Cookies in the Park

Its surprisingly chilly this morning given yesterday’s heat. I search the streets for breakfast and encounter Martin once again, easily distinguishable through his scruffy facial hair and Eastern European features. I gather my meal in the supermarket, unlike the supermarkets I’m accustomed to, stocked mainly with staples. I pick up mozzarella, jamon, a liter of juice and a cylinder of cookies and I’m on my way.


I picnic in the square. A man with a canvas attache pulls out Christian Literature and talks to me about my salvation. I earnestly tell him that I don’t understand Spanish, but he’s heard that line before and preaches on, jabbing me with his finger when I drift off to look around the square and eat my cookies.


I head back to the Parque 2 de Febrero and check on the progress of my drying sleeping bag and I start to pack. The sun emerges from the clouds and I feel the familiar heat once again. I chat with Martin. He has no idea how to assimilate with his Czech friends and family once he returns in two weeks after nearly five years away.



The Brazilian hippies form a drum circle in the center of camp, while others carve crafts and shell pods. My gear gets close enough to dry so I stuff it together and find the colectivo to the bus station. I meet an Irish couple who were in my hostel in Iguazu and also made the unlikely journey to Resistencia. They thought the town was quite nice. Though it was a bit hot, I agreed. They thought the rain was nice.


Peter Jackson’s version of King Kong plays on the way to Salta. Ann Bancroft hesitates briefly before embarking for the adventure and love of her life. The writer character is caught in subtext before exposing what he believed was obvious about his feelings towards her. I don’t know what my own journey will reveal yet, but I sense I am very close to the crossover point.