I feel it so much more here in the city. Outside the window a hundred people pass every minute; ten buses haltingly speed by, filled to capacity; below me subte cars chase each other through their infinite tubular cages, their passengers packed ass to jowl, sweaty elbows hooked on knobby knees. A mass of flesh and its human trappings, rushing towards and around me, a dizzying miracle of color, form, feel, smell and touch. Within this menagerie I move curtly, eyes fixed on a destination, a task. My city skin, tough. My feeling of isolation is consuming.
So I extricate. Pulling out from behind too big dark glasses a glimpse of painted lashes and shadowed eyes. I fabricate. She is my age, maybe a bit younger. Managing her urban life, from work, now carrying groceries home, a small bright apartment. I layer upon this portrait my own self. His white hair, straw thick, parted sharply at his temple, a sharp angle cut across his forehead. Bright hooded eyes; smile drawn lines around his face, raw, ruddy, round; matching his body, my height, healthy belly, sturdy; he is engaging, relaxed. Beyond comfortable in his 60 year old frame, he will meet his boys at the cafe at 3p and talk lazily about the weather, the soccer and the grandkids over coffee and empanadas.
Then I dive in, the fantasies of my defense mechanism firmly in place. I step into the stream and smile, empty mind now absorbing, digesting the collage that surrounds me. My day passes quickly, easily, working through the useless dance steps of our modern life. The government of my country, friends and family is today’s obstacle. Friendly impassive faces behind smart eyeglasses and uninspired business suits, just barely betraying the drudgery of their day, shuffling papers through the flow following the footsteps of Sam Lowry and Leo Bloom, not entirely ignorant of their legacy. I wait in this sterile room, soiled only by the taste of rotting paper and ink. Crying restless children, loudly asking the same inane questions, a bell rings calling up the next customer and every time I look up from my notebook, hoping to be done. Once the dance is done, I emerge with a shiny new Passport book.
Coming into the city after months wandering the small towns, mountains and rivers of Patagonia, I am ready. As the city grows around the road leading in, rising from low suburban sprawl to the familiar dense four and five story neighborhoods of Latin America then finally to the modern skyscrapers of downtown, my excitement builds. All the stimuli fly through my busy brain. I bounce around in the generous semi-cama butaca like a child. I want to eat it all up.
A couple of weeks later I find myself in another half drunk conversation. Finding our place in the world, feeling out the sounds of our souls. This time talking about our place in this city, trying to translate a sense of self and relate it to physical surroundings. I feel so small in the wilderness (not me really, but I listen.) In the city, I grow, necessarily, in order not to lose myself (I listen.) I lose myself in the mass of people; I am part of it and become huge (I listen.) I enjoy, I taste, I touch, I walk (I listen.) Testing, watching, trying on the masks looking for that perfect fit. Throwing ideas lightly into the void, happily dancing in circles around each other.
Now I remember. Everything hurts, I haven’t eaten enough because I am nauseous, my head is pounding and I am tired. Cold wind bites at my face, my hands are numb, my feet soaked and cold. Clouds deep grey, dirty and low, thunder. I am scared. Pull it together! NOW! Fighting the wind, the tent goes up and is immediately covered with snow. I focus on the familiar tasks of setting up camp. Quickly moving clothes and sleeping bags into the dry, getting anything that might be covered up off the ground. Guy lines tied off, bags under the vestibule, I collapse exhausted into shelter. I force myself to suck down a bit of soup and then try to sleep. Morning comes terribly slowly and I stay wrapped up in my heavy sleeping bag until the sun hits the tent. As I struggle out of the small tent entrance I come into the realm of the gods, a high temple to our mother earth. A perfect blanket of snow covers the valley floor, brilliant in the sun. Tall granite faces rise, buttressed by blue green faced glaciers, ancient ice beasts clinging to the cliffs. Snowy peaks pocked by tumbling volcanic spires dot the horizon on three sides. This is mine, this is ours, this is us. I feel strong.
Retreating in order to advance, taking in every breath, every taste, touch, smell and word until I am exhausted, full. Rested, I step out again into the city. Spin the pedals backwards then lean forward and I’m off. Playing tag with buses, pushing hard to make the light. Easy and free, on Cordoba I poach a light and enjoy the familiar freedom of having six lanes to carve wide curves. A thousand faces buzz by on the sidewalk, each walk unique. A million souls surround me, I am part of it, neither big nor small, just me. I love the energy of the city, however it comes.
southbynorth 