In St. James Walkway in central New Zealand, E. and I had a trail all to ourselves in March 2005. We were ushering in the break of fall. The first morning of the trail when we clambered out of our camper van to start the four day hike, the frost and the searing cold air stole our breath. Both of us had the good fortune of enjoying the trail by ourselves, as many other trails in the South Island are over-tread hot spots teaming with tourists. I pulled out my gloves from my backpack and pulled my cap down.
I have neglected to start my own Web blog for years now, even through my and E’s travels through Antarctica and the South Pacific. It seemed complicated and distracting while backpacking; Internet time is precious on the road. Internet cafes charge exorbitant fees per minute.
Now that I’ll have time to spare in Argentina, it seems like the appropriate time to pick up my pen and remember the art of poetry and memoir writing. I plan to create small sketches–still lifes and dioramas–from my life in Buenos Aires. I leave for Argentina on February 25.
When we are sedentary, there is always a desire to be on the road. While on the road, the desire for the mundane routine of a professional life is palpable. I hope to have the best of both words this time, teaching English for online universities at night and, during the day, wandering the city past packs of feral cats and cobblestone lanes where tango heels have tread.
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’” -Jack Kerouac, On the Road