The Five Seasons of Patagonia

There are five seasons in Patagonia, without a doubt. You learn that the moment you step foot down the street in El Calafate. There is Summer, then Fall, which is followed by Winter, which is surprisingly followed by Spring, but then you have Wind. More wind than you know what to do with. So much wind that any wind energy company would make an absolute fortune out in La Pampa for 1 month out of the year, if they can work their way around Argentine bureaucracy - which is no small task. So much wind that running down the street would keep you competitive with molasses coming out of a jar. It literally blows you over. And people still wonder why no one lives in the great plains of Patagonia. The fact that there is absolutely nothing there (a solitary bush constitutes the highest point of elevation) until you hit the mountains becomes obvious.

Our welcoming committee at the airport was a short rotund anarchist who runs some questionable business practices within the city. It was a non-stop discussion on the way to the hostel of the corruption and monopolization by a few families who essentially run everything within and surrounding the city limits. I half-expected to hear how the world was going to end and which was the most popular conspiracy theory of the day, but we made it to the hostel before we could all learn how the calafate berry isn't actually a berry but a genetically modified fruit straight out of 'Brave New World'.

Our taxi driver, we found out, actually works at the hostel, so that wasn't the last we saw of him. We were met by our welcoming hippie hostel hosts at the door who looked like they could be on the receiving end of said shady business deals. But they were incredibly nice and knowledgeable, and probably one of the best hostel staffs I've had.

The next day we had big plans to see the Perito Moreno glacier, El Calafate's claim to fame. It's about 80km outside of the city, so naturally one has to take a bus. We bought our tickets through the hostel, and wandered down to the bus station. There had been some confusion about when the bus was actually leaving - the ticket had at least two different times on it and two different hostel workers gave us two more departure times, so it's safe to say we knew exactly when this bus was leaving. We wound up missing the bus by just a few minutes, of course. So here we were in two taxis caravaning and beating the speed limit by an easy 30km/hr rocketing down a highway in the middle of nowhere trying to catch up, but no bus was in sight. I guess that's one way to see the countryside. I think the taxi drivers had fun a) racketing up a huge fare and b) going 100+km/hr down the road in what seemed like a reject-Ford with below-legal safety standards. We wound up spending the rest of our afternoon walking through a bird reserve chasing seagulls.

The next day we got up early and got to the bus station with plenty of time to spare. We got on the bus. No Dakar Rally-style catch-up today. As soon as the glacier popped out from behind a mountainside, I knew it was one of the most impressive geological features I'd ever seen. It's a 60-meter-high (180ft) block of ice that covers 270 square kilometers - with another 180 meters of depth below the water surface - stretching up the valley and beyond where the eye can see. We spent the day walking along the convenient boardwalk taking it all in. This glacier, Perito Moreno, is special in that it is one of the only stable glaciers in the world. By that I mean enough is being created to cancel out that which falls off. We took a boat ride that brought us within a few hundred feet - it's pretty awe-inspiring. It's positioned in such a way that it bisects a lake by making contact with a peninsula. Every few years, as the water works its erosive magic in order to keep both parts of the lake connected, a huge arch is formed that eventually collapses. It's apparently quite the show. Occasionally some huge chunks would fall off (although nothing compared to the massive arch), and it sounded like the HMS Surprise had just been given the order to fire by Captain Aubrey. It was loud. Half the time we'd hear it, then snap our heads around to see it, but of course the ice had already fallen. That didn't stop us from whipping our head around every time we heard something and every time not seeing anything, except a mini-tsunami from where the ice fell into the lake. You'd think we would learn. 'Ah man that was awesome!' 'Did you see anything?' 'No!'

After a day of looking at ice, we hitched it on back to El Calafate as the temperature started to drop. As soon as we got to the bus station, it was a quick turnaround before jumping on another bus to our next destination: El Chalten. I read somewhere that El Chalten has one ATM, and it works maybe a quarter of the time. So naturally I thought I should bring all the cash I would need from El Calafate, and of course I told myself I'd get it in between our two buses when we would have a 15-20min break. Logical, right? The one factor that I was forgetting was that I was in Argentina. The bank had a line out the door. So here I am impatiently waiting thinking of every Spanish swearword I know, and the people in front of me are literally using about 5 different cards to take out cash. I eventually bailed and decided to put all of my eggs in a basket that dispenses money 90 days a year. In a town of 300, debit cards might not work so well, so here I was thinking I had some serious issues. Digging snow caves and licking plates clean for money suddenly came to the forefront of my mind.

And the wind. That howling, cold, biting wind. 5 debit cards? Really?

El Fin Del Mundo

(The following posts are from my final travels, a 3 week circuit of southern Patagonia, during the first three weeks of December)

Ushuaia, Argentina. Arguably the most southernly inhabited settlement in the world. The Chileans would take issue with that, with their town called Puerto Williams across the channel, but what else is new? I feel like it's a rivalry between all countries on this continent. Chi chi chi, le le le!

After 1 hour of sleep the night before - you have to love these Buenos Aires nights - I stumbled to the airport to catch my flight to Ushuaia. Getting on an airplane in this country is never a straightforward experience, and it seems as if you can't complete a flight without being delayed during some point of your journey. But hey, we got here without any problems. Not that I remember the flight - I slept through the peanuts and everything. We reached Ushuaia uneventfully to be met with a coastal settlement nestled up against some touring peaks under a cloudless "ceiling" (the flight captain searched for the english word for cielo, which means sky, and came up with ceiling - close enough). After spending the last few weeks in the blistering heat of the rio de la plata, stepping off the plane to temperatures in the 30s was a bit of a shocker.

The town itself acts as a jumping off point for all expeditions to Antartica. The main pier is lined with big supply ships and tourist cruisers. Somehow dining on white table-cloths and sleeping in king sized beds while going to one of the most remote parts of the world doesn't really work in my mind. But if I were to drop a few grand, the cost of these tourist trips to Antartica, like the rest of the passengers on my plane down, I'd want golden goblets filled with the best of malbecs.

The afternoon saw us cruising the Beagle Channel in a small yacht, taking in the wildlife populating the rock mounds littering the channel. Sea lions competed with Patagonian seagulls for a piece of rock to take a nap on. Our pilot would take us to within inches of the rock, making me wonder if we were trying to find a rock to take a nap with them. It turned out to be a fantastic ride - after telling us that spending any more than a few minutes in the water would give us hypothermia, our guide suggested we walk on up to the front and sit in near-freezing water spray and enjoy the view from the front. We eventually made it to the symbolic lighthouse that marked 'el fin del mundo,' and all our guide could say was 'welcome to the ass of the world.' Indeed welcome, amigo.

Word on the one street in town was that the glacier up the hill (read: mountain) was pretty spectacular, so we headed up to check it out. The trip turned out to be a failure, with us finding ourselves in the middle of a whiteout following a river that had a very thin layer of ice on top just waiting to shoot us down the mountain in some of that hypothermic water. We decided to turn around before we turned into the next lost party of unprepared guys who thought they knew what they were doing but got spanked by Mother Nature. We kept things a little tame for the afternoon by wandering the halls of the Shawshank of Argentina hearing ghost stories of the first prisoners. Dufrane! I couldn't help but think of Port Arthur as we walked the dark, cold, cell-lined hallways. Anyone up for a light afternoon tourist activity?

Our final day in Ushuaia saw us going on our first true hike in Patagonia. All that hype you hear from people about hiking in Patagonia, they don't know what they're talking about. It's more than what words can describe. That's assuming you have good weather. If you don't, I can think of a lot of words that can be said that better not be posted here. But we lucked out with the weather gods - they probably took pity on us from our whiteout windstorm the day before - and found ourselves wandering along a coastal trail in the Tierra del Fuego National Park with absolutely spectacular, albeit somewhat chilly, weather. We gingerly moved past an extremely protective herd of wild horses as we made our way to the shores of the bay. From there, it was a four hour hike of non-stop magnificent vistas. Water as blue as Thailand but cold as water can be, quiet green forests dense with brush and trees, hawks and condors circling up above just waiting for a rabbit to be stupid enough to run out into the open, beaches littered with skipping rocks and tall snow-capped andean peaks keeping constant watch from across the bay - truly a hiker's paradise. That's when I don't mention the wind, but let's just return to the utopia I just mentioned. In all seriousness, it is probably one of my favorite hikes I've ever done.

Unfortunately our time ended in Ushuaia following that hike. But on to the next adventure of this Patagonian expedition - El Calafate, home of the Perito Moreno glacier. And what better way to call it quits to Ushuaia? Spend three hours waiting in the airport because our flight was delayed.

Toes in the Water

Well it looks like Argentina has rubbed off on the United States, from what I hear. The protests about the new security measures at airports rings of a manifestación Buenos Aires-style. Take that, TSA. I don’t think there is a word for big body scanner in porteño Spanish- I walked through the metal detector with half a spaceship in my pocket and I got a big smile and a ‘have a nice trip’. I could have been smuggling raw Argentine beef and all I would have got was a ‘what kind of cut?’ question thrown my way. Add that to my immigration officer who found it more efficient to be texting while stamping a friend’s passport as I waited next in line, and you’ve got a water-tight system. Officer Juan then got up to fill up his water bottle and continue texting, leaving about 10 of us stranded there in line as we watched him successfully not fill up his bottle and just stand feet away from his desk staring at his phone. Power trip 101.

Our ferry captain seemed to think that going faster than a sloth eating a banana is against the law, so our trip that could have taken about an hour wound up taking 3. I spent the hours crossing the Rio de la Plata on the top deck catching up with friends and not feeling sorry for everyone dealing with sub-50 degree temperatures back north. Once there, as we walked up the tree-lined driveway to Mario’s place on the outskirts of town, the semester-long debate over Mario’s source of income resurfaced. Phantom multi-national corporation? Smuggling business? Secret President of Argentina? His house in Colonia doubles as a bed and breakfast, but I would really call it a private estate. It has a lemon orchard, pool, pond, mansion of a house, and enough land on which to build the Field of Dreams.

We had a Thanksgiving southern hemisphere-style, with turkey and yams mixed with fruit, hummus, pumpkin spread and cranberry sauce on steroids in 90-degree heat. Someone had the ingenuity to bring along a football as well. After making my case to be the niners' QB, I had to answer the call of the beach. We wandered down a dirt road, with no end in sight (I seem to have a knack for walking down dirt roads with no end in the middle of no where) but eventually stumbled across a beach fit for a postcard, dilapidated boat on the sand and all.

Food was the farthest thing on my mind as the sun started to set behind the black hole of smog hovering over Buenos Aires. But there I was, eating dinner outside on a clear, warm summer night with the rio de la plata a few hundred feet away. If I really have to, I'll suffer through it.

After walking out of my posada the next morning, in which every angel painting, picture, or figurine known to man graces every surface (the name of the place is posada del angel - I don't know if they needed to get so literal) in the place, I wandered up the coast to find a beach to call home for the day. Turn on 'Toes' by the Zac Brown Band and you'll get an idea of my daylight hours. The big questions, those really difficult ones, were how big the frisbee field should be, if I should go in the water or not and if I wanted a choripan or chivito for lunch. I took hours deliberating. After those many hours we passed away the night after an all-program dinner by a fire on the beach watching the thunderstorms across the river over Buenos Aires.

We just couldn't get the beach out of our system in one day, so we all piled into probably the only 4 taxis in town and headed to a spit of sand a few km outside of the city. We were the only people there, which might have been due to the perfect storm bearing down on the coast. The sun was non-existant, winds were high and whipping sand around like Roger Federer makes any opponent run. It was painful. We weren't alone on the beach though - we shared our hurricane with a herd of cattle. If I were a cow in Uruguay I'd for sure hit the beach. We went up to them and all I could think of was running back the other way with 15 angry cows behind me. Who needs San Fermin when you can do it on the beach in Uruguay? I think they were too busy eating sand to care, so we skipped rocks and made faces at them and only got a face-full of cowpies in return. They know who's king of the beach.

We could only take so much of the Sahara Sandstorm, so after a few hours we packed up and retreated back to the cobblestone streets and 1960s cars of Colonia. The taxi service sent one too few, so what do you know but three of us were walking down a dirt road with no end in sight until it showed up. I rounded out my Uruguayan food adventures back in Colonia with a chivito, which is essentially the best steak sandwich you've ever had. Throw in a little sand for crunch, and there's nothing better. Ice cream sounded like a good idea to balance out the protein, so a couple of us decided to walk up the street to an ice-cream store. It looked great. We were literally standing across the street when probably the entire elementary school population of Colonia walked into the ice cream store. We just looked at each other and laughed. It was a sign. We settled for kiosk ice cream and popsicle sticks instead of cones. A little lawn-chair time next to the posada's pool and five different angel statues rounded out the day before jumping on another three-hour ferry back to Uruguay's big brother across the river.

So how was your Thanksgiving?

So You Want to Take a Final

STOMP is good no matter where or when you see it. I took a few friends who had never seen it before to the traveling show when it made a stop here in BA last weekend, and they walked out of there tapping handrails and making a bad attempt at beat boxing. It was a phenomenal show; they did a great routine with some stereotypical folding chairs, along with the traditional brooms, lighters and trash can lids. They had the entire place mic'd up, and when they seriously got rocking (like during the sign wall picture above, or during the trash can lid part) the whole theater was vibrating. The 8 year old behind us uttered several no me gusta!'s (I don't like it!) as it seemed as if the whole place was about to come down. I thought it was awesome. Every single parent who took their kids to the show I know will regret it for the next week, with forks finding every surface and sound during dinner each night.

Sunday saw me browsing through the markets scattered around the city. While browsing through the countless different items for sale (some of them real head scratchers; they left such an impression on me that I can't even remember what they are) I enjoyed some music and watched some tango dancers do their thing. One guy's product was a little device that makes a chicken noise if you pull a string. It sounded so similar to a chicken that, yeah, I bought one. Impulse buy if there ever was one. For $1.25, I think the bank account can handle it. Now I can annoy just about everyone near me with a constant chicken clucking. In the middle of class, in the middle of dinner, on the bus, behind a random person on the street- I'll be my own traveling comedy show. If the next post talks about me looking for new housing/exploring hostel options/getting deported, you'll know why.

The interesting thing about the markets, though, is how suddenly I was thrown back into the middle of tourist central here in Buenos Aires. Over the last few months I feel like I've integrated pretty well into the BsAs lifestyle. I wouldn't call myself a local by any means, but I think I've definitely reached a sort of half-way point between absolute tourist who gets nailed by two old ladies and bird poop (that fun fact and only that fun fact made it into the Daily Pennsylvanian, Penn's daily newspaper, the other day) and porteño maestro. Hearing people talking about basic spanish language points or just watching tourists be blatant tourists made me want to get out of there.

None of those tourists have to take finals, unlike yours truly. I'll take having four of them spread out over about three and a half weeks, with one of them being a paper though. Taking a final is normally a very straightforward pursuit. You study, you come to class, you sit down, you write your final, and you go home and remember you have a life. Here, on the other hand, things work a little differently. You'd think by now I'd have learned that things don't happen as expected in this country, but oh no. Taking a final at UCA was quite the experience.

First, you have to register for the final. A little odd, seeing as I was already registered for the class and I figured that the finals came with the entrée, but hey this isn't a buy-one-get-one-free country. I rolled with it - no problem. All signed up, I get to UCA at 8:40 or so for a 9:00 final, because the study abroad program staff recommended that we double-check which room the final is in. That is of course not an easy process (or I just don't know what I'm doing, since I went to several wrong places before running into a classmate who I followed to the right place) but eventually found that my final was in a different room from my regular lecture classroom.

I finally made it to the classroom, with a few minutes to spare. As I looked around, I noticed that absolutely everyone looked like they were going to a wedding. Suits, ties, well-put-together chicas, the works. UCA students dress well normally, but this was a whole other level. And there of course was yours truly in jeans, a T-shirt and shoes the farthest thing from dress shoes not called flip-flops. Fitting in is for suckers, right?

The two professors didn't show up until about 10:30 because they were finishing another final. It was nice to get a little extra study time in, for sure. But that extra study time turned into about 6 hours. I sat in that room waiting for my turn (they were oral finals which were done in front of everyone, believe it or not) for 6 whole hours. I was the very last one to go. The benefit to that though, was that I found out my grade quickly - no several week waiting period like back at Penn, which was nice.

I could be spoiled by Penn/YIS testing techniques, but 6 hours for 18 or so oral exams seems a little excessive. I'll bring my chicken to my next final to keep me occupied, just in case.

The Big Dance

The parks in this city are easily some of my favorite places. The people you meet, the things you see; I know I've said it before, but if you want to get to know a city, go to the parks. Last Friday I met up with some friends to toss a frisbee around, and we did it in the only open space we could find in the park we went to- a hard-top volleyball court. We weren't bothered for at least an hour, but eventually some guys showed up wanting to use the court to play. We said fine; we were reasonably tired as it was. We got to chatting with these sub 6ft. volleyball players, and stayed to watch them play. Now volleyball is a generous definition of what we watched. What it really was was a method to figure out who buys the beer for the night. Guys were playing with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths and basically just throwing the ball back and forth over the net as opposed to hitting it. Add to the fact that each team tried to cheat the other in typical Argentine-sports-fashion, and you've got an extremely entertaining match. We were going to jump in and play but judging by how long the first game was taking we wouldn't have gotten into a game until midnight.

It's a good thing that I didn't play volleyball until midnight, as I had some very serious work to do the next afternoon. I found my way with some friends to the Gran Premio del Bicentenario, the grand daddy of Argentine horse races- the Kentucky Derby of Argentina, if you will. It wasn't as flashy or as much of a big-time event as its counterpart in the northern hemisphere, and no one dresses up pretty much at all, but it was still a great time. The hard-core betters reading their magazines that take a PhD to understand were out in force amongst a few thousand casual fans like us. We watched 5 races or so, and placed some bets of course. If you ever want to pick the 4th place horse in a race, drop me a note because I'm extremely good at it. I picked the 4th place horse 4 out of 5 times - needless to say I didn't come out ahead on the day. However, hearing the rapid-fire race announcer relaying the race combined with the intense, quasi-throw-your-program-at-the-track crowd cheering on their horses was pretty comical and made up for any lack of luck. Spanish is a passionate language, but that crowd took it to a whole other level.

It wound up being a tight race - although not a photo finish, but close enough to make it interesting. We had a great view of the awards area, and as soon as the winner crossed the finish line there was the owner jumping around as happy as can be. It was really pretty cool to see a major horse race - I definitely want to get to the Kentucky Derby eventually. We watched one more race after the awards ceremony in which about 50 trophies were handed out before calling it good.

That night I headed out to La Noche de los Museos with Laura and some of her friends. This is an event put on by the city that really every city should do- for one night, just about every museum in the city has free entry. As we're in Argentina, when I say for one night I mean until 3am (officially, but there were still lines out the door beyond 3). The buses provide free service as well for the night - all in all a great deal, and the city really took advantage of it.

After getting home as daylight started creeping across the sky, the next day saw me put the finishing touches on an essay (yes I do do work) before leaving to go watch Matias my host-brother perform in a play. It was a play targeting children, as it was a comedy based on the traditional prince-princess plot with the usual jester and evil magician. He and the other two actors got the crowd involved, and it was a great atmosphere and from what I could tell a hit. The theater itself was stark but still had a lot of character- it was a one-room place with a stage, walls covered with locals' art and open space filled with plastic chairs for seating. Not quite Carnegie, but no matter - a stage is a stage, and I (and the rest of the crowd) thought Matias did really well as good ol' Prince Charming. Next up for the future oscar-winner is a part in a movie (his first) with apparently a reasonably famous french actress. His career seems to be off to a good start!

As for my career picking the right horse, I'm in a serious slump and there's no end in sight. Jake Plummer took up handball - maybe I'll give volleyball a try.

The End of an Era

The parks here in this city are incredibly underrated. They are few and far in between, but when you stumble on them they are absolutely phenomenal. My local oasis, Parque Centenario, is a circular park right in the middle of town. It has everything, from a soccer field to a skate park to a merry-go-round (Argentines seem to have an obsession with merry-go-rounds, as I see them just about everywhere there is 50 square feet of open space, including the equivalent of the national mall) to an amphitheater to a lake. With ducks. Going to a park is the best way to get a perfect cross-reference of the population of the city. You have your families having a picnic, couples taking a stroll, jugglers and other performance arts people practicing their trade, friends sharing a mate, and several people playing various tunes on the guitar. Don't forget the local entrepreneurs trying to make a mango (buck is to dollar as mango is to peso) by selling superpanchos and ice-cream. When you stop to look around you on a busy day (just about every day the sun is out), the diversity of what's surrounding you is pretty astounding.

Multiply that by a factor of about 10 on the day of the census. A few days ago Argentina took its bi-centennial count of its population, and it was probably the most boring holiday out of them all. Everyone is asked to remain in their homes until one of several-hundred-thousand census workers come around their homes and ask the usual census questions. The entire country is closed from 8pm the night before until 8pm the day-of. Everyone is off of work, but with nowhere to go since everything is closed. I wondered what everyone would do, because those that gave their name and number early in the day couldn't just sit at home all day, this being the social capital of the world that it is. Answer: Parque Centenario. I got there early in the day since all classes were cancelled, and it was pretty empty. I looked up what felt like five minutes later, and I couldn't see the grass. It was a sea of guitar-players, mate drinkers, and guys over 65 in nothing but a speedo trying to get a tan.

The day was not all fun & games for most, however. Néstor Kirchner, the ex-president and husband of the current president Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, passed away that morning. He was quite a polarizing figure, but it didn't seem so that day. Just about everyone I saw or talked to was sorry to see him go. That was before the conservatives came out of the woodwork; a lot of them were actually happy to see him go. It seemed a little twisted and wrong to hear people talk about being happy that someone died, but they take their politics seriously here. Let the record show that exit polls, with 75% reporting, are showing that 99% of the students at UCA (Universidad Católica Argentina) don't care too much for Néstor.

That night a couple of us went against all common sense and decided to head to Plaza de Mayo to see the manifestaciones championing the political agenda and accomplishments of Mr. Kirchner. The subway itself was quite the experience, with people banging on windows and singing patriotic songs all the way into the center of town. It got to such a point that the subway operator gave up stopping at every stop and simply went straight to plaza de mayo. Popping up onto the street brought me face to face with just about every political activist in the city, which means just about everybody. I would say that every political group was represented there, with a multitude of flags, banners, drums, clapping, singing and yelling filling the night air. It was wall-to-wall people down each of the three main avenues leading away from the Plaza. We worked our way over to the barricade in front of la Casa Rosada, which was covered in messages to Cristina and Néstor. People had climbed up just about everything there is to climb. When they opened the barricade to let people in to start lining up to see Néstor lie in state the next morning starting at 8am (we got there at 8:30, so these people were going to wait almost 12 hours), it was like a stand-by free-for-all at the United Customer Relations desk. We retreated back to the border of the plaza, spent a few more minutes observing the gongshow before calling it a night before things had the opportunity to get really out of hand.

The next day was even more out of control. People were lining up in what I later found out was a 7-hour line to see Néstor at la Casa. The line probably went for about 10 blocks, winding down several streets. There were so many political parties and groups marching down la Avenida de Mayo it seemed as if a revolution was around the corner. For all I know, there was. When you cancel the league football matches for the weekend, that's going to cause some problems, no matter what the reason. As I walked down the street I couldn't help but notice all of the posters saying 'Fuerza Cristina!' (Strength, Cristina) or 'Néstor con Perón, Cristina con el pueblo' (Néstor with Perón, Cristina with the people). If they could mobilize the same effort that put the hundreds of thousands of posters up in one night to tackle some of the other city problems, like maybe collecting dog poop, this city would have an even brighter and glorious future than the one it already has.

All in all, the whole experience was pretty amazing. The closest thing I've ever seen in terms of scale of a public reaction to something political was the inauguration of President Obama. Even then, I feel like the porteños took it to a whole other level. It remains to be seen where Argentina will go from here, though. Mr. Kirchner was a key part of Cristina's administration; he was often called the power broker behind the government, the one who made the wheels turn and who kept this oft-politically unstable country together. All I can say is whoever raises the minimum height for restaurant awnings will have my vote.

Rite of Passage

Strike of the Day: Trash Collectors

Many people don’t understand just what an ordeal it is to walk down a sidewalk here in Buenos Aires. You seriously put your life on the line. Let me begin with the fact that half of the time I never know what street I'm on because either there is no street sign or if it exists it's sawed in half. So after getting excited about the fact that there actually is a street sign, everyone knows I'm a tourist when I make five circles around it just to make sure it's not bent. Out comes the 'Guia T'.

As I continue walking, it becomes evident very quickly that every dog owner thinks that the sidewalk is the perfect place for man’s best friend to take care of business. They also believe that leaving the product there must add to the overall aesthetic beauty and sweet scent of this city. The sidewalks are such a minefield that I spend no time actually looking where I’m going but rather spend all of my time feeling like Indian Jones trying to work his way through the Temple of Doom. I must mention though that the dogs are considerate; they only take care of business on one half of the walkway. Someone give them a medal!

Speaking of dogs, it is not uncommon to see professional dog walkers roaming the streets with anywhere from one dog to a number in the mid-teens. The legal limit per dog walker is the stuff of legend; I’ve heard anywhere from 9 to 14. I use the number of dogs to measure prestige, skill and overall ability of the walkers. If you’ve got double-digit dogs, you’re pretty high on the totem pole and you've earned my respect.

Before you devote all of your time to looking out for dog turds, you have to keep an eye on what’s in front of you. Especially if you’re tall. The awnings in front of stores don’t really take into account anyone over 6 feet. They generally have a metal pole run through them to hold them down in the wind, which is all well and good, but when that pole is about 6’2” off the ground it’s a little problematic. For reference, that comes square between the eyes on yours truly. I haven’t hit one yet, but if I do I think I’ll be laid out like a linebacker takes out a wide receiver running across the middle.

Once you’ve made it past the awning, the sidewalk comes back into play. The sidewalks in Buenos Aires change style with every building, as does the quality. More often than not it’s in the tile style, which is great. However, many times these tiles are loose, and stepping on one puts Old Faithful to shame. To cap it off, as I start spewing Spanish I look down and notice that I hit a mine in the dung minefield, and I just walk away defeated. I’ve shown up to class with one leg completely soaked from a shooting jet of water displaced by the tiles. No one asks any questions; I think everyone understands.

Some people just don’t even want to brave the sidewalks, and they order their coffee and medialunas to be delivered. So as I’m busily navigating geyser central, I have to avoid the waiters in full tuxedos with trays carrying fine china and croissants. They march down the street as if they were headed over to the corner table by the window. Someone give that guy a good tip, because he’s moving twice as fast as I am and getting there with clean shoes.

When I finally have time to look around (i.e. when I’m standing still at a stoplight before seriously risking my life by trying to cross the street), I notice that the sidewalks are full of people selling everything under the sun. That's after I see 5 same-line buses in a caravan go by and stop at the bus stop which is a sticker stuck to a street lamp. There are the newspaper guys who sell all of the regular dailies and every magazine known to man, the 24-hour flower shops who’s flowers never seem to go bad or wilt no matter what time of day or day of the week, the peanut roasters who make the world's best roasted peanuts, the strawberry stands that are basically just what seem like leftover strawberry crates propped up against the wall, and the people selling toys that wouldn’t make the Happy Meal Set at McDonalds next to knock-off nike socks and phone chargers. It really is a busy place with people from all walks of life. There is never a dull moment; I could walk the streets of Buenos Aires for hours.

If you can walk a block unscathed, you've successfully become part of the porteño lifestyle and culture. Welcome to the party.

Oktoberfiesta

It was about that time again to take a breather from BA city life and wade out into the country. The only problem was that the entire population of Buenos Aires had the same thought. Or so it seemed. This past weekend was a holiday weekend, and Retiro Bus Station did it justice. There were more people there than at the DNC, and they all seemed to want to get on the same bus. In other words, trying to a) find my bus and b) get on it was a serious challenge. Throw in the fact that my bus showed up twenty minutes after it was supposed to leave and was operated by a different company then that who sold me my ticket, and you've got a tall American running around the bus station leaving no doubt that he's a tourist. My bus was eventually found though, and my seat in the front row on the top deck made me forget all of my issues with finding it. About 20 minutes into the trip (that began only about 45 minutes late) we stopped in front of a random warehouse and were told we needed to switch buses. This was a first. I looked at my Argentine neighbors who I'd been talking with who simply just said, bienvenidos a Argentina! We upped and left, and the people sitting on the floor in the aisle behind us found some seats on bus #2. Seriously now, this bus company has some issues. I was out as soon as our second more luxurious luxury liner took off. I was only woken up by people talking about the car that was on fire as we passed it (the thing was burning like a duraflame, but it seemed like everyone was ok) and I went back to sleep hoping that I wouldn't be woken up again by the car blowing up and making me get up from my awesome front row second deck seat.

After all of the shenanigans of the previous night, I was surprised to find ourselves pulling into Cordoba bus station ahead of schedule. In any case, after dropping my bag and meeting up with friends at the hostel, we headed back to the bus station. We caught a local bus to Villa General Belgrano, a small predominantly German village about 2 hours outside of Cordoba, to see what their highly-touted version of Oktoberfest was like. Given the above average German migration to Argentina after WWII, we wondered if we were wandering the streets of a town where ex-leaders of the Third Reich called home. Maybe a lot of people have that somewhat disturbing thought, and the village knows it (and wants to avoid it), because the place looks like it belongs next to Space Mountain in Adventureland. The signs were all wood carved with painted curly-cue letters. I think if I lived there I might find a keg and pour it all over someone after about a week, but for a day it was great. We wandered the streets looking for a mug before kicking off the festivities.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the 'Beer Park,' which consisted of several beer company stands, food stalls and a stage. The day was spent trying the wares, eating quarter-kilos of ice cream and trying to figure out what possessed us to try straw-beer (as in strawberry-beer). Pretty much everything I tried was great (except for that fruity beer stuff). The entertainment itself was decent; it began with a parade of just about everyone in the village, including the local viking. I've never been to the real deal in Germany, but something tells me Erik the Strong doesn't prowl the beer tents. But you never know. The rest of the show, from what we saw when we were paying attention, was hoppin'. They tapped a keg and let it loose to the masses, played some traditional music, and had several dancing acts. The one part of the program that made me scratch my head though was the guy playing the harp with a guitar accompaniment. Don't get me wrong, he was very good, but a harp is really the last thing I would think you want at festival of beer. I think by that point though enough people had visited enough stands to not care too much. After a day of trying different brews and just hanging out, we called it a day well spent.

Day two saw us try to find something green to walk through, so we headed out to la Parque Nacional Quebrada del Condorito. We jumped on another local bus that was to take us to the gate. I should have known it would be an interesting day from the get-go when the guy selling us the tickets said he couldn't sell us return tickets. It's not that they were full, he just doesn't sell them. So, here we were heading out into the boonies not knowing if we would be able to get back that night to catch our bus back to BA. So what did we do? We got on the bus of course. About two hours later we're driving through some very pretty terrain when the driver pulls over in a turnout and beckons one of my friends forward, who after a quick chat turns around and tells us to get off. So here we are, out in the middle of nowhere sharing a turnout with a few people with a broken down car, staring at a dirt track across the street that looked incredibly dubious at best.

We headed down the track, seeing the very black clouds not too far away and noticing that yes, this was the entrance to the park and yes, everyone was leaving. We found the forest ranger hut, and the ranger on duty was a great guy who gave us all sorts of recommendations. We hiked through a starkly beautiful landscape for the next few hours. We hoped to catch sight of one of the park's famous condors, but I think they were the smart ones out there and went home as the sky basically turned to night. No matter- the rain never really showed up, and the park was well worth the trip. We headed back to that turnout a few hours later, armed with the information to simply flag down the bus as it came down the highway. That same broken down car was there, with the same people camped in the turnout. We didn't know if the bus would stop if it were full, but we tended to think it wouldn't. When we showed up and saw about 20 other people waiting, we weren't too confident. Especially with a guy throwing a thumb out to anything with four wheels. We eventually did get on a bus though, and made it back to Cordoba in time to grab some dinner (at a parilla of course- all you can eat salad, french fries, and of course beef for 12$. And it's open 24hrs. Could it be any better?) before heading to the bus station.

I should have known that buses would be a theme of this trip from the very first moment at Retiro on Friday night. My bus again didn't show up until about 25 minutes after it was supposed to leave. Maybe I should let someone else book my tickets, since I seem to be striking out on buses that leave on time. Sleep came quickly, until I was woken up by silence. It was dead quiet. Which was a problem. There was no engine noise. I looked around, and eventually found out that we were about 2.5hrs outside of Cordoba, in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway with a broken-down bus, at 3:00 in the morning. After being angry for about 5 minutes, I just laughed knowing there was nothing I could do and wondered what else could happen. Since trying to sleep was out of the question with the top deck of the bus basically becoming a sauna without the air-conditioning, I wandered outside and sat in the grass and read a magazine. There was what seemed like a mechanic/AAA truck behind us with flashing lights, but I got the idea that our potential savior had no idea what was wrong with the bus. The bus driver, his co-pilot and some of the other passengers were standing around smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. I guess if you're stuck on the side of the road at 3:00 in the morning with nowhere to go you might as well make the best of it. Two buses from the same company stopped by to see what was up before continuing on to wherever they were headed. Two very painful sets of tail-lights. Eventually, though, after about 3 hours, another bus showed up and we were on our way. I only got back to BA about 4 hours behind schedule. As they say, in Argentina it works out eventually, just probably in a different way than you thought. No te preocupes!

I have to say though, the stars are pretty at night down here in the Southern Hemisphere. I only had three hours to stare at them.

California Dreamin'

Rosario, Argentina played host to a horde of American students this past weekend. The study-abroad program shelled out for about 70 of us to take a weekend trip to Rosario, one of the top 3 biggest cities in Argentina. Not that you would know; Rosario feels like a small town at just about every street corner. The pace is slower, buildings are shorter and people are fewer. In all honesty, it felt like Santa Barbara with bigger buildings and more streets. Although maybe it didn't help that I came to that conclusion as I was walking along a walkway with palm trees and greenery down the middle of a main avenue with the sun shining. No matter; the sentiment was universal, with many preferring Rosario over its 12-million-person counterpart 4 hours to the south.

The city doesn't really boast any major tourist attractions, aside from being neighbors to a major river and having a large monument dedicated to the National Flag. We acted the part of typical tourists though and did the bus tour our first afternoon. The river was blue, and the grass green. At one point, we were told we were passing some of the most modern, new and large buildings of Rosario on our left. Of course, as any person would, we turn to look out the left side of the bus and there is a half pile of rubble/half group of walls that looked like it only needed a breath of wind to collapse like a house of cards. A couple of us just looked at each other and burst out laughing. Ranger Jane at the front could not have picked a worse moment to mention new and modern. We did pass some buildings a block later which I assume were those she was talking about, not to worry. The end of the tour saw us walking along the river until the flag monument, which was really well-designed. It was set-up like a boat with two streets bordering it on either side, with the flagship parting the water and leading Argentina to a bright future. Pretty clever, I thought.

Dinner was had in style, with about a third of the group following our smooth-talking charismatic program leader Mario out into the night to an exclusive restaurant. We were told we would be walking the farthest out of the three groups. That was all well and good, but about 30 minutes after leaving probably the classiest Holiday Inn Express in the world we were still no where near anything resembling a restaurant. The dark graffiti covered-warehouses and crowds of people dressed like elegant punk rockers sitting outside of these warehouses silently watching us walk by didn't really infuse much confidence. There was an eventual end to our trek, however, and the restaurant made the rite of passage worth it. We were treated to 3-course meal with wine all around (Mario dines in style - he famously takes students out after plays and movies in BA for great meals) with the first two courses consisting of various cuts of beef (surprise?) followed by dessert. I found out later that the beef from course one was an extreme Argentine delicacy; yours truly has now eaten cow lymph nodes. I really don't know what possessed the first person to eat cow lymph nodes way back in the day. I don't want to know. It was delicious, however, and I highly recommend it. That is, if you can fight the Argentines you're sitting with for it, since it is apparently the most sought-after cut of beef. And there isn't much of it.

After being about ready to take a sledgehammer to my alarm clock the next morning, I indulged in the Holiday Inn Express "American breakfast." It was basically continental, with some ham and cheese slices thrown in. It was a nice break from corn flakes, but if they had had eggs I would have made it my life goal to get that hotel a 5-star rating. We wandered over to what was, according to my Lonely Planet magazine, a good handicraft fair, but was actually a snack kiosk. It did have some computers and phone booths in the back for public use, so I guess it was a special snack kiosk. Lonely Planet, you might be a little lonely on my shelf if I try to go to Patagonia based on your advice and find myself staring at a cactus in the desert up north.

We did make it to the fair eventually, and spent a few hours walking the walk looking at everything for sale. My purchase of the day was some fresh-squeezed orange juice that was almost as good as the daily greatness Tina gives me with breakfast. Following the fair, our last event of the trip was a boat ride up and down the river. The river sees all manners of traffic, from kayaks to sailboats to windsurfers to full-blown tankers. Those kayakers better be able to paddle fast. Maybe after the paddle business at Iguazu fell through they found their way to Rosario. I didn't see any advertisements for thrill rides in Rosario to see how close you could get to a cargo ship however, but you never know. All in all it was a nice cruise; Rosario has a great skyline and the weather was phenomenal, so we spent the majority of the time outside on the bow.

We could have boated home, as the river does merge with Rio Uruguay which becomes Rio de la Plata, but those great Argentine long-distance buses just couldn't be turned down. The only hiccup on the way home was getting into a huge traffic jam/detour because communists had taken over part of the expressway and forced everyone to take an exit and get back on. All 7 of the people camping out, with hammers and sickles drawn on the hill and everything, were really making life rough for a lot of people. 7 people protesting doesn't seem like a lot; maybe the rest were using Lonely Planet to get there.

Charades

We’re back. More or less. UBA is still taken over by the students, but they’ve relaxed their stranglehold on my facultad. We could get into the building, and believe it or not the classrooms on the ground floor were available. Lecture was had for the first time in a month, and actually in a classroom. Don’t pop the champagne yet, though. Students leading the toma came into our class and instigated a heated 20-minute discussion on what we thought of the strike, because it is far from over. Tomorrow night is another student assembly, i.e. party congress, which will issue a new 5-day plan to lead La Facultad de Ciencias Sociales to a bright and glorious future. Viva la Revolución!

In the midst of this prolonged crisis was yet another holiday, El Día del Estudiante. This came after butcher’s day, secretary’s day, street cleaner’s day and guard-standing-at-the-front-door-of-city-hall’s day. There could be a holiday for all of these professions, as there seems to be some sort of ferria every other week. Student’s Day, however, doubles up as a holiday celebrating the arrival of Spring which I think is fantastic. We stare at groundhogs and watch it spin around in a circle, wonder why it woke up when it didn’t need to, and go back to bed. Argentines throw a huge party. Any excuse. I made my way up to the Central Park of Buenos Aires where every student in Buenos Aires seemed to have migrated. I’m sure the students leading the tomas were there – striking is a tiring business and holidays are incredibly necessary. I headed to a free outdoor concert, where I heard one good Santana-like band and one trashy pop band that had it been singing in English I would have run away and puked in a trash can. Singing in Spanish, however, eased the pain and allowed me to simply watch the spectacle of outrageous outfits running around on stage singing things which I couldn’t completely understand. Here is the lost in translation play of the day- I was told ‘Happy Spring’ at one point and I simply agreed, thinking that yes it’s a happy spring indeed. The same person then turned to Laura, who was standing right next to me, and said the same thing. Laura replied with a huge gracias. So this is like a birthday? Thank you for wishing me a happy spring? It’s only my spring? No wonder the person was looking at me funny. That Sudafed is mine, don’t you touch it.

Speaking of parties, it was Tina’s husband’s (Niko) birthday on Friday, so of course we had another asado. Sorry to all of you out there who have to pay $40 for a Brazilian BBQ – I had one ten times better in our kitchen. It was a family affair, which was fine by me because that meant more beef for everyone. Dinner conversation was as animated as always, with at one point Ramiro revealing that he wanted to buy a motorcycle. His girlfriend then jokingly shot back that if he bought one, she was gone. I think though she might have been serious to some degree. Stories about everything under the sun were told. Niko got out of his chair several times to physically act out a conversation he had with whoever about whatever. With all of the Spanish yelling going on at mach 10, watching Niko give Tom Hanks a run for his money helped me keep up a little better. Sign 'im up - he was pretty good!

Niagara What?

Check out the Iguazú album under 'Photos' for more pics

I've never been to Niagara Falls, but from the pictures I've seen of that North American wannabe Iguazú blows away just about anything that includes water moving from up to down. The trip up to Puerto Iguazú was another epic 16 hour ride on one of these Argentine luxury liners, complete with pirated movies, champagne and white bread in as many shapes and forms as you can think of. Life could be worse. We made friends with our bus attendant - we were the only ones that actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. I guess spending 16 hours in a metal box on wheels doesn't excite a lot of people. After our glass of champagne (in special plastic champagne glasses, of course) with the final pirated movie of the night, we called it quits for the evening.

I woke up staring at the seatback in front of me, and dozed off an on as we made various stops at small towns along the way until finally reaching the town of Iguazú. We successfully got on the correct local bus on our first try, and were on our way to the hostel. If we didn't tell our bus driver where we were going, I might still be on that bus. We were dropped off on the side of the highway (bus stop? What bus stop? I think the bus driver picks out certain bushes along the way that he wants to stop at to get a closer look), and made the short walk to our hostel. We passed the swimming pool on the way in, dropped our stuff and headed down the highway to a sort of animal hospital. We were driven through the forest in a tractor-trailer by a guy having way too much fun with his job until we jumped off to see the animals. It was basically a zoo, but still pretty cool nonetheless.

We got up at the crack of dawn the next morning to try and get a full day in at the park. We wandered back over to that bush we were let off at the preceding afternoon, and caught the local bus to the falls. I can't even begin to describe what these waterfalls are like. It's almost one continuous waterfall for a solid 3 kilometers, with La Garganta del Diablo (the second photo from the top) as the centerpiece (Argentina has a thing for using the same names for everything - there's the Garganta del Diablo right outside of Salta. Street names are the same in every city - come on guys, maybe a little creativity?) in the distance. We started our day on the upper circuit, which took us literally to the edge of some of the falls. By itself, any one of these waterfalls would be a superb tourist attraction anywhere in the world. But here seeing one by itself was a bit of a letdown. Line up maybe 50 of these falls together, though, and you've got Iguazú. That's just a lot of water. Following the Upper Circuit we naturally headed to the Lower Circuit, which, as I'm sure you can imagine, took us to the base of several of the falls. It was so loud I could barely hear myself think. Halfway through the lower circuit we took a boat ride that zoomed us into the spray of the falls (there are some photos in the album with the boats in them. These boats are not small - the falls are just huge). Every one of those 12 minutes was worth it. There used to be boat options at the top of the falls, where you could hire a local and he would take you to the edge where you could spit or do whatever and then he would row as hard as he could back against the current and get you back safely. That was until one boat didn't quite make it back. That option is now no longer available, sir. Can I tempt you with the scenic helicopter ride or the Grand Adventure through the forest?

After a lunch battling the coatíes (basically an ant-eater crossed with a raccoon) trying to get at our food, which only ran away after making loud gorilla noises at them, we walked the 2km up to La Garganta. This was probably one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen. It's a giant 'U' shaped waterfall with an obscene amount of water falling making simply what was a deafening roar. I could have spent hours there just mesmerized by the sheer power, scale and beauty of what I was looking at. We could see the mist from a long way off, and even when we were right at the top of La Garganta the mist obscured our view of the bottom like fog hides the Golden Gate. We finished the day by getting back to the hostel and finding some long-chairs, putting our toes in the clay and having an Argentine PBR on the way. Life was good.

Day two found ourselves finding little things to do to fill the time until our various bus departure times, as the main reason for going back to the park (San Martín Island, right in the middle of everything at the falls) was closed due to high river levels. We discovered a house made entirely out of PET bottles, and decided to check it out. The walls, stairs and roof were made of plastic 2-liter bottles (the roof had some help from milk cartons), with the doors constructed from CD cases. It was pretty amazing to see how resourceful these people were - the most impressive gadget (aside from the house itself) was a solar water heater. That could be the future right there, my friends. Our last stop of the day was a spot where we thought we could be in three different countries at once (Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina), but was actually a spot where we could see three different countries at once. And I was ready to one-up 4 Corners.

To cap off the trip I spent the 16 hours going home figuring out the different pitches of engine noises on these long distance buses, as my seat was in the last row right above the engine. I'm now your resident expert. You know where to find me.

Welcome to the Jungle, Spain

(There are more pictures in the Spain v. Argentina album under 'Photos')

Call in the cavalry. The school has been taken over, and there is no end in sight. Originally the students were going to hold their lockout for only last Thursday, but it's successfully gone on for over a week now. Call Roger Goodell - he could get some negotiation practice in. From what I understand, they're protesting the conditions of the facilities, and the fact that a good portion of government money is going to private institutions when UBA building projects have been left unfinished due to lack of funds. I can't understand why they would be protesting the state of the facilities with all of the peeling paint, broken desks, and missing window panes. However, the students running the September Revolution did not want class to stop, so they thoughtfully provided desks and chairs for us to use outside. In the street. So after waiting around for several minutes listening to some guys standing on tables trying to connect profs with students, we finally found ours and set up shop in a crosswalk. As I was walking over, I was sure that a different professor was handing out midterms to his students as they took their seats in the street. If that profesor wanted to win popularity points, that's definitely not how the Xs and Os tell you to do it. Needless to say, my profesora was far from happy about being kicked out of the building and wound up cutting class short just because she couldn't deal with it.

That evening saw me don a knock-off Argentine jersey and travel with the masses to the River Plate stadium in the northern reaches of the city to watch la selección nacional (literally translated as 'national selection,' which I think is a great term, but really means national soccer team) take on Spain. Security might not be the stadium's strong point, since I completely bypassed stage 1 without even knowing it. I walked along some quiet residential streets before turning onto the main street leading to the stadium and finding myself already beyond the first pat-down and bag check which had a line a couple blocks long. Alright then, here we go!

We found our seats, but not after having to ask someone where they were. Not that we would be sitting much anyway. The section letters were chalked onto the ground, and there were no row numbers. So after counting the rows and checking the seat numbers, we found ourselves twelve rows back from one of the corners. Not bad for $35 US. You couldn't even walk into Fenway for that. We were also luckily right over the visiting players tunnel, so we got some close up views of all of the Spanish stars that were there- Casillas, Torres, Xavi, Fabregas, Iniesta, Villa, Alonso, and more.

After coming to grips with the fact that yes, I was actually seeing who I thought I was seeing, I noticed the barbed wire fencing around our section. The people seemed nice enough in my section so far, but I think that if Argentina found itself down 2-0 with a hostile ref Dr. Jekyll would disappear and the Argentine extended family of Mr. Hyde would make an appearance. I looked up to the second deck, and there was fencing around another section which I was told was the visiting team's fan section for River Plate's games. Apparently for River games, you have to wait 45min before you can leave the stadium so the opposing team's fans can get a head start. Run, Forrest, run.

The game was everything that I could have asked for, with Messi striking first in the 12th minute with a little chip that floated right over the keeper (not Casillas, unfortunately) into the goal. Higuain doubled the score with a goal three minutes later that saw him come celebrate with a massive fist pump in our corner. Do I need to say that the stadium was absolutely rocking by that point? Tevez closed the half with a third goal for Argentina, making it 3-0, which basically ended the game. Argentina wound up winning 4-1, with a spectacular show put on by Messi during the second half. He made the World Champion Spanish defense look like 3rd grade soccer players as he dribbled straight through about 5 or 6 defenders and set up a beautiful strike into the upper right hand corner from a forward making a run. And the line ref had the audacity to call him offside. It was still probably some of the most beautiful play I've ever seen, though. I mean, the defense knows what Messi can do, they know he can run, they stick 5 guys on him when he gets the ball, but he still destroys them anyway. And this is Spain we're talking about here.

For my first international soccer game, it couldn't have been better. I need to go see a club game now - I hear they're more intense (it was actually pretty quiet for stretches - no continuous chanting or singing like Japan) than when the national team plays. That seems a little counterintuitive, but then again a lot of things don't make sense here. But no matter - Vamos Argentina!