Once Upon Another Time

One of my favorite forms of expression is song. That’s why all my pieces take their name from one. Some song titles come to me as I’m writing the piece, others take a little longer to find their matching shoe. This was one of those pieces. The search was worth it for when I found its match, it was no average sneaker, but a glass slipper, the perfect fit.

Sara Bareilles’ “Once Upon Another Time” is an earnest ode on reflection. It underscores the beauty found in freedom, to be who you are, where you are. The title and the imagery fit the story that follows. Before I tell you about a fateful bike ride in the mountains of Argentina, let me briefly tell you how it came to be.

I work with some really great people, especially three remarkable women who I manage and mentor. When I told them I would be working remotely for a year, from a different international city every month, as part of the Remote Year program, they went above and beyond a simple “good luck” or “safe travels” and got me an incredible going-away gift: a bike tour in Córdoba, Argentina, the eighth city on my itinerary. It’s no secret that I love to bike. So, to get me anything, let alone something I’m passionate about, was beyond thoughtful. Their gesture also made me nervous. I left for Remote Year in March, and October in Argentina felt like a lifetime away. I genuinely thought, “What if I don’t make it to Córdoba?”

Well, I made it to month eight. I didn’t anticipate breaking my ribs in month six (see Falls So Hard). Luckily, they had healed, and the long-awaited bike tour was a go. I was the only person signed up for this particular day, so for the second time this year, it was just me and a guide.

Juan picked me up at 9 a.m. A Thursday. I came downstairs to find a man leaning against a pick-up truck. I thought to myself, “What’s this handsome man doing here?” Before I could finish the question in my head, I spied the bike rack on the back, and it clicked, he’s waiting for me!

After I climbed into the passenger seat, I thanked him for speaking English because my Spanish isn’t so good. That’s not exactly true, but I was conserving energy for the ride and I couldn’t last a whole day en espanol. Juan must have smelled my BS because he immediately switched to Spanish and told me I understand more than I think I do.

When we pull up to a house near the Sierras Chicas, the foothills to the Andes, Juan greets an elderly couple with hugs and kisses — the first of many times I am moved by the genuine and heartfelt way he interacts with people. Juan introduces me to Elsa and her husband. Even though I can’t understand everything she says, I feel her warmth and my heart hurts thinking of my yiayias and papous.

We set off and make our way through this quiet little mountain town. It feels like we’re the main attraction as people sit on their porches and watch us ride by.

You never forget how to ride a bike, but each bike is different and takes a little getting used to just like sitting behind the wheel of someone else’s car. I was also working through some initial nerves as this was my first time on two wheels since my rib injury. Next thing I know, I’m riding past a parked car and my right handlebar ever so slightly kisses the side mirror. This sets off a chain reaction: my left handlebar then veers into Juan’s and my next contact point is concrete.

I am not embarrassed that I fell. I have fallen off many a bike and fallen down from many a walk about. I am embarrassed that all the town people saw me. So, imagine how mortified I am to find out that someone was sitting in the parked car. There wasn’t a hole big enough to crawl in. So I dust myself off, give them multiple “Lo sientos” and got back on the bike.

Embarrassment and all, I was grateful for the fall. It got it out of my system and rid me of my nerves. The worst was over. Or so I thought. No more than two minutes later, we are faced with some serious incline that no amount of dropped gears was going to get me up.

Having already swallowed my pride, I did not hesitate in telling Juan that I needed to get off the bike and walk the 5K uphill. Juan was gracious and accommodating with my request. A ways into our walk, we stop along the side of the mountain to have a snack. We find a rock to sit on and Juan cuts fresh fruit he has brought along for the ride.

We chat, and at some point I tell Juan how much I love coffee. “You love coffee? Have you seen Twin Peaks?” he asks. A conversation about Agent Dale Cooper’s love of coffee and director David Lynch’s catalog follows.

This conversation could be standard fare for Americans, but I’m talking to a Cordobese here. This fact is not lost on Juan. He mentions that not many Argentines know Twin Peaks. His older brother introduced him to the series, and I tell him how my love of the show even extended to a Twin Peaks group costume for Halloween one year. In that moment, sitting on the side of a mountain, eating fruit and sharing a love of the arts, I felt in my element. This is the first connection of the day.

After the picnic, we finally got to riding! It felt great to get moving and it was a brilliant day for a ride, with weather so temperate you can’t even feel it, and the kind of scenery that looks so picture perfect you swear it was an illusion: the verdant mountainside bleeding into the brightest blue sky filled with a blanket of billowy clouds. We stopped to admire the spectacular view of the estate, or estancia where we’d later eat lunch. Estancias are large, private pieces of land commonly used in southern South America to raise livestock.

I love to travel and see places through the eyes of a local and witness their enthusiasm for the place they call home. During our pitstop, he tells me we’re riding the royal road, a former thoroughfare for trading silver and gold among Peru, Bolivia and Argentina. It also served as the main trade route between Córdoba and Buenos Aires.

After lunch, we walked the grounds of the former estancia . We ended alongside a stream and decided to take a break. I don’t know what was more relaxing: the sound of the stream or the warmth of the sun on my skin, but the combination was glorious and the result pure contentment.

The feeling was all the sweeter knowing that I was sitting streamside instead of working that day. Juan and I sat, we talked, we ate chocolate. He tells me his brother lives in Berlin, and I share that I visited Berlin in August to see U2. He had a U2 record in his house growing up, Rattle and Hum, and he wants to know what the title means. I tell him the phrase comes from an earlier song and describes the sound of the wind. I give him the lyric, “In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum” (“Bullet the Blue Sky”). “That’s poetry,” Juan says, knocking the wind out of me with those two words.

He took the words right out of my mouth. It is poetry. And his reply made my heart skip a beat. As if Juan hadn’t already endeared himself to me, there he was speaking my love language: music. Anyone who knows me well knows how much I worship U2. To hear my own thoughts reflected in Juan’s words gave me my second connection of the day.

I could have sat there all day, eating chocolate, basking in the sun and talking with Juan, reveling in the luxury of conversing in English. But all things must pass. Besides, we had some serious ground to cover, so we got back on the bikes. What followed was all downhill, literally.

Downhill riding is exhilarating and downhill down a mountain is downright thrilling. Not going to lie, there were at least five times I thought I was going to bite it. Luckily, downhill riding requires two of my specialties: control and concentration. And since controlling your speed at all times is key, my hands were more sore than my quads from riding the brake all the way down.

I felt so accomplished pulling up to Elsa’s, knowing I had finished something that started with some difficulties. I sat on the stoop while Juan racked the bikes. He approached and asked if I had time for a mate. No match-making here — this was all about having something to drink. Mate is more than a drink and the national beverage of Argentina; it’s a culture with its very own cup, straw and serving instructions. The mate culture is strong in Córdoba.

Mate is made from dried leaves of yerba mate, which are ground into powder and served over hot water. It has a distinct taste with the consistency of a tea, but the caffeine kick of coffee. It is meant to be shared with others. One person (the cebador) acts as the server, and the cup gets passed around to the group, or in this case, the duo.

We sat on the sun-soaked porch steps, drank mate and ate the cake Juan had baked (he bakes?!). He made one cake for us to enjoy and one for Elsa because we had parked the car outside her house all day. Once again, Juan’s kindness floored me.

Cordobeses are like no people I’ve ever met: their kindness is king. As we passed the communal mate cup, we talked about family between sips. I told Juan how seeing Elsa made me miss my grandparents, and he shared how he lost his dad when he was a boy, and how his mom has been alone most of her life. To some this topic might seem melancholy, but it felt to me like each conversation that preceded it: natural and effortless.

The sounds of cuarteto peppered our conversation, drifting across the street from a construction site. Cuarteto, an upbeat style of music, originated in Córdoba. The name comes from the four pieces in a cuarteto band: violin, piano, accordion and bass. I had heard about this music but had yet to hear it played. My enthusiasm prompts Juan to cue some up when we get in the van. He chose the genre’s most famous voice, La Mona Jiménez, who is to Córdoba what Elvis is to the United States, a musical legend. La Mona, in his late 60s, is still the most famous cuarteto singer. Juan played “Luis,” a song about a taxi driver who dreams of being a singer. Juan unabashedly sang along as we drove with the windows down.

Riding shotgun with my hand flung out the window, I felt beautiful and relaxed. And when I say “beautiful,” it had nothing to do with the reflection in the side mirror and everything to do with a sensation from within: “And where I was is beautiful, because I was free” (“Once Upon Another Time”).

That feeling of freedom came from being present, in the moment, of the moment. With the wind in my hair, I had that rare yet unmistakable awareness of a song taking shape in my mind. I’ve written a handful of songs and nothing beats the excitement of that first lyric coming to life. The inspiration was so strong in the van that I was convinced I wouldn’t forget the lyrics. Well, I may have forgotten the lines, but almost every detail about that ride back stayed with me.

The first takeaway is this: Both times I visited Argentina, I met a man who inspired a song in me (must be something in the mate). The second is how natural if felt to hang out with a man I had met just hours ago. More than anything, however, I recall how easy it was to be quiet with Juan. I felt zero pressure to fill conversational gaps. We simply enjoyed the silence.

The ride back gave me time to reflect. I got so much more than a good workout that day. I learned about Córdoba and its culture firsthand. I told Juan I wished I had met him sooner as the next day was my last full day in town. I wanted more time to visit the places he recommended, but more than anything, I wanted to spend more time with him. I don’t connect with men easily or often (See Girl on Fire). But when I do, it’s unmistakable. Juan and I clicked.

I was acutely aware of this connection on our drive back to my apartment, but there was no point dwelling on the absence of more time. Better to live in the moment and let the music do the talking after a long day of conversation in two languages. That ride was the third connection of the day, even if most of it occurred in silence.

And just like that, the day ended where it started, in front of my building. Juan walked me to my door. We chatted for a bit and before I could overthink it, I invited Juan to my friends’ open mic show later that night. He said he would love to come, but he still had to return the bikes and then get home. I didn’t even feel disappointed or rejected because I was too busy being proud of myself for asking for what I wanted, for being vulnerable.

We hugged three times during our goodbye. As he pulled away from our last embrace, I could have sworn he was going to kiss me as his face passed mine. I know he felt it too. That split second of opportunity reminds me that the possibility of connection is out there — if only for one day.

That one day was like a song, and like the song this piece is named after, it goes:

Just yellow lines and tire marks

Sun-kissed skin and handlebars

And where I stood was where I was to be

Once upon another time, who knows what Juan and I could be.