Today.**

**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

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.

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

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

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

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...

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…?!

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!

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.