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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Greetings from Tilcara
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.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Yet another impulsive trip
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.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Anarchy in the Streets
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.
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
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.
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.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
How did I miss this?
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.
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.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Small Annoyances
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.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Evitando Multas
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.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Fast Friendships
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Bikes and Wines on the Gringo Trail
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Lost on Cerros and Partying Santiago Style
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Jumping off of Cliffs
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!
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!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Chile!
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Accents
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)