I spent the night at Montañita locked away in my room, one block from the breaking waves, and surrounded by the sounds of late night merrymaking. It sounds like some of the foreigners are teaching a few of the locals how to play a card game. Laughter erupts over well played hands, misspoken Spanish, and from the alcohol that is surely integral to the game. Good humor and new acquaintances: perks of travel. But here I am, holed up for the night with my windows shuttered as best as they can be, and my door locked from the inside with a bolted lock to which only I have the key. I have draped the mosquito net over my bed, stretching it from corner to corner so it holds itself in place. A few breaks in the netting give evidence of its use. Battered gaps are want for a quick fix, most notably that of the hole at the very top of the net. I remove myself from the lacy cage and grab my packable towel, still damp from two days ago in Baños, where the hills dictated the jagged horizon and held the town in its valleyed palm (See The Count Who Was Afraid of Heights). I draped the towel over the top of the netting and down along its side to cover another gap in the fabric. Two birds with one stone I figure, cover the holes that could let in the mosquitos, and finally dry the towel at the same time.

Why am I shuttered in this wooden and plastered room while there are others only feet away keeping me awake until I go out and make new friends of them? In all honesty, I´m not quite sure. I´m not afraid of them, I don´t believe they won´t welcome or accept me, that is not the travelers´way. In each traveler you see a part of yourself. Not so much in appearance, as in desire. You are all there for some reason, traveling alone or in a small group. To know why the other traveler is doing this is felt as only a slight deviation from why you are traveling. A kinship is already inherent, and only a salutation´s needed to forge a conversation. Similar circumstances and experiences create acquaintances, shared hardships forge friendships. Most travel is about weathering hardships. Even those that lock themselves behind brass and chrome in the endless stories of elegant hotels. Leaving the familiar is a hardship, creating meaning from the new stimulus around you, constantly pounding out experiences on your mind, that is a hardship. Hardships are not only things you wish you could do without, they are also goals you require of yourself to reach. The climb, no matter how slight the incline, is a hardship. Face a beginning and reach an end. The journey is your hardship. It need not be something you are loath to start, only something you have not done yet. Enjoy your struggle, your climb, your ascent or descent into the heart of what you want. Be more than it, create it with your work and live in it as you need it, until you are ready for a new desire.

So why am I locked in my room, so early in my experience? As I have said, I don´t know. I believe I have a reason, but assuredness is what I am lacking. In the statement is also the reason. I came to South America partly because I lacked surety in my life and its actions. I was, and still am, confused as to what I will do with my time back home. I have recently felt that I do not have enough self sufficiency. Yes, I pay my own bills, get my own jobs, plan my own life, but I still feel like I don´t have control. I think it is the future that holds me to the baffelment of uncontrollability. I can´t see over the horizon, not for lack of effort, but for the sheer size of the horizon. In what direction do I focus? If I look one way, I miss another that may enlighten me and hold my attention even better. If I focus on a sunset, I may miss any number of other things. Yes, the sunset is beautiful, but it is spoiled by my lack of pure attention to it. It is the direction of thought that I believe I am seeking. To be directed in an action so that I am able to see it through and have it hold my attention. To be happy in the moment, and not be looking to what I have yet to accomplish, but where I am, and what I have already accomplished to get me here: pride in my accomplishments and complacency in my current position, no matter how short that respite. I know I will have to ever move forward, but I want to grow not for the sake of reaching the next echelon, but because I enjoy the process.

For that reason I locked myself away, imprisoned myself for a night. I wanted time to think, and to tell myself that I did not have to find new adventures this night, I did not need to meet new people, it was not required of me. I would not suffer too much for missing one opportunity, because there would be others, many others. I needed time to be alone, and appreciate where I was. No forward momentum, just me, enjoying where I am.

I woke up with the same mentality. I had gotten much more sleep than I was used to, but it felt good. I forced myself to stay under the netting an hour longer, even after I had decided to get up and experience the day before everyone else did the same. Finally, when the sun had again introduced us to its light, I rose. I pocketed my camera, just in case, and unlocked myself from my self-imprisonment. I aimlessly wandered down one of the few streets here. I didn´t care which one, just as long as it led down to the shoreline, only two blocks away. The town was quiet. A few dogs roamed the empty sand streets in search of morning scraps forgotten last night. Pigeons walked as aimlessly as I did along the hard packed sand of the town´s streets and tested their bravery as I came close to them. With a heartbeating flutter their bravery left them, and they ascended to where they felt safe, and again landed, testing their bravery a block away.

As I approached the beach, water began to tickle my face at the ends of my four-day beard. Its "adolescence stage," I was apt to call it. The pin head sized smacks of water struck me in my face. I didn´t know if it was born from the wind that kissed off the top of the ocean waves and blew them into me, or if a light rain had been amplified by an upper wind that threw the tiny drops more fiercely down onto me. When I reached the shoreline I stood on a breakwall of cement that overlooked the long straight beach eight feet below it. On an overcast day, as this one, the water gave the appearance of being Northwest cold, something I would have to test for myself later in the day. Right now, last night´s attempt to enjoy the moment was still entertaining me.

A local couple had just emerged from the water. Joined by his wife, the man was jogging in place with choppy little steps while flapping his arms above his head and then down to his sides. It reminded me of a modern dance movement, designed to represent the flight of an onstage and absurd bird. His wife joined him, and a stray dog, that had found its way to the beach, looked on in bewildered amusement, much the way dogs usually view us. Thinking the couple wanted to play,the dog trotted over to them and interrupted their flight. I gave my attention to another horizon.

I had enjoyed that moment, and I now felt the desire to see what else was in front of me. I heard the squish-squish-squish of wet sand beneath running feet, and a young foreign woman ran below me along the waterline. I followed her image for a while and grew restless to return to my shuttered room, where I now sit writing this. The sun is attempting to burn away some of the day´s omnipresent clouds, I doubt it will dissipate them all, and the smell of scrambled eggs is rising with my hunger from the small restaurants around me. Enough writing for now, I´m going to focus on the horizon of breakfast and let it be devoured by my attention and appetite.