I have two days of my trip to go. I’m finally in my last stop – Buenos Aires, a city steeped in legends.
You might imagine that I have been tangoing the nights away, recovering languidly in the dim-lit cafes that loiter discreetly in the city’s more intimate corners.
I have been lost carrying a 20KG pack in the ceaseless seamlessly pouring rain, with a map drawn by someone who may have never visited, in search of a tourist office that didn’t even open…
I’ve been trying to adjust to Colombian compliments (he wants my eyes and my body is strong), Argentine time keeping (a few hours late isn’t really all that long), and the company of twenty-something men who think its perfectly ok to refer to all women as bitches if you are just f***ing with them…
I have gone out at night to lose myself, only to find I’m staring cat-angry back at beautiful women who glare and jostle me just because I am also a woman – rolling my eyes as the DJ plays the Spice Girls yet again.
I have been wondering what I am doing here.
I have been maddened by the Malvinas without being able to place them on a map, but have bitten my tongue.
I have grown tired of trying to understand when I really don’t and being tolerant when people forget to speak a language I’ll understand even though they can.
I have met handsome men and found them rather hollow. I’ve liked myself less for liking them so little, but longed for a little more substance all the same.
I want a proper meal and not more sickly sweet street food.
I have come to the end of my tether and found myself tied up in my own knots, ever so polite but secretly wanting to throw something heavy….
Today the glass is definitely half empty. This is not at all like me and yet I am glad. I am oddly joyful in my foot-stamping irritations. It is really rather lovely.
It is suddenly clear to me that disappointed might just be the best possible way to end this adventure. After all, the story never moves on from a happily ever after. This is just an episode, perhaps even just a prologue, and I want the next chapter to hurry up along.
This does not have to be amazing. A little frustration will make me turn the pages faster, find the blank white place where the next words will have space to flow, inking up tomorrow… In fact, pissed off might just be perfect.