Salt.

So where was I?

Oh, right. Outsourced.

Now it wouldn’t be wise for me to specify the company I worked for, or the people I worked with. From the complexities of what was legal to the simplicity of pride, my intentions are not to tattle, but to tell. A story that’s mine.

But before I talk about the job itself, I need to tell you how it became my salt. That’s right, salt.

In my first few days there was a lot to be dealt with. For starters, I was walking to work from my hostel each day. And it became crystal clear very quickly that once you’ve got a job and a dress code, there’s nothing quite backpacker about you except for the barracks you reside in. I felt a bit like a misfit, and a lot like an imposter. But my adventure-happy friends probably saw me as nothing more than a character to connect with. I smiled, as always, yet all I could think (with as much love as you can have for a place you know you just can’t stay) was I needed to get out.

Re-read that last line; I just can’t bring my self to rewrite it. Ten or so days in and that too precise emotion had somehow resurfaced. How did that feeling, that circumstantial evidence, get past airport security? I guess I blame the “or so” days, or the days I lose count of for all the so-wrong reasons. The days that a part of me wants to forget, and a larger part has already forgotten. The days that failure mounted itself upon my back like my older brother might have done when I was ten or eleven and all I could do in the midst of his headlock was make cackling cries and pretend as if oxygen was all but lost. The days I felt outnumbered by the one and only me.

But now times were different. I had a job. And though it spoke so minutely for the life I might settle into, it spoke a great deal for my progress. It was still winter in Argentina, and though snowfall (or any precipitation for that matter) was nowhere to be seen, I couldn’t help but feel like I was skating on thin ice. Not over a lake, a pond, or even a large puddle, but the kind of ice that glazes over a sidewalk. The kind of ice that’s curable, if only with a little salt. Hence, my job was the salt.

Not only could I afford to be here, but also 40 hours of my week would now serve a purpose. It’s funny to think of a workweek in that light, yet I believe the conditions, the loneliness for one, are what made the job so vital. And those days spent contemplating a return flight home (in which drafting a declaration, addressed to friends and family, of expectations unmet would have been my priority) soon became days to let go. I just needed new linens, my own room, or at least a bathroom with a lock on the door.

And who comes to the rescue in times of need like these? Friends, of course. But don’t be misled; I didn’t have backpackless friends here in Argentina. Not yet at least (that doesn’t come till the next post or so). The friend that supplied my next handful of salt, or a blowtorch for that matter, was a girl in North Carolina named Ivy. Ivy and I lived in Europe together a year and a half ago, and one thing she has is a big heart. So big that she’s really good at not letting friends stray too far, no matter where in the world they might be. She was at the gym and ran into an old friend, who had another friend, who happened to have moved to Buenos Aires, and who happened to be looking for someone to sublet his room. A genuine friend of a friend of a friend situation, I sent an email. He responded, happy to find someone to alleviate the money he would’ve lost, and we met the very next day. It was a Friday. And by Monday I’d have my new room.

More from below sooner than later,
Timmy