Throwin` in the towel?

Punto Panorama offers more than a peak at the lush landscape and plentiful lakes in Nahuel Huapi national park, just 15 km from Bariloche. - JMH

Just when I was ready to call it a day, or a trip, really, after another two week bout fighting foreign bugs and bacteriums, we landed here in the land of plenty - plenty of mountains, plenty of lakes and more than enough beauty.

San Carlos de Bariloche, in the northernmost part of Patagonia, is more than a sight for sore eyes. The town itself is cute enough, but the surrounding landscape can only be described as breathtaking - definitely makes my Top 5 list of Prettiest Places. It`s like Tahoe, only nicer, if you can believe it.

The city center itself boasts a dozen chocolate shops, make-your-own t-shirt shops line the sidewalks and hoards of Argen"teens" fill the hotels and hostels to spend their summer breaks dancing away the nights. The place itself is actually more reminiscient of a little Swiss village, which makes some sense at it was settled in the 19th century by Austrians and Germans. It`s situated at the foot of the Andes and on the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi, a curiosuly shaped body of water - plenty to explore by boat.

Brian, Dad, Alex and I landed here well over a week ago with little chance to blog, if that says anything about how busy we`ve been able to keep ourselves here - with hikes, bikes, drives, coffee, chocolate, red wine, beef and mostly just gaping at the view.

Joanna, Alex, Al and Brian take photo after photo, including the self-portraits, in attempt to share the sights with those back home. - JMH

This was only the second place I`ve been where I really thought to myself that I could stay here. But the economy is all tourist based, and truth be told, I don`t want to work! So instead, we vacationed. A cabin, rented clown car, purchased DVD player and Christmas movie favorites, and a fridge stocked with beer helped make for one of the best holidays ever.

But the time has come, yet again, to repack our backpacks and explore a new place. Alex and I will take a night bus to Puerto Madryn, where we plan to hit up the nearby peninsula`s wildlife preserve. Ever since that movie "March of the Penguins," I`ve been inspired to see the well-dressed little fellows in their masses.

View from Cerro Catedral, one of the biggest and most popular ski resorts in Argentina. - JMH

- JMH

`Tis the season ... Hartman family Christmas letter

Hola Friends and Family,


It`s that time of the year yet again, and in true Hartman spirit, we`ve deviated from the traditional holiday festivities (including my annual snail-mail Christmas letter) and are sending an email to fill you in from the other side of the Equator. It`s warm here in Bariloche, Argentina, and my boyfriend Alex and I are catching up on emails and to-do`s after a wonderful few weeks with the family. Brian and girlfriend Caitlin met us in Mendoza, Arg. closely followed by Al. Together, much like the Griswold Family of National Lampoon fame, we explored the Andes and wine country. Caitlin returned to Rhode Island for her own family Christmas as the four of us continued south to Bariloche, in northern Patagonia where we celebrated a Charlie Brown Christmas in shorts and tank tops with drives and hikes through some of the most beautiful landscape I`ve ever laid eyes on.


It`s been another great year in life of Al, Brian and Joanna, and here`s a little synopsis to let you all know how (and where) we stand.


Al passed another spring walking through Europe, across Spain with his brother Tom - Al`s second go-around at the Spanish Camino de Santiago, this time to Finisterra, the furthest west point in Europe. He spent a month this fall in Shanghai and southwestern China with old Sierra Club friends, including a three-day trek along Tiger Leaping Gorge where he looked ominously down 3,900 meters to the bottom of the canyon. He also snuck in some "local" travel, including a trip to L.A. to visit his college roommate, a stint in Tahoe to watch his daughter report on wildfires, and a family reunion in Baltimore to celebrate his parents` 65th wedding anniversary. Al still calls West Linn, Oregon "home" and continues to tinker in between wanderlust. Next year he`s looking forward to working on the house (and the old cars and motorcycle parts), another camino with his brother in France, and is hopeful his daughter will join him in the Northwest following her travels.


Brian, on the other hand, is looking forward to getting far, far away his dad and sister after an 18-hour bus ride, four-person youth hostel rooms and solid two weeks of family fun. No, really, he`s just off on his next adventure - to Indonesia and southeast Asia in January for two months with Caitlin. Brian`s had an eventful 2007. He resigned as the executive chef of Honga`s Lotus Petal in Telluride, Colorado after expanding and relocating the restaurant, and celebrated the June release of a cookbook by the same name boasting 44 of Brian`s recipes and a proud photo on page 11. He didn`t get in his usual twice yearly travel but left Telluride for Block Island, Rhode Island. He`s now working as the sous chef for Block Island Resorts which operates three restaurants, five hotels and caters a variety of high-end functions for 20 to 500 people. Though he misses ringing in the New Year on his snowboard, he looks forward to seeing more of the world before heading back to work in Block Island in April. And despite his "hard" living, he looks great - just like he did five, even ten, years ago. The appearance of an age gap between Brian and Joanna is quickly closing - Bri still gets carded when he buys beer.


Looking back, my year seems to have whizzed by. I had been living in Tahoe City, California since last summer, reporting for the Sierra Sun and Tahoe World newspapers by day, and moonlighting as a waitress in order to save for this trip of a lifetime. I am now homeless and a "citizen of the world," at least for another month or so here in Argentina. I loved writing for the small daily paper, which even won a General Excellence award in my tenure there, and was particularly psyched to cover my first-ever breaking news story on a wildfire that erupted just three miles from my home and office. My boyfriend Alex and I "retired" in September after a few seasons of exploring the Sierra in sun and snow, including trips to Mammoth, Pinecrest Lake and into the backcountry. I saw high school and college friends in Oregon and Washington en route to a wedding, and also managed to visit with almost my entire family - the Fergusons in San Francisco, Popsi and Jacquee in Grass Valley, Granny and Grandpa and the Baltimore Hartmans on my way out of the country. As we watch the numbers in our our bank accounts rapidly decrease, we will likely be in Argentina only through January, but look forward to another week of family travel with Alex`s parents in southern Patagonia. From there, life is pretty much a question mark - the only guarantee a job and/or graduate school search. I`m interested in journalism, psychology, the Northwest and the mountains. I`m an Aries and I like long walks on the beach. But seriously, if anyone wants to give me or Alex any ins, we`re all ears. And yes, that`s my attempt to plug myself.


In closing, I hope this letter finds you all happy, healthy and well - and not entirely bored.

Take care,
Love,
Al, Brian and Joanna

The Griswalds ain´t got nothing...

Photos: Above, the Hartman-and-friends clan poses for a picture at the entrance to Aconcagua National Park, with Aconcagua barely visible through the clouds; Brian and Joanna laugh at Al´s stellar photographic ability; Joanna poses for a photo as Al worships the Andean gods; a busted out bus sits in a field in the upper Valle Uspullata. - AC

The four or five little squirrels under the white hood of the small sedan whirred away as I downshifted in attempt to pass the two trucks that were slugging it up the hill which wound it´s way into the dramatic peaks of the Andes.

My co-pilot´s knuckles were clenched around the door handle in a white ball.

Her brother and father both teased her from the backseat.

"Finally, I would have passed 17 times already," I could see Al in the rearview mirror. He was sitting in the center of the back seat, between Brian and Caitlin. His head was swivling around taking in the view and his mouth was slightly smiling at the idea of adventuring up into the mountains right in the center of his two kids.

"Dad, don´t egg him on. Why do we have to pass, what´s your hurry?" Joanna didn´t like driving much, and the overturned tractor-trailer we passed a few kilometers back didn´t help matters.

Dispite having taken the Argentine Route 7 twice now by bus to get to and from Santiago, Chile, Joanna and I found ourselves again winding up out of the endless rows of vines in the Mendoza wine country and into the sky scraping peaks of the Andes. Instead of a bus, this time we were packed into a small rental car, looking for photographic stops along the way.

As we wound up and into the mountains, the traffic thinned and the drive became pleasant. Route 7 is a well paved, heavily traveled road, the main source of land travel between Argentina and Chile. In addition to it´s quality as a South American highway, the road passes within kilometers of Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere at 6,960 meteres.

After winding our way up out of the dry cragly Andean foothills and bursting into the gigantic valleys beneath the full peaks of the Andes, we pulled into Uspullata, which was the location of filming for the 1997 Brad Pitt movie Seven Years in Tibet. Valle de Uspullata served as the closest thing to the Himalayas possible for filming.

After lunch, we wound further up into the seemingly endless valley toward the Chilean boarder. Heading west, the Andes rise and rise. The giant valley winds on between peaks that roll and crag, from greens of vegitation, through yellows, whites, reds, purples and all manner of browns millions of years of tectonic growth and geothermal activity are detailed through visible layers of rock sediment.

Mere kilometers from the boarder, Aconcagua rises up in the distance, only it´s snowcapped glaciated upper half visible behind layers of Andean peaks within the park.

It was there that we turned around. The four more hours down through 30 switchbacks within two kilomoters through Portillo into Santiago was not something we wanted to undertake.

After snapping a few photos and trying to catch a glimpse of the Andes´most mighty mountain through the clouds, we piled back into the car and putted off back down the hill.

As the dark grey clouds veiled the peaks to the east, Caitlin slept, mouth agape on Brian´s shoulder. Joanna hung the camera out the window in search of the perfect picture of horses dwarfed by mountains.

"How far to Uspallata?" Al asked. "I could go for a café at Bodega Gato."

- AC

By metro, microbus, hitching and horse

How to have an authentic Chilean adventure ...

Step 1: Forgo the US$60 per person fee for an organized tour to see Santiago´s rural mountain pueblos.

Step 2: Wake up early enough, pre-dawn, to make a breakfast that absorbs the one or two too many Pisco Sours from the night before. Fried bread from a vendor for 20 cents is a good start.

Step 3: Take the subway as far away from the city center as possible. Plus, it`s the opposite direction of the commuters. Disembark the metro, walk to the bus terminal and stand with your mouth agape trying to figure out which bus, one of hundreds, might possibly get you to the right spot. Remember, you have no map - just a bottle of water, a swimsuit, two apples, sunscreen and high hopes for some sort of a rustic adventure. You`re doing it sans tour guide afterall, so it`s bound to be fun.

Step 4: After less than an hour with no hope of figuring out the right mode of transportation, ask someone.

Step 5: Decide to fork out the 9,000 pesos (US$18) for a car ride to some city that is supposedly partway to your final destination, Lo Valdes. Remember, you have no map.

Step 6: When the driver says with a frown "Poco dinero" as you hand him the pre-decided 9,000 pesos, look to your companion. Offer another 1,000 pesos, and refuse when the driver asks for 10,000 more. You`re tired of getting ripped off by the locals after all.

Step 7: Ask at the police station to use the baño. But BYOTP. Few bathrooms supply either toilet paper or soap.

Step 8: Ask the one-toothed, weather-faced local the best way to continue on to Lo Valdes. Then stand in the road and wiggle your thumb just as you were instructed. Gladly oblige when Marcelo stops his dump truck to take you the 25 or so kilometers on the non-paved street. It takes an hour. And be sure to wear a sports bra - it`s a buuuumpy ride. Note that you are riding through a beautiful valley surrounded by sky-high Andes peaks, some still with snow spatterings amidst the jagged rocks and green patches.

Step 9: Hike the 1 km to the German refugio and ask where it is you can rent a horse to take to the termas (hot springs). Mr. Rugged-I-live-here-in-desolation-all-year-round-and-rip-on-skis-through-this-incredible-terrain makes a phone call and tells you to hike another 2 km to Baños Morales (the next "town" over) and meet Nano and the caballos (horses) that will take you winding through the mountains to some off-the-beaten track hot springs.

Step 10: Note that the guide speaks no English and gives no instructions on how to command your horse. Also note that he is wearing long sleeves, a wool sweater and is carrying a down jacket. Remind yourself to always come prepared.

Step 10: Try to enjoy the experience, despite the fact that riding a horse is nothing like your 10-year-old body remembers it. And the views from the rocky single-track lead your mind to visions of your horse trying to knock you into the ravine. Plus, you don´t remember ever being allergic to farm animals.

Step 11: Endure the discomfort for more than an hour or so, watching your fingers turn white, then ask how much further. "Un hora mas," Nano replies. Swallow your pride, your desire to check out the hot springs, remember that you have some idiotic circulation problem called Reynaud´s, and ask to turn around.

Step 12: Keep an eye out for wild horses, mountain goats, and later on the drive home, an ostrich farm.

Step 13: Hours later disembark the horse and practice walking again. It`s as though you may have forgotten. Head back towards the "main road" and hitch with the next semi truck driver, and then again in the back of the German badass`s pickup. Catch the bus, then the subway and arrive back at your hostel many hours later amazed that you were less than 60 miles outside the city but managed quite the day´s adventure.

Step 14: Sleep for just less than a dozen hours.

- JMH, Photos by AGC (Joanna`s memory card was eaten by an Argentine computer virus)

Resident of Nowhere...

Sitting in the shade of a large tree in the river park near Santiago´s Bicentennial Monument, a gentle breeze shifted through the leaves, ruffling the green manicured lawn of the park and carrying away the subtle heat of the day. Modern, well cared for cars hummed along Avenida Andres Bellow, the busy throughfare seperating the park from the river. On the other side of the park, across Avenida 11 de septiembre, a tall, elegant and modernly designed building reached up toward the sky. A group of Chileans rode through the park on mountain bikes, kicking up a small, faint cloud of dust from the well cared for dirt path which meanders through the park. The spotty white clouds shimmed in contrast to the brilliantly blue sky. In the distance, the magnificent peaks of the Andes jut up into the atmosphere, and for the first time evidence of a city became appearant. Through the distance between the well manicured park and the dramatic crags of rock in the distance, brown polluted air came into view. Not in an overwhelming and disgusting way, but slightly and almost unnoticable, the air was not quite as clear as it had previously seemed.

It seems that the long, winding road through the high clear air of the Andes plucked me up out of the foriegn land through which I had been traveling, and deliverd me to the familiar. The bus had wound along through air so clear it seemed the road didn´t go towards the sky, but actually up into and perhaps past it. The immense power of a force capable of pushing solid rock that far up into the sky seemed certain to seperate the world I had left from the one I was headed towards. It seemed impossible that where I was going would be like where I had been. How could any similarity cross through that immense wall of rock?

When the road dropped down into the lush green valleys full of vinyards and fields of waving crop it seemed true, this new land was different than the one I had left hours earlier. It seemed much more familiar, much more natural. It seemed more like home.
As I sat in the manicured park, enjoying the gentle breeze and the lazy shade of that big tree, I began to wonder, had I come home? Was this new place like where I was from?

The next day I explored the central Plaza de Armas in downtown Santiago. Sculptures, street painters, vendors and beggars occupied the plaza´s cobblestone surface. There were no trees and the heat of the day beat down from above. Colonial style governerment buildings and ancient cathedrals made up the unbroken edges of the square. Businessmen bustled about, disabled street people sat pathetically on the steps of the cathedral with hands extended. Unmuffled motor scooters could be heard on neighboring streets, women yelled for taxis and powerful engines of busses excelerated, spueing black smoke into the air. This place, it seemed, was much like where I had been on the other side of that monstrous range of rock.

In an instant I remembered the cool, calm park on the other side of town where I had sat peacefully the day before. The place that had made me think I was back at home. And as I moved through the chaos of Plaza de Armas, the "foreign" things that made it up did not bother me. I did little more than notice the beggars, vendors and masses of people moving through the square. My body moved with the ebb and flow of the plaza as if it were another molecule in the muscle of the city. In a way, I felt as at home in this plaza as I had in the park the day earlier.

So then, which was it? Did that majestic winding road through the mountains deliver me back home, to a familiar place which in reality bore similarities to my own land? Or have I been gone too long? Perhaps I have become so comfortable with what before was the unknown and strange, that it is now familiar. Maybe what was previously my home, my level of comfort and my security has been forgotten or replaced by this new reality, this new tempo and surrounding. So that road through the sky did not deliver me from a foriegn place to a new location like my previous home, but in reality, I never left and what was at first uncomfortable and different now feels like home.

- AC

Fear and loathing en route to Chile

The entrance to the illustrious Andes mountain range from Mendoza, Argentina. The road to Chile cuts between the giant peaks, across flowing white water and down several dozen switchbacks. -JMH

For the most part I try to forget about the gut-wrenching, debilitating anxiety that occasionally opts to take hold and strangle me at rather inopportune times. Then again, there are very few instances that provide a good time for a panic attack. And the international bus ride from Mendoza, Argentina to Santiago, Chile is certainly not one of those times.

I always get a nice cocktail of excitement and nervousness when I'm about to go somewhere new, whether it's boarding the plane for an adventure down south or just relocating from one town to the next. After more than 19 hours on a bus from Salta to Mendoza, I figured the second leg of our joureny - from Mendoza to Chile - would unfold just fine.

Alex and I had front and center seats with a panoramic view of what's supposed to be one of the most spectacular drives in the world. The bus sneaks right through the rocky, snow-capped Andes that divide the two countries.

But despite my initial effort to quell my creeping nerves, I am graced with the beginnings of a full-on panic attack. In walks the fight or flight reaction. Out walks any rationale. Feeling particularly trapped and calustrophobic, I crawl to one of the unoccupied seats in the back with the less impressive, less daunting views.

It's well past time to pop a pill, so I take the belated anti-anxiety drug and crawl into a ball with my teddy bear - yes, I still carry a teddy bear when I travel; mostly because it makes a nice pillow - and try to transfer to that safe place inside me.

The welcome sign at the high altitude border crossing from Argentina to Chile. They appear to be on the lookout for produce, but even after an hour in process, I somehow got through with two oranges and an apple. -JMH

I go through the routine of asking myself just what it is I'm afraid of. Is it the bumpy, swaying, slightly carsick feeling of the ever-winding road? Is it the steady elevation climb through the second largest mountain range? Is it the fact that if something were to happen, even altitude sickness, could I even understand with the language barrier? Is it the surrounding desolation of the massive, barren mountains? Is it the white crosses cluttered in every other curve of the road or the overturned semi-truck?

Well, yes, yes, it's all of these things. But I'm a traveler, right? An adventurer even. It's supposed to be part of the fun.

Next, I start to bargain with God. Or whomever.

"I promise I'll never complain about being fat again," I plead. "I'd rather have 10 extra pounds of soft flesh than what feels like 200 extra pounds of suffocation."

"If you make this stop, I promise I'll ... ," I continue.

It's not unlike the morning after a serious night of partying, when your head is pounding and you're praying to the porcelain gods. Only this time, the panic, it's not exactly my fault. I didn't ask for it and as far as I'm concerned don't deserve it.

Twenty minutes pass and the severity of the panic continues. Twenty five minutes, still there. Finally, 35 minutes after I self-medicate the anxiety begins to ebb.

I finally sit up and peek out at the view. Spectacular. Magnificent. Incredible. All those grandiose words that people use to explain this place. I am driving through the Andes, after all.

"So why do you have to be such a baby?," I ask myself, no longer afraid and now just angry.

Why do I let my dudas, as Alex and I have come to call doubts, creep in and take control? I didn't save money for a year to spend my South American travels curled up in a ball in the back of a bus, did I? Get a grip!

And I do get a grip, albeit a little one. Alex stays in the front to enjoy his 180 degree view of the mountainous ride, 30 downhill switchbacks and all, while I stick to my window seat further back, still averting my eyes when the only thing to see is a cliff face and its drop off. I just better not even give myself the opportunity to envision the news story reporting the 60-person tour bus, including two young Americans, that careened off the side of the road in Chile.

I'm better off lip-synching to Fergie on my iPod anyway.

- JMH

The Seven Colors of Pumamarca

The hills above Pumamarca display their colors, above. Below, from top to bottom, our van waits in a Jujuy street for a much needed repair, below Pumamarca an old vendor sits in the shade next to the road at a choice tourist photo spot, the quintessential Jujuy photo spot is a frequented area in Pumamarca, and the Quebrada de Humahuaca winds away into the northwestern Andes toward San Salvador de Jujuy and Salta. - AC

I´m not sure if it was the fat old man sleeping next to me, overflowing and leaning against my shoulder, or the fact that the van was pulling to a stop next to a mechanic shop to have a flat tire changed that woke me up, but either way, I was happy to step out onto my own two feet and stretch my legs.

The folks at the tour agency the day before had told us there would be no more than four people in the truck, in addition to the driver and his assistant - whose job it seemed was basically no more than filling the driver´s mate with hot water through the curvy suicidal sections of mountain road. In reality, there were nine of us crammed into the van, in addition to the driver and his assistant.

Our excursion left Salta at 7:30 in the morning and was bound for Humahuaca, a small oasis in the northern Jujuy province. We took the Quebrada de Humahuaca, which is basically an ancient travel route along a grand ravine through the northwestern Argentine Andes. It was a trip, we hoped, that would bring us closer to the more indegenous side of Argentina.

In reality, Humahuaca is not far from the Bolivian border, it is rural, the people are simple and the landscape is rugged.

The first half of our nearly 14 hour excusion was pleasant. Everything we saw was new, despite traveling with a car load of old retired Argentines from Buenos Aires, even the cramped van was not umpleasant. Afterall, when you travel, all expectations go out the window.

Before long, we were pulling into Pumamarca, the home of Siete Colores, an unbelievable series of mountains rising up toward the ever-blue sky. From red, orange, purple, yellow, two shades of green, tan and brown the colors of rock detail the ages of weather and wear. At the base of the hills in a tiny little valley sits the small, simple town of Pumamarca, which obviously subsists almost entirely on the non-stop tour buses that pull in and unload passangers to take "the quitessential Jujuy photo."

Later we would disembark our little van a few more times. Once inside Humahuaca for an authentic but overpriced lunch of empanadas and locro. After that outisde the pueblo of Tilcara at the nearly 10,000 foot site of reconstructed ruins, before being forced into the museum for an entrance fee. And lastly again in San Salvador de Jujuy to take a "city tour," which was a walk through the provincial capitol building and the cathedral. After that it was a marathon ride in the van back to Salta.

As I slumped down on my suddenly feather-like bed in Salta, exhausted from sitting ackwardly all day long. My distaste for the fat old porteño that had been leaning on me for 12 hours, for the less than accurate tour agency description, for the possible under the table dealings of our guides and for the general contradiction between travelers who want to see the untouched wild places of the world and the tourist destinations they visit, I suddenly thought about my long day with a smile.

Sure, some of it had been less than desireable, but in reality, I had seen a piece of Argentina - and the world - that many people have not been to or even heard of. Of course, eveyone goes to the Bolivian salt flats, Machu Picchu and the Galápagos. But how many people have driven the Quebrada de Humahuaca? And of those, how many have taken the time to veer off the road and take in the seven colors of Pumamarca? So what if they´re all tourist traps in their own way? What amazing place isn´t?

- AC

Finally. Salta.

Joanna and Alex at the top of the the lush, green hill that Salta sits at the bottom of. We even got to ride a gondola, or teleferico, up the 3,500 feet.
Salta, Argentina`s very own `Christ the Redeemer.`

We have finally arrived somewhere that I feel like writing home about.

We pulled into a city called Salta in Northern Argentina late last night. A city with color, character and charm. And we get to call it home for the next few days.

It`s a city of less than a half-million and situated at the foothill of the Andes. The air here is drier, the people are more tranquilo, and the place is actually surrounded by lush, green nature. Vendors sell a variety of leather, woven and silver goods. There are a dozen different excursions to other parts of the province. And the general feel of this city is just, better, for lack of a better word.

Plus, Alex got his first Argentine haircut here. Yes folks, it´s business in the front and a fiesta in the back --- exactly what we in the United States like to call a mullet. It`s a subtle mullet, but a mullet nonetheless. I suspect we may get fewer stares, as Alex is one with the natives now ---save for the giant backpacks, fare skin and general wide-eyed gapes.

It went a little something like this ...

Alex (for the last three weeks): "I need a haircut."

Me: "Yes, yes you do."

Alex (today): "I`m really hot and uncomfortable. I really need to get my haircut."

Time passes. We come across yet another one of a million peluquerias. This time, the one with the red and white striped barber pole and a dozen hairstyle competition trophies, this one caught our eye. A man with dark slicked back hair did the dirty work. I told him in Spanish, "Cut it just like his current style, only shorter." The barber nods in understanding.

A few minutes later I catch Alex checking himself out in the mirror. He snickers a bit.

Me, slightly worried: "Are you sure you want to keep it that long in the back?"

Alex: "When in Rome." He smiles.

Alas, Alex is the proud new owner of a haircut only the Argentines, and David Bowie, should really be allowed to have.

- JMH

El mate, el bombilla y el yerba

A mate filled with yerba and a bombilla. Everything you need for an afternoon pick-me-up. Below, a close up of the yerba, and bottom, porteños enjoying mate in a park in Buenos Aires. - AC

Those who frequent North American coffee shops have undoubtedly seen or heard of Yerba Mate. For a while it was the alternative craze among the caffeine addicted and the fad happy in the United States. In South America, most notably Argentina, Uruguay, Bolivia, Peru, parts of Brazil and Chile, mate is a way of life, a part of the culture and history. It is a daily drink, a social drink and, of course, a stimulant.

Contrary to some popular belief, according to Wikipedia, mate´s effects do indeed stem from caffeine. However, the "buzz" produced by mate is different than a cup of coffee known by most early risers in the United States. The mate buzz itself is more smooth, and the crash is not nearly as harsh due to a different chemical cocktail than coffee or tea.

While most widely available in the United States in tea bags, mate in South America is a much different experience. The tools consist of a mate - traditionally made of a hollowed out gourd, and a bombilla - a straw made of metal (traditionally silver) or reed. The bombilla is open at one end and usually filled with holes or slots at the other, which act as a filter. The herb itself is called yerba, and consists of dried, chopped and ground up flakes and twigs of the yerba-mate plant, a small evergreen tree native to the region.

Preparing mate is quite simple: Pour or spoon yerba into a mate until it is about three-quarters full. Add hot water - never boiling - to fill the mate. Hold a finger over the mouth end of the bombilla and insert the slotted end down into the infusion until it rests at the bottom, then release your finger from the exposed mouth. The concotion is not ment to be stirred, but the bombilla remains stationary in the yerba. A mate full of yerba is generally good for about 25 or 30 minutes.

It is customary in Argentina to drink mate with friends. A group of friends sitting in the park sharing mate is a common sight. The general custom is for one person to drink until the bombilla makes a slurping sound, refill the mate with water and then allow another person to drink it´s entirety. The yerba will last for half and hour or so and can be infused many times effectively, but often people will add in a bit more, or a spoonfull of sugar now and then to refresh the taste.

In taste, mate is most similar to a strong green tea, although it has a unique taste all it´s own. It is very earthy, grassy, herby and natural. When drank traditionally out of a mate, the taste is quite a bit stronger than traditional teas. Often, the mate will get more smooth after a couple of mates of water go through the yerba. And in Argentina, it is not uncommon to add in sugar to sweeten up the rather strong, earthy taste.

- AC

Niños y perros

When I first bought my plane ticket to South America, I fully intended to kidnap a little Latin baby.

I have since changed my mind.

The children here, at best, are little monsters. They run around, un-hushed by a parental or grand-parental unit. They stay up past midnight, and are generally louder than your average American child.

Argentine dogs, on the other hand, even stray dogs, are the most well-behaved critters I have yet to set eyes on. Yes, they shit on the sidewalks and in the street. Gross. But they are wily little guys. Most are mangy-looking, some even beyond the help of a clean household and nice family. But beneath that shabby "fur" they`ve got a good head upon their shoulders. For example, they look both ways before crossing the road. Sometimes, they even wait for the light to change from red to green. I might become an animal lover.

- JMH

Blips in the radar

I understand that a huge part of travelling is leaving behind expectations for, well, anything, and rolling with the punches. Truth is, I`m no good at that, but boy do I get my daily lessons of life as ¨easygoing.¨

Take, for example, the chicken pox. Who in the world would have guessed I would be in that .001 percentile that, A) gets chicken pox as an adult, and B) gets chicken pox for a second time. But the bumps came, I itched (mostly I tried not to), and they left. So be it.

Then again, almost more frustrating than getting sick in a foreign country, is learning to not sweat the smaller stuff - like slow Internet, misguiding directions, or inconsistent everything. Like not finding a hostel your travel guide swears is the best place to kick back, relax and enjoy nature. Because it doesn´t exist. Or it does exist, guiding you for one hour with encouraging signs through mid-day piercing sunshine and some serious humidity. But, as is true for Block Island, Telluride and even Tahoe, this quaint little river town had an offseason. And apparently that season is now.

Then there`s missing ham. No, no - stolen ham. Having slept in well over 10 different accommodations in our month here, we have, thus far, managed to secure all our valuables. Unless it was in a fridge. Some drunken traveller at one hostel not only ate some of our unopened ham, but took the whole package. Fortunately we were ingenious enough to throw together a cheese and cracker sandwich to sustain the following day`s adventure. We´ve eaten more than enough ham in our month here anyway.

And there`re expectations for time (or punctuality), something the general Argentine population has no sense of. Yes, yes, the buses depart precisely on schedule, something you are likely to learn right after you`ve gotten the hang of not showing up on time. But when someone invites you over for a churipan (a divine sausage sandwich) party at 9:30ish, make sure you`ve eaten a snack, and maybe even dinner #1, before arriving at said party around 10:30 or 11 p.m.

But the best part of it all is that in the end, hindsight bias and all, it usually makes for a story. A funny story even. At least for those involved. Even after a month trying to adapt to life on the road and the ways of another culture, we continue to bitch and moan about the small stuff - and laugh about it even more.

- JMH

Things I´ve Seen

Photography is part of the reason I travel. There are so many different places with their own visual story to tell. Here are just a few images of some of the places we´ve seen in the last couple of weeks.

- AC

7 Cascadas outside La Falda about an hour and a half from Córdova, Argentina. Quite resorty but a nice change from the concrete jungle.

The Cathedral on Buenos Aires in Córdova may still stand strong as a testament to history, but most of the people in the bustling modern metropolis don´t even slow down as they pass by for work, lunch or leisure.

Hippies outside the Cultural Center in Buenos Aires´Recoletta barrio play traditional music on traditional instruments on a Saturday afternoon.

The architecture in Buenos Aires often reflects many different styles, leaving buildings grand and unique, often colorful and imposing.

The food in Argentina may not be diverse, but it is hard to imagine better beef. Often served with a tapas style spattering of vegetables and paired with a nice local Malbec, the lomo is always good to the last bite.

Although I didn´t manage to find the tomb of Eva "Evita" Perón, el Cemetario Recoletta in Buenos Aires was a ghost world of history and tourism.

72 and counting

Like every kid with chicken pox, I decided this morning after my shower that I better count just how many bumps/blisters cover my adult body. I`m at 72 today. The worst is my face. I`ve got about 11 or so on my now-ugly mug. Enough to keep the perverted construction workers from whistling at me each time I walk by to get coffee or a water, though. Not necessarily a bad trade :) But the medicos promise me that if I don´t pick, the marks won`t be permanent. Let`s just say me and my vanity are crossing our fingers.

Of course I feel like kind of a freakshow for being one of the very, very few adults who get chicken pox for the second time. Seriously, as most of my friends would concur, I`m exactly the person this would happen to. Especially while travelling abroad.

But according to various Googled Web sites, ¨people cannot get chicken pox twice.¨ Again, only me.

Needless to say, it`s not the worst ailment I`ve ever been afflicted with. I remember it being much worse as a child. According to my adolescent memory, I was the first kid in Mrs. Schwartzman´s first-grade class to get the chicken pox. I think it`s the only sickness where you actually get to play with your friends. The moms of my classmates wanted us all to get the virus at the same time and get it over with, so we got to play together after school that day. But what followed could only be described as itchy hell. I vaguely remember my mom soaking me in a vat of calamine lotion followed by ice packs. I`ve definitely taken the route of calamine lotion this time around, too.

As it happens, that cold/cough that I couldn´t kick after leaving Buenos Aires was likely a precursor to my second bout with varicella. Turns out not only do a get a note to stay home from school - just like when I was kid - but now I`m taking herpes medicine. Or so I understand it in Spanish. Alex and I are planning to take this week off from language school and start right back up on Monday.

Assuming I look normal again, of course.

- JMH

Adventures in Health

Joanna smiles if only for a moment in the new hotel room, pineapple pizza in hand and face covered with calamine lotion at the safety of a less than deadly diagnosis. - AC

The word for mosquito bite in Spanish is picadura.

After hearing horror stories of malaria and bird sized South American bugs, we did our research before leaving the United States. Argentina, we were relieved to learn, does not pose a threat of malaria or even of exsessive insects, especially not in the middle or south of the country. The northern borders with Bolivia and Brazil can be dicey, but still not as dangerous as other places.

Both in Buenos Aires and now in Córdova, we haven´t seen an inordinate amount of bugs. Both of us got some picaduras in BA, but nothing out of the ordinary.

It didn´t raise suspicion when relatively normal looking picaduras started showing up on Joanna´s legs and hands. At first only a few, very itchy. But then, after a day and a half they seemed to multiply like an alien invader from a bad science fiction film.

Upon awaking Monday morning to find nearly 50 bites we became concerned. After four hours of class she had noticed half a dozen more. We asked the staff at school to please call a docter, which they had explained was no big deal.

The two who came were not doctors but paramedics, emergency responders. In a whirlwind of rapid Spanish and quick evaluation, the long haired one who constantly spat out wisecracks produced a needle while explaining in broken English that she was having an allergic reaction.

Joanna´s eyes instantly welled up and her body language screamed uncertainty. "Un momento, por favor," we asked them. We asked what the injection was - an antihistemine. We asked if it was necessary - no, but it would help. We asked if we could speak with our school administrator who could translate, to put the mind at ease and make sure we knew what was happening.

That´s when our needle toting medic got offended. He took the needle apart, practically throwing things back into his bag.

"Our time is precious," he told us.

It seemed that if we didn´t want to take his "treatment" on faith and trust his training, and ignore the fact that he hadn´t asked about other medications or anything besides allergies and that none of us were speaking our true trusted native tongue, then he would just go and we could suffer our fate alone.

Some four or five hours later, after having a pharmacist tell us we should consult a doctor and arriving at the public hospital to find the office of an alergist closed, taking a cab home defeated, recieving frightening advice from a family doctor at home and then concurrant advice from a doctoral student in our hostel, we found ourselves in the emergency room of the private hospital three blocks from our residence.

Lip quivering and eyes puffed and red from sporadic crying and fear, Joanna´s mind raced to her terrifying unexplained 10 day stay in a Venice hospital years earlier.

"I can´t do this again. I don´t get it, there´s more." It seemed every few minutes a new picadura would appear, unexplained and more itchy than the last.

The very nice doctor who saw us in the ER told her in broken English not to be scared, it wasn´t dangerous and looked like an allergic reaction, after consulting with her boss she settled on a shot, benedryl, a similar but intrevienous dose of what she had taken - to no avail - earlier. The doctor wrote a note in Spanish for the hospital´s Dermotologist to squeeze Jo into the schedule in the morning, and in the meantime the shot should help the itching and if there was a fever or swelling of the lips and/or tongue we should come back immediately.

Panic replaced sleep through the rest of the night in our small room at the noisy party happy hostel.

By 9:30 the next morning we were again staring at the tile floors in a steril, incandesently lit hospital waiting room among a crowd of quiet nervous looking people.

Finally Alejandro, the Dermatologist, called her name. Like all the others, he pronounced the A more firmly than the H in Hartman.

His calm demeanor and unhurried pace was a welcome change. He took his time, he looked into a book. His colleague came into the room for a medical device and Alejandro asked for a cosultation. They both examined, discussed and settled.

Smallpox.

Joanna´s eyes got wide. My brain raced, wasn´t that what killed the Native Americans?

Alejandro saw our concern. He consulted his book, he explained in Spanish, eventually we understood.

Joanna, somehow, has succeded in once again coming down with a rare illness. Something that might not be abnormal when rolling off the tongue, but for a traveler, for an adult, she is strange.
When we climb onto planes headed for exotic locations we pack antibiotics, immodium, we get innoculated for yellow fever, we bring malaria pills and pepto bismol. It is these things that are written up in the health section of the travel guide; watch for these syptoms, if this persists seek medical help. But we never prepare for the illogical, for the strange and extremely abnormal.

Somehow, my traveling partner has managed to become a statistic, one of a miniscule percentage of the population who twice in their life suffers through an illness we all get once.

But now she´s fine, she´s not scared anymore. Alejandro gave her some pills for the symptoms and we splurged for a comfortable hotel room with a private bathroom and all the American TV she can handle. A recovery center of sorts.

And beside picadura, we learned a new word.

In Spanish varicela means chicken pox.

- AC

The dollar is strong

Buenos Aires is said to be the most expensive city in the country, but right now the dollar has about three times the buying power as the peso.

Here are just a few things you can get for a nice price: Remember, US$1 = 3 pesos

- Roundtrip ticket from Baltimore, MD to Buenos Aires, Argentina = US$800
- 1 liter of local beer = 5 pesos
- 1 week of Spanish class and housing = 650 pesos
- Internet access for one hour = 1 peso
- (Relatively cheap) tango show = 40 pesos per person
- Cafe con leche = 4 pesos
- Steak = 5 to 35 pesos
- Beef empanada = 2 pesos
- One-way subway fare = less than 1 peso
- International stamps = 4 pesos each
- McDonald´s Meal Deal = 12 pesos
- All-you-can-eat Argentine buffet = 16 to 40 pesos
- Harry Potter book in español = 39 pesos
- Cheap men´s haircut = 7 pesos
- 2 tickets to B.A.´s "Broadway" production of La Joula de Los Locos (The Birdcage) = 120 pesos
- New heels and a little black dress = 145 pesos
- One-way overnight bus ticket to Cordoba (a 10 hour trip) = 100 pesos

Unfortunately the economy here is bad for the locals, but certainly a benefit to the traveler, particularly those with the dollar, Euro or pound.

- JMH

Election Time, Argentine Style

Normal, every day life on La Plaza Congreso is much like it is in any other urban plaza in cities throughout the world.

Children play fútbol during the afternoons. Lovers kiss on park benches into the night. Street people sleep in the grass, vendors peddle ice cream, business people walk briskly in all directions and traffic never ceases to buzz, honk and tear around the one way streets that surround the congressional plaza.

On the evening of October 28th, however, the traffic in La Plaza de los Dos Congresos was absent. No thundering buses to flatulate black smoke out onto the sidewalks. No honking taxis or impatient motorcycles zipping between lanes. People gently meandered down the middle of the streets without the usual automotive chaos.

It is not uncommon to pass large steel baracades when walking by the congressional building on the west end of the rectangular park. In fact, most government buildings in Buenos Aires are surrounded on all sides by large, cold, grated steel baracades.

But on this particular Sunday evening, the entire plaza was cordoned off. One block out on every single street stemming out from the plaza in each direction was a police baracade, made up either of the familiar cool blue mobile steel walls or just an officer next to his squad car. On the streets close to the congresional building itself, even pedestrians were not allowed through the gates.

"May I pass through?" I asked an officer at the gate in broken spanish.

"Where to?"

"To the café," I pointed up ahead, inside the baracade.

"No," he told me, with an ever so slight chuckle.

In the four days prior to the Sunday election day, I had seen two rallies in the Congresional plaza. They were animated, well attended and very, very lively. Neighbors had told me that the plaza was very popular for "parties."

The second rally of the week rolled into town two days before the election behind a large flatbed truck carrying an armada of drummers, flag wavers and what sounded like gun shots but proved only to be firecrackers. Later, in front of a chanting, flag waving, smoke bombing crowd the voice of Néstor Pitrola, one of 14 canidates in the Argentine presidential election, crackled out over the plaza via loudspeakers.

In the end, Pitrola and all other 12 canidates never had a chance. Cristina Kirchner, the wife of current Argentine President Néstor Kirchner, pretty much had things locked up from the getgo.

Described by many locals as the "best of the bad," the Kirchner regime pulled Argentina out of economic hell, and the former first lady wiped up in the wake of her husband´s popularity with a 43% victory.

But on election night, the cold blue steel baracades were nonetheless set in place at a three block radius around the congresional building. Aside from a few bullhorn toting soapboaxers or the occasional horn honking bicyclist, the plaza saw little action thanks to the police presence.

After being refused passage through the baracade by the police, I walked around the block trying to get to my favorite diner for some empanadas and pizza slices. Suddenly, as I watched people walk past the baracade it dawned on me why alcohol had been illegal since 10 p.m. the night before.

While local porteños say the police presence was "just a precaution," it brings to light the passion of the Argentine people. They tear seats out and destroy stadiums at fútbol matches, they rally hard for political causes - when they show up for a rally they often carry sticks. Political revolution is not too far in the past of this country, and some of their most infamous figures are revolutionaries.

If the Kirchner victory hadn´t been so well predicted who knows, maybe those cold, hard, steel baracades might have been tested.

- AC

PHOTOS: A dubious night sky backs the congressional building as a backdrop to a rally for Néstor Pitrola days before the election, top. Pitrola speaks to the press at the rally, middle. A police baracade one block from Plaza Congreso on election night, bottom. - AC

So far I´ve seen ...

Shown here, ¨Sergio¨paints a downtown scene in the streets of Buenos Aires --- with his feet.
- JMH


Been here in Buenos Aires for over one week now and I´ve had my fair share of interesting sights and sounds - some fabulous, some obnoxious and some just plain interesting.

So far I´ve seen ...

· Dogwalkers. The porteños (BA locals) love their dogs and pay a dogwalker to exercise them while they´re at work during the day. We frequently see a person walking between 5 and 12 perros through the busy, traffic-laden streets.
· Very little access for the disabled. At the post office a woman in a wheelchair posted up at the front door and a postal worker ran to and from the counter to help her send off her packages.
· T&A on every corner. The cover of men´s magazines here bare naked booties and plenty of breasts.
· Unrefrigerated mayo. Plus they put this terrible concoction of mayo and ketchup on everything from salads to sandwiches. They call is ¨Salsa golf¨and it, too, doesn´t grace the fridge.
· A giraffe in the foreground and high-rise apartment buildings in the background. The BA zoo is actually very well stocked with hippos, lions and bears - all within the confines of a densely packed metropolis.
· Plenty of well-dressed business men --- with mullets.
· Fruit stands selling two oranges for the equivalent of an American quarter, and incredible steak for less than US$6.
· The World Press Photo exhibit.
· That it is indeed possible to finish eating dinner after 1 a.m. before heading out to the clubs until sunrise.
· Hugs for free in a city of 9 million.
· Political rallies outside my front door, gunshots and all.
· A child barefoot and juggling in the streets at 3 a.m.
· That it´s a small world after all. In my Spanish class of six, the only American is from Sacramento and spent his summers working in Tahoe.
· A man painting a streetscape with his feet in the middle of the most crowded pedestrian and shopping street.

And by the way, language school is great.

- JMH

La Ciudad; Parte Dos

After nearly a week in Buenos Aires, I have some observations.

My first sentiments, already published on this site, that most large capital port cities are the same, still stands. With each passing day, BA becomes more familiar, and whether it be that familiarity or not, the city seems like any other bustling machine of commerce.

The city itself is easy enough to navigate, being divided up into fairly distinctive barrios, or neighborhoods, which all utilize a basic grid system of streets. Thus far, we have explored two barrios fairly extensively.

Palermo, our first home in the city, is by far the biggest in BA. The porteños describe it as full of parks and green spaces. While the city´s biggest park and expanses of neighboring parks does exist as the edge of Palermo, anyone from the United States, and from the West Coast in particular would dissagree. The park is small and on the weekend turns into a superhighway of runners, walkers, rollerbladers and bikers making laps around its parimeter.

But Palermo´s streets are lined with trees, its sidewalks are broad and its attitude is slightly more laid back than in El Centro. As in all of BA, some of Palermo´s streets are old cobblestone surfaces, leaving cars, busses and taxis to bounce along noisily passed the cafés, chic boutiques and businesses that make Palermo the "uptown" of BA.

Palermo also houses the Buenos Aires Zoo, which is pretty much like any other city zoo and surrounded by tall residential buildings. The animals here seem slightly smaller than other zoos, but patrons can buy a bucket of comida de animales for one peso and feed the inhabitants who often perform (beg) for the small nibblits of food, so malnutrition is not to blame for their size.

Just a 10 minute ride from Palermo on the Subte, which is usually packed but not exceptionally unpleasent for an underground train, lies El Centro, the heart of BA and center for commerce, business and daily activity.

El Centro is much different from Palermo or the other quieter more hip barrios of town. The sidewalks are narrow, the streets more heavy with traffic and the people more dense. Most constantly come or go from the many sky scraping fortresses of commerce, government buildings or residences at all hours of the day. Small motorcycles dart in and out of the rapid but not completely chaotic traffic and busses barrel and choke noisily through the streets 24 hours a day.

Our daily walk from Plaza de los Dos Congresos to the school is made up of 15 minutes dodging people on sidewalks and trying to make three of the consecutive four lights on Avenida 9 de julio - a monstrous four road conglomoration divided by swaths of lawn and sidewalk.

It is true, the porteños love dogs, and the canines seem to take on the same personality as the people, like any other large city dwellers their demeaner is indiferant but generally content.

While many travelers complain that BA is dirty, I find it to exceed my expectations of a South American port. It is by no means clean, but trash cans line the streets and sewage seems to stay out of sight. Although dog crap is abundant - no need for little plastic baggies here.

Overall, especially for its size the city is pleasant and the people friendly. But for a nature loving boy from the mountains, even after just less than a week, I can hear the peaks of the Andes beckoning me out of the concrete jungle that is BA.

- AC

PHOTO

The statue and Argentine flag at the end of Plaza de los Dos Congresos is sillhouted by a cloudy evening sky. - AC

Learning to learn

I´m going to admit what few people would - by nature, I´m a quitter.

I quit playing the viola in fifth grade because I wasn´t really that naturally talented nor did I appreciate the screeching sound of a poorly played instrument. In high school I quit running because, well, basically because I was a head-case. In Telluride I quit working at this one restaurant because I didn´t like the pressure of ´fine dining.´

Needless to say. I quit these things much later, and after much thought, than I originally felt the urge.

My inclination to do what´s easy was made pretty clear today as I sat to take a Spanish test in downtown Buenos Aires. Before starting Spanish lanugage school next Monday, Alex and I had to take a placement exam to determine which class level we would begin in.

At first, it was all laughs.

¨I don´t even know what subjunctive, preterite or imperfect verbs are in English,¨ I joked to Alex.

¨What´s the word for ´love´ again?¨ he asked in return.

¨Seriously, I don´t even know what this stupid test is asking. The directions are even in Spanish.¨ I was getting increasingly frustrated.

¨Whatever. I don´t even want to learn Spanish anyway,¨I said again, reiterating my irritation at feelings of stupidity.

Not true. I do indeed want to learn a foreign language. And I know it´s going to be difficult. I just didn´t imagine I´d get discouraged so easily. And really, I thought I knew more Spanish than I apparently do.

Dad told me after one of his pilgramages across Spain or France that knowing a second language is like having a second soul. That stuck with me and has served, in part, as inspiration to pursue travel abroad.

Needless to say, I haven´t done anything new or hard in a little while. Not like when I was in college and each semester I started something challenging and foreign. At least at first. And of course when I started at the newspaper I faced overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. So I should be perfectly suited to relate to those feelins all over again, right?. But I still don´t like them. No one does.

And no, I don´t actually plan on quitting. I just think about it. And maybe whine a little bit here and there. And so when Monday comes and I´m in a whole new classroom in a whole new part of the city with all new people, I know that if nothing else, I´m at least accountable to anyone who reads this blog. No matter what, I´ll return home knowing more about español, Argentina - and myself - than I did when I left.

JMH

La Ciudad

Setting foot on foreign soil is always unnerving, and after living as a country bumpkin for four years, so is arriving in a huge metropolis where green space, trees and even dirt is hard to find.

At first, the pollution in the air, the laneless chaotic freeway and frequent broken down cars allowed a feeling of regret to slide into my exhausted mind.

Joanna fell asleep during the hour long ride from the airport to our hostel in the center of the Palermo barrio on the Northwest side of the city. The solid 24 hours of air travel from Baltimore was weighing on both of us, but after our driver reached back and locked our doors as we ground into traffic on the freeway my heavy eyelids would not close.

When our arbitrarily picked hostel turned out to be booked up, we walked a few blocks to another, where despite heavy construction underway on the building, a clean room was available.

Shedding a heavy oversized bag that contains your life and makes you feel like a giant lumbering target in an unknown land is, literally, a weight off your shoulders. With our things in a safe place, we began to explore the barrio of Palermo in an attempt to stay awake, battle jet lag and get on a local schedule.

Walking through the tree lined streets past clothing shops, cafés and restaurants, each step seemed to boost confidence. The porteños - or people of this port city - are friendly, happy and comfortable.

After wandering aimlessly, mouths agape and eyes bleary with fatigue, we stumbled on a small park. The adjacent cross streets housed four lively cafés. A fountain flowed as the centerpiece of the park and people sat talking, reading or drinking maté around its edges.

We sat down among them and leaned against each other. People walked passed with dogs, children or alone. They all seemed in their own worlds, enjoying the warm spring air and last rays of evening sun. Sporadic pink blossoms sprouted from the otherwise bare branches of the trees.

Time became irrelevant, minutes could have been hours, or hours minutes, people came and went and we remained unnoticed, similar, just another couple enjoying the pleasant evening.

The life of the city transformed from a vast expanse of concrete into a vibrant flow of life, diversity and personality.

With every passing minute the life of the city becomes more familiar and more comfortable. It ceases to be a vast grimy machine.

It becomes beautiful, intricate and exciting. And for now, it is home.

AC

PHOTO
Alex looks out over the Palermo barrio of Buenos Aires from the sun deck of The Palermo House.
Photo by JMH.

Anxiety from the other half

While Alex packs, or attempts to pack, in a manic flurry, I am overtaken by something called The Common Cold. Never all that good of a patient, I'm not looking forward to starting the second leg of this journey with a foggy mind. Airborne after Airborne it is.

Plagued only partly by a sore throat, stuffy nose and tired eyes, it's really the panic-days-of-old that set in to genuinely freak me out. I've traveled before, a fair share even, so what's the big deal? Is it the yearlong buildup to the, quote-unquote, "Trip of a Lifetime?" Or is my breathing restricted and my stomach churning because my traveling companion happens to also be my life companion? Are memories of the Venice, Italy hospital stay flashing back? Did I save enough money?

Yeah, it's these bigger picture anxieties that consume me, soon masked by the superficialities of creating the cutest outfits to travel in. Avoidance, I think they call that.

But if I actually take a moment and breathe, the high stress and anxiety is my version of excitement. A whole new city, a new country. Adventures await, even overthe next 12 hours. Whatever I forgot to pack or brought "just in case" no longer matters. And now it's just a matter of taking it all as it comes. And savoring it.

JMH

Family time in Baltimore

Alex with his aunt Barbara and uncle Ron outside their Takoma Park, MD home.
Joanna with her paternal grandparents Bill and Ann Hartman at their place in Columbia, MD.

Adios

Sitting here in this strange but comfortable room, my head begins to spin and my eyes glaze over.

A seemingly random pile of various belongings clutter the floor in a half circle around me. Camera equipment, books, clothing, an array of medical supplies and snacks are strewn about the beige carpet.

Jo's soft steady breathing is a comfort, but my manic brain is envious of her slumber as it races to visualize how all the random piles around me will fit into my backpack, which appears smaller every time I look at it.

I have two piles of books, one is bigger than the other - a random collection of travel stories, a translation dictionary, sports novel and classic South American literature. The smaller pile only contains two options - an Argentine guide book and Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild.

I had started Krakauer's best seller previously, and while the tale of wilderness has little to do with my journey to "The Paris of South America," it was the title and the idea of leaving everything behind in search of the unknown that prompted me to make it a part of tomorrow's accessible carry on luggage.

As I prepare myself to board a plane bound for a new continent, my mind races with excitement and anticipation of the adventures and experiences that lie ahead.

But simultaneously, I can't help but feel a twinge of reminiscence creep into my head.

It was the last two weeks spent visiting with siblings, friends and loved ones that reminded me what we have here at home. It was the final phone calls to friends and family and the thank-yous for generous hospitality that brought the word home to the front of my mind.

Even for those of us seeking more - knowledge, experience, vision, vocabulary - who constantly crave the sight, sound and taste of what's out there and to live what others flip channels to find, home is always the same.

It is comfort. It is safety. It is warmth.

But most of all, it is love.

And in the end we know, home is that much sweeter after a long journey in a strange land.

- AC

One Day at the Manisses

Often times, traveling tends to center around food.

Days are often spent idling along in limbo between meals. Because of this, going to a place with cuisine connections often make that place all the more enjoyable.

So as we rode along through the mist and choppy water off Rhode Island on our way out to Block Island I knew we would eat one or two pretty good meals.

After all, I was traveling with the little sister of a chef at one of the finer restaurants on the Island.

While I did not know it yet, the Manisses - a lodging and dining staple - was one of, if not the only, place still open in October that offered fine dining.

The fresh seafood and monstrous fish and chips were good, but expertly prepared dishes of imaginative varieties would be few and far between.

Brian Hartman, the brother of my beautiful travel companion, is the sous chef at the Manisses, and the day after he cooked us up an unbelievably delicious rosemary and bacon meatloaf with mashed potatoes in the kitchen of his girlfriend's home, Brian invited us into his restaurant for a little dinner party.

There were six of us friends and family of the chef, and with an almost deadly quiet dining room, Brian had been preparing.

As our server took a cocktail order, we had no idea that the four course blur of hedonistic ingestion that would follow would mirror an entire day - all in one sitting.

We started with a waffle under braised pork and topped with a poached quail egg.

Mimosas were served alongside the "breakfast."

After that, a course of caprese brioche was brought out - of which the variety has been lost in the sweet ginger-infused Bombay Sapphire and tonics that separated courses for me.

The "lunch" pairing of Pinot Grigio didn't help my memory, but it helped my taste buds, that much I can recall.

For our respective "dinners" we each chose an entree from the menu.

My venison was cooked to perfection.

For desert, served along with a round of espresso martinis - or Flatliners - a dessert boat with dingy in tow was placed along the length of the table with samplings of sweet confections from the frozen to the chocolatey.

While we were expected to go with our all-too-generous chef to one of Block Island's two dozen watering holes after dinner - the six of us retired home, comatose and drunk, to dream of heavenly tastes swimming across out tongues.

- AC

The island with a new pond for every day of the year

Block Island, Rhode Island:

- Eight miles off the south coast of Rhode Island

- A total area of less than 10 square miles

- 365 freshwater ponds

- Barely 1,000 year-round residents (which they determine with a Groundhog Day tradition)

- But more than 25 places to get a drink ...

It seems I return to this tear drop-shaped oasis every two or so years. I first spent the summer of my freshman year of college working as a waitress at the popular restaurant The Oar. I followed my brother and his then-girlfriend Tara in an effort to bond with my big brother. That was the summer my mom died, so this place has since held a particularly special place in my heart.

I then came back in 2003 to earn some extra cash after getting sick while studying abroad. I returned in '05 to visit for Lauren Von Bernuth's 24th birthday and again this fall to visit Bri and show Alex a piece of my past.

It's a different experience each time around, previously marked by excessive teenage drinking which now revolves less around the bars and more around old friends. With less than 1,000 year-round residents, it's like school is out here because most island businesses have officially closed. Really, you have to check and double-check the hours of operation even at the Block Island Grocery store before knowing whether or not you could go hungry for the night. It makes Tahoe City look like it's got serious nightlife.

Since it's offseason here, locals are drinking Mudslides rather than serving tourists the vodka milkshake. So "when in Rome," that's how we started our island vacation - with a 'slide at The Oar.

The weather hasn't been great - windy, chilly and a little bit wet - but the company, per usual, has been great. Meg and Roscoe, friends from Telluride, Colo. (and UPS) are also out for the week. Chefs B-Love and Roscoe cooked up a meatloaf one night, followed by another overindulgent dinner at The Manisses where brother Brian works as the sous chef. We managed to squeeze a four-course meal - or "breakfast, lunch, dinner and a midnight snack," as Bri called it - into just a few hours, with perfect drink pairings, of course.

He's off to work doubles for the weeked, so it's vaca style for the rest of us - sleep, eat, drink, repeat ...

We're off to Baltimore to visit the Hartman's tomorrow, then fly out to Buenos Aires from Maryland on Oct. 16.

JMH