50 Days

I arrived yesterday and descending into Los Angeles was odd, it hasn't been two months but already I had forgotten the look of the parched Southern California desert landscape crashing into the endless Pacific blue. In the morning when I had a stopover at Dulles airport in Washington D.C. it was 34 degrees. When we got into LA just before noon the captain anounced a temperature of 83 degress. Unbelieveable. My dad picked me up and we took the long way home driving down the Pacific Coast Highway so I could see the beach and all I could think of was I can't wait to go for a swim in the ocean. I've spent the past twenty-four hours with family and friends and excessively splashing on hot sauce and lavishly adorning food with fresh-cracked black pepper that I normally wouldn't even think to spice.When I took my final cab ride out from Recoleta to the airport I jotted down the following:

As the last rays of the Porteno sun shine down on my taxi I'm surprisingly without words. Earlier I imagined this ride to be an exciting one, my journey home. The perfect opportunity to give breath to the countless phrases I've scribbled and to demonstrate what I've learned, though I suppose what I've learned is not just some phrases and a language. There's a lump in my throat and we're just off Juan Maria Gutierrez and now pulling out of Recoleta and the driver, Bernardo keeps frantically darting glances to the rear-view mirror and back at the pensive green eyes maybe expecting I'll cry but I won't. I could, there's a lot of emotion weighing down but I'm distracted staring out at the last glimpses of my home for the past fifty days, looking out at the buildings but not really seeing anything. We're on Avenida Pueyrredon and soon we'll be out of the Capital Federal and will be near Ezeiza. "Goodbye's are always harder" I manage. He laughs and the air is momentarily lifted. "I'm not sure I'm ready to leave" I continue. He nods understandingly and sort of hums "si." Slowly, emphasizing each word, he says "lo bueno duro poco, eh?" I smile. "Claro" I say. The truth of it is fifty days is just that, but so much has transpired that I suppose it could have been some months or a year and not a minute would have been wasted. The bottom line I presume is that I'm grateful, to everyone who made this experience memorable and if you're reading this, than you've contributed greatly to it. My apprehension to leaving Argentine soil is the fault of many, and I'm lucky for it. Lo bueno, duro poco.