Argentina A-Z: L for loneliness

Travelling solo is often associated with the idea of socialising and meeting a lot of people. Don’t get me wrong, during my trip I did meet people, and I appreciated their contribution to my path immensely. However, being a very dynamic social animal, I must admit I met much fewer people than I would usually do. It would be natural to link this with the fact that while I was in Argentina exploring my new boundaries, learning Spanish and making new experiences, I did leave my special half behind, a fact that somehow made me less present in the “here and now” of every day, leaving me instead in an ethereal state that kept me connected to that person. As intense and beautiful as these emotions are, they make loneliness strike harder. Moreover, coincidental happenings got me even more trapped in the solitude vortex: Tango classes were a no go after having twisted my ankle just before arriving to Buenos Aires. Wanting to save my efforts for my never-ending wanderings, I said no to the tango shoes. 

At school, you might think, I must have made friends: indeed I met the most amazing women at my Spanish school, called El Pasaje (which will be the P of this A-Z) but I did not end up as part of any of the English speaking groups of travellers. Firstly because my Spanish level was very different and benefited a lot more from one to one classes; secondly, it felt like the experience I was shaping for myself to fit with my peculiar state of mind and needs was at odds with all the travellers who were more up for a good party. 

In the past, I would have met a partner in crime, someone who, like me, was looking for something leaning away from nightlife craziness and towards cultural discovery. But this time I only had myself. I inevitably thought that something had changed in me, and perhaps London had changed it: I found myself observing that no matter how lonely I can be in London, the city mothers me with tons of things to do, places to go with no need to speak to anyone to feel connected, part of something amazing and big. In Buenos Aires, deprived of the basic comforts such as mastering the language and having a set routine to abide by, I was carried into the nostalgic drought of its essence. 

I was after all nostalgic myself, for my London, for my lover and the people I had left behind. So I simply gave in to emotions, and, more than once, I became Buenos Aires, and just like she would do in a Tango move, placing her head gently on the shoulder of a caballero, thinking of the old times, I shed a tear.