Life is a funny thing: This notion was emphatically reaffirmed in my mind literally moments after publishing my last post.
I was about to receive a housemate.
In fact, he arrived just 30 minutes after I got the news. He was a short, tubby man, somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He was plainly dressed: He wore a weathered blue T-shirt with the words “Viva Patagonia!”, sandy jeans and a dusty pair of black leather shoes. His warm smile radiated amidst a greying five-o-clock shadow as we both stepped forward to embrace in a firm handshake.
His name was Pichuco.
He spoke very little English, but we persevered (along with my limited Spanish) and I learned that he was here in Calafate to work as a mechanic for the chairlifts of the local ski station. I told him about the work I was doing here and that I came from a tiny country with a population of over 5 million, to which he belted out a delightful bout of laughter. I was taken aback by his sudden reaction and and perhaps as a result spontaneously started to join him in his amusement.
He seemed like a terrific guy. Yet the thought that my whole plan for independence was now going to be put on hold again came back: Was I going to ever get that opportunity?
I started this blog to help me make sense of what goes through my head: I wanted all the muddled ponderations to be cleansed in a river of understanding, in which the doubts are washed away and only an essence remains. At least that’s the goal.
I suppose what’s clear to me is this:
Life is about adaptation. It’s never going to go as you expect it to and you can’t sit back and sulk when that happens. The best laid plans often change, and that needs to be embraced because you can never tell how that change might add something to your life.
I have 2 more weeks in Argentina, and I may not get the chance to return for the foreseeable future.
I need to soak in the fresh air on my morning jogs by the lake. I need to experience cycling to and from work alongside cars zooming past me on the narrow roads. If I have someone living with me, I need to give him my best.
I need to let what happens here, happen.
Pichuco had brought his bags to the living area. I had just been to the supermarket so I began unpacking the paper bag full of supplies.
He picked his car keys up from the table and told me he was headed out to the drugstore to buy more food for the both of us. I offered to give him some money for the groceries, to which he replied,
“It’s okay. What’s mine is yours.”