Love is Patient

I've learned that love is all kinds of things
Seldom is it linked to diamond rings.
A stranger peeling an orange and sharing a slice
In the heat of an afternoon.  Wow that was nice.

The sad look between patron and client passed
When neither understood and language didn't last.
The translator which assisted the next day
And a hand over heart and a smile each way.

Three stores to find the "American" item
And a great big hug when nowhere can buy them
A Facetime call when you needed a friend
Love across the miles electronically send.

A year of travels and certainly love
How lucky I am with this narrative wove.

One Ton Tomato

It's possible I am developing unhealthy habits for empanadas and tortitas negras con dulce de leche.

In Argentina, empanadas can be baked or fried and I've now had them from Tucuman, Salta, and local Buenos Aires.  It's impossible to pick a favorite:  carne; queso; pollo; jamon y queso; queso y cebolla; queso, aseituna, y huevo.  Moving from savory to sweet, the pastries (facturas) are really out of this world.  I've had to impose a once per week self-limitation on a certain nearby bakery so that my eating doesn't outweigh (no pun intended) the calories I burn running.

I'm finally cooking at home now that I have had unaided (but supervised) lighting of both the oven and the stove-top.  The oven is either "on" or "off" and I'm not quite certain what the cooking temperature may be.  It's between a "3" and a "4" and twenty to thirty minutes of baking seems to give most items from the freezer a good warm and a crispy crust.  I keep the window open periodically for ventilation (just in case).

So I'm settling in, despacio, one bite at a time.

Come on Baby Drive South

A friend and I once had an inside joke that if all else fails, we'd take a suitcase a money and head for Patagonia.  Little did I expect that less than a decade later, I'd be a mere three hours' flight from its southernmost city, navigating an Argentinean submersion experience.  (Note:  I don't have the suitcase full of money.)

The short story of this adventure is that one Camino led to another.

The long story involves one super heavy backpack, the Navy Seals, 901 kilometers, blisters, innumerable cafe con leches, Spanglish, and countless hours of walking.

I could spend five minutes or five hours talking about the Camino.  The story depends on the audience and area of interest to the listener.  Most people do not have long attention spans these days and it is nearly impossible to sum up something so hard and so wonderful in just a few lines.  So if I need to give the short story, I say something just like that.

The long story is that nearly forty days after arriving to Muxia (my finish), I still have healing blisters on my feet.

Some have thought it was crazy, some thought it was really neat, and some haven't been able to wrap their heads around why and how someone would walk across an entire country.  I don't have the heart to tell the last group that I'd like to do it again (albeit a different route) in 2018.  I don't have all the words to describe just how this walk has changed me for the better.

So I'm here, listening to honking car horns and traffic, grateful beyond belief that I could actually manage to order a takeaway lunch at the place across the street.  Like the Camino, the small daily wins are the big wins.

Food, shelter, laundry, remotely working, and occasionally pinching myself to ensure that I'm not just dreaming this new chapter.

Other things (taking spin and "consciente" classes in Spanish, navigating the metric system, crossing the street without getting hit, avoiding pickpockets, using a gas oven that I have to light myself, and trying to improve my mediocre Spanish so that I can participate instead of watching from the sidelines) sometime weigh heavy but I know that these will eventually turn to calluses instead of sore pain spots.   All I have to do is just keep walking.