An audio and video podcast of my trip hitchhiking around the world by sea.

When two total strangers offer to spend one of their days traveling to translate for you in a place where you have proven to have no luck communicating for yourself, it’s a dream come true. Fortunately, I woke to find it was no dream at all. Both Anaïs and Max were not only real the next morning they were up and waiting.

Once we arrived the office of Sr. Guzman at 9 am just as we agreed. This time I didn’t have to wait at all. Viveros invited my two new friends and I into his office and we started to talk. Not sure how much we actually knew of each other I started at the beginning. I began with the basics, explaining everything to Max who immediately translated to Mr. Guzman. I explained the website, the money you (the readers) had donated to do good deeds; I explained my connection to Pepe and Tom’s shoes and how Pepe mentioned the needs of the school Mr. Guzman represented.

Mr. Guzman listened attentively to Max, Anaïs observed from the side. Then I asked Mr. Guzman to explain the needs of the school. He told us of the community of San Antonio Des Los Culbres, an area and people all very poor. There was limited industry so most of the people in this small mountain-desert town were involved in either mining or herding llama. He told me about the small school I(we) would be helping. It sat an hour outside San Antonio Des Los Culbres, there were about 24 students and only a few workers. Most of the children lived at the school, because their families lived too far to commute on a regular basis.

As we volleyed information through Max, I grew more and more humbled. Not just by the facts of poor, but hard working community and its youth, but also by Sr. Guzman. He was a soft-spoken man who didn’t show much emotion except to express his gratitude on occasion. Guzman was serving his third term as the elected Superintendent of San Antonio Des Los Culbres. He worked a few days in Salta and a few days San Antonio. He showed his heart for the people he served, but was clearly tired. I learned later in years of Superintendent, Guzman had only taken a few days off.

Finally, I asked about the need. Pepe mentioned the school needed a refrigerator to store food. Guzman agreed. He explained they had nothing to store (refrigerate) food in, save a small area to store dried meat. I told him we’d like to purchase a freezer for them. Vivero pulled out a catalog of a local electronic store and offered to give me a ride into town. Then explained the rest of my itinerary.

I would purchase the freezer, which would then be delivered to the school in San Antonio. Later that afternoon I would meet a taxi outside the office who would drive me the 4+ hours out to San Antonio Des Los Culbres, courtesy Mr. Guzman, I would meet someone else who would then take me to the school to meet the kids, then bring me back to San Antonio.

Max and Anaïs continued to offer their language skills and rode with me to the store where we bargain shopped the biggest, most efficient freezer our money could buy for the school. Not only did we find what seemed to be a smoking deal (compared to the other freezers for sale), the store threw in a case of Argentine Malbec for our purchase.

Max and Anaïs escorted me back to the train station. We had lunch, spending our afternoon as if we’d be friends for a lot longer than one day. When the time came, I gave them a few bottles of Malbec (2 for them, 1 for the friendly hostel staff). We parted ways, Max and Anaïs to continue their backpacking adventures, me to meet my cab.

Which unfortunately, never showed up…

The two questions most often asked of me are as follows:
1.    Do you travel alone? Which leads to the “isn’t that scary?” and “doesn’t that get lonely?” questions.
2.    Do you speak any languages? Which leads to the follow-up “isn’t that hard?”

At this time, I’d like to address the second question, albeit, my last entry may have effectively done so. In the event that there is confusion, no-I don’t speak any other languages… and in follow-up, yes, it can be quite difficult.

There are a few ways of dealing with this fact.
1.    Acknowledge you are one of those ignorant Americans who has shamefully never learned more than the minimum.
2.    Hold your head high and walk with purpose, knowing you represent a large percentage of society who also speaks only one language and questions whether it is possible to travel as such.
3.    Learn a language.

While some may assume the first option is the most honest, I would counter that although true, it most likely will lead to a lack of self-confidence. This then will affect one’s ability to meet new people and result certainly in a self-perpetuating shame, which is not good for anyone, especially travelers! Others will argue that option 3 make the most sense. However, the problem with option 3 is you have to decide on one language, and there are SO many. When finally you do decide on one, you will inevitably want to focus your travels on areas that accommodate your new tongue. So in the end you are more limited. Furthermore, learning a new language is much harder than options 1 and 2.

Therefore, given my options, I feel quite strongly that it is my duty not only to not know another language, but to be darn proud of it. Now that we’ve cleared up any confusion on my stance, we should get back to Argentina.

After a long frustrating day playing charades and pictionary, I found my home for the night. Wet, hungry, and still recovering from a 20 hour bus ride, I knew it was the right place when the lovely Argentine faces gave me a discount and a beer with my bed, then told me the steak and wine was almost ready if I was. And I was. $7 for all the steak and wine I could handle was just what I needed.

Once settled, I met a couple like-minded travelers, Max and Anaïs. Max was from Germany, Anaïs from France. We start chatting and shortly after I realized how cool my new amigos were, a light bulb goes on. We tell each other our stories, and when it gets to my turn, I share my day. I joke about the not speaking Spanish, then laughingly throw out the ol’ “so if you’re not doing anything tomorrow”… I scan for reactions, for even a spark of consideration… “We’d be happy come translate if you like?” And just like that we’re back in business.

Over a great meal of Argentine meat and wine, we set a time to meet the next morning, nice and early. But for the rest of the night we sat round the table like a Thanksgiving family, catching each other up on the most interesting parts of our lives.

And that my friends, is why you should still travel even when you don’t speak any other languages…

The end.

Let me set the scene.

I had just fallen in love with Argentina after the approving sun set on my afternoon of shoe fitting and polo. Again the crew slept as we drove back to Buenos Aires. Again I kneeled next to Pepe in the aisle.

“How far is Salta?” I ask. (Salta being the place I would meet the superintendent of the school in need.) Pepe paused, tracing the map in his mind, “Maybe 15 hours…you could probably get a bus tonight.” 15 hours… in case you didn’t catch what I just wrote. I walked back to my seat and sat so my mind could race. It seemed in my haste to accept a project, I forgot to inquire just how far this need was. As it turns out, the need was only a few hours from the borders of both Bolivia and Chile.

So here’s the scenario: I had committed to taking your donations to a remote location where there was a school waiting in need. In a few days, Voluntario Global would be holding their event in the barrio of Buenos Aires, which I would like to go to but didn’t actually commit to. More importantly, I had to catch a flight a couple days later. This is when the “what were you thinking” thoughts come, realizing there were probably plenty of needs a little closer than 15 hours away. But what’s done is done, or at least needs to be done, and I couldn’t exactly back out.

I finally arrive back to my hostel close to 9 pm and determine catching a bus tonight is probably a bit rushed, so I pack and sleep instead. Next morning I wake and find the following email from Pepe:

“Hi!! Derek I need now when you goin to Salta, please sende me this information, because this guy, need it he will waiting for you. His neme is Guzman Viveros he stay in the Capital, and his ofice is in the town Balcarce street inside the one trein station and his fone is 0387 490 9045”

So I get crackin. The first thing I learn is that the bus ride is not 15 hours but 20 and more expensive than I expected. But done is done, so I decide on the 4:30 departure and email Pepe. I grab my bags, a bottle of water, “super pancho” (hot dog), and board the bus.

I think it would serve your imagination to know about the bus ride, but I’ll for the sake of time, save that for another entry. I did however, manage to sleep about 17 of the 20 hours. I get off the bus and as the feeling returns to my legs, I try to call Mr. Viveros. Out of service… No problem, he’s expecting so I’ll just go to his office. I hail a cab and somehow communicate “train station” based on the Pepe’s email.

Now in my mind, I imagine a big train station, near a capitol building which probably looked something like a small white house. One of the two buildings, I deducted would be on a street called Balcarce and his office could be found inside. Well I was off on several accounts. First the train station was under construction, and I’m still not sure if operational. I did find a Balcarce street in the vicinity but it lead to no clear “capital building” and while I did find a way into the train station it seemed mostly abandoned minus the one security guard outside who judging by his blank stare, did not recognize the name Guzman Viveros.

I find a coffee shop with wifi, drop Pepe an email, and with no other ideas return to the train station to explore. Eventually, I do find a stairwell and at the top some offices. I write down Guzman’s name on a napkin and ask three different people “Donde esta (where is) Guzman Viveros?” pointing to my napkin… Stares and nods, stares and nods. Running out of options and imagining Guzman is running out of patience, I finally find someone who recognizes the name. He asks some questions in Spanish, which I don’t understand, then eventually writes a note, hands it to me, and walks me outside where you points to building nestled among a scattering of ghostly train cars about 100 yards down the tracks. He points and motions with his hands to either stop or wait. I guess wait. So I walk to the building, which is a mostly abandoned warehouse with a couple rooms.

After about two hours of waiting and wondering if I’m in the right spot, three guys show up, enter a room and shut the door behind them. I continue to wait… eventually, I am called in. Now I’m a pretty sharp guy, so it didn’t take me long to figure out Mr. Viveros spoke NO English. Combined with my lack of Spanish, you can imagine how the next 45 minutes went. I’d try to ask a basic question mixed with bad Spanish and English, Guzman would draw blank and shake his head. Then Guzman would say something in Spanish, to which I would smile and shake my head. After one final attempt of communicating through a napkin doodle, I think Mr. Viveros decided to call it a day. We would meet the following day at 9 a.m.

I climb into my backpack, step outside, sigh, and wander the streets for a hostel as the sun sets and the clouds spit.

7 o’clock came awful early.  And I do mean awful. The alarm sounds-piercing the darkest part of my soul. I frantically scramble to find and stop the torturous beep of my watch which I had attached to the foot of my bed the night before so as not to just push the button and roll over in agitated rebellion. I know what you’re thinking: “7 am? Wow, Derek, you poor thing!” Yeah, yeah-I know for some of you 7 am is almost laughably late and might even be considered sleeping in. But when evening activities carry you consistently to 3 or 4 in the morning, 7 comes too quick.

When I finally remember where my watch is, I stop the alarm, curse the sky and roll out of bed. As usual, my questioning existence fades by the time I get to the shower, where I rinse off any residual irritation, then continue to get ready.

Outside it had showered as well, and the streets of Aires glistened under a blanket of moisture. The skies were grey, dripping with inconsistency, but my spirits were bright. Today would be a good day. Today would be the shoe drop.

I walked to the hotel and entered the lobby where a group of volunteers had arrived the night before from different parts of the world. I introduced myself and realized something very clearly, that is how different my life had become. I had wandered just down the street from my hostel, still soggy, I met a range of people from different places. Several were students, a couple young energetic entrepreneurs, a real estate agent living in Costa Rica, a young man who had once lived on the streets of skid row-now resolved to helping others—but all had roots, homes. They had steady lives, which afforded them several days absence before requiring their return. But each came with purpose, and I was honored to join this group of like-hearted people.

Pepe arrived, spirited as ever. He explained the day’s events including our first disappointment. One shoe drop was canceled due to the rain and in sufficient roads. The shoes, he assured, would be delivered at a later date, in the meantime, we would kill a couple hours with sightseeing before continuing to one of the poorer neighborhoods in Buenos Aires for the other shoe drop.

We piled into a minibus, humming with the energy of a humanitarian summer camp, and after a Starbucks and a couple key sights we arrived. The children were starting to gather outside the meek school building. We organized the boxes by shoe-size, then ushered the children in. One by one, the young Argentines were escorted to a chair. Then if only for a few precious moments, the boy or girl would rest humbly on his or her throne, and as kings and queens we kneeled at their feet, smiled into their eyes, and fitted each with his or her very own, very new pair of shoes. Our knees collected dirt, dirty feet filled clean shoes, and our hearts were warmed.

When we finished, Pepe cheered us back on to the bus and told us of a special treat. Alejo was in small polo tournament outside Buenos Aires, we would close the afternoon with an Argentina past time. During the 1½ hour bus ride, as the weary travelers slept, I kneeled by Pepe, asking details of future projects. With me by his side, Pepe called and confirmed the school and needs with the distant superintendent, then hung up the phone. “He is very excited to have you! I’ll arrange the details and email to you tonight…”

The rest of the afternoon, we sprawled over grassy blades under the cool shade of strong trees watching mighty horses and Argentines speed competitively by. We were the only gringos but it didn’t matter. The contented locals rode, laughed, played this cowboy mix of golf and soccer. As the orange Argentine sun set, the air was sweet and rich. The men gathered sweaty, dirty, happy as they sipped beer in the company of their beautiful adoring wives. I breathed deep and slowly.

It’s hard to say, but I think in this moment under the pink sky, somewhere in the Argentine country, after a day of fitting shoes on tiny feet… I think it was this moment when I fell in love with Argentina.

“I just cried… People talk to me, and I cried. People say, ‘Oh Alejo, thank you very much,’ and I just cried… Now I see the documentary and I say, ‘How the hell could I cry so much?!’”

When you hear Alejo tell the story you can’t help but smile. Alejo was a professional polo player in Argentina, that is until he met Blake Mycoskie. Blake was an American between jobs and wanted to learn polo. When the two met, they quickly became friends. Together they conceived the idea of a shoe company, wherein for every pair of shoes purchased, a pair would be given to a child in need. 6 months later, Alejo was moved to tears, when surrounded by thousands of children, each with a new pair of shoes. He saw his dream come true. That was in 2006 and it was the beginning of TOMS Shoes.

TOMS Shoes (short for “Tomorrow’s Shoes”) was an idea born after Blake Mycoskie met a woman doing a shoe drive in South America. Inspired by one woman trying to make a difference and children with a basic need, Blake got the idea. Then the unlikely happened, he ran in to Alejo… again. Blake and Alejo had already met, became friends, and said good-bye not knowing if they would ever see each other again. Blake continued to Florianopolis, Brazil where he looked to learn to sail. Alejo without knowing, was also vacationing in Florianopolis. The two happened into the same bar, in the same hour, on the same day. Alejo convinced Blake to return to Argentina and stay with him, where the idea of TOMS Shoes fostered into reality.

When I contacted Alejo earlier in the year, I had no idea who he or TOMS Shoes was. I was just looking for a project to volunteer with in South America. A friend of a friend, who I met in the Dominican Republic, sent Alejo an email. Three months later I was in Buenos Aires, sitting at the desk of this energetic and barefooted twenty-something, as he introduced me to TOMS and mate, Argentina’s national drink. Over a highly caffeinated cup and a metal straw, he explained the story of TOMS, and how within two years the company had grown to 46 employees and had given away over to 200,000 pairs of shoes.

Then he introduced me to Pepe, his charismatic counterpart responsible for locating areas throughout Argentina where TOMS could donate shoes. We shared stories and I explained the vision of theworldbysea.com. Immediately Pepe started brainstorming, thinking of places, schools, people that I might be able to help with. One place stuck out- a small, secluded school district where the need was great. He would contact the superintendent to offer help.

In the meantime, another opportunity unfolded. As we spoke, an international team of volunteers made their way to Argentina. It was time for the TOMS shoe drop. In two days a small group of people would gather from different parts of the world to help fulfill the vision of TOMS by distributing shoes to Argentine children. I was invited to help.

It amazes me how things can turn around. Three days earlier I walked frustrated streets and saw nothing but dead ends. Now my roads were open with opportunity. And on the same road I discovered are others inspired to serve, ordinary individuals driven to do extraordinary things.

When the fires of inspiration fade, sometimes all you need is a spark. My spark was named Mariana, and when I first saw her I expected sparks of a different sort. Pretty, passionate, petite, she is the kind of person you notice enter a room. But there is a big difference between noticing and catcalling, so when Mariana walked by one day and someone blurted out from across the room “Oh Lah Laaaah!”, I did what most people would. I paused, squinted my eyes like I just forgot what I was doing, then turned to watch the sparks and potentially backhands fly. They never did. Mariana smiled, said hello and continued to her desk. What I didn’t realize at this point, was that the nickname for Mariana was “Malala”, which gets shortened to “Lala”, which when used in a Spanish greeting becomes :”Hola, La!” This of course is much more similar in sound than meaning to the abrasive and slightly creepy “Oh Lah Laaaah!” I thought had been said.

I learned quickly thereafter that Lala was a good person to know, especially if you were looking for a ticket out of the country. Granted, I had decided to stay and weather this storm of humanitarian disappointment, but it never hurts know your options, and Uraguay was just one boat ride away. So in my frustrated state, I sought Lala for advice and ticket prices. “Hola, La…” I said-again it went off without a hitch. “How do I get to Uraguay?” With that our friendship began. We talked a bit about boat rides, but before long I realized I had met a person of similar passion. She was well traveled (had even been to Africa), but more importantly had volunteered throughout Argentina. I told her what I was trying to do, and probably vented more than anyone would care to hear. She listened. Then I listened. I watched as her wheels turned and the fire in her eyes grew. “We’ll find something…” she assured as she searched her sources for ideas.

When we finished our conversation, I still hadn’t found a project. But what I did find was renewed hope, and a fire that burned a little brighter. Then things started to happen. I got an email from a company (TOM’s Shoes) that I had contacted while still in the US. It was a lead I assumed was all but dead. I would meet with the founder and his right hand man to discuss my options. But before I had the chance to do that, another opportunity arose. A local volunteer group known as “Voluntario Global” was having an introductory meeting. Anyone interested in working with impoverished kids, or just having a beer and learning about the organization could come. I was interested in both.

I traced cobblestone streets through the oldest bario in Buenos Aires until I arrived at a small pub. Inside a modest and eclectic mix mingled. People from different parts of the world, armed with drinks, sought seats as an Argentine woman prepared in front. Her name is Valeria Gracia. She is the founder and, until this year, director of Voluntario Global. She stood and warmly described a successful year, then the upcoming project.  In one week Voluntario Global would sponsor a party for a large number of children from different parts of the city. I listened, excited about the opportunities unfolding. Then I tracked down Valeria to talk.

Valeria is a charming, confident woman. Her smile is gracious and inviting. That became obvious as one after another, people stopped bye to exchange a departing hug, kiss or smile. Eventually, we found a corner table to talk. She told me the history of Voluntario Global, her years working in a hostel, volunteering off hours in necesitous neighborhoods. She knew the need, and through her job realized there was a group of people with the time, talent and means to help. Eventually Valeria left her job at the hostel and began an organization that invited volunteers to bring their talents to help train, teach and serve both children, and adults. As she spoke, the fires flared. She and her husband have never had kids. “These are like my kids,” she said as she looked across the room at a handful of young adults she had seen grow, and now showed such promise.

I mentioned the fire I saw in her eyes, she smiled humbly. I shared my intentions, goals, and vision. I explained to her that you, the readers, had given money to make a difference, to help fill a need. She shared a few ways I could potentially do that. Finally, I mentioned I still had one last meeting and opportunity before I could commit. She understood and we finished talking as people casually passed by to say good bye. I knew there were needs in Buenos Aires. I knew I had found a solid organization, and I knew that behind it there were genuine hearts hoping to help. What I didn’t know was that there was a need about to unfold that few others knew about.

My plans were about to change.

Websites:
Voluntario Global: www.voluntarioglobal.org.ar
TOMS Shoes: www.tomsshoes.com

To be honest, I was torn. My week had been filled with an unproductive hope to help and when hope fell false I was ready to run. Not to abandon hope, but to look elsewhere.

The cycle began months earlier, when I started looking for a project or Argentine need to offer myself to. An idea would surface, followed by a rush of excitement, which calmed and faded when nothing came to fruition. Finally I just decided to go, and within an hour of my arrival things were looking up. Before I left the airport I met a girl, split a cab, and learned she was involved with a volunteer group helping children in a less fortunate area of town. She would check with the coordinator, get back with me, and within the week I‘d probably have a place to help.

Encouraged, I spent the next few days getting acquainted with the city. Buenos Aires is a special place. From the moment I climbed into my taxi I felt something I don‘t feel in a lot of American cities–comfortable, almost at home. There is something about it, a charm. On Sundays, you’ll find cobblestone streets covered with cloth and crafts, created by the humble hands making their living.  On quiet streets, you’ll find old walls cased with colorful graffiti, as good if not better than a lot of art I’ve seen in museums. In the air, there is often a distant drumming of people in protest (a common occurrence in Buenos Aires), a fresh and encouraging sound of freedom. There are musicians who play, couples that dance. I roamed the streets, explored the city. Things were good.

Then I heard back from my volunteer friend. The coordinator didn’t think it was a good idea for me to get involved for what would likely be just a couple of weeks. Back to square one. I had made some phone calls but had yet to hear back from anyone. Then the devils of travel began to whisper. Quickly I made friends with other travelers, anxious and eager to see and experience South America, and inviting me to join. We’d go to dinner. We’d have drinks. We would laugh and dance into the morning. But when we walked back to our hostels, the streets were filled with reminders.

There is another face to this city, one obvious but quickly forgotten. One that surfaces when businesses close, and suits go home. While young tourists sort through the streets in search for a party, young families sort through trash in search for survival. At first I thought they were looking for food, then concerned they were looking for receipts or personal information. They were meticulous, focused. As oblivious to the passerby’s, as the passerby’s were to them. I learned later, the trash strewn through the streets was in process of being organized into recyclables, which would then be exchanged for a modest return. It’s a sight rich in metaphor, here sorting through corporate waste was a people who themselves had been discarded, whether by society or circumstance.

Still I was torn. On one hand, I knew there was need. I could see it and wanted to help. On the other, I was no closer to helping than when I started a week ago and the sights of Argentina (and those visiting them) were calling. I decided to stay. I would see this through, and if all I did in the end was buy sandwiches for hungry people, then that’s what I would do.

Fortunately, things once again were about to look up. And it all started with a girl…

I’ve been putting off South America because it’s always seemed close and somewhere along the way I developed the idea that I should start far while I’m young, energetic, and handsome then work my way back. There are a few flaws however, to this strategy: First, I think I will always feel younger than I am. Second, ever since the invention of coffee, energy is simply one cup away. Third, I’ll probably always be handsome. And fourth and maybe most significantly, South America is not really that close!

The flight from Newark to Buenos Aires is an approximate 14 hours with a short layover in Houston, where you stop, deboard, and just as the blood gets to your feet, you get back on the plane for the remaining 10.5 hours. To be honest, I hadn’t done my homework at all on South America, Argentina or Buenos Aires. I purchased the Lonely Planet, which is about the size and weight of a cement block, but after sleeping, eating and pleasure reading, the “initial decent” was announced without my even cracking the Lonely Planet block.

But it’s never too late to start doing your homework, albeit standing in line waiting for customs is cutting it close. So I got busy. Casually introducing myself  to everyone in the near vicinity, fishing for clues like a good part of town, transportation into the city, any tips that might be useful to a new non-Spanish speaker in Argentina. Before I got my passport stamped, not only had I met another guy from a town two hours from my Arizonan hometown, I also managed to split a cab with three others to the city where someone was already booked in a notorious hostel.

Unfortunately, my luck slowed a bit. We walked into the hostel, humming with young energy. Music playing. Argentine twenty-somethings dashing back and forth checking in internationals all suited with backpacks. The problem with a popular hostel is that it’s…. well popular. So with no space I hit the streets, walking to the next closet spot… full. Then another, full. Then again. Finally, with shoulders strained and sweat dripping, I found my home for the night. A 14 hour flight and city-wide hike is not necessarily rejuvenating, but when you get to Buenos Aires, you don’t have time to rest.

I tracked down my Arizona friend and we took to the streets. This place is beautiful. I’d heard it called the Paris of South America, and as much as I love Paris I was skeptical, but I can see the relation in architecture. The people are some of the most beautiful I’ve seen in the world. Every menu serves steaks of all type for five to fifteen dollars. Malbec wine starts at one dollar in the supermarket. A liter of local beer, also a dollar. Bus or train-one peso (or approximately 33 US cents).

Within two days, I experienced two amazing things. The first came walking down the streets just after sunset. Apparently it was a national holiday. One large street was closed and along the stretch of pavement stood several stages. Musicians played their Latin beats. At their feet danced hundreds of couples, but not just any dance… the Tango. Rumors of the sensual swerving all proved true. To watch an elderly man, bathed in music and emotion, take his lovely wife into his arms… pause to synchronize their souls to sound, then move fluidly, sensually, flawlessly across an ordinary street-I was moved to watch.

The second experience was equally moving but on another level. Buenos Aires is known for its late nights, and on one of these late nights I was walking along a major road when I noticed a line of people ahead of me. The queue stretched half a block. The people were dirty, frazzled, but patient. I walked to the side. When I finally reached the front, the reason was revealed. Squatted down in front of a just-closed McDonald’s, one man shoveled through two large bags of food. Hamburgers, fries, chicken sandwiches, he orderly passed out the food to those waiting patiently… hungrily.

I’ve been asked before why I like to travel. Growing up in a town of 2,500 residents, I met people who had never left the confines and comforts of “home”. When you grow up like this, your view of the world is no wider than the frame that holds the pictures others have taken. The world is black and white. But since I’ve traveled, I see there is more. And the more I see, the more colorful my life becomes.  Why do I travel? Because in one moment, on a random street in Argentina I’ll see a picture of love I’ve never seen before. Then two streets and one night later, another moment happens and I have a glimpse into a life I may never understand. And when I take a moment and stand back to look at life as I would a brilliant painting, I see colors vibrant and darker than I ever knew existed… but I see life.

I came to Argentina to find a need, and if possible fill it. Well within days of my arrival I was assured of one thing… the need is here.

New York City, New York.

Yesterday was cold and spitting. Today, the sun overcame. Light fell across the city like golden ropes through a dirty sky. Beams dropped to dark streets and a grey river that swam round our Lady Liberty. She held her torch high, as an orphan raises a cup for rice. Eventually, the sun took notice pouring its warmth over our national icon. Seagulls squealed in delight dashing in and out of the fallen light.

Today is my anniversary. Exactly, one year ago today, almost to the hour, myself and an old friend from college pulled anchor and sailed East, ready to see and change the world. With every wave, we moved further from our old lives, our families, all that was familiar. The sails were high. Our goals were higher. Weeks earlier I called Dan from Flagstaff, Arizona. We spoke of dreams, adventure, boundaries. I left the establishment of comfort and security including a great job in Sales and Marketing and started this new chapter of life.

The boat glided up, then down, and continued to repeat as the sun dropped below the land etched on the western horizon. It was a beautiful sunset. Then darkness fell and like a child stripped of his nightlight, tension grew. Unlike Dan, I had never sailed before, not a day(or night) in my life. Everything was new. The sea was darker and bigger than I’d ever known. I took the first shift to sleep ( a routine we would practice for months to come). In the galley of this 33 foot boat, I laid on my back in the middle of the floor, the lowest point in the boat to minimize the motion. In my berth, was born every doubt and fear of a new sailor and life. Eventually I slept, only to be woken for my shift.

My bloodless hands squeezed the tiller. Every mistake and overcorrection was emphasized with the battering of sails asking to be filled. Every large wave raised larger fear, and unaware of the self-correcting tendencies of a sailboat the thought of capsizing was often and real. 15 hours later we reached the Bahamas, greeted with subtle seas. The sun that hours before abandoned me returned full, bright and warm. In retrospect it was a fairly mild sail, but as my first, it will be remembered as long and threatening.

One year and 16 countries later I am sitting in a coffee shop in Manhattan, thinking. I am a changed man. I think it is impossible to see so many cultures, places, so many people different from you and not come out different yourself. Yet not all has changed. I sit here with the same burning to “do” something. Not just see, not just taste–Do! There is so much to do in this world. There are so many needs unseen and untended to. I don’t pretend to be a “savior”, if anything I understand how much larger these challenges are than myself. But I am still convinced, I can do something. I can make some kind of a difference.

I battle to balance real with ideal. But doesn’t every intended change began with a dream? I don’t know what the future holds. I guess nobody does. There a lot of things up in the air. There are things I’d hoped to have accomplished by now. There are things I still hope to. I was recently able to return home, to see family and laugh with friends. It was comfortable and familiar… nice. Yet there is still more. I would like to return home, to visit my family, to hold my beautiful niece on her first Christmas. But before I do, I want to “do” at least one more thing.

In the past year, many of you have dug deep, in a hurting economy, and donated money that impacted several lives. We still have some of that money left. I have in the past months contacted several organizations to locate a need. To my frustration, several of those requested a significant amount to “volunteer” with an organized group. I understand there are costs to organize, and applaud these companies for the many good things they are doing. However, I can’t help but think we can stretch these precious dollars further. I am going to try to do just that.

With no specific need or contact I will travel to South America, to the 8th largest country in the world Famous for steak, wine, and tango, I will look for a person, a group, a need. I don’t know how or who, but I don’t think it will be too hard to find something, or someone who has fallen on tough times. And with the last of the monies raised, we are going impact somebody’s life.

Argentina… here I come.

There was a moment the other night when I realized no one was saying anything. I paused, looked around. It was one of those moments when you look back and recall “where you were when.” It was history in the making.

Even as a traveler I knew this election was one for the books. Of course, I wasn’t inundated with the yearlong barrage of campaign ads most Americans were. But the key points did make international headlines: Barrack defeats Hillary, McCain chooses Palin, neck and neck campaigning.  I suppose much of that is normal, but I could tell the world was watching especially close. “Who’s going to win?” was always the immediate follow-up to my exposed citizenship. Even in the most remote African village I visited, people felt inclined to share they were “praying for Obama.”

Presidentially, the race was historic-personally, it was against time. I am registered in Flagstaff, Arizona, so I knew I had to there by November 4th to exercise my right to vote. However, there were a couple things I needed to tend to first, and both were in different parts of the country.

I spent the week prior with family in Southern Oregon, where times are tough. Finances are tight; life is, to say the least, less than ideal. My days were filled with meetings that including mortgage brokers, family members and piles of papers explaining reverse mortgage options for an elderly couple: two people whose income is hardly enough to meet the demands of their house payments. I was present to ask questions for them, and for me, to make sure two of the most loving and loved people in my life were not taken advantage of. Not a place you really want to be. However, we found comfort in each other and stood on the knowledge that, no matter how difficult times got, we were still very blessed.

After several days and a reasonable understanding, my travels continued to San Francisco. A beautiful city known for its rolling hills, cloud covered landscapes, and according to several sources one of the finest Halloween spots in America. That, of course, was all I needed to hear. Pressed for time, I did the first thing I knew to prepare, I went to the Salvation Army-in some small town off an Oregonian highway where I found my costume or to be more accurate-my costume found me. The Super Berry had been born!

I arrived San Francisco at noon on Halloween Day. Perhaps it was felt berry (most likely made for 7 year old). Perhaps it was the tight green and red pants, which maintained its modesty with a leafy diaper. Maybe it was the strawberry cape, or sandy superhero wig with complimentary mustache, or the black dish-gloves modified to spray whipped cream on command. Whatever it was, there was no finer “Super Berry” in all of San Fran. Children wanted to shake hands, as they pointed and yelled “Strawberry…” with star-studded gaze. Drag queens wanted to bump chests. Ladies wanted their pictures taken. Somehow Super Berry even got access a San Fran doctors’ 80’s party.

With the clock ticking and having effectively put the “awe” back into “strawberry”. I boarded my flight for Phoenix. Unfortunately, Phoenix is still 2 hours from Flagstaff, where I had to vote. I turned to Craigslist. At 4:30 pm, voting day, I climbed into the truck of a young man just enlisted in the Army and on his way to New Mexico to spend a couple days with family before going to boot camp. He was kind enough to drop me off at the door of my voting station, and with 15 minutes left, I made my voice known.

That brings me back to “the moment”. Like millions of others, I sat with friends around the television and watched as the results pored in. Some were happy, some vocally concerned, but we all watched as history was made. McCain was first to speak and whether you voted for him or not, you watched as a proud American, humbly and respectfully conceded both his love for his country and his position in history in one of the most gracious concession speeches I have ever seen.

Moments later the room fell silent.  We watched as the new face of America-strong, focused, black- stood tall between bulletproof glass walls. We watched as he spoke of the challenges of the past and the hopes ahead. And whether you voted for him or not, it was a special moment. It was in that moment that I paused… I looked across the room and saw every eye glued to the unprecedented image before us. The same image that filled households throughout the United States and the rest of the world.

I sat and watched as just engulfed as my neighbors. In that moment…after month and months of traveling the world, after seeing different people in different cultures with different governments, I was reminded of what we have. Where a man, with modest roots yet drive and vision, stood before a crowd, a country, a world and accepted the challenge to lead. In that moment… I was proud to be an American.