Stops Along The Way #5 Jim

I met Jim in the kitchen of a hostel at the end of the world, Ushuaia, Argentina. I had arrived there in the hopes of getting a ‘last minute deal’ to Antarctica. I’d been hearing about it from other hostel guests traveling up, while I was traveling down. I got the deal, but the ship wasn’t leaving for another week. To while away the time, I purchased a week long pass to the parks and trails in Tierra Del Fuego.
Over tea, I learned that Jim was traveling solo and exploring all of the parks in Chileand Argentina.  My trip south was my first long solo travel, and I was just beginning to learn that even as a solo traveler, one is rarely alone. It was a fact I was more than grateful for as I wound my way south on my own.
At first I was a little intimidated or worried about making plans with total strangers, but by the time I met Jim, I felt I was an old pro at the hostel meet and greet.  I had learned how truly common it was to make plans and have adventures with someone I’d just met.  When loneliness became too heavy, I turned to my fellow travelers to help fill the  void.  When traveling, everyone is a potential partner in crime.
Jim and I discussed the various trails we wanted to hike and decided to go together to Lago Escondido that day.  At the start of the trail we were greeted by a very friendly fox. Later we learned he was a regular there and was even written about in the guide books.
We enjoyed a beautiful hike to the lake discussing the pleasantries of where we were from and what our former life looked like. I remember having much trouble with the first question, “where was I from.” I preferred the Spanish equivalent, “de donde vienes?” which literally translates to, “from where are you coming?”  I had left my apartment in Santiago De Chile where I had lived for the better part of two years, and begun traveling south to Ushuaia. That’s where I was coming from. I found it strange to say that I was from Coloradoor the States when I hadn’t lived there in so long, when I didn’t identify with it at all.
Though, I was actually homeless, no longer a paying roommate of my apartment and for the first time in my life no place to call home.  When I was asked in Spanish I would answer, “I am coming from Santiago.” Which was literally true, however, this confused people who looked at me and knew I was a gringa. Jim had the same confusion. If I said I was coming from the states I would still have to explain how I’d been abroad for so long.  And the truth was, I had not been in the states for nearly two years, how could I be coming from there? I preferred to say I was from the world. It seemed the most fitting, the most truthful, but even I thought that was too cheesy.
Finally at the lake, a secluded, hidden little gem of a glacier lake, we decided we must test the waters.  A traveling motto I had just heard in the hostel and since adopted, “you never regret a swim,” ran through my head.  This was my first chance to prove it.  We were not prepared, no swimsuits or towels.   He’s a stranger, I thought? A fact which made me both uneasy and reassured about what we did next.
We stripped down to our under things and plunged into the frigid water of the lake, laughing and screaming at the shock of it all. We frolicked around in the water like young children for as long as we could stand it, finally emerging from the water to collapse on the grasses of the shore, panting and shivering, smiling and laughing.  We dried ourselves in the rare warmth of a late summer sun.  It might have been the most unabashed, carefree thing I’d ever done.
Once reasonably dry, we dressed and made our way down the trail and back to the hostel. I think Jim left the next day. His departure was unceremonious and quiet. It was a nod of the head as he passed by the kitchen where I was drinking tea. No email addresses exchanged. No plans to meet up somewhere along the gringo trail.  I watched him exit, pack heavy on his back, and I smiled to myself at the moments we’d shared.
Jim could be any one of the various travelers I’ve met along the way.  So many people come and go, rarely leaving a mark. They fill the spaces and offer company on an otherwise solitary journey. Jim stands out in my mind because of the rare moments we shared, the quickness with which we became old friends, and the ease with which we parted.

Stops Along The Way #5 Jim

I met Jim in the kitchen of a hostel at the end of the world, Ushuaia, Argentina. I had arrived there in the hopes of getting a ‘last minute deal’ to Antarctica. I’d been hearing about it from other hostel guests traveling up, while I was traveling down. I got the deal, but the ship wasn’t leaving for another week. To while away the time, I purchased a week long pass to the parks and trails in Tierra Del Fuego.
Over tea, I learned that Jim was traveling solo and exploring all of the parks in Chile and Argentina.  My trip south was my first long solo travel, and I was just beginning to learn that even as a solo traveler, one is rarely alone. It was a fact I was more than grateful for as I wound my way south on my own.
At first I was a little intimidated or worried about making plans with total strangers, but by the time I met Jim, I felt I was an old pro at the hostel meet and greet.  I had learned how truly common it was to make plans and have adventures with someone I’d just met.  When loneliness became too heavy, I turned to my fellow travelers to help fill the  void.  When traveling, everyone is a potential partner in crime.
Jim and I discussed the various trails we wanted to hike and decided to go together to Lago Escondido that day.  At the start of the trail we were greeted by a very friendly fox. Later we learned he was a regular there and was even written about in the guide books.
We enjoyed a beautiful hike to the lake discussing the pleasantries of where we were from and what our former life looked like. I remember having much trouble with the first question, “where was I from.” I preferred the Spanish equivalent, “de donde vienes?” which literally translates to, “from where are you coming?”  I had left my apartment in Santiago De Chile where I had lived for the better part of two years, and begun traveling south to Ushuaia. That’s where I was coming from. I found it strange to say that I was from Colorado or the States when I hadn’t lived there in so long, when I didn’t identify with it at all.
Though, I was actually homeless, no longer a paying roommate of my apartment and for the first time in my life no place to call home.  When I was asked in Spanish I would answer, “I am coming from Santiago.” Which was literally true, however, this confused people who looked at me and knew I was a gringa. Jim had the same confusion. If I said I was coming from the states I would still have to explain how I’d been abroad for so long.  And the truth was, I had not been in the states for nearly two years, how could I be coming from there? I preferred to say I was from the world. It seemed the most fitting, the most truthful, but even I thought that was too cheesy.
Finally at the lake, a secluded, hidden little gem of a glacier lake, we decided we must test the waters.  A traveling motto I had just heard in the hostel and since adopted, “you never regret a swim,” ran through my head.  This was my first chance to prove it.  We were not prepared, no swimsuits or towels.   He’s a stranger, I thought? A fact which made me both uneasy and reassured about what we did next.
We stripped down to our under things and plunged into the frigid water of the lake, laughing and screaming at the shock of it all. We frolicked around in the water like young children for as long as we could stand it, finally emerging from the water to collapse on the grasses of the shore, panting and shivering, smiling and laughing.  We dried ourselves in the rare warmth of a late summer sun.  It might have been the most unabashed, carefree thing I’d ever done.
Once reasonably dry, we dressed and made our way down the trail and back to the hostel. I think Jim left the next day. His departure was unceremonious and quiet. It was a nod of the head as he passed by the kitchen where I was drinking tea. No email addresses exchanged. No plans to meet up somewhere along the gringo trail.  I watched him exit, pack heavy on his back, and I smiled to myself at the moments we’d shared.
Jim could be any one of the various travelers I’ve met along the way.  So many people come and go, rarely leaving a mark. They fill the spaces and offer company on an otherwise solitary journey. Jim stands out in my mind because of the rare moments we shared, the quickness with which we became old friends, and the ease with which we parted.

Solo

The first time I traveled solo was in Europe.  I was 21 years old.  It was my third time in Italy, and I figured having traveled there twice before might make it easier for me to go it alone. Our ship docked in Civitavecchia, a tiny port town less than an hour by train to Rome. 

 Traveling on my own was scary and exhilarating and exciting and frustrating, but it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. By this time I knew travel was going to be an important part of my life, and so I thought I might as well find out what I was made of now.  Italywas one of our last stops on our around the world voyage, and I was eager for the challenge after already putting eight countries under my belt. I wouldn’t say I was confident, but I was certain.

 I took the train to Rome, not necessarily alone.  No one from the ship was staying in Civitavecchia, we were all headed elsewhere, on the same train.  I found a hostel and dropped my bag. I took to the streets and was bombarded by sights and sounds I had forgotten from my two previous visits there. I found a pizza shop I was certain I’d eaten in before.  A gelato I had devoured in the past.  It’s a funny thing the things you remember when you think you will never return. 

 I’d run into fellow passengers along the cobbled streets; not an unusual occurrence when 600 students are set loose in a port.  And in this sense I was not completely on my own. I recommended a hostel to two guys from the ship and received a discount when they showed up for a room. I was particularly proud of this. Somehow, to me, it meant I was at ease alone in a place I wasn’t sure I should be.  That moment, more than any other in the five days I spent on my own in Rome, proved to me that I could do this.
 

Since then, nearly everywhere I’ve ever traveled, I’ve traveled alone, including two months traveling in the south of Chileand Argentina, two weeks traveling to Antarctica, and two months in Central America.  When I tell friends or strangers that I am going to Puerto Rico or Colombiathe first question out of their mouths is, “with who?” They are shocked and surprised when I say, “no one,” or “myself.” I suppose I’ve not found a very good answer to that question.  Not one suitable to the person asking anyway.  They are not sure how to react to this bit of information.  They’d never do that. Aren’t I scared? Worried? Nervous? Won’t I get lonely?

 The truth is, each time I go, I am a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip.  I worry that I’ll get lost, or the language barrier will be too much, or maybe I will get lonely.  I chalk this up simply to the anticipation of the trip.  But pretty much, by the time I get to whatever hostel I find, I’m good. I got this. The excitement of exploring a new city, a new culture overwhelms any fear I might have had.

 Instead of being lonely, I welcome the solitude. I read whole books in days, I write for hours, I sit on the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves as they crash at my feet. I spend entire afternoons on outdoor patios sipping beer and watching people pass by.  I eat amazing food I can’t name and perhaps suffer the consequences later. And while I’m doing all of that, I reflect on my life and where I’ve come. I have time to be grateful and appreciate where I am.

 And while traveling on my own has other benefits that you might imagine- being on nobody else’s schedule but mine, and therefore not needing to have a schedule at all, falling in love with a place and deciding to stay longer, lingering at a waterfall that perhaps a companion would rush me from, drinking till 4 am at an Independence day celebration and sleeping till 12 with no complaints from a too gung ho pal- I am discovering with each trip I take, (and the progression in years has not escaped me here either), that I may want a friend with me to share the beauty of that waterfall, or to walk me back to the hostel after a long night at that bar by the beach. 

 I know I will continue to travel alone.  Finding someone to go on month or longer trips is not easy.  Not everyone has a great job like mine which allows me extended time off to go away. I’m also not sure many people would really want to travel the way I do.  But I also know, the more I continue going and growing, the more I want someone to share it all with. To finish the stories I return to tell. To confirm the sunset over the ocean, the wolf that crossed my path, the rum in that strange drink. To hold my hand when words are worthless.

Solo

The first time I traveled solo was in Europe.  I was 21 years old.  It was my third time in Italy, and I figured having traveled there twice before might make it easier for me to go it alone. Our ship docked in Civitavecchia, a tiny port town less than an hour by train to Rome. 

 Traveling on my own was scary and exhilarating and exciting and frustrating, but it was something I had wanted to do for a long time. By this time I knew travel was going to be an important part of my life, and so I thought I might as well find out what I was made of now.  Italy was one of our last stops on our around the world voyage, and I was eager for the challenge after already putting eight countries under my belt. I wouldn’t say I was confident, but I was certain.

 I took the train to Rome, not necessarily alone.  No one from the ship was staying in Civitavecchia, we were all headed elsewhere, on the same train.  I found a hostel and dropped my bag. I took to the streets and was bombarded by sights and sounds I had forgotten from my two previous visits there. I found a pizza shop I was certain I’d eaten in before.  A gelato I had devoured in the past.  It’s a funny thing the things you remember when you think you will never return. 

 I’d run into fellow passengers along the cobbled streets; not an unusual occurrence when 600 students are set loose in a port.  And in this sense I was not completely on my own. I recommended a hostel to two guys from the ship and received a discount when they showed up for a room. I was particularly proud of this. Somehow, to me, it meant I was at ease alone in a place I wasn’t sure I should be.  That moment, more than any other in the five days I spent on my own in Rome, proved to me that I could do this.
 

Since then, nearly everywhere I’ve ever traveled, I’ve traveled alone, including two months traveling in the south of Chile and Argentina, two weeks traveling to Antarctica, and two months in Central America.  When I tell friends or strangers that I am going to Puerto Rico or Colombia the first question out of their mouths is, “with who?” They are shocked and surprised when I say, “no one,” or “myself.” I suppose I’ve not found a very good answer to that question.  Not one suitable to the person asking anyway.  They are not sure how to react to this bit of information.  They’d never do that. Aren’t I scared? Worried? Nervous? Won’t I get lonely?

 The truth is, each time I go, I am a little nervous in the days leading up to the trip.  I worry that I’ll get lost, or the language barrier will be too much, or maybe I will get lonely.  I chalk this up simply to the anticipation of the trip.  But pretty much, by the time I get to whatever hostel I find, I’m good. I got this. The excitement of exploring a new city, a new culture overwhelms any fear I might have had.

 Instead of being lonely, I welcome the solitude. I read whole books in days, I write for hours, I sit on the beach and enjoy the sound of the waves as they crash at my feet. I spend entire afternoons on outdoor patios sipping beer and watching people pass by.  I eat amazing food I can’t name and perhaps suffer the consequences later. And while I’m doing all of that, I reflect on my life and where I’ve come. I have time to be grateful and appreciate where I am.

 And while traveling on my own has other benefits that you might imagine- being on nobody else’s schedule but mine, and therefore not needing to have a schedule at all, falling in love with a place and deciding to stay longer, lingering at a waterfall that perhaps a companion would rush me from, drinking till 4 am at an Independence day celebration and sleeping till 12 with no complaints from a too gung ho pal- I am discovering with each trip I take, (and the progression in years has not escaped me here either), that I may want a friend with me to share the beauty of that waterfall, or to walk me back to the hostel after a long night at that bar by the beach. 

 I know I will continue to travel alone.  Finding someone to go on month or longer trips is not easy.  Not everyone has a great job like mine which allows me extended time off to go away. I’m also not sure many people would really want to travel the way I do.  But I also know, the more I continue going and growing, the more I want someone to share it all with. To finish the stories I return to tell. To confirm the sunset over the ocean, the wolf that crossed my path, the rum in that strange drink. To hold my hand when words are worthless.