January 13, 2010

This morning in Pucon, I went for a run in the chilly gray air to clear my head. I ran down Calle O’Higgins from our cabanas to the lake. Pucon is a fairytale- a mix between Lake Tahoe, Vermont ski towns, and an oasis on a cratered moon. The Andes tower around colorful homes and wooden cabins, small dogs saunter around the streets like they are the Indian chiefs of their small villages, and then at the outskirts of the town sits a periwinkle blue lake capped by black beaches made from volcanic ash. There is actually an active volcano protruding from the Andes- signs on the street explain how to detect seismic activity, and where to go should the lady’s soul light on fire.

We had arrived in Pucon bleary-eyed from a night of sleeping on the bus. Emerging out of it like a family crawling out of the basement after a tornado hits, we were told that only half of the rooms were ready, which wasn’t exciting considering the miserable weather. My roommates, (Jill- my best friend from a teen tour when we were fifteen, Ashley- her adorable friend from UMASS who is now my friend tooJ, and Lior- Ashley’s hilarious friend from Columbia’s social work school) and I, fought our way to an available room. We dragged our enormous suitcases- we call Ashley’s forest green suitcase “The Hulk”- over a gravel path to our little cabin, labeled ‘N.’ As soon as I walked in, I was taken back to an outbound weekend in Maine I went on in college with my IR program. There were two single beds in one room and one queen sized in the other, all made up with lacy white blankets and pillows. There was a little kitchen, a water heater, and vintage ski posters on the wall above a bare wooden table and woven chairs. It was all sort of Quakerish.

Outside the cabin was a small pool, a body of translucent baby blue bordered by a simple line of white pavement. Five white lawn chairs sat alone on the grass, all leaned back as if five munchkins were laying on them, soaking up the rain like it was the sun.

Restless from the long bus ride, four of us decided to embark on a run- Lior, Danny, Ilya and me. Two collies joined us on the way, like attaches onto Forrest Gump. We named them Buddy and Tank, only to be devastated when they meandered off later, destroying our dreams of sneaking them through US customs. We mistakenly ran up a road which turned out to be the driveway of a monastery, and we raced each other past Candyland-like cabins towards the lake, many of which proclaimed on the window “Se Vende (for sale).” We talked about technology, about how our sisters and brothers don’t play like we used to, about our majors and life goals and about the things we saw around us.

The craggy mountains were black in the distance, whisps of white licking their peaks, aching to bite them off like heads off of gingerbread men. The thick air- it had just rained- spoke of firewood and nutmeg.

I kept remembering what one of my travel compatriots had said to me the day before; it surfaced persistently like a small duck bobbing in a rocky pond as my feet repeatedly struck the pavement. “Just look at where we are right now,” Sam had said. At that point we were in another spectacular environment; albeit as different from the current one as women are to men. Then, we had been walking through a vineyard sculpted by violet and magenta flowers. Long grassy roads meandered between the flora and the rows upon rows of verdant vines bubbling with teeny green grapes.

After frolicking down the road like kids outside at recess, I spotted our target: A black English carriage circa 1800. We climbed up into it and sat down in the driver’s seats, giggling with the freedom of the day.

I had felt like Scarlett O’Hara sitting on my Georgia plantation while listening to the daily going ons of a suitor, looking out beyond rows of carefully tended corn to a watery coral pale and pink sunset.

I was at peace, fully and truly. And I couldn’t have found peace had I not truly looked, truly seen what was around me.

There is a fleeting desire when one is in beautiful surroundings to say “I wish I could stay here forever,” or “I wish I was always surrounded by this.” But, as we know, that’s not a realistic expectation; it’s a fantasy. What is important however, specifically because of the transitory nature of these experiences, is that when they are there you let them in. And you not only let them in but you embrace them, soaking up every detail of those surroundings and your emotions in the moment like water into rice.

This will do two things: kick your butt into perspective from wherever it has been, and it will also create a memory in your mind that is vivid and complete, filling your life in its completeness like teaspoons of sugar into cake batter. Our lives up to this point are only composed of our pasts and our present; and the pieces of our past that influence us, whether they be our decisions now, our emotions, or anything else, are our memories (whether conscious or unconscious). The richer they are, the richer your present will be and your future and the more information and knowledge you will have in order to make good life decisions.

The fact is that we are not always where we want to be or surrounded by ideal companions; however remembering what it feels like to be at peace and to be awestruck by the world around you is important to retain with us whether we are in a conference room, on a stage, on the subway, or in a little lakeside town on the coast of South America. Recognizing our place in the world- which is important but miniscule, and recognizing what it is like to be at peace so that you know how to get there when your environment isn’t so inspiring or relaxing (meditation, etc.) will help you through bad situations, through relationships, discomforts, and everyday interactions.

And memories can evolve and change with new knowledge; let them. Let them evolve like a Jew on an Aish trip to Chile.

Beinvenidos a Pucon

Written by: Samantha Karlin