Note: I’m finally finishing up these blogs, more than a week after returning from South America. Part of it was that our trip was so jam packed that it was exhausting to write coherent blog posts as we traveled. Another part of it is that I’m in denial that the trip is over. So, these blogs become a way to document and remember one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life so far.

October 7: 5.84km, avg 6:13km

October 8: 4.87km, avg 5:57km

October 9: Leave for Argentina.

On day two, my dad and I completed our first full loop in the wrong direction.

We are on our way to the Expo for the Maratón, located at the exposition center in Recoleta, a neighborhood in Buenos Aires. Looking at a map from a guidebook from 2010 (first problem), we thought we could take a shortcut on Avenida Liberator by going on the side street instead of staying on the main highway.

The directions given by the company running the marathon suggested we take the bus from the Retiro station to get to the expo faster. We, and by we I mean me, decided against that, largely because I was afraid we didn’t have exact change and wouldn’t be able to tell where we were on the bus route (2nd problem).

We were tired, jet lagged and had no clue where was due north (big problem).

So, we are now on the side street, leading us to the port and away from the expo. We’re looking for street signs and there are none to be found. We found stray dogs, kids who pointed at us and remnants of a thriving shipping industry from decades ago. But alas, no expo.

We make a loop and we are back onto Avenida Liberator, now having to backtrack. Along the loop, my mind is racing. My dad is taking this in stride but I’m not one for strides. The thrill is gone. I finally say aloud to Dad, “This is a fucking nightmare. Why did I decide to do this?”

I did what seemed to be the right thing to do: I took off running.

***

Dad and I are both generally confused. What’s up is down here in Buenos Aires and our lack of strong Spanish skills is going to hurt us. I had grand plans to pick up as much of the language as I could as I was training for the maratón. I did to some extent, but that really translates to I really didn’t do it.

We were having problems with technology and direction. Dad decided to get a smart phone a few days before leaving. His provider gave him incorrect information, which led to multiple trips to buy memory cards and SIM cards, before realizing they weren’t going to work at all.

Our eating habits were off. In Argentina, breakfast is at 11, and there’s ciésta between 1 and 5 pm. During that time, one makes it to the cafe, drinks their coffee and eats their medialunas, reads the paper, talks to friends and enjoys the scenery. Dinner doesn’t start until 9 p.m., dessert is at midnight, then it’s time for the clubs. It’s a night-time culture, which fits the newsroom side of me but not the side wanting to be ready to run at 7 in the morning.

This all adds up to two words: Culture. Shock.

The shock was made worse by my intention not to use a travel agency for the trip. Aside from Jess, a twitter friend, we didn’t know anyone in Buenos Aires. And Jess would be at a journalism conference in Brazil.

This is the recipe for a grand adventure and/or a total disaster. In either case, my dad and I would have to rely on each other. And this terrifies me.

***

My mother and I were on the phone one day in late summer when she mentioned that Dad said something about coming to South America with me.

Say what?

Here’s a little background on my dad. He was born and raised in Lakewood, California and aside from a brief sojourn (his wild years, as he would put it) in Costa Mesa, he would live in the Lakewood/Bellflower area his entire life. The Plunkett family have been a constant presence in Lakewood for generations. His parents still live in the house he grew up in, on the corner of Palos Verde and Carson. My dad’s father owned a carpet cleaning business for close to 50 years. His uncle was an infamous city councilman and eventually was a newspaper publisher in Paramount. His other uncle did construction, his aunt was a hair dresser. My dad’s siblings have lived in Lakewood for one stretch or another.

He is also my stepfather. He and my mother married when I was almost six years old. Plunkett is his surname and I began to be called by that name at that time and legally changed my name at age 24.

He was married once before, had a daughter, Kristen, who lives in Arkansas with her husband and two boys. Aside from trips to Canada and a Caribbean cruise, he has never traveled outside the country.

“Is he serious?” I asked my mother.

He was and when he called and asked, I was shocked. He had never communicated any desire to travel or do anything like this before.

But he was serious. He got his plane ticket and his passport and we were a go.

I had insisted on weekly calls to prepare. They were very helpful, but we both were busy with our daily lives. We did the best we could and would improvise when we got to Buenos Aires.

Here’s a good time to make a confession: As much as I love adventure and spontaneity, it has to occur with a fortified sense of preparation and knowledge of what is going to happen. I will worry and fret over any situation, going through all the variables in my mind to make sure I am prepared for what could happen.

My dad, on the other hand, is the most easy-going and care-free individual I have ever met. He was in sales for many years, currently works at Trader Joe’s and loves it. He is a people person and very likeable.

But you see where this is going…

***

I ran to the expo. I was so angry. More so, I was terrified. I had been terrified about this trip and the marathon for months but now, the fear caught up to me. Every time I had reminded Dad that we were in Argentina, it was really me telling me, “Your insane idea is now reality.”

I waited for my dad and I know I get one breakdown and this was it. Dad was gracious and we got to the expo.

We picked up my race packet, got my official t-shirt personalized with my theme for this adventure, “start to finish” and waited to take my picture. The marathon organizers had a wall, where everyone’s picture would go. In my nightmares, I would see that board, with just my picture. But thank God, it would be a board with 8,000 people, with a common goal.

***

The next day (Saturday), Dad and I rented bikes to tour the city. Buenos Aires isn’t a biker-friendly city but it’s getting there. One of the positive side effects of the country’s continued economic struggles and it forced individuals to sell their cars and find other ways to get around the city. The subté, the subway system, is fantastic, as are the bus routes but there’s a real gap in transportation. Enter a new bike sub-culture that fits in tandem with a vibrant fitness mindset for many porteños and real business promise.

The trick to riding a bike in Buenos Aires is to know your enemy.

Your adversary is everyone and everything around you. Because the city is a fledgling bike-friendly culture, bicyclists won’t get the right-of-way. Or any kind of way.

There are some places to stroll but mostly, it’s riding on the streets with the assumption that you know where you’re going. A map provided by Cristian, the owner of the bike rental shop, was incredibly helpful. But in what would become a pattern, we really didn’t know where we were going.

IMHO, that’s the first lesson of traveling. Figure out the starting and finishing point in any excursion, as well as the emergency route. Otherwise, traveling is the journey of seeing what you’re suppose to see at any given point. Whether you meant to see it or not.

Please don’t see this as a negative on my part. It’s the most positive aspect of traveling: Finding that café that will define your experience. Finally figuring out what street you’re on. Having that moment, that encounter, which is the anchor for your relationship with whatever city you’re and with the people of whom you are a guest.

It’s a wonderful thing.

***

That night, it was time for pasta.

Readers will know that I stopped eating gluten and most wheat products as part of my embrace of the paleo lifestyle. For this week, I ate pasta and bread to start the carb load. An upset stomach the first night aside, the gluten seemed to register with my body.

At dinner, Dad and I were talking about getting to this point. I’ve told him about the time in the HOLE, the desire to run and the desire to make changes. The marathon was an achievement but it was my response to the desire to take the next step.

The next step. That’s a heavy topic. What is the next step? Marriage? Children? Home ownership (in my case, owning a full house)? These are markers, significant ones, but markers. They are the signs of “the next step” but not definitive.

Dad told me, no, this is the next step. In his words, “It’s a wild and crazy next step, that’s for sure.”

We called it a night because there was a marathon to run in the morning. And a next step to take.

***

Before I went to bed, I called for a taxi in the morning. And that my friends, nearly derailed theroad to good air…