We’ve got an absolutely packed Ferg’s Focus.

I wrote an essay that’s been bubbling for a while. French playwrights are slandering cowards (I thought it was ironic, too). We’ve got thieves dropping in from rooftops in Buenos Aires like it was the 1001st Arabian night. There exists a game like rugby only played on horses.

No flowery intros this time—let’s get into it.

Run Your Own Race

It’s hard to avoid the feeling of not being enough at some point in our lives.

That insecurity can manifest itself in two primary ways:

• Extreme self-criticism to the point that we can’t help but keep raising the bar for ourselves, often times without every celebrating a win.

• Scrutinizing the achievements of those around us and trying to lower their bar comparatively in order to feel relative progress.

Where do you fall?

Courage vs. Coward

Having courage does not mean being devoid of fear. Both the coward and the courageous experience fear.

The difference is that one is debilitated by fear while the other faces it head-on and perseveres in spite of it.

Of course, the coward will always find some way to prove that their fear is warranted, most of the time with cynicism and feigned intellect.

Here is French essayist and playwright Albert Camus on how some use fear disguised as intellect to acquit themselves of ever trying:

Barrio Chatter

I cross fewer borders than I used to now. While my world is reduced to a handful of blocks some days, it would be disingenuous to assume there are fewer stories to dig up. When the scoop is there, I’ll share the latest on-goings from my barrio (neighborhood), hot off the presses.

I recently bounced to a new neighborhood on the other side of town. Needing a breather from walking streets full of trendy cafes, catty old ladies, and dogs bred from rats in Palermo, I turned my sights to Buenos Aires’ oldest neighborhood: San Telmo.

Now, San Telmo is proper postcard-Buenos Aires and receives a large glut of the capital’s tourists because of it. Colorful, colonial facades line the cobblestone streets. Elderly men with shocks of white hair sip espressos in wood-accented cafes at random times of the day. There are even a few bargains to be had if you dig for a good bite.

On the flip, San Telmo can equally feel more like a tango-themed Disneyland than a functioning neighborhood. A stone’s throw from my front door sits a statue of Mafalda with no less than 50 people queued up to snap a picture at all hours. Around the corner is a strip of hostels. A flea market sets up on my street every Sunday effectively sealing me in behind a Colombian coffee stand playing folk music and one of those craftsmen who make doubtful statuettes out of garbage.

In short, I’ve been enjoying it in the short term. One of the benefits has been meeting new characters (mostly shopkeepers) as I go about finding the essentials like my nearest grocer, cafe, local chino, and so on. It was for that reason that I found myself one of my first days here buying some oats and olive oil from a health food store owned by an older lady named Nancy:

Nancy: Ojo.

Nancy points to her eye and indicates to the cell phone in my hand.

Me: For what?

Nancy: This neighborhood isn’t the type where you should walk with that in your hand.

Me: Thank you for the reminder. I’ve spent enough time in Latin America to feel confident in my awareness. Buenos Aires seems relatively safe compared to some others.

Nancy: Maybe. But Buenos Aires has become more dangerous.

Nancy nods her head out the glass storefront at the supermarket across the street.

Nancy: There have been three robberies in front of that store in the last month.

Me: At night?

Nancy: Whichever hour.

Me: I’m surprised. This area seems pretty calm.

Nancy: It’s quiet at night.

Me: I’ll keep myself.

Nancy: Where have you been other than Argentina?

Nancy and I spend a few minutes gabbing.

Nancy: …oh, I remember Spain. I lived there with my cousin for some time.

The silver-haired lady sighs wistfully.

Nancy: It was amazing to live in a place where I could come home at night without checking over my shoulder as I opened the door to my home.

Me: For what?

Nancy: For someone to follow me in.

Me: Does that happen to you here?

Nancy: It has.

Me: Someone followed you into your home at night?

Nancy: Well, no. They came in through the roof.

Me: What do you mean?

Nancy: I was home with my son, and we heard footsteps on the roof.

Me: I can’t imagine. That must have been terrifying.

Nancy: It was, but we just went behind the water heater on the ground floor and called the police like I did the first time.

Me: Sorry, like the first time?

Nancy: Yes, the first time it was scarier. Although, they took more the second time.

Me: Did the police ever show up?

Nancy: Eventually.

She shrugs and prints my ticket from the register with a thin smile.

Nancy: Enjoy your olive oil.

Send This Man to the World Nomad Games

Nomad Games?

Not so fast… This isn’t some competition between digital nomads for who can post the most worthless Instagram Reel of a coffee and their Slack messages from a beach chair.

This is the most interesting assortment of skills and competitions that you’ve never heard of.

I wouldn’t normally ask for a crowdfunding effort (unless it’s towards my coffee addiction, which I do consistently) in this newsletter, but this is one of my best friends meaning he gets the Ferg’s Focus nod without pause.

Read more about Zane Jarecke’s mission to chronicle the World Nomad Games in Kazakhstan in the description of his GoFundMe link below.

If you resonate with it, you can toss him a few bones.*

Don’t worry, he’s good for it. And if he’s not, I know a Kazakh log-tosser named Darkhan competing over there who can give ol’ Jarecke a what-for.

*As of this time, I’m pleased to see Zane is already almost at his funding goal. Nonetheless, it’s a unique project, so give the GoFundMe a read if you’re interested.

Thanks for reading Ferg’s Focus! My goal is to share the occasional glimpse of life on the road and the thoughts/lessons that come to me from it. If you learn something along the way, then I’m even better off.

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Until the next,

-Ferg