The courage to be disliked -or who ended up coming to the bar

The waiter hand me a piece of paper, forcing himself not to roll his eyes up his ass. “That guy just gave me this for you”. I roll my eyes for him, grabbing the paper as I turn my head to follow the other guy exiting the bar. “My girlfriend says that guy was looking at you the whole time, since you entered. What does it say?” The couple next to my table is now fully invested. I unfold the paper. A name, with a number. Nothing more. “It’s his number. I wish he just had the balls to come and give it to me himself”. “In Brazil, we call that cantada de papelzinho, very low effort and confidence.” I laugh. We talk a little bit about why they are in Buenos Aires (the girlfriend just speaks Portuguese, so he does most of the talking) and then they pay and leave. I open my phone just long enough to send a single message: “Too scared to come ask for my number directly?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable” Juan replies. “Are you travelling alone?” I reply that I am, and it’s my last day in Buenos Aires. If Juan wants to make a move, that’s a kinda now or never moment. I invite him back to the bar, at first not sure if I should, as one of the guide from my hike on the Glacier today is also suppose to come. What’s the worst that can happen? A week before leaving for Patagonia, I walked in a new coffee shop near my house. I can’t pin-point exactly what, maybe it was his presence or his laugh, but the (later found, married) barista sparked something inside of me. Something that made me think that, maybe, I was ready to date again. So back home, I downloaded Tinder for the first time in ages, matched with someone the same night -and after two days of messages back and forth I ended up getting stressed out. Not that the person was not interesting, but I was not interested. It felt forced, like I had to text, not that I wanted to. Now sitting in the bar, reading Juan’s message on WhatsApp, I realize that I am probably ready- I just want something to come naturally. I want instant attraction, not having to swap someone and force a spark until I see if it’s real a week later, in a date that I’ll feel trap into, like “we’ve been talking for a week, there needs to be chemistry or I lost my time here”. I don’t want that. I want organic, entering a room, cinematographic lighting change, the time slowing down as we both lock eyes. I want a first laugh from something I said, and then a second from your witty answer to it. I want to want. The venue is small, yet cozy. A two members band is slowly setting up the stage, as I swallow the last few sips of my Calafate sour. My three weeks adventure in el fin del mundo, Patagonia, is coming to an end, and I am only grateful about everything I had the chance to see and experience. Patagonia is the southernmost place I’ve ever traveled to. It feels wild and untamed, at once familiar and completely unique. There’s a hint of the jagged, dramatic peaks of Norway, echoes of the table mountains of South Africa, and the vast, empty stillness of Nevada’s desert landscapes. But what defines it most is the weather: unpredictable, almost theatrical in its mood swings. One moment, you’re in a T-shirt, soaking in warm sunlight, the next, you’re bracing against a sudden snowstorm even the forecast never saw coming.

When I was planning for this adventure, one of those unpredictable blizzard tore through the O Circuit in Chile, swallowing the trail in seconds. Five international hikers got trapped in zero visibility, no sense of direction, just cold closing in until there was nothing left. They died of hypothermia. That story stayed with me, it crept back into my head every time snowflakes started to fall on my hikes. A quiet reminder that this place doesn’t forgive mistakes. It’s also why I chose to start with guided hikes. I needed to learn, on the ground, in real conditions, before even thinking about going solo in a landscape this unpredictable.

Chile was my first taste of Patagonia. I was going to hike the ‘W trek’, quiet luxury version. Every day, we would leave the hotel for one of the hike and get picked up by a van, when we were done at night. We would come back to a hot shower and hot meal, to a comfy bed and a quiet room: the perfect place to recharge before going back on the trek, the next day.

My first day was with a group and two guides. A total of nine hours to walk Valley Frances, up and down, with perfect conditions to admire all the peaks surrounding us, on the way. I thought this was going to be my least favourite of the three hikes, but it ended up being the best. The views were insane, but it wasn’t just the viewpoint at the end, I enjoyed the whole path along the way. Our group was small, about 8 people total. Out of them, I got closed with a couple in their fifties, Pam and John, who ended up being good friends by the end of the week.

The next day, I decided to go alone, as the hike was starting from behind the hotel. I wanted to leave very early in the morning to beat the crowd and arrive at the viewpoint for sunrise. I got incredibly lucky with the weather, once again, the Patagonian wind only showing up for less than an hour, at the start of my solo ascend. That whole time, though, I kept thinking about the five hikers and if there was a moment where they were like “yeah we should go back” instead of pushing through. Was there a time where they asked themselves if it was going to get worst? Or was it too late when the question got raised?

Fortunately for me, as I kept pushing in the dark, the wind and snowflakes hitting my face started to dial down, leaving only the burning feeling in my legs as a mild discomfort. After about 5 hours, I finally reached the top, right on cue for the sun to hit the massive granite pillars.

I hated almost every single minute of this hike. It was brutal, and climbing it at night only made the pain worse because there was nothing else to focus on. I did have one moment of joy when I turned off my headlamp and looked up at the sky, the Milky Way screaming at me “bitch, do not give up”. Later, on parts of the descent, daylight revealed just how vast Patagonia stretched out before me, adding another layer to the awe I’d already felt at the top, when the sun turned the granite towers to gold.

My last hike, on day three, was back with the group- which, I guess, got smaller every day due to the age of some of the people in it. It was just me, the guide and my new friends-couple. We took a scenic boat ride on Lago Grey, during which the barman and I flirted back and forth. He was a hot Spanish-emo with dark messy hair and a single inverted cross earring, a warning of all the unholy things I would have done with him if we’d had more time. Alas, I was here for the treks and we were just about to get dropped on a makeshift muelle (dock) for the beginning of our hike, the top two of my favourite in Chile.

About half-way through, we decided to take a pause and sit on a rock, admiring the Glacier in the distance. Only in t-shirts as the sun heated our bodies while the cool breeze was keeping it temperate, we talked and talked. About how impossibly lucky we were to be here, at this exact moment, in this exact life. The same place, just hours later, would swallow us whole, indifferent, without mercy. That realization hit me in the chest: every second is fragile, every perfect moment borrowed. And in that impermanence, I could feel everything: tiny, finite, terrified and alive, all at once. I wanted to freeze this moment, imprint it in my bones, so I could always remember how deeply grateful I am to have been alive for so many perfect moments, on all my adventures.

A few days later, I was deep in my Argentinian exploration, driving off-road to an eco-dome nestled between the mountain of Fitz Roy and Río Electrico. Every time the wheels of my tiny rental car hit a hole in the loose gravel, my stress spiked. I tried to tell myself the worst that could happen was a flat tire, and maybe meeting my husband, some fellow adventurer who’d rush to help at the sight of a not-so-damsel-in-distress waving helplessly on the side of the road, because honestly, I had no idea how to change a tire. I promised myself to learn, once I got back home, after I realized that I hadn’t crossed path with one other vehicle on this road.

This side of Patagonia ended up being way more wild than Chile, from the fact I was off-grid, that we lost electricity for over a day and we got two windstorms and one snowstorm, consecutively. Yet, I got lucky enough to have some clearance for my main hike days, gracing me with the views of each of the peaks I had come here to see.

I don’t know if it was my choice of vintage clothes and accessories, but sitting in front of these peaks, feeling the wind coming in waves of violence, I spent a long time thinking about my ancestors. About how lucky I am to have been born in a time when a woman can travel the world alone. Was there someone in my lineage who dreamed of exploring? Would she have been trapped by her circumstances and the expectations of her time, or would her thirst for adventure have been enough to break free from the mold of marriage and children, like a Jeanne Baret, maybe, who disguised herself as a man to sail around the world? I like to think that, no matter the era, she found a way to follow her own path and the courage to be disliked for who she was. Because I want to believe that, no matter the circumstances, I would have done the same, lived my life on my own terms. The idea of living for someone else, of letting your own desires fade under the weight of expectation, feels unbearably frightening and too heartbreaking to imagine. Yet, I know how lucky I am to live now, in a time when women have their own money, can take risks and provide for themselves. Marriage and children aren’t the only options anymore. We can choose our adventures, our lives and still thrive.

It’s now 10PM and Juan has been going back and forth with the idea to come back to the bar, playing by that fact with my interest that is fading by the minute. He is self-conscious of coming back in the same place he left the waiter a note to, like I guess his male ego would take too much of a hit to walk back and feel judge. Big ego and low confidence never rhymed with great sex. “I’d be here in an hour ish”.

That’s the guide from today. I look at my watch again. Meh. I don’t need a dick that much. I’d rather go to sleep, if I’m being honest. I drink the end of my last cocktail, pack up my things and leave for my hotel. I guess that’s my love life in a nutshell, hence why I’ll always choose adventure instead.