It would be a lie to say that this trip to Buenos Aires is the greatest adventure of my life. The grandest adventure (and the biggest mistake) of my life was probably getting born in the first place. Learning to fly airplanes is also up there somewhere (pardon the pun). Immigrating to Canada. Things like that.
Still, this trip is a pretty major deal.
For some odd reason, the experience of leaving my home country for good to move halfway across the world at the age of 16 did not shape me into the global citizen it ought to have. Though I have always wanted to travel, the layers of bureaucracy surrounding international travel were, in my mind, impenetrable. The mere thought of applying for a passport -- an unavoidable step for those seeking to cross the border in a legal fashion -- had me breaking out in cold sweat. And then there were all the entry requirements, visas, vaccinations, fees, applications, tickets, reservations, paperwork, terror, horror and pure hell. The worst part, however, was the fact that at any given time, I could only be in one travel destination out of millions possible ones. What are the chances that that one happens to be the best one? So slim as to be statistically insignificant. And because I'm a perfectionist who would not be able to live with an imperfect choice, I chose to avoid all choosing and stay close to home.
That was in the pre-Vera days, though. Because, you know, there is a reason I call her Tornado Teschow. You meet her and you think: "Ah, what a breath of fresh air! My, a mighty strong breeze, in fact!" -- and the next thing you know you're upside down, three thousand feet above ground, and definitely not in Kansas anymore. Which is really quite a relief because who wants to spend their whole life in Kansas, anyhow?
Kansas it ain't. It's a city -- and what city! A vibrant, colourful, run-down, noisy one -- clattering, clamouring, running up and down the street, flaunting and strutting its stuff: look, look at me, look at what I've got! Every cobblestone street, every busted up sidewalk, every litter-covered corner, every dogshit-strewn parkette, every graffiti-plastered fence is dancing in the sunshine, buzzing with the invisible but oh so potent energy that makes you just want to forget that anything has ever been wrong with the world. Except pickpockets. Don't forget about pickpockets. Watch your bag.
The size of this urban conglomeration is astounding sometimes. "This is a BIG city," one of us whispered as we descended into Ministro Pistarini International on an early, pre-sunrise morning of September 17th, 2013. There was something worrisome about that sight. What's here? Who lives here? Why do they live here? What's the point of this whole place? If these questions strike you as utterly ridiculous, you are, of course, a perfectly sensible person. They are. Hiding under those questions were the real ones: Why am I here? What is my reason for being here? What is my purpose?
I don't know. But then, does anyone?
Still, this trip is a pretty major deal.
For some odd reason, the experience of leaving my home country for good to move halfway across the world at the age of 16 did not shape me into the global citizen it ought to have. Though I have always wanted to travel, the layers of bureaucracy surrounding international travel were, in my mind, impenetrable. The mere thought of applying for a passport -- an unavoidable step for those seeking to cross the border in a legal fashion -- had me breaking out in cold sweat. And then there were all the entry requirements, visas, vaccinations, fees, applications, tickets, reservations, paperwork, terror, horror and pure hell. The worst part, however, was the fact that at any given time, I could only be in one travel destination out of millions possible ones. What are the chances that that one happens to be the best one? So slim as to be statistically insignificant. And because I'm a perfectionist who would not be able to live with an imperfect choice, I chose to avoid all choosing and stay close to home.
That was in the pre-Vera days, though. Because, you know, there is a reason I call her Tornado Teschow. You meet her and you think: "Ah, what a breath of fresh air! My, a mighty strong breeze, in fact!" -- and the next thing you know you're upside down, three thousand feet above ground, and definitely not in Kansas anymore. Which is really quite a relief because who wants to spend their whole life in Kansas, anyhow?
Kansas it ain't. It's a city -- and what city! A vibrant, colourful, run-down, noisy one -- clattering, clamouring, running up and down the street, flaunting and strutting its stuff: look, look at me, look at what I've got! Every cobblestone street, every busted up sidewalk, every litter-covered corner, every dogshit-strewn parkette, every graffiti-plastered fence is dancing in the sunshine, buzzing with the invisible but oh so potent energy that makes you just want to forget that anything has ever been wrong with the world. Except pickpockets. Don't forget about pickpockets. Watch your bag.
The size of this urban conglomeration is astounding sometimes. "This is a BIG city," one of us whispered as we descended into Ministro Pistarini International on an early, pre-sunrise morning of September 17th, 2013. There was something worrisome about that sight. What's here? Who lives here? Why do they live here? What's the point of this whole place? If these questions strike you as utterly ridiculous, you are, of course, a perfectly sensible person. They are. Hiding under those questions were the real ones: Why am I here? What is my reason for being here? What is my purpose?
I don't know. But then, does anyone?