13:00.009-03:00

When was the last time you set aside a lazy Sunday morning for a good ol’ arts and crafts session? Or a rogue half an hour after dinner? Or even let it take priority over normally more important things?

How long has it been since you’ve plopped yourself down on a newspapered floor and sat cross-legged tapping into your creative energy? Since you've discovered glitter under your nails and green feathers rubber-cemented to your hair? Since you've created? Imagined? Designed? Since you've unleashed your improvisation skills? Since you've had an excuse to shamelessly play with googly eyes and pipe cleaners??

I have a lot of free time these days. It’s pretty amazing. And I take full advantage: running around, smiling a lot, and learning new things. And among other fabulous activities, I’ve been exploring the vast and immensely interesting world of arts and crafts. I’ve never prided myself on harboring any kind of artistic talent. Quite the contrary, it was never my strong suit… All the more reason to dive head-first into giving it a whirl!

I’ve purchased a pair of knitting needles. I acquired a set of colored pencils. Scissors. Glue. Colored electrical tape. And when Ailen, in Junin de los Andes, taught me a great skill… I snatched it up by the hand and ran with it. I stumbled at first, but I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. I would like to share this lovely activity with you all, dear readers. So roll up your sleeves, prepare a soothing hot beverage, clear off a tabletop, put on your favorite singable music, and get ready to release yourself into the magical world of creativity. Ready? Here it goes…

How to make a wallet out of discarded cheap wine boxes…

Step 1. Collection

Leave your house. And walk. It’s a beautiful blue sky day. Gloved hands in pockets on a crisp autumn day. Surveying eyes turned towards the curb ready to identify any particularly inviting specimens.

Perhaps you should head to the other side of the train tracks. Take advantage and explore unknown territory. If you feel socialable, greet a stranger. If you feel like being alone, walk with a mission; people will usually leave you alone. The dogs may not.

So, what is it exactly are you looking for? Boxed wine. Yes, the cheap of the cheap. They can be found thrown out on the street. If you live in a particularly trash-free area, ask at a restaurant or go explore another neighborhood. Look for boxes that aren’t too damaged by natures elements. A healthy box can come in various lengths, widths, colors, physical and mental conditions. With time, you will learn to identify the ones you best like to work with.

Pick up and shake out the last droplets of used wine boxes. I advise you to bring a bag that you don’t mind getting dirty. Collect as many as you want. Know that you’re helping to pick up trash. You’re converting landscape eyesores into art. Don’t overdo it though. You can always come back. Especially if you need an excuse every so often to escape into the world of fresh air.

Step 2. Wash wine boxes

Your recently collected wine boxes are probably filthy. A good washing with warm soapy water will get most of the yuck off. Two washings will rid your boxes of more of that pungent cheap wine smell.

Step 3. Scissors!

The wine box is a 3-D rectangle with six sides. You have the front and back usually decorated with the wine brand and some inviting propaganda. You have the two sides, left and right. And you have the top and bottom.

Cut off the top of the box that was used for drinking/pouring.

Turn box over to focus on the bottom. Cut approx 4-5 cm from the end, leaving one solitary side standing. This will be the flap you used to close the wallet/coin purse.

Step 4. Fold

If you flatten the box, you will create a crease that runs down the middle of the left and right sides. Now unflatten and fold inward along that crease, creating what reminds me of a very small accordion.

Now we fold the long rectangle (the front and back) in half. We can see the wallet taking form! So exciting!!

Step 5. Decorate (Mandatory)/Velcro and staples (Optional)

This is the fun part folks. Run a marathon with it. You will find that as you discover new materials, your wallets will evolve. I try to use other recycled materials as much as possible. Comic strips. Wrappers. Look around you. What do you find?

To complete the wallet, I use a needle and tread to sew Velcro to the flap. Did you know that you can buy COLORED Velcro?? You can also use snaps, buttons, hooks… In the interior, I use two staples, to keep the wallet from springing open and losing that wallet-like form.

Step 6. Experiment. Repeat.

Keep innovating! Keep practicing! Keep rocking out! What did you find out? An awesome idea? Send me feedback! We’re learning together!

Step 7. Distribute!

They are great gifts. You can try to sell them. Or you can fill a warehouse, just for the sheer joy of making them!

If these steps are confusing, let me know and I’ll consider making an instructional video…

Feliz aniversario, Tioca!!

2011-05-29T12:51:00.003-03:00

(Don't freak out, English version below!)

Hoy cumplo un mes de pedaleada. Les dejo con un texto que siempre ha influenciado mis acciones, mis viajes, y mi filosofia de la vida. Que lo disfruten!

Desiderata

-Max Ehrmann

Camina plácidamente entre el ruido y la prisa,

y recuerda qué paz puede haber en el silencio.

En la medida de lo posible y sin traicionarte

procura vivir en buenos términos con todo aquel que te rodea.

Di tu verdad tranquila y claramente;

y escucha a los demás,

incluso al aburrido y al ignorante;

ellos también tienen una historia que contar.

Evita a los ruidosos y a los agresivos,

ellos afligen al espíritu.

Si te comparas con otras personas,

puedes tornarte vanidoso y amargo;

porque siempre habrá personas más grandes y más pequeñas que tú.

Disfruta de tus logros y también de tus planes.

Mantén el interés en tu propia carrera, por humilde que sea;

es una verdadera posesión en las cambiantes fortunas del tiempo.

Sé cuidadoso en los negocios;

pues el mundo está lleno de trampas.

Pero no dejes que ésto te ciegue a la virtud del mundo;

muchas personas luchan por grandes ideales;

y en todas partes la vida está llena de heroísmo.

Sé tú mismo.

En especial, no finjas afecto.

Tampoco seas cínico ante el amor;

porque frente a la aridez y al desencanto,

el amor es perenne como la hierba.

Toma con serenidad el consejo de los años,

y renuncia grácilmente a los dones de la juventud.

Nutre la fuerza del espíritu para protegerte de las desgracias inesperadas,

pero no te crees falsos fantasmas.

Muchos miedos nacen de la fatiga y la soledad.

Sin olvidar una justa disciplina,

sé amable contigo mismo.

Eres un hijo del Universo,

no menos que los árboles y las estrellas;

tienes derecho a estar aquí.

Y no importa si te resulta evidente o no,

no hay duda de que el Universo se está desarrollando como debe.

Por ello procura estar en paz con Dios,

de la manera en que lo concibas,

y cualesquiera sean tus trabajos y aspiraciones,

mantén la paz en tu espíritu en la ruidosa confusión de la vida.

A pesar del trabajo duro, las falsas esperanzas y los sueños rotos,

este sigue siendo un mundo hermoso.

Procura estar alegre.

Lucha por ser feliz.

Happy anniversary, Tioca!!

2011-05-29T12:29:00.007-03:00

One month ago today I began this epic bike journey. I want to share with you a text that has been very influencial for me, my trips, and my life philosophy. Enjoy!

Desiderata

-Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even to the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;

they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter,

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals,

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love,

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life,

keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Big city girl in the… big city.

2011-05-28T09:56:00.013-03:00

Well, Neuquén isn’t really a big city by big city standards, but I’m peaking out from my small town world, and it leaves me wide-eyed and bewildered. Lots of people. Lots of hurrying people. Lots of cars. Lots of hurrying cars. Lots of movement. Lots of energy.

But it only takes a few hours for me to get back into the chaos of it all. Soon I’ve quickened my pace, activated my city eyes, and immersed myself in an accelerated version of dodge-the-vehicle and pedestrian game.

The city is also a great place to play hide and seek. If you want to escape it all, you just step outside and walk. Suddenly you’re invisible to just about everyone. Everyone except the political leafleters, the artesanos, and cat callers. But if you don’t mind them, you’re golden.

You can lose yourself in the streets of your thoughts. You can take the subway of your emotions and watch the stations whiz by. You can sit in park and people watch. You can figure things out. You can mess things up. You can stress yourself out. You can relax. You can accelerate. You can slow down. You can be alone as you want to be as life swirls around you.

I came to Neuquén to see my friend, Juanjo, a seriously Argentine personality. He does everything. He fixes anything. He knows everyone. He has unlimited energy. He’s always up for anything. Even a bike ride to the wineries.

Round trip it would have been close to 100km, which is a lot. So we loaded the bikes into the truck and gave ourselves a few kilometer headstart.

We escaped the dirty noisy busy city and went out to the countryside where the sky and horizon actually meet to shamelessly shake hands. Out here they don’t hide behind concrete buildings.

The day was a cloudy perfect. Not too hot. Not too cold. No wind. It felt good to be back on the bike. It had been **gasp** over a week since I had pedaled. Unacceptable.

The Fin del Mundo winery was my preferred destination. Having worked at a restaurant that served their wine, I had become a big fan of the Malbec Reserva. I was excited to go to the origin of this great wine.

After a tour by our super informative guide, we came to the best part. Yes, I bet you can guess what that was…!

We were given two wines to try, but since both Juanjo and I are big talkers and ask a lot of questions, we were treated to a few more. And a few more. “I don’t want to get you guys drunk,” said the employee. We just laughed.

On the ride back, Juanjo was having all sorts of bike issues and I was having an emotional crisis. On top of it all, we were both exhausted. And a little buzzed. At the end of the day as the sun was setting, we got a ride from a friendly pick up truck.

The next day was tranquilo. We threw some veggies on the grill, stuffed our faces and pleased our taste buds with smoky flavors.

Mix in a little bit of fernet.

A little bit of truco. And…being adults, there was no one who could tell us not to play with our food.

We were doubled over laughing until late into the night. Which wouldn’t have mattered much except the wakeup alarm was set for 4:15am.

Why? Juanjo has had many jobs. His newest one is truck driver. A meat truck driver. Which means abnormal hours, lots of driving, lifting really heavy boxes, and wearing blood-stained white clothes.

And on that next morning, I accompanied him because it promised a free ride back to Zapala. So after a hour or so of sleep, let’s go!

From before the sun came up to well past when the sun settled back into the horizon, we were in the truck. The guys worked very hard delivering huge hunks of meat to supermarkets in Senillosa, Plaza Huincul, Cutral Co, and lastbutnotleast Zapala!

It’s an experience like this one that gives a food fanatic like myself a chance to peak into the big food-corporation machine at work. It helps me start to piece together the origin of the food we eat and the path it takes to get from soil to spoon. It also helped me appreciate some of the hard work that it takes to get things that we often consider basic to the supermarket shelves. I’ve always taken for granted that I walk into the supermarket and find what I need. I’d never really sat down and thought of the human and engine-power involved. It’s a huge operation.

And it makes me want to keep things simple.

Go to the veggie store for veggies. Go to the meat store for meat. Go to the cheese store for cheese. And if you can, go directly to the source. Go to the farm for produce: animal, vegetable and textile. Go to the river for fish. Go to the soil for root veggies. Go to the tree or bush for fruit. Go to the animal for meat. If you dare to know where your food comes from. If you care about what you put into your body. I think it’s important that people realize what goes into their food production. It’s easy to avert eyes. It’s easy to plug ears. But if you’re not ready to take responsibility for what you consume, maybe you should reconsider your consumption habits.

Yesterday’s Humbling Moment of Beauty

2011-05-26T10:00:00.002-03:00

Yesterday was an atypical partly cloudy day in Neuquén. We decided to do the winery tour on bike anyway. While we passing through a small town, I saw a man walking quickly towards us motioning for us to stop. He was waving us down and calling to us. I was skeptical at first; my tourist senses on highest alert. I thought, he probably wants to sell us something. Or rob us. Or sell us something and then rob us. We slow to a stop.

Where are you from? He started. Are you doing the tour of the wineries? He asked.

Lots of questions, I thought.

He continued. Well, I’m just heading home and, well…

Uh oh, I thought, here it comes. Some pre-planned story about needing money for the bus or something. I’ve heard this one before. Sigh.

Well, I’m just heading home and, well, I have these tortas fritas* and they’re going to get cold by the time I get there. So, well, you have a long bike ride ahead, and I thought you could have them.

*tortas fritas are amazing. They are fried dough. They are a great mate accompaniment. They are typical of countryside and small town living. Everyone’s grandmother makes the best torta frita.

Huh?

From my heart. He says as he puts his hand on his chest. Take them. They’ll get cold before I walk home.

I didn’t understand. I stood there, bike between my legs, with a guilty disbelieving face. Really?

Really. He gave us the bag and walked off. I turned to Juanjo. What just happened? I asked. Juanjo shrugged. Small town folks are like that, he replied, grabbing a torta frita, still warm.

I stood there clutching the plastic bag, still in awe, not believing that I had had so little faith in human kind. I felt worse than terrible. I had thought this man was going to rob us and instead he ran out to the road to catch us before we pedaled off only to give us a bag of torta frita out of the pure kindness of his heart.

I love people. And life is constantly reminding me how lucky I am to be alive. This is one such reminder. There are good, really good people out there. Simple, humble, wonderful people. Today my heart was won by this stranger, whose path I was fortunate enough to cross.

Tomorrow I will go out and do something beautiful for someone else. That’s a promise.

Today.**

2011-05-23T12:07:00.006-03:00

**Well, not actually today. It was today when I wrote it… two days ago.

I’m tired. Today was a big day. Today I was invited and enthusiastically interviewed on a Zapala radio station. Today, for the first time, I really enjoyed riding horses. Today I herded sheep. Today I learned that, yes, counting sheep does make you sleepy. And that they actually do a funny little jump as you count them! Today I butchered a carcass. Today I was unbelievably cold. Today left me with squinty sleepy eyes and physical strength only to type these words.

Let me explain.

Susana arranged for me to be interviewed on a local Zapala radio station, FM 96.3. We arrived to the studio to meet Hugo and sit in the small padded room with microphones. I wasn’t nervous, but my heart must have missed the memo because it was beating as though I was. I took a deep breath and reminded my confused beating heart that if I get nervous, my voice will shake. If I’m my electric, smiley, confident, comfortable self that radiates positivity, everything will be ok.

I had a great time. Hugo fell in love with my story. So did the producers. So did the Mormon woman who had her interview directly after mine. I was overwhelmed with positive feedback.

If I can get my little hands on a recording of the program, I’ll see if I can post it!

I arrived at Vero’s estancia all aglow for an asado lunch that left my digestive tract bursting at the seams. So much food. So much of it meat!

Then it was time to round up the sheep.

My horse’s name is Pluma, which means feather. She’s old, lazily sluggish, flatulent, and perfect! You see, when I was very very little, I fell off a horse. Since then I have been utterly terrified of horses, riding them, or having anything to do with them. Let’s just say that I wasn’t a typical ribbon-in-hair little girl who dreamed of having a pony. When I was 13, I tried again, this time in the open plains of Montana. And fell off again. Twice. My conclusion: this riding horses gig is not for me.

But I’m realizing that, since Day 1 of this trip, I’ve been overcoming all sorts of fears, learning learning learning new things, and reflecting back on it all. I’m also learning patience, overall hardcoreness and the fine line where they meet. I took a deep breath and, with it, breathed in a new determination. I will ride a horse… and I will like it, dammit!

Today was my second time on Pluma. The first time was a complete disaster. Every time we tried galloping, I entered in terrified panic. We ended up walking for most of the afternoon, much to the dismay and boredom of the kids who have been riding their entire lives. Today was different. Today I relaxed. Today I feigned confidence, and it yielded real confidence. And besides from finicky stirrups, I had a great time. I actually got the hang of galloping. And I really really enjoyed it. Wind in my hair, arid countryside with millions of prickly bushes, big open blue sky, and yours truly Ms. CityGirl galloping through it all with a gigantic smile. I felt like a real Cowgirl in the making!

So, confront your fears. Look it in the eye and challenge it to faceoff. Being scared is normal… and it’s also the first step in overcoming those pesky and often debilitating fears. Take a risk, slowly at first, let it gather momentum. And then you will realize that it’s not so bad. Whether it’s a fear of eating bananas, of hairy 8-legged creatures, of jumping out of airplanes, of trying a new cuisine, or launching a trip on bike with no set path for an unspecified amount of time. Do it! Go for it! If you keep an open mind and a strong character, you will be glad you did.

Have you ever been driving along and have to stop because there are cows, horses, sheep in the road? It happens quite often in these parts. It’s not so often, however, that I get to be one of those on horseback, yehaw-ing at sheep so they cross the highway. I sat up tall and felt very very special.

And then we came to the counting of sheep. I never quite understood why children are told to count sheep if they are having trouble accessing nighttime dreamland. I mean, I’ve tried it. It’s never worked for me.

That is, until I did it for real. Here’s how this works. You have all the sheep in one giant pen and you scare them into running through a gate to another giant pen. This is a very delicate maneuver. If you have too many sheep running at one time, it is very easy to lose count. And there’s no real way to start over. That being said, are you ready? Let’s begin. 1. 2. 345. 6...7. 8910.….

By number 532, my eyelids were getting heavy. By number 794, I was yawning uncontrollably. I was kept entertained though because, as the sheep passed through the gate, they did a funny little jump. More like a leap. I’m not sure why. There was no obstacle that needed to be avoided. There was no reason for them to prance. But for some inexplicable reason about 85% did this funny little frantic leap. I was very amused.

1051. That’s the final count. Then they were herded and separated. Girls and boys. I’m glad that I’m not an animal-rights activism extremist. And that there were none present. I mean, none of the sheep were hurt, but farm life is rough. It’s rough on farmers and on farm animals. It’s not a sugar coated super shiny cotton candy padded life. It’s tough. And it’s about survival.

In modern urban societies, we are losing touch with basic human knowledge. Children grow up believing that vegetables come from supermarkets not from nature, that money is not only the key to survival but also to being happy, that soil is dirty and should be avoided, that cellphones and internet are life essentials, and that chicken nuggets are real meat. Some children have never seen stars. Some children don’t know that potatoes grow underground, are covered in dirt, and have a green leafy plant. Some children have grown up glued to the screen (tv or computer or cellphone) and eating from the microwave. Some children aren’t allowed to scrape their knees, get dirt under their fingernails, or eat worms.

Some adults have never considered harvest season. Some adults have never thought of killing an animal for food, yet eat meat daily. Some adults don’t know how to sew (with thread or with a hoe). Some adults have children and yet don’t spend any time with them. Some adults live trying to escape life.

And why not?

We live in a time where we don’t have to think about our survival, only about our levels of comfort. Why should we have to know basic human survival practices? They’re so primitive. Why grow food when I can order it to be delivered? Why make instead of buy? Time is money and money buys things. Why think about where things come from? Why leave the comfort of my bubble? Why trouble myself to think about simple things when I can complicated my life with new gadgets, latest crazes, relationship drama, magic pills and diets, and reality shows?

It’s really not my place to say that all that is bad. It’s not. Everyone has their path. I lived in the big city and loved it. I used to turn my nose up to farmers and simple country folks. I used to be stressed, accelerated, overly dramatic, and obnoxiously know-it-all. I used to drink organic soy double pumpkin lattes. I used to spend my time worrying about if I filled my schedule and then complain about not having enough time. I used to play a lot of mental games, with myself and others. And I loved it.

But it’s not for me anymore. I’m cultivating a new Alisa.

Whew. I went way off track on that rant. Back to the story.

After the obligatory 6pm tea time, we went to the carnicería… the butchery. Chan.

When you simultaneously live on a farm and eat meat, sometimes you have to do the dirty work. That may mean sacrificing and carving up a very large animal. At first I shivered in a mixture of repulsion and disgust. Maybe it’s the former vegetarian in me. Or maybe it’s the fear and uneasiness that society has instilled in me to keep me dependent on the system for providing something as basic as food. But with my travels and experiences, I’m realizing that it’s completely natural to provide your own food. Animal, vegetable and mineral.

So when I entered the meat room, I came face to face with very large hunks of meat hanging from large hooks. Let’s get to work!

Manuel sharpened the knife and started carving out cuts with familiar names. Cuadrada. Bola de Lomo. Tortuguita. And then when we got to the bones, we brought out the big guns. The saw. We sawed out portions of puchero, bagged them, and dumped them in the freezer.

I secretly wished I had been there for the actual slaughter.

By this time, the sun had gone down and it had gotten very very cold. All this hard work had obliterated my body and I had a hard time not shivering uncontrollably. I was cold down to my bones. My exhaustion was written all over my face as I huddled near the fire.

I always knew that farm work was tough. From sun up to sun down… and often much longer… farmers are working. And it’s not sit in an office, wait tables, fly through the trees kind of work. It’s real physical work. I got a small teeny weenie little taste of it today and it completely destroyed me. The pay for this work is not in dollars, pesos or euros… it’s in basic life necessities: food, clothes, warmth, security. It’s a kind of work-lifestyle mixture that involves the whole family. It’s cyclical. It makes sense. It yields a sweaty satisfaction, appreciation, and gratitude for things that I’ve never given a second-thought to. It also makes me realize how soft and wimpy I am.

But everything comes with practice.

a short interjection

2011-05-22T12:08:00.006-03:00

I watch. The Alamo trees overhead sway gently announcing a change in weather. Any stubborn leaves still hanging on will eventually lose patience or strength and join their brethren to be swept into piles. Just like they have in years past. And years to come.

There is a simple complexity, or a complex simplicity, in the natural course of a year. In New York I was vaguely aware of the passing of time as a natural occurrence. Time was, instead, marked by the school year, a human creation. The seasons passed and left a taste in the mouth, like eggnog in the winter or fruit smoothies in the summer. But no matter the weather, life continued as normal, hardly batting a mascaraed eyelash. Anything could be done in any weather. That’s the convenience of a city. It allows us to be independent of season, moon phase, hours of sunlight, temperature maximums and minimums, wind. In fact, we hardly even notice them. And why should we? They’re just another thing to interfere with business as usual.

But what happens when we are unprotected? When we are exposed to the mercy of the weather? When survival depends on harnessing natural resources? When importance shifts from knowing how to use android apps to knowing how to use your hands? When we are forced to face raw life, rather than life filtered through a screen? Well, perspectives shift and priorities switch.

Comforts of modern society are just that, comfortable. They are shields. They protect. And most are fantastic! But they should be used in moderation. They are very easy to overdose on; one should be careful not to get addicted. They dilute life. They cloud our vision. They skew our senses. And what is the point of life if you’re not really living it?

I’m not saying that everyone should give up everything and go live in the countryside. Although that would be funny. No. The world works because there is a grand variety of people, interests, skills, and beliefs. What I’m saying is that perhaps it would do one good to step outside of the monotonous churnings of the daily grind every once in a while. Wipe your eyes. Blink. See something new. Sit in silence. Meditate on the nearest blade of grass. Appreciate the simple. Slow down. Try something new. Dance. Have a conversation with a stranger. Climb the next tree you see and feel the strength of the bark breathing under your fingertips. Smile more. Discover profound passion.

I found this Manifesto on my friend, Ashley’s, blog: www.miniskirtninja.com I thought I’d share it. Holstee is company that sells organic, recycled, fair trade… etc. goods. Check it out! www.holstee.com

y en castellano!

I cheated.

2011-05-21T11:26:00.007-03:00

But I don’t regret it. To be honest, I don’t regret much of anything. It had to be done; I didn’t have any other feasible option.

I loaded my bike in the back of an empty vegetable truck and rode in motorized luxury to Zapala. Yes, I admit it.

It was a beautiful journey. I would have liked to bike it. We first climbed the famous Rahue uphill (all gravel) which offered some pretty spectacular views, we coasted into a valley, we climbed the second long uphill, we coasted into a valley, we climbed the third epic uphill, passed a beautiful saltwater lagoon, and pulled into the dusty desert city of Zapala. All of that would have been a dream to do on bike… perhaps in summer. Winter is quickly descending on Patagonia. It’s getting cold. I can’t just pitch my tent wherever I feel like it. And sometimes there are long expansive deserted distances between anything at all. I can’t risk it. So I cheated. I hitchhiked.

But I’m over it. There will be plenty of kilometers to bike in the warmer northern roads. And honestly I’m glad to be here.

That being said. I like Zapala.

I like Zapala the way I like Comodoro Rivadavia. The key? Arrive with low expectations.

I had heard nothing good about Zapala. I was told of the infuriating all encompassing wind. The kind of wind that violently shakes houses, mercilessly snaps trees, and keeps inhabitants locked inside and staring at the tremendous dust storms. I was told it was a very ugly city. I was told to flat out avoid it.

But everyday I like it more. I think it’s the people.

I’ve been drifting from the city to the countryside and back again. And I feel very fortunate to have friends in both places to help me out.

Here in the city, I’ve been staying in a 5-star luxury mansion with Susana, Quique, and their nephew Matias. Dinners are always delicious and generous. They let me come and go as I please. And they don’t seem to mind that I’ve been here for almost a week.

In the countryside, Veronica and her family have a working estancia with cows, sheep, horses, rams, bulls… They have thrown me headfirst into their activities, at my request. I have no idea what I’m doing. I was not raised on a farm. Sometimes I feel so over my head, that I start flailing my arms in panic. But I’m learning and learning by doing, which for me is the best kind of learning. First you look like an idiot, but then you leave with your brain overflowing with knowledge. And I don’t really mind looking like an idiot.

Veronica also let me crash one of her English classes. I forget sometimes how much I enjoy teaching. There I was bouncing around the classroom, gesturing wildly and frantically getting the students to overcome their fears of speaking. Have I mentioned that I have no problem looking like an idiot? And then I was offered a subbing gig for three days when I come back from Neuquén. Horray for work!

Yes, the adventures continue.

I feel at peace. I feel calm. I have no hurry. I have developing philosophies on my mind and developing calluses on my hands. I’m excited about what I’m doing.

I want to give a great big thanks to Adriana. I am in debt to her and her wonderful contacts that have made this pit stop extra special.

apple trees, a dusty town, and reflective philosophizing

2011-05-18T09:59:00.001-03:00

Magic. That’s how I define the moment of bliss that comes from sitting in the branches of a wild apple tree, finger tips mere centimeters from a bright yellow orb, sun sending its blessing and spreading its joy, and heart open to the sheer beauty of the world exactly as it is. There is a love, fully directed towards all life’s manifestations, that radiates from the first bite, when teeth meet apple. Learning to identify Mother Earth’s edible gifts, because they are everywhere, little packets of nutrition and succulence, is a natural and socially responsible tool. And, in our city/work/money/buybuybuy mentalities, sometimes we forget that food originates from the seed of nature‘s womb, not from a sterile white laboratory. We lose the wisdom and patience of our great grandparents and chose convenience and comfort over richness and quality. When we slow down, pick a fruit, and take a moment to enjoy life’s gifts, living becomes a lot fuller, a lot more colorful, and a lot more worth living.

The road from Pilolil to Rahue may wind up and down, sideways and backwards, around and around, but it always stays true to River Aluminé. On a beautiful day, the countryside glows and the water shimmers and sometimes a girl on a rainbow bike takes it in with an open heart and a deep sigh.

The gravel road shakes and shutters the bike. The gashes in the road run like grooves in a saw blade. The going is slow, washboard style, but I’m in no hurry. In fact, just to stick out my tongue at time, to show time that I could give two beans about its bullying, I stop and harvest prickly rose hips until my fingertips can’t take it anymore. My idea is to sell them… if they sell, great, if they don’t sell, I’ll give them away. The main idea is to enjoy spending time, eyes squinting into the sun, breeze in my hair, fingers to the pricklies.

Two pickups stopped, unsolicited, both offering me rides. I graciously declined both. The day was brilliant and my legs needed the exercise from three days of bike neglect. One gentlemen stopped to talk as I was bent picking up rosehips that had planned an escape mission from the bag I had non-chalantly tied onto the elastic bungees of my bike. He told me of apple trees a few kilometers ahead. Enthusiastic, I kept my eyes peeled until I saw them. It’s late for apple-season, so there weren’t many left. I climbed trees, plucked apples, munched appreciatively while looking out from the rib cage of the branches breathing life into the afternoon.

It was 4:30pm when I reached Rahue, a junction where gravel meets pavement and where a little girl brought me hot water for an afternoon mate. I decided to spend the night in Rahue instead of continuing the 16 km to Aluminé. I was tired and the sun sets around 6pm these days.

Aida, a landmark woman, lives at these crossroads and has the opportunity to often help the stranded traveler. I am no exception. I pitched my tent beneath her apple trees. She invited me inside, gave me tea and homemade jam, let me cook my rice and mushrooms, and talktalktalked! She is a firecracker, doing a million and a half things at once.

That night was cold. A hefty frost lay on the ground the next morning.

That day brought me to Aluminé and to the house of Viviana. Viviana is a no-nonsense woman who raised five children and teaches English. She seems rough around the edges, but is a sweet heart. She let me stay in a storage room smelling of freshly made homemade cheese, with a bed, and a woodburning stove. After four nights on the road, I was overwhelmed with luxury. There was electricity, a washing machine, internet, bathroom and kitchen access, pizza, and direct TV. I felt like a million pesos.

For the next few days, I was a lounging bum. I didn’t do any hiking, I didn’t ride my bike, I didn’t go off and have adventures. I took a break. I walked in circles around the little town, made friends with helpful locals, drank mate by the river, but mainly just flat-out chilled. I felt a little guilty for not having done much of anything, but it felt right. I needed a little comfort.

Thanks to Viviana, Jorge, and Juan! For letting me stay with them, treating me like I belonged there (not like a guest), sharing conversations and episodes of Law and Order, and letting me bum around their house.

countryside wanderings

2011-05-16T09:16:00.014-03:00

Have you ever been to the countryside? The rolling hills kind of countryside. The faraway plateau with a lonely house countryside. The roaming cow countryside. The kind that extends all the way to the horizon, looks back, and waves. The kind with dirt roads and kind faces. The kind that is gentle but rough, simple and knowing, isolated yet completely at home.

I had never been to that countryside. At least not on bike. And not alone.

I had never been exposed, face to the wind, foot to the pedal, dignity in the deepest pothole. I left Junín de los Andes seeking adventure and dirt roads. And I am humbled by life’s ability to always gently catch me off guard, swiftly knock me to the ground, and then lift me up again with a study helpful hand.

Figuratively, of course, not literally. I did not crash nor fall off my bike.

The forecast warned rain, but I felt it was time to leave Junín anyway. I packed my bike, said goodbye to Ailén and Walter, and pedaled off. I stopped to talk to two hitchhikers who eventually got a ride and passed me. They waved from the back seat.

The wind ran east. I headed north. When we met, I was jostled towards the edge of the pavement. But luckily there was hardly any traffic, so I stayed central and avoided eating gravel.

Speaking of gravel. After the rickety bridge at Malleo, I was introduced not only to Gravel, but to her friend, Uphill. That’s when Gravel, Uphill, and Wind all ganged up on me. They poked and prodded. They pointed and laughed. For hours I put up with them, trying not to lose my cool. They even invited their friend Desolate Landscape to come join in on the fun. That’s when I noticed that the sun was getting dangerously close to the horizon. Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore.

I was in the middle of nowhere. No house in sight. Uphill gravel roads leading to more uphill gravel roads. No trees. Nowhere to pitch a tent. Wind. Fast approaching nightfall.

Trying to calm the rising panic in my chest, I pedaled on. There must be something up ahead. There must be something. Anything. A tree. A cabin. A shelter of any kind to pitch the tent. There must be.

There wasn’t.

And then it got dark.

And cold.

I had stopped and was in the middle of a self-encouraging pep talk, when I see headlights approaching. I waved down the pickup truck. It almost didn’t stop. A man rolled down the window. It turned out that there was hardly anything for the next five kilometers, but after that there were some houses. I convinced the man to take me at least that far. We loaded Tioca into the back of the truck and I warmed my hands in the passenger seat.

Orlando took me to the house of an elderly couple. After some mates around the woodburning stove, the couple invited me to stay with them in their house. They had an extra bed. I was very gracious.

I learned a lesson that night. I learned that I need to be more careful heading out into the countryside. I get used to there being houses, towns, cities, farms at every corner. And sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes there’s a whole lot of nothingness. I was angry at myself for letting myself get caught in that situation. What if there hadn’t been a car passing? What would I have done? I went through a lot of shoulda-woulda-coulda’s in my head that night, but at the end of it all, I was once at the mercy of kind strangers.

Don Domingo and Doña Juana are country folks. They live in a humble house with a few chickens, two dogs and one cat. Their children are all grown and have families of their own. They drink mate, eat meat as their main ingredient, and talk about country happenings. Life is slow, rough, and simple. They almost exclusively use the formal “Usted” instead of the informal “Vos”. They regarded me with respect, but as an outsider and, no matter how much time I spent with them, I don’t think I would ever fully enter into their circle of complete confidence.

Their son, Omar, took me for my first day of fishing. His practiced fingers threaded the worms onto the hook. I just squealed at them wiggling in my hand. I have a long way to go until I throw off all my old big city habits. He showed me how to cast the line from my tin can. After a few tries, I got the hang of it… and Omar, Olga, and their daughter Paulina went to eat lunch.

After 30 seconds of them having been gone, I got a bite. Call it beginner’s luck. Call it bad timing. Call it what you will, I was alone on the beach with a fish tugging on the fishing line. What do I do?

I immediately started yelling for Omar. No response.

I pull the fish closer to shore. Still shouting. Still no response. At this point adrenaline is pumping through my body. I have a vague idea what to do, but I’m not confident to go at it alone. I look at the fish. After some more shouts (please imagine this scene) I reluctantly pull the fish up on to the shore. There it is. Gasping. Flapping. I get closer. I can’t do this. I can. No, I can’t.

I prop the tin can behind some rocks and run towards the house. The dogs sense my panic and attack. Soon I have two small dogs biting at my ankles. I’m screaming. Not only do I interrupt a happy family lunch, but I look like an idiot. Olga comes to my rescue, shooing the dogs away. Omar accompanies me down to the river. He patiently pries the fish’s head off, takes out the hook, scrapes the scales off, and slides my knife down the belly of the fish. Soon the fish is clean. Here, he says as he hooks the fish’s jaw onto my finger. And just like that I have a fish, my first fish, hanging from my hand. He slides some more worms onto the hook and hands me the tin can. Then he leaves me to keep fishing while he finishes his lunch.

Daniel is Omar’s son and happens to love fishing. When he arrives home from school, he grabs his tin can and we fish together. I end up hooking something on the bottom of the river, pull too hard, snap the line, and lose two hooks and a leaden weight. We take turns switching cans until I get another bite. Nine-year-old Daniel springs into action. He knows exactly when to tug the line to hook the fish, he pulls the flapping fish ashore, and grabs it with his hands to unhook it. He lets me cut and clean the fish. Then he scales it like a pro. I’m in awe.

I give one fish to Omar, Olga, Daniel and Paulina and carry the second one home to Juana and Domingo. We spend all night chatting around the wood stove.

The next day, I decide to move out. I have a knack of making myself at home in other people’s homes. And my fear is to overstay my welcome. So I left to pitch my tent by the river in the “arenal” or the sandy area. I spent the whole day gathering firewood, trying my hands at arts and crafts, picking rose hips, talking to myself, reading, writing, watching the river’s current, listening to whistling gauchos on horseback, having stare-downs with candy wrappers and other trash specimens, and thinking thinking thinking.

When the sun dipped behind the hills, I pitched my tent and started my campfire. This was the first time I had ever lit a campfire by myself. I mean, I love campfires. I sit for hours and get lost in the dancing flames. I love the way the embers twinkle. I love adding wood at just the right angle. I love stoking the fire to keep it going a little bit longer. But I’ve never begun and finished a campfire session by myself.

I’ll admit I was scared. Scared of two things, really. I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to control the fire I made, resulting in a devastating fire, no more tent and a hysterical screaming Alisa. I kept a paranoid eye on the flames at all times, brushed away anything flammable, and jumped to extinguish any rebel ember that was catapulted from the main circus of events. I was exaggerating the danger of course, I was on a sandy beach with two nearby trees, but I was terrified nonetheless.

My other fear was drawing attention to myself. Usually I’m not scared of being alone. I know country folks are good people. And I’m confident that nothing with happen to endanger my safety and overall well being. But everyone I meet keeps asking me if I’m scared to travel alone. When I tell them that, no, I‘m not scared, they come up with all sorts of reasons why I should be. Sometimes it seems that they want to convince me to share their fears. And sometimes all it takes is for them to plant the seed… and then the mind grabs a shovel and a gardening hat and tends to nurse that sprout until it blossoms into a thick vine that chokes reason in doubt. So on that waxing-crescent-moon-lit night I was scared to be alone. I was scared to be on the beach alone. I was scared of the radiant warming flames drawing attention. What if, what if, what if…

I calmed down by reminding myself that whatever happens, is meant to happen. And honestly, if I can’t control it, I shouldn’t worry about it. Worrying never helps. I’ll repeat that, worrying never helps. What does help is to be prepared and to remain calm. Whatever happens will happen. And will teach me many many life lessons. So bring it, world!

And with that thought, I put on two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, two sweatshirts over my t-shirt, a fleece hat, and a scarf and cuddled up to Horacio el Batracio in my sleeping bag and prepared myself for the bitter cold night.

Yes, I remembered to put out the fire. And in my paranoia, I thoroughly soaked the entire fire pit with river water. Then I sat back and watched the smoke curl up to the starry sky and felt at peace with life’s workings.

in one tiny dusty town... with some enormously big hearts

2011-05-14T16:09:00.013-03:00

The 45km to Junín de los Andes was possibly the best leg of the trip yet.

The sun was brilliant. The Alamo trees waved. The arid landscape gently rolled. And the positivity radiated.

Junín de los Andes is a tumble-weed town. A dusty town sliced in half by the highway. You might even drive through, staring straight ahead, and never give it another thought. You might have other, more important, more happening, more aesthetically pleasing destinations to head to. You might think back, many years from now, and remember that there once existed a little town named Junín. You might not.

I love this town.

I have met so many wonderful people. From the security guard at the supermarket to the gentleman working at the fishing supply shop. From every single gas station attendant (at various stations on various time shifts) to the friendly hippies in the leafy green plaza. Even a woman at the volunteer fire station. Each person went out of their way to help me out. And for them I am very very thankful.

María lives in a humble green house a block from the highway. I met her in the fire station. She took pity on me and allowed me to pitch my tent in her back yard. We ate pizza and watched trashy reality shows. That night was very very cold. Every so often I woke up, rolled over, shivered and fell back asleep. Over and over until morning. That next morning there was a nice layer of frost on the tent. It’s getting cold around here.

The next day left me out and about with my overloaded bike. With no where else to go, I sat in the plaza and ate some yogurt.

Ailén spotted me from across the plaza and walked over. Soon I was sitting with her and a few others sharing mate and singing Manu Chao. She invited me to stay with her and her nine-year-old son Walter. Having no other real option, I graciously thanked her as we walked to her house.

Ailén is my age. Which means she had Walter when she was 16. It really makes me think about responsibility, pregnancy, life, and fate.

I love these two. Both super sweet, mature, responsible. We spent the whole next day barefoot across the banana bridge in the park playing card games, talking about life and eating fruit. Their kindness has truly touched me.

Roque works at the fishing supply shop. He was skeptical of me at first, but I eventually won him over with a smile, my story, and my nonexistent knowledge of fishing. He went out of his way to construct a fishing contraption, show me how to use it, and give me advice on not getting caught by the park patrol. I told him I’d email him a picture of the first fish I caught.

And so, after spending 5 glorious days, 4 very warm cozy nights here in Junín… with the forecast smiling rain… I take off again. This time towards Aluminé. A beautiful countryside and 80km of gravel await!

What I like about this trip is that...

2011-05-09T12:18:00.001-03:00

Every day is different. Every day is an opportunity to learn and to expand one’s horizons, to stretch limits as though they were malleable sticky sugary gummy worms. Every day is a brand new adventure.

The descent into San Martin de los Andes is a wicked 20km cruising downhill. I zoomed past humble farms bordering the lake. I raced the clouds around the last corner before dropping into the city. The wind was everywhere and it whipped me around as though it had nothing better to do.

A two hour search to find a free place to sleep ultimately landed me grumpily pushing Tioca through the darkened streets towards “Bike Hostel.” On that walk, I tried really hard to convince myself that it was ok to stay at a hostel. You see, I’ve spent the last year avoiding hostels. I have a nose-in-the-air attitude about them. I used to love them, but now I detest them and will do almost anything to avoid them. Since I started becoming friendly with my tent and discovering CouchSurfing, I view them as a comfy bubble shielding me from actually getting to know a place.

But that night I had exhausted all of my options and my patience, I was tired, it was windy, and I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to shell out AR$50 for a bed. Everything happens for a reason, I told myself. Try to make the best out of it. Perhaps it won’t be as bad as you think. And I couldn’t have been more correct.

I pushed Tioca through the gate and announced our arrival. Maxi, the very energetic, does a million things at one time, fanatical about bikes and snow boards, came to the door, ushered me in, took one look at my bike and immediately started naming the parts he would tinker with. Because it’s low season there were only three or four other people staying in the hostel. Flor, the Rosalina graphic designer, and I hit it off. Super sweet girl enthusiastic about life. We had many awesome conversations and shared dinner and beer on my second night. She also told me she would rigorously follow my blog… Hi Flor!

Sergio, the Argentine cyclist who has been on the road for 8 (EIGHT) years, said very little to any of us, but his few words had perhaps the most impact on my ever evolving trip. On that first night he told a story: He was on the road heading towards Bariloche. 20 km from the city he found a beach. With only two soup packets, he stayed for two days on that beach.

That’s the whole story, but it left me with a lot to think about. It really drove home the idea that cycling is more about the journey (and the mini adventures that we have along the way) than the destination. For example, when I am within 20km of a city, I go go go so I can get there. I still think about ARRIVING, about GETTING THERE. And I’d like to change that. I would like to change my philosophy of traveling. I would like to slow down, be more flexible, and enjoy the fresh air of adventure.

Mikel, the hitchhiking Vasco, inspired me to let go of structure and preparation and just go with the flow of life. He also reintroduced me to fishing. Not fishing for sport, but rather fishing for eating and nourishing. It was then that I developed an uncontrollable urge to learn to fish.

Maxi gave Tioca a facelift. He tightened this. He replaced that. He added. He subtracted. He even multiplied and divided. His bicycle workshop was a wonderful mess of spare parts, random tools, and raw energy. And Tioca emerged as radiant as ever!

Yes, San Martin de los Andes changed it all.

And on top of it all: I had an emotional crisis. I washed some clothes. I cooked in a glorious kitchen. I confirmed my synchronization with the moon. I took a deep breath. And then I left.

The Girl with the… Rainbow Bike…?!

2011-05-05T19:10:00.006-03:00

I may need to consider renaming my blog, considering I don’t actually own a purple shirt. Or at least I didn’t bring one on this bike trip.

So here I am, almost a week into the greatest trip I‘ve done. I think it’s a good time to look back through the sweat and the kilometers and reflect about the lessons learned and some park ranger evasion tactics.

On April 29, I set out of my dear beloved Bariloche with a heavy bike and a heavier heart. The weather behaved itself quite nicely for a Patagonian autumn bike ride, but my mind was busy elsewhere. It wasn’t long before I was busy talking to myself. When I had said all that I needed to to myself, I started talking to my bike.

For those who are curious, but would never ask, Yes, I talk to my bike in Spanish.

I can’t say that the first few days were particularly enjoyable. They weren’t. I wish I could blame it on the weather, but I can’t. The weather was flawless. I wish I could blame it on the bike, but I can’t. Despite a tightly misaligned brake pad, the bike was perfect. I wish I could blame it on cars or trucks or buses, but I can’t. First of all, there wasn’t much traffic. And second of all, in general other vehicles respected my right to also transit Route 231.

I have no one to blame but myself.

I was somewhere else. Mentally of course. I was sad to have left my boyfriend behind. I was upset because things ended badly with another friend. I was worried about the uncertainties that the trip presented me. I was caught up in my head. Twirling thoughts around like a one-handed circus elephant juggling Siamese triplets. I was a mental mess.

And of course, mentality is everything. In every sense of the word everything. Mentality affects physical performance. I travel by bike. Physical performance is key. Mentality affects how you interact with others. If you give off positivity, others will receive it and return it. If you give off negativity, you tend to receive it. Boomerang style. Mentality affects how you view every situation. There are some events in life you can control. There are some you can’t control. However, what you can ALWAYS control is how you view a situation.

Let me present you with an example. You have been planning the vacation of a lifetime. You’re going to the lovely picturesque beaches of Costa Rica to lounge in the white powdery sand and work on your tan as an attractive bartender serves you piña coladas. You’ve planned it all, vacation time, plane tickets, sun tan lotion, even the itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikini. The date approaches, you hop on the plane, arrive in Costa Rica… and an unexpected hurricane keeps you in your leaky beach cabin eating tuna from a can for the entire vacation.

You have two options. You can complain. You can whine. You curse. You can scream into the wind. You can pout. You can have a no good very bad miserable vacation.

Or.

You can say, “You know, that really sucks. But it is what it is.” You can accept that there are some things you can’t control. And you can be at peace with them. And make the best of an otherwise unfortunate situation. You can get really good at knitting, for example. You can read a good book. You can write an epic novel. You can sing. You can dance. You can immerse yourself in art. And perhaps my favorite, you can laugh out loud at the situation and how you managed to get tangled up in it.

You can have hopes. You can have plans. But also it’s important to be flexible. And to have a sense of humor.

So, leaving Villa la Angostura, I gave myself an ultimatum. This trip can be the best trip ever or the worst trip ever. It all depends on me. No one else can have such power over this trip. So what’ll it be, Alisa?

Now I digress from the mental. Geographical matters also are of importance. The foothills of the Patagonian Andes are breathtaking. In the sense of beauty… and lung capacity. There are uphills and downhills. There are forests, there are marshes, there are lakes, there are valleys, there are rivers, there are majestic view points.

On bike, you’re in the middle of it all. You are a part of your surroundings. For better or for worse. You feel the impact of every pebble in your path, every crack in the pavement, every breeze, every drop of precipitation, every horn honked, every up and every down.

But I’m in no real hurry and my goal is not just to arrive to some previously determined destination. It’s to enjoy the moment, be open to adventure, live the beauty of where I am and what I’m doing. And sometimes I have to remind myself that, especially when I find myself getting frustrated on a never ending particularly steep section. If the world was a flat place, it wouldn’t be an adventure to try and bike it. So, stop and rest for a while. Drink some water, eat a cracker, nap on a particularly inviting beach… take your time, breathe, and enjoy!

As I’ve no doubt mentioned previously, and much to my parents’ dismay, I’m traveling alone. My decisions are my own. My path is my own. My schedule is my own. There are many many forms this trip could take… I am excited to carve my own path. It is an opportunity for me to spend some quality time with…. Me. It is an opportunity to be ok with being alone. It allows me time to sneak into my own head and meditate. It also gives me motivation to seek people.

I find that people tend to treat cyclists differently. They are curious. They will strike up conversations. They want to give you a hand. Especially if you are a girl with a very heavy very colorful bike, traveling alone.

It’s amazing the kindness of people. Whether it’s a wave, a friendly honk, a word of encouragement, a hot mate and a handful of cookies on a cold day, a comfortable bed, a game of cards, a hot meal, a smile… it’s the kind of gesture that gently warms your heart. People go out of their way to help someone in need. Especially country folks. And especially to bikers.

So, to sum it all up, I think the three most important lessons I’ve learned over the past few days are:

1. Attitude is everything.

2. Whatever goes down... Must eventually also go up.

3. Never underestimate the kindness of strangers.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the following people:

Memy in Villa la Angostura graciously shared her apartment with me for two days. Along with her dog and two other couch surfers, Agustín and Maru, we had an enjoyable experience sharing meals, the small apartment, interesting conversations, and a few bottles of wine. This picture was taken upon waking up the morning of my departure… hence the sleepy faces!

Man who lives near Arroyo Rucamalen in the National Park. I don’t know his name nor have any pictures of him, but I am eternally gracious of his help to find a place to pitch the tent when dusk was fast approaching. He also gave me great advice on how to avoid the park rangers.

Roberto, Miriam, and Rubén. I owe them much more than a thank you. They first offered me a ride on a particularly tough muddy uphill. Then they filled my thermos with hot water. Then they offered me dinner, a hot shower, and a very comfortable bed. We played cards until late into the night. I lost. Lunch the next day. They helped fix my brakes. Let me make a phone call. We played dice. I lost. As a consequence, I washed the dishes. They took me in, nourished me, and sent me back into the world. I am forever in their debt.

The manager of Dublin Restaurant in San Martín de los Andes for letting me use the internet even though I had no intention of spending any money. (Sadly no picture...)

On your mark, get set, PEDAL!

2011-04-30T23:04:00.008-03:00

Well, it’s not actually a race. In fact it’s quite the opposite of a race. But I do have a competitive side to me, and sometimes I have to remind myself that it’s not about arriving (and arriving first), but rather about enjoying the journey itself and taking time to stop and smell the rosa mosqueta.

The weather leading up to the actual departure date has been amazing. Perfect biking weather. Cool, sunny, and very little wind. Strange for this time of year. Almost inviting me to hurry up and start my trip. But, whoa, hold your horsepower. I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave.

That being said… leaving is not that easy.

The first step is tough, very tough. Sure, I can talk anyone’s ear off about trips, past present and future. I can plan upcoming trips and reminisce about this or that past adventure. I consider myself a fairly experienced, adventurous and independent wander body. But that first step is really really tough.

I said my goodbyes. I ate my last Bariloche asado. I drank down my last Bariloche fernet. I bought the last of my bike accessories. I organized the few material goods that I own. And when I could not postpone my trip any longer...… I left.

Matias walked me to the street, treated me to a personalized photo shoot (photos to come!), kissed me goodbye, and when he saw me hesitating, said, “Go!”

Tears in my eyes, I pried my fingers off of the brakes and glided down Palacios to Gallardo. I wobbled at first getting used to the weight of my overloaded bike, but then got my balance, but never the confidence to take one last look over my shoulder.

That day was a tough day. The sobbing feeling in my chest didn’t die down until I was safely 30km from Bariloche. And even then, my heart didn’t stop begging me to turn around and go back. I felt it aching. I felt it pleading. Its voice was so strong, so powerful, so persuasive. It made my brain second-guess itself. “What am I doing?” It moaned. “What the fuck am I doing? I don’t want to do this. I don't want to leave. I don't want to take this trip.” It took all my strength, mental and physical, to keep my bike’s handlebars pointing towards Villa la Angostura.

I enjoy a good adventure. I love the thrill of throwing myself into the unknown. I feed upon uncertainty and spontaneity. But when it comes down to it, I also get scared. Change is scary. Going about it alone can be terrifying. Leaving friends, family, and lovers behind can make a person feel very alone. It is very very easy to back out.

So with my heart slowly convincing my brain to desire comfort, security, and stability… what made me continue pedaling? What life force kept my eyes staring straight ahead? What energy pulled me away from everything my heart wanted? The soul, perhaps? The core spirit of Alisa? The deep down inner ME that knows how to keep her priorities straight?

I know this is my path. But that doesn’t mean that it will be easy. Change is never easy. But pushing one’s comfort limits is where life begins. This is going to be an amazing journey and one heck of an adventure!

Let me introduce you to my team:

Tioca la Mandioca

Horacio el Batracio

And, yours truly, The Girl With The Purple Shirt

I hope to get better at taking self portraits.

On the road.

2011-04-23T23:04:00.006-03:00

Traveling is truly and utterly amazing.

Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I am blinded. Sometimes I get trapped in the daily meat grinder of routine. Sometimes I lose myself to worry and stress. Sometimes I forget that life is more than making and spending money. Sometimes I become so comfortable in the comforts of society. Sometimes I forget.

Sometimes I need that push to break the silky web that binds me to the sedentary lifestyle. The silky web is both invisible, resilient and hypnotic. It casts a spell on me, makes my eye lids heavy, and numbs my senses. Its grip is terrifyingly powerful.

But when I do step out of the rhythmic monotonous churnings of society life blinking into the unknown, I embrace it like a long lost friend. When I wipe the sleepy routine from my eyes, I see beautiful opportunities that have always been there, but I have been too ambivalent to care. I love the challenges that life presents me; I love the opportunities for rapid and unpredictable growth; I love the characters I have the pleasure of sharing life’s moments with, each one with a story and a quirky personality; I love the kindness of strangers; I love the bizarre coincidences; I love the metaphors; I love the chance encounters; I love the spontaneous epiphanies.

Sometimes you go blackberry picking and come back with more than stained fingertips, scratched arms, dark fruit and a belly ache. Not many people know this, but the blackberry bush is tremendously magical. It pulls you into its vortex and demands that you play by its rules. It offers many lessons to learn and philosophies to ponder. It tempts and inspires. It teases and guides. It pricks and nourishes.

Sometimes you go to el Bolsón with a plan. Sometimes that plan is turned upside sideways. And sometimes it’s beautiful.

I left Bariloche a day late due to a sore throat and feverish chills. My bike felt foreign due to days of pedaling neglect while I was off climbing mountains. Not a lot of traffic that Wednesday on Route 40, fortunately. I took time to admire the backdrop of my unfolding movie-like life path. I passed the bluest lakes. I smiled at the rolling mountains. I bowed my head to the cloudless sky.

Before I knew it, 70-80 km were behind me and the sun was setting. My legs were complaining. My tummy was hungry. I would need to find a place to set up the tent. A few kilometers before arriving to the town of El Foyel I saw a little farmhouse. I’m not sure what pushed me to slow my bike to a stop and roll up to the gate. When I clapped my palms together to announce my arrival, curious woman with a kind face approached to calm the barking dogs. It was getting dark, I explained, and wondered if they had a place for me to pitch my tent. She led me and my bike to the apple grove and I set up camp next to the greenhouse. After clearing away fallen apples, yellow jackets and little pellets of sheep dung, I soon had my bike unloaded, my tent up, and a pot of hot polenta ready. That night I went to bed warm, with a full belly and with a smile on my lips.

The next morning I awoke to another beautiful sunny day. Before I took off, I shared some mate with Belén and her children: Lucy, 4 and Mario, 2. We chatted about farms, bikes, and country life. I am amazed the simplicity and kindness of strangers.

If life is complicated it’s only because we make it that way.

26 kilometers from el Bolsón, I crossed paths with two French cyclists, seven months into their journey. We shared a brief moment in time and then took off again in our different directions.

I arrived into el Bolsón on an artisan fair day. As I waited for a text message response from my friend, Vicky, I wandered the fair eyeing this or that handmade craft. A beautiful sunny hot day, rare for this time of year. I stopped to chat with Diego, the palm reader world traveler from Venezuela.

Life has mysterious workings and I am humbled by its magic. Sometimes you meet people and it doesn’t seem that the meeting is due only to chance. Diego, Hernan, Ezequiel and Viki let me sleep in a little cabin they had behind their house. We stayed up very late playing cards and chatting of various philosophies and celestial wonders.

The next day started slowly with mate rounds and sensational sunshine. It was late afternoon by the time I packed the bike and took off for Vicky’s house.

Vicky was a coworker at the restaurant where I worked this past winter. All winter long, she and I bonded over our shared sentiments concerning our bosses. She’s been after me all summer to visit her and I finally got around to taking her up on the offer.

To sum up the next few days that I spent with her, Sergio, and four French backpackers, I have one word: Amazing. Amazing amazing amazing.

Vicky and Sergio have a cute little cabin in the woods. In summer they run a campsite and refugio and offer home cooked foods and freshly-picked fruit smoothies. The place is incredible. There is such a peace about it. Whether you spend your time collecting blackberries, splitting firewood, hunting for mushrooms, sitting and thinking, cooking, eating, reading, or listening to the snap, crackle and pop of firewood erupting in flames, you, like many others, will find it very hard to leave.

I also ate a staggering amount of freshly handpicked peaches and apples. First class ticket on the belly ache express! Oooooooooo… but so worth it!

On top of the tranquility paradise of the actual place, Vicky and Sergio along with their four cats and two dogs, are amazingly open sweet friendly funny buena onda people you will ever meet. Period.

On the second night, Horacio, another restaurant coworker, showed up and we had a little winter work reunion over pasta with freshly picked pinetree mushrooms in a cream sauce and a few bottles of Malbec. Oh divine!

It was tough to leave, but it had to be done. If not, I would still be there. Really, it’s that great of a place.

Next stop was to Carol and Horacio’s treble clef tower home. The last time I visited these fiery two was around this time last year for autumn harvest. Their semi-independence from “the system” is admirable and dedication to art is inspiring. They cultivate the majority of their food and everything else is locally grown and produced. They dedicate hours to classical music and painting. They’ve taught me about astrology, numerology and edible plants. And they definitely have some electric stories to tell.

I spent two days with them. We picked red ripe tomatoes and huge curved squashes, ate delicious homemade super food, watched foreign films, and talked life philosophies.

Next stop was Yanina’s. I absolutely adore this girl. She lived with me in my apartment in kilometer 13 for a month. We got along great. Cooking, drinking wine, the occasional hike, and chatting chatting chatting. I was very excited to visit her.

But I got lost on the way to her house. It started raining. I’d been meaning to buy a decent rain jacket, but haven‘t gotten around to it. Imagine, if you will, a soaking wet cyclist hauling an overloaded bicycle on country dirt roads frantically flagging down cars and simultaneously stretching out a hand searching for a cell phone signal. There are some downfalls to biking, I’m discovering.

Yanina lives in a great little cabin on a farm somewhere between el Bolsón and el Hoyo. Farm district, I call it. She works all day at the hospital. You know what that means… I had the whole day to myself to dedicate exclusively to poking my nose around farms. Farms! Cute family farms! I can’t see how life can get any better than this. Really I can’t.

I was born and raised in the heart of New York City. And I think I’d probably still be there if it wasn’t for my parents wanting to give me a well-rounded upbringing. I got a chance that many New York City kids don’t often have. I was introduced to nature at an early age and have since kept the contact information in my address book. As a kid, I was fortunate to wander around barefoot in a grassy backyard, to put my hands to the Earth and accept its energy, to laugh with the wind as it gossiped through the sunburnt autumn leaves, to look Mother Nature in the eye and see divinity. And I carry those experiences with me. And recently I’ve found myself deliberately moving farther and farther from the city into the countryside. Away from cosmopolitan chaos. Into nature.

There is a richness, a simultaneous simplicity and complexity, a peace, an invigorating energy in country life. There is a beauty in working the soil, a satisfaction in producing life‘s necessities, a fundamental relationship to be forged between individual and universe.

I have a lot to learn about farm life, but I harbor a profound respect for farmers.

And on top of it all, locally grown produce is far superior to anything we would get in a conventional supermarket. Whether it be homemade cheese made from fresh farm milk or jams made from handpicked berries or the succulent smell of a recently plucked peach or the flakey crust of right-out-of-the-oven bread. Everything tastes better when it’s fresh, local and homemade.

And since I have an apparent obsession with good food, the farm is my haven.

The day I left el Bolsón was a bitter sweet blackberry and cardamom day. I knew I was leaving one of my favorite places on the planet Earth, one of the only places where I can see myself settling down on a cute farm, garden and farmyard animals and all. But I knew I had to leave. If I didn’t make myself leave, I would never leave. And I have a big trip to get on the road afterall!

Route 40 between Bariloche and el Bolsón runs through beautiful countryside, mountains, lakes, forests, canyons. It is also very hilly. On route to el Bolsón it was downhill. Returning to Bariloche… a lot of uphill. An eternity of uphill.

Day one of the return journey I wanted to get as many kilometers as I could behind me. That was my goal. I also wanted the dreaded Cañadon de la Mosca to be a nightmare of the past. It was around 4pm when I arrived to the Gendarmería control about 65 kilometers from el Bolsón. I stopped for mate and a chat with the guys. It was cold. Long pants and jacket cold. Numb toes and bright rosy cheeks cold.

The Cañadon de la Mosca is like my Everest of that bike trip. I dreaded it like an overstayed visa dreads passport control. It’s not that it’s super steep, but rather it’s a slow constant up… for many kilometers. The sun was tip toeing towards the horizon. I looked the Cañadon in the eyes, “It’s you and me now” My voice didn’t waver. The Cañadon stared right back. “Bring it” It challenged.

It was on.

The Cañadon showed no mercy. But I‘m not so easily discouraged. I knew that I had to get to the top before I would allow myself to stop for the night. And so I did. A few hours, many crackers, and a significant number of encouraging horn honks later, I made it to the top. Whew.

But the fun’s not over yet. Next came the challenge of finding a place to sleep.

I almost missed the turnoff for Lake Guillelmo. I saw the sign, slammed the breaks, turned around, and bounced down the gravel road. “No Camping” signs stared at me unblinking and unbelieving, but I paid no attention. I really didn’t have much choice. I was exhausted from 8 hours of biking and I had to spend the night somewhere. I never actually got to the lake. The Caña de Colihue forests were too thick and too impassable. I found an acceptable grassy area, set up the tent and set about making my polenta with dried mushrooms and wild quinoa.

I must admit I was a little uneasy that night. I was so very alone in an unknown secluded forest. Everything was a little spooky. The ever darkening light. The curious birds that kept peaking over at me. I had no cell phone service. No one knew where I was.

So I did what any mildly freaked out traveler alone in the middle of nowhere would do… I started talking to myself.

“I’m a little scared right now.” I began, Eat Pray Love style.

“But this is what you wanted, Alisa” A voice answered from deep inside me. “You wanted adventure. You wanted to travel alone. You wanted to be able to pitch your tent in the middle of nowhere. You wanted new experiences. Well, here you go. You have it all now. Then why are you not happy? Why are you scared? Why are you lonely? This is what you wanted.”

“I know. I know.” I answered hesitantly. “I know this is what I wanted, but it’s all so new. I’m not used to it yet.”

“Don’t worry.” I comforted myself. “Every new experience outside your comfort zone is difficult at first. It can be scary. It can be uncomfortable. But if you let the experience teach you, you will grow in new ways. And soon the unfathomable will become much more than doable. Enjoy this moment; let it push you. And most importantly be open to how it will change you.”

And that’s how I fell asleep that night. Dreaming of change and adventure. Huddled in my green “The North Face” brand safe haven. Alone. Very much alone. The trucks and four wheeled night travelers hurried by on Route 40 and I closed my eyes and listened to their lullaby.

It was very cold that night. The morning dew was frozen on my tent’s exterior when I ventured out into the emerging daylight and it took quite a while to heat up water for my oatmeal.

By eleven o’clock it was still quite chilly, but I was on the road inching my way to Bariloche. I wanted nothing more than to arrive. And that desire made the day seem eternally long.

But after only 45km (or 3 and a half hours) on the bike, I was arriving in Bariloche. I was passing familiar sights and smells and a ripple of excitement climbed up my body and erupted into a smile.

Matias was waiting for me when I showed up at his front door. It was good to be home.

So now I have yet another successful test trip behind me. You know what that means… I’m only mere steps away from the big big big trip. I still have a few things on my preparations shopping list, many sad goodbyes and gracious thankyous to distribute, and a weather forecast to stalk… but not much else stands between me and the open road. I’m guessing a few more days. Next Tuesday or Wednesday… whichever day has less wind blowing from the west… I’ll be heading toward Villa la Angostura.

And that makes me simultaneously very sad and very hopeful. Sad to be leaving. Hopeful knowing that this is what I am meant to do. This is my path. I know that because it’s what my heart says. I don’t want to postpone my goals. Life is for living. Now.

So I’ll leave you with a thought that could only be conceived in a hippied out town like el Bolsón.

The reason I’m here on Earth is to live this very moment. That is the meaning of life. That is my purpose. To have this very experience. To accept and love it. That’s it. That’s everything.

So live every moment, fully involve yourself in it, squeeze the juice out of it, and love it for exactly what it is.

Bariloche’s 4 Refugios: Not for the faint of hearted.

2011-04-13T13:52:00.007-03:00

Period.

I was tempted to leave the blogpost here and let your imaginations run wild with the title alone, but sometimes the real stories are worth telling. I believe that this is such a story. It tells of miscalculated shortcuts and subsequent tree surfing; it features boxed wine and soaring Andean Condors; and the protagonists are none other than Matias, myself and the unpredictable uncontrollable unconquerable weather of a Patagonian autumn.

Bariloche is the trekking capital of my heart. It has a little bit of everything: from hop-skip-jump beginner treks for the city folks to knee-shaking-palm-sweating mountain-ridge traverses for the fearless fanatics. Everything from rolling forested hills with well-marked paths to dramatic jagged snowy peaks with ferocious howling wind (and tremendous views). Yes, Bariloche has it all.

One of my goals before leaving Bariloche was to do the 4 refugio trek, a circuit of four mountain shelters, or refugios, Frey, Jakob, Laguna Negra, and Lopez. I had heard that it would be tough, but I mean… how tough could it be?

Bariloche to Frey

We chose Cerro Catedral’s parking lot as the starting point. You have your options, but this is my favorite.

My worn trekking shoes already know the way to Frey from doing the trail so many times. They knew where to avoid the squishies, where to skip over the graspy hands of forest roots, where to run, where to wisely conserve precious energy. The only difference was that on this trek our backpacks were heavy, very heavy, prepared for five days in the mountains.

I found myself disappearing into my head, as is common on treks. Letting my feet carry me over the rocks, dirt, mud, roots, streams… my thoughts wandered ahead of me, soared over me, tripped under me. The mountain is great for sloooooowing down and dedicating time and energy to appreciating the things we are normally top busy or too in a hurry to pay any attention to.

We quickly passed from exposed path, to comforting forest, to tremendous mountain. And before we knew it, we marched up to our first refugio.

The stars were fierce that night. A perfect night. No wind. We bundled up against the autumn chill and, from the shelter of our tent, we cooked up an improvised rice dish typical of camping cuisine.

Familiar constellations smiled down and performed a welcome dance party. Welcome to the mountain, they sang.

Frey to Jakob

A week prior, I had done this trek with Sol, a friend and Canopy co-worker. Sol is not a mountain girl. She’s a city girl from Buenos Aires. This is not an easy trek. I’m very proud of her for toughing it out. I’ll include some of those pictures here as well.

As I mentioned, this is not a physically or mentally easy hike. After circling around Laguna Tontec, you head up. Straight up. Prepare your thighs, calves, and lungs. Because once you reach Laguna Schmoll, you can take a rest if you need it, but you’ve still got a climb to the cancha de fútbol.

At the top of the crest if it’s a clear day, you may graced by a snow-topped Tronador peaking across a valley.

Little do you know that you have to cross that valley and climb up the other side. So prepare your knees because it’s quite a rocky way down. The valley is home to forests, marshes, and quite acceptable campsites. But watch your step, it’s squishy!

Another steep hike up leads to a breathtaking view. A view that includes, TADA!, Laguna Jakob and Refugio San Martin.

But don’t cheer just yet, it’s still a long long long rocky hike down. But it’s a beautiful feeling to make it!

Unlike the refugieros of Frey, the ones at Jakob are just that much more isolated from civilization. They are welcoming, warm, wonderful, and willing to supply you with water for mate. Jakob is less commercial than Frey; it’s not as far down the road to selling out. And the bathrooms are better.

Jakob to Laguna Negra

Ah. The famous Jakob to Laguna Negra stretch. I had never done this one, but I had heard about it. This is the tough one, they all told me. And they are right. This is the one that requires the most mental and physical strength. This is the one that everyone everyone everyone gets lost on. Yes, everyone.

The morning we were supposed to embark for Laguna Negra, the odds were against us. Wind. Lots of wind. Drizzle. Rain. More wind. And… due to said wind, Matias’s tent pole snapped in half. As I evaluated all the contributing factors, I was convinced that we would be heading back down to Bariloche that day. My goal of doing all four refugios would have to wait until who-knows-when. The next trip to Bariloche, if there ever is one. That really sucks. My face wore a frown.

And while I was pouting away, Matias fixed the tent pole (have I mentioned that Argentines can fix anything? Anything.) and we decided to chance it. The refugiero said he would radio to Laguna Negra that night to confirm that we had made it. We set off.

With our faces bent into the wind, we climbed and walked and grasped and gasped and staggered and swaggered for hours and hours. Yes, we got lost. Yes, it is a very very very difficult trek. Yes, there were a few times that I honestly feared for my life. But was it worth it? Yes, yes it was.

The wind was the exhaustingly present the entire trek. Especially at the top!

But here’s where it gets interesting. Any worried family members may want to stop reading here.

Arriving to Laguna Negra one comes across a very long very steep very winding path. Anyone familiar with Laguna Negra will shudder at the mere mention of “el caracol” or “the snail”. The refugiero back at Jakob had told us of an alternative path, a shortcut, and we jumped at the opportunity to avoid the caracol. As we were approaching Laguna Negra, leg-shakingly exhausted with soaking wet sneakers, Matias announced that he thought he’d found the shortcut. We left the main trail and started climbing. Soon the climbing became extremely vertical. I’d never considered rock climbing an extreme sport… until this moment. The rock we were climbing was slick from the mist that had started falling again. We climbed up up up and soon it became increasingly important that we didn’t fall. With no harnesses, ropes, or gear, one foot slip, one miscalculated hand grip, one loose rock would be bad, very very bad. And with the whole day’s exhaustion, the ever fading daylight, heavy trekking backpacks and slippery sneaker soles…

And on top of it all, I mistakenly went left instead of following Matias right. Subsequently, I found myself hanging on for dear life to the slender, but resilient branches of Lenga trees as my feet swung below me kicking at near vertical slippery soil.

It is very important in this situation not to freak out. Anyone familiar with rock climbing knows this. Once you entertain the idea of falling, your body suddenly enters into a state of paralyzed fear. You can’t move up or down or sideways. You are consumed with this fear. Suddenly your hands overgrip, your legs shake uncontrollably, you tire yourself out. And you fall.

So, keeping this in mind, I remained calm. I kept my mind clear and focused on up. Up. Up. Up. It was very important that I tough it out. It was imperative to push on. Honestly I didn’t have any other option. It was either be a hardcore mountain girl, or fall. And falling wasn’t an option.

Needlesstosay (or is it?), we had not correctly identified the shortcut. This became apparent to us as we arrived at a relatively flat treeless area… and saw where Laguna Negra was supposed to be (where we were supposed to be)… two whole valleys over. But since the sun had long since passed the horizon line, and with daylight quickly fading, we set up the tent on the most level ground we could find. Once we changed into dry clothes, climbed into our sleeping bags, and opened the box of wine… we smiled. We weren’t where we had planned to be that night, but we were dry, warm, and most importantly we were safe.

The next morning we took our time waking up. Our mouths were dry from not filling up our water bottles at the last stream, our backs were sore from sleeping on bothersome shrubs, and our minds not fully rested after periodically waking up at the foot of the tent and having to haul our sleeping pads back up the 45 degree incline we were on. Upon stepping foot outside the tent, our situation dawned on me anew. We were still who-knows-how-many hours from Laguna Negra, our sneakers were still soaking wet, we hadn’t eaten more than a handful of crackers because we didn’t have any water to cook with, and we didn’t have a path to follow. That morning I tried my absolute hardest to remain in a good mood.

Matias, his hardcore mountain saavyness, and his incredible patience win the triple MVP award of the four refugio trek.

After crashing through trees, scaling rock walls, sliding down canyons, and surveying the landscape to make sure we were still relatively on the “right” path… we joined with the real trail. When I saw the trail markers, I knew we were saved! When the rooftop of the refugio peaked over the rocks, a wave of relief flooded over me. Happiest moment ever!

There were four of us that night. Fede, the refugiero; Sergio, the veterinarian from La Plata; Matias; and myself. We stayed up late drinking boxed wine, eating luxurious pizza, and chatting around the fire burning stove.

Laguna Negra to Lopez

Matias told me a few days later that after our “detour” the day before, he thought that I had had enough adventure and would want to go back to Bariloche from Laguna Negra without continuing on.

Fat chance.

There was no way that I would come this far and not take it to the end.

We got a late start to Lopez. In fact by the time I woke up and sauntered over to the refugio, our buddy Sergio had already taken off.

After our morning mate and breakfast cereal, we set off in search of the last stop on our refugio adventure. Around the laguna and up to the mountain ridge.

Tronador was hiding that day, and yet we were fortunate to see him peaking through a cloud window.

The path took us over large unstable black rocks that rocked gently to keep us paying attention. I was beyond words. We were walking along a mountain ridge. This is as real as it gets, I exclaimed, there is nothing more real than this. The world extended below us. Life doesn’t get much more lifelike.

We descended into a valley and as we crossed said valley, Matias pointed out a mountain in the distance. See that mountain, he asks, I think we have to climb it.

No.

He must be joking. It was a mountain mountain we was referring to. Not a wimpy fake mountain. A real mountain. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to believe him.

But, of course, he was right. I looked up. A mountain of loose stones of various shapes and sizes. The sun was low in the sky. The light was getting the mystical quality of late afternoon. There was not much time to dilly dally. This mountain had to be climbed. And relatively quickly.

When you don’t have any other option, you can push yourself to do the unthinkable. I really didn’t have many options. The path that led to the next refugio passed over this mountain. And I had to climb it.

Up up up. Shaking legs trusting in wobbly rocks. Up up up. I was tempted to look down, but decided against it. Up up up. Until the tippy top was within reach. Up up up.

At the top, I allowed myself to turn around and look down. What a feeling.

It was all downhill after that. When a pink Refugio Lopez came into view, a smile was born. A knowing smile. A smile that only the last refugio on this journey could provoke.

That night we fell asleep to the wild screeches and squawks of a lost condor, a confused fox on steriods or an outraged tourist. We’re not quite sure which.

Lopez to Bariloche

Do you ever have those moments that make you stop to think: “Wow, this is too amazing to be coincidence!”? Some people call them divine intervention, some people call it fate, some people call it luck. We had one of those moments on our way down from Lopez, which for me, was the cherry on the top of the snow covered mountain.

When you’re in the mountains, time takes on a different meaning. Hours and minutes mean very little. Sunlight is everything. Moonlight is everything else

Coming down from the mountain meant that we had to get accustomed to playing by society’s rules once again. Rules governed by the hour and minute hands of the gigantic life clock. When I found out that the bus passed by the trailhead around 12:10pm… and then again at 16:40... It became pretty important to catch that first bus. Unless we wanted to wait for four hours.

Matias had a little less urgency to catch that bus. Afterall, only one of us is from the big city rhythm. By the time we started heading down the mountain, it was 11:50 and it was clear that there was no way that we would make it to the bus. Nonetheless, I started to jog down the mountain. We jumped over roots, dashed around corners, avoided tourists. I knew we were going to miss the bus, but kept the pace up anyway and we sped down the mountain. By the time we reached the main road, the clock struck 12:21pm. My hope frowned.

Matias passed under the wire fence and turned back to help me with my backpack. The little glimmer of hope still residing in me told him to go to the right and check if the bus was still there. As I was ducking under the fence, I heard a shout. And a honk!

By chance, the bus was passing right when we stuck our heads around the corner. If we hadn’t run down the entire trail. If we had said one more word to the people we passed on our way down. If I had passed Matias my backpack under the fence. If we had spent one more minute talking to the refugiera. If the bus hadn‘t been 11 minutes late… we would have missed our ride. But as fate, chance, luck would have it… we made it, sweaty and out of breath and all smiles.

And, with that, I end the story of the four refugios: with a smile, a little bit of luck, and a good story. And, with that, my last goal for Bariloche is accomplished!

Once upon a time…

2011-03-26T17:44:00.005-03:00

A girl with a purple shirt couldn’t buy a motorcycle due to bureaucratical hardships. Her lips formed a pout and her arms crossed themselves at chest level as she pondered her options. Her mind oscillated among the dream worlds of feasibility, possibility, creativity, passion, and imagination. Much like mental window shopping.

The idea of pedaling crossed her mind, but was dismissed along with many other good ideas. If it wasn’t motorcycling, it just was not good enough. It’s mind-blowing what amazing possibilities can be sent packing due to even the smallest doses of stubbornness and closed-mindedness. Consequently many competent results of various brainstorming sessions got thrown in the idea compost.

But when the desire for travel, the itch for adventure, the yearning for change all become too great, options once casted away are reluctantly reconsidered. Maybe the hot-air balloon idea wasn’t TOO bad. Or maybe helicopters aren’t AS difficult to fly as they say. Or maybe I CAN do a long distance bike trip, even though I’ve never really ridden a bike.

And so the idea was conceived. Over the time, it took shape and form; details ironed out and questions satisfactorily answered.

February 28 was my last day as a Canopy instructor. What a fun job! I learned a lot and spent a lot of quality time flying through the trees enjoying the Patagonian summer sun.

The very next day I bought the bike.

And the helmet… Mom…

And that’s how it began. Over the next three weeks I got the bike racks, the saddle bags, the reflector lights, the kickstand, the mirror, the cool gadgets to adjust screws and things, and… my favorite purchase by far… the bike shorts with the butt padding. I love these shorts. A lot.

In fact, my love for my bike shorts far surpasses my love for any other inanimate object. True statement.

But along with all the cool biking toys I get to purchase with my hard-earned Canopy money, comes the training. I have to build up my legs, my lungs, and my spirit to prepare for a trip of this scale.

My goal is to get to Jujuy, northern Argentina. For a beginner biker, that’s quite a trek. Over 3000 kilometers. Have I mentioned that I’m not really a biker? I do alright. I defend myself. But I’d never even considered a long distance bike trip. It was always for real bikers. I most certainly wasn’t a real biker.

But there’s nothing like the smell of a good adventure (and gorgeous Argentine landscapes) to get you to push your own limits. What if I CAN do this? Amazing the limitations that you put on yourself with a closed mind. But I think I’ve mentioned that already in this blogpost…

Over the past three weeks, this trip has been unfolding, developing, and blossoming. And it’s starting to look not only possible, but that it also could end up being enjoyable. How do I know this? Well, I did a mini-trip. A test-trip I call it. And it was good.

Up until the day I left for Villa La Angostura, I had been training a little bit. Maxing out at 40 kilometers per day. Some hills. Some flat. Some traffic. Some deserted winding mountain roads.

From Bariloche to Villa La Angostura there are approximately 85 kilometers. That’s double my daily average. And, yes, I planned to do it all in one day.

I don’t want to go into details by giving a kilometer-by-kilometer commentary, but I made it. In one piece. Needless to say I was an incoherent exhausted mess, but triumphant nonetheless.

What I will mention though is that I may have picked the windiest day in the history of all windy days to do this trip. And, of course, the wind was heading east as it always does, and I was heading west. I understand now why some people find Patagonian wind infuriating. Yes, I did lose my temper. Yes, I did scream and curse. Yes, I lost a lot of energy getting angry at the wind. And, yes, I do understand that there is nothing productive about getting angry at the wind. But I’m relatively new to biking… and I’m starting to realize that the world is a windy place when you’re on a bike.

The last 10-20 kilometers were the longest, toughest, and most challenging ever, but as I rolled into the quaint tourist town of Villa la Angostura, it was suddenly all worth it. Suddenly my legs didn’t hurt as much. Suddenly my goosebumps erupted in jubilation. Suddenly the hours and hours and hours on the bicycle seat didn’t seem so bad. Suddenly wind, the horrible wind, was a distant memory. And in my exhausted excitement, I took a picture.

I was too tired to look for a free, out-of-the-sight-of-the-police spot to pitch my tent, so I forked over some pesos for the rights to a small plot of grass in a campsite. After some of the best mates I’ve ever had, I threw my barely conscious body in my tent and passed out to the sound of Bob Marley coming from the next tent over. It was 9pm.

Around 2am I woke up to the most intense, most excruciating pain. But, in my delirium, when I tried to pinpoint the origin of the pain, I was surprised that it came from almost everywhere. My sunburnt legs stung. My back hurt, in two different places. My lungs burned. My throat ached. My jaw throbbed. My face felt like it was falling off. And my feet were frozen. I realized that my body was in shock. I drank some water. I ate some crackers. But I was in so much pain. Uncontrollable tears streamed down my face. What was going on?

If you push your body to its physical and mental limits, it will react. Especially if you then proceed to sleep in sub-zero temperatures in a tent. Especially if you haven’t had enough water or food. So push your body, but then take care of it. Or push it comfortably. Or push it hard, but be willing to deal with the side-effects. Hmmm… There may be some good lessons to be learned here.

That night and the next morning I seriously considered putting the bike on a bus and return to Bariloche. The idea of biking back was unfathomable. I had done my 90 kilometers. I learned some good lessons. I could still consider the trip a success. Couldn’t I?

The next morning, after a devouring a generous portion of hot oatmeal, I cycled into town and went to my favorite bakery. Arte y Manteca (Art and Butter) was recommended to David and me on a border-run trip that we did in June. Finger-licking good pastries. I’ve always been meaning to go back. So I did and I picked out some spirit-lifting, bad-mood-erasing, dulce-de-leche-filled goodies. And I decided to attempt the bike trip back home.

The day was perfect. No clouds. Blue blue blue skies. And, best of all, no wind!!

It was on this day, that I discovered the pleasure of biking.

Biking is freedom. There is nothing between you and the trip. You control the trip. You ARE the trip. You feel the breezes. You coast down the hills. You race the clouds and competitive little yellow-jackets. You stop for water. You stop for the subsequent bathroom breaks. You chose to eat your lunch at the most picturesque beaches and then take an after-lunch nap on the rocky shore. You wave to motorcycle dudes and dudettes. You stick out your tongue at cars and wonder where the rush is. You freak out a little each time a truck or a double-decker bus pass you. It’s adrenaline and relaxation. It’s the meeting point of being exposed and being in control. And you are the protagonist.

Biking is not about arriving at the destination. Biking is about the journey to get to a destination.

And, to state the obvious if I may, biking is slow. Very slow. It’s not for people who are in a hurry. It’s not for those with schedules and deadlines. It’s not about rush rush rush. It’s about the road. It’s about the moment. It’s about patience, enjoyment, and sloooooooooowing down a little bit.

I‘m still new to the biking lifestyle, but I’m picking up a few things. Like how sometimes you stop and have amazing conversation with super interesting bikers. Imagine, you’re going down the road and, along comes another biker. You’re going slow and so you have time to cross the road and come bike-to-bike with the other individual. You’re in no hurry. It’s a beautiful day. You stop and talk. They most likely have some amazing stories to tell. And then you each go your own way. It’s a great feeling to get encouraging waves, smiles, and fist-pumps from almost everyone you meet along the way. You can stop and try to help the exasperated Brazilian couple with the broken down car. It’s the small-town kind of traveling.

At the end of the second day of pedaling, I arrived in Bariloche exhausted, sunburnt, sweaty, and in disbelief that I had actually pulled off the seemingly impossible trip. Sometimes when you set the expectations high, you can surprise yourself when you achieve the unthinkable. So let this moment be the green light for you to do your unimaginable. Try something you’ve never done. Go above and beyond. Go for it!

i bought the bike

2011-03-16T11:48:00.002-03:00

yes. the bike.

the bike that will be my only travel companion on the long desolate roads leading north.

the bike that will be my best friend, worst enemy, and everything in between.

the bike that will test my strength, mental and physical.

the bike that will accompany me on my first ever long distance bike trip.

i have yet to name the bike, but it will have a name.

i have yet to take a picture of the bike, but as soon as i do, i will post it.

now... alisa, stop blogging and start training! :)

a word on social activism

2011-03-02T11:14:00.004-03:00

When a young woman’s thoughts wander into the highest strata alturism clouds and busy neurons, for this or that selfish or benign motive, entertain the idea of being a pivotal figure in global social change, she must think twice (three, four, fifteen, seventhousandsixhundredandfour times) about what that change might look like, how to implement it, and the heavy burden of responsibility in calculating its consequences.

Where does this motivation of instigating large-scale social change originate? Why do we feel the need to help others (a need that is evolutionarily unfavorable)? Is it because we honestly want to help people we know nothing about because of the goodness in our hearts? Is it because we have felt pain and struggle at one point in time and we want to prevent it from occurring to others? Is it because we have some hole in our lives and are desperate to fill it with something meaningful? Is it because we are escaping some bigger problem in our own lives by focusing on the misfortune of others?

The idea of making big social changes in the world (saving the world, as it is sometimes called) is a very upper middle class American idea. We dream of eradicating child labor, feeding the world’s poor, halting wars, educating school aged children, building houses-hospitals-watertreatmentcenters. These are all romantic ideas that many liberal arts college graduates have wet dreams about. I can safely assume that a good fraction of my readers are salivating at the mere mention of such examples of do-gooding. We desire that self-assured heart-warming sensation of knowing that we have made a positive difference in a person’s life. We congratulate ourselves, we feed our egos, we feel damn good about ourselves… and then return to normal life… forgetting perhaps that we have treated a single symptom and turned a blind eye to a much larger, much more evasive cause of the illness.

I went to a college whose motto was: Think one person can change the world? We do.

But with time (and subsequent travels and experiences) I am changing my view on what that change should look like. In high school I thought that protests, clever posters, and rhythmic chanting were the key to change. In college I thought individualized education, motivating, inspiring people was the key. Now I have a different outlook.

For example, I strongly dislike the Peace Corps, and other such volunteer-for-a-better-world organizations. I dislike the idea of going into other communities with the intention of helping them. I dislike signing petitions on issues I don't know anything about. I dislike supporting wars in other countries. I dislike protests on issues that aren't my own. Who am I to impose my views on others? Especially when the issue is much more complex and multifaceted than I can possibly imagine. It is never black/white, right/wrong, good/bad. It's never simple. How can I possibly know what's right?

And these organizations, international movements, petitions are like a semi-permeable wall between volunteers-concerned citizens and the very people being affected by these altruistic acts of kindness. Foreigners descend on a poor helpless community stricken with some unfortunate circumstance. A decision is made to help this community. Forget communication and working alongside the recipients of this noble act. Volunteers chests-puffed with good intention flood the surprised community. Within months the project is finished and the community is left deserted, inhabitants wonder what the hell just happened and why they now have this ridiculous monstrosity to deal with.

I dislike the volunteer-based-social-change-organizations just like I dislike tourism. It’s impersonal. It’s very self-absorbed. It’s ironically egocentric. It has little or no regard for the actual people or culture of the society. It’s a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am approach to a bigger, more valuable, realer action.

And just like the social change movement is a safer diluted form of international altruism, tourism is the safer diluted form of traveling. It’s comfort that you pay for. It’s a boundary placed between you and the local people, society, customs, culture. It’s a jacket placed on a puddle so you don’t get your feet wet. It’s training wheels on a bicycle. It’s a security blanket. It’s someone holding your hand. It’s safe, harmless, cuddly, and boring.

And another thing I've learned is that change can’t be forced upon people. It can’t be imposed because it will only be artificial. Change is not only on the surface; it is internal. Change can only be inspired.

So I think instead of taking the “I know what’s good for you, so let ME teach you a few things” approach to international altruism… there is a realer option. You could go to another country with the idea that perhaps they have something to teach YOU. Your objective would be to learn, absorb, live and observe. Not to impose, teach, turn your nose up, and hide behind a Lonely Planet in comfy English-speaking hostels. You could communicate in the colorful street language. You could learn a few local recipes. You could meet the people who live there. You could listen to their stories. You could dance to their music. You could grow like you’ve never grown before. You could be humbled by the beauty of local culture.

And I’ve learned that the best social change is nothing tangible. Social change is taught through experiences. From every trip I take a lesson learned. From every person I take a world of love. I grow as a person. I put aside my ego. I put aside my pride. I am a visitor. I am the outsider. I have everything to learn. I have my own experiences to teach. And we trade, barter, exchange stories, laughs, experiences. If I evaluate the tangible and the intangible things I’ve received or left behind, the intangibles are worth infinitely more than the tangibles.

So I think I finally truly understand what was meant by the quote: be the change you want to see in the world. Let yourself be changed. Absorb the beauty of every culture, story, song, smile, moment. Change with each passing experience. And then live. Truly live. Live ethically, live passionately, live based on what you’ve learned, live the example of what you believe, live well, live live live. And you will change people passively with your kind words, passion, view points, conversation, lyrics, and melody. You will influence the change you believe in. That is the only true way to realize social change.

the brightest rain drop

2011-02-16T20:06:00.001-03:00

Another summer season is slowing down. I’ve mentioned the concept of seasonal tourist economy and its effects on job availability and salaries, haven’t I? Long work hours. Lots of customer service. Lots of mate rounds to keep sleepy eyes open and wilted smiles fresh.

We all started the season with eager faces and attitudes, ready and willing to put our all into our jobs. Everything was new and fun. And with my job even more so. I absolutely loved it. But now as we’re approaching the two month tick on the calendar, I’m starting to observe certain changes in moods and attitudes.

It’s interesting to see how people deal with boredom, stress and unhappiness. When routine takes over and life loses its glamour. When you allow yourself to be consumed with thoughts of past and future. Or of other places. People. And you lose the lust of the moment.

Passion. Love. Enjoyment of the little gems of everyday life.

Like climbing a tree and entering into a wonderland of glossy, succulent, red orbs hanging in clusters less than an arm’s reach from your mouth. You sit on a sturdy branch, make yourself comfortable, and then begin devouring by the handful. The day is a flawless blue; not even a whisper of a cloud between the mountain peaks. Your neighbors chirp as if celebrating the mere existence of life, as they too feast on ripe berries, leaving nothing more than the naked pit hanging from the slender stem. You can’t help smiling at the beauty of it all and a small happy chill runs up your spine. You feel at ease. You feel perfection. You feel love.

Like riding a bike through a calm Patagonian night. A beach bike with high handlebars and a comfy seat, so you sit straight up. All that is missing is the basket in front with a few daisies peaking out. But it is 3 o’clock in the morning, and all good little daisies are home asleep anyway. It’s odd, you think, to see this normally traffic encrusted road completely void of rumbling motors, eye scorching exhaust fumes, abrasive honking, and wildly colorful insults. In fact the only sounds are quiet mechanical workings of the bike, wind in your hair, and the occasional territorial dog excited by your apparent invasion of private property. A quick glance up to the starry sky is enough to provoke a gasp and have you clinging to the bike for stability. The night is warm, for Bariloche, and the sky is full of uninterrupted starlight. The rhythmic pedaling motion sends your body into autopilot and your mind into a passive overdrive. You’re here, but elsewhere. Concentrated, but relaxed. It is yet another perfect moment. Like every moment. But you are aware of its beauty and magic. And that’s the difference.

Sometimes it’s all about living the moment. Loving each second and being completely immersed in whatever you may be doing. Whatever it is, it can be enjoyed. Whether it’s waiting for the bus, lounging on the beach, sitting in the tent listening to the rain coming down, flying through the trees yelling louder and louder each time, cooking pasta, cudding with mate and a loved one watching a bad movie… whatever it is, it is to be lived and loved. So if you find yourself losing your smile or grumbling about rainstorms, price inflation, traffic jams, or burnt pizza remember that attitude is contagious. The biggest change we can make is from within. Let’s live positively. Focusing not on the darkest cloud, but rather on the brightest rain drop.

a moment in time and thought

2011-02-09T09:28:00.001-03:00

Sitting on the shore of lake Nahuel Huapi. Passing a cold beer between two pairs of hands. Subtle waves colliding with the polished beached rocks. Countless stars burning indifferently to two individuals millions of light years away. The blossoming conversation was not the only communication between the two. Fingers tossed rocks into the icy waters unconsciously keeping the beat to a ongoing love story.

The constant struggle to find balance, meaning, love, truth, wisdom, and peace.

The conversation oscillated circling around hard-to-reach topics. Growing, changing, budding, diminishing. The girl found herself caught in the constant pull towards balance. Fighting to find the equilibrium between comfort and growth. On one hand a desire to explore, to dive into the next adventure head first at a moment’s notice, to live and love, to sing a different melody, to feel security in the insecure. On the other a newfound sense of comfort and security. A sensation only accomplished by relative stability, longevity, and personal connections in one geographical place. How can one satisfy both opposing desires simultaneously?

Cognitive dissonance. A disconnect and apparent struggle for power between mind and body. Much like bungee jumping, thought the girl. Your mind has evaluated the risks involved and is determined to jump. The consciousness is thrilled with the flood of adrenaline to the brain. The love of adventure asks the age-old question: why not? But your body does not agree. Your eyes see the immeasurable distance to fall. Your ears hear the wind blowing far below your shaking feet. Your shoes do not move. The body deems it highly undesirable to hurl itself into a free fall. There exists a moment of pause. Two equal and opposite forces pulling an individual. The result: stalling.

The curiosity begins with the origin and central hub of all this struggle. The brain. Simultaneously the brain is both analyzing the situation from a rational standpoint and from a physical stand point. I present our two protagonists: the conscious and the unconscious. Consciously we have decided to (and paid even..) to have the experience of throwing ourselves from a high place, falling down to the ground, only to be jolted back up on an elastic rope. We have calculated risks, knowledge of prior experiences, and even (perhaps) the pressure of our peers. At the end of these processes, we have concluded that we would like to partake in this activity for the thrill of the adrenaline.

Objection. The body holds up a red flag. Unbeknownst to us it has been doing its own calculations. Centuries of evolution have favored instincts based on survival. Throwing oneself off of great heights is not favorable. The body wants nothing to do with this madness. These processes are also occurring and developing in the brain.

The brain is home to many many diverse processes. And now I see that many are contradictory. This struggle leads to a moment (a split second or even a few minutes, hours, weeks, years) of inactivity. What to do?

Can this observation be applied to other facets of life? For example the struggle of our female character.

She finds herself in a situation. Wanting a change. Wanting to plan for the unpredictable future. Wanting some stability and security, but spontaneity and excitement. She is in limbo. She is in the period of calm and uncertainty before the electrical storm. She wants a million things. She desires conflicting paths. She needs a push.

In less than two months, she will leave. She has convinced herself that a two month deadline is a necessary evil. Whether or not she will leave alone. No matter where she decides to set her compass. If she is ready or not. She will leave. And that causes a thunder storm of emotions.

Next chapter here we come. Uncertainty is inevitable.

i have a new job

2011-02-07T21:12:00.001-03:00

How to buy a motorcycle in Argentina if you’re not Argentine...

2010-11-29T15:35:00.004-03:00

My advice… Don’t. Consider the option of going home to your country of origin, buying the motorcycle there, getting all the paper work sorted out, and shipping the bike down here. But if you’re stubborn like I am, here’s a run down of the logistical maneuvering that I performed in my epic motorcycle search.

Choosing the Bike:

You may know a little about motorcycles. You may already know how to ride. You may know a touch about motorcycle mechanics. You may even know which bike you want to buy. If you do, you’re leagues ahead of me.

What I learned is that when choosing the bike, the criteria is completely dependent on YOU and your needs. No one can really tell you what motorcycle you should buy… Different styles, brands, models, accessories exist because people will want to use their motorcycle for different purposes. If planning to use the motorcycle within a city, perhaps a scooter or a 125cc is sufficient. If planning a long distance trip, you’ll need a comfortable, sturdy bike with a relatively powerful engine. If planning on jumping over dirt paths and performing tricks, a lightweight easily maneuverable bike is your choice. Price will depend on engine size and brand. Japanese brands will cost more than Chinese brands, but will be better quality and much easier to find spare parts. En fin, there are many things to consider…

Wandering through the motorcycle shops in Neuquen, I was confronted with an overwhelming number motorcycle options and opinions. Everyone had something contradictory to say. None of their opinions was wrong, but that’s just the thing, they were opinions. And especially here in Argentina, everyone has an opinion.

It took a while, but I finally decided on a motorcycle. A chopper (comfortable for a long trip, low riding for stability, and definitely badass looking), 250cc (a big enough motor to defend itself on long open roads, but small and manageable enough for a beginner motoquera), Mondial (not a pricey high-end Japanese bike, but a decent brand. Mixed reviews tho, of which I’m super weary. Hard to find spare parts, especially up north. But if I arm myself with a little motorcycle maintenance knowledge… I can perhaps prevent all but the most unpredictable problems.) So, after weeks maybe months of searching, I had found it: my motorcycle. The Mondial HD 254.

The Logistics:

My first mistake was to go about everything as legally as possible… And expect it to be easy.

When you buy the motorcycle you have to go through the process of patentamiento. Which I’m not sure I totally understand. But once you pay your money for the bike, it’s not technically yours… Yet. You have to take the 01 form along with the receipt of the motorcycle, the certificado de fabricacion o importacion, and the verificacion policial to a non-descript building on Ruiz Moreno Street.

There, you will take a number and, once you are attended to, they will tell you that you need a CDI, a CUIL for foreigners. Basically like a social security number. Ok. They tell you go to ANSES on J. O'Connor, half a block from the Hospital. You wait in line. There, you are told to go to AFIP, at V.O’Connor (not to be confused with the first O'Connor) and Onelli, because at ANSES they only deal with CUIL and CUIT. Ok. Down to AFIP. You need a photocopy of your passport and to fill out a F. 663 form.

If you chat it up with the guy at the desk and wow him with your travel stories, you can get it extradited. Your CDI will be ready in a day and a half. Free of charge.

Great. You go back to the non-descript building on Ruiz Moreno. I still have no idea what this office is. But I think it’s the place to change a vehicle title among other things. Oh no. They tell you this time, that even if the vehicle is in your name, you can’t take it across the border. You can only use it within Argentina. But… go talk to the Aduana, above AFIP on O’Connor, and see what they say.

Back to AFIP. Third floor to the Aduana. There, a hard-faced woman who listens to your questions will shove a bunch of “no’s” down your ear until you almost break down in tears. Then, she’ll soften up a bit and pull some strings to help you out. Her advice: get your DNI.

Next stop, the Oficina de Migraciones. The super unfriendly guy gives you two options for acquiring your DNI: get someone to hire you (he didn’t have an answer when I told him that most businesses will ask for you to have a DNI in order to offer you work) or marry an Argentine.

Chan. At this point, you go back home depressed, seriously consider getting married for the residency papers, and eat half a dozen empanadas.

I digress into the actual process of BUYING the motorcycle. After searching the internet, phoning numerous places, and walking around town… My motorcycle would cost me AR$13.000 in Bariloche. The same bike would cost AR$10.000 in Buenos Aires. Three thousand pesos is quite a difference. So I could buy the bike in Buenos Aires and ship it out to Bariloche. After calling a few places, the best deal was AR$500 for transporting the bike.

So, it was settled, I’d buy the bike from an agency in Buenos Aires and then ship it here to be patentado. If I put it on my credit card, I’d be charged various fees and I would surely max out my credit limit. So, I’d have to deposit the monetary quantity into their account. That would mean that I’d probably have to open up my own bank account in Bariloche, which now having my CDI, I could do. But talking to some ex-pat friends, the fees and complications in the Argentine banking system is something I don’t really want to touch with a 2-meter-compost-stirring stick. And then I’d have to figure out how much my bank in the States would charge to transfer money. If I went through all that quilombo, then I’d have to be sure that the motorcycle agency in Buenos Aires is reliable… because, well, if I transfer all that money… I’d have to be sure that they’d send me the motorcycle. Sigh.

Let’s now move on to the DRIVERS LICENSE! For this, you have to go to another practically un-marked building, this one is past the train tracks, but before the bus terminal, down a gravel road. No line this time! Friendly guy at the desk explains that to get the registro de conducir you need: 1. Libre de deuda of your vehicle and of yourself (which you get on the first floor of the bus terminal and is valid for 5 days), 2. Your DNI (oh crap, not this again… but it’s ok, says the guy, all you need is a passport and a certificado de domicilio, which you get at the comisaria at Km 5), 3. Two photos (done!), 4. Three medical exams (medico clinico, medico oftamologico, and medico otorrinolaringologo… good luck pronouncing that one!), 5. Pass a written test, 6. Pass the driving test, 7. Pay AR$45.

Oh, but wait. Because you are in Argentina on a tourist visa, the drivers license is only valid for the period of three months. Every three months you have to renew it. He looks at you and asks: Why don’t you just get your DNI and residency…?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

All of this is best summed up by Randy: “the Argentine government will leave you alone for the most part… unless you want something from it.”

So after this excruciatingly frustrating ordeal, I have a few options.

1. Buy the motorcycle in Argentina anyway. I’ve gotten this far. The only problem would be that I wouldn’t be able to leave the country. And for those who have had to do the 3-month boarder run ritual, part of the purpose of buying a motorcycle would make that chore a little easier, cheaper, and more fun. I would also not be able to cross over to Chile, Brazil, Paraguay, or Uruguay. Un bajon.

2. I could go to Chile and buy the motorcycle there. The motorcycle itself will be cheaper. But I’m unfamiliar with the Chilean ways. I’m guessing they will have their own bureaucracy, although perhaps not as chaotic. They might treat me differently because of my psudo-Argentine accent.

Also, another thing to consider is that with a Chilean motorcycle I might have a hard time finding spare parts in Argentina (as was the case with some Austrailian friends whose car is still in Comodoro Rivadavia after almost a year waiting for a spare part).

Also, I think the Chilean government obliges me to return the motorcycle to Chile every three months, which is okay because I need to renew my visa anyway, but what happens when I head towards Brazil or Uruguay?

3. Go back to the States. The motorcycle might be cheaper there. I could get the drivers license taken care of without too much hassle. I wouldn’t get the “you’re not from here” stares and comments, which are starting to wear me down.

But then I’d have to figure out how to get it back down here without paying absurd import taxes… Or perhaps pick another country, in which case I’d have to say goodbye to Argentina. And I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet.

Sigh.