February 8, 2002
Contemplating my navel in a non-descript hostel room, anywhere in the world. Photo by Michael Seto
I got a haircut (actually a head shave), dropped off my laundry (dirty from five days trekking) and ordered a burger and Coke for lunch. After that, I could not decide which shoe to tie first.
Both this week's flights to Bariloche are full the travel agent, Sabrina, told me. Shit. Now what? She started suggesting alternates, fly thru Rio Gallegos, or take a one of several buses, or there is a 4-day 4x4 trip up Route 40. What about a day trip to the Moreno Glacier, or up to El Chalten for two days and ice walk up there. No more suggestions I plead!
My original plan of a few days in Bariloche, a ski-resort in the Andes, then off to San Martin, another quaint little mountain town, lay in tatters. Uggggh. What to do? What to do? WHAT TO DO? Sabrina saw my indecision and took a phone call as I left, mumbling about how I would be back later, after I think things through. Yeah right! Don't hold your breath.
I felt like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Too many options is as bad as none. Analysis paralysis!
I wander up and down the three blocks that make up El Calafate, back and forth, past restaurants (all meat BBQs called parillas), past chocolate and ice cream shops, past artisan shops (did I mention Calafate is a tourist town) selling postcards, film, fleece, and t-shirts. I do this for THREE DAYS!
In between walks, I retreat to my hotel room and watch TV...there are 40 channels, but just 3 in English; nevertheless, ever ten minutes I surf through all of them (ten always seem to have soccer!). I watch old Ally McBeals, Boston Publics, Dark Angels, and the Simpsons, the latter in Spanish, but I have seen them all and know the words, so I laugh aloud. I see Die Hard, Die Hard 2, The Replacements (twice), and the Replacement Killers (in Spanish).
I hole up in my single room, though I lately have been in dorm style bunk rooms in hostals to save money. I take a single room this time because I don't want other travellers to see my weakness, my hesitation, my indecision, MY TRAVEL BURNOUT! 'Cause hey, this lethargy infects slacker backpackers faster than dysentary in an Afghani refugee camp.
The voices of a chorus of advisors debate my dilemma: You should be ashamed! But why should I be?! Huh, if I am tired then I am tired...so what! Yeah, leave him be, let him recuperate. He'll be fine, just needs a couple days. But look at what he is missing! Its a beautiful day, he's in Patagonia for God's sake! Get off your ass!
Shit. I was a Captain in the Marines..."rush the machine gun on the left, or charge the machine gun on the right;" a Vice President at Morgan Stanley..."buy high, sell low, or was that buy LOW, sell high"; surely I can make a decision. I can, and don't call me Shirley (oh yeah, I saw Airplane on TV too.)
So I try to do what my teacher/guru/faciltator taught me: sit in the tension and let what will be manifest itself and be known. So I sit...and sit. I meditate. What is my soul telling me? Where am I being pulled? What is my destiny, my karma? I meditate more...center...breathe...but don't TRY to breathe...think...wait, don't think! Breathe and follow your breath...wait, what is on TV?
So I do some yoga...but wait, what's on TV? I surf again. I nap. I surf. Maybe I should work-out. I do my prison workout...you know, pushups, situps, squats, then Ally McBeal comes on again. I wonder what is on the other channels.
(Mom and Dad, close your eyes.)
Make a fucking decision, goddam it! Jesus fucking christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuckity fuck! Yes, in a way I am imitating (that being the highest form of flattery) Dave Eggers' stream of consciousness style in "Staggering Work of Heartbreaking Genius." I hope you are flattered, Dave.
(Ok, you can open your eyes.)
I picture Eisenhower standing in front of his HQ window, it rains outside but a possible lull is forecast for the next day. He contemplates for a moment then turns and says, "OK, let's go." The next day, 6 June 1944, becomes D-Day. If he can decide the fate of the world, why can't I figure out if I want to see a stupid glacier or not?!
OK, why am I here. Out comes the list of reasons I wrote down about why I travel (in no order): see the world, learn about myself, meet hot local chicks...OK, that's enough of that. I figured learning about myself is most important...like, I've learned that I am a quivering, spineless jellyfish! Well, I kinda knew that already. Don't they have strap on spines now, like those girdles they give to guys who lift heavy stuff? Fedex me one.
OK, decision time. Let's have it, Eisenhower. "OK, I'll go." Wait, go where? Why, to Buenos Aires stupid! I will head off to BA and spend the next two weeks there, exploring that huge metropolis and learning to tango. Yeah right.
I plop down my Visa and tell Sabrina-the-travel-agent to book me the next flight to Buenos Aires, leaving tomorrow at 3pm. Done. Decision made. I return to the world of vertebrates. So what if I miss the Moreno Glacier, and Bariloche, San Martin de los Andes, and Iguazu Falls?! After all, you can't see it ALL, right? I step off to my hotel to pack... and to see if Ally McBeal is on.
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