Mi Ciudad, Mi Corazon

It's been three days now since the wheels of that plane screeched down on U.S. soil. I've had two nights of solid sleep. But when I wake up, for those one or two minutes that exist between dreams and reality, I still think I hear the sounds of traffic, the honking of cars and the screaming of unmuffled motorscooters. As the space that seperates dreams from reality begins to fade away and simply become reality, the sounds of Buenos Aires drift away with it.

I step outside into the bitingly cold morning mountain air. Piles and drifts of snow blanket the ground in white under the tall snow laden trees. Everything is quiet, peacefull, nothing seems to be moving. It is early but not too early, the neighborhood is made up of houses spaced comfortably apart, it seems to be sleeping. I look down at the snow, soft cold and pure. In its solid whiteness I can picture the small tiles of the Buenos Aires sidewalks. My eyes close and the tiles spread out in front of me down the street. Tall buildings replace the trees around me. The snowdrifts become kiosks and small shops. The silence becomes a hum of activity, buses accelerating, horns of cars and the constant chatter of portenos talking while they walk from place to place. The cold clear smell of winter is replaced by exhaust, humidity and grit.

When I open my eyes the hum of city life is replaced by the purity and nature of the mountains. The city fades away again. To my surprise, I am dissapointed. I want it back. I close my eyes again and try to see the small tiles of the Buenos Aires sidewalks, they are there. I try to smell the city but it does not come, only cold clear mountain air passes through my nostrils. I try to hear the buzz of traffic but I cannot, only the soft silence of snow. I allow the silence and clear air to take me back further, to the begining when I first saw Buenos Aires. It was so big, so noisy and fast. Nothing ever stopped or slowed down. I felt lost, like I was in a place I did not belong. I left the city as soon as a could. After three months away, I returned to the capital. It was different, more comfortable, the ebb and flow of life seemed familiar to me and the people were not so foreign. It was romantic.

Now, standing in the cold crisp morning air, the snow around me soaking up all sound and smell a familiar feeling comes back to me. I realize I am a changed man. The sights, sounds and smells of the city rush through my mind one more time in a torrent of sensual memory and then are gone. As I stare into the snow covered forest I long for those things. I long to feel the uneven tiled sidewalks beneath my feet. That familiar feeling comes back to me again, it is familiar but it feels slightly different. I know I am home, but just like when I arrived in the capital, I feel lost, like I am in a place I do not belong.

- AC

Alex and Joanna have returned to the United States. They were away from home for four months and would like to thank everyone who read this blog for taking an interest in their adventures.

El Partido Grande

The stadium in Mar del Plata was full to capacity, luckily, our side won. ¡Viva La Boca! - AC

As roughly 15,000 hands waved forward and backward in unison along with a perfectly harmonious chant in a sea of blue and gold speckled with giant waving flags small bumps began to rise on the back of my neck. On the other side of the stadium, a similar sea of passion was brewing, only its waters where red and white. Running through the middle of the concrete stands between the two factions was an empty row of seats boardered on each side by police wearing bright orange vests over full riot gear - shielded helmets, body armor with leg and arm extensions, bulletproof vests, plexiglass torso length shields, battons and guns. In the middle of this torrent of passion and seperated from the madness by a nuclear green moat was a brilliantly manicured and lined soccer field. On it was the game thought by many in the world to be the most fiersome athletic rivalry in existance. Despite the fact that during the middle of summer, the teams were meeting for a friendly exhibition match, the air in the stands was anything but friendly.

Boca Juniors vs. River Plate is a game that inspires warnings in most Argentina guidebooks. Every couple of years CNN or ESPN shows footage of rabid fans screaming and tearing apart stadiums or brawling with cops, the footnote on the screen usually reads, "Buenos Aires, Argentina." Up there with Celtic vs. Rangers in Scotland and Arsenal vs. Manchester United in England, the Boca - River game is the South American match to see. It´s your typical rival; working class favorite Boca Juniors from the capital´s ghetto port of La Boca against River Plate from the other side of Buenos Aires in the rich neighborhood of Belgrano. Argentines say it´s dangerous and as a Yankee whiteboy walking in a crowd of similar looking blokes speaking english, I was on edge.

As an off-season exhibition, the game was played in Mar del Plata, a very popular beach town six hours south of Buenos Aires. On a Saturday the entire capital empties out and migrates here transforming the light warm sand into a sea of wrigling brown bodies tanning and standing in the waves. On this particular Saturday things were not much different. The beach was teaming with porteños and rumors spread of fighting down the beach, where both Boca and River hooligans had been let off tour busses.

Most people from Buenos Aires support the working class Boca Jrs., who in the late 70s and early 80s were the team of Diego Maradona, one of the sport´s biggest and best names and still a god throughout Argentina today. As we walked into the stadium it was a relief to learn we would be standing on the Boca side. While Boca was favored as usual, the thought of River going ahead was a frightening one. Visions of CNN and ESPN flashed through my mind, rabid Argentines tearing the limbs off a gringo and devouring it raw.

So when the boys in blue put their first goal in the back of the River Plate net, I went as crazy as the rest of the Boca side. Fists went in the air, grown men hugged and the noise was deafening. When Boca scored its second goal, the side went just as crazy, and ten minutes later the River Plate end could be seen behind the opposite goal rioting, causing a giant hole in the crowd left by panicked running civilians. The sea of blue and gold only laughed and chanted louder, taunting their losing enemy with song.

Despite the good mood of the winning side´s fans, when the match ended the army of police opened up only one side of the stadium to let out the River Plate fans first. As a helicopter overhead monitored movement and cops on the ground encouraged the losers to disperce, we waited until the River masses had made it 20 blocks from the stadium and then the police opened up the other side to release us into the Mar del Plata night and walk to our bus.

Even with the 12 hour round trip bus ride and rather cold maritime winds, the game was all it had been cracked up to be. I sang, I jumped, I beat my fist in the air and along with the man next to me I even managed to hollar out puta at a River Plate player once or twice. But most importantly, my side won and I lived to tell the tale.

- AC

Relaje en Uruguay

Colonia, Uruguay - Here I am, all jazzed to be "driving" for the first time in over four months. Yeah, it´s only a dune buggy, and it probably had the motor of a lawn mower, but a great means to explore the little town of Colonia del Sacramento in Uruguay.

So let´s face it, it´s the end of my trip, and I´ve grown a little weary of being a "slave" to the computer (just wait until how I fell when I get an actual job again!) so let´s keep this short and sweet. And if I know most of you, it´s the pictures you´re all more interested in anyway.

Punta del Este, Uruguay, was the most recent spot of our bechside relaxation. The resort boasts soft, warm sand and your choice of either calm waters or surf on two sides of the small peninsula.

We´d been warned both my travel guidebooks and fellow tourists at the St. Tropez-meets-Miami Beach, upscale feel of this uber-wealthy resort town --- and it lived up to its reputation. In my humble opinion, a perfect punctuation to several months of wet, humid air or bitingly cold winds. Our skin, however, is still complaining about the splotchy bits of red our SPF 40 failed to protect.

And now it´s back in Buenos Aires, where we wait with baited breath for our 3 p.m. check-in to the the five-star city hotel, the Pan Americano. We intend to immediately disrobe, and then re-robe, so to speak, in the hotel granted whites before hitting the famous terrace level pool with a famous view of all the downtown action. And we´re milking the place for every penny, so we will not emerge until precisely noon on Tuesday when they kick us out screaming before making our way to the international airport for the long journey home.

It´s been a trip, to say the least, and one that I´m glad we had/made the opportunity for. If you ever find yourself headed to this part of the world, hit us up for our favorites - helado (ice cream), carne empanadas, licuados and pinguinos among just a few.

-JMH

The stone hands that draw not just sunbathing tourists to the beach on the Atlantic side of Punta del Este.

Alex lubes up with that SPF 40 - note that he´s now wearing a hat and t-shirt to further aggravate the ever-darkening pink hue.

Complete Circle

Photos: The journey started out in Buenos Aires during election time. Christina Kirchner was elected, above. From there it took us through most of the country, up to the more indegenous Salta (photo by JMH), across the Straight of Magellan, through the vineyards of Mendoza and under the pink flamingos of Patagonia in El Calafaté, below top to bottom.

Three days ago, the circle was completed. January 17th, exactly three months after we landed in Buenos Aires for the first time, we were again wandering down Avenida Santa Fe gazing into the endless shops and cafés. This time, the city looked different. It was not as overwhelming, the language wasn´t as foriegn and the city itself seemed more romantic as we strolled, more at ease with our surroundings.

We had good reason to stroll, hand in hand without care. In the three months since we had last been in El Capital, we had seen nearly the entirety of Argentina and some of Chile. We had been north to Salta and Humhuaca, mere kilometers from the Bolivian boarder. We had been west along the Andes - through the vineyards of Mendoza and along the lakes of Bariloche. We had been south to the glaciars of El Calafaté and the mountains of El Chaltén. We saw a flock of pink flamingos take flight. We had been through the Patagonian grasslands and across the Straight of Magellan and the barren plains of Tierra del Fuego to El fin del mundo and Ushuaia. We had seen the penguinos in Puerto Madryn and we had mingled with locals in the heartland of Córdoba. We had taken the trip through the Andes, passed Acongagua, the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere, to Santiago, Chile and swam in the Pacific Ocean. We had tasted beef, lamb and Malbec until we grew tired of it. The circle had taken us counter clockwise around the country, with a couple of detouring time changes. We had had some adventures and we had relaxed. And now, with just over a week left in the trip, we have completed the circle.

Even with such a grand circle coming to a close, the journey is still not over. We´re off for a week at the beaches of Uruguay tomorrow. When we get back it´s down the coast to Mar del Plata for a Boca Juniors / River Plate game and then we close it all out with a night in the luxurious Pan Americano for some last minute photos of Avenida 9 de Julio at night and a celebration before making the long flight back home.

- AC

The End of the World

Photos: Above, Ushuaia borders the bay far below one of many mountain valleys towering above. Below, the marina at Ushuaia lays in the flat water below the mountains, cobblestone streets make up the town with mountains towering above, and at bottom the sun rises over the town. - AC

After nearly 15 hours on a bus, which crossed through desolate Patagonian pampas, over the Straight of Magellan via ferry and bumped along gravel roads through Chilean Tierra del Fuego, the road begins to rise up into magestic mountains. It winds it´s way up the walls of valleys far above blue lakes. The bland brown shrubs and yellow grasses which grow short and tough next to the ground throughout Patagonia begin to give way to stands trees and forest. Misty clouds cling to the sides of the mountains, trapping the peaks in a fog with no visible limit. The view is majestic, mysterious and dramatic. Snow still clings to the mountains despite the winter months. Looking up at the grey mist and the black ridges and peaks, it seems obvious even without knowing the destination that beyond those mountains the world will end.

Descending down again out of the mountains the forest completely takes over. The tough stout shrubs of Patagonia and short yellow grasses of Tierra del Fuego drop into memory and the forest makes clear the harshness of this boarder. Trees grow together in tight forest clumps, clinging together against the weather. Entire stands of trees lay on the ground, seemingly laid out by immesureable winds. Inside the forest clumps branches and trunks litter the floor with wood, victim to the wind. The mist remains, but now the sun succedes in shining through, casting a golden glow over the harsh landscape.

As the bus rounds a corner, a vast blue bay stretches out like a giant aquatic valley surrounded by tall jagged peaks of rock. The bay stretches out towards the southeast, dotted with islands. Tucked into the corner of the bay, safe and sheltered into crags and valleys at the feet of the mountians is a small town. Small streets lined with modest homes amongst beautiful gardens of different colored lupine. Connecting the town to the bay is a port with large cruise ships carrying passengers through the Beagle Canal from the Straight of Magellan and the vast islands of southern Chile or Antarctica as well as freight ships carrying supplies for the region. The bay stretches away from the town towards the ocean, and at the far end of bay, when it´s waters meet the Atlantic, the world ends.

Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world. It is located at about 55 degrees south and is the capital of Tierra del Fuego as well as being the major port for Antarctic tourism and shipping. In the summer, it recieves 18 hours of daylight and in the winter less than 7. It is never warm, but in the summer the 18 degree celcius is ideal for hiking among the mountains that overlook the city and the bay.

It is quite possibly the most beautiful city in Argentina. While the diversity and vastness of the country has much to offer, the mountains, Ushuia Bay and the breathtaking majesty of the city are incredible. Despite it´s asthetic appeal, it´s status as the tip of the world and the closest thing to Antartica make it that much more magical.

- AC

Iceberg, straight ahead!

A tourist boat cruises by the Perito Moreno Glacier, offering persepctive to the enormity of the flowing frozen river. - AC

Driving into Los Glaciares National Park in southern Patagonia, the landscape is a strange mix of Nevadan desert, Colorado peaks and Alaskan ice fields.

Once inside the park people are bundled in windbreakers, tightly tied around their heads. And while the air temperature is not all that cold, the gusts can chill you, or at least me, right to the bone. But everyone is smiling, snapping photos of the Perito Moreno Glaciar - one of the largest attractions in Patagonia.

As impressed as Alex his parents, Paul and Chris, and I were with the first, long-distance viewpoint, we had no idea the splendor we were in for.

The glacier is fed by the southern Patagonia ice field, the third largest in the world after Antarctica and Greenland. And this particular glacier - amazing not only for its size and access - is one of just a few that are not retreating.

The ice field looks like just that - a field. It`s not flat, smooth and one-dimensional like when Donner Lake freezes over, but goes for miles and miles with icy blue crags that jut into the sky. And if you stay real quiet, you can hear the glacier speak - it creaks and cracks until finally the heat of the sun`s rays or the pressure from the flowing ice-river pushes forward and huge chunks come crashing into the lake below.

And the thing is gigantic. The glacier face itself is 60 meters high, about that of a 15-story building. One guidebook says you can literally fit the city of Buenos Aires on it.

We were lucky enough to catch both pictures and video when a VW bus-sized ice chunk tore off from the glacier - a noise like that of a crumbling building. And we were so impressed with our first trip to the glacier that we made a second a few days later, and even after hours of waiting for another spectacle, found we were fortunate on our first viewing. We tried uploading the video, but it will have to wait for more up-to-date technology or someone who knows how to do it. For now, enjoy Alex`s still-shot of the shedding iceberg.

- JMH

Alex catches on the film the glacier as it sheds part of its front face. It sounds like an office building crumbling to the ground. - AC

Penguins and Guanacos oh my...

After endles hours of driving through flat brown sagebrush on the Patagonian Stepp, you come to the Atlantic ocean. From curious little penguinos to native guanacos, which are kind of like a cross between a deer and a llama, sea lions - or lobos marinos as the locals call them, and elephant seals, there´s plenty to see... and sometime play with.

Magellanic Penguins at Punta Loma on the Argentine Atlantic coast live in droves under sagebrush. Their unafraid and curious.

Guanacos, they´re pretty fast and kind of wierd.

Joanna dances the penguin with her little friend.

- AC

Fast Times at 2,000 meters High

This here is a psychological experiment of the blogging variety. Following is the account of the same experience, by one male and by one female, and their different interpretations of the events ...

- AC says

As the speedometer flirted with 150 kilomoters an hour and the tires managed to keep from squeeling around the curves of the mountain road - most likely because of the rain - Tito reached up to the dash and shoved another cracker into his mouth. He had missed lunch, and between checking his cell phone, sipping his Diet Coke and munching away he was shifting gears on the van, pushing it´s less than performance abilities to their limits.

Despite most Argentine bus employees´ disbelief, we had not watched any TV or read any newspapers in Bariloche. In the middle of one of the prettiest places on the planet why would we? Penance for falling of the grid, however, was that we had failed to realize the country was recognizing a time change, one hour ahead.

Of course, we had managed to book bus tickets, reserve a room in our next destination and even sketch out our plans after that. The first leg of our journey from Bariloche to Puerto Madryn, a four-plus hour bus to Esquel, had left on time - an hour earlier.

There were no later buses, no buses would run the next day - New Years Eve, and the hotels in Bariloche were booked with party animals for the holiday. We were left with a solitary option.

We paid Tito, the five-o´clock-shadowed "driver" 300 pesos to drive us the 300 kilometers of two lane winding mountain roads from Bariloche to Esquel to catch our overnight leg which would leave in less than three hours.

For the next two hours and 45 minutes I tried to pretend I was enjoying some of what I think was the prettiest country I have ever seen while simultaneously attempting to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest or my arms from going numb as my fists soaked up all the blood clenching the door handle.

As we emptied out of the mountains into the bigger more open valleys around Esquel Tito was able to really make the engine whine and I relized we were probably going to live after all. My hands loosened up, I had managed to leave the handle intact.

Half an hour later we pulled into the bus stop, 15 minutes early. I shook Tito´s hand and happily paid him his money. Maybe it was too much, but until the moment we pulled into the terminal I never thought we´d make it.


- JMH says

Apparently they have time changes in Argentina, too. Not anything as fancy as "Spring-forward-Fall-back," but someone with power decided tp push to hour ahead by one this year at midnight on Dec. 29. Unfortunately, this person forgot to tell us.

Being the Germanic, puntual travelers we are, Alex and I arrived at the Bariloche bus station about 45 minutes before our scheduled 6 p.m. departure to Puerto Madryn. As the hour drew nearer and nearer, I watched other bus companies come and go, with no sign of ours. I inquired at 6:05 at the ticket booth, digesting the "se fue" response with confusion and then anger. Much to our dismay, the bus had left at its scheduled time, which was an hour before our watches read.

I informed Alex of our error and proceeded to throw the tantrum that`s become my emotional signature - no longer cute at age 25. We weigh our options, and being that it`s nearly New Year`s and everything in Bariloche is already booked and we have reservations in Puerto Madryn, we opt for the $350 peso car ride with a driver I will henceforth refer to as Señor. He told us his name, but in my cries of passenger terror all I could mutter was "Aye Señor." Needless to say, Argentines, as well as most of the rest of the world, drive like maniacs.

I`ve since adapted to the eight minute taxi rides, assuring myself that any accident in the city center would more likely produce a pedestrian or cyclist casualty. But I had no such assurance on this 350 kilometer "3 hour" mountain drive to catch the second leg of our bus ride.

As Señor took the serious curves at over 100 km/hour - irregardless of the "60 km maximum velocidad" signs - I white-knuckled my lap-only seatbelt relseasing my vice-like grip only to grasp the seat in front of me and twist my face into a wrinkly ball of fear. Meanwhile, Señor casually types text messages into his phone, plays with the radio, snacks on crackers and fails to wear his own seatbelt, the safer kind that actually goes over the shoulders. Plus, it`s begun to rain.

My anxiety is palpable, and I remind myself that if there is a god, he/she won`t let me die in a head on collision in Argentina with a man I know only as Señor. I`m thinking that maybe we should nix the whole bus ride thing and hole up with the elves in El Bolson, a town less than 25 km. away. And then I see a road mileage sign. I do some quick math and determine that we need to keep at an average speed of 107 km/hour to catch the 10:30 p.m. bus with no time to spare. That can`t be possible. Or so I think.

The road sign throws me to the wolves and I speak up.

"Are there places to stay in El Bolson?" I ask as though I`m actually interested in the detour. "How close is it to here?" I follow up.

Yes and close are his answers, followed by, "¿Por que?"

I tell him that we`re taking the corners too fast, not staying in our own lane, making blind passes and that the oncoming headlights in my same lane is too much to bare. In a nutshell, "Tengo miedo."

He smiles and tells me he makes this drive three times each week, and when he`s alone he does it in two hours and 10 minutes.

I tell him I don`t want to die. He laughs and says that he doesn`t either.

"Why don`t you wear your damned seatbelt then." But I only think this. I don`t want to be rude to the man who has my life in his hands after all.

So I pull out my pen and notebook to write, realizing it`s easier to whiz be kilometer after kilometer with my head down. Plus, no one likes a backseat driver, especiallt this one.

Needless to say, we caught our ride with time to spare. And I even gave Señor a smile and a kiss when he dropped us safely and in one piece at the bus door.