Buenos Aires Part II - Connection
My aunt nearly fell out of her chair when I told her I was going to solo backpack through South America. Her mind raced as she created scenarios of me hitchhiking on random highways or trekking through a forest all by my lonesome. It was only once I explained that I meant traveling through South America with only a backpack and that any mountain, jungle, or desert trekking would be with safe and secure groups, and anything alone would have the appropriate safety precautions, that she began to relax. I could sense the pounding of her heart slowing as she sighed and asked the same simple question that nearly every family, friend, or colleague managed to at one point or another.
Why?
Why would I leap from my successful sales career to a 6-month long bohemian expedition?
"Why not?" is too simple of an answer. It’s not a secret that travel has a way of changing people in unexpected ways. But I find that our modern culture has commodified the idea of travel and culture and turned it into an Instagram-friendly version of itself. While traveling can change you, it isn’t seeing the seven wonders of the world or trekking through Patagonia, Machu Picchu, or whatever trail you’ve added to your list that ultimately transforms you. It’s about the people and the subtle moments of humanity that you experience along the way—moments you can only experience while traveling and sharing a living space in a different country amongst people from diverse cultures.
In my limited hostel experiences, I have met people from every walk of life: gap year teens, wealthy solo travelers searching for community, the 50+ woman finally able to travel on her own now that her kids are grown, the couple making their dreams come true on a shoestring budget, the digital nomad, the hippie, the gypsy, the wanderer, and everything in-between. Each person is on a journey and aspiring to their own goals. Sometimes your interactions are limited to a brief hello. Other times, you build lifelong memories over a few short days before the inevitable goodbye.
Each interaction is as different as the individual in front of you. By keeping an open mind and heart, you might be surprised by some unexpected beauty. Despite these moments being a ubiquitous part of the journey, they always seem to amaze me. I guess that’s why, on the first day of my trip, while I was standing in the microscopic room that the hostel called a kitchen, I didn’t expect the impending encounter to play a significant role in my Buenos Aires experience.
I was wedged between a man who couldn’t be bothered to use earbuds as he yelled into his phone over a pan of sizzling vegetables, and a tall, lanky fellow with blonde hair pulled back in a tightly fastened bun so slick I wondered how he hadn’t managed to rip his hair out. I was feeling overwhelmed by the unfamiliar ingredients in the Argentinian grocery store, and I was too drained from a long day of travel to venture out to a restaurant, so I settled on some simple tortillas and cheese for my evening meal. Yet, standing there watching others prepare what looked like gourmet pasta, I felt embarrassed to be spotted with my makeshift meal.
I had no energy to cook dinner, I said with a nervous smile to the blondie.
His arms were crossed as he gave an empathetic grin and pointed at what looked like a panini maker, but was in fact some sort of grilled cheese contraption, and shrugged.
Me either.
Having always been uncomfortable with silence, I continued.
Australian, are ya?
Nah, I’m from the same place as that guy, he said as he nodded his head towards the man on the phone, who was speaking in a distinctive German rhythm.
If my face didn’t give away what I was thinking, my unintentional slip of, What’s wrong with your accent? certainly did the trick.
He laughed.
It’s Broken.
We both laughed and agreed he’d have to tell me more about that later. Tonight, I was going to rest, and Blondie (whose name was Max) was going out for drinks with some local friends.
It was a peculiar encounter, and something about it told me it wouldn’t be the last I’d see of Max. Especially after that beer I had agreed to out of politeness.
We said goodbye and I sat down for my dinner. My hopes of a simple comfort meal were met with a tortilla that tasted more like cardboard than decadent, buttery flour shells, and the cheese had an oddly plastic-like texture. And in that moment, I determined it was time for bed.
Half of my room was already asleep as I struggled with my locker organization (I was a novice at this backpacking lifestyle). And as I dug for my toothbrush, my pack and its belongings tumbled to the floor. I stood there, staring at the locker with only one empty hanger remaining inside. With what felt like my life's possessions scattered on the room's cold concrete, that hanger and the vacant locker seemed to symbolize the security of the career I had left behind and the unknown trials that lay ahead of me. Nearly in tears from exhaustion and embarrassment, I felt a hand on my back. It was my bunkmate who had begun helping me gather my belongings. Despite an impenetrable language barrier, she showed a warmth that somehow melted away my insecurities.
After stuffing everything back into the locker, I brushed my teeth and changed my clothes. With earplugs and an eye mask in hand, I began to evaluate my assigned resting place: the top bunk. I recalled all the summers I had rushed to my summer camp cabin to stake my claim of the upper bunk and weekends at Grandma’s where I would bicker with my sister over whose turn it was to rest atop the glorious mountain top. But tonight, with no safety guard on the bed, it was clear to me that the allure of the magical top bunk was long gone. I found myself evaluating whether I would survive a topple off the top or simply break an arm. Even if I managed to stay atop the bed, I was haunted by the prospect of having to inch to the ground in a dazed half-sleep to use the restroom in the middle of the night.
Once I managed to convince myself that I would not meet my fate on the floor of the girls' dorm in Buenos Aires, my mind drifted between existential thoughts of what I wanted from this trip and wondering if I had made a terrible mistake. Although they couldn’t have been too profound because the next thing I knew, small streams of light were seeping through the slits in the windows, and a creaky dumpster truck was hollering as it completed the morning rounds. With a big morning stretch, I could feel the length of my body, much too tall for the dorm room bed, inch over the sides. But with a bit of blood flowing through me, I stared at the floor, and with a careful eagerness, I inched down the ladder. I had indeed survived a night on the top bunk.
I decided to keep my focus on enjoying the moment (in-between my search for a charging cable) and made my way to the EcoPark in Palermo. Families, friends, and tourists all flocked on the sidewalks to capture a glimpse of the capybaras that appeared to be roaming freely behind the invisible fence. Children tested the bounds of fate as they stepped as close to the animals as the ¡no toques! signs would permit. To the right was an enormous gum tree next to a small bridge connecting two sides of the park. Sitting on the steps was a dark-haired father with his tattooed arm wrapped tightly around his daughter as they leaned in for a goofy selfie. There was something homely about the interactions around me. Something beautifully human.
Capybara
January 2024
It wasn’t long before I noticed my skin beginning to radiate a gentle heat, warning me it was time to find shelter indoors.
Back at the hostel, I curled up in the corner of the lobby with my book in hand, and just as I was about to dive in, I was startled by an overly cheerful familiar voice.
How was the park? You wanna grab a drink?
It was Max. Immediately, I regretted agreeing to a beer, but I smiled and waved him over.
Maybe I'm a bit tired, what do you have in mind? I replied.
He sat a beer on the table as he said, I’ve got one right here.
I realized that I wasn’t going to wiggle my way out of this one and bought a local beer from the hostel bar.
Max, with his hair pulled back and floral shirt, was an odd character, but the conversation flowed easily. With cold beers in hand, we popped the tabs and navigated through the typical script of travelers' questions:
How long have you been traveling?
How long do you have left?
Where did you start?
Where are you headed next?
How’s your [insert local language]?
What do you recommend?
Why are you traveling?
And so on. It’s an exchange of a personal life journey, one that doesn’t tie you to your career or socioeconomic status. You get to be present in who you are, not what you do or what your title is.
To my relief, it was a quick drink before Max jetted out to dinner while I remained in the lobby, only escaping to find a traditional Argentinian pizza delicacy.
The hostel attendee sent me to her favorite local spot, and when I arrived at the pizza bar, I was fascinated by the scenario playing out in front of me. The pizzeria couldn’t have been more than the size of a small New York City apartment. The edge of the room was lined with a tiny wooden plank that reminded me of an Italian espresso bar. I was the only female in sight, and I watched as three local men standing at the dining bar were enjoying thick, cheesy slices with a fork and knife. Without a word, they would finish their plate, turn to the counter, and just on cue, the server was ready with their next piece.
I handed the employee a post-it note detailing my order (the hostel attendee had assured me these were the tastiest and most authentic options), and said ‘para llevar’ with an Argentinean 'sh' sound, "para sh/e/var" (to go). He nodded and said something to me, and I nodded my head as if I had understood.
Standing in the corner next to the cashier, I watched as the men finished their slices one-by-one, received a to-go order, paid their bills, and went on their way. I couldn't help but envision a clandestine after-work tradition unfolding before my eyes. It felt like a tantalizing glimpse into their routine, a covert after-work rendezvous for a swift snack before embarking on the journey home to their wives and children.
Once again back at the hostel, I devoured the local delicacy which turned out even better than I had imagined. It had a thick and crispy crust with long strands of decadent, gooey cheese. I was pleasantly surprised. This oddball pizza wasn’t really ‘pizza’ but it sure as hell was something.
After finishing every last crumb, I went back to my spot in the corner of the lobby and dived into another chapter of my book. It couldn’t have been more than 45 minutes before Max returned and enthusiastically pointed out that it was happy hour at the hostel bar, so naturally, I set the book aside and we carried on the conversation over 2x1 drinks. Picking up where we left off, we began to dig more into the crevices of our beings. We shared about our significant others, our work, the joys of travel, and in typical Allison fashion, I ended up deep down the rabbit hole of political philosophy, a bit much for Max’s taste. But he graciously indulged before another polite goodnight.
Less than eager to crawl up the ladder and once again convince myself I would not fall out of the wretched bed, I walked slowly back to my dorm, taking each step with intention. I hadn’t been eager to connect with Max, but he had a certain intrigue with his upbeat optimism and constant ideas, and it felt exciting to be in a new place with new people who were all going about their own paths and finding their own purposes, convening and reconvening in new places.
The next night I tried to wiggle out of dinner with Max, but I had severely underestimated his ability to drag people along when Max replied with a simple, I found a steak happy hour spot, just around the corner. You can’t be too tired to walk 5 minutes, right?
I agreed.
Sitting over a traditional feast of freshly baked bread, morcilla, and a 300 gram piece of Argentina Bife de Chorizo steak alongside a perfectly robust Argentine red wine, we began to build a little bit deeper of a connection. Max shared more about his girlfriend and family and their beautiful life in Germany. I shared about the internal struggles of what to do post-travel.
The night continued on as we met up with a group of fellow travelers and made our way to a few nearby bars before I finally said my goodnights and jumped into a cab. During that drive, I thought about the past two nights and the people I had met along the way. The helpful hostel staff, strangers in shops trying to decode my request for a charging cable, and Max, who always had an adventure in mind, and whose prodding helped get me out and about at a time when I was feeling turmoil and indecision. I was reminded of the beauty of human connection and how when we travel, we meet people at a different level. In a few short days, you find yourself learning about the hopes, dreams, and lives of those you are sharing an often crowded living space with. Everyone knows that the journey must continue, and so with every hello, you will inevitably meet the goodbye. Some travelers we connect with only for a moment, a picture in time to experience, laugh with, and share the journey. Others, you know that the bond will remain, and if fate will have it, you will meet again. For me, that is the experience of a traveler's soul.
So, why travel? Because in a time when humanity has replaced most of our in-person interactions with a screen, and as trite as it might sound, sometimes we need to take a pause and go into the world and live, and come out on the other side with a fresh perspective.