They say that “home is where the heart is,” but do you think it’s possible to leave pieces of your heart scattered around the world and call each place a little bit of home? As of lately, I think I do. I can think of countries, cities, people, and moments, that have given me something to remember, to feel, to talk about, to take with me, but who have also taken something from me, a little piece of me that stays there and somehow takes me back there. Maybe we don’t always go back to all of these physically, but we become kind of like marionettes with countless strings scattered all over the map, and there are so many strings that one alone can’t control you, but it can have a little pull, a little nudge in a certain direction, in a certain thought or feeling, or way of understanding what’s in front of you.
As it turns out, not too long ago I started to feel that string in Argentina give me a little extra pull, so I said hey, what the hell, I don’t know what I’ll be doing next year, if I’ll have time, money, or desire to go, so why not go now? I knew this wouldn’t be the kind of vacation where you see amazing new sights, or learn a lot of cool history, or bask in the sunshine on a beach covered in white sand, holding a margarita and staring into crystal clear turquoise water. It would be more a trip to the known, to the comfortable, to the lounging around and sitting around a table talking to people about nothing and everything at the same time. It would be more like getting a really expensive cup of coffee with an old friend, if you think about it.
Now maybe AmeriCorps doesn’t quite pay me enough to make it worth the expensive cup of coffee, but then you have to wonder, why do we spend years saving money if we never use it for what we want? Besides, MasterCard once told me there are some things money can’t buy, and the Beatles told me you can’t buy me love, so maybe sometimes it’s worth one pricey plane ride for moments that you can’t find anywhere else.
So I started the trek to the motherland, and I know I’ve talked about how that whole “where are you from?” question can be so confusing, but it really hit me harder this time around when I arrived at Ezeiza international airport in Buenos Aires a few short weeks ago, with a navy blue American passport in one hand, and a navy blue Argentine passport in the other. As a newbie to American travel, I was confused as to which immigration line to approach when I finally got off the airplane.
In line number one: Argentina passport holders. Oo, me! In line number two: USA passport holders. Oo, me! In line number three: Passport holders who are waived of reciprocity fees. Oo, me! Well then, what gives? I approached a security man who promptly noticed my American passport and immediately addressed me in English. In Spanish, I expressed my confusion, and he explained that I belonged in line number three for being born in Argentina, but needing my US passport stamped without having to pay to enter my own country. Hm, interesting how a question that can keep coming back to you can be so easily answered by a man in uniform. How come he didn’t exist in my daily life to clarify things like that? Anyways, as it turns out, this is why line number three was created, for those people like myself who can only be explained as that little overlapping piece of a Venn Diagram. I looked over and there were just a few other people of my variety. Score. I made my way over, no questions asked, U.S. passport stamped, done. Easy as 1, 2, 3, as the Jackson Five would say.
The day after I arrived, after chatting with my adorable yet testy grandmother and having a friend come over to cebar me my first mate, I left for Mar del Plata to celebrate my friend Sandra’s birthday (*Cebar is the act or perhaps art of preparing and pouring a mate adequately).
Just 48 hours earlier, I had been in Austin, a place I call home these days, but now here I was, in the place I used to call home, greeted by some of my favorite people in the entire world. As soon as I got off the bus and saw my friend’s face I felt alive. I felt giddy, but also relaxed. It’s a feeling that is so hard to put into words, because it’s a combination of the excitement of running into the boy you have a major crush on in the street, and the comfort of saying hello to a family member.
As the week went on and I began to see some of my other friends – Paula, Carla, and Ana, who I went to school with, and Emilce, who I’ve known since the day she was born two days after me. It felt like nothing had changed. Ten years later, ten years after we all gathered outside my house to say goodbye before my final trek back to the U.S. of A., we were all sitting around the fireplace at Paula’s house, chatting, laughing, sharing fun stories, sharing difficult stories, cooking, drinking, playing monopoly, and never running out of things to say. It was like I just…belonged.
Monopoly Champion, Sandra, Carla, Paula, Mimi (the cat):
There is something, a je ne sais quoi as they say, about the ease and warmth and immediate throwback to the old days that rushes through my body when I spend time in this place with people who I left so long ago but somehow feel like I see them every day of my life. It’s a curious thing, no?
In Mar del Plata I went back to some favorite restaurants, my old neighborhood, my old house, where I couldn’t resist taking a picture with my mom’s lemon tree that once came up to my waist and seemed to have no hope of ever producing any lemons…and here it was now, full grown tree, full of bright yellow lemons.
Mi casita:
One day I went to the beach, layered in clothes, but eagerly kicked off my shoes and rolled up my pants to feel the sand between my toes and touch the frigid Atlantic. Whenever I used to go to the beach, the very first thing I (and my dad) would do when we arrived, before we even lay a towel out in the sun, was walk to the water and touch it. Just to test it, just to see if it was still as cold as it always was, and to see how much motivation it would take to actually jump in. Of course in the winter now I had no desire to actually jump in, but old habits die hard, you know?
Dancing in the water, making sure it's atlantically cold:
After about a week I headed back to Buenos Aires and make some rounds there. I saw my grandmother, relatives, faux-relatives, old friends, new friends, went back to my old salsa class, went salsa dancing (can’t get out of the habit), took millions of buses, gave lots of hugs, lots of kisses, shared laughs, and shared more stories.
And now in two days I head back to my other home, which I am excited to do, but also un poco triste. Coming to Argentina is like playing with a double-edged sword you see, it’s bittersweet, whatever you want to call it, something that is fulfilling yet heart wrenching at the same time. But, as Dr. Seuss said (and as I quoted under my Senior picture): “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Truth. Hasta la próxima, argentina amiga. Austin, here I come.
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