The Last Stop

ALMOST BRAZIL -- It´s close. Heck, the final country is even in sight if I crane my neck just so. Riding up to the border, signs inexplicably begin drifting into a Portuguese until -- SHAZAM! -- the roadside distance markers cease ticking down to zero and spring up to 600. Now, however, is not the time to talk about what lies ahead. Sure, a day or so will be whittled away getting paperwork cleared; but I´m talking ¨1200+-miles-to-Rio not the time¨. The remaining road lies long yet. Instead, a Thanksgiving recap is in proper order, no? For once, I made light of a heated boast and discovered that sandy beach, found that driftwood to prop against. Even the hammock was put into play!

Admittedly, I didn´t have the opportunity to lash it to palms or bore into a coconut from the same tree but the weather only gets warmer farther north. It´s certainly a start. Dinner, concocted of what can be made on a single burner of mediocre heat, was simple. In the true Turkey Day spirit, we made juuuuust enough to leave leftovers. Slap together a crackling fire, uncork some fine, fine wine, and all that´s lacking is the family and the dark meat.

With no one in sight and only the swell to talk back, I can´t exaggerate how relaxing a beach holiday can be. Give it a shot sometime.

Say Hello to . . .

. . . Thanksgiving dinner. Those groceries -- ´cept no turkey -- will be prepared with backs resting up on some tide-worn driftwood, faces pointed towards the oceean.--Not may, nor could. Will. I can´t think of anyone whom has had a holiday camping let alone a Thanksgiving in Uruguay. Happy Thanksgiving.

Some Sapphire

MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY -- In thinking over the logistics of the trip, I kept skipping over Uruguay, paying it no mind. Squeezed between two regional superpowers, it´s no bigger than North Dakota. As the story goes, their economy crashed five years ago, everything became affordable, travelers became interested, visited, came home and told their friends what a great time was had. Well, no one told me -- so I´m telling you: Uruguay has much going it´s way. Powdery beaches. Rolling golf course greenery. A whole country is secretly steeling themselves against the hotheaded Latin stereotype. And those border problems in Argentina, remember? This was a cakewalk! Cruising through any customs may never be easier. In the coming days, the agenda is to curl up Uruguay´s east coast, hugging the water as tightly as can be, right on into Brazil. Somewhere along the way, Andy got his fishing pole and I my harmonica. Both will be essential.

Jerry Guerrera?

Everyone has got their story. I love hearing them; there´s nothing better than getting an animated account of another´s triumph or turmoil. It´s the reward for trying to be a people person. And travelling around, hostel after hotel, sleepy dirt village after asphalt jungle, I´m hard pressed for a better way to absorb the intriguing streams of humanity. Really, nothing better. Except when it comes my turn. I go over my home, my family. Then comes this trip, those motorcycles. Every North American has a run-of-the-mill expression: ¨Hey, like Che Guevara, right?¨ Every time, spot on. Each reaction the same. My response has evolved after weeks of this middling whitebread. First, I explained, sure, I suppose there are similarities but now now -- Che Guevara couldn´t possibly have been the first guy to ride a motorcycle around South America. Just the most well known. I certainly won´t be the last. Time and Bolivia pass. I consider typing prepared responses. Handing them out would have been absurd and offensive. (¨I thought you may say that and,¨ handing over an envelope, ¨took the liberty at preparing you this.¨) But now I play dumb. I play so dumb it´s become an inside joke and a hilarious one at that: ¨You guys are like the Motorcycle Diaries, huh?¨ another American might ask. ¨Not following you.¨ ¨That movie? The Motorcycle Diaries?¨ ¨Hmm,¨ quizzical head scratching. ¨Sorry -- just not ringing a bell. Wait, I keep a journal . . . more of a captain´s log, actually.¨ ¨You´re kidding, right? Like Che Guevara?¨ ¨Well,¨ Andy says. ¨I went to highschool with a dude named Jerry Guerrera.¨ (He didn´t.) ¨Jerr made a helluva cheese pizza.¨ (Also not true.) ¨But I don´t see how you could know him much less read his diary.¨ ¨No. He´s Castro´s friend? This is unbelievable! He went -- I, uh ... nevermind. Forget it.¨ To my brother Phil: In this game, you would be indispensable. I know who he is, have read a biography, seen the movie, and even part of my route has been the same as his famous excursion. And if I was spreading subversive literature, it would have a progessive tilt, not communist. And if someday Hollywood wants to make a movie on behalf of this adventure, well cool, I´m living a screenplay. Only sometimes I give in to admit I know precisely who they mean; still, it´s usually not. It helps sort out meeting the mediocre people with their foreseeable stories.

Bs.As!

B.A. -- This is a big place. Nice, too. Forty million people live in Argentina. One in three live here in the port. And why not? Buenos Aires is the self-proclaimed cheapest metropolis in the world (so far, so good); it has the parks, subways, and sleepy bookshops a major city should and the weather is comfortable. Somewhere along the way, someone had the splendid foresight to plant leafy deciduous trees along the broad avenues. They´re now huge, so immense, in fact, that negotiating around this seething metropolis on motorcycle is like carreening through a gridded forest grove. Though the trees are large, the very streets they line are even more so. The main drag spans some sixteen lanes. Coming across the continent to get here has paid off in spades. Yesterday, Sunday, most with family or at church, became a day for a polo match: Four on four, each rider armed with a sleek croquet mallet mounted on a horse (heck, stallion!) more glistening and muscled than the next, trying to push a grapefruit-sized softball into an undefended goal. It´s like hockey on pedigreed horses with an infusion of fine wine. The whole affair was curiously upper-middle class. Like a jam band concert, the throngs of people cadging beers and chattering outside the match were a healthy part of the spectacle. Sunday is indeed also a day for leaving the backpack behind and going exploring. The adventure of going to and from the match -- that is, romping the throttle off a stockcar countdown green on the widest boulevard this side of the equator -- leaves Buenos Aires the finest megacity I have ridden in. I would balance the bike and begin quickly stretching my bones at a red, like a boat waiting for the water to begin rising. The sweep down stream starts slow and builds as the furthest signals flick green. In rushed concentration to navigate the stream of traffic, the very same streets would seem completely different while on foot the next day. The night before was exhausted until sunrise in a churning multi-floor dance club settled twenty minutes outside the city center on the river delta. I´ve never, ever seen hips move like that. Tonight, we tango. (No, not like that! Not together! Watching! Maybe a lesson! Sheesh ...)