And there was the humidity. I had just flown from El Calafate deep in the south of Patagonia where temperatures dippoed below freezing even in the day. My dress was more accomodating to hiking and keeping warm than strolling the boulevards a buzz with well dressed tourists and prostitutes. The magnitude of heat and humidity filled my body with salt water until I overflowed and it escaped through every pore. I took out my blue bandana and dabbe my face and forehead. Within minutes I was wringing it out in the gutter and potter plants which lined the streets. By now I had been turned away by every hostel and hotel within a three block radius and the concern on my face was only amplified by my sweat and the late hour. I needed to find a place to sleep. I needed rest and a chance to look at city maps. I wanted a glass of wine but for once reason won the battle over desire. Not even I was stupid enough to make that mistake.
By 2:30am I was entering the Four Star Hotels that lined the streets of Ave 9 de Julio and Av de Mayo. I was willing to pay the $400 pesos just for some peace of mind. Again I was turned away everywhere. I refuse to believe they were all at capacity but in my present dress with boots and sandals strapped to the outside of my worn and beaten pack, I think I was refused a room for fear I may make it smell. And I guarantee I would have.
After walking the same bit of stree for the third time, afraid I would get lost (from where I didn´t know), I came accross a small sign that simply said Hostel. I rang the bell and waited. My pack was growing heavier with the passing of night. Blisters on my feet, ripened by Patagonia, stung and I prayed the skin just hold on a little longer. I rang again. A fat matronly señora camed to the edge of the stairwell and staired down at me. She wore a filthy cotton skirt that went to her knees and a blue tank top that barely held on at the seams under the weight of her massive fallen breasts. Her sandals were a cheap plastic variety and one had been duct-taped back together. She looked more like a sweaty madam at a back-alley brothel than the owner of a hostel. But she was my last hope. I smiled warmly and waved. When she was done inspecting me and perhaps somewhat assured of her own safety she buzzed me in. I climbed the two stories worth of stairs and entered the common area. The walls were no less than eighteen feet high but the ornate molding that once lined the ceiling had long since decayed from water damage. Where holes had developed in the walls she hung sheets to cover it up. The tile was cracked in many places and a few boards had been put down so her high paying guests wouldn´t trip and kill themselves. Her hostel was no cleaner than she was. It was also no cleaner than myself. The smell of roasting sweat and stale cigarettes pushed down from the hot air above. For the moment it was the most beautiful hostel I had ever seen.
She had a bed for me. I shared a room with seven other Israelis whos combined perspiration outweighed my own. The word for bed sheets in Spanish is hojas or ropa de cama. She had none. And no pillow. This would be one of the worst best-night sleeps I would ever have. Under her harsh appearance and untrusting gaze she was quite motherly. I had woken either from sleep or late night TV but she fumbled around in a damp utility closet until she found a thick blanket. She draped it over the mattress, spotted and stained from years of neglect and apologized in a way that said ´What do you expect?´more than ´sorry.´ I paid her the thirty eight pesos and dreampt in Israeli. The following morning I drank her instant coffee and ate two mezalunas that were surprisingly fresh and soft. I thanked her and headed up the street.
Buenos Aries is a literal maze of Plazas, Museums, Cathedrals and stone work. It boasts a four to one girl/guy ratio which is all to evident. The wealthier areas of Palermo and Relocata are a short subway ride away. Here you can watch professional dog walkers stoll by with as many as fifteen dogs and sip quality coffee on a sidewalk cafe. I have been traveling for two and a half months on what was supposed to be a seven month journey but looking at my bank statements I knew I would never make it to Colombia, Equador or Venezuala. I had long ago given up on Brazil due to my lack of VISA and the high prices during carnival. My vagabonding was going to be cut in half and there was nothing I could do about it. With a cauldren full of sorrow, anger regret and love I reluctantly purchased my ticket back to the United States. This trip of a lifetime has been more like a lifetime worth of lessons learned the hard way. I must remember to shelve them for future days.
During a difficult portion of my trip I recieved an email from a rather wise person. He said two things which are quotes:
1) Even death is not an escape from your current dilemma.
2) If you have no path, any path will get you somewhere.
He has this tendency to piss me off and send me powerful thoughts just when I don´t want them but most need them. The rest of the time I believe he listens to me ramble and quietly laughs at the riddle of life. Thank you person.
This dog is my hero!
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