Dan's Travels

The End of the World, or so they'd like you to think

2008-12-01T22:04:00.002-05:00

Well, we made it, (sorry for excessive linking to gmaps, it's just they're so useful...) to the end of the world. Or Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra del Fuego, and the self-proclaimed southernmost outpost before reaching Antarctic tundress.

It's a cool place, home to the world's most southern lighthouse (el faro del fin del mundo), the world's most southern museum (el museo del fin del mundo) and the world's most southern Rastafarian (Max). Today we saw penguins and sea lions up close, and on Saturday we saw the Glacier Perito Moreno, all reinforcing the southern desolate theme of this trip in Patagonia.

Darn you google maps!!

2008-12-01T21:58:00.001-05:00

Today, only three days before my imminent departure from Buenos Aires, Google decided to add street names layering on the Argentina map.

I mean, it's not like that would have been useful a few months ago!

Here's where I lived for 2 months.

Thankfulness and Refuge from the Inferno

2008-11-28T07:53:00.004-05:00

Writing this post I'm now in Rio Gallegos, at the southeastern tip of mainland Argentina. It's cold and extremely windy here, which is nice, considering when we left Buenos Aires it was a record-breaking 40 degrees C, or roughly 104 F. Add to that humidity, no air conditioning, and a stove going full blast with two pots of boiling potatoes, and you've got one sweaty Jew.

Thanksgiving in Buenos Aires, heat stroke notwithstanding, was a huge success. My friends Lexi and Brennan, after becoming chummy with their butcher, were able to secure a 14-pound turkey, even after the butcher repeatedly asked to make sure they didn't really want steak instead. Turkey, as well as cranberries, pumpkin and stuffing, is essentially unheard of in this country, so we had to be a little bit inventive. The result, though, was a spectacular feast. Lexi and Brennan made a nice gravy to go with their bird, Jess adapted a cranberry sauce recipe to work with fresh cherries, Erika made a sweet potato casserole (complete with melted marshmellows on top!) and I made the mashed potatoes. One of Brennan's friends brought apple pie, so we were set.

We ate early, at about 7pm, compared to a normal dinnertime of 10pm, but it was a good thing, because I needed all the time I could get to digest. We left for the airport around 9:30, and by 11pm were airborne on our way here, Rio Gallegos. We slept for about six hours in a "hotel" that could have just as easily been a mental hospital. Our room had three metal cots and standard issue blankets, and I had to look twice to make sure there werent any leather straps hidden beneath. For $50 including breakfast, split between three people, I guess it's not so bad.

Now we're stuck waiting for the first bus to El Calafate, our real destination and home to the Glaciar Perrito Moreno. We thought it leaves at 9am but actually doesn't leave until noon, which is inconvenient but certainly better than making the opposite mistake. Tomorrow we're hopefully going to do a little ice-trekking, crampons and all.

Here it is: The Buenos Aires Guide!

2008-11-26T15:52:00.010-05:00

Buenos Aires is a great city. One of the joys of spending more than just a few days here was getting to really know how the city works, how to get around, where and what to eat, and where to go out at night. That being said, most people don't have the chance to spend more than a few days traveling in a new city, so I'll try and impart some of the knowledge that I've attained with a 4- or so day trip in mind. I'm more into the details of daily life than specific tourist attractions, so this is more of a broad guide than a list of how you should spend your time.

Arrival: You'll probably fly into Ezezia, the international airport. From here you can either take a cab ($30) or a bus ($13) to the center. The bus (Manuel Tienda Leon is the company) only goes every half an hour and drops you off in Retiro, a shady and somewhat inconvenient spot in the city, although I think the $13 includes a free cab from the bus station to your destination. Either way, I'd go with a cab straight from the airport, you can't beat the convenience, especially if you have luggage.

Where to stay:

Buenos Aires has really four main neighborhoods that attract tourists. The largest (and best, in my opinion), is Palermo. Runners up include Recoleta, San Telmo, and Centro. All four have hostel options, although most upscale hotels are in Recoleta. If you're more the backpacker type, I'd recommend the Palermo House in Palermo Soho. It's perfectly located in the middle of trendy Soho near bars and daytime shopping/walking around, and has a very, very social atmosphere. If more upscale is your thing, go with the converted convent Malabia House, an intimate 15-room boutique also in Soho. This hotel comes highly recommended from Erika and her mom.

Besides Palermo, I would consider recommending San Telmo. San Telmo is the oldest neighborhood, and has a very romantic feel, partly due to the sidewalk tango performers and artisan markets. It's touristy and a bit kitchy, but also enjoyable, so if you're into that, it's not the worst choice. That being said, it's quite a hike (close to an hour by subway including a transfer) to the best nightlife, and even though cabs are cheap (San Telmo to Palermo would run you less than $8), it's not ideal.

Recoleta is upscale but less convenient to transportation and quieter at nighttime. is The Centro is busy, hustle-bustle during the week with suits running around from bank to bank, with narrow streets and nearly non-existent sidewalks.

Getting around:

First of all, if you're only here for a few days, splurge on cabs. The flag drops at $1.20, and most rides are between $2 and $6. There are stories of cabs doing bad things ranging anywhere from going a few blocks out the way to full on kidnapping and robbing of passengers, but I think they're blown way out of proportion. Either way, keep your wits about you, and don't let a drunk girl get in a cab by herself.

Let me reiterate: Buenos Aires is huge. Distances may look short on the map, but trust me, they're not. Each block is more or less 100 meters, also known as a football field. If somewhere you're headed is 10 blocks away, that's a kilometer, and 16 blocks is a mile. They're not quite Manhattan crosstown blocks, but they're long.

After getting used to the peso's 3-to-1 exchange rate, most of us that have been here become awfully frugal, opting instead for buses or subway ($0.25 a ride). The subway is pretty easy to figure out although not incredibly helpful. The Green Line (Line D) goes from the Centro through Recoleta and Palermo before terminating in Belgrano, and is certainly the most useful line. For the subway, you can get a pre-paid card called Monedero which also works at the "Open 25 hs" chain of newstands.

Buses, however, are their own beast. There is no centralized system, and each bus line is run by an independent compay. The closest to a bus map the city has is a small booklet called the Guia 'T', in which you can look up where you are and where you're going, and cross-reference the bus lines that pass through both areas. Then you go to the back of the book, and try to follow street-by-street descriptions (in words) of the bus route to find out where you might actually get on. Sometimes, a bus goes from where you are to where you're going, though, mostly you rely upon locals to tell you which bus goes where. It's always a pleasant surprise to learn a new bus with a particularly convenient route.

Once you've found the bus and arrived at the stop, getting on requires flagging the speeding bus down. Make sure you have change, which can be hard to find in Buenos Aires, because the bus only accepts coins. Even commuters who ride the bus every day pay with coins, it's really a backward system. As you get on tell the driver, which street you're getting off on so he (they're all men, at least all that I've seen) and deposit your coins in the machine behind his seat. Then hold tight because the drivers are fearless, and keep your eyes peeled for your destination so you can get to the back door and request your stop with the buzzer.

Eating, Drinking, and Shopping in Palermo:

Palermo, for me, has really been the center of it all. Palermo Viejo is roughly defined as the rectangle defined by Santa Fe (also subway line D) on the bottom, Scalabrini Ortiz and Dorrego on the sides, and Cordoba on top (if your map is aligned with the river on the bottom, as most are). Palermo Viejo is bisected by train tracks, with the left called Soho, and the right Hollywood (seriously). Soho is more chic, with most of the shopping and classy places, while Hollywood also has its fair share of great bars.

Gorriti and Honduras are parallel roads that cut through both sides of the neighborhood and are covered with bars and restaurants for the entire length. In Soho, Honduras passes through Plaza Serrano, a young, hip square jumping at nighttime. Plaza Armenia is just two blocks away, and has a bit more upscale vibe, with a family friendly park and a weekend bazaar.

Between the two plazas, perpendicular to Honduras and Gorriti, Armenia and Gurruchaga are some of the best shopping streets in Buenos Aires, with lots of upscale boutiques. I particularly liked Airborne, on Gurruchaga close to the corner of Costa Rica.

Eating, in general:

Palermo is great because it is the most cosmopolitan section of Buenos Aires. However, if you're looking for something more typically Argentinian, look for one of close to a million Parrillas the city has to offer. Each will sell you a steak for around $8, and although it won't be amazing, it won't be bad either. Bife de lomo is the prime cut, so start there. In my experience, the steaks here aren't really that amazing so much as they are ubiquitous and cheap. A great place to get good-sized portions at backpacker prices is La Cholita on Rodriguez Pena 1165. They don't take reservations so expect to wait a bit, but you'll be hapy. If you're after a fantastic steak at American prices, La Cabaña is fantastic and authentic (although maybe a bit touristy).

When the meat got to be too much, I ended up eating a lot at Buenos Aries Verde, a vegetarian organic place only about 8 blocks from my apartment. For all of your eating questions, the Guia Oleo is certainly the place to go, and has listings, hours, and reviews of basically every restauarnt int the city.

Tango:
Sure, there are plenty of tango shows in Buenos Aires, and most are probably good. They're tourist-oriented, though, so if you're looking for a more authentic experience head to a milonga. Milongas are neighborhood social halls, and it is common to show up at one alone seeking dancing partners. They're all over the city, ask around to find one near you. Any given milonga is probably only open one or two nights a week, starting at around 9pm with a class and then officially starting around 11 with live music. Tango culture is a bit old-timey, with many of the recreational dancers in their later years, although the classes especially attract a younger crowd. If you're looking for parters of either gender and the chance to swap roles, check out Tango Queer, if you're more "traditional", try La Catedral at Sarmiento 4006.

A whale of a tale

2008-11-16T13:51:00.003-05:00

Contrary to my last post, I didn't go to Bariloche. When my friend Erika got back to Buenos Aires and we were discussing this trip, we realized that as beautiful and fun as Bariloche might be, it wasn't really something we couldn't experience in the States, and might not be as worthwhile as going somewhere truly unique.

So here we are, in Puerto Pirámides, Argentina, on the Peninsula Valdés. It's about equal in southerly-ness as Bariloche (which counts as the northern end of Patagonia), but instead of being situated in the Andes, it's on the Atlantic coast. We took a 17-hour bus ride to get here, and here's why: whales.

Southern Right Whales, to be exact. And they. Were. Awesome. Just wait until you see the pictures and video...we saw no less than 20, some as close as right next to the boat. The largest are between 50 and 60 feet long, weighing up to 130 tons. Huge.

We saw mothers with their babies playing, eventually approaching the side of the boat. We saw full breaches from a distance of 100 feet, at most. We watched as one of the little ones slapped in our direction (out of play or irritation, it wasn't clear), and then recoiled in fear when suddenly it was actually slapping the side of the boat and turned out to not be so small after all.

We also saw penguins and 5000-pound elephant seals yesterday, but nothing will ever come close to those whales. It's a good thing, too, since there's not really much else to do here, and we probably didn't have to devote a whole long weekend just to this one place. That being said though, it was awesome.

The inevitable passage of time

2008-11-11T12:38:00.002-05:00

I’ll admit: the last few weeks have been a little slow. On account of some conversations with friends, and my own lack of initiative, I ultimately decided (as should now be obvious) not to do anything particularly legitimate here in Buenos Aires. Flexibility was really the higher priority, and as a result I’ve been able to travel a lot.

Since coming back from Salta, there have been a few highlights, but don’t let them fool you—a lot of days I just hung around my apartment reading stupid blogs and only leaving to buy food.

Last Saturday was Gay Pride in Buenos Aires and we watched the parade. It was a big party, although compared to the only other one I’ve ever seen (San Francisco, where the thing was invented), it wasn’t huge. Not too shabby for Catholic Latin America though, that’s for sure. In fact, Argentina has legalized civil unions, a step that only a very few states in the US have taken.

The elections here were awesome, and we watched the returns with about a thousand Americans packed into a local bar. Since then a lot of non-Americans have been talking about Obama here, and even my cab drivers are excited by the change coming to the US. There are articles in the local paper almost every day about the impending transition of power.

Last Wednesday I went to a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert, which was awesome. Bela Fleck is an American banjo player who, along with his band of bass, winds and drum players, jams really hard. The concert was a ton of fun and in a really nice 2000-seat theater right in the center of town. What struck me more than anything was how polite everyone was. First of all, everyone remained seated throughout the two-hour concert. In the states, people always stand, and sitting just felt rude, like we weren’t living up to our end of the bargain. Then sometimes people would start clapping with the beat only to have others shush them. If it wasn’t for the thunderous applause and ensuing standing ovation, you might have mistaken the audience for viewers of a ballet.

Now with about three weeks left before heading back to the states, I’m going on three 6-day trips to make the most of my time. It seems as though I’ll only be coming back to Buenos Aires on Wednesdays for a quick recharge and maybe a laundry run.

Bariloche: Instead of going to the nearby cities of Rosario and Cordoba like I had planned, I’m instead going to head down to Bariloche for a long weekend, leaving tomorrow or Thursday taking an 18-hour bus each way. A few months ago that might have turned me off, but I’d like to think I’m a pro now. Bariloche is, as I understand, the Colorado of Argentina, with great skiing in the winter and outdoor adventure sports in the summer. Since it’s summer, I’m hoping to do some fun rafting or hiking. I’ll get back next Tuesday or Wednesday.
Uruguay: Next Thursday I’m off to Uruguay, stopping in Colonia (a cute historic town where the ferry from Buenos Aires lands) and Montevideo (the capital, but otherwise boring) before spending the long weekend in Punta del Este. PDE is the summer vacation location of choice for people from Buenos Aires, and we’ll be enjoying the beach as well as driving around the coastline in a rental car.
The End of the World: Just before heading back to the states, Jess, Sage and I are going on a trip to El Calafate and Ushuaia. El Calafate is in the Southern Andes, and home to one of the most impressive glaciers in the world. Ushuaia, on the island of Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire) is the southernmost city in the entire world. Go figure.

In between Uruguay and Tierra del Fuego, we’ll be enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner in exile with all of our local expat friends!

4:51am

2008-11-05T01:51:00.004-05:00

OK, the election was called for Obama about 3 hours ago, yet I'm still awake. Like Matt, I too am obsessed with the election and will probably be reading blogs and news articles for at least a week to come about the fall out.

But even more than the miraculousness of the presidential outcome, the imminent banning of gay marriage in California is on my mind. Many of my friends, via Facebook of course, are making clear the depression they feel about this loss, and it's easy to wallow after setback after setback. To many of us, a vote against gay marriage is a vote against compassion, and love, and just seems mean.

That being said, I can't help but be hopeful, with a president-elect who, more than any other in our history, believes in the power of diversity. Obama reminded us again tonight that the road ahead is one of struggle, and that we as a nation must continue to fight to perfect our Union.

Gavin Newsom is right, gay marriage is here to stay. It won't be legal tomorrow in his state, but time marches on, and the fight continues. I'm just lucky to have the time and the patience to keep fighting the good fight.

We may have lost gay marriage in California, but we've won something much, much greater.

On another optomistic note: Now almost a day later, a lot of people in my life are really sad about prop 8. They're showing it with their away messages, their statuses, and all the ways we communicate our opinions in this web 2.0 world. I can only be grateful to see how much gay rights mean to the people that I care about--gay, straight, young, old, and of many backgrounds.

2008-11-04T13:33:00.000-05:00

Just in case anyone was worried, this is a picture of me with my ballot a few weeks ago while my parents were visiting. My dad mailed it in, and then verified today that it was there! Tonight we're going to a bar where a bunch of local expats will be drinking heavily either in celebration or destitution, hopefully the former!

The Argentinian Northwest

2008-11-03T15:24:00.000-05:00

The trip to the Northwest went pretty much exactly as planned. Yes, I have been trying to be spontaneous while in South America, but this was short trip, and I give myself credit just for doing it.

It was 6:44pm when I got out of the taxi at the Salta bus station, quickly learning that the next bus to Jujuy left at 6:45. Fortunately the guy at the ticket window did whatever it is they do extremely fast and I made the bus with not 30 seconds to spare, and arrived in Jujuy by 9pm.

Jujuy is the province to the north of Salta, one step closer to the Andes and Bolivia and the small towns I had hoped to visit. The plan was to go back to Salta, after exploring the far North, so I was glad to get to Jujuy so quickly and smoothly. I checked into the local Hostelling International hostel, which wasn’t great, but only had about 10 guests for about 100 available beds. (Side note: this was the first trip I made without any advance hostel reservations; though not for lack of trying, everywhere I called assured me it really wouldn’t be a problem to just show up.)

Tuesday morning I woke up and walked over to the Avis office, where after a brief moment of panic that my lack of an international license would prevent me from renting, I walked out with the keys to a compact, manual-transmission Chevrolet. The first obstacle was the garage’s exit ramp, which seemed like a 30-degree incline, although with a running start I magically made it up without stalling. Then it was the open road of Ruta Nacional 9, and onward through the mountains towards, but not quite to, Bolivia.

I ultimately visited four towns and put 385 kilometers on the car. The whole route is along the Quedabra de Humuhuaca, basically a valley with interesting geological formations. The area is reminiscent of Arizona, although the culture is significantly more indigenous—a quality that has been somewhat fetishized by the tourists, and exploited by the local entrepreneurs.

Purmamarca, the first town I visited, is known for its cerro (hill) de 7 colores, and the town seemed to be thriving on tourism with a giant flea market in the central plaza. The cerro was cool looking, although I had a hard time counting all 7 colors. Next I plowed ahead to the furthest town, Humuahuaca, where I had lunch in a quiet hole in the wall filled with local men (not one woman out of about 15 people). I drove a little further, hoping to check out Iruya, a town that Lonely Planet called “magical”, but was dismayed to see the poor condition of the gravel road that, after 52 grueling kilometers, would have either have killed my tiny car or lasted until sunset.

It was around 2pm when I turned back, giving me time to stop at Uquia (oo-KEE-ah) and later, Tilcara. Uquia was a really small place, only earning a spot on the map on account of its chapel, which was filled with paintings of Christian saints holding guns. Apparently, these paintings were placed here by missionaries hoping to assure converts that even the Saints, with all of their faith, were still warriors who knew how to protect themselves not just in the hereafter but in the now, as well.

The chapel and town square was the closest part of town to Highway 9, although something about this tiny town seemed intriguing, so I drove past the church up a gravel road, and after two blocks I ran into the town’s only restaurant. I went in for coffee and a tamale, and was impressed by the incredible care with which the restaurant was decorated. I asked the proprietor if they received lots of tourists, only to learn that they cater to tour companies and a group of 45 people had left not half an hour before I showed up.

I ended up talking to the owners, a married couple, for about 45 minutes. They had a really interesting story: she was from Buenos Aires but he was from Uquia, and they met while he was working in the capital for Exxon. He must have been fairly successful in the oil industry, because after his retirement he traveled the world studying organic farming and cooking methods, and then three years ago they moved back to Uquia together to open this restaurant. They grow all of their own produce organically, own a farm outside of the city, and sell marmalades and liqueurs. I thought about buying a squash marmalade, but after a free taste of their coffee liqueur I opted for a small bottle of that, instead.

After leaving Uquia it was 5pm and I only stayed for a little while in Tilcara, my last stop. Tilcara is the most developed of the towns and the only with 3- and higher star hotels, in addition to internet cafes.

After dropping the car off the Avis guy graciously drove me to the bus station so I could head back to Salta, and by 11pm I had checked into the hostel. I was staying in a dormitory room with three girls from France, and upon entering they apologized in advance for their alarm clocks which would be going off early the next day.

“That’s funny,” I said. “What are you getting up for at 6am?”

It turns out they had the same plan I did, to take the 16-hour scenic Tren a las Nubes. I couldn’t believe my luck to find friends to share the journey with before even arriving at the station, and was even more relieved at 6:30am when I realized that we were the only people there below the age of 40.

The train left promptly at 7:05am, and shortly after I began to panic. Firstly, I hadn’t been able to change my seat and was separated from the girls by an entire car. Then the empty seat next to me was filled by a man reeking of alcohol who immediately reclined and closed his eyes. Then I began to worry if I would possibly starve to death, as only a light breakfast and lunch would be served, and all other food would cost money. Not having time to stop at an ATM, I was left with only 50 pesos (less than 20 USD) and was sure I wouldn’t be able to afford anything more than crackers in the onboard bar/restaurant. I started hoping that I would survive the day.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded, and I ended up enjoying the trip. About an hour into it I found the girls, sitting facing each other in a cluster of four seats, the fourth of which was empty. They invited me to sit down, and there I stayed for the next 15 hours. Food, too, wasn’t a problem, when an afternoon stop included locals selling empanadas (10 pesos the dozen) and sandwiches (3 pesos).

Matters of survival aside, the train was a unique experience. I’m not sure if I would use other adjectives (more laudatory words don’t seem to fit), but ‘unique’ was enough, and I’m glad I went. There were many times when you could lean out of the open windows and see nothing but the train, and mountains, with an accompaniment of llamas or cacti. So alone were we, that when I was wondering why we needed onboard security, it occurred to me that it wasn’t beyond the realm of feasibility to be held up, like in a bad Western, by bandits hoping to steal the wealthy tourists’ wallets.

The “climax” of the trip is a bridge over a wide gorge, built in the 1930’s. It’s impressive, although hardly the point of the trip, with the sheer experience of the train ride just as mystifying as the train’s destination. With spirals and zig-zags, the track is an engineering triumph. The train manages to climb higher than any other in the world without the use of cogs, eventually reaching 4200 meters (just shy of 14,000 feet) in altitude.

After a deserving night’s sleep, Thursday morning was for Salta, before boarding a bus for another long ride back to Buenos Aires. Salta is a nice town, and clearly has put a lot of money into making itself a tourist destination. The center of the city has a beautiful square, with colonial style architecture of the surrounding buildings giving it a very Old World feel.

Arguably the most popular attraction of the city is in this square, the Anthropology Museum of the High Mountains. Here they tell the story of the short-lived but far-reaching Inca Empire, which covered a huge portion of South America right up until the Spanish colonization. The main topic in the museum, however, is the Inca’s ritual sacrifice of children. Three children left to die on the top of a 16,000-foot volcano, and well-preserved by the elements, were brought to the museum and kept frozen and maintained. One of these bodies, on a rotating basis, is on display in a special see-through tank. The display is obviously highly controversial, but culminates a riveting story in a well-done museum.

The last part of my trip was another voyage, this time on a bus, for the 18-hour trip back down to Buenos Aires. The trip was easy, if not enjoyable, and a far cry from what you may expect if you’ve ever ridden Greyhound. I was in Executive class, the second highest, with only “Suite” class more expensive (with fully flat seats). The seats are in a 2-1 layout, so I had no one next to me, and recline about 160-degrees. A bus attendant serves crappy coffee as you board, and movies are shown on flat-screen TV’s. Dinner and breakfast, although almost inedible, are served, along with free wine and a nightcap of your liqueur of choice. All in all, Argentina has really figured out how to do long distance bus travel.

Reading at the dinner table

2008-10-30T14:22:00.004-04:00

Just before catching my bus back to Buenos Aires to conclude my journey in Northwest Argentina, I decided to treat myself to a somewhat upscale lunch in Salta´s downtown. As with most restaurants of medium-to-high quality, the waitstaff gives you a few minutes between sitting and ordering and appetizer and main course, which, when dining alone, can prove to be boring. Now that I´ve been traveling solo quite a bit, I´ve become comfortable picking up a book and reading to allow myself to enjoy the digestive time without looking blankly at a wall.

Today, however, I made the choice to pick up a David Sedaris book. Sedaris, as most of you should know by now, has in the last year become my favorite author by a mile, his essays and personal style providing the model by which I try to cater my writing style. Part of being a great essayist is his wit, and it´s hard to read some of his work without laughing out loud.

So you can imagine the surprise of the family next to me, watching a 22-year old gringo eating a fancy lunch and chuckling wildly to himself while attacking his humita.

"Good book?" asked the middle-aged woman at the all-female table of three generations.

After discussing the merits of David Sedaris for a few minutes, and then receiving a few compliments to my Spanish, we ended up talking a bit more and it turned out they were a family from Buenos Aires doing a tour of the Northwest much like I was.

So although eating at the dinner table might be at times considered rude, when traveling solo and with a funny enough book, it can be just the thing to start a conversation with the next table over.

Greetings from Tilcara

2008-10-28T17:22:00.002-04:00

Just thought I´d post while I was actually somewhere really, really random. I´ll write all about this daylong journey through the Jujuy Province when I have some real time.

Yet another impulsive trip

2008-10-26T22:41:00.003-04:00

So, about 24 hours ago I decided to take this week and make an epic trip to Argentina's northwest, specifically the Salta and Jujuy provinces. This area is known for its astounding beauty (often compared to the American Southwest, Southern Utah, New Mexico, etc), as well as its rich pre-Columbian history. Here is the somewhat ambitious itinerary that I threw together for myself:

Fly on Monday afternoon to Salta, arriving at 6pm.
Monday evening, take a bus directly to Jujuy (leaves around 8pm, duration 3 hours).
Tuesday morning, rent a car and spend the day driving around the province. I'm hoping to see Humahuaca and the Cerro de 7 Colores, among other places.
Tuesday night, take the bus back to Salta.
Wednesday, wake up at the crack of dawn for the epic Tren a los Nubes (Train to the clouds). The 16-hour roundtrip is South America's most famous train, with magnificent bridges and the highest ascent (almost 14,000 feet at the destination) of any train in the wolrd.
Thursday, hang out around Salta, a city known for it's rich cultural heritage and good eats.
Thursday at 4pm, board a bus for an epic 18-hour ride back to Buenos Aires in Cama Ejecutiva class, also known as really comfy seats. I picked the seat at the very front of a double-decker, giving me an unfettered vista of the scenery for the four hours or so until sunset.

Anarchy in the Streets

2008-10-23T11:18:00.002-04:00

In my neighborhood of Palermo, the upscale, low-rise part of town, intersections appear completely devoid of the rule of law.

These intersections may have been sleepy in yonder years, although these days there is a parade of taxis, buses and delivery guys on mopeds, none of whom are interested in giving way. Stand at one of these corners for a few minutes and you'll see, about once every minute, a close call. From your vantage point you'll see it coming a mile away: the bus and the taxi full steam ahead. Then they'll both enter the intersection, and only at the last second will the taxi slam the brakes to allow the bus to pass.

Las Cataratas de Iguazu

2008-10-23T10:44:00.000-04:00

Now where was I...the last few weeks have flown by as they've been full of activity (programming?). After returning from the trip to Chile/Mendoza, I had exactly a week before flying up to Iguazu to meet my mom and dad. The week included Yom Kippur, which I observed with the Wertheins, spending some time with Erika, my friend from Colorado, and a fancy dinner with JAG (pronounced like the Hebrew ‘chag’, meaning holy day—what a pun!) the Judíos Argentinos Gays. I went to the dinner after speaking with the group’s director at the synagogue, thinking it would be a fun networking opportunity.

At 22, I was probably the youngest person in attendance by at least 15 years. It was still enjoyable, though, with a good dinner followed by some Israeli dancing (the ‘kiss kiss’ dance made famous at Harlam by Rak Dan is apparently a worldwide phenomenon) and entertainment by four professional singers doing Broadway favorites (‘Seasons of Love’ from Rent, ‘All that Jazz’ from Chicago).

Tuesday morning arrived fairly quickly and it was off to the Aeroparque Jorge Newbery for the short hop up to Puerto Iguazu, known to Argentineans as simply Las Cataratas. My parents had arrived at the other airport on the Brazilian side from Rio de Janeiro earlier in the day, and were already waiting for me at the Argentine airport upon exiting baggage claim. Our hotel, the Sheraton, was the only one located inside the national park, which meant we had a view of the falls from our room and unfettered access to the trails.

Let me stop here to say that the falls at Iguazu are breathtaking. I don’t know the numbers, but it’s safe to say that there is a serious amount of water falling here. There must be at least a hundred different individual waterfalls spanning miles of cliff in a semicircular shape, and catwalks have been built incredibly close to the edge.

Our first view of these falls was at night, on the Full Moon Walk. At around 9pm, we took the little train-cito to the 1km catwalk leading up to the largest of the falls, the Devil’s Throat. The catwalk is a sparse steel structure about 8 feet wide and for the most part is over open river. Being that it was night time, and there are no lights, the only illumination we had was from the moon, which (by pure coincidence) was perfectly full. So dark is this trail that the Full Moon Walk is only even offered five nights per month when moonlight is sufficient. Eventually, the sound of the waterfalls became deafening, and we began to feel mist on our faces, and there, out of no where, was the biggest waterfall I’d ever seen in my life.

We went back the next day to better appreciate the Devil’s Throat, and although daylight robs it of much of the spooky mystique we experienced the night before, I was better able to appreciate it’s magnitude with the help of the sun. Almost as incredible as the falls themselves is the catwalk—the balcony is literally even with the edge of a cliff, with water rushing beneath the steel mesh floor. Just to the right, beginning about fifteen feet from the edge of the catwalk, rushes one of the more furious gauntlets of water that is probably over a hundred feet wide. The whole thing is surreal, while the surging gusts of mist make the experience hardly serene.

The falls area is officially in both Brazil and Argentina, although I have to say, Argentina got the better deal. Over 80% of the falls are in Argentina, allowing the construction of catwalks that go right to the edge. Brazil advertises its “panoramic views” of the falls from the other side of the gorge, but from what I could tell, this was nothing you couldn’t see from Argentina and certainly wouldn’t compensate for the lack of close-up balconies.

In addition to the Devil’s Throat, two more catwalk trails allow close-up encounters with other falls on the Argentinean side. One snakes along the cliff and goes right over five waterfalls, and another much lower allows close up encounters with the bottoms of a few of the falls. These three trails, along with the obligatory get-soaked jet-boat ride made for a full day of experiencing all the falls had to offer.

Before leaving Iguazu, we did a 7km quasi-hike through the jungle, during which we saw monkeys and a beautiful, solitary toucan flying in circles for our entertainment. You could tell that the region wasn’t commercialized nearly the way in which many American National Parks are, although surely within a few years that will all be changed.

P.S. Photos from this trip were posted on facebook.

How did I miss this?

2008-10-19T01:19:00.004-04:00

I'm talking about the Great Schlep....totally up my alley.

Anyway the tubes have reached my apartment and I now will be able to blog from home instead of the Ciberplaneta on Avenida Santa Fe. Updates on Iguazu, the parent visit, and general musings are on their way soon, I promise.

Small Annoyances

2008-10-13T14:10:00.003-04:00

Three things that piss me off about Buenos Aires:

The Moneda Crisis. Buses in this city are unbelievable in their arcaneness, with their random routes and reckless driving, so much so that I think I'm going to devote an entire post to them later. The one thing though, that really is annoying, is that they only take coins. No MetroCard, no bills, no free transfer from the subway or other buses, just coins. This has led to a national dearth of coins, as everyone takes the bus all the time. Anywhere you go, there are signs like "no hay monedas" ("we don't give change") or "abonar con monedas" ("pay with coins"). The one peso coin, in particular, is like the holy grail.
Dog Shit. It is really everywhere...please watch your step.
Fire Hazards. For security reasons, everyone likes to bolt their doors when they're inside. That's okay, and probably a good idea, except the bolts need to be unlocked with a key even from the inside. So to get out of my apartment, to, say, grab delivered Chinese food, or maybe, escape from an inferno, I need to fumble with my keys, turn twice in my apartment's door, and then go to the building entrance, fumble again in the dark trying to find the narrow keyhole and successfully insert the key, and turn twice again before reaching the street.

Evitando Multas

2008-10-12T14:25:00.002-04:00

I just took the commuter train from my apartment to the downtown, a welcome relief from the hot subway that only takes one stop to get to the centro instead of the 15. Being that it's a Sunday, the ticket office on the platform at my local sleepy train station was closed. That didn't really bother me, as I'd seen people in the past just buying their tickets at the downtown train station right before passing through the ticket inspection to leave the platform.

Upon arriving at Retiro Station, I approached one of the ticket inspectors and asked if there was a machine I could use to buy my ticket (which costs about a US quarter) with exact change. They asked where I got on the train, as apparently it is only permitted to buy your ticket at Retiro if the ticket office at your origin was closed. This all made sense to me. What then threw me a curveball, however, was when they insisted that I was wrong, and that the ticket office at my station had been open. No, not the one on the inbound side, but on the outbound side, about a 10-minute walk away, and that it had been my responsibility to know that and purchase my ticket before boarding. I spent a few minutes arguing to the best of my ability, alternating between the sad-lonely-kid-from-another-country and a responsible, coherent, Spanish-speaking adult. Neither worked.

Fortunately, at the other ticket window, a small scene was developing among some of the other people who had boarded with me at Carranza. One man, a well-dressed businessman with a brief case, was becoming agitated, and I decided to abandon my argument and try to tag along to his. He started getting really worked up, yelling, "I can't believe this! I'm in my own country! I'm going to miss my bus you bastard!" (all in Spanish, of course) until the ticket attendent actually came out of the office to try and shut him up. Eventually, he stormed past the inspectors, not paying a dime, and huffed and puffed right out of the station.

I then walked up to the window, and as calmly and respectfully as possible said, "I'm not in my own country, and I'm not yelling, but the ticket office was closed, and I'd like to pay my fare of 65 centavos." She took my coins and handed me the ticket and I walked out.

By the way, not that it makes anyone in this story look any better, but want to know the cost of the fine for not having bought a ticket? US $2.50.

Fast Friendships

2008-10-10T14:10:00.002-04:00

Although this is something I've been aware of not only since arriving in South America, but really for a lot longer than that, my time in Mendoza made me acutely aware of the superficiality of many of the interactions I have while traveling.

In the hostel in Mendoza, as I mentioned in the last post, I felt immediately welcome by the hordes of English speakers. Jane and Sarah from Bristol, UK were staying in the same dorm room as me, and we ended up spending dinner and a whole day of biking around the wineries together. Yet, when they left early in the morning on Tuesday, we didn't exchange contact information and barely said goodbye. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure that throughout all the time we spent together, neither of them could remember my name.

It's not that I think they're bad people, or that anyone did anything wrong; in fact the opposite. All the gringos traveling around South America stick together to help us feel some familiarity, even if it's just linguistic. Without that instinct to stick together I would have been really, truly alone, and it was really a releif to not have to go to a restaurant, or the wineries, solo.

That being said, I'm really amazed when I meet people who are on 6-month or longer solo backpacking journies around the continent or even the world. John, an American from Wisconsin was also staying at the hostel in Mendoza and has been traveling for a year and a half, starting in South East Asia and now making his way around South America, all on his own, and I have to wonder how lonely it must get, as well as how exhausting all of these fast friendships must get. Always having the same conversations about where he's from and why he's traveling, never getting beneath the surface of the polite and friendly conversation that is so easy to strike up with other gringos--it must get old.

This is all part of why I needed to have a home base, Buenos Aires, where I could at least have more than 3 days to try and get to know someone before stripping my bed, dumping the sheets and towels in the hallway, and getting on a bus to wherever's next on the list.

Bikes and Wines on the Gringo Trail

2008-10-09T13:22:00.005-04:00

Saturday morning I checked out of the hostel, bought some snacks, and headed to the bus station for my trip across the Andes. The bus company I was directed to by my hostel may not have been the cheapest (US$35 one way) but it was certainly upscale, with semi-cama service which basically meant tons of recline and leg rests. There were two drivers, and the one who wasn't driving doubled as a flight attendent, handing out sandwiches and juice at the beginning of the journey.

We spent about six hours en route, incluing one section which must be the steepest road in the world. The it wasn't that the road itself was so steep at any one moment, but rather the way in which 15 or so switchbacks are tucked together so tightly. At the end of the climb, we easily rose 1500-2000 feet, with the bottom of the road probably only half a mile away as the crow flies. I'm making those numbers up, but it was nuts.

I arrived in Mendoza a little after 10pm (including a one-hour time change) and checked into what has probably become my favorite hostel that I've ever stayed in. Hostel Lao in Mendoza has a 95% favorability rating on HostelWorld, higher than you really ever see, and deserves it. It only had room for about 20 people (good thing I resereved!) and was as homey as you could hope for. When I arrived there were no less than 10 people hanging out in the living room enjoying the free wine, and upon sitting down I was immediately absorbed into the conversation. Most of the other backpackers were in their mid-to-late twenties from either the UK or Ireland, plus a pair of American girls on study abroad. It was about as much as I could ask for as a solo traveler.

My first day in Mendoza I slept in, and spent the afternoon on my paragliding adventure. That night I went out for steak to a somewhat upscale parilla with a few of the British girls. The steaks were good although I'm not sure the place was quite as un-touristy as our hostel manager described.

Monday was wine day. It is a gringo right of passage to do some sort of wine tour when in Mendoza, and the one I did was certainly the most heavily traveled. That said, it didn't feel too kitchy, and I certainly didn't feel ripped off. Ten bucks for a bike rental (with map) and then $3-$5 per winery for a short tour and small tasting didn't seem like a bad deal. The whole area consists of one road about 12km long (45 minutes rididng) with about 9 wineries scattered along it. There's no tour, which is why it was nice that I had a small group of people from the hostel to ride with, and you spend about 8 hours meandering and drinking until you can't stand it anymore. We ended up seeing three wineries, plus an olive oil factory and a chocolate liquour factory.

The most amazing part of the day, however, had to be the environment. The first half of the ride was somewhat commercial and filled with the noice and pollution of trucks and buses, although once we got a little further and it got a little quieter we really got to appreciate the area's beauty. Looking to our right, you would see rows upon rows of grape vines, and then in the distance behind, the dramatically snow-covered Andes. All of this was draped by a perfectly blue sky and 70-degree air.

We were exhausted, although not drunk, when we got back, and just bought some vegetables to make a big salad for dinner. The body can only take so much red meat and red wine!

Lost on Cerros and Partying Santiago Style

2008-10-08T12:21:00.005-04:00

Friday in Santiago was my chance to explore the city a bit more on my own, so although to be perfectly honest, there isn't that much for a tourist to see. I did a little walking from the hostel around the center and the parque forestal (stuff I'd already seen the day before) before heading up to Providencia, the neighborhood of the Stanford center and what Annie from the Stanford program refers to as the "upper east side" of Santiago.

This neighborhood was full of fancy buildings and businesspeople and bookshops, although it didn't really excite me all that much. The real reason I came up to that neighborhood was to get access to the teleferico, or gondola, up to the Cerro San Cristobal, which is the highest point in downtown Santiago and home to the 70-foot statue of the Virgin Mary. I got a decent view of the city, although the combination of clouds and smog made the view slightly less than inspiring.

Normally you can access the summit of the cerro either by the gondola from Providencia or a funicular train from Bellavista (next to my hostel) although the funicular is closed for repairs until December. So once I reached the top, and had a chance to look around, I figured it made more sense to descend the 1000-foot hill on foot rather than take the gondola back to the wrong neighborhood and have to schlep back from there. This all went fine for a while, the train was pretty steep but that just meant I would be down and off this hill all the sooner. I was utterly alone, and saw only one couple of teenagers who were probably looking for a discreet location to smooch. About a third of the way down, however, the trail flattened, and suddenly I had walked for about 20 minutes and not descended one bit. I started worrying that I'd made a wrong turn, or worse, that this trail didn't actually go to the bottom and I would have to climb back up to the top of the mountain. For most of this time I could see the skyscrapers of the downtown, although eventually the trail curved behind the mountain and I lost sight of them which prompted me to turn around. At this point my thoughts turned towards separating my cash and ATM cards into different pockets as well as slipping the memory card of my camera into the coin pocket of my jeans so as to avoid losing all were I to run into some less than welcoming people. Just after that, as I was backtracking, I ran into a man who didn't look too mean, so I tried asking him for directions on how to get to the bottom, and he reassured me that I had been going the right way all along, and it was just around the bend. I felt a bit silly turning around again, but I persevered, and after another 15 minutes of walking I came to an intersection with the trail to the bottom and another (presumably more direct) trail to the top. All told it took less than an hour and a half to get down, but it sure felt like longer!

Money back in the wallet and nerves calmed, I grabbed a quick shower before heading out to the Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art and then to meet Raul for dinner. The museum was fine, and small, which was good seeing as it closed only 30 minutes after I got there.

Earlier, I received a facebook message from a girl who either through Raul or Matt heard that I was Jewish and visiting Chile, and invited me to go to a Kabalat Shabbat service at a local Reform congregation. Raul, partly out of curiosity and partly out of hospitality, offered to come along, which was nice because ultimately the girl who invited me in the first place didn't show. This was a very different experience than the ones I'd had in Buenos Aires, as the Jewish community in Santiago is much smaller than the Argentinian one. The only Reform congregation had recently lost it's synagogue to some sort of development project, and although I didn't get all of the details, the whole thing seemed really depressing. Now they were meeting for Shabbat in a hotel's meeting room, using photocopies for siddurim. About sixty people showed up for the service, which really surprised me for a service in a hotel, but it was ultimately nice and welcoming. Since we arrived early we shmoozed a bit with the rabbi, who was actually American, and some of the other attendees including two American girls on study abroad--one of which attended my same middle school, Welsh Valley. The service went on pretty long as we patiently listened to the rabbi's somewhat inarticulate explanation of Shabbat T'shuvah (the one before Yom Kippur), which was made even less convincing by his poor knowledge of Spanish, before heading out to get on with the fun part of our night.

We stopped by the house of one of Raul's friends, Rodrigo, to pick him up before grabbing dinner at none other than Burger King. This was after much protest from yours truly, seeing as I hadn't come all the way to Chile to eat American corporate garbage, but they insisted, and it was about the only option we had. Having swallowed my shame at American cultural exports, we got in the subway, met up with a third friend, Cristobal, and went to a birthday party. The birthday party was for one of Raul's friends, who is actually Nicaraguan. Raul jokes that due since he participates in an intercambio, more of his friends are foreign than actually Chilean, and at this party I met kids from Brazil and France among others. Spanish was the language of choice though, so I was able to hold my own at least a little bit. Cristobal and Rodrigo had both spent summers working at American ski resorts (thanks to the opposite seasons), so their English was good, and one of the Brazilian girls was the daughter of a diplomat and had actually spent high school in Boston, where he was a consul.

After blowing out the candles, we left in a taxi for Bellavista, this time to actually see what there was of gay nightlife in Santiago. There were four of us, which was a fun number, and helped when we realized that most of the clientele at the Bunker discotheque were quite older. We danced for a while and then watched a slapstick drag show, staying until about 4am. Then it was a walk back to the hostel, sleep, and off to the bus station to head to Mendoza.

Jumping off of Cliffs

2008-10-07T10:48:00.002-04:00

I went paragliding. Although I originally thought that paragliding was flying suspended beneath a rather large kite (which is actually called hang-gliding), it is flying under a specially designed airfoil-like parachute and using thermals to stay aloft for as long as you'd like.

Alejandro, my pilot, and I stayed aloft almost 25 minutes on an absolutely stunning day in Mendoza, Argentina, and managed to see a 12-foot condor at close range before the condor realized we were much bigger than it and swooped away. I managed to capture a picture of the bird headed away, but no faces. Before landing, Alejandro offered to do some acrobatic maneuvers just for fun (I guess I had been a well-behaved passenger). We did a spiral descent and I managed to capture it all on video. Enjoy!

Chile!

2008-10-04T23:57:00.013-04:00

Now halfway done my first major trip outside of Buenos Aires, I feel I ought to start chronicling it so as to not forget everything. My three days in Santiago were action packed, ranging from salsa dancing to fish-eating to hanging out with Chileans and going clubbing. I apologize in advance for how long this post is going to be, but hey, I'm writing this as much for myself to remember as for you to enjoy it vicariously.

Before heading to Chile, I caught up with Matt who had studied abroad for a semester in Santiago to get some tips. It's amazing how many parallels you can draw between Matt and my experiences. Last spring I studied abroad in Barcelona while Matt went to Chile, and now that we're both college graduates Matt is doing much the same as what I'm doing except in Barcelona. He recommended that I stay in the Bellavista neighborhood and told me a bunch of fun tourist attractions to see, and best of all he connected me with some amazingly friendly locals.

I landed in Santiago at about 6pm on Wednesday after my Air Canada flight from Ezeiza. The flight was the first leg of a flight that goes from BA to Toronto with a stop in Santiago, although it seemed as though more than two thirds of the passengers were only along for the short ride to Chile. It was entertaining watching the polite Canadian cabin crew attempting to communicate with many of the less than airplane savvy non-English speaking passengers. After arriving I paid my egregious ¨reciprocity¨tax of a whopping US$131 (supposedly to avenge the fees Chileans pay to travel to the US) and caught a transfer, basically a SuperShuttle to my hostel in Bellavista. It took almost an hour and a half through crawling rush hour traffic, but only cost $10, so I suppose I can't complain.

Bellavista is a hip part of Santiago. At first I would describe it as the East Village, were it not for the main drag Pio Nono Street which is really just a long chain of divey tourist trap bars. Off Pio Nono, Bellavista is home to the edgy as well as the only gay culture in the city, and ended up being where I spent all three of my evenings. The hostel I stayed in (Matt's recommendation) was great as well, full of character and one of the top-rated hostels in all of South America.

Unfortunately, I failed to notice the distiction between street numbers starting with 0, as in Dardignac 0184, and those that don't, like Dardignac 184. Apparently this is how they demarcate the difference between the East Dardignac and West Dardignac--a fact I learned the hard way when the transfer dropped me off four blocks from the hostel. Walking alone at night in a new city with a backpack is not high on my list of likes, less so in edgy areas, although I didn't have any issues.

I had planned to meet up with Annie, one of my residents from last year in Phi Sig, who is currently at Stanford in Santiago for dinner on Wednesday. I got to the hostel just in time to meet Annie at 8, and we walked around the neighborhood and eventually grabbed dinner at one of the more happening restaurants. We wandered into a bar that had live music hoping it was something Chilean, although it ended up being an awesomely bad Bon Jovi cover band with a frontman who grew up in Nueva Jersey.

Thursday morning was my first day to wander, although before I even had the chance to get lost in the city I was already making plans to meet up with Raul, one of Matt's good friends. Before meeting up with Raul, I climed the Cerro Santa Lucía and explored some of Santiago's vast amounts of green space. The parks in Santiago are great, and the city as a whole felt much cleaner and stroll-friendly than Buenos Aires. Maybe they're trying to compensate for all the air pollution and smog. I summited Santa Lucía right at noon, and much to my surprise there is apparently a daily firing of the cannon at time. Among the tourists at the top many had their ears plugged, although I didn´t think twice about it (maybe they were struggling to listen to some audio tour?), and so I nearly peed myself when, only twenty feet away, the world exploded.

Raul and I arranged to meet near the cerro, and as we got to know each other he led me around a bit through Plaza de las Armas and by the Palacio de la Moneda, the presidential palace and focal point of the 1973 coup. Allegedly, the president who was being overthrown was cornered in the palace and committed suicide, thus allowing Pinochet to take over. (At least I think that's the story). At the recommendation of my Chilean roommate Nicolas, we had lunch inside the Mercado Central, one of the main seafood markets in Santiago, where I ate a mariscal, a bowl of various unidentifialbe squidlike objects. It was delicious.

After some ice cream from Emporio la Rosa and some relaxation in the Parque Forestal, I headed back to Bellavista to tour the home of famous Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, an eccentric if not surrealist guy living in an appropriately bizarre home. I ended up getting a private tour of the place and it was quite cool, all in the motif of a ship and a corresponding lighthouse. Neruda was friends with some great artists (Diego Rivera, Picasso, among others) and has a nice collection of paintings in which Neruda himself, or his profile, is the subject of at least half.

Thursday night I met back up with Annie along with the rest of the posse of Stanford in Santiago at none other than Ruby Tuesdays. As guilty as I felt going to an American chain restaurant, it was the only place in town showing CNN coverage of the Palin-Biden debate. It was fun running into some familiar faces--Salone and Angie from tour guiding--and waxing nostalgic about life on the farm. The Stanford group was planning to go Salsateque-ing and invited me to come along, which I was happy to do as the place they knew of was not two blocks from my hostel.

We arrived too early for the salsa, so we waited around in, you guessed it, one of Pio Nono´s dives. For that hour, I remembered exactly why it was that I chose not to go to one of Stanford´s abroad campuses. We stood around on the sidewalk like a bunch of gringo freshmen, all too dumb to know where to go and sticking together like a gaggle. The pressure to conform to the group was really strong, and I could see how easy it woudl be to spend the entire quarter surrounded by none other than Stanford students. Sure, they're still abroad, but sometimes you just have to cut the cord.

Fortunately this awkwardness didn't last too long and we went into the salsa place and it was fantastic. Live music played by a 10-piece band, and songs that everyone in the place seemed to know the words to except us; it was great. We danced as gringos do, but still had fun, and eventually I parted with the Stanford kids and headed to bed.

(It's late, and I'm tired. I'll write about the last, and most exciting, day in Santiago tomorrow or whenever I get the chance.)

Accents

2008-10-01T12:03:00.002-04:00

Last night I went to dinner at a fantastic Middle Eastern restaurant with Nicolas, as well as two new American friends, Erika and Christina. Erika and I met at the drum concert about a week back when I met up with the Dutch guys, and had been trying to make plans for a while. She graduated from CU Boulder in '07 and is spending a few months traveling South America before doing Peace Corps in Honduras.

Dinner was great, but what I couldn't believe was when Nicolas alerted me to the fact that the Chilean accent doesn't have any of the peculiarities of the Argentinian one, namely, they don't prounouce 'll' and 'y' like an English 'j', and they use tú instead of vos. That should make communication both easier and harder; seeing as my whole life I've been speaking Spanish that way until the last two weeks, when I've been doing everything in my power to change.

Anyway, I don't have much time since I have to catch the train to the bus to Ezeiza to catch my flight to Santiago.

More Jews!

2008-09-30T14:37:00.003-04:00

Last night, for Erev Rosh Hashana, I went with Marina and her youngest son, Tommy, who's 12, to services before enjoying a delightful family meal at the Werthein house. When they go, which is rare, they go to the other Reform-esque synagogue in Buenos Aires. Although everyone calls it Templo Libertad, after the street on which it is found, the full name of the synagogue is CIRA, or the Congrecación Israelita de la Republica Argentina. I really like the word Israelita.

This is the oldest synagogue in BA, and the inside looks more like a church than what I've come to expect from a Jewish house of worship. It's big, and stone, with a domed ceiling and wooden pews. Still, it was magnificint in its austerity. Marina mentioned that until a few years ago it was significantly more conservative, with the mechitzah only being taken down four years ago.

This congregation seemed a bit more exclusive than Emanu-El, and in front of each seat was the name of the person who had reserved it, presumably based on the amount which that person contributed. The service itself was similar in concert-ness to the one I went to on Shabbat, with cordless microphones and continuous keyboard accompianament.

Dinner was great, back at the Werthein's most of Gabriel's family had converged, and the group totaled 25 people. Wine was served, although it seemed like I was the only person drinking, and somehow my cup was never empty. I guess it's one thing when it's your own family, but this was someone else's and everyone was speaking another language. I felt great being included and having somewhere to go, and Marina insisted I was the guest of honor, but it still would have been nice being in Villanova.

This morning I set my alarm for only the 2nd time in the two weeks I've been in Argentina, planning to check out the other services at Emanu-El and to get my year's fill of hearing the shofar blast. Arriving on time was certainly not required, although the service did start, but most people (including the senior rabbi, this I really did not understand) arrived at least 45 mintues into the service. Rather than being in the actual synagogue, the service was in a rented out convention center, and the room felt pretty cold. Unlike at Shabbat, no one introduced themselves to me, and the abundance of space allowed for no one to sit right next to me. I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend Kol Nidre back at Libertad with the Wertheins, because at least then I'll have someone to sit with.

The Delta

2008-09-29T14:54:00.003-04:00

In officially catching this blog up to the present day, I'm now writing the last of my retroactive posts. Last weekend, my first here, Martin invited me to go fishing in Tigre, a town about thirty minutes outside the Capital City. I figured it would be a fun Saturday afternoon, and every day was still a complete adventure, so saying no was out of the question.

Martin picked me up from the hostel and we drove the hour or so out of town. We had the option of just fishing in the afternoon or spending the night at his grandfather's cabin and fishing in the morning, which was supposedly better. Not being sure what the right answer was, and not wanting to miss out on the "better" fishing, I opted for the overnight. We stopped at the supermarket to load up on 24 hours of groceries, and drove to the marina. I knew he had a boat, and I knew he had a cabin, so I didn't quite understand why we needed to bring all of the groceries onto the boat if we weren't even going fishing until the next morning.

It was partly my fault for not asking for clarification earlier, but apparently where we were going, and where his grandfather's cabin is located, is in a region known as the Delta. It's a network of estuaries that all feed the Rio del Plata, the main waterway next to Buenos Aires. The delta has about 10,000km of rivers, each defining narrow islands that are populated with tons of vacation homes.

It took us about twenty minutes in the boat to get from the marina to the cabin, but it felt extremely isolated. There were small conveniences, cell reception for one, but it was really a tranquil hideaway that can be reached fairly easily from the hustle and bustle of the city.

We cooked our frozen pizza and played some cards, eventually falling asleep on the early side so we could wake up at 8 and catch the fish while the catching was good. With the help of neighbor and year-round caretaker Carlos, we caught four little ones, and I wish I could remember what they were called. Carlos freid 'em up for us, and they made for a delicious lunch.

Jews!

2008-09-27T14:21:00.003-04:00

With the High Holidays right around the corner, I started looking for a synagogue. The Wertheins, who are Jewish, graciously invited me to their house for a Rosh Hashana dinner, although they aren't very observant, and being that I'm in a foreign place I figured it would make sense for me to find a synagogue.

Since I was hoping to find a somewhat liberal synague, I started at the URJ website and quickly navigated to the World Union for Progressive Judaism, and from there found the only member synagogue in Buenos Aires. It's in Belgrano, about 3 subway stops from my apartment, and from their website it seemed nice.

On Wednesday afternoon I tried just walking in. It was almost as bad as Bologna before Passover 2007, when Jess and I were not only shown the door but then followed around the block by the security guard. This guard made it very clear that I was not allowed to come in, but at least didn't follow me when I left. I was pissed off, but determined, and so I went straight to an internet cafe to find an email address and send someone an email about who I was.

The email was replied to by Thursday morning, along with instructions to return to the synagogue at 6pm to buy tickets for High Holiday services. Now I had a name of a human being, and when I returned to the synagogue and met with similar hostility, I stood my ground, and was eventually allowed in. I spoke to the woman who had emailed me about high holidays, and she advised me to come back on Friday for Shabbat services to get a feel for the community before Rosh Hashana. On the way out I advised the security guards of my impending return, and they took my name to make sure I wouldn't get hassled anymore.

So, that brings us to Friday. I had no idea what to expect for services last night, but now that I went I know I picked the right temple to jump into while I'm here in BA. The rabbi, who reminded me of Greg Eskin from WVMS Jazz Band, was not a day older than 35 and had hair well past his shoulders. Rabbi Ale welcomed me warmly, and since I was about a half an hour early, we chatted for a few minutes as people slowly trickled in. He was really excited to have me, and wanted to make sure I had a family to eat with on Rosh Hashana and promised to introduce me to a few of the people my age.

I also chatted with the father of one of the Bat Mitzvah girls, who was clearly not used to being in synagogue, but convinced me that of all the synagogues this is the one he prefers. His family all looked remarkably familiar, as if they had been picked up out of the Main Line and dropped into this synagogue. I sat in front of a lady and her 12-year old daughter who chatted me up for a while before the service, and invited me to their house for holiday meals.

Dress code among the congregation (which was packed; I was told on behalf of the fact that there were 3 b'nei mitzvot today and it's the last Shabbat of the Jewish year) was casual at best, most men wore open necked button-down shirts and some of the kids wore jeans and sneakers.

The service itself was wonderful, if not a bit concert-y, and was 100% musically accompanied. I knew I was in the right place when in the front of the sanctuary I saw no less than 3 bongo drums, along with wireless microphones and an electric keyboard. These are no shomershabboses. They began with about a half an hour's worth of Kabbalat shabbat, the singing of 6 different melodies culminating with L'cha Dodi, a tradition I understand and am accostomed to thanks to the hard work of Max Chaiken, and even recognized a few of the melodies. The rest of the liturgy, barchu, sh'ma, etc, went by fairly quickly, and the whole thing was probably about an hour and 15 minutes. One thing I really thought was cool was that they all get up and dance during L'cha Dodi, the prayer to welcome the Sabbath. It was as if they really felt that Shabbat was a full day, something to be excited to be welcoming, instead of considering the service itself to be the full extent of Shabbat as is often the case in our home synagogues. They also included the kiddush and the birkat hamishpachah (family blessings) in the service, at which point everyone stood up and got into little family huddles while they prayed. Fortunately for me, the mother and daughter behind me forced me into their circle.

I left shortly after the service ended, but I'll be back. With the schedule as it is here, dinner not before 10 on a Friday, I might just make a habit out of going to services. And I'm glad to have a real synagogue to pray in for the High Holidays, even if saying so is going to give my mom uncontrollable nachus.

How am I filling the days?

2008-09-27T14:07:00.002-04:00

Now that it's been a week, I'm sure many of you are wondering what it is that I do all day. Well, the truth is, daytime doesn't bring too much excitement. Usually I wake up around noon, and by the time I've showered and eaten some eggs it's usually 1pm, and I'm off to the internet cafe. I embarassingly spend the best weather hours of the day in a dark room paying 60 cents an hour for high speed internet so that I can keep up this blog and make an attempt at knowing about world events. Then I eat lunch around 3, and the afternoon hours mean time to explore. I usually pick a new area I haven't been to and walk around, sometimes I stop at a coffee shop and read for a bit, but generally not doing anything of note.

This would all sound like I'm bored here, but the truth is, I'm not. I like doing very little during the day, and I've made it a goal, a goal that I've achieved, to do something interesting, sometimes even adventurous, ever night. Here's a list of the adventures I've managed to have in the past week:

Sunday. First time in Belgrano, dinner and hookah with Alexis and Brennan in their studio
Monday. Took bus for the first time (that was an adventure in itself) so I could try to meet up with some Dutch friends of mine from the Hostel who were going to a drum concert. After waiting in line for half an hour (not knowing if I would find them once inside), I went into La Bomba del Tiempo, a hipster concert in the courtyard of a cultural center. It was awesome, and I quickly found the Dutch guys, and we sipped $3 beers (a full liter each) and danced to the beat. Afterwards we went to another bar where I conversed with some people they were staying with, including some interesting internationals.
Tuesday. I met up with Cristian and explored San Telmo, a bit of a touristy area but with good food and drink. This is where most of the tango milongas are, but we didn't see any.
Wednesday. Dinner and conversation with the Wertheins, my surrogate family in BA.
Thursday. The Dutch guys came over in the morning and spent the night couch-surfing in my apartment. We explored Palermo, and the Zoo (which was creepy), and then returned to the apartment to make dinner and drink some wine with Nicolas, my roommate.
Friday. Went to Kabbalat Shabbat services at NCI Emanu-El, the only reform synagogue in the area. That warrants its own post. Then I went to the apartment of one of Cristian's friends for a small gathering, and fruitlessly tried to follow the conversation of ten Argentinian twenty-somethings while we drank beer and strawberry flavored wine.

So even though my days are somewhat bland, as long as I can keep up this adventuring during the evenings I feel like I'm making the most of my time. And the weather is only going to get better--it may be 65 and sunny now, but summer is just around the corner.

Moving right along

2008-09-26T13:44:00.002-04:00

Two things:

First, I take back what I said about BA being a racist city. The more I look around the more I realize how diverse this place really is, and furthermore, I get asked for directions in Argentinian Spanish almost every single day. That took me a month to happen in Barcelona.

Second, I just booked a flight for next week, October 1st, to Santiago, Chile. It was somewhat impuslive, but I'm excited to explore a new city alone now that everything in BA is starting to become routine. I'm considering adding Valparaiso (on the Chilean Pacific coast) or Mendoza, Argentina (the wine region) to the trip. Feel free to comment/email with suggestions.

Clubbing!

2008-09-26T13:10:00.003-04:00

The onset of my first weekend (for those of you keeping score, yes, I'm still a week behind) meant my first ventures out into Buenos Aires's nightlife. The sleeping/partying schedule in Buenos Aires is fairly backwards, in my opinion, since they party like Spaniards until 6am and then go to work like Americans at 9. There's no mid-afternoon siesta, no 35-hour workweek (many people work 6 day weeks), and all in all, no sleep. That's not really a problem for me, though, since so far I've yet to start doing anything productive or meaningful with my time besides wandering around the city, so I go out late and sleep until noon.

Last Thursday night, my third in the city, I decided it was time to go out and thus called Sarah and Carly, who had plans to go to some club or another. We hung out at their apartment for a few hours--they live in the busier neighborhood closer to the center, along with two of their roommates. They live in a 5-bedroom apartment, and their roommates are an eclectic bunch of twenty-somethings, and it seems like a pretty fun situation. The two we hung out with were a girl from France and a guy from BA who spent much of his childhood in Miami. I called Martin, my local family friend and he came over as well, and soon we were in the taxi on the way to Puerto Madero.

Although I barely saw it from the window of the taxi (we were squished 4 in the back seat), Puerto Madero seems to me to be similar to Puerto Olimpico in Barcelona, that is, a modern development of fancy clubs and bars that overcharge tourists who come seeking a feeling of stylish entitlement. The club we had picked, Acqua, let the girls in for free but charged the guys 40 pesos a piece, which although only costs US$13, is an obscene cover charge for this city. We stayed and danced for a few hours to music that was too loud, and the place was too crowded, but at least I was out and exploring something besides the hostel. The one up-side--drinks were free with the cover. If you can manage to get to the bar twice (once to get your ticket, and a 2nd time to actually get your drink) through the crowd, they make fairly generous drinks.

Friday night I was looking for something a bit more authentic, and hopefully more fun. I had been in facebook contact with a guy from Buenos Aires whom I had messaged out of bold outgoingness, and he mentioned to me that there was a great gay club just outside the center that he would be going to with his friends. I asked to meet up with him and his friends before the club, thinking how nice it would be to sneak into a gay friend group while I'm here. He politely declined, ostensibly because they already had advance passes into the club and wouldn't have to wait in line, but probably because I was just some dude from the internet.

My options were thus twofold: I could have stayed with the pack (of dudes) from the hostel going to some club that someone read about in Fodor's, or I could go alone in a taxi to this club, and hope that I might meet up with my new friend. I chose 2, and after a 15-minute cab ride (which only cost US$8) and a 20-minute wait outside, I was in the Fiesta Plop, hosted at the Teatro de Flores. The club was great, it's a converted theater that has a stage, pit, and balcony cleared of all the seats, and plenty of bar space meaning lines were short. After the 20 peso cover (more typical, about $7) drinks were only 8 pesos apiece, including some vodka in the glass and a whole can of RedBull.

Fortunately, through text messages, I was able to meet up with Cristian (the facebook friend) almost immediately and then somewhat forcefully joined his group of friends. After a little while of dancing and chatting/screaming to one another over the music, I seemed to have earned my right to hang out with them, and ultimately I had a fantastic time. So much so, that I have plans to meet up with them tonight for dinner and round two of Fiesta Plop.

More on Diversity: Tourist Now, Tourist Always

2008-09-24T13:43:00.002-04:00

An Argentine friend of mine (I know, right?) said that I look just like a typical American. No, it's not how I dress, it's not my hair or my shoes, it's my face.

That pissed me off, since I'm trying to blend in, but furthermore because it made me realize that Buenos Aires isn't different from Barcelona, or the rest of the world for that matter, where nationality and race are so closely linked. It seems to me that only in some American cities, along with maybe London, are there vast numbers of people of different races who have all been living there for generations.

Piso Compartido

2008-09-24T13:08:00.010-04:00

As many who have been to this city correctly advised me, the market for apartments is ripe for the picking in Buenos Aires. Craigslist was full of options, and it only took me three tries to find an apartment that felt right. There are tons of apartments specifically meant for tourists, renting by the week or longer and approaching metropolitan US prices, although I was looking for something a bit more authentic, and as a consequence, cheaper.

The first place I looked at was a place shared by 4 people, ranging in age from 22 to 54, in the neighborhood of the Congreso (still pretty close to the centro, and full of noise and buses). The room I would have had (for US$350 a month) would have been in the attic, a small room with no window and a twin bed, along with a private bathroom also in the attic. The other rooms were on the main floor, along with a tiny living room and tiny kitchen. It was quaint, and the people were nice, but it wasn't right.

On Thursday, after parting with Alexis and Brennan, I checked out place #2, a beautiful--I mean beautiful--apartment right in the middle of Palermo, the best neighborhood, owned by a middle-aged woman and her active dog. The dog practically attacked me when I came in, and the place smelled a bit of dog. The woman herself was stern (at best) and made it very clear that there would be no fun permitted anywhere near her apartment. No friends, not even for lunch. That being said, she would have left food for me for breakfast and the room had a huge window and closet, still for only $500. Owing partially to having seen Michael's frustration with his landlady in Sunnyvale, as well as my own confidence that this would be a bad idea, I left, and called place number 3.

This apartment was closer to the edge of Palermo, actually on the road that divides Palermo from neighboring residential area of Colegiales. It was a small two bedroom with a shared bathroom, the sole resident of which is a 25-year old Chilean guy, Nicolas, and his 6-month old kitten, Ramona. He moved to Argentina three years ago to go to culinary school, and having finished a few months ago is now working full time at a local Italian restaurant. He's friendly, and we talked for about half an hour about the apartment, and about his life, and about our mutual preferences in terms of living, and although nothing is ever perfect, I decided that this was the right place. So the next day I came back, paid Nicolas the first month's rent of AR$1100, and started getting to know the area.

The neighborhood, being on the outskirts of Palermo, has some evidence of chic-ness but is still largely residential. Most of the buildings are less than three stories (which is rare in BA), and the streets are mostly residential. Each block has 2 or 3 businesses, which for the most part are cute cafes and furniture stores. There are two cafes on the corner right next to the apartment, both of which are great. There aren't really any supermarkets within a stone's throw, but we have a mini-supermarket a block and half away and a dry-cleaners even closer. (Side note: it is totally normal for everyone to pay for wash and fold, which costs about $3 a load, and weekly maid service, which costs about $10 for a small apartment)

I didn't really do much to move into my room besides put away my clothes, so the walls are still bare and probably will stay that way for the 10 weeks I'm here. I bought new pillows and sheets, and pretty much just took everything as it is. My main concern with the apartment, which has slowly been going away, is the presence of the cat. I've never lived with a cat before (and had a cat allergy as a kid), but this cat seems harmless, if not friendly. She's very curious and likes to walk around checking everything out, and my newness caught her a bit off guard. But Nicolas keeps her in his room when he sleeps, and I've learned how to pick her up and take her out when I need to, so, everything should be fine.

I feel like this post is getting a bit long-winded so I'll cut to the chase...here are photos of the apartment:

The Gender Barrier to Backpacking

2008-09-23T13:49:00.002-04:00

I gotta say it, being male carries a huge advantage as a solo backpacker in South America. The hostel was teeming with dudes from all over Europe, many of whom are traveling alone, and it was extremely easy to befriend them and have someone to go out for a meal with, drink with, or explore with. The only girls that I met were with boyfriends, thus avoiding the situation in which a solo girl tries to make friends with the aforementioned solo dudes.

This is not to mention the fact that I feel I would not be nearly as comfortable walking at night alone, taking taxis alone, or doing much of anything alone in this foreign city of Latin dudes if I were a girl.

Apartment-hunting, friend-making, and general bearings-seeking

2008-09-22T17:26:00.005-04:00

The rest of my first week, from Wednesday until Friday, was spent figuring out the city. I in no way am an expert now, although a few days of really trying to get your bearings can go a long way, even in a city as behemoth as Buenos Aires. Wednesday was another day for walking, this time starting to head more west towards the neighborhood of Once (own-se). Supposedly once the center of Buenos Aires' thriving Jewish community, and home to the only Kosher McDonald's outside Israel, there was no explicit evidence of Jewry, and the area was just as packed with diversity and people as the center. Since then I (think that I) found out that much of the synagogues, etc. are in the northern neighborhood of Belgrano.

The theme of Wednesday was craigslist.org, and the section devoted to shared apartments. There was really no shortage of places listed, although some of them are clearly posted by brokers trying to get you to call them for a place that may or may not already exist. I tried to stick to the ones that seemed like they were actually describing one apartment, with some sort of plausible situation. I emailed about ten of them, and before the hour was up I had already heard back from one. Then I heard back from another, and within 24 hours I had already visited three apartments. As Goldilocks taught us many years ago, the third option is usually just right, and so, within 72 hours of landing at Ezeiza Airport, I locked in the deal. I had already paid for two more nights in the hostel, so I would get to move gradually, but it was a huge relief to already be done what had seemed to be the most difficult task I was face with. I'll devote a future post to the apartment I chose.

Fortunately, I didn't have to spend all day in the internet cafes, and made a phone call to the house of a family friend of a family friend of mine from the US. The connection was a loose one, and the result a long process that started just by emailing my rabbi to help me find a Jewish family in BA to celebrate the holidays with, but right away they invited me to their home for dinner that evening.

Dinner that night was spent with Marina, the friend of the friend, and her sons Martin, who's 20, and Sebastian, who's 18. They live in a stylish apartment near the Palermo Park that is filled with artwork, owing to Marina's husband's passion for art. We ate steak prepared perfectly, a punto, and sipped the Malbec I picked up at a wine shop to bring. We conversed for three hours about language, culture, Argentina, Europe, the US, college, and my plans for my time here, and it wasn't until after midnight that Martin and Sebastian took me back to the hostel in their car. I was so touched by their hospitality and their eagerness to welcome me to their city. We promised to get together often, and I looked forward to having a home away from home while I'm here.

On Thursday I met up for lunch with Alexis and Brennan, two friends of mine and fellow '08ers from Stanford, who are spending a year here rather than rushing into jobs. They are currently living in a tourist apartment in Belgrano, just past Palermo on the subte, and we walked around for a few hours together. It was great to reminisce about the farm, and we started planning for a big Thanksgiving dinner for any and all American friends that we find here in BA.

So, within only two days of being here, I had already connected with two friends from middle school, two friends from Stanford and a local Jewish family with sons around my age. This is not to mention the friends from the hostel: a pair of Dutch guys spending a year backpacking, guys from Ireland and Sweden, and a group of six Americans traveling around the world by road in a pair of Toyota (read: sponsorship) trucks. They had already been driving a year and a half through Europe, Siberia, Asia, and Africa, arriving by boat in Buenos Aires only to be held up for a month by Argentinian customs officials. Suffice it to say I wasn't nearly as lonely as I could have been, and I knew that as time progressed I'd only make more friends.

Shamefully Linear Description of My Trip, Day 1

2008-09-22T16:18:00.011-04:00

Generally, when writing for my blog, I try to avoid long-winded blow-by-blow descriptions of my activities, preferring to focus my posts on one concise idea, moment, or observation. This will be much less focused, unfortunately; although for those of you plagued by an unrelenting curiosity for what each day is like after arriving alone in a foreign city, this, and the following posts, should be a good read. Anyway, my onetime creative writing teacher always said that you never know what an essay is about until after it's written, so here I go, to find out what the heck this trip is all about.

I arrived in Buenos Aires on a chilly morning after my 8-hour flight from Miami which I mostly slept through thanks to the effects of Ambien and a glass of red wine. The taxi driver was friendly enough, and although it cost me about US$30 for the trip, I was glad to have door-to-door service . The hostel I was staying in, with a recommendation from my Stanford friend Sam, was called el Firulete, right smack in the middle of downtown. In hindsight, I probably would have chosen the other Firulete location in the quieter neighborhood of Palermo, although it was nice to be close to all the subway lines and retail outlets and banks.

The centro, during the day on a Tuesday, is a mob scene. Finance, among other industries, has taken off in BA, and the number of people working in offices in the area far exceed the number that this part of the city was meant to accommodate. The sidewalks are barely wide enough for two people to pass, and buses (collectivos) pass frighteningly close at unexpected speeds (see my previous post). Had I had to walk the 8 blocks from where the airport shuttle bus drops off to the hostel with all of my luggage, I probably would have been run over.

I spent the day, and the next days as well, walking around, as is my habit in a new city. I started in the center, seeing the famous Plaza de Mayo and having lunch in the Plaza San Martin
. I bought my sandwich at a ridiculously crammed counter-style restaurant, and since there was no menu, innocently did my best to ask for whatever the New York-paced line cook would make me. I think it turned out to be a chicken sandwich.

After returning to the center and purchasing my cell phone (the cheapest I could find, and without a contract, of course), I hopped on the subway looking for a better neighborhood to alk around. I got off at Plaza Italia, at the center of Palermo, and then spent the rest of the afternoon walking back, zig-zagging the subway route for about 3 or 4 hours. It was really nice to get a feel for the neighborhoods--Palermo Viejo, Palermo Soho (supposedly like the NYC version, filled with boutiques), Recoleta (the wealthiest neighborhood) and Retiro (really an extension of the centro).

I got in touch with two of my friends from a past lifetime of Welsh Valley Middle School, Sarah and Carly, who have been here a month, and they gladly accepted my invitation to join me for dinner. We caught up on old times and old friends over bife de lomo, the standard cut of steak, before I headed back to the hostel to crash. The travel and walking really wore me out, so despite the hard bed and constantly passing busses, I slept well.

First impressions, four days later

2008-09-20T12:04:00.002-04:00

The cab driver said it best...¨¡Qué lindo que se han pintado líneas por los carriles!¨ or, roughly translated, ¨Aww, how pretty that they decided to paint lines on the road!¨ That should give you an idea of what it´s like taking a taxi around here.

More detailed post on the way. Soon.

Thinking about Buenos Aires

2008-09-14T23:34:00.004-04:00

Well the truth is I've been thinking about Buenos Aires for a long time. When I accepted my NYC consulting job back in February, they told me that I would have the option of delaying my start date until January, 2009, my head swelled with ideas of how to fill the time. I ultimately decided to buy a round-trip plane ticket to Argentina, leaving tomorrow, September 15th, and returning on December 5th, giving me just under three months to live down there.

I have no idea how I'm going to spend my three months.

However, having lived for the past four years in three-month increments (gotta love that quarter system), three months seems like a really manageable period of time for, anything, really. Furthermore, I had a similar experience already in Barcelona for my study abroad. My program there consisted of 12 hours of class a week and an pre-arranged apartment for me and my friend from Stanford who was with me. The way I see it, this will basically be the same, except I will a) be on my own, and b) will have to find my own place to live, and c) need to figure out what to do with my time.

None of the statements above seem insurmoutnable, and thus, I'm about to get on a plane to see for myself. I'll make friends, I'll find an apartment within the first week or two (staying in a $11/night youth hostel in the meantime), and someone will be happy to let me volunteer my time in their organization. After 16 years of school and constant jobs and structured time, I feel like this is a perfect opportunity to fly a little bit by the seat of my pants, and really take life one day at a time. The best way to do that, it seems, is by having no idea what tomorrow will bring.

Now--why Buenos Aires? Well the more I've thought about this question, the more perfect Buenos Aires seems to be in my mind. I can bucket the reasons into three categories:

Geographically, Buenos Aires is on a continent to which I've never been, and we're coming into their springtime which is apparently the nicest time of year.
Financially, you can still get about three Argentinian pesos to the dollar, and I don't plan to have any income while I'm there. If I can spend US $300 a month on rent (which is typical), and $3 on a steak, I should be able to finish three months without even killing my signing bonus.
Most importantly, Buenos Aires is great from a cultural perspective. It is said to be safe, liberal, cultural, and full of exciting things to do. BA boasts one of the largest Jewish communities outside the U.S. and Israel, as well as a thriving gay population. I'll also get a chance to practice and refine my Spanish abilities, hopefully feeling a sense of fluency by the end of my time.

Although initially the plan was to have no plans at all, I have started making connections, and look forward to networking my way to a few more. I connected with a Jewish family through synagogue friends, and hopefully they can help me find a place in the Jewish community. Plus I've found a few friends--two from middle school, and two from college--who are already in BA with missions similar to mine. But I'm still unprogrammed, and will remain as such. I'm bringing books, and I hope to write a fair amount, and all in all experience a way of life that I can pretty much guarantee I'll never get to experience again.

College 2.0

2008-09-11T16:57:00.004-04:00

I just got back from a pretty crazy weekend. No, I didn't go back to Palo Alto to sneak into undergrad parties and relive my last four years, but spent five days in New York catching up with friends and enjoying my complete lack of responsibility.

Sure, New York would be a lot less fun if you had to go to work on Monday morning (and I know that I will be included among this group before long), but it still is great to be able to have brunch with college friends, happy hour with a future colleague, dinner with a family friend from childhood, and go out to a bar with some friends from camp, all in one day. I traversed Manhattan's neighborhoods relentlessly on my quest to hang out with as many people as I could, and in doing so gained a familiarity with the City that will make finding a place to live a lot easier in December.

I was staying in my sister's studio on the Upper East Side that she was generous enough to loan me, and although it's not the closest neighborhood to where many of my friends live, I felt like a genuine NYC citizen being able to leave my friends at 3am to catch a cab back to "my apartment".

I visited my friends Gabe and Jordan in their new apartment way the hell up by W. 125th street to help set up a wifi network and help Gabe open an account with one of the last Union-owned banks around. I spent time in Hell's Kitchen, having brunch with $8 all-you-can-drink mimosas with Mark, an old friend of mine from Camp Kesem. I schlepped to the Flatbush section of Brooklyn to help Becca move her stuff out of her grandparents' house that she had been staying in for the summer.

But what really made the weekend great was all the time I got to spend in and around the East Village, where I hopefully will find myself living in just a few short months. I walked up and down 1st Avenue, A, and even ventured as far east as Avenue B, enjoying sushi and sake bombs, burritos, and drinks with college friends, camp friends, and new friends. First Avenue between Houston and 23rd is home to at least six groups of my friends, and also happens to be within a 20-minute walk of my soon-to-be office. Although I may not actually get to share an apartment with any of them, it's great to know three months before the fact that I'll have so many friends within a short walk's distance.

A Journey of Four Thousand Miles...

2008-09-11T00:18:00.006-04:00

...isn't truly over until you've stepped into an ocean. Ryan, Gabe, and I did it on a cool Friday afternoon in Santa Barbara, our ears filled with the beats of twenty drums played by twenty middle-aged, pot-smoking white people. For Michael and I, it was in the town of Ocean City, Maryland; still accompanied by middle-aged white people although the East Coast variety, with less pot, a wider waistband, and 2.5 children.

We had arrived to Michael's house on the Patuxent in Prince Frederick, MD the night before after our two-day, 30-hour marathon. At 11am on Wednesday we drove past Invesco Field in Denver on our way to Chipotle, and yet by the time Barack Obama was delivering his acceptance speech at 10pm on Thrusday, we were in reception distance of Washington, D.C.'s local NPR station to hear it live.

We celebrated our midnight arrival to Michael's hometown with a quick stop at Wawa, and then pretty much immediately crashed for a full 12 hours at his house. His dad and sister were nice enough to stay up a few minutes to welcome us, but we all needed sleep and it was nice to be off the road.

Friday was spent relaxing, with the ultimate goal of going out in the family boat. Rain pounded down throughout the afternoon, and it wasn't until 7pm that we were able to go for a short ride up and down the river. We came off the water and accompanied Michael's family for a sushi dinner. It was really nice to see Michael with his brother and sister, who hadn't seen him in months, sharing the unspoken closeness that only siblings can have.

We finished dinner and got back in the car for a late-night drive down to the shore, arriving just before 2am to the condo rented by Michael's other two siblings, step-sisters Livi and Lexi. Saturday was our day at the beach, and then before we knew it it was time to get into the car and drive back to my house in Villanova for what would be the end of my cross-country journey. It was great having Michael over to my house for the eve of his 22nd birthday, and then he was off, back to Rochester, to finish his degree.

Fuck you, Kansas

2008-09-10T00:46:00.004-04:00

Yeah, you. I drove through all 420 miles of your state. Here's why you suck:

Clearly you value fetuses more than happiness, education, health, and even freedom from terrorism. We saw some piece of anti-choice propaganda at almost every milepost, from the small home-made sign reading "Thank your mother for choosing life" to the rental truck in the right lane bearing a 15-foot image of a quarter with a bloody fetus's hand resting on it, supposedly to scale.
The WaKeeny Police Department insists on screwing out of state drivers. Okay, I was speeding. But not that much...is 83 miles per hour such a crime? When there is absolutely nothing either on the road or off of it to collide with?

Okay, I feel better. I'm sure it's not all bad, just don't expect me to pick up and move there anytime soon.

We made the pilgrimage

2008-09-03T14:13:00.004-04:00

Even with 1800 miles to cover in two days, there's always time for a detour. We awoke Wednesday morning on the shores of Lake Granby, CO, where we had camped, and drove through Rocky Mountian National Park on our way back to the interstate. Rocky Mtn. Park wasn't as inspirational as we'd hoped, our having been desensitized to mountains and seduced by the red cliffs of Utah, and so we drove through Colorado hoping for something more.

Like a lightning bolt it came to Michael, as he realized that the original restaurant of a franchise that would become a national phenomenon was located right there, in Denver. The Evans Avenue Chipotle is smaller than the pre-fab chain versions in strip malls everywhere, but still serves the same, simple menu and delicious, brick-shaped meals. Apparently we weren't the first people to make the trip to see it (our detour was only about 20 extra miles), and the staff was more than happy to take our picture and even presented us with free t-shirts to mark the occasion. Between the t-shirts and the sumptuous meal, we left content and ready for the long journey that awaited us.

Southern Utah: Wow

2008-09-02T14:57:00.006-04:00

If you've never driven around Southern Utah in the summertime, plan a road trip and go. Go to your local AAA and grab the Southern Utah map, and then meander around roads like UT-12 and UT-128 for some of the most unexpectedly breathtaking parts of the country.

We entered Utah on the highway from Vegas, got off about 10 miles in, and drove across the state on one-lane roads that wound through cliffs, mesas, and 100-mile expanses of beautiful nothing. All in all we hit five national parks in Utah, plus countless National Forests, Preserves, and Monuments that alternate every 50 miles or so.

Four highlights:

Bryce Canyon National Park
We arrived at Bryce at 11pm after an exhausting day that started in Vegas and included a five-hour detour to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. We put up our tent in our pre-reserved campsite, and awoke at about 9:30 for a couple hours around the park. We walked for about two hours near the rim and then below Sunrise Point, admiring the hoodoos and vistas. A hoodoo, if you didn't know, looks like a big, fat stalagmite made out of rock jutting up from the ground. They're apparently made from erosion resulting from the daily freezing and thawing of moisture, and were thought to represent bad luck (it's not a coincidence that it sounds like "voodoo"). The real highlight of the park is the view from Bryce Point, where you look over a vast field of hoodoos in all directions.

Utah State Route 12
To get to Moab and Arches, our next stop, Google will tell you to head west to the interstate, although we decided to take the more direct route off-highway. Utah 12 is an absolutely amazing road. The first hour or so winds down Bryce Canyon into the valley with stunning views, and we thought we'd seen it all by the time we had lunch at a cafe in Escalante. A middle-aged British couple were the only other patrons at the cafe, and they were pale from the last sixty miles of their journey which apparently took them two hours. We got back in the car ready for a battle, and although I wouldn't call the experience harrowing, the views from the top of some of the mesas were incredible, with 100-mile visibility and literally no civilization to speak of whatsoever.

Arches National Park
I really wish we had had more time here. Okay, maybe not, because I would have died of dehydration and heat exhaustion. Arches is a vast expanse of red, with giant rocks that have gradually eroded to create dozens of huge arches that I'm sure you're imagining. Some of them are visible from the road, but the best ones require a few hours of hiking to get right next to. We saw the Delicate Arch--the most famous one--from across a canyon, rather than taking the 3-hour hike to see it up close. Also, this is a park worth going to soon, as one of the arches fell down earlier this year.

Utah State Route 128
To get from Arches back to I-70 most people take US-191, a four-lane highway west of the park, although if instead you are heading east it is more direct to take UT-128, which borders the park for the first bit and then follows the Colorado River before flattening out into the plateaus where the interstate lies. We camped out on the side of this road, just on the banks of the Colorado. The other side of the river is a huge cliff--undoubtedly created by the river over time--which is the border to Arches Park. Truly one of the most beautiful places I could have imagined spending the night, we couldn't resist driving along to see the rest of what the road had to offer.

On the Road Again

2008-09-02T12:49:00.004-04:00

Before the summer began, when I was back in Palo Alto enjoying the wonderful Northern California springtime, I began to plan my luxurious 9-month interlude between completing my degree and starting my consulting gig in NYC. The sabbatical started with a final quarter at Stanford without any classes and only tour guiding and CS106B section leading to fill my days. I was spending a lot of time with my friend Michael, enjoying brief road trips along the Pacific Coast Highway and weekend adventures in San Francisco. He was in the Bay Area for six months doing a co-op with a green building materials company as part of his five-year program at RIT--where he was ultimately returning in the fall.

We realized that he would need to bring his car back to Rochester, NY in the last week of August, and having loved driving my own car across the country in 2005, I volunteered to co-pilot the journey. Although I was to be at Camp Harlam all summer, it was cheaper to get a round trip plane ticket for SFO-PHL-SFO after graduation, and so I planned to make my encore appearance in San Francisco on August 21st. Then I spent the summer in the 24-7 alternative universe of camp, and Michael kept busy at work planning out our route which would take us across 13 states.

Michael met me at the Stanford Golf Course after sharing a ride from SF with my friend Tyler, and off we set on leg 1 of our trip. We drove southeast through the Central Valley of California, stopping for one last In-N-Out in Kettleman City, just off of I-5. There is no direct highway connection between the Bay Area and Vegas, so really the only way to drive is by scooping down into the heart of the Mojave (where the outside temperature peaked at a dry 111 degrees), and then turning back towards the northeast.

While in the Mojave, we stopped to look at the Mojave Airport, graveyard of many of the world's deceased airlines, as well as the Mojave National Preserve, a huge open space surrounded by mountains and completely deserted of human interference. Although we would see more breath-taking abysses later on our journey, this was our first foray off of the highway and we were completely taken. It was sunset by the time we turned north to leave the park, and 9pm by the time we arrived in Sin City. We checked into our room at the Flamingo Hotel, and after grabbing a quick shower went out onto the strip to gawk at the masses. My friend Sawyer from Stanford was coincidentally there the same weekend, so we had dinner in Paris, and walked around to see Venice, New York, and an incredible outdoor fountain display at the Bellagio.

I'd be lying if I said I liked Vegas, and two hours on the strip was enough. Neither Michael nor I spent a dime in a casino, and the only word that seemed to really fit the town was "trashy". Armies of people line the sidewalks slapping the cards they hand out trying to get your attention. The cards, of course, advertise "hot girls who want to meet you" and can guarantee arrival at your hotel room within 20 minutes of your call. The whole place felt like a scam to convince people to do things they will later regret, and then stealing their wallets while they do them. We weren't sad to call it an early night and hit the road only 12 hours after our arrival.

Euskara: the Mysterious, and Unheard Language

2007-06-13T15:16:00.000-04:00

Waking up early after our nearly devastatingly large meal at Cal Pep, we boarded a plane to nearby Spanish province of Euskadi, known in Spanish as the Pais Vasco and in English as the Basque Country. Well known due to the doings of an extremist Basque-independence terrorist group, ETA, the Basque Country has a bad rap throughout Spain as wackos who gun down hapless Madrid subway riders. On top of this, only a day before our trip, ETA had renounced a ceasefire that had lasted over a year, and pledged a continuation of violence.

We landed in Bilbao, the major city of the province at around 2pm, and looked for where to catch the bus to San Sebastian, the coastal town about 100km away. Upon leafing through Bilbao tourism materials, we noticed that practically every museum (Guggenheim included) was closed on Mondays. So rather than skipping town immediately to return for a full day Monday, as we had planned, we delayed our departure and set out on the town.

The Guggenheim didn't disappoint, and with its fish scale exterior and drug-inspired geometry it impressed us greatly. Many say the art inside doesn't match the building, but the current exhibition of the artist Anselm Kiefer was quite interesting to see. Unmatched was the walk-through exhibit of ellipses, comprised of spherical and toroidal walls. Maybe you have to see it to know what I mean.

San Sebastian, where we spent both of our two nights, was basically a Spanish vacation town and has been for its history. Nestled perfectly on the mouth of a bay with dramatic mountains draping all sides, the picture-perfect location was a natural summer destination. We walked up one of the mountains and took the funicular train up the other, both yielding great views of the city. We also walked much of the cities 3km of coast and through the old town to get a feel for the town.

The old town of San Sebastian is said to have the highest concentration of bar space anywhere in Europe, and it does seem like each storefront is another. We spent our first night wandering in and out of bars, sampling the myriad pinxtos, the bread-mounted tapas of endless variety of seafood and pork. Tapas supposedly originated in the Basque Country, and you couldn't go into a bar without seeing plates of their offerings proudly displayed for you just to grab. The USDA would probably have a field day.

Our second night, Sunday, we decided to try a different tradition: a cidreria. Basically a large tavern with 10ft x 10ft barrels of cider, the cidreria was a way to get out of the city and hopefully see a bit more of Basque culture. We had missed the memo, however, and as it turned out, only about eight other customers were there in the dining room that must have sat 200. Undeterred, we poured ourselves cider from the barrels in the traditional long distance stream from a tiny spout. True to the image of the liquid leaving the barrel, the cider was terrible, and we immediately replaced it with a bottle of Txakolin, a slightly bubbly white wine that everyone else seemed to be drinking. This is also poured from a height (to enliven bubbles), but we basically just spilled it all on the floor.

After spending almost three full days in the Basque Country, it was only during an announcement back at the Bilbao airport that I heard for Basque spoken for the first time. It is written on signs everywhere (alongside, and often following, Spanish), but it seemed that every conversation I overheard--shopkeepers, garbage men, hostel managers, cops, people at bars--was in Spanish. Makes you wonder how much the majority of the people in the province really care about independence from Spain.

Best Meal Ever.

2007-06-13T14:48:00.000-04:00

On Friday night, after a month of trying to find a time to go, Dave and I set out to Cal Pep, Barcelona's best tapas bar and the highlight of every visitor's guide. We walked into the small, unassuming restaurant filled with people behind those seated at the bar, and took stock. Apparently, people wait upwards of an hour in line before they are seated to eat, and those eating are in no rush to leave. So we teetered about whether or not to stay, and at the end, inertia won out.

An hour and fifteen minutes and three glasses of wine later, the bartender/waiter motioned us over to two of the seats. We had previously taken not that most people didn't order with a menu, so we observed anxiously at which plates we wanted. When the waiter came over, before we could open our mouths, he proceeded to tell us our order. We said sure, added one or two of our own observations, and then sat.

At Cap Pep one sees the beauty of tapas. Within a minute we had pan con tomate and our first plate, a bowl of clams. Just as we finished the clams came a plate of raw tuna, which was excellent, followed immediately by a spanish tortilla. Tortilla, an omlette thick with potato slices, is normally a peasant food; yet this was spiced with bacon and was absolutely incredible. After the tortilla came mixed fried seafood, which included some less than identifiable items, and some tiny fish in their entirety. Next was the squid, bathed in a broth (of their own ink?) and boiled the perfect amount of time as to have impeccable texture.

At this point there was a pause in the continuous flow of plates, and we thought that we had exhausted our order. We had seen others eat a plate of fillet mignon, and decided to conclude with that. As we were about to order, the waiter brought us a plate of sausage with kidney beans drizzled in a port wine reduction, and a bit of confusion ensued in which we almost refused the sausage to order the steak. Glad we didn't, the sausage with beans and sauce was both sweet at incredibly tender, arguably my favorite plate so far and I didn't even start eating sausage until Berlin.

As if that wasn't enough, the waiter replaced our sausage plate with the steak we thought we didn't order. Oh well, we thought, and dived in even though our stomachs were rapidly approaching rupture. It was cooked perfectly, and melted in our mouths as would a top steak from Capital Grille.

We paid the check (which was significantly, and quite deservingly, more than we had anticipated coming in), and as if we were still lacking in food or drink, the waiter brought us a chupito to wash down our food. It is typical in Catalunya to give a free shot of liqueur after a meal in a restaurant, and seeing as the restaurant was about to close, they weren't in a rush to turn our seats. While in the bathroom, the waiter replaced the first round with a second, at which point I nearly burst out of my belt. The ensuing physical devastation and hefty bill were more than overcome by how excellent each course had been, and we left convinced that we would never have a better meal. The variety, preparation, atmosphere, and Catalan tradition at Cal Pep is not to be beat.

Placa Ruis i Taulet

2007-06-07T07:50:00.000-04:00

Living for the last month in Gracia, I've come to appreciate the charm of this neighborhood and character of its central feature, Placa Ruis i Taulet. Originally a town in its own right until accession by the City of Barcelona in 1897, Gracia is a town of narrow, shop-lined streets, apartments with wet laundry hanging out the windows, and bustling squares.

Just a half a block above our apartment is Gracia's most important square, Placa Ruis i Taulet, home to both the Gracia Ajuntament (Town Hall) and a 30-meter clock tower dead in the center. More importantly, it seems as though the entire town of Gracia, a microcosm in and of itself with people from all walks of life, converges on this town for summer evenings and weekends.

Cafes line two of the sides of the square, and rarely can I find a seat at one of their outdoor tables. Benches form the border of the rectangle where the cafe tables do not, and they are also generally full. Often I'll spend an hour or two on one of these benches (which I am doubtless sharing), half reading and half people-watching.

The best people-watching is of the kids. Soccer is the pastime of choice, and the most popular game involves a shootout with one side of the clock-tower as a goal. The 13-year old boys like to act tough and often show off their skills, and the 13-year old girls pretend not to notice. Just next to them will be a 5-year old with his own soccer ball, somewhat aloof to the older kids and often bumbling through their game by accident. Then I'll see a young father traversing the square with his daughter on her new two-wheeler, juxtaposed with a posse of 20-something dredlocked hippies on a bench smoking hand-rolled cigarettes likely laced with hashish. The next bench will have an elderly couple, no longer really saying anything to one another but still enjoying one another's company.

The square has also been home to various notable events. I've seen a far-left wing rally for the release from prison of a (violent) protester, a political rally for one of the Catalan independence parties before last Sunday's elections, a spontaneous circular dance in which all the town's old people came out and instinctively knew what to do, and a festival of Castellers, where teams of this crazy activity were present from three neighboring towns. Castellers are human pyramids, with about 20 burly guys on the bottom and one very brave 7-year old girl climbing her way up six or seven layers of standing humans. It was fantastic to watch, and I would post the video except I held my digital camera sideways and apparently it's impossible to rotate an .mpg video. Oh well.

I don't feel like dancing!

2007-06-02T17:11:00.000-04:00

Last week brought with it hordes of Stanford students. Not just one or two, but twenty. Three of Sinsky's friends studying in Oxford came from Tuesday-Saturday, and the Paris program organized a trip for them to come to Barcelona as well. That means two of my former roomies, David (#2) and Lindsey, were in for the weekend. And after two weekends out of town, we were anxious to make a splash back into the notorious Barcelona nightlife.

Thursday night was slightly less than successful. Sinsky, his roommate from Stanford, Noah, Tara, Divya and I made dinner (which was incredible Mexican food), and attempted to go out to a dance club. We'd heard of a few, and tried one that had no cover. When they wouldn't let Dave in on account of his sandals, we walked to find another, and ended up at the Salsa Club. Not only were we the only non-locals here, but also the only non-professional internationally renowned salsa dancers. Every pair (and everyone had a pair) was dancing like it was a choreographed movie, and we just stood on the side as an awkward, odd-numbered group of dancing-challenged Caucasians.

Friday night was more successful however, and after a delicious dinner with the Oxford crowd and David (#3, the local), Lindsey and David (#2) met us in the born for some chupitos. Four rounds later, affectionately topped off with a fifth on the house, we piled into cabs with the famed Barcelona 2:30am destination: Razzmatazz. Razzmatazz is the largest club in Barcelona, with five dance floors each blasting different styles of music. We tore the house down, and danced the night away until the metro reopened at 5am. The evening was gloriously documented in photographs that will undoubtedly prevent all of us from ever achieving public office. Unbelievably, all nine of us somehow managed to reconvene and leave together.

They say (ok, we say) that clubs are only as fun as the group that you go with, so there will probably not be another venture out into the nocturnal scene of Barcelona nearly as fun. But hey, it was one heck of a night.

The Best Wurst City

2007-05-30T16:24:00.000-04:00

A week and a half ago, as if we hadn't spent enough weekends in a row traveling, I headed off to Berlin with Sinsky. We flew EasyJet, my first time on the ubiquitous airline of Europe, and landed at Berlin's Schoenefeld Airport. An easy train trip to the city, and bam, we're at our hostel right off of Warshaurer Strasse, in the former East Berlin.

Having been prepared by excellent advice from friends who had previously studied in/traveled to Berlin, we set off on our weekend with a list of things to accomplish: be they climb the tower of the Reichstag, see the history museum, eat a curry wurst (there's a story there, just wait), and drink good German beer.

We ended up doing almost everything we had hoped to do, starting with seeing the Berlin Wall at the East Side Gallery. It's a pretty cool sight--a 1km length of wall right on the river now devoted to graffiti art and expression. We found a little hang out area behind the wall where we bought a pint and my furst bratwurst. It was mainly the artist types hanging out, and we kind of stood out since we were neither making out nor nursing our illegitimate baby.

Of the other tourist sights, the Reichstag was a highlight, with a great view of the whole city from the modern glass dome of the German Parliament Building. The Jewish History Museum and the German History Museum were both excellent, as well. The Jewish Museum had a few well-done artistic spaces that try to express the feelings about the tragic past. One, a 30-meter tall empty concrete tower with just a slit of light entering through the roof was an interesting experience. The German History Museum was also phenomenal. So good, in fact, we went twice. The first time we went we only made it around the first floor, which depicts events after the First World War. The exhibit on the depression, growth of the Nazi party, road to war, the Holocaust, the Soviet occupation and life under communism were all absolutely fascinating. My main response to the treatment of the Holocaust was that it was very moving, although alienated "the Germans" as if they were a different nation, much as we would imagine seeing in Washington, DC.

My parents were convinced that I would feel uncomfortable in Germany, surrounded by a language that from a young age has been associated with the Holocaust. I actually found this to not be the case whatsoever, and within a short time had come to take a liking to the city of Berlin its people, and after another day, even the language (some Yiddish mis-translations notwithstanding).

In typical Dan-hates-feeling-like-a-tourist-style, we went on Saturday afternoon to a CouchSurfing.net meetup at a park, and sat on blankets with the twenty or so others, some locals, some ex-pats, and other travelers from mostly English-speaking countries. There we met Nick, who, lo and behold, was staying in our same hostel in the room next to ours. We ended up spending most of the next two days with him.

We checked out some bars in the nightlife areas that had been recommended to us, and although we found some winners, we had a constant sensation of being almost at the right street, but not quite. Perhaps we were really just on the wrong block, or maybe Berlin just needs another year or two before it is truly a great bar city. We went to one club on Saturday night, on the 12th floor, and danced the night away to German electro music. Quite a sight.

On Sunday we met up with another CouchSurfer, Bastian, from northwest Germany. He was a great guy, and we had a good dinner followed by a few enjoyable hours sipping beers on the side of the river. There were lots of parks in the city and no shortage of trees, and it really made the city feel quaint. Both East- and West-Berlin had this phenomenon, and indeed, we hardly noticed much difference between the two.

Our flight Monday departed at 1:50pm, and having printed our boarding passes already, we decided to take our time after the History Museum and walk along the river to the new main train station. A bit out of our way, the train to the airport passed through there as well by our hostel, and Kalani had recommended the walk. We got to the sprawling, $4 billion station at 12:15pm, and saw that the next S9 to Shoenefeld left at 12:21. However, we were hungry and had yet to taste a currywurst, which is apparently the street food of choice. The fooderies in the station were all to corporate for this vender-type food, but across the street a stand caught my eye. In a moment of truth, Sinsky decided that we're going for it, so naturally we missed the train. Upon returning to the station, we saw that the next train arrived at 12:41pm. Now six stops further from the airport than our hostel, we had no real idea how long the train would take, and if you know me, you can imagine how I felt. If you know my dad, you know he would have had a pulmonary embolism right there. Anyway, the train arrived at the airport at 1:26pm, and we made our flight with 10 minutes to spare. Next time, though, I'm packing Valium.

Zeehandellampoons's European Vacation

2007-05-22T17:33:00.000-04:00

Just as Mallory and Molly were leaving, my mom, dad and sister were all en route to Barcelona for a week of European family fun. Air travel nightmares notwithstanding, we were all united by Monday and had three days to spend in Barcelona.

Although I was anxious to show them my life here in Barcelona, we spent our first day on a wine tour outside of the city in a village about an hour away. Charles, the director of my program, also happens to run a day-trip company, and was our guide for the day. The tour was really interesting, and we learned all about corking cava (Catalan champagne). The key to bottling the cava is maintaining the bottle inverted with the temporary cap, and then very quickly popping the cap (causing a familiar explosion) and stopping the liquid from escaping with a finger. This process removes the yeast (nicknamed "la madre" or "mother"), and along with it almost a full glass's worth of cava escapes within the first second. We all were relatively successful at not losing too much, although my mom accidentally righted the bottle before letting out the mother and mixed it back in, requiring another two weeks of inversion to let it settle out. Also, interestingly, those mushroom-shaped champagne corks actually begin their lives as perfect cylinders. Crazy.

The next few days consisted of my doing my best to show them the city's finest, including purchasing a new wardrobe at the giant Zara (one of three on the same street), seeing the entire city from the beautiful vista of MontJuic, and having lunch at a sidewalk bar-restaurant consisting of bocadillos with tortilla de patata. They also took a Jewish tour of the city on Wednesday while I was in class, which was apparently pretty interesting. I didn't know the city even had Jews.

Prague, however, had lots of Jews. Jews that lived there pre-WWII, and Jews from Long Island, NY, that flock there for beautiful May weekends. We flew as a family to Prague on Thursday to make the week in Europe a little more interesting (and thanks to 30Eur tickets from Clickair). It was interesting to compare weekend getaways with the family to those with friends, since rather than staying in a hostel we had a nice hotel, and rather than eating food from street vendors we ate at nice restaurants.

Prague itself was packed with tourists. We toured the castle, the old town square, and did a little exploring around the old city, but pretty much the only Czech people that I saw were in some way related to the tourism industry. One interesting moment, however, was when we happened upon a demonstration in Old Town Square by the emergency services department. They were simulating a rescue from a wrecked car, and ended up using the jaws of life to take the car completely apart.

The Jewish history of Prague is fascinating. They alternated falling into and out of favor with the ruling authorities, but for the most part maintained a thriving community for hundreds of years. One of the largest communities of pre-war Europe, the Jewish quarter now contains a multi-building museum of four synagogues and a large (12,000 grave) cemetery. Due to space shortages, successive generations buried their dead in new layers above previous layers, replacing all tombstones on top of the new layer. The result is extremely densely packed head stones, by the thousands. One of the synagogues was converted to a Holocaust memorial, and had the names, towns, birth dates, and yartzheits of all of the Czech Republic's Jewish community that perished in the war. It also contained a moving exhibition of the artwork from children in the Terezin ghetto.

We spent a full day visiting Terezin, about an hour outside of Prague. Unlike the average concentration camp, this ghetto was used as a means of propaganda by the Nazis, and looked more like a small town than a camp. The one time the Red Cross actually visited it, they spent two hours in a jeep, didn't acutally walk into any buildings, and two more hours having lunch. Needless to say thousands died in the camp (more from disease and undernourishment than murder), although most were deported to Auschwitz and murdered there.

Eating in Prague was delicious, thanks to being with my family. Apparently duck and lamb are the Czech delicacies, and the duck especially was excellent. The cheapest pint of beer I found was around $1, and the underground bars were more or less as I had heard. Despite repeated attempts, no one on CouchSurfing was able to meet up with me and my sister, so I didn't meet any locals, although in a city like Prague there are probably too many requests for the few interested locals.

My stab at a Barcelona visitor guide

2007-05-15T17:59:00.000-04:00

Ok, here's a basic guide to this city. My old roommate from Philly, Jordan, is coming in and I'm going to be out of town, so I started writing some tips for what he should do. I got on a roll, and decided to make it super good and then post it on my blog.

Getting here:
When you land at Barcelona, walk out to the curb and look for signs for the blue and yellow Aerobus. Everyone else is probably taking the same thing,and there will probably be a line forming at the bus stop. Don't worry if the line is long, buses come frequently. Feel free to buy a ticket at the kiosk, or you can buy it directly from the driver. The cost is 3,90 each way ("solo ida"), or you could buy a round trip ("ida y vuelta") for a little less than twice that. The bus goes (after 3 or 4 stops, 25-30 min) to Placa Catalunya, where basically everyone will get off. This is the center of the city, with the old city "Ciutat Vella" just below the plaza and the new part "L'Eixample" (pronouced Lay-shamp-lah") above.

Touristy stuff:

Passeig de Gracia is one of Barcelona's most famous streets, and walking up you'll pass designer stores, two famous Gaudi houses, and countless tourists. Definitely walk up and down it at least once during your time. I live right at the top of the famous part (just above Ave. Diagonal), about 20-25 minutes walk from Placa Catalunya.
The Rambla is another major pedestrian avenue in Barcelona and extends from the opposite corner of Placa Catalunya as the bus. (It starts just to the right of the Hard Rock Cafe). It will probably be swarmed, but is still fun to walk around. Expect to see tacky street performers, and live birds for sale (I'm not sure to whom).
Sagrada familia: famous Gaudi (~1900 architect, big deal in Barcelona) church. I'm not sure going inside is worth the money, much of the cool stuff can be seen from walking around. Metro: "Sagrada Familia". If you do go inside, you'll see a giant construction sight and an underground museum.
Parc Guell: Huge Gaudi park full of weird architecture. Will probably be very busy on Sunday, but is open and free at all times (most everything else is closed on Sunday). Take the bus #24 from anywhere on Passeig de Gracia right to the park (get on going away from Placa Catalunya).
Fortaleza de Mont Juic: Mont Juic is a big hill just southwest of the city. The fort is at the very top, and offers stunning panoramas of the city. Take a taxi there (~10 eur, make sure the driver understands you want to go to the fortaleza), and take the cable car back down to the metro station. Also free, although the cable car is like 5 more euros.
Art museums: Two of note are the Picasso museum and the Miro museum. The Picasso one is more of his early stuff so it won't be what you'd expect. Still pretty good though. The Miro museum is right by the metro stop on top of Mont Juic, and showcases the life's work of this Barcelonian artist. He's a little post-cubist and experimental, so lots of different types of modern art to be seen.

Nightlife:

My favorite part of town is known as the Born. If you're looking at a map, its at the bottom of the old city just to the right of Via Laietana (a vertical avenue). Take the metro to Jaume I (pronounced Jou-mah pree-may), and walk down Carrer de la Argenteria which extends from the metro stairway diagonally. My best advice is for you to walk down some alleys, get a little lost, and turn around whenever you hit a road with actual cars on it. In this area you will find some real gems of tapas restaurants, bars, and shopping boutiques (closed after 9).

Bars close around 2 or 3, and if you want to go to a dance club, don't show up before 2. I'm no expert on the clubs, so consult a real guide if you want to go dancing.

Metro/bus:

When taking the metro, go to any machine and get a "T-10" pass. It should cost 6.90, and is worth 10 rides. More than one person can share it, you just have to pass it back. Also, all metro vending machines have an English option.
Metro directions are distinguished by the last stop in each direction. For example, the L1 Fondo goes east, and the L1 Hospital goes west.
Buses use the same ticket as the metro. Just stick your ticket in the reader to validate it once you hop on (or twice if two people are sharing the ticket). If you just got off the metro, don't validate it, the transfer is free for the first hour or so.
The metro is open until midnight Sunday-Thursday, 2am on Friday night, and all night Saturday night.

Random:

Barcelona is in Catalunya, and the people native here speak Catalan. Everyone speaks Spanish, but don't call them Spaniards or they'll be quick to correct you. Catalan is a mixture of mostly Spanish and French, and all the street signs, metro stops, etc are in Catalan.
'X' in Catalan is pronounced "sh", and 'c' in Catalan is pronounced like 's'.
Many stores close for siesta, around 2-4pm.
Dinner is not eaten before 9pm, 10pm is normal, and 11pm not out of the question.
Many restaurants serve a "menu" for lunch. Usually between 8-12 euros, it includes a 3 course meal and house wine. The word for an actual menu with the list of food and prices is "carta".
Little supermarkets are a good place to buy things. A 1.5-liter bottle of water should be about 75 cents.

Renovations at home

2007-05-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

This is a picture of my old room, care of my parents. When I get home, my new room is going to be on the other side of the house! Super crazy. Goodbye, memories.

Summer Camp Geography

2007-05-13T11:43:00.000-04:00

About a week ago (more, now! Gosh I'm slow), Mallory and Molly paid me a visit from beautiful Firenze. Fortunately I had secured a king-size aero mattress from a friend, so I was able to host them in my new apartment which sadly lacks an extra bedroom.

I took them around the town, showing them my favorite spots in the Born for drinks as well as making a home-cooked dinner upon their arrival. Molly happens to have an absolutely fantastic camera, so we went a little crazy with glamor shots. All around the city, and n the Parc de la Ciutadella, we took lots of pictures which Molly posted on her flickr page. We rented a small rowboat for a half hour in the park, having numerous collisions with rowdy Italian teenagers and almost getting decapitated while going under a bridge that was probably not meant to be passed. We also it up the Fundació Joan Miró, a museum dedicated to the Barcelonian artist about whom I am writing my research paper. He's a bit of a crazy dude, so we had fun exploring the art, sculpture and other mixed-medium pieces at the museum.

Coincidentally, earlier last week I received a response from another local on LoQuo to my post about a language exchange. I figured it would be fun for my visitors to meet the new local with me, so I set up lunch with David for Friday. David, a half Swiss, half Catalan 20-year old from a town about 15 miles up the coast from Barcelona, met us for lunch and ended up spending all of Friday, and Saturday afternoon with us. He's a very international guy, having worked at summer camps in both Germany and in the US and speaking six languages fluently (Catalan, Spanish, Swiss German, German, English and French). He's hoping to start hotel management school in Switzerland this August, and wants to hone his already excellent English before starting. Lunch and the afternoon were great, and we ended up walking all around the city together. Afterwards, we headed to the Born for dinner, and after a criss-crossing the area twice, David conceded that he did not, as it turned out, know where he was going. He had mixed up which side of Via Laietana to go to, and I had been right all along. Score one for Dan.

After visiting the Miró museum on Saturday, David picked us up (in a car!) and we headed to the very top of Montjuic, where there is an old fortress that overlooks the city. The view was fantastic, and we would have stayed a little longer if only it hadn't been pouring. Fortunately, David's car was equipped with a giant umbrella and an extra raincoat, but it was still quite a wet expedition.

We met up with Scott and David (roommates) for dinner at a tapas place near Passeig de Gracia, which did not disappoint. I had rabbit, tried jamón for the first time (literally the most typical Catalan food) and went through quite a bit of 5 euro/bottle house wine. Later in conversation, it came up that (Catalan) David had been to a camp in the states, which happened to be in Asheville, North Carolina. Over the course of a few minutes, minds ticked together as we slowly realized the monumental coincidence which was taking place before our eyes. Scott, as well, went to camp in Asheville, and was hoping to meet a local from his camp with whom he had been emailing. David was hoping to meet another American from his camp. Turns out they had attended the same camp, although in alternate years, and had already been emailing eachother to meet up in Barcelona. It took us like ten minutes to comprehend the craziness. Small world!

Bicing: Awesome new form of public transport

2007-05-06T11:10:00.000-04:00

The City of Barcelona has in the last few months started a new campaign for public transport know as Bicing. They are setting up 100 bike racks at locations all around the city, buying thousands of bikes, and creating a green, traffic reducing and cheap way for tourists and locals alike to get around.

The way it works is that each city-owned Bicing bike rack has a computerized kiosk that reads your Bicing membership card. It automatically unlocks one of the bikes (usually about 20 per station), and you can then take the bike to wherever you wish to go, returning the bike to any of the 100 stations around the city. As a kickoff promotion, one full year's usage is only 6 Eur, with a regular non-promotional price of 24 Eur. Then, the first half an hour of usage is completely free. After that, its 0,30 per half hour up to two hours, and 3 Eur/hour after that.

This is perfect for us to go to our class at Universitat Pompeu Fabra, which otherwise is a 30-minute metro commute away and happens to have a Bicing station right outside. Unfortunately the closest bicing station to our apartment is about a 10-minute walk (with a closer one scheduled to open after we leave in June).

This is one of the coolest innovations in public transport I have heard of in a while, especially in a bike-friendly city such as Barcelona. Maybe other cities around the world will follow soon!

A lesson in valuable vocabulary

2007-05-05T06:16:00.000-04:00

Yesterday in Spanish class, we were watching a video of a popular Spanish sitcom called Camera Cafe. Similar to the office, the entire show is seen through a "hidden camera" at an office coffee machine, and throughout the workday you see the different characters' interactions during their often over-extended breaks. It's pretty corny, but funny.

Anyway, so that we could even have a chance of understanding them, Julia gave us a list of about twenty colloquial phrases that we would hear in the show before watching it. This included get trashed (ir puesto), puke (echar la pota), and laze around (tocarse los huevos).

Now, for those of you that are Spanish speakers, the image conjured up but the last one may not directly correlate to the meaning. We found it really funny to hear our young, sprightly female teacher saying "Oh yeah, I often just hang around playing with my balls."

Also, Spanish TV has no profanity rules. This show is broadcast from 9:30-10pm on most weeknights (dinnertime, the equivalent of 6:30-7pm in the US), yet included this vocab in addition to coño and joder (you can look those up). We had an enlightening conversation about profanity laws, basically realizing that in Spain, there just plain aren't any. None of the locals that we've spoken to on the issue can believe that you can't say "shit" on television in the United States.

On a slightly unrelated note, Julia also mentioned that it's not uncommon in Spain for people, before tests, to take a shot of liquor to loosen their nerves. Come on, tómate un chupito!

The new and more "chulo" neighborhood

2007-05-02T13:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I had the enviable task of moving mine and my two rommates' things from our old apartment to our new one, at Carrer Mozart, 20, in the Gracia neighborhood of Barcelona. Where the old neighborhood was part of the well-planned, wide-streeted Eixample area, Gracia is a web of narrow streets and plazas filled with a young crowd of bar-going, cafe-frequenting, music-playing locals. Magda, my art history teacher, called the area "muy chulo" which basically translates to "cool".

Just as I arrived, I already ran into people going in and out of my building that seemed far more promising than the over-60 crowd of our old place. Good thing they were there, because I had three huge suitcases, four bags of groceries, one laptop, a pile of clothes on hangers, and a box full of all the other crap I couldn't throw anywhere else. Two Polish girls helped me carry the stuff up the three flights of narrow stairs.

The apartment itself is great. The bathroom has a huge tub, and the kitchen came complete with a microwave and a dishwasher. Two of the bedrooms have no windows and have double beds that basically fill each, and the third bedroom has a single bed, a wall of windows and its own bathroom.

Although there aren't six supermarkets within a stone's throw of the apartment, there are lots of little shops and after a little wandering I found a huge market with stalls selling fresh produce, meat and seafood. The commute to school (and the cooler sections of the old city) is significantly longer, about a 30 minute walk, but hopefully we find lots of fun bars around here that make walking to the Born and Bari Gotic areas less important.

What the Funk

2007-04-30T20:43:00.000-04:00

A few nights ago, with both roommates out of town and the few friends I have scattered about, I took it upon myself to find an interesting activity. I had read in a guide book about this live music club called Jamboree, which on Mondays has a weekly jam session called "What the Funk". I figured watching live music was probably as appropriate a thing that one could do while alone, so I set out.

For a three euro cover, I was able to enter the underground club, which felt like a bomb shelter with blaring music. I was pleased to see very few if any Americans (although plenty of tourists), and the music was, for the most part, really good. The musicians were constantly rotating, with the exception of a sax player who stayed up the entire time I was there. One of the guitarists, whom I thought to be the best, reminded me uncannily of Rabbi Franzel from my synagogue at home (Ethan, that wasn't you, was it?).

The place was pretty small, but I was truly shocked when, during a brief intermission, a guy standing a few people from me called up to the stage and accused the sax player of hogging the solos and playing too much. I only caught a bit of the exchange that flowed between Spanish and Catalan, but the sax player actually listened to the guy and the exchange had a peaceful, albeit argumentative tone. I couldn't believe the performer actually gave a complaining audience member the time of day.

After midnight the music got a little more intense, the girl next to me hit my elbow with the lit end of her cigarette, and German teenagers started dancing crazily getting all up in my space. I left the club, but was proud of making the most of a lonely night, the last I had in my old apartment on Carrer Ausiás Marc.

Messi goal

2007-04-30T11:44:00.002-04:00

Apparently this was one of the best goals in soccer history. And I was there. Also, I'm experimenting with posting youTube videos to the blog.

A nation of immigrants

2007-04-29T14:12:00.000-04:00

I was hanging out last night some more with Francis, my new Brazilian friend. He was telling me about how after living here for three years, he'll become legal and be well on his way towards European citizenship. He asked me what the US's policy is. You know, like how long does after you arrive in the country illegally do you become legal? Or how do you get in legally? Or can you go to school/college if you're illegal? I realized that despite all the recent debate on the topic, and my personal interaction with many Mexican immigrants through Habla, I have no idea what the current state of US immigration policy is.

Francis just could not comprehend, no matter how I tried to explain the complexity of American politics and rhetoric and geographic isolation and terror-inspired xenophobia, how difficult is it to immigrate into a country that itself consists of immigrants averaging only a few generations.

Ya no soy turista!

2007-04-28T14:39:00.000-04:00

Just now, in the metro, someone asked me directions! And they weren't even American!

De dónde eres?

2007-04-28T09:02:00.000-04:00

After returning from Morocco, having realized the benefits of meeting people online who are interested in language and cultural exchange, I was inspired continue the task of making local friends. That, combined with the departure of about 3,000 Americans on semester programs and a long weekend where most of the kids on my tiny program are away, led me to post an ad on loquo, the Barcelona craigslist, for a language exchange.

I got a few interesting replies, including Francis, a 20-year old from Brazil, and David, a 20-year local. Francis also gave me his screen name, so we chatted a little bit, and we had this interesting exhange:

[05:34] francis: TU TIENES NOVIA EN ESTADOS UNIDOS?
[05:34] Dan: no
[05:34] Dan: y tu?
[05:34] francis: SI AQUI
[05:34] francis: PERO UN DETALLE
[05:34] Dan: como se llama
[05:35] francis: NO ES CHICA ES UN CHICO

As those of you that understand a little bit about Spanish can see, I stumbled upon a gay guy who responded to my highly platonic language exchange post. After chatting we made plans to meet in Placa Catalunya (like the most public, busiest part of town), and David and I set out to meet him around 5 this afternoon. He came with his boyfriend, who is German, and we set off walking around for a little while in search of a cafe. Francis speaks four languages: Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, and English, whereas Ralf, his boyfriend (who appeared considerably older) speaks 8: the aforementioned in addition to German, French, Dutch, and a dash of Arabic. They both have been living here for a few years, and have been dating for the last year.

We ended up having a very multi-lingual conversation. Since David speaks barely any Spanish, Francis spent most of the time coaxing the little that David knew out of him. I spoke mostly to Ralf in a mixture of Spanish and English. And when Francis spoke to me, he would do it in Portuguese and tell me to respond in Spanish. I was surprised how much I could understand (he was also gesticulating profusely), and he got a kick out of my sometimes not realizing which language he was speaking.

I have to say I was surprised how well we got along, and our conversation helped me to realize how international a city Barcelona is. The city is full of ex-pats from all over the world, and their friends include the French and German more than the Spanish or Catalan (which are different, take care). It was really fun having a conversation that flowed naturally between languages, and we made plans to hang out again.

So even if I didn't make a Catalan or Barcelonés friend, I'm glad to have made some international friends. I'm still working on the locals.

Two Hundred Dirhams and a Pound of Dead Skin

2007-04-24T08:28:00.000-04:00

Alas, we're back. After a short, but highly exciting and well-rounded trip to Morocco, David and I are back in Barcelona. We saw Marrakech and Casablanca, made some new friends and ate some delicious food. Now, I will try my best to recount the highlights, and help you to appreciate what an interesting place "Maghrib" is. Sorry if it's extremely long, but I want to do justice to all of the great aspects of our trip.

We flew into Marrakech Airport at about 10:30 am on Saturday, and took a taxi directly to our Riad, or guest house. The two languages spoken in Morocco are Arabic and French, so we had a bit of trouble communicating, but generally taxi drivers were able to say numbers in English. Where the taxi stopped, we couldn't actually see the riad, so we withheld payment to the driver until he showed us where to go. Good thing we did this, because the streets here were really just alleys (maybe 4 feet wide), and the path involved three turns. But we found the door with nothing more than a 48 on it, and knocked.

Hassan, the proprietor, welcomed us in to what ended up being one of the most charming houses I've seen. It's a 6-room, 12-guest riad, set up in a square around a naturally lit courtyard, covered with intricate carvings and brightly colored tiles. Hassan immediately offered us Moroccan mint tea--which is delicious--and talked to us a little about our travels. Wanting to make the most of our day, however, we dropped some heavy stuff in our room and ventured out into the city.

The medina, or medieval center, of Marrakech is focused on a main square from which many other alleys radiate. The whole area is swarmed with souks, or shops, selling everything from spices, to shawls, to live chickens, and is bustling with activity. We took about an hour and a half wandering through the alleys, inhaling the incredible aromas of unnamed spices, and looking for a decent meal. We shared a tagine at a little stand where we were the only customers, which was basically a lamb, potatoe and carrot stew in a clay pot, in addition to the bread rounds that were everywhere. All this, with two Pepsi's, for about $5 total.

Having earlier connected on CouchSurfing, we found a payphone and called Ismail, a guy who was interested in meeting to show us around the town. Although for a second we doubted his integrity when it turned out he hadn't actually attended Stanford but actually only thought it was a cool place, Ismail was sincere and genuinely interested in meeting us, two American students. A 24-year old English student/part time teacher, Ismail's English was perfect despite his never having left Morocco, and it was great having him to speak Arabic to shopkeepers and keep the riffraff off our tails.

We spent the entire afternoon together, from around 2pm until after dinner, seeing both the medina and the nouveau sections of Marrakech outside the city walls. We tasted Moroccan cookies, saw chickens weighed for customers while they were still alive, and went into the market where the locals buy their goods. Also in the old part of town, we explored a palace from around the 15th-16th century, which is now ruins, and climbed up to the roof for a view of the city.

The newer sections of the city were interesting because they showed the growing influence of the French (before independence from France, residing in the nouveau section was reserved for the French). There were a few chic stores, and a recently constructed avenue with large hotels and a beautiful convention center. The center of the avenue, in addition to many others in this section, had wide walkways lined with trees that were quite beautiful. We stopped for tea at a cafe on this avenue; and just in time, because it began to pour for about half an hour.

We walked back into the town square for dinner, where a fully-fledged market had erupted. What had earlier been a gaggle of tourists had evolved into rows of stalls containing outdoor mini-restaurants, complete with tables. Many were the same, so to differentiate themselves, they had guys yelling at us to sit and eat at their place. We arbitrarily picked one, and subsequently feasted on tomato salsa, olives, bread rounds, chicken kebabs, and sausages, followed with complementary tea. Rather than give us a check, the waiter wrote mysterious numbers on the placemat which added up to 120 dirhams--about 14 dollars, for three of us. As if that wasn't enough, walked over to another row of competing stands, all selling orange juice squeezed on sight, and bought tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice for 3 dirham (35 cents) each.

We parted from Ismail after eating, and promised to keep in touch. Throughout the day, we had talked about everything: religion, Moroccan culture and customs, politics, American culture, the American dream, and our plans for the future. Ismail was generally positive on America, and was interested by all aspects of society. Turns out we both really loved Little Miss Sunshine, which portrays one Middle-American family's voyage and the different desires of Americans. Ismail also told us about how hard it is to Travel outside Morocco, and that a Moroccan passport is essentially worthless unless you are quite wealthy (otherwise the country you're visiting is apt to think you're there to stay). All in all we were amazed with how awesome it is to have the opportunity to spend a day with someone from such a different world, and vowed to use CouchSurfing or a similiar means to connect with locals on the rest of our trips.

Before bed we explored a little more of our neighborhood. At night, and in areas where few (if any) people spoke english, we found it very interesting to see how the locals spend their Saturday night. Women were almost nowhere to be found, and the men mostly idled around as their stores and the other establishments closed. Alcohol, also, was almost nowhere to be seen, as Muslim culture frowns upon alcohol and it is only consumed behind closed doors. Although we felt a little uncomfortable, it was exciting to be doing something that other tourists don't experience, and we never felt in danger. Another batch of rain led us back to the riad, but we were glad to have had the chance to walk around and see a little more.

As if the night wasn't uncomfortable enough, Sunday morning brought the highlight of the trip: for discomfort, uniqueness, and authenticity. Hassan connected us with Hamid (either his friend or employee, it was unclear), to take us to the local Hammam, or traditional bathhouse. Just around the corner from the riad, this was most certainly not for tourists (many touristy Hammams are actually just spas), and we paid Hamid 100 DH (about $12) each to take us in.

We never would have anticipated what it was going to be like. Upon entry, you buy a wad of black soap and grab a few 5-gallon buckets, and enter a locker room where you change into just underwear. The next three rooms are the steam rooms, in order of increasing heat, and we walked straight to the furthest one. All around were men ranging in age from 10 to 60, lounging on the floor (there were no seats), scrubbing themselves with soap or rough gloves, or scrubbing their friend. The amount of physical contanct was astounding, and could only be described as a complete disbelief in homosexuality.

Little did we know we were in for a similar fate. Apparently, our $12 included full body massages and scrubs from our friend Hamid. We sat like the idiots that we were as we waited for further instructions from Hamid, and evenutally he had filled the buckets and was ready to begin. Over the next hour and a half, in turn, he massaged us, srubbed us with the black soap, stretched our muscles (a bit intense on the arms and legs), srubbed off all of our dead skin with the rough glove, and gave a final scrub that included hair washing. While it was the other's turn, we would lie down and relax in the steam. With the exception of the areas covered by our underwear, everything was fair game, and it was unbelievalbe to us how natural it was.

We talked a bit to Hamid out the nature of the custom, which apparently is done once a week or so. Also, if you have a guest, it is customary to bring him to the Hammam. The experience wasn't really all that relaxing, nor did I actually feel all that clean afterwards, but it was incredible to have experienced what was truly a traditional activity so different from anything you would experience in the United States. By the time we left, it was already noon, and time to catch a train to Casablanca.

After our three hour train ride, we arrived in Casablanca, which contrasts strongly with Marrakech. A bustling town of business, there was less charm and more hassle in this city than we really wanted to deal with. The highlight, as we had been told, was the Hassan II Mosque, It's enormous. We walked from our hotel (which wasn't nearly as charming as the Riad, but only $35 a night), and explored it from the outside. It's right on the coast, and extending southwest is a boardwalk like area reminiscent of Crissy Field, although dirtier. Hundreds of people were out (no tourists) enjoying the sun, and possibly acknowleging the monstrocity of the mosque. The mosque itself is probably best described in pictures, which I promise to post as soon as I can.

We walked around a little Sunday night around the city, which included our happening upon a flash-mob of people at the train station waiting to welcome the Casa Football team home. They were quite rowdy--chanting in unison what must be the team's fight song, The cops came and broke it up, and we silently left, but it was pretty cool too have seen, If only we'd had our camera phones. The rest of the night was a similar combination of discomfort and cultural experience, seeing the less traditional people (again, almost all male), hanging out on the streets of the nightlife area. Again, not unsafe, but being the only Americans in sight came with natural feelings of helplessness should a problem arisen.

We spent the rest of the night on the hotel's rooftop terrace, overlooking the port, neighboring buildings, and looking at the well lit mosque which lay about a mile away. We were glad to reflect on the trip, talk about cultures, and think about what we look for in travel and what we hope to learn from our trip. Discomfort, we concluded, helps immensely towards making a trip unique and worthwhile, and we were pleased with our success at experiencing as genuine a Morocco as possible.

Old friends and old friends

2007-04-20T07:32:00.000-04:00

Wednesday night was the long-awaited FC Barcelona football match. We started the evening drinking our liter-bottles of beer on the subway, attracting countless stares and mutterings that can only be assumed as "stupid Americans". Fortunately, both of my two roommates had purchased Barca jerseys, so our intentions were obvious and for the most part I think we were absolved. After arriving at the stadium, we picked up our tickets, and went around in search of a bar. Tailgating, apparently, is a very American phenomenon, and the real Spaniards go to any of the local dive bars to get trashed before the game. We went to one such bar, and sat down at a table with two older men. Scott started talking to them, and before we knew it, we had our first genuine Catalan friends. Aged 66 and 81, respectively, we communicated haphazardly about important topics such as football, travel, and George Bush. They were season ticket holders, and had probably been going to games forever. We left to run over to the other bar that was selling bocadillos para llevar (sandwiches to go), and immediately regretted not snapping our photo with them. However, seeing that "they're old; they probably walk slowly", we easily caught up to them in the parade from the bars to the stadium and took a quick snapshot.

Getting into the stadium was quite an adventure. Mind you, I was about 5 beers deep, and apparently had lost some of my usual prowess with regard to technological devices. The entry turnstiles were similar to those at the Phillies stadium, where you hold the bar-coded side of the ticket under a little reader, and it allows you to pass through. I was not quite patient enough to wait for the green light to flash, so naturally, the turnstile didn't allow me in. The green light went off a second later, but in my confusion, I didn't attempt to walk through the turnstile until the next second, by which time the green light was off, and there I was outside the stadium with a ticket that has already been used. In a panic, I tried going to the turnstile next to me, but of course, I was rejected as having a ticket that was "repitido", and the light remained red. I appealed to one of the guys working there, who tried to make what he could of my story ("It was green, but I didn't walk through in time!") and appealed to his manager. Fortunately one of the other employees had seen my original debacle, and told the manager ("dio prisa, he visto" or "he was in a rush, I saw") and I was permitted to enter the stadium. Crisis averted, although I couldn't help but wonder what they'd do in the US.

The game itself was very exciting, with a high score of 5-2 in favor of Barcelona over Getafe, a team from near Madrid. We had seats in the first row of the highest section, behind the goal that Barca was shooting on. I don't really know much about soccer, so I couldn't really tell you the details of any exciting plays, but suffice it to say, it was exciting. What was also exciting, however, was when I realized that the person sitting right behind me (in a 100,000 seat stadium) was Jamie Brod, a very close friend of two of my camp friends. We'd met years earlier at NFTY events, and you can imagine my surprise when I saw her right behind me. She, of course, has been studying in Barcelona since January, in the same building that I have my classes in. So we took a picture of us together, and now I'm just waiting for her to tag me on facebook.

At halftime we moved over to the other side and lower, into a rowdier and more crowded section. This is where I learned a few of their cheers, which mostly aren't more complicated than "Barca, Barca, Barrrrrca", and also increased my profanity vocabulary. Most of what was said that I could pick up was along the lines of "cabrón, maricón, and puta"; which if you don't know what they mean, your life is none the worse.

Thursday night, we had a little all-male dinner party, that included four of us from the program, one of Scott's friends from school who was in town, and two of my grade school friends, Sean Comroe and Zach Kramer. I don't think I'd seen Zach since about 8th grade, the last time we went to school together, which is somewhat surprising considering he lives in my neighborhood. But they're both studying here, and are leaving with the rest of the semester kids in about a week. It was nice to catch up; hearing about who has changed, who hasn't, and who got knocked up (no one I really knew that well).

Tomorrow morning David and I fly to Morocco. We tried to get a free place to stay by using this website called CouchSurfing, which didn't exactly work. If you're not familiar with the site, people post profiles and their ability to have travelers crash on their couch. Neither of the two guys we messaged were able to host us (or thought we looked sketchy and opted not to), but we did find a Stanford alum in Marrakech who posts his hosting availability as "coffee or a drink". He wrote back with his cell phone number, so hopefully we'll meet up with him upon our arrival tomorrow to get our bearings on the city.

Wow, almost like real school!

2007-04-20T07:15:00.000-04:00

Thinking that after spending two weeks in the city, we ought to actually take a tour, last Monday we jumped on the FatTire bike tour. Although marketed as a 4-hour tour, it is really a 2-hour tour followed by an hour and a half spent at a beach bar (where the goodies are not free). So while maybe not the best value for the money, it was still good to get a little insight and history on the city. One interesting tidbit is that the only original part of the cathedral from the 15th century is a set of steps, on which Columbus was received by Ferdinand and Isabel after not falling off the edge and being eaten by monsters. Another is that while bull fights were outlawed about 4 years ago, they continue to be held every Sunday in a fairly large stadium.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday meant class days, and gosh, it almost feels like I'm going to school. Tuesday at 10am (we're talking early) was our first meeting of International Economics. A three-student, two-professor class, I expected it to be fairly interactive and seminar-like, but in reality we sat in Fernando's office while he lectured at us for two hours. It was an interesting lecture on the origins of cooperation between European nations after World War II, that will eventually lead to the European Union and the euro. Basically what happened, was that Western Europe wanted to strengthen (with the help of the US) so that it wouldn't become communist, and no one was quite sure how much to let Germany handle its own growth. So France and Germany created a joint Coal and Steel Community that would be governed by a semi-autonomous "high authority", thus assuring both strength and oversight. Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg and Italy jumped on the bandwagon as well, so as not to be stomped on for lack of resources, and boom, you've got European cooperation. Hopefully things will get a little more conversational as we get more comfortable in the class, but for now, I'll just keep taking notes.

Spanish class was later that afternoon, and is my only twice-weekly class. I'm in the advanced class with two other kids from my program (again, three students), and we meet from 4-7pm. Our teacher, Julia, is a sprightly late 20-something who speaks a whole slew of languages, but to us, only Spanish. She speaks fast, but she's used to American students, so for the most part I've been able to understand what she's been saying. She is assuming that we've already learned all of the verb tenses, so our lessons have been at a high level and are very practical. We learned how to use the conditional tense to be polite, or give advice, as in "you could do something" is "podrías hacerlo", which isn't quite intuitive because it literally translates to "you would be able to do something". Anyway, you get the idea.

I think I've already posted about Art and Architecture, but it turns out I'm going to have to write a 10-page paper on Joan Miró. Not ideal in the least, but at least the class is graded pass/fail. The good news is that when I present my paper, I get to do it inside the actual Miró museum right here in Barcelona, pointing at the painting that I'm discussing. Kinda cool.

Settling into the rhythm...

2007-04-15T15:17:00.000-04:00

After being in Barcelona for 10 days, I've started acclimating towards life here. We finally got our class schedule (and gosh, I've even had one real class!), but it its contained entirely in the afternoon hours of Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Not too shabby considering this is my "vacation" from Stanford. So, with this abundance of time, we've fallen into a schedule that usually involves waking up at around 1-2pm, never leaving the apartment before 3, walking around or making ourselves occupied for the afternoon hours, eating between 9:30 and 10:30pm, and then going to bars until around 2am. The sun here sets around 9 due to the arbitrary nature of time zones, and that helps our afternoons-only lifestyle.

Food has come to dominate a large portion of our thoughts, conversations, and days. Surprisingly, the three of us in the apartment have made an honorable attempt at domesticity, and have eaten in four nights this week. We've had spaghetti and chicken, lentil stew, fajitas, and tapas, all thanks the presence of three supermarkets contained within our block. One of the markets, "Dia", generally prices its items for less than one euro, making our grocery trips (often four or more in a day) quite cheap. We've come to love our 0.49 euro bottles of red wine, and the 1.80 euro 12-packs of Dia brand lager (5.5%...beat that America). Not to mention 2-foot long baguettes fresh out of the oven for 65 cents.

One thing that we've experienced in this endeavor is the Spanish siesta. With all that clubbing until 6 in the morning, people who actually wake up in the morning need their afternoon breaks. This is true of the supermarket, the cell phone store and the Asian Bazaar two doors down from us. Stores close from around 2pm until about 5pm, but then generally stay open until around 9.

Side note: Time, as in all of the civilized world, is shown here in 24-hour time. It's amazing how much simpler things are when you don't have to ask AM or PM. The metric system, as well...incredible.

Spaniards are a well-dressed people, and if not expensively, at least time-intensively. I get the impression that most guys my age spend at least half an hour making themselves cute, and those are the straight ones. I thought my gaydar would be somewhat off, but in reality the whole spectrum is just shifted about an hour and a half's worth of prep time.

I tried to remedy my vastly under par wardrobe a little bit, and have bought a few shirts and a new pair of shoes. Zara, the Spanish version of H&M, is a pretty cool store with reasonable prices (although that 1.35 exchange rate can sneak up on you). The shoe situation was a little more desperate, because to walk comfortably I had been wearing my ultra white sneakers. Like a shining beacon, they broadcast my status as an American tourist more than anything. So I bought a pair of what believe to be trendy casual shoes: my first new pair in over three years.

Now, you may be wondering more about the actual school portion of this program. I'll be taking three classes; Spanish, International Economics and Modern Spanish Art & Architecture. The latter two will be once a week for about two hours, and all of the classes are only with students from ALBA, my program. The econ class is at a local university, with two professors and three students. Our first meeting took place at the cafeteria, so we could have coffee and the female professor could light up her cigarette. This will be our first full week of classes, including Spanish for which we only took a placement test on Thursday.

Upcoming plans: Wednesday the three of us in the apartment bought tickets to go to an FC Barcelona match as part of the Spanish cup, so we're planning to bring a case and enjoy a crazy crowd of Barcelona's sports fans. Also, Saturday morning David and I are flying to Marrakech for a 48-hour Moroccan adventure. Stay tuned.

Gaudy Gaudi

2007-04-09T08:51:00.000-04:00

Due to the postponement of orientation until Tuesday, Friday through Monday were open to exploration, debauchery, and a fair about of alcohol consumption. Friday night we met up with the other Stanford girls and a few others from the program, and over the weekend we gradually met the rest of the students on the program. There are 13 of us in all, including 4 from Stanford, one from Dartmouth (Scott, my third roommate, who arrived late last night), 6 from Portland State (the school that runs the program), and two from Mercyhurst College in Erie, PA.

The couple who run our program are truly a Jack and Jill of all trades; they run ALBA, they run a travel company that organizes day trips out of the city, and are part owners of a bar in the one of the nightlife areas. They're well-connected to a lot of the tourist-oriented people as well as many locals, and with their help we've found many great bars to try.

Many bars also serve food or tapas, and one such bar we went to serves them almost as a butler would at a cocktail party. When you enter this place, they give you a plate, and then you go around grabbing bread-mounted tapas for your plate. They're all made up of a piece of baguette with meat, cheese or fish on top, and are held together with toothpicks. You can also order glasses and bottles of wine, standing in groups around tall tables or at the stand-up bar. At the end, you hand them your plate and they charge you based on the number of toothpicks you had (assuming none accidentally fell to the floor).

Besides partaking in the multitudinous bars the city has to offer, we've spent some days seeing the more touristy attractions as well. Most notably, we saw two of Antoni Gaudi's projects: the Parc Guell and the Sagrada Familia. The most ridiculous cathedral ever built, La Sagrada Familia remains unfinished even after 100 years of construction. It is the one people refer to as the "drip castle", because of its lack of straight lines and unique architecture. Inside, the columns are tree-like in their conception and geographically complex in their construction, not to mention ten towers, 300 feet tall. Those towers await the addition of eight more towers; the tallest, representing Jesus, is expected to be around 500 feet tall. Gaudi designed the cathedral, and it was essentially all he worked on in the final years leading to his death.

Before building the cathedral, Parc Guell is a collection of Gaudi silliness that makes you feel a bit as though you're traveling through CandyLand. It's a large park on a hill in the northern part of the city that has a view of the city and the sea, and contains many nature-inspired installments including a long "wave" of rock (imagine the view of a surfer riding inside a tube of a wave), intricate houses and other architectural indulgences.

We went from there to a supermarket for 0.79Eur bottles of wine, and then to the apartment of some of the other students a bit farther from the city near the beach. We opened the bottles, spent some time sitting on the beach (and freezing, it gets cold at night especially on the water), before heading back to make some dinner.

Around this time Scott, our final roommate, finally arrived. He had a tumultuous trek from Rome completing his 3-week European adventure and slept for about the next 16 hours.

On Tuesday we finally had orientation, which basically consisted of a 1-hour conversation followed by a 2-hour lunch. The directors gave us a handout including lots of tips on making the most of time in Barcelona, in addition to our cell phones. Turns out classes are going to only be on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and all after 1pm. Not too shabby. I'm taking Spanish for 3 hours twice a week, in addition to Modern Art and Architecture in Spain and International Economics. The classes are only with the kids on our program, so they range in size from 3 to 10 students. The Econ class is being taught at a local university (as opposed to the International House, where the ALBA classroom is), so that should be interesting.

With all that free time, we're already starting to think about travel. My roommate, David, and I are considering a Moroccan adventure for next weekend, with roundtrip flights around 90Eur. Should be quite a trip.

Dónde está la lavandería?

2007-04-08T06:20:00.000-04:00

I awoke Friday morning (at 11:30am) to a phone call from Tracy, one of the co-directors of the program, making sure that I was around so that I could let David, my roommate, in when he got here. Good thing she called ten minutes before he arrived, otherwise, who knows, I may have actually been out of the apartment. Orientation was pushed back until Tuesday, so we're all cellphone-less until then, but alas, I was home, and David arrived.

He had just taken a train in from Southern France, where he had been traveling for about a week, and hadn't slept much on the train. He pushed though however, and we left together for our day of exploration.

The reason that orientation was pushed back (and the reason the program is starting a week later than Stanford) is that Spaniards take their Easter seriously. Walking around on (Good) Friday, nearly everything in our residential neighborhood was closed. This posed a problem, seeing as we had yet to buy food for our apartment and hadn't eaten in about 12 hours. So we walked to the touristy areas, got some food, and then, well, kept walking.

We walked for about four hours total, seeing the city from above on Mont Juic (actually "Mountain of the Jews") and walking through much of Beli Goti (Gothic Neighborhood) and some of the other older sections of town. Old Barcelona is a circle of narrow, European streets and alleys and tons of cool bars, restaurants, and, you guessed it, cathedrals that seem to pop up all around. Outside of the old city, including where we live, feels much more modern with grid-based streets, apartment buildings that are all remarkably the same height (about 7 stories), and four grocery stores per block.

It's an easy city to navigate, and with the exception of my one Metro snafu on Thursday night, I've been able to get around the city on foot very easily. With two more days of this long Easter weekend in which everything is closed, we may need to become more creative in how we spend our time, but with each moment I feel more and more comfortable with the city.

The bilingual city

2007-04-07T05:50:00.000-04:00

After all of the time spent in the Bologna Airport (including an extra two hours due to a bird having flown into the engine on the previous flight) MyAir flight 4510 actually left Italy and brought be to Barcelona. Felipe, the transfers guy, was there with a little sign for me, and drove me into town and to my new apartment.

This apartment (the third one they had picked for us after rejecting 1 & 2) is just north of the city center in a residential area. Felipe let me in, gave me the key, and then politely excused himself. It was at this point that I explored my new apartment, quickly finding 6 socks, 3 eggs, 1 pair of aviator sunglasses and a wet load of laundry in the washing machine. Apparently someone had "just moved out", and no one had taken the time to make sure they had completely moved out, but oh well. The apartment itself is nice, with four bedrooms (for three of us) of varying sizes, two bathrooms, a narrow kitchen stocked with cookware and dishes, blankets, sheets and towels all over the place. I wasn't so sure if the linens were clean, but hey, it was already 8pm, and I had other adventures to tend to.

Earlier, in my hours at the Bologna airport, I had made plans with Jenny to meet her, and her mom, sister, and sister's boyfriend at a Japanese restaurant called Shoko, on the Mediterranean. While it only would have been a 25-minute or so walk, I decided not to risk getting lost and take the well-reputed Barcelona Metro down to the area. So without a detailed map, I made my way to the nearest Metro stop, Arc d'Triumf. I bought a 10-trip, but had a bit of trouble figuring out exactly which platform I was supposed to go to.

Oh what the hell, I thought, and walked on the first train that arrived. It was really nice, with chairs for everyone, and felt much more like a train than a subway. Well, five minutes later at the next stop when I saw that we were quite far from Arc d'Triumf, I realized that this was indeed a commuter line, got off, walked across the platform, and went one stop back.

Try two. I found the L1 Metro platform (as opposed to the R4 regional one) and had to choose which direction to go. I was fairly confident I had chosen wisely, but to avoid another episode of going one stop in the wrong direction, I decided to ask, in broken Spanish, a group of guys on the subway what the next stop was. Before they could figure out what I was asking, the door closed, slamming me in the face, and setting the 16-year olds into a fit of laughter as the train sped off. Barcelona 2, Dan 0.

Fortunately subways come frequently, and by the time the next one came two minutes and 38 seconds later (the signs actually count down the seconds until the next train, pretty cool), I had assured myself I was going the right direction and got on. In true Zeehandelaar style (a theme?) I got to the restaurant minutes before the Caines did. And they took a taxi.

Scuzzi, mi scuzzi!

2007-04-05T07:58:00.000-04:00

It was on the train to Bologna where I had my first real EuroTrip moment. I'm in this little cabin with 6 seats, flanked by four older Germans who were in for the long haul overnight to Munchen. Our communication was less than passable, but we smiled and said "oy" when I put up my heavy suitcase and they were very impressed with my iPod shuffle that fits in my mouth. The best part, however, was when the 70-year old German man to my left decided it was time to fall asleep and rest his head on my shoulder. That, combined with a 40-minute delay on a 1-hour train made the trip interesting, but hey, I'm in Europe. Take a rest, and sleep on your neighbor.

It was great seeing Jess, my long lost wife who I hadn't seen since the past summer. She's having a great time in Bologna (a total college town: 100,000 students out of 400,000 residents) and living with three Italians in a nice flat.

She and I went around the markets and bought supplies for our impromptu Passover Seder, which she was hosting in her apartment for us and three of her friends. We then spent the afternoon cooking: beef goulash, tsimmes, stewed artichokes, charosis, hard boiled eggs, salt water, the works. Her friends brought the wine (6 bottles for the 5 of us), and we got started around 7pm. Jess compiled her own Haggadah, which was mostly a compilation of a basic family Haggadah and the Zeehandelaar family Haggadah. She also wrote a fantastic dramatic reading-style rendition of the story of the exodus which we performed with joy. I'll post the Haggadah in a few days when she sends me the PDF.

Needless to say, 4+ cups of wine (plus Elijah's, which I sneaked while the goyish guests opened the front door) we were quite spent, and ended up not leaving the apartment but rather watching YouTube videos that they hadn't seen since they havent been in the states. (Search "Kelly Shoes", "Tony vs Paul", and "Box in a Box" into youtube search).

Over the next couple of days, I was able to to again see most of Bologna, which is also a pretty walkable city. Main highlights are the central Piazza, with two towers (one leans, one you can climb), plus the university area and a few museums. It was my first time walking around a city alone where I didn't know the language (while Jess was in class), and while interesting, I found myself looking for everyone who looked American. I guess its not so easy to feel comfortable in a foreign city.

My time in Bologna was competed with two adventures. Last night, we were all planning (as in about 8 of Jess's friends from the program) to go to this huge gay club which apparently has quite the party on Wednesdays. The only problem is that you need a "Tessaro" to get in, basically a club membership, which can only be purchased one of two ways: either at this club, with the caveat that it can't be used for 24 hours, or at the sibling club completely on the other side of the city that could be used that night. Begging in Italian as she may, Jess could not convince the people to sell her a pass that would let her in immediately, so we schlepped across the entire city to buy this stupid pass. We made good time, and buses worked well, so we were back at the club by the time the others arrived at around 12:30am. It was truly quite the party, very European (i suppose?) and left around 3am for our 40-minute walk home. Quite an adventure.

The other slight obstacle to my plans came today, when I arrived at the airport at 9am for my 11am flight. MyAir, it seems, decided to reschedule the flight for 4pm, yet decided that it needn't notify the 150 people taking the flight. However, in true Zeehandelaar fashion, when life gave me lemons, I paid 20Eur to sit in the club with free snacks, couches, internet, and relative peace from the rest of the angsty travelers. So I've been able to pass the time fairly easily, catching up with the late owls in California (-9 hours) and even one friend in Beijing. Not to mention writing this blog post.

Italy, it seems, is a place that has its ways. People only drink coffee in espresso shots, and certain ways at certain times of the day. People dress to show their class, and therefore dress well. But it's a classy place, and if I spoke Italian I would probably find this a nice place to be. I'm very ready, though, to get on this damned plane to Spain.

Ciao, bella!

2007-04-02T18:46:00.000-04:00

In London, everyone speaks English. Much to my surprise, however, everyone in Florence does as well. No, not because they learn it in school, not because they want to sell things, but because they are American. Florence was overrun with tourists, and at times it appeared as though no one in sight was actually Italian.

There's good reason for this, as Florence is an interesting city. Basically the only location in which the entire Renaissance took place, the art here is quite something. I spent the weekend getting to know the small city, where streets are roughly wide enough for two Smart Cars, and the whole city is only a 30-minute walk. Mallory was nice enough to show me around, and I got to see everything with the benefit of a seasoned Florentine.

The David, by Michelangelo, does not disappoint. It is situated in what is essentially its own museum (the Academia) that costs as much as the other art museum containing everything else, but is very impressive. They have a 3-d visualization of the statue done by Stanford, so we spurt of pride 5,000 miles from our alma mater.

I met two guys in my hostel from BU who ended up knowing Jonah from camp. We ended up hanging out a bit, and went out together to some bars on Saturday night.

Sunday was more walking, including the gardens of the Medici family. If you didn't know, the Medici family essentially owned Florence (and most of Italy and the Vatican) from about 1400-1700. They became Popes, commissioned tons of art (including a lot of the Renaissance), and were, understandably, bankers. For that reason, they also had a (mostly) favorable relationship with the Jews, who naturally had a Jewish quarter and seemed to function for the most part well in Florence. We checked out the synagogue, as well, which was quite beautiful. There, of course, I ran into a middle-aged Jewish couple from Westchester who were just thrilled that I was bringing my shiksa friend to the Jewish museum.

Overall, I felt like Florence was a pretty manageable and easily navigable city where basically anyone you interact with with speak English. After dinner, it was off to the train station for the late night train to Bologna.

London

2007-03-30T19:01:00.000-04:00

Seven hours, three thousand miles and one Ambien after leaving Philadelphia, I was greeted with London Heathrow and the Picadilly Line to Gloucester Road. I dropped some stuff off at Jonah's apartment and checked my email, and then went for a solo adventure around town. I walked from his place in South Kensington to the Thames, through Hyde Park and by Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. Exhausted, I took the tube back and slept for an hour on his couch.

Jonah and I went to the West End for the evening, where we lucked out with ten pound tickets for orchestra seating to Boeing, Boeing. It was a fairly stupid comedy about a Parisian man with three fiancees--all international flight attendants--who, unsurprisingly, come into conflict once in a while. The cast included the headmistress from the all-girls wizard school that participates in the tri-wizard tournament of HP4, who really stole the show.

By Thursday, Mallory had arrived, and she and I met up with Laurence and Chelsea (both from Stanford) at the Victoria & Albert Museum to see the new surrealist exhibit. We also had noodles together for lunch.

Mallory, incidentally, also brought with her the horrible weather, so we ended up doing a fair amount of walking in the rain. London is both big and small...small in that distances between tube stops that look really far on the map aren't all that far to walk, but big in that there are a lot of tube stops.

Other touristy attractions seen were the Tate Modern, the Cabinet War Rooms (a bit steep at 9 pounds, but interesting), and the British Museum. Plus lots of walking around: Trafalgar Square, Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square. I love the spellings of the areas...Gloucester and Leicester especially (pronounced Glouster and Lester).

We met up with Jenny and her roommate from Michigan on Thursday night for a few pints of cider, from which many pictures will emerge. Also, pubs in London are super lame in that they close at 1130pm. Go figure, I thought Europe was supposed to be a late place. Both nights in the hostel, I was the last person in the room (12 people, mind you) to go to bed at around 1am.

The crazy coincidence of today was running in to my tennis-lesson-mate from elementary school, Andrew, who is on the same program as Jonah. We got a pint of this strawberry smoothie beer (Fruli, it's good), just in time before I had to head to Gatwick.

So now I'm in florence, having just been ripped off by my cab driver and realizing the hostel is on the 4th floor without an elevator, but other than that things are looking good.

Also, sorry this was such an objective report, I'll try to be wittier in future posts.

Revving my engine...

2007-03-26T00:02:00.000-04:00

Two quarters at Stanford complete, and Junior year now essentially over, I'm sitting at home in Villanova starting to prepare for my European adventure. I finally got some information from ALBA, my program in Barcelona, and can leave the United States knowing that I will actually have a place to live. Here is my itinerary:

Wednesday 28 March: Arrive London in the morning after a red-eye, and hang out with Jonah from Camp Harlam. We might catch a student rush fare for a West End show, and who knows, maybe we'll even see Equus. Mallory from Stanford gets to London Wednesday night, and we'll hang out for the next couple of days, along with a few British Harlamites.

Friday 30 March: Mal and I leave late at night and fly to Florence. I'll spend the weekend there hanging out with Mallory, who has been there since January and is staying until June.

Monday 2 April: Train to Bologna to reunite with my long lost wife, Jess. We'll consummate and enjoy a few days in Italy's college town, where Jess is spending the entire year.

Thursday 5 April: Flight to Barcelona. After 10 days of travelling, I'll finally head to Barcelona. I'm going to be staying in an apartment with David, a fellow Stanford tour guide, at Carrer de Mozart 20, Barcelona. Seems like a fairly central location, although I really have no idea about the layout of the city. We're also going to be sharing the flat with a guy from Dartmouth named Scott.

Orientation isn't until Monday the 9th, so I imagine we'll spend the weekend getting to know the city a little bit and having some fun. I'll also be having some dinners with the Caines, who are going to be in town visiting Jenny!

Week of 6 May-13 May: Mom, Dad, and Rachel all come to visit for a week. We'll spend three days in Barcelona and then an extended weekend in Prague. Should be awesome!

Friday 15 June: I unfortunately have to fly right back to the states at the end of the program, so not too much traveling in June. But I'll be back at Stanford in time to see my friends graduate!