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.

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.