There are three numbers that matter the most this morning–
And, in the sathey pertain to the following, all in Fahrenheit, of course–
Temperature outside our tent
Temperature inside our tent
Temperature inside my sleeping bag
All of this equals a very grumpy me, because to top it off, it’s wet outside, they sky is grey, and I have two more mornings of waking up in this piss and shit.
Camping in el bosque of La Pista del Andino, Ushuaia’s Club Andino premier camping, sucks. It’s worse than the three days we backpacked in non-stop rain in Colorado’s Wheeler Geological Area, and on top of it, here, we voluntarily pay for the punishment–45 pesos, $9, a night per person to camp in mud, cook in a dirty kitchen, and shower with lukewarm water in a freezing cold, don’t-dare-shower-without-your-flip-flops room.
All we can do to keep our wits about us is to know we have only two more mornings of this, and that, thank god, my sleeping bag is warm and toasty provided I dress in every single layer I own, beanie snug, and well, we aren’t in this alone: Jorge from Colombia is here for a once-in-a-lifetime gig washing dishes for a free ride to Antarctica, Katie and James from San Francisco, total granolas like us, sorry babe, bike south for seven months before hopping back to the Bay for a scientific sailboat mission, Julien and Lea from Pays-Basque, the three French dudes from Bretagne, the Israeli hitch-hiking couple with an axe to grind, the crazy big German dudes, Thor look-alikes, motorcrossing their ways across this continent, the two Americans from Montana we first meet at Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires.
We are all miserable, but at least we are miserable together.
[Insert sarcastic happy face.]
This rain and cold deflates me, and I day-dream of urban comfort, of routine, dependability, proximity to life’s pleasures, like, a laundromat, to central air, a roof.
132 South Grant Street, you sure sound nice right about now.