villa dolores. nothing short of awesome.

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

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)

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.

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

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

And then there are...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We also drink and brew beer.

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

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

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

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

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

embracing my inner hippie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What now?

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

What next?

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

When?

When the time is right.

mendoza and contemplation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I find myself deep in thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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