Grounding in El Bolsón

It was time again: after all the turbulent events and experiences of the past few months, I needed to take my foot off the gas a little. I’d already found the perfect place to do it. About 1,200 miles north of Ushuaia – the starting point of this South America journey – tucked away in the middle of lush greenery, sat a small house built from natural materials. What I’d already seen in photos online had now become home for roughly three weeks – more than enough time for Chris and me to fall completely in love with our accommodation, the small town of El Bolsón, and our life here. Also included in the all-inclusive package: a cuddly tomcat who came to visit every day, and a solitary rooster who preferred to sunbathe at a safe distance of exactly five feet from us. When I asked the landlady what the animals were called, she told me: “They belong to the neighbor. They don’t have names. You can give them some.” Nothing easier than that. We christened the cat Garbanzo – the chickpea – and the rooster became Herbert.

Living here with Chris in the little adobe house, with views of the town and mountains on all sides, felt exactly right. So many things had fallen by the wayside during the Sea Shepherd campaign of the past few months and the Patagonia trip that followed. I still found it hard to make sense of everything I’d seen in Antarctica, or what role environmental protection and activism would play for me going forward. The view back into the past was just as foggy as the view into the future: I’d love to share my experiences with more people, for instance, and had no idea how or where that might be possible. (Dear Universe, if you’re reading this, I’d be very grateful for a signpost.)

At the same time, I was excited about all the experiences still ahead of me – both those I knew nothing about yet, because they’d come leaping into my life as a surprise, and those that needed to be planned and prepared. Taking time out for this felt important: with an eye on my wishes for the year and a little creativity, Chris and I dreamed our way into all kinds of scenarios. But there were also concrete things on the list that needed checking off: look at the calendar, write emails, reach out to friends, book flights. If the coming months were going to turn into a grab bag of glitter, I’d have to do my part to organize them too.

One more thing had gone completely unattended since Vietnam: my certification as a German-as-a-foreign-language teacher through the Goethe Institut, which I could work on online. To complete it, I had to work through six packed modules, submit countless assignments, put together portfolios, and ultimately pass a final exam. The fact that I hadn’t even finished the first module yet motivated me to make use of the time between volunteer work and intense travel days. And so the days in El Bolsón fell into a rhythm that might have felt too monotonous anywhere else, but here was exactly what I needed.

Mornings always started with yoga, then it was over to the laptop, where I tried to study as focused and consistently as possible. Every few days I gave a tutoring lesson over a rather unreliable internet connection. At lunch, Chris and I could usually eat outside in the company of Garbanzo and Herbert. The fall sun warmed us, more some days than others. Then back to work, until around five o’clock when we called it a day. That meant it was time for our daily walk, and every now and then we’d end up at a café and try whatever local treats were on offer. In the evenings, Chris and I cooked together and then celebrated dinner as we ate it. Sometimes there was still time to reflect, stretch, sort things out, be alone. Most of the time we’d put on a movie from the nineties and dive into the past. Sleep. Alarm. Start over.

And while we followed our routine day in, day out, the colorful trees of the valley slowly let go of their leaves. The sun showed itself four minutes less e

ach day. Fall was in full swing, moving steadily toward the coldest time of year. Just as nature moves through its cycles and every season has its own particular quality, I too was enjoying a phase in which I could catch up on everything that had slipped through the cracks on faster days. I listened to the blissful purring of Garbanzo. Herbert was silent. That was enough.