There’s something addictive about travel- something intensely fresh about arriving somewhere new, somewhere unknown, somewhere with no expectations, not knowing a soul, not knowing the language, and just enjoying the change. Fumbling with the currency, making a change of plans, and seeing how things go.
At the same time, it’s also great to simply be. To have a place that’s comfortable with a group of friends, places to hang out, and knowing where everything is. It’s nice, it’s known.
It’s like deciding whether or not to try new restaurant, where the food could be amazing or terrible, or a known restaurant, where you know how good the food is. It’s not exciting, but you know exactly what you’re going to get.
When I first got to Buenos Aires I thought I would travel around, doing the backpacking thing. Or, at least that’s what I’d set my heart on while watching A Map For Saturday on the flight down, before I left I’d already arranged for an apartment on Craigslist.
Getting in, I’m overwhelmed- it’s my first time traveling somewhere where English isn’t a given. And, sure enough, I need to get a power adapter because my cell phone had run out of power– which a bit of a problem with the whole using your phone as an iPod and movie player on the whole flight down…thing. I ask at the front desk of the hostel where to get a power adapter and am told which way to go. The first one I see is a kinda dingy looking hardware store, but it has power adapters, so in I go.
A guy is sitting in the front, an intimidating looking, bald, bodybuilder type talking on his cell phone. As I walk in he followed, and it turns out he works in the shop, and he seems to be a bit annoyed that I interrupted his call. I get nowhere with my tiny knowledge of Spanish and wind up drawing out the type of adapter I needed- he nods and wordlessly picks out an adapter. “Four pesos.” he states, with finality, fixing me with a stare. I get out my wallet and pay, thank him, and head back to the hostel- only to try plugging in the adapter and realize that I’ve gotten the wrong kind. Turns out there were two kinds of plugs- one works just fine with plugs from the US. The entire thing was a non-issue from the beginning.
After figuring that out, I cancel on the apartment I’d arranged and book for a week at the hostel- I only have twenty pesos left after the taxi from the airport, though, so I need to go get cash. No worries. I ust head to the ATM and get some.
Except… my card got rejected.
I went to another ATM.
Rejected.
And another.
Rejected.
Each time, the same thing- card can’t be read. Which is especially freaky, because my card is beaten up as hell- most of the ATMs in San Francisco hadn’t been able to read it because the magnetic strip is so banged up, so I’d always used the Washington Mutual ATMs, which could. And I hadn’t replaced it. Which brings up a pretty worrisome thought- what if no Argentinean ATMs can read it?
Shit.
I try another half dozen ATMs, nada, zip, zero.
Rejected, rejected, rejected, rejected, rejected, rejected.
At this point I’m inwardly panicking- in a foreign country, no way to get money out, need to pay for a hostel and somewhere to sleep. The hostel only takes cash, hell, everywhere seems to just take cash- card readers appear to be a luxury. I start going through what-ifs, none of which are happy, envisioning worst case scenarios, all of which are worst-case, all until I realize the obvious answer.
Call the damn bank!
I go to a locotorio and buy a phone card, now down to ten pesos. I call the bank and right away am told cheerfully that my account was blocked for suspected fraud.
Oops!
Turns out that withdrawing cash in San Francisco, Washinton Dulles, and then Buenos Aires is a red flag, who’d a thunk it? The girl at the fraud department asks some questions, unblocks, and, sure enough, when I go to get money… it works! Wheee! Three hundred pesos, and life is good.
That first day felt like an adventure, even just getting money out. Then, the night of, hanging out in the courtyard of the hostel and eating pizza with people from all over the world, hearing about their travels, and just shooting the shit. The next night, going to a steakhouse, having the biggest steak of my life and going to Plaza Serrano for drinks afterwards… the entire thing felt unreal, everything brand new. Even getting a cab was exciting as the driver weaved in and out of traffic, going three times as fast as sanity would permit, with two too many of us crammed in the back.
But you know what? It was fun. The entire thing. Even when I was freaking out about the ATM, in the back of my head, it was still fun, because it felt new. It felt like an adventure. But, after three weeks in Buenos Aires, everything felt normal. Going to Plaza Serrano, going out for steak dinner, hanging out on the waterfront, meeting people from all over, going to tango clubs and drum concerts… it was all normal. It was still fun, but it was normal. So I headed off to Mendoza. That’s a story of it’s own, but I felt like I needed something new.
Now that I’m in Koh Tao, I’m again torn. Going out to the pier on the back of a truck sitting on a bench installed in the back, jungle all around, sun beaming through the leaves, it no longer conjures up images of Indiana Jones… it’s just going diving on Koh Tao. It’s normal. Driving home from Echo Bar at night, wind whistling by, the heavens opening up into a torrential downpour as I get to the bottom of the hill, it’s normal. After two months here, I expect it. I enjoy it, but it’s normal.
In the midst of this normalcy I’m tugged in directions all over the world. On the one hand, a part of me wants to stay here on Koh Tao for six months. Still another wants to head off to an island here that has rock climbing and even cheaper bungalows. Still another looks back wistfully at my time in Buenos Aires and wants to move back. Then the rest pulls me everywhere from Istanbul to Rio to Melbourne.
There’s no rush, but, at the same time, the pull of the new is strong. Whatever I wind up going with, I’m here on Koh Tao for another couple months to finish my Divemaster training. From then on, who kows? I might have to film a rock climbing video 
