The Argentinian, Thomas, is friendly. And dirty. He has been traveling for 9 months, having left his consulting job. There is a history there, how telling I think, knowing only a few would understand. He has travelled the world one week at a time.
I ask if he’s travelled in the United States. “Yes, two times,” his accent is endearing. “One week in Florida.” I involuntarily laugh, a sound escapes that belies Florida as a less than desirable destination.
He reads me well. “Yes, it was the last time I traveled with my mother.” I laugh out loud, rolling laughter.
He preferred Washington DC. Two weeks in Japan, he favored Osaka. I tell him about free campsites on Nijima; next time, yes, next time. One month in the North of Sweden for the Northern Lights, one month in India. He tells me about the sleeper buses, better than the train; next time, yes, next time. His white long sleeve shirt is stained and filthy; his beige crocks, practical; his black jeans, less so. He swears they are only for relaxing. He will go to Papluke to catch the jeep back to Kathmandu - he relishes the money he will save. And now he knows he can hitchhike from Nuntalla.
The world is his oyster, and he’s even started reading in English. He laughs a lot, bright eyes dancing behind a shaggy beard. “Fucking Spanish people don’t read, or don’t travel.” He laughs more.
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