“…And I hope to be lead to a better place in the end.”
Due to vaguely popular demand, I have conjured another blog entry. Some have claimed I left you hanging back in February when I returned abruptly to Buenos Aires, Brazilian dreams dashed. You’d been wondering where I went off to, if I injured myself, and what more beatitude I could twist into cynicism. (Wait, you’re just looking for a Pussycat Doll music video? Try www.amateurporndump.com.) Please accept my attempt to reconnect, even if it’s six months later and that “end” I spoke of in February is nonexistent.
So. What happened? I spent the majority of February in Buenos Aires, meeting up with former friends and engorging myself on gelato. I met a strange American man who tried to con me into writing a documentary series you most certainly won’t hear of. I held Stanley again, and he remembered exactly who I was. Then one day, I knew it was over. I would rather speak English than Spanish, read a book instead of go outside, and my exhaustion wouldn’t diminish after a good night’s sleep. I coordinated my return over the phone with my dad, and was looking forward to surprising my mom who didn’t expect me. My last night in Argentina was the evening of the full lunar eclipse, and I watched the shadow grow across the moon from a rooftop with friends. I was ready to leave.
That is, until I was seated in Atlanta, forced to listen to Nancy Grace’s prattle from the Delta terminal TVs. A snowstorm in New York prompted my connecting flight to be canceled, and secretly I was debating bribing a bored flight attendant into smuggling me back into South America. (“No quiero Taco Bell,” I’d say.) My mom caught on to my dad and my machinations, but it didn’t prevent me from hugging them both out of happiness (and lack of body heat in this newly found winter). Those first moments when you reconnect with someone after a long period of time are precious, because instead of reacting to the person’s actions, you love them simply for who they are to you. Then the little wheels of reality start producing time, and in a few minutes it’s gone again.
So that brings us to now. But as you see, there is a little problem I face when writing again. This is a travel blog, and all my peregrinations halted in February. In fact, I am just stagnating in the gelatinous monotony of Connecticut. (That’s in the United States, if you’re unfamiliar with this country’s geography, and the second C is mysteriously silent). It isn’t so bad, but if you’ve been craving my spritely words and photos, you will thank me for not regaling you with tales of When My Dad And I Fought Over Which Drawer The Cheese Should Go In, and Exciting Friday Nights With A Book And Swedish Fish. You’re welcome.
Maybe this feels so anti-climactic to you that you’ve sworn off condoms, and I understand that. Life is a bitch, and then in Hinduism it’s a bitch again. But somehow, though my travels are over for now, I think I am still on a journey. I’ll try to include you in the rest of it in the midst of your own.
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