I’m no Ernest Shackleton or Dr. Livingstone. I travel in a world that has Google Maps, GPS tracking, and I can find a pizza (not always good 😅) in just about any country I visit. But I still like to think of myself as an explorer. I think it’s the romance of a grand adventure that keeps me trekking through the mud and swatting the endless mosquitoes. It's the magic of travelling when you're stuck, the fog lifts, and something you desperately need magically appears.
Tomorrow I begin my 2-bus, 36 hour trek to reach my starting point. I have no idea what the hell I've just decided to do... hitchhike a distance damn near the equivalent of NY to LA, hopping between two countries I've never been to with just my backpack and my broken Spanish, all just to get to a place I could buy a flight to right now. But as always I tell myself, 'it's about the journey, not the destination.' I've been to the 'end of the world' in Asia, Europe, and the North Pole, so hell, why not make a go of it getting to the southern-most inhabited place in the world at the southern tip of Patagonia?! But as good as that sounds, I still find myself asking God if I'm making the right decision? And I remember asking the same over 5 years ago when I decided to walk the 1,000 km long Camino de Santiago (aka 'The Way"). Did Shackleton and Livingstone get the jitters? I like to think so.
Tonight I went to dinner with my girlfriend's family to say nos vemos. The same question as always, 'milanesa, asado, empanadas, or sandwich de milanesa?' There's not exactly a whole lot of options in the little Argentinian town I've been living in for the past several months.
We circle downtown, no parking. Back to my apartment, we can walk from there. Everyone's a little grumpy. It's 10pm and the town is seemingly bustling for a Tuesday night, all the restaurants seem full. We walk the same block next to my house I walk 5 times a day. Nothing new here. But then a wind blows. A fog lifts. A door opens, and the light shines onto a beautifully rustic courtyard I've never seen before, with a perfectly empty restaurant in the back.
As we cautiously approach a little sign reads, "paella." A Spanish restaurant! What?!? Then I see it, the same little scallop shell that I followed for over 1,000 km walking the Camino. It's unmistakeable. The beacon of light that I have tattooed not once, but twice. My bright, shining star every time there was a fork in the road and I was mapless. But most simply-put, God's voice, always telling me which way to turn.
On the complete other side of the Earth, in a town no one has heard of, that has absolutely nothing to do with The Way, there happens to be a restaurant created by kindred souls who also happen to find themselves lost between the same two rivers that I am, is a restaurant named after and dedicated to the Camino de Santiago.
This first post is longer than is my intension for this writing/travelling experiment, but with good reason: it's for my Mom. So Mom, if you're reading, and you find yourself asking God 'what the hell is my crazy son doing now?' (which I know you are)... take some solace in knowing I'm on the right path, cuz after all this time, I'm damn-well sure God just told me to keep walking...
Buen camino peregrino! Salud!
