"Oh Norah Jones...it seems that the tides have changed"

After one heck of a Saturday, the soothing music of Norah Jones seeped out of a lazy corner restaurant in the little town of Gualeguaychu and initiated a new wave of optimism. 

     Our bus left BsAs at 9:15 pm Friday evening and was scheduled to arrive in Gualeguaychu, a small Argentinian city three hours North of Buenos Aires around 1 am. Known for its Carnaval celebrations, this was the busiest weekend of the year for Gualeguay. So busy that all the hotels and hostels had been fully booked months in advance and any email responses we received suggested that we were crazy for even asking if they had space. That left camping as our only option, so Friday before we left the busy city we hunted down a nice little green tent for two. Until Friday, all of our bus journeys had gone smoothly. About an hour before our destination the bus encountered "mechanical problems" and we were forced to wait for a replacement. Somewhere between that bus stop in the middle of nowhere and Gualeguaychu, I lost/misplaced/got robbed of my phone. It was in my pocket when I fell asleep but was nowhere to be found when we got into the van that was going to take us to the yet to be determined place to stay. There we were, fresh off the replacement bus, tent in hand, waiting in line for a taxi that we had no idea what we would tell was our destination during the busiest weekend of the year. Always an adventure when traveling with Emily and Lena. I look at the situation as our attempt to embrace the Argentinian culture of not being able to plan ahead as planning is not an option in most cases. For example, I register for classes at the University of Buenos Aires tomorrow and the class schedule is still MIA.

     Turns out we weren't the only ones without a set plan, there was a whole van of us at least. The coordinator, who looked completely un-phased by the fact that it was three in the morning, told us that our only option was Camping Municipal which meant that we would not have access to a pool...pity. At that point, a pool was the last thing on my mind. He suggested that we call to make sure there was space, and that is when I realized that my phone was not where I had left it. I ran back to the terminal but the bus was gone, I checked the bathroom where the two women who sell toilet paper were passed out asleep, no luck. I hustled to the bus company's window and the man gave me a phone number to call but it was really was more like my phone's makeshift death certificate and I accepted then and there that it was gone. It had served a great month and a half, that loyal black brick that had yet to run out of its precious pre-paid minutes. Tomorrow I hope to find its replacement. If I am not careful I might start to challenge my mom's record of most phones lost/damaged. Here in Argentina we hang dry clothes, so the dryer is not a threat, however, toilets, washing machines, and water bottles, remain looming hazards. 

     From the back seat of the white van, we had to tell the driver at least four times where we were headed, and every time he asked, I lost confidence that the campsite even existed. With four out of ten left in the van, we reached the campsite, and lucky for us, they had space. We handed over 20 pesos each, an equivalence of $10 total to stay the night, and were instructed to follow Marcos, whose tight black shirt with the word "Security" printed on the front made him the campsite's trusty security guard. He may not have known a lick about defense, but he put a full effort in helping us set up our tent. As loud music pumped out of various car stereos at 4:15 in the morning, we hit they hay, or in this case, the ground. Sleep, if any, didn't last long and at ten in the morning the boys in the tent next to us decided to blast their stereo with songs of the ever repetitive regetone. We had planned to meet up and camp with our friends from Buenos Aires who we met in Villa Gesell later that evening, but since we hadn't heard anything from them, and there was no hope for sleep, we decided to pack up camp and head to the public beach. This plan lasted two minutes, per usual, as it was quickly interrupted by the boys in the tent next door who were either intrigued that we were packing up so soon, or our accents in Spanish when we replied that we didn't have a lighter because we didn't smoke gave us away as foreigners.

      In no way am I suggesting that being discovered as an extranjero, or foreigner, is a bad situation to be in. Sure, if you walk down a dark street in bright colors and your tourist hat and white cotton socks midway up your calf as you speak loudly in English with camera in hand and your passport or wallet imprinted in your back pocket, that identification as extranjero may not lead to a favorable series of events. However, for the most part, being from another place opens up a lot of opportunities to get to know Argentinians as they are just as curious about our culture as I am of theirs: fascinated. In fact, the guys from Villa Gesell love to make fun of me as my eyes light up every time I discover something new and captivating. Apparently, I have a very expressive face at times. Anyway, the boys in the tent next door were from Cordoba, a region North of BsAs that is known for its distinct accent and its consumption of the very herby beer-like Italian drink called Fernet. I tried it, managed to swallow it, survived it, but prefer other delicious Argentine consumables.

The Cordobezes wasted no time and invited us to join them for Asado, delicious meat cooked on the parilla, or barbeque. With still no word from the Villa Gesell crowd we sat down at the picnic table and talked culture, politics, history, and other topics.  I am not one who understands politics in general and I thought that of the US was confusing, until of course I tried to understand the political scene of this South American country. From what I understand, Peronismo that evolved during the presidency of Juan Perón is a confusing term that actually functions/functioned as a general word for opposing parties. Peronismo of the left and the right weren't exactly chums, but they both supported Peron, therefore there exist Peronistos of the left and right. Some say it still exists, others feel that the air has changed into Kirchonismo with the party of the current president Cristina Kirchner who ran on a ticket with Julio Cobos, a Vice President of the oposing party and with whom she is now not on speaking terms because he supports the soy bean growing countryside and opposes her desire to increase taxes. Woah, long sentence. A few last notes, Cristina is the wife of Néstor Kirchner who was president in 2003, and who passed away last year. Her approval rating plummeted when she raised taxes for the farmers, spiked after her husband died, and now, well, October means election time and I think there are a lot of people who are more than happy to say bye bye. Also, forget two political parties, Argentina has more than 5. 

     Back to food. The juicy meat was accompanied by a delicious tomato salad, French bread, and ugh, Fernet. After a filling meal and a lack of sleep, my ideal plan would have been to lay out at the public beach along the calm river and relax in the sun, ha! Sweet dreams. The boys had two extra tickets to a private beach that looked like it was straight out of an MTV Spring Break show. Crowds covered the sand in front of a stage playing once again, regetone, teenagers hid the sand on the beach itself and either splashed nonstop in the river while consuming large plastic bottles of wine, or jumped in all directions subsequently spilling said wine all over the place. Here they would call it a grand joda or fiesta, we might call it, well, an alliteration with the second word being "show." After about an hour, Lena and I decided that it wasn't for us and walked back to the campsite, grabbed our stuff, and jumped on the bus headed into el centro without any idea where we would get off.  "Oh look, there is a restaurant with outdoor seating, let's get off here." Great plan except the restaurant was not serving food. The owner guided us in the direction of an air-conditioned gas station with sandwiches, alfajores, and Gatorade: the perfect mix when I was as hungry and thirsty as I was. We sat there for a while as collected ourselves a bit and decided we should probably find internet to fill out the travel form that we were supposed to already have filled out and to let my parents know that I was still alive since I no longer had a phone. Also, side note number...I can't keep track: In most cases, if someone finds a phone they will keep it for themselves. In some cases, they will search the phone for the perfect personal number to call and demand ransom for the phone's owner whose name etc. they most likely do not know. So, if you happen to get a call, ask a few questions before you enter Superman mode. 

      On the way to find an Internet cafe, we got a text from the boys from Buenos Aires, they were on their way. The Internet we found was extremely cheap. The bakery we ran into had delicious and more than reasonably priced desserts. We passed the restaurant with the calming music of Norah Jones with sweets of Dulce de Leche in hand, and a new found energy; the tides had indeed changed.

          

      The rest of the weekend was a grand joda, in this case not a grand mess, but a great time. Lena and I experienced Carnaval celebrations, I don't think I have ever seen so many nearly naked men and women dancing around with feathers and glitter ect. Basically all it was was a long street with stadium seating on both sides and a parade that went down the middle. It was like the Portland Rose parade with bleachers and less clothing. Also, if you ever go to Gualeguaychu for Carnaval (and maybe this applies to all Carnaval celebrations) get your tickets early and pay the extra money to be down closer to the action. It is worth the dough because when you are sitting way up near the last row because everything else was sold out, it is rather disengaging.  

Carnaval

You get sprayed with foam or silly string if you are not wearing some form of Carnaval decor

Up close and personal

            We made it back to the new campsite that the boys with the car had found, which was at least half and hour out of town, around two thirty, then ate sandwiches in the dark with everyone and crashed. The next day was beach time, relaxing beach time with Mate instead of Fernet. There were eight of us this time so we used two mates instead of one, one straight and bitter and the other induced with sugar. To put some names to these "Boys from Buenos Aires," the original three are Juan Manuel, who recently graduated school with a degree in physical education, Javier, the oldest at 23 who works for the family business, and Alan, who goes by Pollo and takes classes at the University of Buenos Aires in economics and business. On Carnaval weekend Juan Manuel's girlfriend joined us as well as two from the boys' grade school days who have been dating for some time: Juan and Flor.

            We had a day full of the warm, refreshing, and shallow river water, also known as plenty of time to roast and turn into sundried tomatoes. Oops. Later that evening we had hamburgers on the parilla which Javier prepared for us all. It is customary here that the men do the barbequeing while the women prepare the salads. I remember the feast we had in Villa Gesell when the three boys cooked for 17 people. That is something that I really cherish about the Argentinian culture, it is communal. They share mate, eat Asado (meat) together, drink together; they make a point to include everyone and anyone, even if they have just met you. Estadounidenses are known to be cold and standoffish and I can see why, for the most part we all keep to ourselves and our social groups, we have our lists of invitees and we stick to them. Most of the time, here in Argentina the boundaries blur and that brick wall between individuals comes tumbling down. Take for example the proper greeting here, trade in the firm handshake and look in the eye for a cheek to cheek kiss on the face. This applies to all interactions, even if you are meeting someone for the first time, kiss on the cheek, female to male, kiss on the cheek, male to male kiss on the cheek. It doesn't matter who you are, you kiss.

Mate on the beach

  To wrap up this long tale, we ate hamburgers and talked, then walked to the beach, nearly couldn't pay attention to where we were walking because the stars were too distracting. We made a campfire and enjoyed some refreshments and even managed to sneak some hours of sleep in before having to catch a van to the bus terminal at 6:30 am. The night before, Lena and I had signed up for the ride into town and the group working  with the company said that they would keep an eye out for us the next morning...all we encountered that morning were crickets and disheveled people returning from Carnaval. Since being here I have come to accept that one way or another things just work out, and sure enough two boys who were signed up for the same van walked up a little confused as to where they were supposed to be, and lucky for us, one of their friends who was up the road called them and said that the van was waiting around the corner. We loaded our stuff and bounced in our seats as the van avoided potholes lit up by the third immaculate sunrise I have seen this trip. 

Lena + Carnaval

Buenos Aires week two...at this point is it almost week three

For a country full of such skinny people, Argentina has two of the world's widest. The widest avenue, el Avenida 9 de Julio which is an adventure to cross, and Rio del Plata, the river that separates Argentina and Uruguay and takes an hour and a half to traverse by boat.

On Sunday I ventured across the famous avenue in hopes of finding the San Telmo antique market. After emerging from the depths of the Subway aka Subte, I knew that I had a fifty percent chance to choosing the correct direction but of course I ended up walking the wrong way until I overheard the girl a few steps in front of me ask an older woman if she was headed in the direction of los artesanos. I stopped to listen as we both discovered that we were indeed headed in the opposite direction so we turned ourselves around and were off.

Turns out, she too was a tourist, but a tourist within her own country. She was from Patagonia and en route to the antique/artisan market to meet up with a friend who is studying here in BsAs. Her name was Mari Jo, a shorter version of her full name. Her head full of curly Greek locks complemented her petite frame of the Argentinian and her conversation made the walk on the uneven pavement enjoyable as we talked about the beautiful landscapes of Patagonia and my home state of Oregon.

We reached the shaded market finally after starting to feel the effects of the blazing sun when her friend called her. They coordinated where to meet and I looked around to see which path of old collectibles caught my eye, when she invited me join them. We walked from booth to booth trying on old pairs of glasses, listening to a radio from 1920 that still manages to function, and seeing our eyes widen in the reflection of antique mirrors as we attempted to distinguish the different pieces of vintage jewelry. We turned the corner after a booth full of glass bottles that have now been replaced by plastic, and other "unnecessary junk", emphasis on the J as we say in our family, to find (finally!) an older couple dancing the tango in the middle of the intersection. It is a seductive dance filled with passion, which despite the cooking sun and the sweat dripping down the dancer's faces did not lose its integrity. As long as you have two, it all works out.

After getting our fill of romance, we ended up perusing the works of the artisans on the streets which stretched for miles until we found a cafe for lunch. I originally thought that I only had until 2:30 to eat since I was going to join some locals in their usual game of Sunday afternoon Ultimate Frisbee, but I of course am still adjusting to the 24 hour clock which actually meant to tell me that I had until 4:30. We enjoyed a hamburger and charlabamos or chatted for quite a while. I remember at one point asking myself how the heck I managed to randomly get myself a lunch date with two Argentinean girls my age and speak only in Spanish about life, love, school, food..it was dreamlike. On the subject of food, I must say I quite enjoy the food here. While I am still trying to figure out how the Argentineans party all night long, I am also studying how on earth the girls are so skinny when there are so many delicious and accessible while not so healthy foods. There is no way one can eat doughy empanadas filled with delicious cheese and meat, toast with Dulce de Leche, (a cooked condensed milk to a caramel consistency which is spread on everything), and alfajores, (imagine two scrumptious cookies with Dulce de Leche in between them and then covered in all kinds of chocolate) and still be stick thin. I guess they just have the self control that I lack and refrain from eating them? I am thinking that gym membership will be in order, especially with at the piropos or catcalls one gets when out running. Piropos are common here, most girls have gotten used to the honks and catcalls while walking down the street. Hacha, the grandmother of the family I live with asked me today if I liked piropos. My instant response was no, but then she asked me why not and explained that at her ripe age of 89 she no longer gets piropos. For her, to get them is quite a compliment. I guess she makes sense.

I have been here a little over a week now and have yet to describe my family or what the heck I have been up to. It's all quite simple really, I have been sitting in different rooms for the past week from 9am to 7:30pm in orientation sometimes with eyes wide open in fascination and other times loosing focus on the speaker because I am trying to keep them open. Coffee has become a good friend and it is not uncommon to see people getting an afternoon coffee. This coffee is not to go, that would be a disgrace (in my humble opinion) and would instantly identify you as someone from the United States. Also, side note number 375: it is wise to avoid using the term "American" while, well, anytime you are outside the US and in the Americas. The Argentineans, like everyone else who lives in North and South America, are also Americans, so it is better to say Estadounidense which would translate to something like "Unitedstatesian" if that makes any sense.

Now back to coffee. Coffee, like Mate, is something that is not, for the most part, rushed. One can find coffee to go, but generally speaking, in order to get the caffeine fix without the mateine of Mate, it also requires some socializing. Last week, Amber, a friend who spent last semester in Nicaragua and who also avoids speaking English until absolutely necessary, and I discovered a little cafe tucked in the side of an apartment building. We quickly got to know the owner who now greets us by name as we enter for our afternoon fix. He doesn't even have to ask what we would like, he knows that I like coffee with milk while she runs off of a Cortada, which looks like it is basically a shot of coffee.

The US Embassy gave a presentation yesterday. I don't think they scared us too much. Basically they said to be aware of our surroundings, not to fall for the mustard on the bag/coat trick, and not to land ourselves in jail because they can't do anything about it. The mustard trick is still going strong after 10 plus years. This is how it works, let's say you are a backpacker and you have just stepped of the bus or plane (can you say target?), you are loaded down with your big backpacking backpack on your back and a smaller one on your front in which you have most likely put you passport, money, computer, ect. As you walk by, someone squirts mustard, mayonnaise, pickle juice, something foul, on the back of the big backpack without you noticing and then points it out to you and tries to help you wipe it off. You are concerned about the smell and the fact that this liquid is urgent enough that a complete stranger is wiping it off of you, so you take your small backpack off in order to take the big one off and check the liquid scene, but oh wait, you just put down that small backpack with EVERYTHING in it on the ground, might as well say happy trails to it now, because it is about to be gone. Unless of course you are the extremely lucky Canadian we met who made a big enough commotion that the conman dropped her bag and ran. Moral of the story, be aware, always.

My eyes are drooping and I might as well sleep before I leave for Carnaval celebrations in the little city of Gualeguaychu. Also, the mosquitos are attempting to add some additions to the 30+ bites I already have. I swear my blood must be made of Dulce de Leche...

Until next time.

My first manifestación, and since the people of BsAs are very politically active, I am bound to see more. 

Back in BsAs

February 20th

After two lovely days at a small beach town of Villa Gesell, Lena and I took the bus back to base camp Buenos Aires. We had fit a ton in in two weeks of traveling and it caught up with us on that bus ride back. I remember boarding the double decker bus and then waking up in Buenos Aires. Perhaps the staying out long enough to watch the sunrise over the ocean two days in a row helped the sleeping process too...I can't say that I have ever stayed up long enough and still had plenty of energy to keep my eyes open long enough to walk to the beach and watch the sunrise. Of course, on the Oregon coast it is the sunset, and I have seen plenty of those. But yes, the sunrise was lovely.

Road from Bariloche to Mar del Plata

We arrived in Mar del Plata at 9:30 am on February 18th after departing the beautiful Bariloche at 12:00pm the 17th. Dead tired, we got off the bus, tipped the man who heaved our backpacks from the luggage compartment onto our backs, walked into the station, groggily found a company that serviced to Villa Gesell, bought a ticket for a 10 o'clock bus, boarded and crashed. We got off that bus only to get on the local one (colectivo) which dropped us off five blocks from our hostel. The sand filled streets made walking with a backpack harder than usual but it meant that the beach was close, closer than it had been in a long while. We stumbled in to the hostel with our bags, the family that owns and runs it quickly welcomed us and told us to quedar tranquilas, aka relax just as three other guys were doing in the livingroom. It had been a few weeks since I had thought about that concept, but we sat down and how about that, with rain coming down outside, we did, we relaxed... for a bit until our stomaches yelled at us with hunger so we were forced to move and accommodate. I have had so many ham and cheese sandwhiches, but I continue to be enamored with the fact that I can walk into almost any store, order freshly made bread, point to the ham and cheese that I want, see them sliced in front of me before I load them on the bread and enjoy all for the price of 2 dollars. You really can't beat that at home. Oh and did I mention that we took our food and enjoyed it on the beach. I will resist all temptation to describe how dreary and rainy it was because you might get jealous. No but actually, we had to sit under the lifeguard tower because it was a bit damp out in the open. On the way back we stopped at a fruit stand. If the $2 sandwich wasn't enough, how about two bananas, two peaches, and a mango for $3? I think I could get used to this.

We decided to head back to the hostel. Lena went to take a siesta but rarely can I sleep, so I thought I might have better luck checking my email. False. I was well on my way to Gmail when I was offered Mate. I seriously can't believe that I have been writing this Argentina blog and have yet to mention Mate. Originally I would have compared the Argentine consumption of this liquid herbal mixture to that of coffee in the United States, but Mate is more than just a drink. It is not something that you wait in line for while you half stress out over whether or not you are going to be on time to your meeting since you absolutely had to have your morning fix. Nor is it a drink that comes in grande non-fat, and it is not something that you drink alone. It is a mix of herbs (yierba mate) that is poured into a little gourd looking thing and then hot water is poured over it, I mean lava hot, except not boiling. The water temperature apparently is very particular, boiling is too hot but it still needs to be hot enough to burn your mouth. 

Enjoying some Mate after Kayaking a beautiful lake near Bariloche

Also, you drink it with a metal straw called a bombilla which you do not touch with your hands nor use to stir the mixture but which acts as an excellent and sometimes painful conductor of heat.

The yierba (herb mixture) is very bitter plain, however, when I ignored Gmail to accept the smoldering little gourd of caffeine I soon discovered that it is quite delicious with a small addition of sugar. Also, last few Mate side notes, you are expected to finish the drink until the straw slurps and then hand it back to whoever has the thermos of hot water. If you would not like any more at all, you say gracias as you hand it back, however, if you fancy more, you hand it back without saying anything. Typically there is one Mate (in this case Mate refers to the gourd) for a group of people and it gets passed around the social circle. Passed from person to person, it is a social drink over which I have no doubt some of the world's biggest problems have been discussed and some of the strongest bonds made.  

Also, my friend Juan Manuel, who handed me the Gmail distraction, would like me to clarify that Mate is not a drug. Apparently some think it is, probably because it is everywhere and some even buy leather bags for their thermoses. Anyway, short of the long, I drank some Mate and got to know the guys. They are all from Buenos Aires and were enjoying a week at the beach and according to the owner of the hostel they were great fun to go out with at night. So that's exactly what we did, we danced until 6:30 in the morning both nights (Mom I can see your eyes rolling as you read this) and slept until 9:30 am both mornings thanks first to an obnoxious American who clearly never learned "inside voice" in pre-school, and second to our bus to Buenos Aires.

After the first night of dancing I headed to the beach with a group from the hostel. Being as white as I am I clearly stood out in the group, but to them it didn't matter. I sat and listened as they thoroughly discussed (over Mate) subjects such as the difficulties of Autism and later the complications at the hostel. What a bummer that they kick us out of the common room at 2:30 in the morning because people want to sleep, who sleeps at 2:30 in the morning? They should be out dancing! ¡Que porqueria!

Oh, and I think I may have finally figured out how the Argentinians manage to party so hard and still function. They are nocturnal. In Villa Gesell we drank Mate at 7pm, took a siesta until we ate dinner at 11pm, left the hostel at 2:30am, danced until 6:30am, watched the sunrise and fell asleep at 7:30 am. Two of the boys nearly slept until 2pm and then it starts all over again.  I have yet to figure out how they function during the week, when I figure that one out I will let you know because seriously, they are out long enough to walk from the boliche or club, straight to work in the morning. 

"Llao Llao stands for two gringas lost in the woods."

February 16th

   Those were the words of Hernan, one of the guys who works in our hostel here in Bariloche, a very Swiss town near the Chilean border. Today, we went "trekking" as they like to call it here. We woke up and jumped on the bus for half and hour until it dropped us off in front of one of the ritziest hotels in Argentina, Hotel Llao Llao. Presidents stay there when they visit the country. Anyone can go visit, but you need to call in advance and request a visiting time perhaps to give them enough time to complete a background check.

Anyway we stepped off the bus, our heads spinning from the curves and attempted to follow the map to a trail the Hernan recommended. Turns out my internal compass is indeed broken. I thought it was just adjusting to the new hemisphere, but I think there must be some sort of magnetic field that is messing with me because this homing pigeon has had one heck of a time following directions. Maybe it is because everywhere I have lived I have always been able to position the sun in the sky and had mountains on one side of me. In Buenos Aires I thought my lack of direction was because it was a big city and with tall buildings replacing the mountains, I could barely see the sky. However, here in the small town of Bariloche I am still all over the place, perhaps it is the fact that it is 7:30 in the evening now and it looks like Portland's 3:00pm equivalent. 

Dad, check out that Gold Course at Llao Llao

Thanks once again to Lena, we found the trail and headed up the mountain. In the hostel we met some Americans who said that the trail was tough, but for those of us who have hiked Fritz Roy and Cerro Torre it was cake, or as they say here una pápa, a potato. I think nearly everything will shrink in comparison to those mountains in Chalten. In fact, if you plan to travel to this beautiful country, I would suggest that you start in the north and make your way south as the landscape grows more majestic. 

Flowers that bloom once every 60 years

   The panoramic view from the top of the hike reminded me of home. I felt as if I were standing at the mouth of three different Columbia River Gorges. After a photo or two we headed down the road until it started to rain. No matter where I travel I encounter an unexpected rainstorm. I have hidden under pillars of the Vatican as rain poured, seen a 10 minute flash flood in Turkey, and witnesses a storm that almost drowned Venice. I thought I would have another one for today but I've got nothing more than the fact that it started to rain when we were still 3 plus miles from the bus so we found a ride back to the center of town with a nice couple we met who were vacationing from Buenos Aires. We changed and got ready for what turned out to be a spectacular dinner with friends of friends from home. Adrián and his son Axel had taken us for a drive around Bariloche a few days earlier and were our connections for a free ski lift ride up Cerro Campanario. 

His wife Maria Fernanda and daughter joined us along with two of his friends who were riding their motorcycles all the way down to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Lena and I learned many useful words at that dinner, not all of which are necessarily PG but are definitely part of the culture. Saying bad words is not necessarily looked down upon here, it is the way that you create insults that can really tick someone off and it is all in the tone of how you say it. A greeting that is often used between two old friends can mean something quite horrific if you change the tone. We have been warned not to use it until we really understand the language. Speaking of language, this language is proving harder than I thought. To put the Spanish language into a general term is pure insanity which basically means that the title of my major: Spanish Language and Literature, is raving mad. Turns out most Argentinians can't even understand their Chilean neighbors to the West because they use completely different words for the same thing; this is true with nearly all 20+ Spanish speaking countries. You could compare this to how in the US we use different words than the Auzzies or Brits. Also, many say that Argentinian Spanish is very Italian and it's true, they sound as if they are singing. Some words draw on longer while others sounds like quick short steps of the Tango. Oh and they have an accent whenever they pronounce words with "ll" or "y." Instead of pronouncing these sounds with what sounds like the "y" in "yellow" they substiture a lovely "sh" sound, so "street" which is calle, sounds like cashe. What fun eh?

 Nicolas, our guapo gaucho guide

Agua pura

Enjoying a Submarino, Capuchino, and Lemon dessert at Mamushca

    Oh, and I forgot about Valentines Day. I must admit that it was nice being away from all the chocolate, teddy bears, hearts, and consumerism of the US on the lovely day of love. When one has a Valentine, it's great, but when one is single, eh I'll pass, thanks. Lena and I spent Valentine's Day on horseback and later went kayaking on the lake. Our very guapo gaucho led the way as our horses climbed up to a brilliant view to the water divide where the water to our right flowed to the Pacific while the water to our left was on its way to the Atlantic. About a mile out from the choral we picked up the pace which I was excited about until my foot fell out of my stirrup because they were too short and I came as close as I ever have to falling off the horse. After a delicious lunch, we kayaked for a bit, then headed back to the hostel for some late night dancing. Greg, you are right, the Argentineans really like to twirl around when they dance.

     Tomorrow we will jump on the bus at noon and arrive 24 hours later in Mar del Plata, a big beach town on the East Coast near Buenos Aires. I think we will escape to a smaller town called Villa Gesell for a few days of sun (hopefully) before starting school once again. And BOOM reality hits.   

How does one even begin to explain the unexplainable?

February 8-10           

For the first time this trip I actually slept outside of a bed. It was a glorious five minute nap on the three hour bus ride to El Chalten, the trekking capital of the world. No joke, of the world. I have never seen anything like it. Our bus rolled up to this little town dominated by the mountains that surrounds it. The first glimpse of Fritz Roy, standing boldly despite being surrounded by clouds, commenced its three day omnipresence in our lives. The hostel was hopping with a group of Germans playing a beverage game of dice called Mexley. It involves some strategy but mostly luck and beer. Our eyes and our brains told us to turn in early though so we crept into our room without having any clue what our roommates looked like since they had slipped in before us. Turns out they were a very nice Brazilian couple who left us with their extra tortellini after their departure from Chalten.

Here is a quick summary of our three days:

Day 1

Weather: Indescribably beautiful. (Intense climbers and hikers come from all over the world to trek here. We met some who have been waiting two months for a good day and here we come, two oblivious girls and get the best three days of the year).

Hike: Cerro Torre

Time: 5:45- up and down and up and down. Our legs were talking on our way back but the view was amazing.

Photo by Lena Page

Patagonia, you can make the check out to Emily Cornelius

Cerro Torre

Lena + cold water

Day 2

Weather: Brilliant. Not a cloud in the sky.

Hike: Chorillo del Salto waterfall, it's where all of the locals go to cool off.

Time: 4 hours- rest day

Waterfall Chorillo del Salto 

Chorillo del Salto

Heading back to El Chalten

Day 3

Weather: Clear.

Hike: The biggest, the baddest: Fritz Roy. (It actually wasn't too unbearable except for the middle bit with an immediate 17,000 thousand foot gain).

Time: We started hiking at 8:30am, and got back to the hostel at around 6pm. Our knees were throwing out some obscenities.

If you look closely you can see the path above Will's head. It looked small...until we were standing at the base of it. 

We made it.

On the way back to Chalten

I have only been on this earth 20 years, so clearly I cannot be old and wise, but here is my latest epiphany. If you are unhappy where you are at home, if you find your life to be monotonous and you are itching for a change, if you are irritable and frustrated, buy yourself a ticket to Argentina, specifically El Chalten, or, better yet, somewhere you have never been. Get completely dominated by the mountains, push yourself to the point where you just want to sit down forever, learn things about yourself that you never knew by talking with people who you have never met before. I have never been so spontaneous yet felt so centered in my life. Fritz Roy and Cerro Torre completely owned me, destroyed my legs, left my throat absolutely parched, not only for water but also for new adventures, but despite the strain I would go back and hike them in a heartbeat. They have become more than just mountains, they have become a symbol for a new way of life. 

Initiation

*Warning: this is a long post, you may consider taking it to the John with you

February 7th, 2011 El Calafate/ Perito Moreno Glacier

When the clock struck midnight on January 1st I introduced the year 2011 to my newest resolution: to live a more spontaneous life. Since being in college, every minute of my day somehow gets planned for me with classes, essays, meetings, essays, homework, film screenings, etc. and all of last semester I tried without success to break the unvaried life of an adventurous college student. That being said, the planned part of today's adventure fell apart like slabs of Patagonia's Perito Moreno Glacier.

El Calafate- Photo by Lena Page

The night before my visit to Perito Moreno, the banter of our two Irish roommates kept me entertained as I packed my backpack once again. I had no idea that Northern Ireland remains part of the UK while the rest of Ireland does not. They definitely made that clear despite their thick accents. I woke up the next morning to catch the bus at 7:30 but remembered that I had yet to transfer any money to my bank card so I locked up my bags and hustled tot eh computer to transfer funds only to find that I had forgotten to activate my ATM card which needed to be done from my home telephone. I emailed Mom and Dad in hopes that they could help me activate it because later that night we would be taking the 6:30 bus to El Chalten, a tiny little town with no banks, no ATM, and no currency exchanges. I had plenty of American on me but at that point it wouldn't do me much good. My heart started sped up a bit as I heard the rumbled of a bus coming up the hill. I hit "send" and waited for a few seconds as the computer attempted to swallow and digest all that I had written then got up and jumped on the bus.

Being from Alaska, my friend Lena was not as interested in paying to see a glacier so I found myself sitting next to another single traveler, Danielle from London. We started talking straight away until suddenly I remembered that my beautiful lunch was still sitting in the hostel refrigerator. Bummer, at least I still had an apple and a Cliff bar. Danielle was also without a lunch but that was because she was under the impression that lunch would be served as part of the trip. False. Soon enough we neared the entrance to the National Park of the Glaciers where we must each pay 100 pesos to get in. I was ready to pay for the whole thing the night before but the front desk said to hold onto that bit for the next day, they had no idea that they were talking to "Where's Waldo's" close relative whose most said phrase lately has been: "where's my (wallet, toothbrush, camera, fill in the blank)?" The rangers at the station boarded the bus and walked to each pair of seats to collect the fee. I opened my wallet and instead of the crisp bill that I had the night before, I found a bunch of tattered smaller bills, maybe a few tens, two twenties, and some twos. Hmm, let's see that comes out to about 64 pesos. I started to get that anxious feeling that grew with every step that the ranger took towards me. Danielle paid while I was still ruffling through all of my pockets. She graciously lent me all that she had left which I took embarrassed which then got me to 95 pesos. Still 5 measly pesos short. I handed the wad of cash to the official hoping that somehow that clump would learn how to reproduce. He looked uncomfortable when he reached 95. And then I remembered that I had tucked a $5 US bill in my wallet. Instantly I dug down to the bottom of my backpack, the second I felt the leather of my wallet my fingers clenched it and had the 5 out before the red of the wallet even surfaced. Never has President Lincoln looked so good. The ranger exchanged it right then and there and the whole bus relaxed now that the random American would not delay their journey further. Well, the journey wasn't even close to over.

With only 12 pesos left between us from the exchange of the US money, Danielle and I got off the bus to walk on the platforms across from the glacier. Our guide, Maria, told us the specific time that we needed to be back, we agreed and continued down the stairs. From the middle platform we will still well above the glacier and heard the ominous cracks of the ice that left us eagerly anticipating the plunge of a large chunk of ice into the frigid water below. It was like standing in the middle of the forest and hearing twigs crack as something creeps towards you but not knowing from which direction it is coming, nor how close it has gotten.

Me in front of the Perito Moreno Glacier

We admired the glacier for a while commenting on the fact that the tour company gave us a long time to admire this layered chunk of frozen history. It was nearing 11:15 and we figured that since the bus leaves at 11:30 it wouldn't hurt to be early. We neared the top to find a flustered Maria running towards us asking where the heck we have been and to follow her quickly because the bus had already left to take everyone to the boat, which crosses the river and takes us to where we can walk on the ice. When we reached the concrete, a woman who I had never seen before says to me in Spanish, "Emily, they are going to kill you," as we scurried by.  That's never a good sign, especially when the next bus would come an hour and a half from then and I had to be back in El Calafate to catch the bus to El Chalten, I had no choice but to figure out a way to get down to the dock. Maria ran from bus to bus asking if anyone was going down to the dock. My heart sank every time the driver laughed and shook his head. Then, this random car drove up and dropped off some a family. We ran over and watched as a stressed Maria talked to him. He nodded that yes he would drive us for a kiss and we threw ourselves into his car. The boat apparently had not yet left the dock.

He didn't end up getting his kiss but we did manage to hand him the 12 pesos, our gracias' and chau's waning as we sprinted down the dock to the boat. The second the gate closed behind us, the rubber left the wood of the dock and everyone on the boat cheered. I wanted to hide in a corner; once again the group had waited for this yanqui.

When we got off we had half an hour for lunch and everyone made sure to turn around and look at me to make sure that I understood what time to be back. Danielle and I were about to split my Cliff bar when the two young Argentines, Jazmín and her brother Francisco, waved us inside to have some of their ham and cheese (always a reliable lunch choice here in Argentina) sandwiches. After lunch we grabbed a pair of gloves, strapped on a set of crampons, and followed in a line behind our guide onto the glacier. "Wow it's really bright out here," I thought, "oh wait, maybe that's because I forgot my sunglasses back where we had lunch."

Jazmin and Francisco's group

oh hey look, some ice

Another guide by the name of Gabriel stood and watched to make sure everyone made it past, lending a hand on a big step when needed before putting us all to shame by running past us to the front to wait once again. His sunglasses reflected the details of the glacier so I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was watching, alert for anything that might happen. Eventually, however, someone in our group could have fallen into a hole and Gabriel wouldn't have seen because he was busy flirting with the blue-eyed American who forgot her sunglasses every time she walked by. 

After two and half hours on the ice, it was time to return to the boat but not without enjoying some whiskey on the (glacial) rocks of course.The whiskey kept us warm on our sluggish walk back to the lunch spot. We grabbed our bags from the hut and walked down to the water where the boat and our guides awaited us. I gripped the straps on my bag as I neared the steps of the boat. I took one last look at the glacier behind me, and with a kiss on the cheek from Gabriel and I was off, back to the wild flamingos in El Calafate.

Myself, Jazmin, and Danielle enjoying some refreshments post trecking

Epilogue:

Danielle and I made it back to Calafate and walked to the ATM. I stuck in my card having absolutely no idea if it would work and miraculously it did. Thank you Mom and Dad for working your magic. I paid Danielle back and we went our separate ways. I definitely will never forget our adventure that day. I made it back to my hostel at 5:30 and our bus left at 6:30, we made it just fine and had a lovely drive to El Chalten. I hope to see Jazmín in Buenos Aires when I am there, she too will be going to school in the big city. All in all, I would like to think that I have nearly completed my initiation into spontaneity. 

The Guys at America del Sur Hostel in El Calafate

Houston we have lift off...and a taste of home

We (as in Lena, a friend from Whitman, and I) said farewell to Portland. We left the comforting embraces of my parents as we said goobye and followed the PDX green carpet as it guided us to the check in counter and later to our gate. New record, neither bag was overweight, the only problem was that when I handed the woman at the desk my ticket to board the plane, she took one look at my carry-on and said, "could you please show me that your bag will fit in the compartment there." In my head I thought, "sure, no problem, do you happen to have a crowbar?" It didn't fit, but I lucked out because they had hoped to speed up the loading process so they were checking traveler's carry-ons for free and we were off to Texas.

the travelers

In light of the theme of this blog, the fact that our plane to Buenos Aires took off from Houston was rather convenient. I didn't put it all together until we passed a kiosk on the way to our departure gate that was selling shirts that said, "I need my space" with a big NASA logo on them. Two hours later we were nearly in space. If you were super man with night vision and had flown by our plane Wednesday evening, you would have seen a 20 year old girl with a sweatshirt over her head and her nose pressed flat against the window as she gaped out the window at the stars. Orion slowly moved by as we glided down the Milky Way. Every once in a while I could see a few lights on land, little towns in the mountains of Central America.

The plane landed around 10:20. Bleary eyed, as I fail to sleep while on planes, we called a taxi and got to the hostel, changed, went for a walk and then had one of those, "Holy [fill in the blank] what have I gotten myself into" moments as we walked down the bustling Calle Florida. Neither of us had been in the middle of such a high concentration of people in quite a while so we ducked into a bookstore and enjoyed a sobering sandwich.

Today Calle Florida was much more manageable. Floral prints are all the rage and gladiator sandals rule the majority even on the unpredictable cobblestone. It seems like Argentina likes shoes, I think we will get along very well in that department. I am not sure how easy clothes will be to find, the "one size fits all" fails to take into account athletic builds. Also, the helado de menta granalizada, mint chip ice cream was a delicious taste of home. 

Plaza Mayo-Signs Remembering the Catastrophe of the Falkan Islands 

Calle Florida

Late this evening we are venturing to el barrio de Palermo or the neighborhood of Palermo. A friend from high school lives there now and has graciously offered to show us around. Sunday we head off to Patagonia for a few weeks. Apparently the two-day bus ride that we will be taking in the middle of it is on Ruta 40, a gravel/dirt road. Looks like it might be wise to invest in something that can induce drowsiness. A friend suggested a box of wine, I was thinking more along the lines of Tylenol PM but I am flexible.

Chau.