Not quite sure how to pick this one up, as it’s been a fair few weeks, and SO much has happened, but I`ll try.
I seem to have been going back on forth on the travelling alone thing. Clearly nine days out of 10, it`s the best thing ever. Total freedom, the option of being completely selfish, guilt-free, and for a scatty/whimsical/contrary person such as myself, it means you can change your mind a lot and at short notice without worrying about messing up anyone else`s plans but your own.
But there are always a few things that stick. And it depends, 100% on state of mind at the time. The obvious common one is eating out alone. Particularly if, as a bit of a foodie, you are inclined towards nice restaurants. It`s just not that easy. There`s something of the `wannabe food critic-meets-Alan Partridge`about it, at least for me, anyway.
Unless of course, you have a prop. A book (trying to leave Kindle at home in fear of getting it nicked), a Lonely Planet (often handbag is too small to carry around), a phone (I don`t), a Blackberry (I don`t), a laptop (ooh, get me, people might think I`m a writer! I am, but I still don`t), you get the gist.
Then it got me thinking about social tools more generally. Or social vices. Smoking, asking someone to share a beer {they tend to come in 1L bottles, and even I think twice about ordering one to myself ;o)}, taking photographs, reading a map, asking for directions…. they all put you in that `safe`territory when out alone of Things You Can Do Without Feeling Embarrassed for not having a friend/partner/anyone to lean on.
So conscious of this, and all too aware of that feeling of `If you`re alone, people obviously assume you want or need someone to come over and talk to you` I decided to try and kick out some of the tools deliberately.
I have no idea where I`m going with this, by the way, just that in trying to become comfortable with just ´being´ I`ve tried to resist my comfort zone on several occasions. I think it`s working.
Having left BA last time just less than a month ago, I decided to head south, eager to hit the Lakes District before the weather started to turn colder.
I was set on being back in BA first weekend in April for El Festival, with Pearl Jam, The Black Keys and Hot Chip headlining (it didn`t happen), so had three weeks to `do`Patagonia – perfectly feasible, I thought.
Upon arrival in Bariloche, I was greeted by the most incredible sight of Lago Nahul Huapi, which was in full view from the full size windows along the side of the lounge room.
Conscious of time, I was keen on getting out and about sooner rather than later, so I did my usual wander around the town, grabbed some lunch (during which I managed to understand from the local news that something rather important had happened with the new Pope and Buenos Aires – gotta love my pigeon Spanish. Thanks Janet for fleshing that one out for me!), did some recon on the myriad outdoorsy activities available and generally enjoyed the stunning views. All alone, no less, no props, no company (get me, practising what I preach).
Got back to the hostel – thanks Annie, at Penthouse 1004, had a fleeting reunion with China (hope you `re getting on okay mate) and found two Americans to go cycling with the next morning. There´s a pretty common route called the Circuito Chico. It`s 12kms, and I thought, `Chico… must be a pretty easy ride. That`ll do for easing me into things`.
Wow.
When I asked Annie if there was a longer route, perhaps more challenging, she looked at me like I was gone out. “Why would you want to do longer?” she asked, very direct.
“Erm… it`s only 12kms”
“Trust me, it`s like this”, motioning undulating hills with her hand.
Ok, so, next morning, Jacob. Terry and I set off on the bus to collect our bikes.
Jacob might be a big guy, but he`s pretty fit, according to his friend.
Terry cycled regularly, and had done the Appalachian Trail.
I hoped I had not bitten off more than I could chew.
It was a long, hard day, with some killer hills, a bit of off-roading, and some breathaking scenery. We didn’t take enough food, and hadn`t factored in the siesta taken the rare restaurants, kioscos and cafes along the route, which meant we were all running on empty.
A few occasions caused my potty mouth to kick in. All fine, you might think, when expressing pain (a pedal whacking you VERY hard in the Achilles), frustration (seemingly neverending uphills), or awe (EFFing gorgeous views). Until, you get talking to your cycling companions and realise one is a missionary, and the other a preacher of The Church.
I say The Church in caps because at this point I felt that they would have been using them had they been writing rather than speaking.
Woops (know your audience, Shaw!).
Turns out my cycle buddies were devoted Mormons. And very likely didn’t take kindly to mine and Janet’s tales of how we planned to spend St Patrick’s Day, our joint desires to hit Burning Man (one was from Nevada) and general non-Mormon ways. Nice bike ride though.
Next stop, El Bolson. Or Lago Puelo, to be more accurate. The two lovely Israelis I met at the hostel (two of the many I`ve met along the way doing their post-national service year out) had highly recommended an Italian-run hostel called Rey Sol. They talked about loveliness of morning yoga classes, meditation, organic produce and a handful of dogs that resided there.
Sounded like bliss, and the aforementioned Janet, my new Irish buddy, overheard us talking and decided it was also for her, so we jumped on the bus together the next day.
We arrived, and you had to laugh. The gorgeous, hippy, and ever-so-laidback Marco on reception showed us the list of services available.
“Except there`s no kitchen, that`s closed. So you can`t have breakfast. Or dinner or lunch.
“And the lady who teaches yoga is ill right now.
“Oh, and so there’s no meditation either. Or massage. Or Reiki.
“And I think that might be it.”
We both laughed, and just to make sure we weren`t mistaken, we asked, “So you have rooms?”
“Yes, we have nice rooms.” He was being serious. And laughed with us, probably out of politeness rather than understanding our sarcasm. Or stonedness.
Either way, we ended up having a very odd (and probably more sober affair of a) Paddy`s Day, took a picnic to the beautiful lake and then left the next day to the `City`of El Bolson.
For those who have not been, El Bolson is far from a city. It is a village at best, and at end of season is a tiny village. But it is home to a bar/restaurant, and internet cafe, and amazing ice cream shop in Jauja as well as the cutest little craft market.
Because our sober Paddy`s Day was proving to choke the hilarious Janet from Limerick, we somehow wound up drinking homebrew with the owners of the ill-equipped hostel and their hippy friends.
As a result, we both felt like sh1t the next day.
“Ooh, a masseur in the market. That`s what we need!”
Enter Hernan. Robed in white linen, long dark hair, weighed about 7 stone wet through, but had a lovely way about him, a bit smile and strong fingers, we reckoned it was a winner.
Janet went first, and 20 mins later I followed suit, and was trying to ignore the rather forgotten sensation around the side-of-boob area.
We finished, paid our way, had a group hug, and said farewell to Hernan, who reminded us that he did hostel visits.
You can see where this is going…
Janet turns to me: “That was nice. But was any of your massage rather inappropriate?”
Me: “Oh, you mean the creepìng fingers trying to reach the side-boob?”
Her: “Oh no. I mean the full on nipple access reached via the side-boob!”
Ah.
But he was so innocent, so, well, goddamn HIPPY, with it, we decided it somehow seemed sweet rather than pervy. Anyone seeking public place side-boob action in El Bolson, let me know and I will pass on his details.
Next stop, El Chalten…
ToBeShaw 