[Foreword – This trip was taken a long time ago. It’s the one that started it all (as far as travel with Sai). The notes were taken during the trip, and left untouched for nearly seven years. I’m just now getting around to typing them up, and (lightly) editing. Unfortunately, I no longer have the computer with the beautiful pictures of Argentina to share, but I’m not much of a photographer anyway. Also, part of the reason I never did anything with this previously is that I never finished writing up the last day. Sai and I got into a fun fight before the return flight, which pissed me off to the point where I didn’t want to bother with the report any further. I’ve filled in a few blanks at the end, but the rest is what I experienced then. I’d like to say I’ve grown since then, but that would be a stretch.]
Day 0 – Thursday, November 19th, 2009
A busy day, trying to wrap up work enough to feel free to enjoy a week plus away. Almost on our way, waiting in DCA for the first leg of many. We managed to get separate seats for the short flight to Miami. For the record, it was to move us closer to the front of the plane in order for us to have a better chance of making our connection (less than an hour apart), and not because I requested a seat away from the girl who had eaten smelly dried fish before boarding.
Intro
Just a short 21 months prior, I ventured overseas alone to discover if the land of smiles (Thailand) held the enchantment of its reputation. I was not disappointed. Ironically, I was subsequently charmed more by a transplanted Thai in Sai, whom I found in DC. Sad, how much money I could have saved. Mai pen rai.
Anyway, this next adventure was a team effort to try to top the Thailand trip. I’d have a navigator to (try to) keep me from constantly getting lost. Someone to tell me where to go. Who knows, I might even listen! Argentina awaits us.
Night 0 – Birth Control
During the wait, how about some quick math? If Plane A waits to take off until an hour after scheduled, and Plane B is set to depart one hour after Plane A’s original time of arrival, then ETA-A +1 = ETD-B = a chance to see S + B running through the interminable terminals of Miami. No worries, we breathlessly arrived at last call for the next flight.
The first flight was a lot of fun, even if a little late. Ears were popping, not from pressure, but from a demonic screaming baby who angrily awoke as the plane screamed down the runway. Infanticide may sound wrong, but the sounds of Damian didn’t sound right, and I’m pretty sure I was not alone in thinking homicidal thoughts. Alas, I took no actual action, as my impulses of ill will went unfulfilled. The banshee babe was based in Row Seven to Sai’s seat in Six, and my spot in Eight, so we were equally entertained. The only positive, ear piercing note struck by this arrangement was that the little devil may have helped encourage the girlfriend to envision a future devoid of kids. That fucking brat surely scored my vote for contraception.
Day 1 – Friday, November 20th
Bienvenidos! We arrived safely in Argentina. The adventure could begin. You might be shocked to learn that cab drivers in this foreign country are as unscrupulous as cabbies everywhere else. Despite having this foreknowledge, I was still unable to avoid being victimized. I guess it’s a rite of passage. You’re supposed to bypass the scamsters who swarm you in the airport. Instead, go directly to the radio taxi stand. Check and check. I’d also checked with our hotel ahead of time to know how much to expect to pay in cab fare (~100 pesos). At the official radio taxi stand, people were placed in legitimate cabs, but the two of us were escorted in an unofficial cab, whose meter must have been calibrated for meters instead of kilometers, because it spun like a top, surpassing 150 pesos before we had gotten even close to our destination. When I questioned the scam, our friendly driver drove off the highway, quickly ending our ride. He at least was courteous enough to honk at empty passing cabs for us, finally flagging one down who took us the rest of the way to our hotel. The second driver was shocked by how much we had been forced to pay for such a short commute, and demonstrated a gesture of caution by pointing to his eye (meaning you have to watch out, a sign we’d see again during the trip). Total damage was 250 pesos, or more than 2.5 times what we expected. Safely inside our hotel, a sign for airport cabs running 78 pesos meant that we’d paid triple the going rate coming. Oh well, it’s only money, right?
We stayed at the Ibis Hotel near Congresso. A very ordinary hotel, but cheap and centrally located. Sai’s Buenos Aires library book listed a walking tour of the area, so we had an itinerary to try.
The plaza opposite our hotel is the home base for Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, a group of women who walk every Thursday to denounce social injustices, founded in response to the “disappearance” of their college aged children roughly thirty years before. The kids were viewed as dissidents or enemies of the government. We missed the weekly walk by a day, but managed to hit their café for an empanada and some strange pizza-like piece of food. Very tasty, very cheap, and supporting a noble cause. The moms are alright!
On down the road, the next point of interest (to me) was a building designed to represent Dante’s Divine Comedy – Palacio Barolo. Lower levels represented Hell, middle floors of Purgatory, and Heavenly uppers. IMHO, I didn’t find the foundation very frightening at all. Either my understanding of classical literature is lacking (likely), or I am too accustomed to Hell-like conditions (also likely, as anyone who knows my family can attest). We were told that we could wander the building, gratis. Its current use is as office space. We had walked up six or seven floors (somewhere still in Limbo), when an angel appeared and showed us through the pearly gates. Okay, he wasn’t an actual angel, more like a maintenance man, but he did open the iron gates to ride us up an old-fashioned elevator to heaven. Did you know it’s only 19 floors up? I thought it’d be higher too. Did you know the free tour involves paying a halo-less cleaner to take you through? We enjoyed a panoramic view of the city through little porticos around an upper floor. The friendly custodian then opened another door and led us up a series of shrinking stairs winding its way to a lighthouse at the top. Two takeaways from this: 1. I could barely squeeze into heaven (which was comforting, because like most of you, I’d assumed I had no chance of ever getting in), and 2. God does not like fat people. Just kidding about #1 – I know I’m going to hell.
Senor Juanitor brought us back down to earth, and we took our enlightened selves elsewhere. For the record, something may be lost in translation, but I don’t think Dante’s comedy is my kind of humor (except for his fat joke – that was pretty good). From Frommers, we gathered that there are more formal tours of the classical building, and that they are much less expensive than the extortion we incurred from our guide (who was found closer to hell than heaven). Oh well, some souls need to suffer more to catch a glimpse of heaven. Philosophical enough for you? Sai theorized, based on the 2 for 2 track record with the cabbie and the janitor, was that people could spot an American sucker in me. It was at this point that I first offered to let her use her fluent Thai to do all future negotiations.
The Plaza de Mayo was next, site of the Presidential Palace (and heir-apparent to Las Madres). The palace was popularized by Madonna in some silly movie I never saw – Desperately Seeking Evita? The palace was closed, and there wasn’t a guard looking to take advantage of us. Instead, we visited an impressive old church; heathen I and Buddhist Sai were unimpressed.
Recoleta had a cultural museum with a courtyard full of benches, butterflies and flowers. We partook of local culture by siestaing. Waking hours later, we had found that the fucking butterflies had picked our pockets while we were sleeping! No, wait, it was just that the pesos were all gone from our first two Buenos assholes.
On the way to the Recoleta Cemetery, two more people solicited money from me, eliciting further admonition from the woman. How could I look less like an out-of-place tourist? Maybe not carrying a map, camera and guidebook, or being able to speak the language would help. Whereas Sai blended right in.
The Recoleta Cemetery is an awesome labyrinth of lavish mausoleums of many famous Argentines, including Madonna Evita. We arrived shortly before closing time, so we didn’t have time to find all of the famous people. I didn’t see Lenin’s Tomb or Jim Morrison. We did see a lot of cats running around, surely a sign that the evil creatures will steal your soul; though in the case of Asians, it seems only fair play (you know, because Chinese restaurants cook cats… never mind. Go read some Dante).
Night 1 – At long last!
We picked Juana M for dinner that first night. In the basement of an old orphanage, it sounded interesting from our guidebook, and was walking distance (a relative term) to Recoleta, enabling us to eat and catch a tango show. Reading the fine print is overrated. After a mile (mas o menos) trek, we learned that only stupid tourists would show up between 4 and 8, which are siesta hours. We stood outside like lost, hungry orphans.
Café Tortoni is a famous place frequented over the many years by many famous locals (some of whom we’d probably passed earlier at their final resting homes). Frommer’s told us it’s a cool building with good tango shows but horrible service. Sir Arthur F gets an A for the first two (building and tango), but scored an F for the call on the staff. Sure, they screwed up Sai’s order, but my beef and beer went down well, never fear. Our standards for Argentine service may have been lowered based on earlier exploitations. Quilmes was the winning quaff. A light lager, rather regular, but a better bargain for a big bottle than the more expensive imports (Heineken and Stella, thankfully no Bud).
The tango show featured three pairs of dancers, one singer, and an accompanying band of four (bass, violin, piano and accordion). The dancing senoritas were sexy sirens in stockings and form-fitting dresses (though I was not attracted to them; Sai had my full attention, of course). The guys were well-dressed greasers, who likewise held no attraction for my date. It was more than simple dance. There were also entertaining skits throughout, including a risqué number set in a brothel (I heard other guys going gaga over the exposed leg of the girl in that one, but I kept my tongue under control). Apparently tango has origins in whorehouses, where the guys used to dance with each other while waiting for action. Seems like some awkward fluffing, but whatever. The melodies, dance and costumes felt operatic though enjoyable. Sai approved of the dancing, but could have done without the other stuff. Maybe I didn’t control my drool as well as I thought.
By the time it ended, close to midnight, as the city was gearing up for its fun to start, the two of us were ready for bed. Blame jetlag if you will, but it’s more that we’re old (and lame).
Day 2 – Saturday, November 21st
Roughly eleven and a half hours after Night 1’s excitement ended, we began our Day 2 adventure. We started off with lunch (breakfast having been blissfully lost unconsciously in bed) at a local place we spotted with a good crowd the evening before. It was local by both location and clientele. My poquito espanol managed to get me some sort of steak and fries, and of course a Quilmes (I am on vacation, after all). Sai’s sorry Spanish (nada) and simple pointing somehow scored her the same thing, clearly not what she had intended. Confused, we chalked it up to a miscommunication on our part, and decided to roll with it. The steak was a little bland, as were the fries. When I asked for ketchup and steak sauce, the waitress brought Sai another plate (her original order, we think). It was some sort of egg and mussel meal. Fully fattened, we left, only being charged for a meal apiece.
Undeterred by a rainy day, we weathered the storm underground via the Subte (metro / subway) on our way to Palermo. Alas, back above ground, the rain continued, but lightly, and it was otherwise warm enough. Sai picked a place to see, and I expertly steered us in the opposite direction. We found a nice park! But she wasn’t up for paddle boats in the rain, or even more walking. She was sore from the day before; I felt her soreness through the daggers her eyes threw my way. What can I say? The map used fine print, which I don’t like to read.
The bus brought us back to where we wanted to go before my wasteful walk. It was only three quarters of a mile, mas o menos (more or less).
Palermo Proper (SoHo section) entailed artsy shops, cutesy clothiers, and bohemian street vendors. Sai found a flowery pin for her hair, and I feigned interest while we were there.
Consulting our trusty map, the Evita Museum was not too far, relatively speaking. We took a cab, since my sense of scale and direction would have ensured our arrival by foot well after closing.
For those of you like myself who haven’t seen a Madonna flick since Body of Evidence (the poor man’s Basic Instinct), I’ll tell the tale of Evita as I now understand it. Young girl grows up in the country, poor girl, lost her father at a young age, moves to the capital city (Buenos Aires) to become a star, and to meet and marry a mighty military man who would later become president. Sounds too cheesy, except it’s a true story. She took her humble beginnings and hit the social circles to promote social causes such as workers’ rights, women’s voting, social security, and better schools (even more ambitious than Obama!), pushing these issues from a powerless position as first lady (pre-Hillary), yet promulgating progressive reform. Somewhere along the way, she died at the Christ-like age of 33, her body toured the world (like Madonna), and ended up resting in Recoleta with the cats.
A pretty (sad) straight forward story, right? Except for the little detail where Saint Evita died at 33, I’d agree. How’d she die? You might ask, but ask someone else, because I couldn’t say. In one subtitled video, she’s top of the world, chairing the first Pan-American Games. Then she’s giving a speech about how people don’t understand her, and she’s quitting. She’s sick. She’s dead. The end. Her sister is pissed that she was beaten and tortured. When did that happen? Frommers says the museum attempts to present a balanced look at her life; either they’ve been edited for content (wouldn’t surprise me), or another wing in the museum was closed for repairs and no one felt it necessary to notify tourists or to fill in the gaps. I don’t know if she died of cancer or was beaten to death. I don’t know who her enemies were, or what happened to Juan Peron (the famous coffee guy with the donkey). Guess I’ll have to watch the movie or at least Wikipedia the woman, or wonder forever, or forget about it. If this last paragraph or two left you lacking info or otherwise left disappointed, I apologize, but now you know how we felt when we left the museum. If you were already feeling disappointed before this part of the narrative, then piss off, and go read Lost Symbol instead.
After Evita, we cabbed it to Malba, the modern art museum, where we could learn to appreciate Argentina’s finest artists, such as… Mr. America – Andy Warhol! Sorry, but I don’t appreciate Campbell’s Soup Cans as art. Chef Boyardee, maybe. They billed this pretentious creep as Mr. America? What kind of sorry image does that project? Anyway, as an ugly American with no knowledge of or appreciation for the arts, I was unimpressed. Sai liked the soup cans, but she agreed that he’s a freak after reading a page of his thoughts, such as “I like to break one thing a day. It helps me appreciate how fragile life is.” What a douche!
Malba shuffled us out at closing, and we loitered out front with a bunch of high school kids while plotting our next move. I’m pretty sure they were asking what’s up with the narcs / tourists, but couldn’t be positive since they talked fast and said words beyond Buenos dias and denada. While we waited and weirded out the kids, we were serenaded by them screaming at some silly instrument that lit up based on volume. It was a good way for them to tell us to get on our way.
Night 2
As I’ve noted before, Sai likes to give directions and I often struggle to follow them. Her transportation preferences are 1. Bus, 2. Subway, 3. Cab, 4. Walk. My order is 1. Walk, 2. Cab, 3. Subway, 4. Bus. Slight difference between us. I know I’ve already been burned by the Buenos Aires cab system, but I still trust taxis more than a subway that closes at 11 (when it’s ten minutes till), or buses when I don’t have a bus schedule. Stopping to ask someone is tantamount to telling everyone that I’m a pussy – guys don’t need directions! We figure it out ourselves. Sure, I’ve been lost more times than I could dream of counting, but I’ve yet to find myself irrevocably lost, because I’m pretty sure I know where I am now. Just don’t ask where I’m going… Besides, asking directions (pussing out) is even more difficult when you don’t speak the language. Again, unless the received response is denada to my gracias or reciprocated holas, the communication is generally limited.
Anyway, the point is that Sai and I did not see eye to eye on how to get from Malba to the next place. Or how to get from that next place back to the hotel. This fight would repeat itself at least daily, leading to nightly makeups and Sai at one point threatening me with a pick axe, but I’m jumping ahead.
The next place was Campo Bravo, a decent restaurant back in Palermo, where I again had beef and beer. And again, I was not flabbergasted by the food, but the chimichurri and salsa were awesome. We complemented both our entrees with the toppings, and Sai started spooning it directly like a dessert after that.
In the cab ride back to the hotel (after locals told us that the subte was closed and I believed them), Sai peppered our driver with broken English to help his broken understanding of English, regarding how to go about getting Boca Junior Futbol tickets for the following day. It was an amusing conversation to try to follow.
A little background: Boca Juniors is the popular local soccer club in Buenos Aires. It’s the team that Maradonna (the famous footballer, not to be confused with the Evita actress) formerly played for. I thought it would be cool to see a game at La Bombanera, Boca’s home stadium, and knew they had a game on Sunday. Buying tickets in advance in America was not too easy. Several sites offered tickets at insane prices (more than I’d pay for a real (American) football game), and since Sai couldn’t care less about soccer, I couldn’t justify the expense. We had asked our hotel concierge about tickets, and he presented us with their program that charged 300 to 450 pesos per person ($75 – $125, +/-). Again, not happening at those rates.
Back to our cab. Despite barely speaking to me, she engaged the driver in a fruitful discussion on futbol tickets. He was shocked to hear that we were asked to pay 300 pesos apiece, and said we should be able to buy tickets on the street for less than half that price. His instructions were to approach a police officer in the middle afternoon of game day, demonstrate no habla espanol, (a very true statement), and ask in English how to buy tickets. Show them the money (~200 pesos), and let them broker the deal for us. I figured we’d either get arrested for soliciting / bribing a police officer, ripped off by a uniformed guy with a gun, or get more reasonably priced tickets to the game. Our driver also assured us that taxis are readily available after the games if you walk a few blocks from the stadium. Though the internet and hotel packages included transportation, these perks did not seem worthwhile to either of us. Sai’s frugal, and I’m flat-out cheap. Anyway, armed with this new plan, we went to bed by midnight again. Leave late night to the noisy kids.
Day 3 – Sunday, November 22nd
We woke up at a more normal morning hour, with a full day ahead of us. First, a breakfast empanada and some type of jam pastry from our Madres café (less risky than the mystery meals at the restaurants), and then we checked out the outside of their Congresso. It’s a cool building, but in better days would not have been so run-down looking.
This was the case with a lot of the famous buildings we saw. Dirty, damaged, and in many cases covered in graffiti. Often the message was political, as Argentina seems to have seen its struggles over the last century plus. It’s still a politically charged atmosphere, or so it appears, with multiple movements, protests, marches, propaganda, or other messages in the plazas.
We left Congresso (without the inside tour) and hopped on the Subte south to Plaza de Mayo again. Supposedly the Buenos Aires subway is one of the world’s oldest (after New York, Philly, Boston, etc.) and certain lines still use the original cars. Frommers description of rickety fit the bill as we rattled along on what felt like an old wooden rollercoaster, less the speed, hills and excitement. Otherwise, Sai might have gotten motion sickness. The wooden car was neat, but not worth a stop at the small museum somewhere along the line.
At Plaza de Mayo, the royal palace where the president does not sleep, was wide open and welcomed us, so in we went. And waited. Then waited some more, for our turn to take the tour. Tours left every fifteen minutes, and we stood around for three full cycles before we were up. The visit offered an extensive view of the pink house, including its rectangular oval office. I can’t offer any specifics because it was in Spanish, but we pretended to appreciate the information offered, and snapped a bunch of pictures. The one element that did jump out at me was just how badly the building needed work. My short-sighted punch list spotted broken glass, cracked plaster and marble, stained carpet, peeling paint, to point out just a few features. I’ve never toured the White House, but I’d expect it to look a lot more polished than this one. Times are tough.
We visited an outdoor market around the plaza (several blocks long), where instead of buying anything, we donated my camera case to a street savvy hippie who saw Sai drop it (some speculation on my part, but the end’s the same, my camera was left cold and naked). The timing did not work out for some of the other area tours, so we subwayed on to San Telmo for more shopping.
There we found streets lined with merchants, urchins, performers and magicians. They sold arts, crafts, clothes, and crap (figuratively, fortunately), for as far as we could see. We walked what I believe was most of the way, with Sai finding a nice tango painting, while I found nothing to replace my recently released camera case. The negotiation for the artwork was inspired. Sai looks to me – ask her how much? Cuantos? I say. Cinquante she replies. It takes me a few moments to figure out this means fifty pesos. Sai offers forty. Saleswoman sticks to fifty. Sai looks to me. I point out it’s a $4 difference, but I don’t care since it’s her money. I will not disclose the final sale price after Sai’s expert negotiations, but will tell you that it rhymes with thrifty. It’s cool, it’s a nice looking piece (better than soup cans, anyway).
Next, we headed to La Boca to try to bribe a policeman per our understanding of local culture, courtesy of our prior evening’s cabbie. I really hoped he wasn’t just fucking with us or trying to get us arrested or deported, but there was only one way to find out! La Boca, Buenos Aires’ Little Italy, is rather run-down and shitty. Literally, this time. The sidewalk was made up of two thirds concrete and one third dog shit. The policia were out in force in the stadium area, along with a few fans in a sorry display of pregame tailgating. Of course, when you’re surrounded by dog shit, you might not want to hang around more than necessary.
Ready to go with 250 pesos in my pocket, I approached a an officer of the lawless and told him I needed tickets – necessito dos tickets (what’s the word for tickets?). He and the event staff guys he was with pointed to a line and told us it was treinte pesos. 300? No way, way too much. Especially since that was for each. Then I rechecked my math; rather I rechecked my Spanish, and realized that it was 30 pesos a pop. We bought cheap tickets at the ticket window. Why wouldn’t the cabbie have just told us to go to the ticket window in the first place?
To pass the several hours before kickoff, we found lunch in town. When in Boca, eat like a local. Little Italy offered little that looked good to us, but we settled upon a corner pizza parlor. I needed something other than beef for a change. We shared two empanadas (our standby lighter fare), and I had a slice of cheese (no sauce) and onion pizza. Sai’s used to my bad breath. The Isenbeck skunk beer didn’t help the cause, but at least I learned something, I think (Quilmes is better). The food was about as good as I’d expected (low expectations didn’t disappoint), but the waiter was wonderful. An old guy who spoke no English, he nonetheless took to us and was overly protective. We told him that we were going to the game that evening, and he rambled on something before pointing to his eye (you know – the evil eye trick), warning us to be careful. He was relieved that we weren’t carrying cell phones, as these are apparently a prime target for theft. We asked about Caminito, a nearby touristy area, overrated per most guide books, but he advised against it on game day. Through a translating employee, we learned that the locals get up early, get drunk and act crazy before games, so we were not safe. They just happened to pregame it elsewhere from the dog-shit-strewn streets we’d seen (say that five times fast!). We bid our Adioses, shook hands, and he gave a final evil eye warning once more before we closed the door.
With Sai significantly spooked, we cabbed it the hell out of there, back to San Telmo. I had not yet seen the famous San Telmo’s Fire yet, and Sai does not seem to mind shopping. Amid the mass of hippie humanity hawking wares was the Mercado, a century plus old steel building noted as much for its structure as for its insane selection of junk for sale. For those familiar with Bangkok, think Jatujak Market, but smaller scale. So Sai was unimpressed. I felt the old building could use some renovating.
Okay, enough filler. Are you ready for some football?! I wore my team colors (green Eagles shirt – gotta support the team), hoping that it was not the color of Gymnasia LP (Boca’s visiting opponent) because I was not feeling suicidal at that time. The riot policia were around the stadium, with horses, armored vehicles, and forces ready for war. After an endless tennis match between bouncers with me and Sai as their balls, we finally found our entrance to the arena (admittedly, it wasn’t endless, but it was time-consuming, frustrating, and contentious, exasperated by my own steadfast refusal to ask random strangers for directions). Inside, we found our general admission area at one end of the field, in the middle of three tiers, all filled to capacity. No assigned seats, because there are no seats, just concrete steps. There are seats in La Bombanera, but not at the discount ticket price we paid.
Whatever, we could see the full field, which is more than can be said for seats I’ve had at FedEx Field, and were at the back of the section for an easy exit when the fighting started. As an added bonus, we were beneath the overhanging structure above, so we didn’t fear floating or flung objects hitting us, which seemed to be a real risk to the people below.
Boca won 4-0, which was good because I didn’t want the crazy drunks to also be angry. They didn’t serve alcohol inside the arena, or at least not in any location I could find, which I found a bit disappointing. Soberly, we watched the game with the locals, though there were a few foreigners mixed in as well. A group of Brits critiqued the level of play as not up to their EPL standards, but they acknowledged that the arena atmosphere was unlike anything they’d experienced. From pre-game warmups until the final whistle, the crowd was alive, abuzz, and singing team songs, led by a horn and drums. It bounced back and forth, from one end of the stadium to the other, like an intoxicating crowd substitute for Quilmes. No idea what they were singing, but it was catchy and fun. The highlight play for me was a beautiful scissor kick goal in injury time, a snapshot of which adorned the local paper cover the next day.
As the clock wound down, we started to make our salida, but the ramps were blocked by policia. My incomprehensible conversation with one cop brought me to the conclusion that we had better wait with the crowd. Then I recalled having read something about how they let the opposing team’s fans out first, for their own protection. Since we were in the home section, we had to wait another 30 minutes. Philly may want to implement a similar system at its stadia. I’ve been to plenty of professional sporting events in the USA (football, soccer, baseball, basketball, hockey, lacrosse, even Penn Relays), as well as some in other places (muay thai in Thailand, more soccer in Barcelona), but I’ve never seen a crowd so excited or in tune. It was simply awesome, and a highlight experience of the whole trip.
Night 3
We survived the soccer game! It was very violence-free, at least around us. The armored vehicles and countless cops surely helped keep it that way. Time to get out of La Boca again, as it’s reputed to be more dangerous after dark, and Sai’s a scaredy-cat and I’m a pussy. Shockingly, thousands of other people had the same idea at the same time as us, so finding a cab was not so easy. After waiting with everyone else for a while, we walked a ways looking for a bus stop (no Subte service to this area), when I suggested we revisit our evil eyeballing father figure at the pizza parlor. It could be a safe haven and we’d let the old man know that we were still okay. Upon our arrival, he made the sign of the cross, came over, and shook our hands. No problema, I assured him. Heck, I’m from Philly, and Sai’s Bangkok tried and true. Through another interpreter, we learned which bus would get us back, and our friend game me extra change to be sure we were covered. Bus after bus passed for different lines, then we finally spotted an empty cab to take us back.
In Congresso, we walked around more she would have liked, looking for a late night bite to eat. We settled at another Italian-themed establishment, where I had ham and chicken ravioli with Quilmes, and Sai had dessert. Back home by midnight like good little Cinderellas, we prepared for a 3:30 a.m. wake up call before embarking on Phase 2 of the journey.
Part 2 – El Calafate is Cool
Day 4 – Monday, November 23rd
Wakeup call at 3:30 a.m., cab ride at 4, flight at 5:40, en route to El Calafate. Who needs sleep? We left bustling Buenos Aires (though to be fair, we didn’t see much bustling at those odd hours on a Monday morning) to visit the vast wastelands of Patagonia (the region, not the store). Flying in, we saw open desert, barren mountains, snow-capped distant Andes, and a beautiful blue lake. It looked like we were heading for the middle of beautiful nowhere.
Calafate is actually a sprawling city of over 20,000 people, growing fast as their tourism expands, courtesy of visitors like us. We saw much of the city by taking the airport bus and seeing where everyone was dropped off ahead of us. Our cheap hotel, the Apart Hotel Libertador, was set right in the middle of the main street. Water pressure was great and the shower was hot. The positives stop there. Paper-thin walls, an uncomfortable bed, a shower that leaked all over the floor, and cracked walls were among the strikes against. We also happened to have had the room next to the laundry room, so our catchup afternoon nap was not exactly restful. But the location was good! Calafate is named after a regional blueberry bush. We tried some of this special blueberry ice cream, but I’ll stick to mint chocolate chip.
We confirmed our trip for the following day, rented gear (trekking boots and jacket), and waited for the pickup for the El Galpon Estancia Alice Tour. There was also a short walk around town, in a vain attempt to reach the lovely lake we’d seen from the sky. Alas, it was not walkable in the time or energy we had.
Estancia Alice is a sheep ranch around 25 minutes outside of town. It’s possible to stay there, and I’ll guarantee it’s nicer than our Libertador, but you get what you pay for. We liked being close to town, and I’m cheap, so we only opted to visit the sheep. Of the roughly thirty people on the tour, we were among the youngest. We were also the only attendees that didn’t speak French (half the group) or Spanish (everyone else).
The first part of the presentation (after welcoming breads and cakes, coffee and tea) was a sheep shearing display. Marcello, our guide and translator, pulled Sai and me to the side and explained things in English before addressing the group in Espanol, before a female French guide brought the rest up to speed. The Estancia runs between five to nine thousand sheep. Each animal weighs around 125 kilos (275 lbs), before dropping 8 kilos (18 lbs) when seasonally shorn. The electric shears can shave an animal in about two minutes. A group of ranch hands goes from stable to stable, shaving their asses off for a peso per sheep, moving on after ten weeks (the price of wool is currently hurting). 60% of the wool ends up in China, 20% to Europe, and the balance staying domestic. Where’s the US get its? Woolworths, I guess.
Anyway, this ranch hand man-handled the sheep, tossing it like a light wool coat instead of the furry behemoth it was, and shaved him balder than an eagle (sorry for the weak analogy). They showed us a few other types of sheep, and we moved on. Outside is a pasture, past the old de-ticking pool (they have vacuums or something for that now), where we watched either two well-trained Australian-bred dogs herd a dozen sheep, or some well-acting wooly mammals fooling us into thinking they were heeding the dog’s commands.
Marcello explained that the grass in this area is very tough and wears down the sheep’s teeth in six or seven years. Following the laws of the jungle (or savannah), once unable to eat, the sheep are instead eaten. It’s a great teaching tool for convincing kids to take care of their teeth, and may be the subject of my first children’s book.
Beside the pasture is a bird sanctuary for seasonal visitors like swan and geese. There’s also a great view of Lago Argentina, a glacial lake with a few floating icebergs in it. To the west, on a clear day such as ours, you can see the Andes, including the peak of Chile’s Torres Del Pinnes, some 300 km away.
Inside, we were treated to toothless lamb, chicken and pork, and blood sausage. The sausage looked disgusting, but tasted surprisingly not. The Isenbeck beer confirmed my earlier lesson that it is a skunky beer, and not just a bad can I had in Boca.
The night concluded with a dance show, with a traditional gaucho-outfitted guy and a long-dressed lady in old-school action. The cowboy used two yo-yo string toys that he spun like martial arts weapons, and slammed to the floor in time and tune to his accompanying tap dancing moves. We’d seen a similar act at the Café Tortoni show. I don’t know the formal name of the yo-yos, but it’s a solo act for sure (she kept her distance during his routine). The couple left the stage, returning a few minutes later as a sharp-dressed greaser and a long-legged harlot. Tango is a sexy dance.
Night 4
The sun sets around 10 p.m. this time of year in this part of the world. We enjoyed watching our gorgeous landscape transform through hues of orange and red before the eventual black of late night.
Delivered back to town a little after eleven, we retired early (relatively) to bed to save our energy for Big Ice.
Day 5 – Tuesday, November 24th
Big Ice, big deal. Up at six for our seven a.m. pickup (I actually awoke earlier courtesy of noisy neighbors on the other side of our paper-thin walls), I ran around town searching for a boxed lunch to take on our trek. The local dogs that roam the roads like the cats of Recoleta followed me a few times, but as I was without food, they’d eventually wander off to chase random vehicles down the street instead. Dogs were everywhere, yet these streets were clean. I wondered how they afforded to ship the shit up to La Boca? It’s probably why everything was so expensive in this tourist town.
An overpriced convenience store was open, offering unappetizing beef, lettuce and tomato sandwiches (BLTs but bacon can bite it). It would have to do. Our hotel offered its own pricey lunches, but we didn’t want to dump any more of our funds into that dump. The complimentary breakfast of bread, crackers, cereal, and fruit cocktail was unsurprisingly disappointing, but my upset stomach couldn’t have handled much anyway. Our pickup ride rode past us twice without stopping before another van finally grabbed us twenty minutes later and loaded us up onto the earlier passing bus. Not sure about the efficiency of this operation, but we were on our way to Big Ice!
Two activities stood out to me during the trip planning. The first was the Boca Juniors soccer game which lived up to expectations, and the second was Big Ice trekking across the Perito Moreno Glacier. Guidebooks warned that this was not for the weak or weary, but online postings convinced me that if they could do it (people claiming to be old and/or out of shape), then so could we (even if admittedly out of shape). Mini-trekking takes the kids across a fraction of the glacier. Big Ice gives the studs a bigger picture of what Perito Moreno has to offer.
First, some facts: the Patagonian ice field is the third largest in the world, behind Antarctica and Greenland. It covers a shrinking chunk of Argentina and Chile. While every glacier is shrinking everywhere, some unique weather patterns have enabled P.M. to remain stable for the last century. Nearby glaciers such as the larger Upsala are constantly losing ground. P.M. spans between two mountains on a branch of Lago Argentina, Argentina’s largest lake. Every few years, the glacier will choke off water flow on one side or the other, damming the lake, until water levels rise, hydrostatic pressure increases, and the lake breaks through again. Perito is not a floating glacier. It extends down to the bottom of the lake, several hundred meters below. As the glacier moves, grinding (glacially slowly) across the bottom, the top moves more freely, leading sections to break off, much to the merriment of those watching from the sidelines. You can hear ice cracking several times an hour; it sounds like gun shots. Ice along the edges contains gravel from churned up rock. The mineral deposits cause the blue hue in the lake and glacial melt. The denser portions of ice are blue too, because of the crystallization pattern under higher pressure. Hope that’s enough fun facts for you. The guides gave glaciology lessons along the way. I tried to pay attention, while the woman sought out the next photo op, like a stereotypical Asian tourist.
The tour starts with an early morning view of the glacier from platforms on one side of the lake. During the day, these get overly crowded. For us, it was not a problem. Next, we board a boat to cross the lake before P. Moreno. We pass floating icebergs and chunks that have fallen off the glacier. The boat docks on the opposite shore, and we walk up to the base site where we can use los banos, check our gear, and split up the big group. There were 40-50 people, and we were splintered into four parties. We were part of an English-speaking subset comprised of a few Americans, Canadians, Europeans, and Sai. From there, we walk along a moderate trail through the woods, along the glacier side of the mountain, picking up crampons and harnesses along the way. Sai’s first spill of the day came on this normal trail walk. Not a promising start, but she was okay and it proved to be her only stumble, and we would survive the adventure. Sorry for the spoiler. After about an hour of walking, we get to our point of entry onto the ice. The guides strap the crampons onto our boots, give a quick talk on how to walk, and away we go!
The surface of the glacier is rolling, with ridges and rifts throughout. There are small streams, deep pools of blue, and puddles to plod around. The mountain beside / behind us has waterfalls cascading down to the glacier from peak snowmelt. At one point, we pass a fast-moving flow of water that twists and turns like a waterslide, carving a nice niche / cave in a section of ice before disappearing. On closer inspection, with guides holding our harnesses, we see that there’s a sinkhole, hundreds of feet deep (or so the guide said; I couldn’t see the bottom). Glad we didn’t ride that slide. Everywhere we went, the vistas were spectacular. I worried that my camera’s memory card wouldn’t last handle it. Unfortunately, pictures can’t do it proper justice, so my words fall even further short of capturing the beautiful experience.
The weather was perfect. Clear skies to the Andes, warm enough to not need our jackets most of the time. The tour goes on in rain or shine or snow, with all three sometimes occurring on the same day, but not today. After hours of trekking across the ice, we settled for lunch beside a blue lagoon. Our last-minute fake BLTs tasted great after the morning’s exertions. Then we went a little farther, before looping back and heading for the shore (the border between ice and land, underwater when the dam glacier backs things up).
Crampons are heavy, walking in them is weird, and we went a good way with all of our gear. Trekking up and over ridges, turning legs inward or outward to maintain awkward balance, we used muscles that hadn’t previously been asked to do these tasks. Sai complained that it felt like a ball and chain were affixed to her feet, an ironic analogy, but I refrained from commenting on it. The average age for this tour was mid-twenties, or half the age of the Estancia tourists. We went from among the youngest to oldest in a day. And after a couple of hours on the ice, our age showed. Or more precisely, our fitness (or lack thereof) revealed that Sai’s yoga and my sport spectating (I really need to get back to running) did not prepare us properly for the excursion. The group was fairly fit, except for one fat couple who fell even further behind than the two of us. Their lag let us worry less about being left behind by the boat and bus back to solid land.
When all was done, it was not what I’d call fun, but it was definitely an awesome experience. The trip’s price tag rises like the sea levels as the icecaps melt, so I’m glad we were able to do it. Sai was not so glad, other than that it was over. She even shunned the scotch on glacial rocks offered to celebrate the day. I had a double.
When we returned to our hotel some eleven hours after leaving for the adventure, Sai suffered symptoms akin to post-marathon soreness. My legs and feet felt a little bruised and battered by the boots and crampons, but I was more mobile than she, so I ran some errands while she rested before we hit the town.
A day on the ice warranted ice cream. Then a long walkabout as I declined the less than fine dining options. Finally, we found a place (a block from our hotel). It was good to do some extra walking, to work out the lactic acid. Sai didn’t buy that BS either. The place we settled upon was an oven inside, so we sat outside on a chilly daylit evening. Steak, fries, and Quilmes for me, some sort of ham and cheese crepe for the lady. The beer was big and good. The rest was only fit for the dogs. We learned this as our table for two grew to a group of five, as three large canines joined our private party. We found it comical until two of them started growling and barking at each other. The beer came back inside with us, leaving the local wildlife to fight it out over our lousy food.
Night 5
For a nightcap, we tried our luck at the Indian Casino. Amidst the town center sits a place unlike the rest; where instead of over-priced wares or underwhelming food, your dinero can net you nothing. According to Marcello, our Estancia tour guide from the evening before, the Tehulche Indians used to roam the region. They lived a simple life, hunting prey for food and clothes. Then, the Europeans entered the picture, pushing the primitive culture out, and introduced their own livestock (sheep). The displaced locals figured out that docile dollies were easier to kill than their own dwindling dietary animals, so they changed their hunts accordingly. The white boys from Europe didn’t appreciate this, and through a lethal combo of genocide and germs, killed off the Tehulche Indians. There are some partial people, progeny of mixed parents, but no full-blooded Indians anymore. Can you imagine? Nothing like that would ever happen in North America. So to summarize, the Indian handcrafts are not authentic, just tourist traps like the casino.
I had no intention of being fooled by the fake Tehulche toys. Instead, Sai and I would expose the fraudulent hosts by taking back money for the white man (me). Wait, that doesn’t add up either. Okay, no social message, I just wanted to play some blackjack. Their house rules were a little different. Everyone receives their cards face down, except the dealer who shows one up. Then, the player at the dealer’s left flips both cards and plays to stay or bust. The next player then flips his cards and plays his hand. After everyone is done, the dealer plays. Other than the face down cards and players actually touching them, the rest was what I’m used to (six deck shoe, manual shuffle, 1.5 to 1 blackjack, insurance, etc.). There was only one table, with Sai and I starting the game. We were quickly joined by two Argentines, followed by a couple of Americans then another a little later. I tried teaching Sai basic strategy, but after a questionable split busted, she went it alone. No one else seemed to know basic strategy anyway. The pit boss hawked our table, not trusting us or his dealer or both, I don’t know. After the first shoe, they brought in the android from Aliens to deal. I’ve never seen cards move that fast. We ran through a shoe in world record time, with no one really knowing what was happening. My requests for mas despacio, por favor were robotically rejected. Somehow I managed to break even at the end of the shoe, and Sai was only down five pesos. She would have been up if not for my earlier split card gamble. Regardless, we hit our pre-planned time to terminate, so we vacated the table, opening the floodgates for everyone else to likewise abandon the effort. Either we were pioneers and they liked our lead, or they needed their own breaks from the blur of cards.
The final tally put the fake Indians up 20 pesos from us (5 peso entry per, 5 peso dropped by her, and a 5er tip along the way). An hour of play cost us $6.
Day 6 – Wednesday, November 25th
Today we woke up early, hit the horrible breakfast buffet, and headed for the airport back to B.A. We passed through Ushuaia on the way. The southernmost city in the world looked cool and cold. Buried amidst snow-capped mountains is a little city at the end of the world (until fake Indians develop Antarctica into the next tourist trap; it’s already ridiculously overpriced).
At this point, we’d completed Phase Two of our adventure, and were filling the intermission before Phase Three. The middle ground was the Microcentro section of Buenos Aires. We stayed at the newer, nicer Ibis Hotel. It’s in the heart of the business district, and busy as bees. After the leisurely pace of El Calafate, the big city’s hustle was a bit overwhelming.
We considered trying Teatro Colon (a famed opera house), but unlike the rest of the city, this one was actually being renovated. Good for them, bad for us. We walked the area around the Obelisco – Argentina’s knock-off Washington Monument, saw some old buildings around Plaza San Nicolas, saw a bunch of kids covered in paint (in protest of something, I’m sure, but not sure what – cleanliness, maybe?). Calla Florida is a pedestrian-only thoroughfare full of fashionable shops. Easy for me, as I’m unfashionable, but Sai more impressively resisted the urge to splurge on new shoes.
We passed by Plaza de Mayo, where the fountains were running purple, in protest of something, I’m sure – pure water, perhaps? There was heavy security ready to roll over whatever threat the dirty hippies or painted teens might present to the purple pools.
My trusty sense of direction took us past the Christian College along the riverfront, only a dozen blocks west of where we wanted to go. Our cab driver was also unable to find the fine dining Sai found online, because the place has apparently changed names. Nonetheless, we eventually found the address, and by any name, the meal’s the same. She had an excellent, tender lamb, and my beef ribs were the best bovine offerings so far. Quilmes Grande to wash it down, of course.
Night 6
After all of our wild, late night partying, we elected to bed early this evening. First, I picked up some agua (that means water) from a late night convenience stand, and then I stopped to get cash. I placed the bottled beverage above the ATM, awaited my money, when I was startled to see a homeless person sleeping a few feet away. Distracted, I departed without the water. I quickly recognized the folly, but this time, the bank door was locked. My persistent pulls did nothing to awaken the almsless, so it was back to the store for more. The bum probably used my bottled beverage to buy drugs, or to drink. What a bastard.
Part 3 – Iguazu is Hot!
Day 7 – Thursday, November 26th
Happy Thanksgiving! We flew to Iguazu in the northeast corner of Argentina. We shared the ride with an Atlantan woman (from the lost city in Georgia) who expressed interest in someday soon trying Big Ice, as she’s at their 45 year old cut off mark. I relayed that I’d read of waivers for older adventurers to sign and go, then we both told her that the trek is truly tough, not just talk. I don’t know if she could walk the crampon walk.
Our Hotel St. George was centrally located in Puerto Iguazu, a booking metropolis akin to a dingy little town in a third world country. But the hotel was nice. The guidebooks got it right when they said the falls were the only thing to see. So we hopped on the bus (terminal stationed a block away), and were on our way.
This piece of Argentine rainforest is on the rebound from previous deforestation. They say it’s about halfway through a 160 year cycle of regrowth before it resembles a virgin jungle again (guess you can eventually reclaim your virginity). As such, there was not a full canopy above. Just tall trees trying to outreach each other for the upper light.
The Gran Aventura Jeep Jungle Explorer was a waste of time and one hundred pesos apiece, but then we took the boat tour. Well worth it! An open motor craft cruises across the relatively calm Iguazu River, rounding boring bends before distant cataracts fall into view. Anticipation builds as the boat approaches, with the edge of mists cooling our brows (the rainforest is rather humid). Finally, play time is over, they warn us to stow our cameras and anything else we hope to keep dry, and we accelerate into the mistic. The moisture picks up, blowing in our eyes, and we’re blind before a bucketing splash to the body soaks us to the core. Several minutes are spent saturating, before we back out and do the same beneath the next behemoth fall.
The waterfalls are spectacular, with words again insufficient to aptly describe them, so I won’t try. But when we weren’t drowning in the falls’ fury, we were witnessing a wondrous cascading panorama, postcard views all around.
Disembarking the boat, we walked part of the lower trail (Inferior Circuit), which took us to the edge of one cataract – Salta Bosetti, where we were again drenched by its massive mists, this time from the viewing platform. A couple other falls were cool, but seeing as Sai and I were over-dressed and drenched, we decided to defer the upper loop to the next day.
The bus back brought us to Tres Fronteras Point, where the Iguazu River forms a T with the Parana River. The T trisects the water border between Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina. There were some souvenir stands where tribesmen offered to trade back trinkets for cash, likely so they could buy back land to build bigger casinos. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but since it was across the river, we figured the Brazilian border patrol would keep it under control. After all, Brazil makes it untimely and cost-prohibitive to cross over to see their side of the falls (a better overview) by charging over $100 for a visa. This is retaliatory or reciprocity against the US visa costs, which make it tough for Brazilians to move in and take our jobs or children or something. They weren’t getting my money.
Anyway, still in our wet outfits (the high humidity does not help to dry your clothes), we sat outside at a nice hotel restaurant overlooking the rivers while the storm rolled through. Sai had chicken ravioli in a delicious creamy alfredo sauce, while my local fish dish (paranas?) was fulfilling too. Two good meals in as many nights, Argentina was finally meeting my culinary expectations! Although the Point was suggested as a great place to see the setting sun, we missed its disappearance behind the stormy clouds, but enjoyed the scenic spot anyway. Supposedly a 30 minute walk from the hotel, we figured the short bus ride back was the way to go.
Night 7 – Nightmare!
I guess if you don’t ask the right question, you can’t be surprised when the answer doesn’t quite fit (who are three people that have never been in my kitchen?). I asked if the bus was heading to the terminal. Si, the driver confirmed. I failed to ask if he would go all over town and beyond before pulling into the station at the end of the night. An hour-long tour of the one-bus, run-down town was more than my bladder and Sai’s shivering body had hoped for. Still not home, we hopped out at what appeared to be a main street, and tried getting back on our own to warm (dry) clothes and a welcoming bano at St. George. Of course my impending urination and the cold, wet clothes could not contain the Thai girl’s love of shopping. A window shop pass became a quick visit, then a full inspection of artwork, followed by a gift-wrapping unlike any other, before Sai hit the bank (me), and we waited another multitude of minutes while the shopkeeper ran down the street for change. By this point, I was pissed, not literally, but damn near.
The hospital food’s been pretty good, and I’ve had plenty of time to catch up on this journal while recovering from my burst bladder. Sai came by to visit once, since the hospital was nearby some shops she wanted to see, but I wasn’t ready to forgive her.
Okay, the preceding paragraph may have been a fabrication, but in fairness, more than my feelings could have been hurt by her insensitive insistence on shopping at that inopportune time. Usually, the world is my toilet, but in this foreign land (and too sober), I wasn’t feeling as free-flowing in public. Anyway, that was not a fun night. But at least Sai found another nice picture. It will probably piss me off forever (pun intended). I gave thanks that the night finally ended. Hell, I would have almost preferred spending Thanksgiving with family. [Sai’s explanation – I did not know he wanted to use the bathroom so badly – sorry! I would visit him at the hospital everyday if it’s close to my favorite shopping places.]
Day 8 – Friday, November 27th
Back to Iguazu, Day 2. More importantly, for the first time in five days, we were able to sleep past 7 a.m. (no planes or buses to catch). St. George even fed us a real breakfast. Maybe it helps to pay more than $65 per night.
We started our tour de cataratas with the train ride to the top – Garganta Del Diablo. The walkway led to an overlook of a three sided massive drop, wrapping around in front / below us and enveloping us amidst its mist. Beside the engineered platform are the remnants of an old walkway mostly washed away by storm waters of 1992. Seeing the forceful flow feet below, it was an impressive viewpoint.
Along the way to Diablo, and back, and throughout both days, we saw bountiful butterflies fluttering about and landing everywhere. You’d walk along and they’d hitch a ride on your hat. Turn your back and find four more. There were also little lizards darting and larger iguanas lounging around but running from my camera (the opposite of Sai, who always jumped in front of the camera as I was trying to capture the scene behind). There were toucans and parrots, blackbirds, blue birds, and other avians I couldn’t call out by name (or color). Brown raccoons (coatis) roamed the restaurants, raiding garbage or awaiting scraps like the Calafate canines.
The upper loop (Superior Circuit) took us to the tops of the same falls that soaked us down below the day before. From dizzying heights we watched the waters disappear down to the receptive river. Rainbows appeared in many of these magnificent scenes. We were sweat-soaked from the Superior Circuit, then cooled off a bit by running the lower loop again. Between both days, we did it all, except San Martin Island (closed due to high waters) and Brazil (bypassed because of the expensive visa program). We saw enough, as my camera could not take any more.
Back to town, we walked around after our afternoon siesta (this short respite beat the other options of Puerto Iguazu), looking for a decent place to eat. All of the healthy oxygen produced by the Parque Rainforest could not compete with the carbon contamination of the cars in the stagnant city. We detoured off a main road for fear of death by suffocation. Mexico City might have healthier air. Of course this sidetrack got us a little lost, but there was no chance of me hopping back on the bus again.
Eventually, as always, we found our way and found ourselves at an outdoor table at a restaurant Sai saw packed the night before. The menu looked promising and the Spanish rock sounded catchy, so I was temporarily satisfied by the selection. After an unusually long wait (most places on this trip were incredibly quick), our waiter delivered some rancid meat. In lieu of the famed Argentine beef, our plates were filled with roadkill. And instead of exotic coatis or wild dogs, our terrible meal was terrorized by beggar children shilling trash disguised as crafts. It was a most unpleasant evening, though the bread was edible and my beer was big. A blackout struck everywhere for ten minutes; as the waiter was delivering a candle to our table, power was suddenly restored, and we requested our check. Lesson learned – corner restaurants on main streets in minor towns mean horrible food.
Night 8
After dinner, I convinced Sai that her Asian math skills and schoolgirl innocence were perfect for counting cards at the casino. Perhaps we could build upon our recent record of not losing a lot of money from the first time we played. Unfortunately, unlike Calafate, in Iguazu they lacked table games, offering only slots. So much for our plan to play. On the way to that worthless gambling hall, we had heard loud music coming out of another nearby establishment. I pleaded my need for liquid sustenance since the meal was so obviously unfulfilling, and darling Sai agreed. She need not have worried about this watering hole, because as conspicuously absent as the casino blackjack, booze was this time nowhere to be found. There was a diverse crowd digging the big band jamming, singing syllables lost on me (the only Spanish songs I’d recognize are Feliz Navidad, Oye Como Va, or Spanish Caravan, none of which were being played). But besides beer, something else was amiss. After the next tune, the band took a break, people took their seats, and some guy started preaching something that did not involve the word cerveza. The signs above the stage read something about Jesus es Vive, and it seemed Jesus was not the lead singer’s name. Sai was understandably spooked when I explained to her that we had crashed a Christian service. She didn’t know if they’d try to convert us, crucify us, exorcise my demons, or perhaps eat us like some South American jungle cannibals. Between her paranoia and my annoyance at the dry entertainment, it was time to go. We sought salvation elsewhere.
Rock Bar offered libations if not real solid entertainment. I bought a little Brahma beer as Sai had no intention of staying long. The beer was bad and the band was worse, singing what sounded like a Spanish translation of a Huey Lewis tune that I couldn’t quite pin down (something was clearly lost in translation, because ordinarily I love Huey). There were no blessed banners for these boys, so we bolted. What would Jesus do?
Day 9 – Saturday, November 28th – Fight and Flight
Note: The end of this trip was not fun. Travelling is stressful. Ben and Sai nearly became two completely separate individuals after Argentina, rather than a couple of attracted opposites. The bitterness on our flight back (sorry jumping ahead) led to the abandonment of the travel diary and the failure to actively record the details of the last day. However, some eight plus years later, (spoiler alert), we’re still together, and the Argentina trip report is getting some closure and limited (public) exposure. Day 9 was left unwritten in the book, so this is all I could fill in from recollection and from the few notes I took.
We spent our last day back in Buenos Aires, revisiting Caminito in daylight to see if it’s really as scary when you can really see it. Without the soccer crowds, the crowd controlling military police presence was conspicuously absent. Instead, a Crayola themed neighborhood of homes delighted the eyes, while a stench of shit defiled the nose. Probably because of all the dog shit. We had a good steak at El Obrero, and enjoyed the sights and sounds (just not the smells), as the colorful, touristy spot sported tango shows and touts selling wares everywhere. Caminito represented the Argentinian culture better than anywhere else we visited (even though it’s a touristy way of exploiting that same culture). The more modern areas or more exotic locales did not have the same strong flavor; they could be any big city or beautiful countryside. We popped into our rescue pizza parlor from a week prior (before and after the Boca Jr. game) for a farewell to our protector, the proprietor, to let him know that we had survived his homeland.
All we had to do next was survive a long cab ride back to the airport, and we’d be home free. What’s the worst that can happen in a cab in Argentina? Surely we’d learned from our adventure upon arrival. Sure enough, we continued our drama because that’s what Sai and I do, at least when we travel together. This time, we were not taken for a figurative ride, just a legit ride to where we were going. However, when the fare came up at around 90 pesos, I made the horrifying mistake of telling the driver that he could keep the change from my last 100 peso note. Sai flipped. She berated me for giving away her money (even though I was pretty sure it had come from my pocket), and bitched and bitched to the point where I lost my usual cool composure and told her something back that was not very nice. I had run some quick math in my head, and still stand by my calculation that my “overly generous” tip amounted to something like $3. With frayed nerves, we boarded our flight without speaking, and gave each other the silent treatment for the lengthy flight from Buenos Aires to Miami. Once stateside, we uttered monosyllables at each other, but not much else. Never again, I swore to myself, would I travel anywhere with this woman. Guess how well that pledge worked out?
Anyway, aside from the painful end to the adventure, time heals all wounds, and I highly recommend Argentina. Unfortunately, in the time since that trip, I lost the computer with all of the gorgeous pictures, so you’ll have to google image the locations listed throughout (particularly Perito Moreno and Iguazu!). Those are better pics anyway, and none of them feature Sai or me snarling at each other.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 