VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in seeing with new eyes.” French author, Marcel Proust penned this line about the time the Wright brothers were making history at Kitty Hawk. If this idea is all you remember about Proust, it’s enough. When I first read it, the play on words and the moral won me over but also begged the question, why not both? New landscapes and new eyes go very well together.

I was in San Carlos De Bariloche, Argentina, just across the Andes from Puerto Mont, Chile. It’s South America’s answer to the French Rivera. High mountain lakes, cool summers and tons of chocolate. I was there in late May, their fall. The summer crowd had gone and the mountains had snow but the ski season hadn’t begun. Wherever I went it was on foot or by bus with a duffle, back pack and guitar. In Bariloche I got a bunk in a dorm room at the Tango Inn Hostel on the north end of town. For three months, roaming around Patagonia I had used ATM machines to get cash from my account in Michigan but in Bariloche my card was rejected. Someone had hacked VISA and my credit union issued new debit cards. My new one was in Michigan and there was no way to get one to me. With serious help from people at the hostel and at the bank, it took several days to get Michigan money wired to me. In the meantime I explored the city. 

The front door of the hostel had a vestibule, just enough space for two or three people as they pass between the inner and outer doors. In the morning and evening, there were two dogs lying against the wall there. Both medium size, one black and the other speckled, black on white. They were friendly, appreciated kind words and a pat on the head. You would think they came with the rent. During the day they were somewhere else. One night I had been in town sampling chocolate, watching fútbol on the big screen at a local pub. To get back to the hostel I would have to climb a long, steep hill for about a quarter mile and then descend the other side. Another way was longer but relatively flat, through a beach front park. It went along the lake shore until the walk curved and joined with the street again. I took the beach path. Street lights were few and far apart and there were few people that late. Timed perfectly, as I passed an alleyway, a pack of dogs came out and turned up the walk. We merged and you would think we were together. Maybe a dozen mutts, they walked with me step for step, dogs in front and on either side. I glanced back and what do you know; a dog was walking at my heel, a medium size, black on white speckled pouch. It was the dog from the hostel. We held a good pace for several blocks; they had someplace to be and they moved with purpose. On the hillside a stone wall was breached by a steep staircase going up. The lead dog made a hard right turn and the pack took off up the hill.

I continued on my way but noticed quickly, the speckled dog was still on my heel. I stopped, it stopped. I patted it on the head and it wagged its tail. I walked and the dog walked with me. Another five or six blocks and you would think that speckled dog was on a leash. At the hostel door I saw the black dog, already curled up in the vestibule. As I pushed the door open, speckled dog slipped past me, lay down beside the black and put its head down. I asked Marco, the night man, whose dogs they were. He told me they were street dogs. They slept there and it kept vagrants away. They were well behaved, never come into the lobby so it’s a win-win. “Who lets them in and out?” I asked. He said, “They wait for someone to open the door and they slip in and out, just like the white one did with you.” 

So now I’m vexed with the obvious question: did the dog recognize me from a week at the hostel? Was our convergence a coincidence or did it know I was the guy who opens the door? If it was simply headed home, why did it stay on my heel, stop when I stopped? I know dogs are smart but really! Marco nodded his head one way then the other, said with a silly grin, “Argentine dogs are smart, maybe as smart as a gringo.” I went to the kitchen, got a piece of bread from my food cache there and made a peanut butter sandwich. Sitting on the floor in the vestibule we shared the sandwich. I got half while each dog got a quarter. They finished before me. By the time I took my last bite they were head down and eyes closed. I gave each one a stroke and they were good with that but they didn’t open their eyes. My money came through and I was ready to head south. The last time I saw the dogs I had my picture taken with them. I think Marco was right; if someone will open the door for you, why not follow them home?