So exhausted are we that plans for an early wake up to catch a bus to El Calafate give way to extra sleep and dreams of Kate Moss driving a bus while Graham plays video games and I miss Bear, all of this a jumble of consciousness as we learn of exciting news of upcoming Iceland elopements for BK and Mr. Alosi.
Ho hum, it seems we are stuck here another day, perhaps not too horrible of a prospect given our total lack of clean clothes and disconnection with the outside world, something we remedy with a trip to the laundromat and quality time with NPR.
Suddenly, I am no longer in Chile but in Denver, radio blaring NPR news as we shuttle up Broadway for our work day, the thought of slipping back into that skin and routine unnerving and unsettling, for like the news, I know that time passes but nothing evolves, topics of conversation the same as when I leave them–gun violence, work flexibility and the deficit.
And, then, NPR offers something totally new, the resignation of Pope Benedict, a turn of events last seen 600 years ago, and now, it is the weekend, Graham and I in our Grant Street house, omelette steaming for breakfast, Bear and Lynx on the back stoop, sunlight streaming through the dining room window, garden calling my name, a day of errands and city play on the forecast, Radiolab massaging our intellect.
My, oh, my, how odd to stir the pot of emotions simply by tuning in to NPR, at once nostalgic with equal measures of apprehension, bodily resistance to a previous life cadence I am not quite ready to reinvite into my psyche, definitely not now, maybe not ever.
Realizing the count-down of this round-the-world trip now ticks in the span of weeks, no longer months, exacerbates the disquiet, for sure, the NPR play-by-play of events sparking an unfortunate tumble of foreboding and dread about the all-too-rapid end date and, perhaps, inevitable return to the hamster wheel, rat race book-ended by twin days and weeks of jammed-packed excitement and errands.
Wholly disconcerted, my appetite comes a calling, street empanadas a possible solution to this panoply of nerves, and it’s off we go to munch on a massive carne pocket and pick up our super sparkly clean duds, three bucket loads of clothes laundered and dried for the bargain rate of CP$ 12,500, payable by credit card, thank goodness.
Then, to end our day of travel chores, the unsexy reality of months on the road, we return to Baguales for a novelty–vegetables–and imagine a post-trip life as farm-to-table B&B managers, hands dirty, faces turned to the sun, puppy and kitty in tow, pig splayed open and roasting at the restaurant next door, bright yellow bed spreads awaiting our return for a final night of slumber at Hostal Geminis.