The haze of Pucon

His beard, gray, stretching out, creeping down, grasping for his chest, matched an exterior which to Oregon would have been common, here, it was foreign. “I am a hippie” had come his heavily accented words to me before. Now he stared into my eyes, his breath a mix of foul liquor and yeast. I did not notice. “Every person I meet makes my life better. Look at all these people, these womans, they here for my wife, my best friend, her birthday, and it makes my heart cry. These people are made from love, these people are made to always be happy….and they are here for her. Do not forget, you may, that every person, these womans, will always make your life better.” His words were true, though sometimes hard to see as so. To the philosopher, to the man, to the boy, in me truth is far from true, and far from right, far from wrong as well. He was a baker, making his bread to better the bellies of the hungry, to feed the wanting, to sustain the man. His words always of wisdom, brought from the recesses of his smoke filled brain, his dream filled eyes, his contented heart. He wandered away into the crowd, foreigners from the adjoining country, friends in my eyes, and I in theirs. Where had my friends gone? I no longer saw the familiar figures of the kayakers I knew well. A phone call later I headed to the club, they had fled, three in the morning signaling a change of scene. I walked down the dirt road, the cold not meeting my flesh, I not noticing. A car sat idling in the middle of the street. I opened the door. The faces of those surprised but not caring stared back at me. In broken Spanish I conveyed the need to go to town with the combination of the willingness to pay.  While they declined my money, they were inclined to drive. After a drive of me jabbering in Spanish, inducing smiles on their faces, they dropped me two blocks from the club. I walked into the pumping of music, the cluster of people, the smell of sweat, intoxication, and ego, looking for a cute face. None were found, as I stumbled out of the club hours later as the lights switch on, the music off, and the crowd dispersed outside.

Swirling, with a light airy feeling in my head, smile plastered to my face, eyes showing the longevity of the night, I spun around. Staring up at me were two beautifully dark eyes, and a surprisingly welcoming smile. The face, one of an expression I wished to hold onto, smile stretching the reaches of my heart, caught my spinning brain and slowed it down.  Words from a tongue familiar to my ears materialized in my head. She spoke English. My smile spread wider, eyes glimmered. It was infectious, her smile, and it stole into my brain, locking the image there in nostalgic perfection. I did not know how I got here, how the conversation started, but I knew I did not want her words to cease. The noise of the others, waiting for taxis, clinging to railings, making out in the bushes, evaporated into the ancient night. Memories now are hazy, faded by the deprivation of closed eyelids, the consumption of local flavors, but her eyes stay. The face smiling up at me, eyes begging for more. More what? Details I want to remember have vanished, details that mean little to me stay. She took my phone, her hands moving rapidly adding the number and name. “Call me now!” she said as hands dragged her into the full taxi. I sprang into action, thumbs clumsily finding the number, “Llamar” pressed. Spanish words of disconnection hit my ears, causing my heart to sway from the buzz felt.

I was alone.

The crowd had left the outskirts of the club, my friends had disappeared, my hostal felt hours away. With directions received after a worried few dials of my phone, I started up the block.  Just around the street corner, my friends had waited. We wandered slowly to the beach, with the speed of those with no motivation for the morning. In the horizon, the blackness of night was met with the groaning and labored light of the coming day. The lake came into view. Clouds met the lapping waves, lightly crested with ivory, giving the water a familiarity of an ocean. Artificial lights cast a glow only seen in soccer stadiums. Overturned wooden boats awaited the languid morning of a Sunday. I lay down, half my body underneath a boat, the other sprawled out toward the lake, a stray dog curled up next to me, black coarse sand clung to my hair. My phone buzzed, a txt. My hand slid to my pocket. “You can call now” it said. I dialed. Her voice answered, and I said something that is now lost among the waves. “I will txt you later, but now I am going to try to sleep” I said before ending the call, my words seeming profound among the reassuring calling of the waves. I drifted in and out of the stranglehold of sleep as the others around me continued to talk, staring at the approaching of the sun. Oranges, pinks, and gray contrasted each other as heat warmed our backs, blue escaped from the clouds, and the next day began. I woke for the last time, and headed toward the city. I walked with one purpose, the purpose of sleep. I caught a collectivo to my hostel and laid in the bed, the room lit brilliantly from the clear skies. Sleep did not come. I forced myself out of bed, paid, and caught another collectivo into town. I ate. It was now four in the afternoon, the day had blown by, mixing with the night. Once again I caught the collectivo, headed to meet up with the rest of my group. I sat in the van, kayaks adorning the roof. Inside the weariness of those around me spread like a virus which would soon deprive the host of the functions of life. Where were we headed? An asado I was told. Where? Up it seemed, up toward where? The van crept up the last incline and swung into a large grassy field situated on a large mountain top, guarded by a well built gray house. On the grass, the view extended for miles, the green of pastures nestled against the imposition of mountains, shrouded by plump gray clouds. I laid down on a blanket, the smell of cooking meet drifting past my face. The feats of that night pressed on my eyelids, and the warmth of the sun relaxed my body. Sleep. The sun raced for the horizon, an hour had passed by. I woke, ate, and watched the sun. Yoga someone suggested. Led in Yoga, on top of a mountain, as the sun cast its dying glow across the valley, I could not help but smile. Another weekend in Pucon, another night of haze, another time for learning. The next day would wake me, the next few months will age me.