Into the Interior; Unexpected Lunch

Leaving Buenos Aires, Maria and I take a cab to El Retondito (think that's what it's called), the central bus station of the city. I am surprised that it is essentially like a little airport: people mill about the linear station, which is lined with shops selling newspapers, books, souveniers, and hygeine items. There are even 'gates' for the various buses, and there are screens detailing arrivals and departures.

Maria and I exchange our frustration with the security (whichs seems arbitrary) and goodbyes, and I get on my bus, a double-decker deal that reminded me a lot of the charter buses we used in marching band. Except there was free coffee and soda, and a wonderful little movie about a girl who was either Spanish or French, I couldn't tell which. Nonwithstanding, it blows Greyhound out of the water, considering that it can makes all its stops on time, too.

After winding through the city one last time, the bus made it to the highway. Here, the city began to melt away as we pushed down the road away from the huge mess. The city slowly lost its tenacity and then could only manage suburban towns and eventually, nothing.

El campo. Spanish for 'field,' but the word refers to both the individual fields of individuals and the geographical feature at large. By now, the sun has finished setting, it is night, and the light of the city is behind us. The horizon is empty, the terrain invisible, and the moon sits in a new set of constellations, waxing at an angle that is unusual to me. Occasionally, the glimmer of a farming village will peek over the horizon, "Hello, here is where we people are, the ones who work these fields." I mull over it all with a sandwich and coffee, compliments of the Montica bus line.

Finally we are in the Cordoba province, and we make our first stops. A woman takes the time to talk to me, as she can tell I am foreign: Where are you from? The United States. Where are you going? What? Where are you going? Oh, uh, Monte Maiz ("MON-tay My-EES," but still said too heavily). Sorry, I can't speak very well yet.

We talk the typical talk of the native and alien, which involves me answering the following questions: Where are you from? What part of the country? What are you doing here? When did you get here? How long will you be here? Do you like it here? I fire back with a few of my own: Where do you live? How old is your son (who was with her)? How many stops until Monte Maiz?

That was my first real, unfiltered conversation with a native, no assistance. As such, information is given and received slowly, uncertainly, me never being sure what exactly was said, and they never being sure if I fully understand. But, you get used to it.

When we got back on the bus, it was only a couple of hours to Monte Maiz.