Jacey, gone. Stanley, gone. Just when I made peace, a new wave crashed its crest full of shit over me. At least, that’s how it felt. I had seven days left in my apartment before the lease ran out. And then?
I could extend the lease and find a roommate since Phoebe was traveling, I could get a 1 bedroom, or I could move in with others. I chose the last option. In the beginning, the search was systematic but leisurely. Eventually, as the days dimmed, the panic began to accumulate. Would I go back into a hostel and sleep next to snoring, oblivious strangers? Maybe I would learn a canción and just sit on the sidewalk, the only North American panhandler in Buenos Aires. I mean really, did I have a friend here who would let me crash at their place for … however long? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure that anything I spent three months here doing amounted to more than stories most people would tune out.
Two days before my lease ran up, a really odd thing happened. I began to listen to myself. I had found some adequate apartments, but something was not aligning. Even with all of Buenos Aires’ diversions, something stirred inside of me, quietly but firmly, as a wind would, pushing in a single direction.
Next Friday, I fly to Brazil. There is a tiny artists’ dwelling in Rio that lets you live there for free if you work on a community art project. I have no idea what I am getting myself into, since I don’t speak Portuguese and I don’t exactly know anyone in Brazil. But I think this is right, and I’m glad that the beating of my heart was louder the prattle of my mind.
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