Dreaming of Argentina

I dreamt I was in Argentina. I have been dreaming of a return to Patagonia since I left the other side of the Andes four years ago. Like many of my dreams, all events had a startling resemblance to reality, only infinitely more surreal. Over time I often find it difficult to decipher my dreams from actuality. I don’t believe this is particularly uncommon. Sometimes I wonder if many of my childhood memories are in fact dreams plus time. It used to bother me when I would confuse pieces of my nonsensical subconscious wanderings with actual events, but not anymore. All memories are skewed recollections of what really happened anyway.

I should have written it all down the moment I woke up. That is the only way to remember. Otherwise the fleeting images fade so quickly, until there is nothing left of it at all despite how entertaining, intriguing, or bizzare. Unfortunately we do not remember any particular thing simply because it is worth remembering. Now the reverie escapes me, many important details have been forgotten with the rising sun, due to the ephemeral nature of dreams.

I met two old friends in Argentina—one a New York lawyer, and the other a professional wanderer. It felt strange to see them in such a fantastical place filled with Malbec wines, dramatic mountains, glaciers, tango, and an outstanding number of remarkably attractive people. What are the chances in reality that the three of us would meet each other here? Now everything has become a blur; a stream of random happenings and moments that run together…you know how dreams are.

I recall knowing upon my first encounter with Buenos Aires that I would have to live there one day. This city is a phenomenal fusion of color, performance, music, dancing, world-class steak and wine. Nearly every street in this city of 13 million people is lined with trees that have known it for longer than most of its residents. I wonder if such a brillant city could really exist, and if so, why I do not live there now.

Between the images of the city, I remember biking through wine country, standing stranded on an empty highway (a disagreeable situation my thumb had gotten me into), swimming in the high mountain lakes of the Andes, a Christmas with a group of international strangers in place of family, sleeping on the floor of a bus terminal, breakfast at a glacier in Patagonia, an endless ride on a peculiar, poorly maintained train from the 1960s in which going to the bathroom involved watching the tracks beneath me— hey, anything to save a peso.

Suddenly I was back in Buenos Aires. I climbed into a cab at an unpleasant morning hour and watched Eric and Ian waving goodbye; I wondered when I would see these old friends again. In reality, we all live far away and lead very separate lives in which are paths rarely cross. I sadly could not think of a time I would be seeing them in my real life. I soon felt myself in a familiar kind of hell: the Louis Armstrong International hell, the LAX hell, the Dallas Fort Worth hell. This time it cost me $400 extra to leave it. Just another international airport nightmare in the end.

DUDE

The body stays, and then the body moves on
And I’d really rather not dwell on when yours will be gone.

~Devendra Banhart

Grandpa Lewis—better known as Dude Carper—died on March 2, 2009. I was in Honduras. I practically grew up in his house, but I cannot remember the last time I saw him. The first time I came in physical contact with my family in months and years was at the funeral. I know in my culture it is quite common that we grow up, we go our own way, we leave people behind. But In all our capricious wanderings, in the deliberation of the next direction, it should be remembered that we, whoever “we” may be, only have a limited time together—a few precious ephemeral moments. And we choose with whom we will pass them.

For those who requested a copy of the letter from the funeral, here it is:

Dear Grandpa,

You are the first person I have every really known to leave me. For me, 24 years is a long time to love someone. I never told you how you were unlike any character I have ever known. You are one of those individuals whose originality inspires new vocabulary, one whose actions are worthy of their own terms. Some might call you unconventional. Those who know better will just call you Dude.

I will forever see you through the eyes of a little girl. To me you were Grandpa, who was always around, just like he was supposed to be. You were my pioneer, and my Oregon roots. You were the garden, Holly Hawks, Birchwood, projects made from trees, the fiddle and the Gee-tar; you were an unwavering comforting presence, always sipping from the same brown coffee mug.

I love your wooden inventions, Grandpa. I realize now that you must have always been thinking about your next project, keeping your eye out for the stumps that might make interesting tables. You were always thinking about the grandchildren, too. Your efforts to entertain the kids brought us the wooden crayon holder, the wooden car ramp, the wooden knife, and my personal favorite, the wooden mirror-shelf. I asked for a crescent moon with a star. You carried out my request perfectly. Did I tell you I thought it was perfect?

I remember singing with you at the Blue Mountain Fiddle Show. That was when I still felt comfortable singing in public. I sang Dolly Parton’s Coat of Many Colors and you accompanied me on the guitar. I still remember standing there with you playing next to me. It makes me smile to think how from that day on you broke into the song whenever I came around. When you asked me to sing it again at your 80th birthday party I was 17 and aware of my lacking talent. But I sang anyway. I will sing Coat of Many Colors for you anytime, and anywhere.

I am sorry I have been gone for so long, Grandpa. I am sorry I wasn’t there to say goodbye, or to tell you how I would miss you. Rosie found a spot under a tree for you. She says that’s what you would want, and I know she is right. And I will come see you at your tree, Grandpa, just as soon as I am home again.

Love always,
Your Granddaughter Hailey

Poem About Poppies

Sometimes the things you love

about a person

are just the things you love

about another person you aren’t

supposed to love anymore.

Poppies aren’t tulips, but they grow here.

--Caroline

I travel to new places, I meet different people, and I am always searching for the ways my new encounters resemble those I have known and loved before. Why is that? Perhaps a personal issue that is not shared by others. Caroline leads me to believe otherwise. There are pines in Honduras just like those in Oregon. There are moments when I could be standing above the Grande Rhonde Valley...if it weren't for the banana leaves.

Las Golondrinas

Simply marvelous. The Flor de Caña lingered in my head this morning. At 9:00am on Sunday I knew I could go back to sleep—and should as this would be my only day to sleep past 6:00am. I was moved by the sound of rubbing steel as the pieces of the coffee press were skrewed together. Such a beautiful ruckus. I sat at my kitchen table—the only legitimate furniture in the house save a hammock—sipping consecutive cups of coffee from 9:00am-1:00pm.

I had planned to take a nature walk with Pablo. How can I describe Pablo? Perhaps a little like the Honduran version of my own father, a middle-aged single man who spends the majority of his time wandering the woods watching the birds and the trees, listening. We walked to a waterfall outside of town they call Las Golondrinas, or the swallows. Las Golondrinas was given its name for the swallows that come to roost every evening just after the sun goes down. The birds dart one after another like bombs dropping into the crevices in the rocks around the tiered pools of the waterfall. We walked there together to watch the swallows fly in at dusk. As we walked, Pablo would frequently stop to share the name and purpose of a variety of flora, and to talk about the effects of the surrounding coffee fincas on the land.

When we arrived at Las Golondrinas, we sat on a rock above the water silently as the sound of whizzing swallows filled our ears. I was standing on 19^th and Agate St. with my dad, green tea ice cream in hand when he stopped me to stare at the chimney above where we stood. A swarm of swallows circled the chimney like a dust devil until one by one they shot into the chimney. Strange. Two such disparate worlds. Dad and the swallows, Pablo and the Golondrinas. Funny how they carry me to the same place.

We watched until we could no longer see the golondrinas. Pablo handed me a can of pear nectar and some Pringles. I don’t really like Pringles or sugary nectar juice, but in that moment it was the most perfectly delicious snack. We walked back in the dark. The frogs were singing for us as we crossed the stream. This frog is endangered here. We stopped and watched them with the flashlight, their throats expanding into bubbles bigger than their heads, singing as if we were not there. Simply marvelous.