Episode 15:  ”Half a World Away”—R.E.M.

2009, Argentina.

I caught an early morning bus in Mar del Plata, a beach town on the Atlantic Ocean.  I was heading back to Buenos Aires, to meet my friend Lem for two days before heading back to the Estados Unidos.   My traveling companions were continuing south without me.

I was exhausted.  I had stayed up late the night before, drinking fernet-and-cokes and giving tarot card readings to my friends.  And long after everyone else in the room was snoring and sighing, I stared at the ceiling, straining to hear the waves crashing only a block away.  In general, I was not enjoying the communal sleeping arrangements predicated by hostels.  I have always enjoyed sleeping alone, with bountiful pillows and blankets.   Here the beds were lumpy and the sheets were scratchy.  So sleep had been a minor part of my trip. A small sacrifice, of course.

But seven days later, it was catching up with me.  I was going to need some rest, if I was going to make it through the night of debauchery promised by Lem.  I choked down a sleeping pill in the Mar del Plata bus station, chasing it with overly sweetened orange juice.  If I napped for the five hour bus trip, I would be virtually reborn when I arrived in BA.

But on the top floor of the double decker bus, sleep eluded me.  My neck hurt.  My legs needed a fierce stretching.  A baby cried several rows away.  And then a terrible American movie with loud, uncomfortable dubbing began to play. I searched my Ipod for something soothing, finally settling on R.E.M.  I pressed my face against the glass, watching the endless, unchanging expanse of flat grassland.  

I was in South America, literally half a world away from my mostly unsatisfying life in Philadelphia:

A career that was “fine,” but not fulfilling (but certainly impressive to others).  

Very few friends.

Essentially no romantic contact.

This lack of anything compelling gave me the feeling of endless drift.  Of circling an airport, waiting and waiting and waiting to land.  The bus that never comes.  A flavorless meal.  The sleep that never satisfies.  

To the outside observer, I really had my act together.  A good job, a healthy lifestyle, seemingly rational decisions.  But I felt more uncertain and confused than ever.  At first I had dealt with my isolation and frustration by writing.  And I had produced some good work.  But lately, composing even the simplest sentenced required arduous delves through the files in the back of my brain, trying to find the last time I had felt anything other than numbness.  This frightened me.  

But I had made it here, to Argentina.  I had made the decision to do it.  And then I made it happen.  I had saved the money and cleared the time and obtained a replacement passport (the previous version being lost somewhere in a druggy haze many years ago).  

If I could put together this trip, maybe I could change my life.  Maybe I could move somewhere else.  Do something that mattered to me.  Meet new people.  Fall in love.  Move forward.  Come in for a landing.

I promised myself, just as the bus pulled into the station in Retiro, that I was going to make things happen.  2010 was going to be an amazing year.  I promised this with every ounce of faith I had.

Furthermore:  My luggage was temporarily lost upon my return to Philadelphia.  When I was finally reunited with my bags, I discovered that my clothes were soaked in a shattered bottle of fernet.   I promptly fell in love with someone that would never be able to return my love.  And then it snowed a lot.

Moreover:  And then my heart was broken and I thought I might just die and then it was spring and then I managed to get a job in Portland, OR.  And other good things happened, too.