First Impressions of the Farm 12/11

I ask: what am I doing here? In this little “treehouse” in the middle of nowhere, Argentina. Which is different, slightly, from nowhere, Oregon or nowhere, Hawaii or nowhere, India. They each feel different, but only slightly. Perhaps this is why these sorts of places make me uncomfortable. It is the sense of unending, inescapable sameness that makes me feel lost. My first impression is that I don’t like it. I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach which feels like anxiety. I also feel out of place, and I don’t like that either. I feel like the teenage heroines of those stories I read when I was young, hardened city girls who get sent to their cousin/uncle/grandfather’s farm for the summer, where they learn the value of hard physical labor, and weekly showers, and that real beauty doesn’t require (or accept) heels and make-up and sparkly decorations. Was it only last night that I dressed up to join similarly dressed up girls at a downtown bar? Where I drank a slick cocktail on ice and chatted about such inanities as the best sushi in town?