I have been up before six o'clock on this Sunday morning journal up-dating. Such is the time it takes. I find it often a solitary lonely activity, having to be antisocial, but there's a choice, either not do it and enjoy other hostel guest's company and not have a journal, or, continue to toil. The fruit of which I will realise months and years from now. Then there is self-doubt in my self-inflicted loneliness. Whether it be my ability to take a good photo, or. I feel my writing is weak with unbelievable descriptions. An illustration of this is when earlier this year in Bosnia I come upon a bear in a remote forest wild campsite. Apparently this may be an everyday occurrence in North America, but bears are either rare, or elusive in Europe. It goes without saying I was terrified and thought this is a situation a may not come out alive from. But what could I do but remain still. Animals get nervous with sudden movement, so I remained like a tree and after stirring at me moments, the bear lumbered off. I feel I didn't do a good job of retelling the story.
Well the hostel is not the fun place anyway, unlike when I previously stayed here in 2009. Then a jolly girl from Buenos Aires who was always laughing ran the place. Whereas now the reception guy spends all day engrossed in his tablet and there aren't many other guests. He complained when I took a second cup of coffee at breakfast time, saying tomorrow only take the one; that's the type he is. Oh, that was yesterday; this morning, he neglected to make me toast, apparently not approving of me preparing my own cornflakes.
This afternoon I took a walk up Cerro Amigo to a mirador, or viewpoint over the town. Then down and out the unpaved road to the Toda supermercado on the main through road. In the aisles picking up a few things for dinner, I see another touring cyclist in shorts even though it's a cold day, and a bright orange wind top. I get to the checkout and out before him and take a look at his bike, a Fahr-something German touring bike. At that moment he has come out and I ask "are you German?" "No. French" he replies. His eyes looking at me comically for suggesting such and his receding hairline forehead reddened by exposure to strong wind. He is coming from the south, going north, having started in Ushuaia. and tells me of a day when the wind was impossibly strong and he had to except a lift. And seeing an artic-truck blown over on it's side. I know moving cars can be brought to a halt and blown over by the wind down there, but trucks?
