Having alluded to a forthcoming “all the foods I ate” post for close to a year now, I figure it’s about time to ante up.  And so I present this picture-heavy display of various cuisines I was cognizant enough to take pictures of while abroad.  It’s far from complete and woefully lacking in description and character, but, as always, is better than nothing.

Peru

My time in Peru was divided between kooky “jungle medicine” tours in January and my Machu Picchu adventures in June.   Since food from the earlier trip was covered in this post, I’ll only cover the latter delectables here.

Alpaca.  Like its cousin, the llama, these South American beasts of burden are used as pack animals, tourist attractions (Peruvians love to dress them up in brightly colored clothes and then ask for money after you take a picture of one) and, of course, food.  They’re surprisingly good, too, and not nearly as tough as I would’ve guessed.

Chile

I didn’t grab many shots of Chilean food.  Santiago had many seafood restaurants, though I couldn’t find sea bass anywhere.  Also, I really don’t much care for fish, so these restaurants did nothing for me.  Combined with the fact that Chile was the most expensive country I visited in South America, I didn’t eat out very much.

Ecuador

Food from Ecuador was also mostly covered here, but I’ve got a few additions.

Brazil

As popular and enjoyable as Brazilian barbecue restaurants are in the states, I wasn’t overly impressed with Brazilian food.  Maybe we went to the wrong places.  My friend Jaimee joined me for much of these spots and we had similar lackluster reactions to the country’s offerings.  We visited one steakhouse that, like its US counterpart, involved serving men roaming about with a wide variety of all-you-can-eat meat to slice for their patrons, all with several buffet style tables of fresh food in the background.  It was good, but bore little difference from what one would expect at similar restaurants in the states.

A popular local delicacy that I never quite figured out was manioc, a powdered form of cassava root that, throughout Brazil, is served with slivers of beef jerky.  This side can be found served with almost any meal in Rio.  Despite its ubiquity, we found it fairly bland and pointless, like eating bits from the bottom of a jerky bag that had been dropped into sawdust.  Meh.

Top of the list in Brazil was the açaí (pronounced “ah-sah-EEE”) smoothie.  Mixed with bananas, ice and sugar (apparently the fruit is, by itself, quite bland), this densely blue drink is both energizing and uniquely flavorful.  I made a point of having at least one of these daily.

Uruguay

I only visited Uruguay for about three days, and the food wasn’t terribly different from what we found across the river in Argentina.  One treat that we were told was Uruguayan in nature was Clerico. Much like its red sangria cousin, clerico is a white-wine based fruit punch served with an ample supply of fruit.  My mother’s not much of a drinker, but she was so taken with it that we ordered two pitchers.  From a recipe online:

And the winner is…

Argentina

The cuisine of Argentina is, much like its urban architecture, more heavily influenced by Spanish, Italian and French culture than anywhere else on the continent.  For instance, no breakfast is complete without medialunas (literally: half moons), the Argentinian name for croissants.  Breakfast is meant to be simple and light, to the point where those seeking fare more substantial than the standard coffee, orange juice and medialunas are generally out of luck.  Ham and cheese sandwiches are also fairly popular for breakfast, though for some reason no one believes in making these with more than a single slice each of ham and cheese, regardless of the thickness of the bread.

Brazil, the -guays, Chile and Argentina all have variations of the empanada (Note: there is no tilde over the ‘n’ and thus these are pronounced em-puh-nah-duh, and not “em-pan-yah-duh” as I mistakenly said for the first week or two that I lived here), for which I am thankful.  The doughy half-circles are sold with a wide variety of different stuffings in the middle.  Ground beef is typically my favorite when selecting one of the quick, warm mid-day snacks, though another variety includes a densely starchy corn pudding that’s also quite good.  Most vendors sell chicken varieties as well, but empanada de pollo always ends up tasting a bit dry.  There seems to be an unspoken rule that the dough that wraps each different filling be folded in a specific way to make the varieties more recognizable.

Rounding out the fast food selections is a wide sampling of standard sandwich fare.  Like anywhere else on this continent, hamburguesas are widely popular, as are “hot dogs” (that’s how they’re called here as well).  However, why one would go for a simple hot dog when choripan are available, I’m not sure.  From “chorizo“, the insanely good Argentinian beef sausage and “pan” for bread, this sandwich slices a massive chorizo down the center, coats it chimmichurri (a spice rack’s worth of different seasonings all in an oil and vinegar base) and serves it on a fresh French roll.  There’s a reason why there are so few American fast food restaurants here — they’re unnecessary.  Of all the countries, I think Argentina had my favorite street food.

All of these are merely lead-ins, of course, to Argentina’s most famous of coronary-inducing main courses.  No, not red wine, though there’s plenty of that to be found here on the cheap as well.  I’m talking, of course, about steak.  Massive, bloody, succulent, affordable steak.  How affordable, you ask?  Well, this massive cut of tenderloin that I used to make about seven large cuts cost me the equivalent of four US dollars:

Yeah.  I miss that.  Parillas are Argentinian barbecue restaurants, and typically you can find several on the block of any busy street.  Restaurants like these specialize in meats, typically served with a side of meats and your choice of two additional meats.  Sometimes, these meals come with a small side salad, though it should be noted that the salad is made entirely of meat as well.  In short, Argentinians like their meat, and tend to order a large platter brought out to the table on a hot plate (often with a compartment for hot coal kept underneath to keep the food warm throughout dinner) with about 4-8 different meat varieties.  Purees of either regular or sweet potato are available, though that’s generally it as far as non-meats go.

The only downside to this is a general lack of options for dinner (which, I’ll remind you, is eaten between 10 pm and midnight throughout most of Argentina).  Most restaurants (and parillas for that matter) also serve a handful of pasta and noquis (gnocci) dishes, though the pasta options are almost identical throughout every restaurant in the entire country.  As much as I miss the steaks, I think the lack of options in Argentina would’ve gotten to me over time.

And for dessert?  Helados, and lots of it.  Meaning iced cream, the typical Argentinian helado is closer to Italian gelato than anywhere else I found in South America.  The frosty treat is popular across the continent, though harder and more similar to US iced cream elsewhere.  The Argentinian style is rich, creamy and ubiquitous.  There are almost more helado shops than parillas, with each one trying to out-gourmet the next.  Equally widespread are alfajores (al-fah-WHORE-eys), which some friends and family were lucky to get upon my return home last May.  These treats are made from two cake-like cookies pressed together with dulce de leche (caramel) in the center, and then usually coated in a thin layer of chocolate.  I found them “OK” at best, but the locals love ‘em.

Oh yeah.  Mate. Argentinians love their tea, and specifically, yerba mate.  Mate is a holly plant used to make tea throughout most of southern South America, though most popularly in Argentina.  As boiling the leaves tends to make them unpleasantly bitter, mate is instead steeped in hot water.  Due to high amounts of caffeine, the drink is a stimulant and is considered a social beverage in Argentina where it is passed around in small cups made from gourds called guampas.

Mate in Argentina, from Iguazu Falls in the north to Ushuaia in the far south, is inescapable.  Argentinians carry their guampas with them everywhere, typically with a small bag of tea, a bombilla (metal or wood straw used for drinking the tea while filtering out the leaves) and a thermos of hot water.  The leaves typically pack enough punch to be used for 7-10 servings of hot water; when they fail to provide any flavor, the mate is discarded and the gourd promptly refilled.  On buses, Argentinians pass their gourd around like a joint in a college dorm room.  At parties, it’s as likely that they show up with a thermos of hot water and a bag of mate as it is that they’d bring beer or wine.

Personally, I like the flavor but never quite got used to properly handling the bombilla.  The majority of these straws are made from metal, which doesn’t have much of a problem conducting heat.  Combine this with the near-boiling temperature of the hot water and it’s searing pain on the lips.  Though the response from all Argentinians is the same: “Oh, you get used to it…”

Seven months on the road and suddenly I was done with ancient ruins, idyllic natural beauty, the college dorm-like hostel lifestyle and never sleeping in the same bed for more than three nights in a row.  Sure, I missed my family and friends, but not in the homesick “I wanna go home” sense.  No, what I missed was a sense of normalcy.  Unshifting surroundings.  A home, even if said place wasn’t anywhere I’d ever been before.

I chose Buenos  Aires.

With a little over a month’s time to spend integrating myself into the heart and soul of the city, I used my first few days apartment-hunting on craigslist (it’s as big down there as anywhere I’ve seen in the States) and meeting an assortment of landlords.  Prices ranged from 220-500 for the month for single rooms in shared housing, and eventually I settled on 290 for one of four rooms offered by an Argentinian music producer named Guido who lived in the downstairs basement.  To the left of my sparse (but wifi-included) room, a young Argentinian/Brazilian couple in college; To the right, an Israeli magician named Dimago.

Dimago was friendly and enterprising, and while he still relentlessly haggled and made deals all around the city so much that no one would confuse him for anything but an Israeli (at one point he pushed a sushi restaurant on us really hard, then ate for free as he’d worked a deal out in advance with the owner that he could do so any time he brought three or more people along), he was far friendlier than his younger compatriots that were fresh out of the army.  His magic focused on sleight of hand, card tricks and mentalism and were almost unanimously phenomenal, and he’d actually convinced two clubs to pay him to wander about performing.  It was interesting to watch him at work the one time that I did, though dimness and excessive noise from the music probably caught his nightclub act from ever really taking off while I was in town.

His one great weakness, though, was a monotone Borat-like delivery that make the strange, one-liner attempts at humor he attempted to throw into his act tend to fail confusingly.  For example:

Dimago, in the midst of a trick:  ”So it’s a good thing… that I am good at magic… you know?  Because it is better than my old job…”

My friend Nicole and I wait out the pause and then look at each other.  Does he want us to probe further on this one?  Ok.

“Uh…  So what was your old job?”

“Well… I sold drugs… to kids.”

Nicole and I look at each other, perplexed.  It’s a joke, right?  I mean, even in Israel it’s probably not cool to sell drugs to small children…

“Oh,” we say. “Ok.”

To his credit, the trick is outstanding.

Couchsurfing

There’s little more to say that wasn’t covered by my first visit here.  Avoiding clubs entirely, I opted to semi-successfully figure ways to meet and bond with the local populace.  The most fruitful of these attempts involved the website couchsurfing.com.  Ostensibly a way for people to travel on the cheap while meeting fun and exciting new foreign strangers, its users in Buenos Aires pride themselves on being the most social couchsurfing community on the Internet.

“Events” take place on a nightly basis: cooking lessons, concerts, English/Spanish practice groups, parillas (Argentinian barbecues) and, ostensibly, orgies.  I’m not sure if the last one ever happened or not.  Most of us were sure it started as a joke, but as many as twenty people of both sexes put their names down as potential orgy-goers, and Dimago was one of them.  Utterly fascinated, I regularly asked him how the plans were progressing, though participants had hit a roadblock upon realizing that none of them lived in a large enough (or possibly squalid enough) house to accomodate twenty people simultaneously copulating.

What’s more, the “sexually liberated” women that had initially put their names down with the intention of experiencing a mature, respectful, carnal romp, suddenly came to realize that such a thing is nearly impossible from nearly 97% of the male population on the Internet.  I’m not sure whether it was the guy excited about bringing his camera or the slew of users publically expressing their aversion to “fat chicks” (the message board was equally made up of English and Spanish writers), but as of my departure from Buenos Aires the list was down to two girls.

In general, the couchsurfing boards focused more on traditionally wholesome fare, though.  Monday night in Buenos Aires hosts a weekly show of heavily choreographed drumming called La Bomba del Tiempo.  Rain or shine, the large outdoor venue (comfortably located only two blocks from my apartment) fills up with drummers, young Argentinians and a dense cloud of marijuana smoke.  A conductor maintains a steady rhythm, keeping the 20+ member percussion orchestra playing in unison while throngs of concert goers vibrate to the Latin-influenced beat.

For a month, I did nothing but live in Buenos Aires.  Why not?

Wine country is wasted on those that can´t tell the difference between a bottle of ¨Two Buck Chuck¨ and a bottle of…  Wait.

Wine country is wasted on those that can´t name a brand of wine other than ¨Two Buck Chuck.¨

It´s a fun place to be ignorant and thirsty, though.

Traveling from Buenos Aires, this is my first opportunity to travel in a ¨full cama¨ (meaning ¨bed¨) bus.  I´ve ridden brand spanking new buses, and those that seemed mere moments away from a rusty demise, and none of them make for comfortable, night-time somnambulance, but this might be my one opportunity.  Each pair of seats is divided both at the head and feet by wooden barriers, and the seat backs stretch all the way back while the footrests rise, making a full, comfortable bed of sorts, long enough for anyone under six feet tall.

Sadly, I am 6´4¨.

Luckily, I was able to curl up a bit and make it work, and we arrived in Mendoza the next morning after an almost full night´s unconsciousness.  In addition to the added comfort features, travel includes a movie (standard on almost any bus, really) and dinner (my first on a bus), along with a game of bingo, which I’ve since been told is a standard on the Buenos Aires/Mendoza route.  My mother being the winner of the brief game (only a 4×4 grid), she was handed a free bottle of relatively decent Argentinian red wine.  All this for a fairly affordable price that I conveniently walked away without paying while my mother stood behind at the counter.

Whatever.  Tour guides this good could charge triple.

Mendoza is both a province and the capital city of said province, in addition to being world renowned for creating some of the best wines and olive oils in South America, if not the world.  The altitude compared with the flatness of the land and relative dryness all combine to create the perfect environment for grape and olive harvesting.

Within the city, fascinating trenches run parallel to all the city streets, often with a powerful throughput of water flowing through them.  My mother and I commented on their uniqueness to locals several times, being told by them that it both protects the city and irrigates.  Only later did I discover that they´ve been a feature of the town since its inception in the 1500´s, installed by the unfortunately named (with 20/20 hindsight) Huarpes Indians.  In 1861, an earthquake killed over 5000 people, leading to a rebuilding of Mendoza better capable of withstanding such seismic activity.  As such, the streets and sidewalks are wider than at any other location in Argentina.

It´s wine country, so the most popular day trips involve quick tours of any of the surrounded wineries that dot Mendoza´s landscape (there are hundreds, apparently).  The most popular is the infamous “Wine & Bike” Tour, where tourists are dropped off in the center of wine country with bikes and a local map to help them get around.  This didn’t seem like the ideal trip to bring parents along on.  Our tour takes us to a large winery and then the mom-and-pop equivalent, just for some perspective.  Topping it off is an olive oil factory which is marginally interesting, but due to the many snacks served upon completion, a perfect way for the tour to end.

Not being wine aficionados, one day ends up being more than enough time for us and we depart the following afternoon by bus for Santiago, Chile.  On a map, Argentinian Mendoza seems to almost directly border Santiago, compared to Buenos Aires which now sits far off in the distant east, but the bus ride (¨semi-cama¨ this time — the seats lean back, but no more than they typically would) lasts more than half as long (6 hours, compared to 10).

Longer, actually, as we discover upon reaching the Chilean border.  For two hours we sit, doing nothing before anyone ventures out to discover if the delay is normal.  Apparently, several customs agents neglected to show up for work, and we´re stuck waiting on the few that did bother to make it in to get to us.  A long line of trucks stretches off in the distance back toward Mendoza, and we´re told they likely won´t be getting through until morning.

An hour or so later, customs searches through our bags as diligently as Chileans did back in Patagonia.  I´d warned my mother against apples, but this time she´s the primary cause of delay.  Sun-dried tomatoes.  Three packs, vacuum-sealed and purchased as souvenirs at the Mendoza olive oil factory.  They´re confiscated, though my mother is not required to write an apology note of any sort.

Chileans do not mess around.

Inside one of the wineries

And the wine therein

Lunch on the sidewalk in Mendoza

Waiting to get into Chile

The long line of trucks waits to get in.

Looking out the window at the Andes. I’d been through them many times in Ecuador, but the environment here was completely different and more arid than further north.

[Editor's note: After an epic three-day weekend of blogging (fun!), I'm far more caught up than I thought I could be.  Tomorrow at 5 am, it's off to Machu Picchu!  Few updates likely this week, but more to come soon.  --y]

My only real opportunity for visiting Iguazu falls was during my time in Brazil, and even then it would have been an 18 hour bus ride on a good day.  Now, it is too far out of the way, too expensive to fly to, and yet too highly recommended.

I purposefully share the above information with my mother, and get the desired response.

¨Well, if it´s something we must do, what are a few more dollars after I´ve already spent so much?¨

Bingo.

You might be thinking that no self-respecting adult male should so giddily be riding the purse strings of his visiting mother.  To which I say ¨meh.¨

¨Iguazu¨ comes from the local native words ¨y¨ (water) and ¨uasu¨ (big).  No one ever accused these people of clever naming schemes, but you can´t deny the clarity of it.  Iguazu Falls drops down right at the border between Brazil and Argentina, with Paraguay being mere kilometers away — close enough to visit by bus, but too far to reap the big tourist bucks that come from geographically claiming such boundless grandure.

The falls come together in one central dumping of water that tends to command the most attention (Garganta del Diablo - ¨The Devil´s Throat¨), but in truth there are 275 falls in the area stretching the one-and-a-half mile width of the Iguazu River here.  In comparison to other famous falls, the water output and overall size is just slightly smaller than Zimbabwe´s Victoria Falls, though far more substantial by almost double than our own Niagara.  More importantly, the layout and quantity of the falls allow for a viewing angle over 260 degrees of constant waterfall action.  It´s fairly spectacular, which would explain why it´s so recommended by nearly all travelers that´ve made their way down.

We give ourselves two full days in Puerto Iguazu, with the intention of using the second day to venture into nearby Paraguay for completion´s sake.  That ends up being a terrible mistake, but Paraguay should get its own entry.  Neighboring Foz do Iguazu in Brazil is apparently also fairly nice, but as my mother lacks the expensive Brazilian tourist visa, that´s not an option here.  Puerto Iguazu has far more restaurants than it seems the town could ever use, as well as casinos.  Most of the restaurants were all but empty, leading us to wonder how they possibly stay afloat, unless a seasonal busy time really brings in some serious tourism.

Falls are a fifteen minute shuttle ride away, and we spend the extra dollars to buy a spot on the boat that actually runs into the falls.  I´m initially disappointed to find that it doesn´t travel under the more impressive Devil´s Throat, but the pressure and flow of the smaller falls we soak under end up being more than sufficient.

I´ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

The following link is sent to me via email from my friend Dana:

The Bizarre Zoo in Lujan

Wait.

I get to play, up close, with lions and tigers and bears.

Oh my!

Animal rights people commenting on the above site say such treatment of these animals is shocking, horrible and inhumane.  But I simply can´t see past the awesomeness.

Immediately I google ¨Lujan¨ and discover it is basically a suburb of Buenos Aires, located just an hour away by bus.  Yearly, porteños make pilgrimages to Lujan to visit its Basilica, which was built to honor the patron saint of Buenos Aires.  Due to its hands-on policy with some of the fiercest of nature´s beasts, the zoo has rapidly become a close second in popularity.

Getting there presents one of the hardest challenges since my mother´s arrived.  Lujan is too far outside the city limits to be accessed by subway, bus or cab (short of dropping an obscene amount of money).  This requires travel to the once (meaning ¨eleven,¨ it is pronounced OHN-say) bus station to wait by the street for one of the hourly bus rides.  The next bus isn´t for forty minutes, but already there is a long line — likely longer than the amount of seats available on each bus.

At one point, a shady character walks over and stands directly in front of me, clearly cutting in line.  I call him on it and he explains something in lightning-fast Spanish to me before turning around like his explanation was good enough.  I´ve got no clue what he said, but I know how to say ¨I don´t care.  Go away,¨ and apparently it is enough, as he walks back to the rear of the line.  It´s the small victories in life, really…

The bus fills with a good twenty people still ahead of us in line.  Suddenly, several people break out of line, speak with the bus driver and enter the bus.  I´m not sure what´s happening, but don´t want to wait for an hour, so I drag my mother upwards to the front of the line to inquire.  Turns out you can ride the bus if you don´t mind standing, though at this point it´s almost at capacity.  I ask if he can take two more and the driver reluctantly agrees, leaving me seated by the steps at the entrance of the bus.

It´s a long, tedious ride, standing much of the way to Lujan, but it will all be worth it when I sit upon the lion of Lujan, thus making the king of the jungle, effectively, ¨my bitch.¨

The zoo is located just past city limits.  I note the signs as we pass, but don´t realize until too late that it would´ve been possible to be dropped off there, rather than carted 15 minutes further into the town center where a further cab ride would be required.  We lunch in Lujan and give the Basilica a solid 15 seconds of viewing time before moving on to the main event.

At the entrance, we´re given devestating news: A law passed less than a week prior prohibits contact between patrons and the lions, tigers, bears, cheetahs and pumas of Lujan.  I am devestated.

¨[You can still ride the camel.  Camel is allowed!]¨ says the attendant in Spanish.

My eyes burn through a spot in the center of his forehead.

¨¡No me gusta!¨

He shrugs.

Epic mission failure.  Without the possibility of foolishly risking my life for a photo op, this place is just a zoo.

All the Touristy Places

An extensive subway system runs through most of downtown Buenos Aires, offering rides for approximately sixty cents (US) per person.  It´s a clean, efficient system weakened only by the fact that it shuts down each night by 10:30, despite city-wide late-night proclivities.  There´s a bus system in effect as well, but buses literally require a complex sixty-page guide (sold at all news stands for around two dollars) to be understood.  I eventually buy the guide, but even still, never quite master the massive system.

The top tourist attractions in Buenos Aires, from what I gathered, are:

1. 

   Puerto Madero

   Puerto Madero - Built in the late 1800´s, the port was almost immediately rendered obselete by Puerto Nuevo (New Port), which allowed Madero to fall into dangerously impoverished disrepair.  For decades, talk of renewal of the region or its outright destruction never inspired any real action and what is now one of the most vibrant sections of the city laid dormant for close to a hundred years.  In the late 90´s, the port was finally revitalized and now houses some of the most valuable real estate in the city, as well as some of the finest (and most expensive) restaurants and lodging.

2. Recoleta - Tourists with an eye for architecture often take note of the fact that many Porteños (the nickname for people from Buenos Aires) barely notice the richly designed architecture inspired by a wide variety of European countries that makes up their city.  Thoroughly modern monoliths of architectural design shadow classic Greek designs to one side and early-20th-century Italian to the next.  Recoleta, then, houses overwhelmingly those of French design, and also is the location for the famous Recoleta Cemetary, where the body of Eva Perón is interred.
3. Palermo - Low buildings generally of Spanish design have in many cases been converted to shops and restaurants, leading to a Bohemian feel, making it popular with fairly well-to-do younger Argentinians and the tourists that visit them.  Many great restaurants, though like Puerto Madero, few of them are affordable.
4. Retiro - While not particularly known for its restaurant scene or nightlife, this part of town houses the Retiro bus station, which is one of the largest transportation hubs in Argentina.  Bus rides can be acquired here as far north as Iguazu Falls, as far south as Ushuaia, or as far west as Santiago, Chile.  The nearby Buquebus terminal offering boat rides to Uruguay can be found here as well.
5. 

   The Abasto shopping center

   Abasto - While actually a part of the Balvanera district, the Abasto shopping center and its surrounding area are typically referred to simply as Abasto now.  This is only significant because I will have an apartment here in several weeks.

6. La Boca - Settled long ago largely by Italians, their style dominates the architecture here.  The main attraction here is the Caminito, a street that in the 1950´s was one of Buenos Aires´ biggest eyesores, only to be slowly re-painted in a variety of rich pastels by a single artist, leading to a tremendous renaissance to the area.  Tourists now travel here to watch live outdoor tango dancing and music shows, and to simply enjoy the scenery.  After walking back to our hostel from here with my mother, I was told that the regions of La Boca outside of the Caminito are extremely unsafe and we´re lucky we weren´t mugged.  I didn´t share this information with my mother.
7. San Telmo - The oldest barrio (neighborhood) in Buenos Aires, San Telmo still features a number of colonial buildings and old school charm.  It also hosts one of the largest art and craft markets every Sunday, closing down several streets for the tourist-centric fair.  Basically, a great place to take moms.

My Newest Travel Buddy

¨Yance.¨

No one quite calls to you like your mother.  The combination of varying inflections, questioning, command and concern, all evoked in a single, monosyllabic abbreviation of a name.

¨I´m getting a little worried…¨

I look up at her from my laptop.

¨You haven´t given me a schedule for tomorrow yet and it´s getting dark out.  We only have another week here in the city.  I need to know we´re doing something tomorrow!¨

¨Ok.  Did we do anything today?¨ I ask.

¨Oh, I´m exhausted.  Today was wonderful!¨

¨And, I mean, have any of our days here not been equally full and awesome.¨

¨No,¨ she sighs.  ¨This has been the greatest vacation of my life. You´ve been excellent.  So so excellent.¨

¨Thanks.¨

I go back down to figuring out the next days itinerary.  It´s quite possible that I´m also checking email, facebook, sweettravelblog.com, the news and a wide variety of escapist Internet fare as well, and after perendinating my way through college, she´s not exactly without cause for concern.  But there are definitely some travel pages currently open!

I sense that she has something to say, long seconds before she speaks.

¨…but Yance?  I really am kind of worried about tomorrow…¨

After seven months of never traveling with anyone I couldn´t easily get away from for minutes, hours or days, I now find myself confronted with approximately 350 straight hours of my mother´s company.  She argues with me at times, criticizes me at others, and at still other times offers unsought after advice on dressing, eating, dating, behaving and living.  In short, she is a Mom.  She´s also one of the best travel companions I could hope for, at least in tourist-friendly environments like Buenos Aires.

The natural compulsion of a son to impress his parents ends up working to the advantage of both when he´s thrust into the role of unofficial tour guide.  While before, I´d gotten complacent with my time and my exotic locations, suddenly I find myself crafting intricate travel plans, seeing fascinating things I might´ve otherwise dismissed.  In the process of trying desperately to keep my mother well-entertained by the richness of Buenos Aires´culture, I suddenly found myself keyed in to far more of it than I might´ve experienced on my own.

Also, she flipped the bill for, like, everything.

The Tango Shows

This being Passover week and my mother being an observant Jew, her number one tourist destination is a traditional Argentinian seder.  Argentina apparently has the third largest Jewish population in the world after the United States and Israel (it´s what they tell me here, at least), so I hoped this wouldn´t be a problem.  In the mean time, her number two ¨must-see¨ was ¨A Tango Show.¨  Preferably two.

Prior to stopping over in Argentina, I had no idea what exacty this meant, though several days in town before her arrival gave me ample time for research.  Much like Samba is to Brazil, Tango is the national dance of Argentina and Buenos Aires is its heart.  After living there, I discovered many Argentinians that insisted that tango was a tourist dance that locals took no part of.  But just as often, I met porteños that had been dancing at events and at milongas for most of their lives, and insist the dance is no joke.

Tango shows are nightly performances, with loose stories built largely around the traditional dance.  In a loose sense, they are live, tango-themed versions of Step Up 2 The Streets.  In a very loose sense.

Sometimes, two male performers vie for the heart of a scantily clad woman who will likely end up dancing with both of them.  Another act might demonstrate the birth of tango in the early 20th century by railway workers.  Still another might involve a garish re-enactment of the balcony scene from Andrew Lloyd Webber´s Evita.  Heavily choreographed dance numbers are broken with live musical performances by deeply baritoned men in classic tango wear.  Typical tango shows last about two hours and dinner and wine are optional (though obviously more expensive).

For our first performance, I surprise my mom with a two-night stay at Complejo Tango, a boutique, tango-themed hostel that also houses a well-received nightly show.  From reviews, shows seem to be intimate affairs with great views from anywhere in house and plenty of audience interaction as well.  My mother´s original plan involved staying in the same hotel for the entire week, but neither of us are happy with the place, and unlike in most hostels, none of the employees speak English.

Complejo Tango is cheaper than our prior lodging, and has far more character as well.  Unfortunately, the location doesn´t offer as many night-time options for dinner and scenic strolls, which are both high up on my mom´s list of ¨Things That Are Awesome at Night.¨  We´ll stay here for two days, no more.

Dance class begins at 7:30.  My mom sits it out, and I don´t complain, as saucy tango dancing with my mother happens to be high up on my list of ¨Things I Never Really Want to Do.¨  A young Brazilian girl, Roberta (pronounced ho-BEHRcha), is here alone and is both my de facto dance partner and company for dinner during the show.  She´s here by herself for two weeks, before returning to finish her masters in International studies, and dances just incompetantly enough that we´re perfectly matched without either side feeling too gawky or unbalanced.  At class´s end, the teacher selects us to demonstrate our newly acquired dance skills, and while she doesn´t share her reasoning for having only us amongst the entire class perform, it can only imply that we were exceptional.

Roberta is living on the cheap and plans to pick up a more reasonably priced dinner outside after the show, but my mother offers to pay for her meal here.  She declines, but is willing to accept a soda on our tab.  Dinner´s fairly good, but the wine flow is bottomless and of more than passable quality (even cheap wine in Argentina is incredibly drinkable), adding to our enthusiasm at the smoothly cheorgraphed dancing taking place just feet from our seats.

The show loosely interprets the history of tango through a series of dances, representing the major period´s of tango´s history.  At one point, I´m dragged directly into the show by a wandering performer.  Later on, Roberta and I are both encouraged to take the floor, demonstrating our new moves.  It´s a lively and engaging performance and definitely my favorite of the two we saw.

La Ventana was our second option, and despite being late, we managed to secure a perfect spot just three rows back from the stage.  It´s a larger and more expensive performance, and features a variety of Argentinian music and dancing outside of traditional tango, involving pan flutes and an elaborate gaucho bola dance.  Toward the night´s end, an elaborate balcony is erected onstage while ¨Don´t Cry For Me Argentina¨ is sung passionately in Spanish.  Well done, but a bit heavy for my tastes…

Passed Over in Argentina

The Jewish Torah lists three holidays as the most important annual events: Passover (the one where you eat weird food), Yom Kippur (the one where you don´t eat at all, and Shavuot (the one no one knows).  For the eight days of Passover, Jews eat unleavened bread along with no other grains, leading to Jews all around the world spending eight days eating food that most of them find interesting enough to chow down on for three, tops.  It´s kind of like spending a week living like your unfortunate friend that´s allergic to gluten; no pastas, breads or beer for you!

Passover commences with two important meals called seders, and they´re the most important aspect of the holiday.  Non-observant Jews might snack on burgers and tacos all week with little regard for divine commandments, but still typically find themselves at at least one of the two seders, forcing their way through the 16 traditional steps to the dinner.  It´s all about the order of things (seder actually means ¨order¨), and the dinner is almost like a checklist as participants walk through a list of required Passover actions: wash hands, eat a green vegetable, tell the story of the exodus from Egypt, mix a bitter herb with the unleavened matzah, have dinner, say grace, etc.

In Argentina, much like anywhere in the world, the story might be told in another language, but the order of things is unchanged.  My mother had actually done a fairly good job of tracking down seder options for our stay here in Buenos Aires, using the help of Chabad House, a worldwide organization aimed at getting prodigal Jews fully back into the faith by making it as accessible (and in some cases, ¨fun¨) as is likely to be possible.  When the drunken Jewish guy in Paraty, Brazil, desperately wanted to ¨put tefillin on me¨ after discovering my link to the faith, it was no surprise that he was affiliated with Chabad.

Our first night was spent at the small Chabad center in Palermo.  It was mildly disorganized, but for the most part it was clean, easy to follow, served decent food and had enough English speaking guests that we had a table all to ourselves.  As such, it doesn´t make for interesting storytelling.

The second night, on the other hand, found us in a densely packed room for those that could not pay for their seder experience.  My mother would gladly have paid, but we failed to organize things in time and once Passover begins, none of the religious use their phones, making such late-to-the-game organization impossible.  As such, it appeared that we were place in the room where the poor (and homeless?) Jews of Buenos Aires showed up for a free meal.

Children darted about the room, screaming and unhindered.  A four year old girl slaps a younger child nearby, inspiring a burst of uncontrollable screaming that no one moves to address, and the younger girl shrieks like a siren in the room´s center for countless minutes, unaddressed by any of the present addresses.  A single rabbi stands at the head of the room, futilely attempting to keep order.  At times he yells louder, attempts to silence a room that participates in private conversations that have little to do with his chanting or reading, but his efforts are wasted.

Seder food is meant to be eaten in a particular order, and after the recitation of a blessing.  If the people here know this, they do not care.  As ingredients for later steps of the seder are placed on the table, they are immediately devoured by the room´s hungry, listless denizens.  Across from me, a bedraggled, heavyset older man sits, his grin missing multiple teeth.  A bowl of charoset is set before us, ostensibly for the entire table.  He immediately picks it up and starts eating directly from the bowl.

Luckily for us, he speaks some English.

¨Youuu are frommm Americaaa?¨ he asks.  His mouth is open as he chews.  His mouth is full as he talks.  The spittle flies.  Even when it doesn´t, I can´t help but imagine the wet particles filling the air between us.  When his attention is later elsewhere, my mother suggest unjokingly that he might be partially retarded.  His accent sounds more Russian than Argentinian, stretching and inflecting syllables like an extra from Fiddler on the Roof.

¨Yes,¨ I say.

¨MMmmmm!  Are there LOTS of black Jewwwws there?¨

¨Huh?  Black Jews?  Um, Sammy Davis Jr.  Only black Jew.  No mas, I think.  Wait–  Whoopi Goldberg.  Yeah, Whoopi too…¨

He pauses to take this in for a moment before his eyes light up excitedly.

¨LOUIEEE ARMSTRONG!¨ he barks.  ¨Is…  JEWWWWW???¨

The question is oddly intense, as if I will be judged by my response.  Others at the table are looking at me expectantly now.

¨No,¨ I say.  ¨No, I´m almost positive Louis Armstrong is Not a Jew.¨

He sits back in his chair, oddly satisfied with my answer.

¨Well this is easily the worst seder I have ever been to,¨ my mother says with a surprising smile.  She is, like me, perversely amused by the whole thing, though.  ¨I really hope you don´t write about this on your blog.¨

Recollecting Recoleta

Buenos Aires: ¨Safe enough to bring your mom.¨

It´s easy to have a false sense of security when you don´t get mugged, pickpocketed or scammed in any way.  I´m told the city has its dark side, too.  The villas apparently are this city´s equivalent of Rio´s favelas, and should be avoided at all cost.

¨If anyone ever offers to rent you a nice villa in Buenos Aires,¨ a local tells me over dinner, ¨get away fast!¨

But my mother and I make our way through the well-planned grid of streets with the help of a single free map given out at any of the hostels in town.  By day, we leave our hotel in Palermo heading in the general direction of Recoleta and allow ourselves to be lost.  A pink-pillared building turns out to be the Museo del Bellas Artes (Museum of Fine Arts), housing over 10,000 works of art and free to the general public.  Walking through their extensive collection of Dali, Rembrant, Monet, Rodin, Manet, Toulouse-lautrec, Cezanne, Chagall, Van Gogh, Degas, Renoir and countless others, my mother is immediately amazed by the vast collection.

¨This is as good as any museum in the United States!  Can you believe they have this many paintings in South America? All these Masters, and you know they probably never leave this museum.  We might never have seen any of these!  I never would´ve expected anything like this down here!¨  She´s nearly in shock.

It´s easy to make fun of her limited world view, but it brings into focus the uniform assumptions about South America that I myself had (and most people I talk to have)  before taking in the vast differences in culture and development that varies from country to country.  Even after researching, I inherently expected that ¨third world¨-like environment spread out across the entire continent.  And in some places, I definitely found it.

[Note: Third World.  There seems to be some confusion about this term.  Sometimes I´ve heard people say ¨this place should be second world at least...¨ or other things implying a lack of understanding.  During the Cold War, the US and her allies were considered ¨first world¨ while the communist countries made up the ¨second world.¨  All other countries not deemed important enough to be included in the conflict were then ¨third world.¨]

But the truth about Buenos Aires is that it´s about as safe and modern as any of the world´s great cities — and probably moreso than many US cities I´ve visited.  Living there for a month cleansed me of any overblown notions of the city´s perfection — poorer sections of the city definitely have their share of crime and far less control over litter — but even then, I came away feeling that Buenos Aires has a captivating energy that seems to permeate it across the board.  I´ve had too many random encounters with the kindness of her people — strangers coming up to assist me in the streets, in subway stations, at restaurants, etc — to dismiss it as coincidence.

¨Have you noticed,¨ asks my mom as we leave an heladeria (an ice cream store — these gourmet shops are on nearly every block, and all seem to do a fairly good business.  Argentinians LOVE their ice cream), ¨how nice the people that waited on us were?  How nice all the people that wait on us everywhere are?  I mean, I expect it from the waitresses at nicer restaurants, but even their fast food places.  They just all seem so happy, everywhere we go!¨

I had noticed.

My favorite restaurant, La Cabrera, was located in Palermo.  I researched ¨best Buenos Aires steaks¨ relentlessly, and it was one of the most highly recommended, with good reason.  The wait is expected to be 45 minutes, but it´s one of the better waits either of us have ever experienced as champagne is served to all those that wait outside to be called in.  Occasionally, a plate of sliced tenderloin makes its way out and we´re all given meaty toothpicks of the succulent steak to tide us over until we´re allowed inside.  The dinner can only be described as ¨epic,¨ but I´ll save my review for the next food entry.

Waiting outside, a lady walks up with her three-year old son.  As they near the cluster of expectant diners, the child hunches over and starts coughing weakly.  She bounces from person to person, tapping elbows to get attention, and as each target looks over, the child coughs and stares upwards with wounded eyes.  The game is obvious and people are visibly upset by it.  She gets nothing.  Crossing the street with the now healthy child, she appears to be yelling at him.  Buenos Aires is definitely not without its problems.

A separate day, we find ourselves several blocks from Palermo in the Recoleta district.  With the exception of La Cabrera, our favorite restaurants were all in Recoleta, and this region of town just seemed to have a uniformly welcoming vibe to it.  A large hill is covered in craft stands with a focus in leather.  My mom buys a leather bracelet, but holds back on purchasing more; you can´t go more than six blocks without running into another of these fairs, and we´ve got some long weeks of perusing still ahead of us.

Behind a wall are the tops of the variously styled mausoleums of Recoleta Cemetary.  The mish-mash of architectural styles employed from one crypt to the next somehow manage to create a consonant character across the whole of the massive cemetary.  The tremendous grid is mostly unmarked, and more than a few people have maps.  After fifteen minutes of aimless meandering, we settle upon finding the grave of the cemetary´s most famous inhabitant: Eva Perón.

It isn´t easy.  Fifteen minutes more and the assistance of of multiple map-wielding tourists and we track it down, inconspicuously located down one of the narrow alleyways of crypts.  The only thing that works in our favor is the presence of such a large cluster of tourists down what would otherwise be an unassuming line of mausoleums.  The crypt actually belongs to her family, the Duartes, and only two small plaques toward the bottom mention her entombment therein.

Other noteworthy things about the cemetary:

1. Amidst fancy, new mausoleums of the finest quality marble and other material, are those that visibly haven´t been taken care of in decades.  Glass in their entryways is often broken, and it´s clear that animals have taken residence inside.  In one case, it looked as though janitorial or cleaning supplies were being stored over the coffins.
2. Most of the bodies are stored underground.  In the few cases where doors to the mausoleums were open, steep staircases led into the darkness below where tall columns of coffins were stored above one another.
3. Cats.  This place is overrun with them in the dozens, if not in the hundreds.  Signs are erected in key locations warning that the cats are not to be fed, but it doesn´t seem as though this advice is heeded.  I asked someone why so many made this place their home and was told ¨Where do you think all the rats live..?¨

Maria Eva Duarte de Perón started life as an actress and performer, before meeting Colonel Juan Perón in 1944.  They soon married and he became President in 1946.  She became a voice of the poor and disenfranchised, speaking often on behalf of labor rights, and started the first feminist party in Argentina.  In her famous balcony speech, she spoke before two million people who screamed for her to become the country´s vice-president.  Initially she opted to take the role, though her health was rapidly declining and she ultimately died that year of cancer at the age of 33.  Immediately afterwards, Argentina´s congress declared her the ¨Spiritual Leader of the Nation,¨ and she still retains great popularity throughout the country.

Opening La Boca

We walked both to and from La Boca, which in hindsight might not have been the best idea, though I cannot once remember feeling any hints of danger.  We might have just been very lucky.  Both walks were far more boring than dangerous, as other than Caminito, La Boca (¨the mouth¨)  just didn´t seem to be that interesting a town.  Even the large market we walked through was more of a low-grade flea market than any of the others, specializing only in cheap, second-hand clothing and trinkets.

Caminito, though, stands out colorfully starkly amidst its gray surroundings like a kindergarten project that exploded outwards over several city blocks.  The streets were painted and revitalized in 1960 and have remained a popular spot for tourists ever since.  Goods at the craft stands are mostly the same in quality and appearance as what they´ve got for sale at every stand, but the artists have made this section of town their home, and it has some of the finer small galleries we´ve seen.

Restaurants do most of their business outside, along the closed off street, and each has a make-shift stage erected for live performances.  It´s not uncommon to sit at one table, watching a pair of tango dancers sultrily performing their tango act, while just thirty feet away another similar act is going on.  The slew of shows are entertaining, though the dueling tango music can at times be overwhelming.

San Telmo

It´s a few blocks off from the nearest subway exit, making a visit to the Sunday market more of a hike than other things we´ve done thus far.

¨Are you sure this is the right way?  I don´t see anything.¨  My mother isn´t too worried yet.  Just enough to voice initial concern.

¨I think so.  At least, the map says so.¨

I can see that she´s skeptical.  Several more city streets and there are some stands interspersed by rugs laid out on the street and covered in cheap jewelry.  Like every other market we´ve been to, one in four stands offers maté gourds and bombillas, the metal straws and filters used to drink the bitter, local tea.  My mother is unimpressed, and I assure her there´s more to the market than this.  I´m not sure.

Luckily there is.  The closed streets get thicker and thicker with vendors and shoppers, both tourist and local.  Bands dot the cityscape at regular intervals for maximum exposure.  My mother buys a lone classical guitarist´s cd, as well as one from a six-piece tango band with rock influences.  She´d later see music she liked more, but two cd´s was apparently her one-day music purchasing limit.  There´s enough here to kill at least two or three hours worth of time.

Three days to go before my mother´s arrival in Buenos Aires, and while I look forward to seeing her, the seconds are ticking by until my travels take a strange and inevitably different twist.  I´ve never been much of a one-night-stand person, though the transient nature (and occasional loneliness) of long-term travel make this a necessity at times.  Added to this very human compulsion is the fact that it´s three in the morning and I just woke up to find my bed rocking repetitively to the sound of soft, female moaning from below.

Really?

It´s nothing new in hostels, but it´s a rarity in a full room.  I wouldn´t think to trammel the action from the lower bunk if it didn´t directly hamper my sleeping, but it did.  I cough once, then again.  Eventually the international diplomacy is taken outside to a balcony that looks out unhindered and unblocked onto Buenos Aires below.  The sexiness of such a public display wakes me further, but despite certain seals on propriety already being broken I could never be so crass as to do anything about it, and I lay in bed for an hour or more waiting for sleep to retake me.  Some time before passing out, the couple moves to the bathroom.

Most of the room (there are six bunks) wakes early the next morning for a planned trip to Uruguay.  It seems universally agreed upon that Uruguay offers little reason for extended pass-throughs, but single-day trips across the brown and brackish river that separates Buenos Aires from Uruguay are standard fare.  Montevideo is a more popular destination in the summer time due to its large, attractive beaches, but it´s April now and the weather´s cooled significantly.  As Montevideo is three hours past the smaller town of Colonia, we opt for the latter.

Uruguay

Buquebus is the name of the river shuttle company that handles service to Uruguay, and it can be found directly next to the Retiro bus station (the largest in BA).  Two boat options greet us, offering rides to and from Colonia that last either one or three hours (with costs that are about as proportionally different from one another as their trip lengths).  It´s early still when we´re ready to depart — around 8 AM — and we opt for the slow journey there, with a faster one coming back.  It´s not a bad deal around thirty dollars, and another stamp is added to the passport.

Despite a significant tourist infrastructure in Colonia, the town seems more geared to older travelers, with a focus on its quiet streets and centuries-old architecture.  The closest correlations in the States would be places like Annapolis, MD or Williamsburg, VA.  A lighthouse looks out over the water, allowing for glimpses of Buenos Aires on non-smoggy days.  We´re just lucky enough to see a blotchy line of distinctively urban gray far in the distance before it fades back into semi-unnatural haziness.

Out along a small peninsula of fancy restaurants and tourist shops, we sit by the water´s edge for lunch.  The pizza´s passable — and better than the thick, bready pizzas of Argentina — but doesn´t compare to the mind-blowing gnocchi (here spelled ¨ñoquis¨).  Surrounded by the river on all sides, there´s plenty of shoreline to walk around, though the muddiness of the water is unwelcoming.

The equivalent of a quarter gets us a bus ride across town to the old bull ring.  The massive structure was built in 1910, only to be closed in 1912 after only eight fights due to Uruguay declaring the fights illegal.  A fence closes off the deteriorating ring from the general public, but based on multiple gaps in the fence and a quantity of other tourists inside, no one takes the closure seriously.  Inside, Patrick and I perform a mock bullfight to an adoring crowd of four before beginning the long walk back along the beach to the city´s center.

An 8 PM ticket on the ultra-fast hydrofoil leaves us just enough time to take in an Uruguayan sunset and a few drinks before heading back for the hour-long boat ride.  It´s the perfect way to spend a day, but I likely would never come back here.  Unless I´d be entertaining my mother a week later…

The Last Long Nights

There´s talk of Polo lessons during the days — the sport appears to be second only to fútbol here in Buenos Aires — and apparently no background skills are necessary, but both my opportunities are rained out.  Exhaustion causes me to skip ¨La Bomba del Tiempo,¨ a popular drum show.  It sounds completely uninteresting to me, but turns out to be one of the better weekly events in Buenos Aires.  Weeks later, I would attempt to talk others into going, only to have them reflect back at me the same casual indifference that I feel toward it now.

Instead, the two remaining days and nights are dedicated to soaking in the Buenos Aires nightlife, as the city (and country, really) is notorious for following a different waking schedule than the rest of the world.  Dinner, for instance, tends to be served around 10 o´clock at night, every night of the week.  This doesn´t just apply to the younger, wilder crew — old people, families, etc, all find their way out between 10 and midnight, and while restaurants are open from 8-10, they´re largely deserted.  Mornings are for work, only until noon, when everyone returns home for siesta, generally sleeping until five in the afternoon.  It can be frustrating when something is direly needed during the day, only to find most of the small stores closed for the entire afternoon.

Bars tend to get the most business then between midnight and two, generally as a precursor for the wildly popular club scene here.  Every night, there are two to three popular clubs that seem to be highlighted, only to be forgotten about during the remaining nights of the week.  Everyone insists on Club 69 on Thursdays (more of a spectacle than the others, the club features breakdancers and garish transvestites to create a uniquely bizarre atmosphere), but the massive club´s largely forgotten about by the hostel crew on every other day.  I was curious as to whether these clubs are closed down entirely on nights that they weren´t promoted, or if alternate nights simply targeted non-tourist clientele.

Promoters canvas the hostels, taking down names and offering ¨discount¨ VIP tickets, which include a free ride to whatever club is being promoted — rides back to the hostel are each individual´s responsibility, and typically involve an expensive cab ride.  At two in the morning, Club Bahrein is still mostly empty, leading me to think that tonight might not be its night after all.  My fears are unfounded; by 2:30, the dance floor is full.  By 3, it´s uncomfortably crowded.  In the bathroom someone tries to sell me cocaine — it´s the first time I´ve even had the drug (or any drug, really… other than my Peruvian jungle experiences) mentioned to me since Ecuador.

It´s my last single night in town and I´m feeling my independence rapidly slip away.  Tomorrow morning, I´ll be glad to see my mother after nearly seven months apart; tonight I mean to bask in the city´s late-night vitality and ardor one final time, with such enthusiasm that I worry I may be creating expectations that Buenos Aires won´t possibly be able to live up to.

A Californian girl and I opt to introduce the international world to Beer Pong, as Europe, Australia and South America are strangely unaware of the popular North American sport.  A trio of Brazilian girls latch onto us and seem fascinated by the subtle, thirst-quenching nuances of the game.  They´re terrible at it, but tenacious enough to keep playing until we head off to another club — a local one this time, within walking distance.

Elsewhere, we dance and drink, pose for pictures and laugh uncontrollably.  One of the girls and I hit it off and she sits on my lap as we talk on a sofa in a dimly lit corner of the bar.  Now outside, it´s raining lightly and we´re kissing each other under an air conditioning unit to stay dry.

¨I promised myself I wouldn´t do this,¨ she says in perfect English.  Of the three girls, only she spoke my language fluently.  ¨I have a boyfriend in Sao Paulo.¨

I kiss her again, unaffected by this information.  Several months on the road have left me unhinged from the unspoken proprieties that exist to keep society from crumbling into a global version of MTV´s The Real World.  She pulls away again.

¨I think he is gay, though.  I think most Brazilian boys are gay.¨ Before I say anything, she corrects herself.  ¨Not really.¨

¨I´ve only met a few.  Pretty sure they weren´t gay,¨ I say.  I think back to a group of mostly male Brazilians that latched onto Jaimee and me at one of the street parties, lightly dressed as Roman soldiers, pharoahs and mythological figures.  The cupid kept hitting me with his arrow, though I assumed his gaity was simply proper role-playing and not, well, gaity.  And then there was that trannie motorcade… ¨Or at least not all of them were gay.¨

¨No.  No.  Too many boys in my life are gay, I think.  Are you gay?¨

¨I hate sports and can sing along with most of Les Miserables.¨ She laughs as I kiss her again, pushes my hand down as I make a physical gesture of my sexual allegiance.

Around us, the city is alive with people rushing by, taking no notice of yet another couple passionately embracing against a wall, like the countless embracing pairs painted onto shirts, keychains and wine holders at every tourist market.  Nearby, a younger couple share a fold-out chair at a small cafe, protected from the rain only by their table´s thin, canvas umbrella.  Taking breaks to talk, their eyes are mere inches from one another and their locked gazes far more lavish and promiscuous than their soft, innocuous kisses.  Forget Paris (not that I´ve been there to remember it in the first place) Buenos Aires is a city in love.  A city in love with being in love.  And tonight, I am one with this city.

Later, as we kiss for a final time, the transient nature of such encounters is once again hammered in.  On the road, we form brief, powerful connections formed by either the standard rules of attraction put into overdrive by immutable travel deadlines or by the incidental bombardments of loneliness that are the biggest drawbacks to this solitary lifestyle.  Meaningful, ¨real¨ connections one day will be nothing more than additional names on my roster of facebook friends the next.

It´s 6 in the morning and my mother arrives in Buenos Aires in two hours.  While Bianca from California and I sit upstairs at the computers, Patrick returns from a night clubbing just in time for us to say our goodbyes.  He´s in town two days more, and there´s some talk of meeting up for lunch, but he´s fully on siesta schedule now, and we both know a meet-up is a slim chance. By next week he´ll be somewhere in western Africa, but we say we´ll keep in touch and it seems more likely this time than with other people I´ve traveled with.

At the airport, I stand slouched over with the taxi drivers and their big white signs, and the families and friends of eagerly anticipated arrivals.  Children shuffle around me, waiting on relatives, and an old woman shrieks and runs past the greeter line to hug an older male that must be a brother.  Tears pour from her eyes at an unnaturally steady flow as she places an unrelenting grip around him, rambling something meaningful and heartfelt to him that is too broken by her emotion for my poor Spanish comprehension to understand.  In my exhaustion I start to feel cold and self-critical.  Will I be greeting her with warmth and excitement as she comes through the door, or simply stumble over with the emotional fervor of a distant co-worker?

It´s late now.  She should be here.  Is it wrong that I´m mentally comparing her conspicuous absence to that of luggage that hasn´t appeared when everyone else from the same flight has already retrieved their things and gone?  A mom-sized silhouette appears behind the opaque glass doors.  Her eyes expand to match her large grin and I shuffle over to her through the crowd.  We hug each other tightly.

¨Ooooooooh I missed you sooooooo much,¨ she says, without letting go of me.

¨I really missed you too,¨ I say.  And I wasn´t even certain until this moment, but I generally mean it.  ¨I love you, Mom.¨

¨You´re so thin.¨

¨Thanks…¨

¨You´re too thin!¨

¨Ok.¨

The next two weeks will be interesting.

The standard parental question ¨When am I going to see you again?¨ actually translates to ¨When are you going to stop this craziness and come home?¨  As I prefer the former question, I opted to answer it by inviting my mother to come down and visit me while in Buenos Aires.  The weather´s good (the city´s name literally means ¨good winds¨), the crime rate´s low, the food is more interesting than it was in Ecuador and the high Jewish population would obviously be appealing to her, especially given I would be in the city for Passover.

Surprisingly, she took me up on the offer.  And so, when she arrived four days into my Buenos Aires experience, I couldn´t really hold it against her that I´d fallen in love with the town in a way that can´t be experienced with one´s mother.  But it´s possible that I did — just a little.  Hopefully she didn´t notice.  I´ll save all the mother-centric stuff for later, putting four days worth of quality, motherless Argentina/Uruguay action into this one.

Too Much Wine

Emma and Patrick, my Irish partners from the MV Ushuaia have followed me back to Buenos Aires (it was always on their itinerary, so I can´t take credit for being particularly inspirational), and a large assortment of rave reviews have led us to The Milhouse Hostel for some post-Antarctican urban revelry.  It´s a large hostel — five floors, complete with elevator — and known as one of the city´s better party hostels, complete with packed DJ nights several times a week and a fairly extensive bar.  Wrist bands are given to all guests to help keep the order.

An Australian girl, whom both the Irish had met taking a bus together through Europe and Asia several years ago, was currently in town with her Argentinian boyfriend.  She seems familiar; turns out she gave me the Torres del Paine lecture in Puerto Natales several weeks prior.  Sadly, I don´t remember her name.

She asks for a funny story about me and I tell her that I used to dress up like Captain Morgan in the DC area for a couple years, talking like a pirate and drunkenly handing out free schwag with the Morganettes.  This is generally a good gauge of people for me, as half of those that I tell find it imminently interesting, while the other half feel a shame for me that I never quite felt for myself.  She tells me it sounds like one of the greatest jobs she´s ever heard of.

I ask the same of her and get a bizarre story involving Amsterdam sex shows, mistaken identities and a banana from a time when she worked as a cross-Europe tour guide.  The story´s interesting, but I´m far more curious about the job, with visions of free travel and wild mobile parties (all while bringing in a decent paycheck).  It turns out, unsurprisingly, that the paycheck is indecent at best.  As the same cities, landmarks, points of interest and geological formations fly by that once fueled her drive for more travel, she instead found herself burnt out and jaded, loathing a pass-through of Paris the way I might have once dreaded a code mesh or inter-office meeting.

Another job crossed off the ¨potentials¨ list.  I hadn´t really put much thought into it anyway.

She likes white wine, and it passes down my throat too easily, like flavored water.  Emma and Patrick split a large bottle of Quilmes, and the Australian (I forget her name) and I go through an entire bottle of white wine just as quickly.  Every order to the bar is another bottle of beer, and another full bottle of wine, each split between two, each drank at about the same rate.  When all is said and done, the Australian and I split six bottles between us.

Despite the obviousness of such a bad idea with hindsight, the inebriation still manages to sneak up on me at the time.  My speech is slurred.  I´m going off on an Israeli couple for making me always defend their people for their policies in South America (post-army Israeli tourists are almost always obnoxious assholes, derided by the rest of the traveling community).  They leave dinner early.  Patrick shakes his head as I challenge the Australian futilely to a drinking competition.  I lose.

In general, it´s not economically sound to drink alcohol while traveling.  I´ve had my share of fun, liquor-drenched evenings from time to time, but in general I´ve seen the world mostly sober.  This is the first night since I´ve been here that I´ve been drunk.  Embarrassingly and disturbingly hammered.  Moreso than I can recall being in recent years.  Patrick says something and I throw the last of my wine at him, splashing a group of women in the table behind us.  They look back in irritation and I stare back at them fearlessly until they turn around.

¨That wasn´t cool at all, mate,¨ Patrick says.

¨pshhh.  It was.. funny.  Cuz, whatever.¨

¨No, it wasn´t funny at all.  I´ve got wine all over my shirt now.¨

I storm away angrily at those that can´t take such a harmless joke, stumbling in flip-flops back to the safety of my hostel.  A party´s going on at the Milhouse, with tables and chairs removed from the common area and a DJ blasting music to a surprisingly competent light show.  The floor´s filled with people and it´s too much for me.  I´m dizzy and my heart is racing for some reason.

Downstairs is calmer.  Leather sofas are perched around a large flatscreen television and Jim Carrey´s latest — ¨Yes Man¨ — is just starting.  I fall into the thick, downy comfort of the nearest chair and pass out upon impact.

I wake to screaming and disgust.  A girl is looking at me, aghast, with her hand to her mouth like an extra in an old Hitchcock movie.  Yes Man´s credits are rolling and there´s vomit on the floor.

must not´ve been a good movie.

Realization that the vomit is mine now fills me, and slowly, shame does as well.  I´ve done this maybe twice in my life, and always when I was so young I might´ve used that as an excuse.  I know that people are rallying for an employee to come down and, in what is likely the worst task at any hostel, undo that which I have done.  As people back away and bark their instructions just feet from where I sit, I´m spoken of in the third person, something alien and foreign and wrong.  Or maybe like a dog.  My dog eyes look down as I stand and mumble my apologies to an uncaring room.

My shirt is untouched, but the same can´t be said for the legs of my pants and my feet (where are my flip-flops?).  Three women look down at me from above the urinals.  They´re ¨clever¨ artwork, life-sized full-bodied picture cutouts of hipster women pointing down and laughing toward the spot where ostensibly a penis might be relieving itself in the accompanying urinal.  I feel the full weight of their scorn and half fall into a bathroom stall, gaining composure while hiding from people both real and plastered to the wall.

Outside the bathroom, a man with a mop is cleaning up after me.

¨sorry,¨ I say.

¨Hey, don´t worry about it,¨ he tells me.

¨no.  no, i´m really sorry.¨

¨Hey,¨ he says, stopping his work.  His face is serious and less happy this time.  ¨I said don´t worry about it.¨

I take the hint and move on.  An elevator leads upstairs, and a single girl rides alongside me.  I make myself as small as possible.  Was she in the basement when I was there?  Does everyone know the guy with the blue shirt and the jaguar claw necklace emptied his stomach on the floor?  Did I miss any spots?  Do I smell?  The elevator opens to the fourth floor and I bolt out and to my room.  Patrick — shit, Patrick.  Probably my favorite person I´ve traveled with this year and I dumped a glass of wine on him — isn´t there, though Emma seems to be in bed.  Thankfully I have no trouble sleeping.

In the morning, I pack up while the rest of the room sleeps.  I´m clean and strangely not hungover (I apparently did a fair job of purging all toxins from my system), but embarrassment still fills me from the night before.  In my mind, a network of gossip has alerted everyone in the hostel as to my size and description, and I´ve lost the few allies I started with.  My intention is to wordlessly check out, rebooting the entire city experience at some other dive on another side of town.

While looking into places on the Internet, Patrick comes up to me.  He´s awake, clearly.  My eyes automatically avert themselves as he asks how I am.  My responses to the smalltalk are muted and short at best.  He asks if I´m alright.

¨I´m so sorry about the wine, man.  I have no idea how I got that drunk.¨

¨Well, you drank six bottles of wine between you.  That´ll do it.  We had to pour [Australian girl] into a cab at the end of the night.¨

¨Yeah?  Well, I just…¨

¨Man, is that what you´re worried about??  I´m Irish.  We get that drunk every night, get in fights with our best friends and then wake up the next morning like nothing ever happened.  Don´t worry about it, man!¨

And suddenly, I´m not worrying about it.  At all.

Welcome to Buenos Aires.

El Calafate

Nestled on the southern side of the chilly Lago Argentino, the small city (just over 6000 occupants) of El Calafate exists almost entirely as a Patagonian tourist hub.  Its small airport connects it to both Buenos Aires and Ushuaia, such that well-to-do travelers interesting in making the rounds between Perito Moreno Glacier, Mt. FitzRoy, the badlands and even Puerto Natales in Chile, can do so without braving any international 20+ hour bus rides.

For about six blocks of the equivalent of a Main Street, the city caters to a higher class of tourist than I’m used to, with fine restaurants, hand-crafted souvenirs and the expensive prices to match.  Despite the climate never getting toasty here, even in the midst of its summer season, at least one gourmet Heladeria (ice cream store) can be found on every block.  This seems to be the status quo for Argentina, whose citizens apparently love ice cream above all else, regardless of the weather.  The city of Bariloche in Chile is unofficially the chocolate capital of Patagonia, but that doesn’t stop El Calafate from having a slew of home-made chocolatiers serving the traveler community.

In similar quantities are the “adventure”-themed travel agents, offering hands-on activities with glaciers, 4×4 off-roading and paragliding, as well as traditional sightseeing activities for those that want all the splendor with none of the exhilarating rush.  One such activity is the Perito Moreno “Big Ice” trek which offers to drag crampon-wearing hikers in peak physical condition deep into the glacier over the course of a four-hour trip, exploring sunken wells, caves and other strange, slippery, natural formations before painstakingly heading back.

After a recommendation in Ushuaia this was my initial plan, but still sore from Torres del Paine and with no shortage of ice looming in Antarctica, I opt to save sixty dollars and go with the “Mini-trekking” expedition instead.  It was a better choice, though backing down and going with “Small Ice” did challenge my masculinity somewhat.

With an extra day to spare, I capitalize on the excess of petrified forests in the nearby badlands, thus satisfying a childhood dream of seeing a “petrified forest.”  In reality, there are only occasional logs of the petrified wood but combined with the dry, lifeless alien landscape of the badlands, it’s a solid way to spend an afternoon.

Small Ice

Buses representing different tour companies cycle through the circuit of hostels and hotels, picking up tourists headed out for a day at Perito Moreno — easily the biggest day excursion here.  The slow, steady onslaught of rain immediately makes me grateful for selecting the shorter of the ice treks.  My hoodie is thick and warm and has been an invaluable piece of clothing on this trip, but there’s only so much it can do once saturated with water in cold, inhospitable environments (…like glaciers).

Cheap, thin gloves are provided to all ice trekkers, “big” or “small,” as the aged ice is sharp and jagged, and even small tumbles have been known to slice up hands pretty bad.  Jackets and/or rain gear are in much shorter supply, and until a guide comes running up to me at the last moment with an extra poncho, it was looking to be a memorably miserable trip.  As it stands, the poncho is strangely designed without sleeves, leaving me hovering over the ice like a wet, plastic ghost and providing me with even more reason not to ever lose my footing.

The wall of ice seems too even and uniform to be a natural structure, paralleling the coastline with a height rarely differing at any point by more than a few meters beyond its average of  200 feet above the surface of the water.  From here, the glacier continues nineteen miles into the horizon, consituting the world’s third largest reserve of freshwater.  While the glacier advances forward at about seven feet a day, it shrinks by an almost identical amount, immediately quelling any fears there might be about a new Perito Moreno inspired ice age.

A thin segment of Lago Argentino separates the tremendous body of ice from a lush forest that contrasts sharply against the endless white of the glacier.  At ice’s edge, a cluster of guides sit huddled around a massive pile of crampons — sharp, metal teeth latched onto the bottoms of our shoes for added ice traction — and one by one, we are guided forward and instructed in their use.

The soles of our shoes now hard and unbending, trekkers unaccustomed to using crampons (much like myself) begin to take on a more robot/Frankenstein-like way of lumbering forward over the ice.  A bi-lingual guide leads us forward, pointing out sinkholes, caves, subterranian streams and anything else that might fill out a tourist brochure for glacial trekking.  From behind, a second guide makes sure no one is lost, either to a poor sense  of direction or a cave-in, though both are extremely rare here.

We use the crampons like weapons, stabbing down into the ice exhaustively with every step.  Leg muscles not traditionally used with this frequency tighten and cramp; I can see from the expressions of other hikers that I’m not alone in this sensation.  Somewhat out of place, a table awaits us on the ice at the dead end off a naturally formed frozen valley, covered in several rows of small cocktail glasses.

“Some of you are cold,” says the guide.  I jerk my head back and forth in silent agreement.  The poncho has protected me from further rain saturation, but does little to block the wind or cold.  “Well, here is something to warm you up!”  She pulls a bottle of whisky out while her assistant begins chipping away at ice with an a specialized ice axe in the background.  Only a few people seem enthusiastic about this surprise, though they end up being the ones to get more than one serving.

I take three, for instance.

Badlands

Scanning a landscape devoid of life other than small, olive-colored patches of brush, the alien rock structures remind me of going to the beach as a child.  Mixing sand with sea water, I would hold a wet glob of the mix aloft and let it drip down slowly, creating clusters of rounded stalagmites to complement whatever castle I’d been working on.  From where the van has dropped us off, it’s like looking out on a massive beach of tremendous globs of sand and rock, bulging out from the dry ground with little explanation for their existence.

Bosque Petrificado (”petrified forest”) is one of the lesser attractions from El Calafate, and the large van that’s carried us off into this arid wasteland contains exactly one English-speaking gringo (me, for those incapable of gathering this on their own).  For the hour or more it took to get here, our guide spoke in detail in Spanish, only to present what had to be the shortened form to me in English.  After a time, I take out the novel I’ve been working on and silently free her from her bilingual responsibility.

Our hike through the badlands (apparently called such as a nod to the similar Dakota environment of the same name) lasts approximately two hours with a brief stop for a ham-and-cheese sandwich, cup of juice and an alfajore — a local orea-like sandwich cookie with caramelly dulce de leche filling between two large, fudge-covered cookies — which is about as close to a classic Argentinian lunch as is possible.

Trudging through the Martian landscape, we climb through small caves and strange rock formations,  stopping at times to take note of regular piles of fossils and petrified wood (Argentina has strict laws on pocketing either of these, which we’re reminded of many times.  I likely took nothing with me…).  Most of the trees are broken down into mere logs less than a meter or so in length, though there are a few toppled trees as much as twenty feet in length, which if nothing else make for good picture backdrops.

Back to  Ushuaia

I’ve been told that flights from El Calafate to Ushuaia are surprisingly affordable, and while it’s still close to twice the cost of a bus ticket, I waste no time in securing my spot on the plane.  This bus ride in particular is close to 24 hours long and loops back into Chile before returning to Argentina, thus involving four separate customs stops.  If avoiding that doesn’t warrant the extra cash for a flight, nothing does.

I still refrain from taking any apples with me onto the plane.

With an apartment in Buenos Aires for the past week, no job and a steady internet connection, I finally did some necessary updating to both the blog and the website itself.

Changes:

• Put in threaded comments.  This means I can finally respond directly to questions asked in comments, or other people can add on to someone else’s thoughts.  I think it looks nice.
• “Gravatar” (see below) support.  This lets people make icons if they like which show up next to their names in comments (rather than the bland silhouette icon)
• PICTURES.  I finally set it up so the link to images at the top of the page goes to actual images and not the horrible broken page it went to before.  It basically just links directly to my picasa photo storage site, then puts my theme (the colors, fonts, etc I use here on the site) on top of them.  I can create captions there as well, which should transfer right over.  The only down side to this is that photos from my pre-traveler days (from the 90s, even) are up there, which don’t exactly make sense in the context of this site.  But I’m not going to be moving everything around to fix this any time soon.

Gravatars

I don’t know if anyone would be intereted in doing this or not, but if you’d like your own personalized picture attached to your name in comments, go to Gravitar’s Webpage and upload a picture that they will globally associate with your email address.  In the future, any comments on any blog (mine included) with that email attached will automatically have your selected icon next to it.

It’s fairly quick, and they use a simple photo editing program for cropping whatever picture you upload to perfect specifications.

If there are other things you feel would make the site better, don’t hesitate to share them with me, unless you are Bernie.