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.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Darn you google maps!!
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.
I mean, it's not like that would have been useful a few months ago!
Here's where I lived for 2 months.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thankfulness and Refuge from the Inferno
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Here it is: The Buenos Aires Guide!
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A whale of a tale
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The inevitable passage of time
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
4:51am
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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!
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Argentinian Northwest
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.
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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Reading at the dinner table
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.
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.
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.
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