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Modo: Omnibus, Taxi y Pies
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31 de diciembre
29 30 31 Distancia: 620 kilómetros

Buenos Aires, Argentina

When the Panamiercano lumbered up the ramp behind Buenos Aires’

Estación Terminal de Omnibus at 8:00, I was wide awake. Three days
spent cooped up in unventilated motor coaches was not my idea of a
good time. Buried beneath my sorry excuse for a beard was an impressive
layer of road film. Thinking back, I could not remember ever feeling
this grungy out on the trails of the Patagonia. At least then we had those
coconut camp suds at our disposal. Unfortunately for me, they had run
out somewhere back in Chile’s Atacama Desert. Above all, the two things
that I was most looking forward to were a long shower and an even
longer run through the beautiful Parque Rosedal.
Stepping out of the bus station onto Avenida Ramos Mejía, I had
the calming sensation that I was back home. After four weeks exploring
the Southern Cone and the Peruvian highlands, it was reassuring to walk
the quarter mile in front of the Retiro train station and see the same faces
engaged in the same activities that I had seen for months: street vendors
manning card tables offering everyday necessities like phone cards and
butane lighters, groups of Armani-draped empresarios talking and walking
to lunch carrying cell phones in both hands, kioskeros standing behind
stacks of that day’s La Nación, Clarín and Pagina 12 and estudiantes
laughing and sneaking Marlboros and Lucky Strikes between classes.
I boarded the #152 colectivo, dropped sixty centavos in the automated
ticket dispenser and found a window seat next to the back door. As the
bus wound through the downtown city streets, I was reminded of the
sharp contrast in lifestyle between the carefree residents of the Patagonia
and the appointment-saddled residents of a South American urban jungle
like Buenos Aires. The colectivo weaved through the streets of Recoleta
and Palermo stopping at every third or fourth block. The street names
were now so familiar: Juncal, Suipacha, Charcas, Gallo, Güemes. At
Güemes, I grabbed my pack and stepped out on the city street. After a
short walk down Avenida Colonel Díaz, I was standing once again on the

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stairs of La Casa Rocca. There, Señor Nelson was holding court on the
sidewalk with three of the señoras that cleaned the various apartments. Hola,
Nelson. I just trekked around Argentina, Chile and Perú for a month. I
knew what was coming, so I just kept on walking...Bueno.
After four days sans quality conversations, I was halfway hoping for
a small welcoming committee inside Dolores’ apartment,
but the only items waiting to greet me were a note and a
pot of hot coffee. Apparently, Dolores had risen early, made
the café and gone back to bed. Being New Year’s Eve, she
probably wanted to be well-rested for whatever festivities
the night would bring. Before unpacking and showering, I
enjoyed a light breakfast and got caught up by watching the
morning news on Canal 13. Back in my adopted room,
things were exactly as I had left them in the closet and on my desk. The
photographs of friends and family in the States were ready to be packed
up along with the items purchased in Argentina...items that would soon
leave their home country and assume souvenir status.
How best to spend my last twenty-four hours in Palermo, Buenos
Aires, Argentina, South America and the Southern Hemisphere did not
require much deliberation. I pulled my Asics out of the closet and got
ready for a morning run. The seven-block stretch up Avenida Libertador
to the Plaza Alemania is home to foreign embassies, five star steakhouses
and luxury car dealerships. Besides being one of the priciest strips of real
estate in the entire country, Libertador is also the gateway to a thousand
acre paradise of trees, lakes and fields known as Parque 3 de Febrero. On
a holiday such as this, every inch of the park is teeming with families,
rollerbalders, tourists, film crews, fútbol players, and young couples.
Running through the heart of the park is a mile-long stretch of railroad
that connects downtown with the surrounding neighborhoods. The actual
tracks lie on top of a twenty-foot brick trestle that divides the park into
two halves. Some of the brick archways beneath the tracks, known as
Los Arcos, serve as pedestrian
thoroughfares. The rest have been
converted into popular restaurants
and nightclubs.

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 Besides giving my limbs the long-awaited opportunity to stretch,
the run was a good chance for me to clear my head and think about what
needed to be accomplished in the hours remaining before LanChile flight
154 to Miami. Three laps around the lake in the Parque Rosedal left me
feeling invigorated and ready to enjoy this New Year’s Eve to the fullest.
When I returned home at 11:00, I was sorry to see that Dolores had
still not ventured out of her bedroom. Sleeping in was not an activity
that Dodo was particularly fond of. However, considering the inevitable
emotional impact of the holidays, I imagined that the señora probably
wanted to be alone. Alone with memories of her husband of forty-seven
years who was taken from her only sixteen short months ago. After his
losing bout with cancer, Dolores could have easily chosen to spend the
rest of her days holed up inside her apartment surrounded by photos of
her loving Eduardo, an attorney, writer and former associate of Perón.
But to her credit, she never even considered locking the door, pulling the
persianas or feeling sorry for herself. Instead, she viewed Eduardo’s passing
as the chance to start an exciting new chapter in her life. A chapter that
would require as much human contact and immersion in new experiences
as possible. Phoning the director of Estudio Buenos Aires, a reputable
language school that hosted foreign students, had been one of those
important first steps. She explained to the program director: I have an
extra guest room and would like to host students every semester going forward.
Now that my daughter has moved away, I miss being around young people.
The next step was enrolling in beginning English classes three times a
week. I want to take a trip to the United States for my next birthday, but
I need to learn the language first! An annual membership at a local health
club was next. My neck has been hurting, and I want to feel my best. On
occasion, the five-foot widow even kicked around the idea of plastic
surgery. Why should I have lines around my eyes when I am still so young!
I had to agree. She confronted life head on with all of the energy of an X-
Games participant, yet without any of the brooding or piercings. Today,
however, was not one of those days, and I had to be understanding.
The phone rang shortly after noon, and I was pleased to hear the
voice of my good friend, Francisco who invited me to come spend the
day with his friends at a quinta on the outskirts of town. It was a gorgeous
final day of the year and spending it outdoors was the only sensible thing
to do. Francisco was going to pick me up in an hour, which would give

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me enough time to shower and start packing my bags for the long flight
home in the morning.
When Francisco arrived two hours later, I was not surprised. Getting
across town was a herculean task on a holiday like this, with motorists
packing the freeways in search of a little peace and time off. Many were
quinta: a country house. Many traveling to coastal resort towns like Mar
families in Buenos Aires own a
vacation home in one of the
del Plata and Pinamar, but most were just
surrounding counties. trying to get beyond the limits of the
country: common nickname for
a country house.
Capital Federal and into their “country.”
máte: the container in which The family of our friend, Geral, owned
máte is served and shared. such a place in the beautiful Partido de San
Martín, and twenty friends gathered there for a very relaxing afternoon.
To pass the time, the guys played fútbol for hours, while the girls watched,
feigned interest and occasionally cheered. By late afternoon, energy levels
were tapering off. We sat around a giant
picnic table just talking and passing around
the máte for over an hour before it was
finally time to go home. Before leaving,
evening plans were made and a night spent
dancing at a club in Los Arcos was the game
plan of choice for ringing in the new year.
Showered, rested and dressed, twelve of us reconvened at a Palermo
confitería around 22:00. From there it was a short, ten-minute walk
through my neighborhood to the rising tide of twentypicos swimming
from club to club underneath Los Arcos. With only two hours remaining
in the old year, everyone was jockeying for position in hopes of being in
the perfect spot watching, doing or drinking something so wonderful
that this New Year’s might somehow, upon reflection, rise above all of
the rest. Personally, I was content just spending time with friends, so it
made little difference to me which club we chose. Eventually, a female
promoter handing out flyers on the street convinced us that Puente Mitre
would offer us the most bang for our hard-earned peso. Inside, the
spectacle that unfolded in the giant boliche beneath the railroad tracks
did not disappoint. The first two
hours featured a live performance
by a Brazilian samba troupe. And
when the clock struck midnight,

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the house deejays took over. Instead of going straight for the jugular
with a techno assault, they opted to tease the crowd with a mix of 70’s
disco and 80’s retro. I’m Your Boogie Man, Groove Is In The Heart, I Will
Survive, The Safety Dance, Knock On Wood, Pump Up the Jam, and Do
Ya Think I’m Sexy were big crowd pleasers. One hour into the new year
was when the beats went decidedly up tempo and la marcha commenced.
Normally, I would have joined in the all-night celebration without
hesitation; however, that idea just wasn’t appealing. I now found myself
more concerned with the well-being of my Argentine house mother than
whether or not I could once again stay out until sunrise. The atmosphere
was more jovial and nostalgic than I could handle, so I said “hasta luego”
to those friends that were meeting me at the airport and “adios” to others
that I would possibly never see again.
While walking a mile under the glow of the streetlights lining Avenida
Libertador, I felt like a different person. Different from the person that
moved here five months ago. The same person who was still unaware of
the people he would meet, the conversations he would have and the
natural wonders that he would see during a month’s journey in the
Patagonia. What was it about that trip that had changed me? Altered
my personality. Broadened my horizons. Boosted my self-confidence.
Changed my perceptions. In The Alchemist, Coelho tells of one night
when Santiago’s heart begins speaking to him in the desert. With pride, it
told the story of a shepherd who had left his flock to
follow a dream he had on two different occasions.
It told of Personal Legend, and of the
many men who had wandered in search
of distant lands or beautiful women,
confronting the people of their times
with their preconceived notions.
It spoke of journeys, discoveries,
books and change.
Changed was the only word
La única gente que me interesa es la que está that I could use to describe
how I felt walking alone
loca, la gente que está loca por vivir, loca
down Avenida Libertador on
por hablar, loca por salvarse, con ganas New Year’s Day. And for the
de todo al mismo tiempo. first time in five months, I was
-jack kerouac ready to go home.
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