¡Felicitaciones!

We interrupt the regularly scheduled trivial tripe to publish a VERY important announcement:

Lauren and Josh are engaged!!!

See the following link for more info: http://www.mywedding.com/joshandlaurenreitsema/

I'm sure most of you already knew, and the rest of you probably don't even know who they are. Still, this is BIG news, and as such, I wanted to tell as many people as possible.

Congratulations, you two love birds! Everyone here in Andacollo 1619 wishes you the very best. Wish I could be there to tell you all this in person, but I will see you soon enough.

Love you both.

Epicurean: Part II

After an unusually restful night's sleep at the hostel in Mendoza,I got up relatively early on Monday morning in order to have plenty of time to cram in a full days' worth of bike-riding and wine-drinking. The day started off a bit slow as we invited along a couple of the girls from the hostel to join us in our wine-touring adventures. Low temperatures, a late start, and a self-doubting rain cloud brought a bit of grouchiness out of me, and when we missed our bus after waiting for nearly half an hour because one of the girls went back to the hostel to look for a magazine, I bit my tongue, folded my arms across my chest, and did everything I could to not allow my head to explode and showering a bunch of innocent bystanders with shards of cranium and my cerebral cortex.

There was no such explosion, and once we were on the bus, my mood immediately changed for the better. Now en route, I felt like I was back on the track to being productive in my quest for new experiences. In addition, though the menacing rain clouds weren't giving us much sign of breaking, my trusty watch was predicting sunshine within the next 6 hours. Have I mentioned how I love that watch?

Well, the watch was right, and by the time we arrived to Maipu, we were able to wait in the sun while the unhelpful, unfriendly, and inefficient bike rental attendant arranged the bikes we would be using. In our effort to see as many bodegas (wineries) as possible, we had to truncate some of our visits, but we were able to talk the friendly, if somewhat goofy and eccentric, attendant at the wine tasting bar into giving us an impromptu tour of the Tempus Alba bodega.

From there we traveled just down the road to another bodega called El Cerno, where we got to taste a couple of their vintage reserve wines for about 3USD. The picture below was them unloading the harvest before we walked into the very informal sitting area.

With our wine buzz in full effect, we picked up the pace a bit to make it down to the Bodega Carinae, which ended up being our last bodega on the tour. With some heavy pedaling and a thirst for some chocolate to float in my belly full of wine, I turned what was supposed to be a 40-minute bike ride into 20-minutes and made it to the Museum of Chocolate and Liquors a few minutes before their last tour. I got the sweets I was craving and managed to stall long enough to keep the museum open until my friend came back to claim me. In the whirlwind of activity from the last bodega to the chocolate factory and back, we lost one of our group members when she decided she would rather head back alone than stop at the chocolate shop. There was a slight intimation of drama, but on account sheer exhaustion, I don't think it amounted to much.

Matt and I broke off from the girls who came on the tour with us, and stopped by the most amazing all you can eat restaurant on the planet. For about $7US each, we were able to fill our stomachs with as much red meat off a wood-fire grill, fresh made paella, casseroles, omelettes, and an eclectic array of all kinds of different fantastic foods as our little bodies could handle. Having sufficiently limiting our ability to do anything that would require motion or effort of any kind, we headed over to the casino one more time. As usual, I went up, and as usual I played too long. This time, though, I managed to win 150 pesos (about $50US), and I actually stopped and walked away from the table with the money in my pocket. But with Matt still struggling to break even, boredom and greed got the best of me and I bought in with 100 pesos of my earnings. I of course lost the majority of it, but I still managed to escape the grips of my addiction having won back all of my losses from the night before with a little to spare.

Unfortunately, I was at the wrong place at the wrong time (or rather, perhaps it was the right place at the right time), because when Matt and I walked out of the casino, we were immediately accosted by a Dutch guy who had supposedly just been robbed. He told us a pretty compelling story about how he had been pepper-sprayed near the bus station, and that he lost his passport and wallet. He had to catch a flight out of Buenos Aires to Amsterdam the next day, but he couldn't buy a bus ticket because he didn't have the money. And his friends couldn't buy it with their credit cards because he didn't have any identification. He (allegedly) called the police and his embassy, but they were unhelpful and slow in getting back to him (which sounds about right for everything here in SA). His eyes were pretty blood-shot, which led me to believe one of three things: 1) he had not slept in several days, 2) he was on drugs, or 3) he was telling the truth about being pepper-sprayed. He did have an Dutch accent, which lent a bit of credibility to his otherwise fairly incredible story, but I still think the latter of the three possibilities was probably the least likely of the scenarios; nevertheless, I could not help but think that I would not have been able to pay him if I had not won in the casino. And if I had not gone to the casino, I would not have seen him. So acting on the premise that everything happens for a reason, I decided to relinquish my hard earned blackjack winnings, putting me once again in the red for my trips to the casino. He promised to pay me back, but I somehow suspected I would never see the money again. Thus far, those suspicions have been confirmed.

Oh well. If nothing else, maybe it will earn me some karma when I need it somewhere down the road.

The next morning, it was off to the bus station for another 6-hour bus ride back to my now hometown of Santiago. So back to the daily grind of 15-hour work weeks I go.

Epicurean: Part I

It may be due Mendoza’s location at the foot of the tallest mountain range in the Andes, standing as the last stop before the treacherous journey into Chile. Or perhaps it’s a result of the horrific earthquake that reduced the entire city to rubble and killed a third of its population in 1861. Then again, it could just be a product of the amazing Argentine culture that I grow to love ever more each day. For whatever reason, Mendoza comports itself as the consummate epicurean city, and as such I behaved accordingly: I ate, drank, and was merry throughout my weekend there.

So on Friday night, instead of going out with some of the other TIPS at my school, I decided to honor an invitation from one of my better students to join her at her house for her boyfriend’s birthday party. I know it probably sounds both awkward and a little shady, but I assure you, it was neither. She and her brother picked me up from school after my last class, and, after picking up one of my other students, we drove back to their apartment. I use the term “birthday party” very loosely, as it was not so much a party as just a gathering of Cat and Fran, my two students, Rey, Cat’s boyfriend, and about 5 other family members or friends of either Cat or Rey (to the left is a picture of me with Cat, Fran, and Rey at my party last weekend. Not exactly sure why Fran and Rey aren’t smiling, but I promise, they are nicer than they look). As the only gringo there, I was sort of the petting zoo at the public park of the party. In spite of the fact that it was Rey’s birthday, he and Cat kept referring to me as the "honored guest," and Cat even gave me a bottle of wine as a gift before I left.

In all the night was a tranquil and entertaining way to spend the evening. Cat’s brother drove Fran and me home at around 3:30, tired, sober, and one bottle of wine richer from the night’s pursuits.

I spent most of Saturday morning packing and cleaning my room, and at around noon, I left to meet up with my friend Matt at the bus station. With the help of a couple books, my video iPod, and some amazing scenery, I survived the 7-hour bus ride without any problems. The highway that the bus takes to get to Mendoza literally drives right past the base camp for Aconcagua, the tallest peak in South America and the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. With little more than the bus ride and about 5 pages describing the logistics of the climb in my guide book, I have now somewhat quixotically decided that I would like to make that summit before I leave South America. Of course, since I won’t be able to do anything with respect to this journey at least until December, should I change my mind, I can always modify this blog entry and hope that all of you will have forgotten that I ever even mentioned it. Foolproof!

When we finally got to Mendoza, we crossed the same street about six times in search of our hostel. It was actually the street that we needed to cross, but being the self-doubter that I am, I preferred to double back about four times before I was convinced I was going the right way. Around the fourth time we crossed, I think I cemented Matt’s impression of me as being crazy as the crab. Nevertheless, once we committed to crossing the street, we found our hostel without any trouble.

After checking in and dropping off our bags, we went to meet up with some friends at an all you can eat restaurant nearby. Unfortunately, the line was out the door, and the hostesses would not let us sit down at our friends’ table. As our stomachs had been doing cartwheels and various other uncomfortable acrobatics for a few hours in a effort to get our attention, Matt and I decided it would be better to get food sooner rather than later. We decided not to wait in line and instead went out in search of another restaurant. Fitting into the trend of Argentine restaurants, the first place we sat was amazing. For about $7US each, we received a huge chunk of beef, salad, and a couple glasses of wine.

Afterward, our friends made good on their promise to eat all that they could, while Matt and I decided to head out on the town. We went to a nearby town that has sort of been swallowed by Mendoza’s expansion called Godoy Cruz, where all the pariches (Argentine word for dance clubs) were. Not wanting to pay any cover charge until we were at least partially convinced that there would be people in the club, the two of us went to a nearby restaurant that was still brimming with people eating their dinner (at this point it was about 1AM). We split a $1 liter of beer, chatted for a bit, asked some locals for the best place to go, and settled on Geo, a discotheque down the street. When we got there, the place was pretty packed, but everyone was just sort of sipping their piscos, fernet-colas, and various other tragos while watching in dismay as some sort of high school cover band comprised of about five 30-somethings tried in vain to get the crowd fired up about the crappy music they were generating. After about 20 interminable minutes of enduring their terribleness, the club finally put on its dancing shoes, turned off the lights, removed all the tables, and booted the pretenders off stage. Before the lead guitarist finished his last chord, the place was already thump-thump-thumping with the rhythm of American pop-turned-techno music. Not exactly sure how to proceed at this point, I figured I might as well not waste the cab fare down here, so I too started to dance. Fortunately, the club was dark enough, and the strobe light blinding enough, that my freeze-framed poses belied what little skill I actually have. I somehow managed to start talking with a group of Argentine girls who laughed hysterically when they found out I was American. Supposedly, they were only laughing because the girl with whom I was dancing had a history of getting hit on by Americans, but I am still suspicious. As there were three of them and only one of me, I sought out to find Matt, who doesn’t speak much Spanish. After a couple of failed attempts, I finally found him, but by that point it was already too late, as the other two girls in the trio had found partners of their own.

Frustrated by the language barrier, the cloud of cigarette fog, and the lack of a dancing partner, Matt left around 3:30. I only stayed for another hour or so before I bailed on my gracious companion, and headed back to the hostel, smelling like my pockets were stuffed with used ashtrays.

As usual, EVERYTHING was closed on Sundays, so Matt and I spent the morning just walking around the main part of the city. Mendoza is more about the lifestyle than the city itself, so if you are noting my conspicuous lack of photos, it is because I simply didn’t take that many. We wandered through many of the town squares, which were all impressively lined with an incredible, and incredibly diverse, array of trees. By the time we got to the main city square, Plaza Independencia, the artisans were only just starting to set up their booths of trinkets and other useless items that tourists just can’t seem to live without. We walked a little farther down the main street and stopped at a little outdoor restaurant about halfway to Mendoza’s incredibly famous park. While we ate our meal in the cool autumn air, I relentlessly pestered our poor waitress to be our tour guide after her shift, as our information regarding the city consisted of what little was written about it in our guide book. She held her ground, citing, among her various excuses, that she was dating a guy who was married but separated. I think she might have gotten the wrong idea about what we were looking for… Perhaps “tour guide” doesn’t translate as it should.

After lunch, we headed over to Mendoza’s version of central park, where we killed the rest of the afternoon, walking, talking, and people watching. After lapping a narrow, spindly rowing lake, we sat down at a café on the north end and waited for our British friend Ed. When he arrived, we managed to sit, chat, and drink some more, before heading over to the Area Fundacional, which was the former city center before the big earthquake of 1861 obliterated the entirety of town.

The museum was small and littered with exhibits that appeared to be out of an 6th grade diorama-fair but interesting nevertheless. On our way back to the hostel, we made a quick stop at the ruins of the most prominent church in the city before the big earthquake, and headed back.

Back at the hostel, we shared a cup of maté that I think I prepared horribly wrong with Lauren, a girl from KC who had been living and working in Paraguay and was taking her last couple days of vacation before returning home to the US. Afterward, we added a few more members to our crew and headed out to dinner. Dinner was in typical Argentine fashion, amazing, cheap, and accompanied with fantastic red wine. Seeing as how it was Sunday, and none of us were really in the mood to pay a lot to go out drinking, we opted for the casino, where over the course of 3 hours I see-sawed between $10 and $30 up before finally hitting a bad streak and finishing down about $10. Still, unlike in KC, the casino served free drinks, so I basically got 3 hours of entertainment and a couple of beers for $10, and that is how I justify my addiction. Think of it what you will.

Wish List

I know that some of you had expressed a desire to come down to South America while I am here. In spite of my belief that the vast majority of you are bluffing, I would like to publish a list of commodities that I would be ever-so grateful to receive should you make the 5,000 mile journey.

The list is as follows:

-Protein bars/shakes: So as I am certain I have mentioned in prior posts (see Santiaguino Factoids, De sol a sol, etc.), the food here is not great… Well, it’s less than good… All right it’s horrible, and if it weren’t for ají, I think I might starve. You would think that as bad as the food is, at the very least it would be healthy. Again, reference Santiaguino factoids to see the error of your assumption. Needless to say, a supplemental (or more like replacement) protein shake here and there might do this body good.

-Cholula: if I can’t have good food, at least I might be able to disguise the flavor by dousing it in something ELSE that tastes good.

-Surgical masks: I know at LEAST one person who works in or around hospitals or clinics (Ahem, Dad), and these bad boys sure would come in handy once the down comforter of smog settles in over the city this winter, acid rain duvet cover and all.

-Gum: I don’t quite understand it, but the well recognized brands like Orbitz and Dentyne have Chileanized their product, which is to say, made of lesser quality. The plastic coated saccharine-cubes that disintegrate in a moment’s time is a far cry from the refreshing minty goodness of the gum back home.

-Cheap shower sandals: although I could just buy a promotional box of beer that comes with them.

-Febreeze: so I can wear my clothes longer without washing them… Don’t judge!

-Downy Wrinkle Releaser: as much as I like having T-shirts that double as Frisbees, line drying my clothes has left something to be desired.

-Gold Bond: I may have missed the boat on this one now that fall is here and winter just around the corner. Still, that refreshing breeze would have made my badlands much less bad during the miles I trekked around the city in search of housing.

-501 (or is it 101?) Spanish Verbs: I may still find this at a book store, but in the mean time, my Charades skills are vastly improving every time I have to act out such actions as tying a tie, lighting a match, or listening to headphones. Fortunately, we already had toilet paper at the house, otherwise, some poor old lady at the grocery store would have been in for a world of trouble.

-Shout gel: a while back, as I was applying Aji (just about the only thing that makes most Chilean food edible) to my sandwich, I lost grip of my fork, and with a flash of shiny metal and spicy orangeish-red sauce, things spiraled out of control. Surveying the damage, it became apparent that Striped Polo had saved the rest of my clothing and that of my compatriots, but in so doing, he sacrificed himself to a life as a dishrag or fuel for the wayward hobo. Or so it would seem… At the advice from a quick-thinking colleague of mine, I made haste for his Shout gel, and tried to resuscitate Striped Polo from his heinous peppery wound. My triage solution seemed to have little more effect than a band-aide on a bullet-hole, and I hopelessly hung my old friend out to dry until morning. Miraculously, I found Striped Polo in the morning almost entirely copasetic. One trip through the washing machine and he is already back in my rotation (I think I have him in the starting lineup tomorrow). Lesson learned: before taking on Aji, be sure to arm yourself with Shout Gel. In the words of Menelik: “It’s a beast!”

Last and most importantly, if you come down to visit me, you should definitely bring.
-a Chipotle burrito: steak, pinto beans, mild and corn salsa, cheese, and lettuce. Store it in dry ice, double ziplock bag in a cooler, or wrap in up in thermal underwear… I don’t care. Find a way!

Going to Mendoza Argentina this weekend, which means you won't hear from me at least until Tuesday. I trust you'll survive.

Silver Linings

Yesterday was an interesting day. After our second house party here at Casa Andacollo, I was one of the first ones up, surveying the damage from the night’s festivities. Upon first inspection, everything seemed to be peachy keen. A more scrutinizing review, though, revealed a number of maladies that had befallen us at the hands of our supposed “friends.” For one, Heloísa’s iPod was stolen out of her locked bedroom. Also, even though the party was supposed to be relegated to the first floor only, apparently some people translated that “rule” about as loosely as the Patriot Act translates the Constitution because our wireless transmitter for the internet, which was on the third floor, was also among the departed. Seems pretty weird that you would come to a party, surreptitiously climb the stairs to the third floor, and walk by two Tvs and a DVD player in order to steal a cable modem, but then, I guess it’s best not to question the logic of thieves… I am willing to bet that whomever took our antenna is laughing it up right now with a guy wearing all my clothes from before Sophomore year while sharing a five-pound bag of Craisins courtesy of Jamie Felton.

Needless to say, the fact that we paid money to entertain our friends and were repayed by having them steal from us was cause enough to be pretty miffed at humanity on the whole. Rather than dwell too much on our losses, I decided to grab some food at a little café up the street called Hemingways. I sat outside on the patio by myself for a while enjoying the sweet familiar smell of the smoke emanating from a pipe of an older gentleman sitting nearby, reading quotes from Hemingway about the pleasantries of civilized culture, and just generally basking in the glory of a beautiful sunny day. Nayara and Heloísa joined me after about 20 minutes, and thereafter, Nayara did her best to shatter my tranquility with complaints about the light from the sun, the smell of the pipe, her headache, the service, and I think she might have mentioned how she wanted to kick a puppy… Thankfully, all spaniels were spared, as the streets were full of nothing but Sunday emptiness. Here is a picture of Nayara and me, before alcohol apparently ruined her life.

Well, as we were walking back to the house, we heard the neck-hair raising screech of tires skidding on the pavement, only to turn to the source of the noise just in time to see a man of about 70 get hit by a car. Read that again. I am not joking. It was awful. I’m not sure why the car didn’t see the man, or why the man was in the street (it was not a cross-walk or anything), but in about 1 second I saw the moment of impact, the man’s body contort itself in all sorts of unnatural ways, and then him lying face-down on the pavement. I ran across the street to help him, but there were already about 15 other people huddled around him, mopping up the blood from his head and nose, and propping his head up under pillows of sweatshirts and purses. Others were on their cell phones calling the paramedics. Rather than simply standing and gawking, I decided to run to the nearest police station, which was about two blocks away. Of course, being that it was Sunday, the police office was closed, and no one was there (I am pretty sure it is just an administrative office). At a loss for how else I could contribute, and not wanting to be just another onlooker exploiting this man’s pain to quench own personal morbid curiosity, I decided to simply return to the house, shocked and writhing from what I had just seen.

Tangential random thought – I have decided that any job in the medical profession automatically trumps any other job with even remotely similar compensation simply by way of the latent ability to help those in need that you carry around with you wherever you go. After all, I don’t think I have ever heard anyone yell in distress: “Someone, please help! It’s an emergency! Is anyone here an investment banker?!”

After a quick break to gather myself, I decided to walk to the store to buy a new router for the internet. On my way back, I stopped by one of the other TIPS’ apartments to pick up a bag that I had left with him a couple days prior, before we all went out together after class. In no hurry to get back and do nothing, I decided to stay with my friend and do nothing. The two of us talked for a pretty long time, just about the craziness that is life. He sort of reluctantly gave me a brief history of some of the things going on in his life, which in general offered me a tremendous amount of perspective on life, love, and responsibility (and forgive me for using such ambiguous platitudes).

It wasn’t until the long walk home about an hour after the sun set that I really started to reflect on the days’ events. The funny thing is, though, while there seemed to be so much negative material on which to focus, I just couldn’t stop thinking about how blessed I am.

That in mind, I’m going to do a little exercise that I will call count your blessings:

If you have ever been to or thrown a party, that means you (1) have friends that you care about and (2) have friends that care about you. It also means that (3) you have a place to go to spend time recreationally.

If you got out of bed this morning, (4) you have a bed to sleep in, and that probably also means (5) you also have a home where you can stay.

If you’ve ever had anything stolen, that means that (6) you have things that are desirable to others, and more than likely, (7) you can afford to have them replaced.

If you have ever been to a restaurant, (8) you have had the option on what to eat, (9) where to eat it, and (10) when you want to eat. It also means, (11) you have the money to pay for it.

If you have to look both ways to cross the street, that means that (12) you are able to see, and (13) you live in a community with roads and some means of transportation

If you have ever walked to the store and back to buy something (14) you are able to walk, (15) you have money with which to purchase goods or services, and (16) you made it back safely.

And if you are reading this, (17) you have been educated on how to read and write, (18) you have a computer with internet, (19) you have enough free time to read my verbose ramblings, and (20) you probably know me, which let’s face it, is a blessing among blessings :o).

All joking aside, I hope you take this day and every day to realize how wonderful life is, even when it doesn’t seem all that terrific. Go out and be happy, and hopefully we can all make the sun shine a little brighter, the trees seem a little bit greener, and sky feel a little bit bluer today.

Pascua en Pucón: Part II

I woke up the following morning entirely sapped of any and all desire to do anything spectacular. After deciding that staying in bed all day might be looked upon with some disdain from everyone around me (including myself), I wandered to the lake at the far side of the town. The shore was bounded by a black sort of pumice stone, which I noticed primarily because of the many girls eager to point out its manifold epidermic virtues. After a short while of invading some random people's privacy without them knowing, I decided to meet up with the Brazilians for a trip to a nearby national park.

The "public" bus seemed a little too private, and we ended up driving to some pretty remote locals dropping off what were probably various members of the bus driver's family. By the time we actually got to the park we didn't have a lot of time, so our hiking options were pretty limited. We ended up sort of reopening what appeared to be a pretty abandoned hiking trail, and for our valorous efforts to uncover the woe-begotten path, we were rewarded with numerous bushes of wild raspberries and blackberries growing along the way. Combining the raspberries, blackberries, and tubes of "Fibra de Cacao" cookies from the groceries provided me with the perfect infusion of fiber that I needed to get me back on the regularity train... And with that, I promise to terminate any further references to bowel movements for the remainder of this blog, however implicit or indirect.

The excursion was a relaxing, though time consuming, respite from the adventure activities we had done for the previous two days. I especially enjoyed getting laughed at by a group of Chileans while we were waiting for the bus ride back for exchanging "la dura"'s with Nayara (the lighter-haired Brazilian), and then laughing with them when their friend moved away from me to an empty seat, which I explained to them was because I smelled bad. I think they really enjoy hearing gringos speak Spanish, regardless of what is said.

I continued the trend of time-slowing relaxation activities back at the hostel where we built a fire, drank some red wine, and watched "Memoirs of a Geisha" (I actually missed about the first hour because I was busy unsuccessfully trying to build a fire using wet wood and was too determined to give up. I finally managed to get it going, but I missed most of the movie in the process... C'est la vie).

Easter Sunday, I joined Menelik for a service at a Catholic church near the lake. The place was absolutely packed, so we just stood in the back. I think the Pastor (Priest, Arch-Bishop, whatever) must have seen me with my camera-bag or something because he spoke incredibly slowly, and was super-easy to understand. The service was surprisingly low on ritualistic chants and the like, and I actually rather enjoyed it. I spread around a little Kevin loving with some handshakes and kissing of cheeks to some of my brothers and sisters in Christ and then headed out, feeling that the sun was a little brighter and the air a little warmer than it had been when I went into Church just an hour before.

From there, we all joined up for a round of some amazing (and amazingly cheap) pasta and a decadent serving of gelatto ice cream. Once lethargic and unresponsive from the amount of food in our stomachs, we all decided to swing violently from tree to tree on a Canopy tour. I'm not sure what was the bigger accomplishment, completing the course without swinging into a branch and hurting ourselves, or keeping the gnochi and dulce de leche milkshake in my stomach down. Regardless, the canopy tour fit very well into the theme of the weekend: it was fun, overpriced, and over before we knew it.

With the rest of the gringo gang preparing a farewell tour, we sought a cheap meal to end off the weekend. What more appropriate place to eat, thought we, than a restaurant with a sign out front that said "Tipical Chilean Food" (sic)? Well, the place was indeed typical of Chile in that 1) most of what was on the menu wasn't actually available, 2) the waiter (an 11 year old relative of one of the owners, no doubt) didn't really have a clue what was going on, and 3) the last meal didn't come out until well after everyone else was done eating. My favorite part was definitely when the waiter, inquiring about what a Pitcher was, even as we were pointing to the word "PITCHER" on the menu, asked "Does it come with the beer?" We chuckled and explained to him, "It IS the beer."

Tiger didn't win the masters, the beer was warm and flat, and the chef had to run across the street to buy avocados for our meal. Convinced we had done enough damage in the joint, we paid our cuenta and left.

I said my goodbyes to the rest of the crew, and went back to the hostel to hang out with my new British friends that we met on the canopy tour. I followed around Katy for a spout. We met up with her friend, Katy. And then we met up with some people at a campsite back toward the bus station, Kat, Chris, and John (so that was Katy, Katy, Kat, Chris, Kevin... and John). I spent the entire rest of the night listening to expressions like "bullocks," "naughty," and "I really fahncy banahnas," and was able to avoid making a complete ass of myself by imitating their delightful accents only through a heroic exertion of willpower.

I left the Brits at the bar a little early, hoping to get enough rest to complete the hike that the hostel owner had recommended to me earlier that day. When I woke up the next morning, though, I was at once relieved and dismayed to hear the steady drumming of raindrops splashing onto the roof of the hostel. Relieved because I knew I wouldn't be able to do the 8-hour hike that I had planned, and my knees would get the rest that they had long been begging me for. Dismayed that I now had about 16 hours of free time with literally NOTHING to do, as the entire town of Pucon is centered around outdoor activities.

So I partnered up with Harrison (which is what I named my new little spare tire, who's time in office will hopefully be as equally short lived as his name-sake, the late William Henry) on a voyage to eat food, kill time, and stay dry. We did the first two pretty well, but the third objective was pretty much a lost cause. After taking my sweet time getting ready, I managed to hold off on eating anything until about noon. I took the scenic route around town to the casino only to find that the card room wouldn't open for another couple of hours. I then sat down to read and write a bit in the hotel lobby, and then made my way back to the hostel. Before I could make it there, though, I stopped off at a little cafe where a nice man looking sort of like a combination of Bob Marley and Steven Segal recommended that I check out the Mapuche Museum about a 20 minute bus ride away. I feigned interest, assured him that I would go, and when he left, I sat and talked with the owner of the cafe for about an hour and a half. From there, I went back to the hostel and read in a swinging hammock chair by the fire for a couple of hours.

A group of cute Canadian girls came back and tried to watch a movie, but instead settled on mindless MTV shows and Seinfeld, which provided me with ample distraction to elongate my progress through the Spanish translation of Anthem that I was reading. At about 4, I decided to try my luck at the Casino, and dragged Jess, one of the Canadians girls, along for the trip. She watched me for a little bit, quickly lost interest, and went down into the hotel lobby to read. Meanwhile, I turned my CH$10,000 into CH$18,000 (and it would have been more if I hadn't been tipping to keep up the good karma) before I finally returned downstairs to walk Jess back to the hostel. We reunited with her friends, and with them I had one more amazing meal at Chef Pato's, packed my bags, and then got about 2 hours of fitful sleep on the bus ride back to Santiago.

And so ended my weekend in Pucon. As a disclaimer, I want to let you all know that I promise to up the entertainment factor of my next few posts, as I am realizing that my recounting of every detail from the weekends of my travels is just a little less entertaining than eating cardboard. Nevertheless, I wanted to make these entries before I forgot them all in the swirling abyss of halfway coherent Spanish, various random holdover theorems from my days studying calculus, and a host of other garbage that seems to come and go through the revolving door of my brain daily.

Hasta luego, se me hecho la yegua.

I hope to return rested, reinvigorated, and ready to go in my next posts, so check back soon... I will do my best not to disappoint.

Pascua en Pucón: Part I

At this point one week ago, I was still scrambling to get my plans together for the weekend. I would have all of Thursday and Friday off, and as I think I have gloa-umm, mentioned a number of times already, I really don't ever have to work on Monday or Tuesday (I don't have class until 9pm on Tuesdays), which meant that I had almost 6 full days to assassinate before I had to return to anything resembling responsibility.

As some of you may already know, I was originally trying to sneak off to Cuba (don't tell Uncle Sam). I had heard rumors that tickets would cost between $400-$500, and figured that might be a sacrifice I'd be willing to make considering Castro is probably already dead, and when news breaks that his cryogenically frozen body can only govern the island for another few years, the place may never be the same. Searching high and low, I actually found a ticket for $650. It took some doing, but I eventually convinced myself that I should still go for it (even I am not immune to my powers of persuasion); unfortunately, I was too slow, and the offer that was once $650 shot up to about $1200 two days later.

Deep breath. Time for plan B. I looked for cheap last minute flights to Lima, Cuscó (Inca Trail), Easter Island (on Easter weekend... how trite, right?), Bogotá, Montevideo, and Quito, and I even employed the help of some poor travel agent named Maribel who works for a company that gives discounts to international students and teachers. The title of my email was "Cualquier Destino," which was intended to convey that I was willing to go anywhere. Aside from the title itself being incorrect (I meant to say whatever destination, but actually said whatever destiny), it was also a lie, because the only place that Maribel found that I could actually afford was Panama City, perhaps the one place I did NOT want to go.

Anyway, I settled on Pucón, which is a 9-hour bus ride south of Santiago. Turns out, the weekend was a very fortuitous "mistake." While I was traveling alone, my two Brazilian housemates had told me that they would be down in Pucón as well, so we were planning on meeting up. Also, one of my friends from CIEE would be there. I had no intention of hanging out with either the Brazilians or the other TIPS all weekend, but as it turns out, my "destino" had other plans. When I arrived at the hostal (which I booked independent of any knowledge or advice from anyone), I was greeted by my friend and his crew of TIPS. From then on, we basically pooled together our spotty knowledge of the little adventure-tourism town at the base of a live volcano for an awesome weekend of adventure, excitement, and good fortune.

We started with a white-water rafting trip, which Menilik (the Ethiopian-Texan that I think I have mentioned in previous posts) vehemently opposed. In spite of his insistence that "rafting is simply not on the list of things that I have any interest in doing," he, too, crumbled under the mighty weight of peer-pressure, and we all signed up for a trip down several Class IV rapids. With almost no paper-work and even less instruction, we were basically sent careening down some incredible rapids in a raft full of people who had never been rafting before, and me (and my track record including: an alpine slide rollover, a direct blow to the skull from a falling rock while backpacking, and a concussion my first time snowboarding, only seemed to add to the precariousness of the situation). In spite of all the foreboding dangers, we all managed to make it down in one piece while only having to rescue members of the raft who had fallen overboard (not on purpose) twice. The tour group even included a mandatory jump from a cliff into the water... It was only about 12 or 15 feet, but I was still pretty pleased with them for it. The guides commemorated their (perhaps first ever) injury-free tour by providing us with cookies and beer, and we all climbed into the vans for the return trip into town.

Once back in Pucon, our crew went to get fitted for the equipment necessary to climb the volcano the following morning, made ourselves some dinner, and prepared to get some shut eye before our 4am wakeup call. I decided to join the owners of the hostal and a French resident who had been living there for a nightcap. They had a little barbecue going on in the back yard as a farewell party for the French chap, and I figured it would be a good way to 1) practice my spanish a little bit, and 2) get a free sleep aid in the form of some red wine.

It worked like a charm, and I awoke refreshed and ready to go at 3:44 the next morning, one minute before Menilike's alarm went off.

I guess we all should have been able to surmise, based on the fact that we were all issued wind-proof jackets, crampon compatible hiking boots, crampons, ice axes, and more, that the hike wasn't your run-of-the-mill stroll through Elk Meadow (everGREEN what what?!). Still, the actual difficulty of the hike was incredibly played down... Or moreover, avoided entirely in the info session regarding the trip. More than likely, the guides were not terribly keen on turning away a a potentially hefty bounty from naive tourists who otherwise wouldn't go. The price was certainly steep to hike to the peak of the volcano, but, then, it was one of those things where if they had required a pinky finger in order to make the journey, I would still imagine that most would acquiesce. After all, do you really NEED your pinky finger?

Point is, rather than really pontificate on all the implicit risks and difficulties of climbing from about 2,000 feet to 9,500 feet along an active volcano, over a melting wind-chapped glacier, most people simply chose to pay the fee and hope for the best. That's what I did... And it was definitely worth it.

One of the guides came by our hostal at about 4:20 (too early for the boulderites, sorry), picked us up, and drove us close to an hour straight up a rustic dirt road to the trail head (which is actually the base of the Pucon ski resort... Crazy, right?). In town, our elevation was between 700-900 feet above sea level. We started our hike at about 3,800 feet. We were only at about 5,000 feet when the sun rose, having completed only about 25% of our ascent.

We had a moment's rest at the top of the first ski lift as the sun was rising beyond a ridge that blocked our view (¡Pucha!). Still, we were able to admire the breathtaking expanse of the city of Pucon, the volcano peaks off in the distance, and the surrounding lakes, completely shrouded by a sea of clouds below. After passing a derelict shelter that was all that remained of a ski lift taken out when the volcano erupted in the 1980s, we took a quick break to change into warmer clothes, grab some food, and strap on our crampons before making the ascent onto the glacier.

Once on the glacier, our guide gave us a quick pep-talk, the highlight of which included the following oration (almost verbatim):

"This is how you brake with your ice ax should you happen to fall and accelerate down the mountain" (demonstrates by actually sliding down the glacier, stabbing the ice with his ax, grabbing on with both hands, and pulling himself to a stop); "however, make sure to keep your feet up so that your crampons don't get stuck, because if they do, you will likely break your ankles... And then, after breaking your ankles, you will likely tumble over your feet and then break your neck because you are taking on so much speed. So if you don't want to break your ankles or your neck, just do what I did. Everyone ready? Okay, let's go!"

Most of the ladies in the group pulled their jaws off the ice covered ground, looked around for affirmation that they had indeed understood correctly, received none, and moved on. Shortly after beginning the trek onto the glacier, we came to the top of a ridge which had been sheltering us from the wind. Once over the top, mother nature no longer wished to pamper us so. Few would agree, but I found the first 15 minutes or so after we ascended the ridge to be my favorite part of the whole hike. The wind was whipping at us at about 30 mph, and everyone was so cold and frightened that it was the first time all morning that no one blabbering away. All you could hear was the "chink"-"swich" of about 25 pairs of crampons and ice axes moving rhythmically in and out of the glacial ice. In addition, the sun was just over the horizon of the glacier as we zig-zagged up the mountain, and at its oblique angle, its light reflected off the clouds and snow in a sort of harmonic chorus of white and pale blue, at once blinding and beautiful... My hands were too cold and our progress too robotic for me to break the beat of the motion to snap a picture, but I think those 15 minutes are what I will remember most from my time in Pucon.

Higher up the glacier, we began to reach the point where the ice wasn't as thick. Whether it was more a product of the sun climbing higher into the sky, our progress toward an area of more geothermal activity, or some combination of the two, I don't know, but with the softer snow, we began to notice a number of rocks careening down the mountainside from the summit. Many of them were the size of mere pebbles, but there were a fair amount that were essentially scraggly bowling balls; huge, sharp projectiles merciless and apathetic toward any potential victims in the way. Thinking it best to stay near the guides and maintain an unobstructed view of what lay ahead, I was near the front of the line talking with a guide named Hector. I asked him if anyone had ever gotten hurt by these maverick meteors, and he casually responded that a couple of people had gotten hit and broken their arms or legs... In the silence that followed, I contemplated asking for the details of the incidents, thought the better of it, and more intently fixed my gaze toward the summit and source of the falling rocks.

Three short hours after arriving onto the glacier, we again reached solid ground, removed our crampons, and ascended the remaining 20 minutes or so through volcanic shale. Once at the top, the crater was so covered in smoke that it was impossible to get any idea of how deep or wide the mouth of the volcano actually extended. We all settled in, ate some of our rations on the outskirts of the poisonous sulfur smoke, and did our best to squint into the gaping crater to see if we could get a glimpse of the fabled pools of lava.

Unfortunately, we were not so lucky. Only a day before, the "lava table" had been higher and most of the groups were able to see lava actually bubbling at the core of the volcano. All we got was a breathtaking (literally) view of the sulfur-green crater and one of the most amazing mountain-top vistas I have ever seen... Aww, shucks! Most of the peaks in the distance, we were told, were volcanoes, just a few of the more than 200 in the area. Apparently in the whole of Chile, there are over 2,000 volcanoes, many of them still alive and kicking, like this one. The gas sort of came and went, but when it got a little thicker, it was almost impossible to breathe. One whiff and immediately your throat and nostrils burned, and your eyes teared up like you had just cut into a thousand onions at once. Still, the pain was a comforting reminder that our bodies work: I found the thought that we are designed to react violently against that which will kill us actually pretty comforting.

After about 45 minutes at the top, we began our descent. It was already the afternoon, and the snow had softened and melted considerably so that our descent was much easier. Where before we had "chink-swiched" our way up the mountain, now we sort of carelessly bounded down the mountain, watching all the other poor saps who were still on their way up struggle as we had only a few hours prior.

We were off the glacier in no time, slid down a much softer route of gravelly shale than which we ascended, and before we knew it we were back at the base camp shaking the dust off our boots and gators.

I spent the rest of the afternoon showering, changing, and dozing before meeting with the Brazilians for dinner. After dinner, I went with them to a rustic and overpriced hot-springs, that was nonetheless relaxing. The original plan was to hit up the local casino after I returned, but all the night's grandeur, like Cinderella's ball, faded at the stroke of midnight, as our beds invited us to equally tempting festivities involving sugar-plumb fairies and the like.

Oh, and before I forget, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TYLER. Just think, only 58 more years before your age will equal your height in inches (that is, of course, assuming you don`t shrink along the way).

Big Day

Super busy right now trying to plan my next classes, pack up my bags, and find an open bank in order to pay rent (apparently they open at 10 and close at 2, and when they are open the lines takes about 4 hours to get through... ¡Pucha!).

Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I am leaving on an overnight bus to Pucón tonight, so you won't be hearing from me for a little while.

So everyone have a terrific and blessed Easter weekend, and I will continue my one sided conversation with you soon.

Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!!

Catching up.

After the long story that was my trip to Buenos Aires, I feel like I am falling a little behind. So this post is an effort to get you back up to the present.
Other than some riots in the street that ended up canceling my classes on Thursday night, last week was pretty uneventful. Riots? What? ...Okay I'll explain:

Based on my understanding, which is not terribly good, there were a number of young adults protesting some government policies back in the 1980s. A couple in particular, Rafael and Eduardo Vergara, had some pretty polemic views and were closely connected with the radical left. After getting expelled from school and garnering their reputations as dissident pamphleteers, the brothers continued to proliferate the message of hatred for authority. Along with a couple of accomplices, they planned to rob a bakery as a form of reparation against the oppressive government. Yeah, a bakery. "I have an idea: because the government has been so oppressive, let's hit 'em where it hurts... Let's rob the local Einstein's!" ...Doesn't make much sense to me either.

Anyway, long story short, on March 29, 1985 the kids (they were about 18-20 at the time) got caught before they could take down the fascist 50-year old pastry chef, they fired on some of the police, the police ended up killing them both, leaving their bodies in plan view of the public. For some reason, these hooligans were seen as martyrs, and every March 29th students and young people come into the streets in Santiago throwing rocks and Molotov Cocktails, turning over cars and buses, and just generally running around destroying whatever they can find in a symbolic gesture of how authority needs to fix things that are wrong... This year's docket of complaints included improving the bus system and reforming education; and because of the riots, much of the public transit in the city was shut down, and almost all the schools were closed. Job well done, rioters.

If you understand spanish, you can read more at http://www.emol.com/noticias/nacional/detalle/detallenoticias.asp?idnoticia=250923, or you can just do a google search for "jovenes combatiente, santiago."

In all seriousness, it was a pretty big deal here, and basically everyone was advised to stay indoors and go home early. One of my friends got caught right in the middle of the melée, and as she was sipping on her coffee (or more likely coffee substitute) in a café in the center of the city, the owner sprinted out, told her to leave and began to pull down the iron gates on all the windows of the café. My friend was ushered into the street where the cabs refused to take her anywhere, and tanks rolled up filled with cops firing teargas and spraying firehoses into the bellicose sea of protesters. Fortunately for my friend, she called her Spanish speaking boyfriend and had him persuade one of the cabbies to convey her to calmer waters. I, meanwhile, was sitting in my house, sipping on tea, and watching Spanish soap-operas with my brazillian house-mates.

As for the weekend, I just ran errands and hung out with some friends until Sunday, when we went on a hike about 2 hours west of Santiago. I think the pictures tell a much better story than I could, so rather than explain all the ins and outs of my journey to El Morado, I will just give you some highlights:

1) Our stop at the "rock refuge" (pictured below).

2) About two hours into the hike, we reached a beautiful little campsite (pictured above) next to a glacial lake, whose water's temperature was guessed almost to the degree by Ashleigh, another TIP from my school (she guessed it was 60, my watch said it was 58.8).

3) My serrano ham and cheese sandwiches that I ate next to the lake.

4) Standing under the glacial caves where the streams flowed out of the glacier (below).

5) Noteworthy quotes from Ryan (the tall skinny dude, and also a TIP at my school):
-They were washing their mullets and shaking shaking them dry, so the mirror was all fogged over with mullet-scum.
-The thing is, it's not really even a mullet. It's kind of a weird 'do where the hair looks like it's flying off the back of their head like some sort of Japanese Anime cartoon.
-Yeah, I guess dying is kind of a buzzkill; Death: the ultimate buzzkill.

Good Winds: Part III

So that dramatic pause was slightly longer than I had originally intended. I promise, I’m not getting lazy… I’ve just been busy. In the meantime, I hope you were anxiously awaiting this, the long-awaited finalé of my weekend in Buenos Aires.

Before I start, I just want to direct your attention to the two pictures at the right, which are just a couple of the many examples where BsAs seemed to be (literally) calling my name...

Where we last left off, I was just about to meet with Matt for dinner. I took one of the incredibly cheap buses to his place, got there a little early, and wandered around for about 20 minutes, to avoid showing up unfashionably early.
When I got there, he introduced me to his friend Patricio (aka Pato), who was “Argentine” (quotes to be explained shortly). Stumbling through conversations with Pato in Spanish, Matt and I first went to his grandparents’ house to hang out and drink some Maté, which is what Argentines drink in place of coffee. It is a very bitter, very herbal tasting drink, that leaves you feeling both energized and focused (think coffee + Ritalin). The taste is definitely acquired as it tastes more like you are chewing on some sort of medicinal balm for a burn or a rash than it does like a recreational beverage.

After a round of maté, and the accompanying instructional course on proper maté etiquette (courtesy of Pato), we chatted for a bit with his grandparents, and then left for a very upscale restaurant nearby. At the restaurant, every member of my digestive cycle threw a little party as I finally received the kind of meal that had been wanting since I arrived in South America. We started with amazing bread, amazing cheese, and amazing sausage. The sauces they gave us were amazing, and so was the salad. When the actual steak entrée arrived it was, you guessed it, AMAZING! We washed everything down with a bottle of wine, and paid our bill: a staggeringly inexpensive $20 each. For Argentina, this meal was definitely on the pricier end of things, but with the ambience of the restaurant, the service, and of course the food, anything close to this in the US would have been AT LEAST $60 per person (probably more).

Toward the end of the meal, Matt and Pato revealed to me that Pato was not actually Argentine… Well, sort of. He was born in Buenos Aires, lived there until he was 11, but then moved to the US, went to UVA, and was currently working in DC. He (obviously) spoke fluent Spanish, so I guess I didn’t feel that dumb for not catching onto their little ruse. Still, I probably should have known something was up when he often reverted to US slang when answering some of my questions.

Ok back to the matter at hand. From the restaurant, we were heading to an area with a few bars where we could relax, maybe meet up with some other jóvenes, and have a drink of fernet (the unofficial Argentine alcohol of choice). Before we could get there, though, the sky opened up on us just as we were walking under a awning of a building. Not wanting to brave the wall of water a few feet from our faces, we waited for the storm to pass… To no avail. As the rivers in the streets breached their concrete banks (formerly the curbs of the street), we decided to make a break for the pizza joint about 30 feet away. In the process of leaping over newly created creek, Matt lost a sandal, which was quickly swept downstream. Pato and I made it to the shelter of the bar only mildly soaked (oxymoron, I know), while Matt continued to wander aimlessly through the monsoon outside. Conflicted by our desire to want to help our friend and the desire to allow evaporation to run its course on our hair, clothes, and bodies, we compromised and decided to yell loudly at Matt from inside the restaurant. Our plan worked, and he soon joined us, missing one shoe, soaked to the bone, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

We joined the rest of the restaurant’s employees in laughing at ourselves, and sat down for a couple of pitchers in order to let the clouds see through their kamikaze mission to drench the earth below. After a little while, a very inebriated gringa walked over to us and, speaking far too loudly, asked us where we were from. We proffered the requested information and nothing more, hoping our brevity would convey our complete lack of interest in continuing conversation. It did not, but apparently the long awkward pauses later on did, as she only stuck around long enough to ask a couple more questions before returning to the more inviting familiarity of lewd subject-matter and gratuitous laughter between her and her friends.

As soon as the rain let up, we left in search of more, less abrasive, people. Affected no doubt by buckets of water falling from the sky, very few people were out, so we just stepped into a nearby lounge and ordered the obligatory (according to Pato) fernet-cola. I quickly found out why I had never heard of fernet before. If maté tastes like chewing on an herbal balm, fernet-cola tasted like you blended up the balm, mixed it with coke, threw in some fermented tea leaves, and served it over ice. I politely choked down the drink and then called it a night.

When I opened the door to my hostel, I was accosted by a wave of heat, humidity, and human funk that could only be described as grotesque. I practically swam to my bed through the humidity and hoped that my exhaustion would outweigh my discomfort. Unfortunately, it did not. I awoke about 3 hours later, my stomach now angered by the new guests that crashed the dinner party. Like an amateur chemist experimenting with unstable elements, I had combined too many combustible materials, the containment of which was impossible. Mom, Dad, if you are reading this, reign in any comparisons to Boston ’02, as the aforementioned result was not a miscalculation in volume (I only had about 4 drinks in as many hours), but rather a poorly conceived equation (maté + red wine + lots of incredible food + beer + fernet + no sleep + lots of sweat = BAD). Having purged myself of my ailments, I felt 100% better, slept for another hour, and began my day anew.

There’s not a whole lot to tell about Monday. Having accomplished the vast majority of the things on my agenda, I was able to get some much-deserved relaxation. I met with Matt and Pato around midday, and we just sort of ambled around the city.
We grabbed another great meal at an outdoor restuarant, spent some time in a huge bookstore converted from an old theater (right), wandered to a couple of the city’s main squares, and fulfilled my desire to play pool in the historic pool that that I mentioned in my last post (you didn’t actually think that I wouldn’t go back, did you?). We walked down the main pedestrian street, wandered around an incredibly upscale mall, and listened to some great tango music at a variety of different stores. Assured of another impending storm by some crass old-expat, we ducked into a tranquil café near the Congress building as a preemptive measure. Of course, the rain never came.

At this point, Matt had to leave to catch his flight, so we all said our goodbyes and parted ways. I was once again on my own, and decided that was the way it should have been all weekend; traveling alone, I do more and pay less than when I join up with my friends (exhibit A: escapades with Marcelo and company; exhibit B: escapades with Matt and company). Tired, but hungry, I walked into a hole-in-the-wall parilla close to my hostel. For about USD 5.25, I got a salad, a 12oz steak, and 3 glasses of wine. Admittedly, the meal wasn’t as good as that of the night before, but the difference was not even close to worth the $15 difference in price, and that made the meal taste that much better.

Rather than sitting in my sauna, I mean hostel for the rest of the night, I went caught a movie and hit the sack.

The next morning, I woke up at around 6am, packed up my stuff, and then caught the 25-cent train to El Tigre, a small marine town about an hour away from Buenos Aires. My short trip to El Tigre ended up basically serving as a tour of what I could have done the day before, if I had stuck to my initial itinerary. The weather was horrible, so everything worth seeing in El Tigre was closed… Well, almost everything. I walked about a mile or so through the rain and stopped at the naval museum, at first glance, also appeared to be closed. Standing in an ever-expanding puddle of my own creation as water dripped off my rain jacket, I waited while the employees of the museum turned on all the lights for me. I was literally the ONLY person in the entire place, free to roam around at will in the quiet comfort of my solitude. I read a number of the signs informing me on the importance of this boat and that, this person and that, this object and that. Besides being the only patron of the museum, my favorite aspect of the museum was the number of shells used by the Argentine Olympic team that were mounted on the walls. My camera died (fittingly) right after I took a couple pictures of the boats, and that seemed as good a sign as any that it was time for me to leave. My time in the museum more than justified the long train ride and the hike through the rain, so I caught my train back to Buenos Aires satisfied with my decision to visit El Tigre. As soon as I was back in BsAs, I grabbed my stuff, paid for my hostel, and like a reluctant lover saying goodbye to his beloved, wrested myself from the embrace of this amazing city.

My sadness at leaving BsAs was short lived, as I quickly realized how blessed I am that I still have plenty of time to live in a city that I grow more fond of each day.

Until next time…