Ohhhh Argentina

90% of the time, when I’m contemplating what to write about, the first thing that pops into my mind is my most recent traveling mishap. And if wondering, whether I haven t wrote in a month because I¨ve  become the Princess of Argentina, to busy going to royal events in pretty pink dresses, dinning with Christina over the finest steak in the country, with simply no time to write to you petty people, it s far from that. This time around, I´ve needed more time to emotionally recover before spilling my guts to the cyber world.

 So lets backtrack to a month ago, when Neha and I arrived in Cayafate, a small hippie town four hours south of Salta. It s 10pm, we didn´t have a hostal because that would involve us actually organizing something ahead of time. Exiting the bus terminal, Señor de Hippie approached us with the deal of a life time. A hostal for only 30 pesos a night? What? After being accustomed to paying 60, we leapt at the offer. Well, it was 30 pesos because if they charged any more that would mean they would actually had to change the sheets once in a while. It was late, we were dirty already, so one night in a hostal filled with dreaded men, properly drunk at 10pm, which is early for Argentina, coca leaves being passed around like peanuts, wouldn’t kill us.  Then I took a shower and found out I had little friends living in my hair.

 It¨s 11pm by now, no where is open for me to get head lice shampoo so I decided to wash away my worries by drinking one beer for me, and one for the bugs. Now to backtrack a little more, for the past god damn month, I had multiple people check my head for lice because I was scratching my head, well, like a girl with head lice. Everyone told me it was just a bad case of dandruff. I even re-read journal entries where I wrote things like I m tired, cranky, and just want to sit in the corner and itch my head, red light right there. By the time I found them, my head was so infested I m shocked the bugs didn’t migrate to my eye brows for some new feasting ground. There was probably bug gang war fare over who had the territory above my ear to lay eggs and chomp away.

 I put everything in the sun in my hair and killed generations of bugs. During all of this, Neha joined the local hippie culture, drank mate around a fire with some traveling musicians we met while I poured vinegar all over my head in the street. If we didn’t have enough people staring at us for being the only gringos in the town, this surely gave them an even better impression of the white girl from New York and the English girl who couldn’t possibly be from England due to her dark skin, a conversation that often took half the afternoon explaining her parents were from India, which in turn resulted in Neha being the foreign spokeswomen for India, answering every absurd question relating to a country she has never lived in before.

 After escaping hippie-ville, we wwoofed- willing workers on organic farms- on a fruit and vegetable farm outside Mendoza. This was amazing. We lived in a little cabin with other volunteers, ate amazing food everyday cooked by the grandma of the farm that started drinking wine out of a travel coffee mug at 10am, often passing it to her wwoofers of choice, picked tomatoes in the sun and drank matte. At the end of our two weeks there, Neha, the professional hair cutter of the group, decided she could give me a hair cut. Why would I pay 30 pesos, less them 8 American dollars, for a hair cut when she could do it?

 When Neha was four, her elder sister of six told her their mom said she could cut Neha´s hair. Butchered her hair and now there is a year during her childhood that is undocumented by photos. Well, this little experience must have really stuck with Neha, seeing as she thought anyone who has cut a piece of paper can cut hair. So I went into the family house to ask for a pair of scissors, but instead, thanks to my Spanish teachers, Frenchie- a French guy that had been working on the farm for almost two years- and Neha, I asked for a pair of “masturbating.”

 Neha, scissors in hand, went to town on my hair that I had been growing out for a year and a half. A trim, multiple inches, what s the difference? Blaming her cutting technique on the dullness the scissors, I was left with one side longer then the other, bangs that exposed more of my forehead then covered it and her telling me it looked great. Five minutes later, Amit, another volunteer, walked in the cabin and asked us if we were still friends.

 Slightly wanting to kill her, Frenchie took it upon himself to tell me how beautiful I was every two minutes. Que Linda he would yell across the kitchen table. Hermosa, as I passed him. People would just stop and stare in Milan, the style capital of the world, he told me while presenting me a plastic dusty rose he found half way hidden behind a painting on the wall.

 “At least we know all the bugs are gone.” Those were her final words to me as I looked into a mirror that cracked as soon as it reflected the masterpiece.

 Last week, I found myself voluntarily embarking on a 15 kilometer hike up Cerro Tronador, outside Bariloche, Argentina. When I rang my parents to tell them about it, I think they nearly fainted. Growing up my friends all went on vacations to the beach and or other destinations where the main focus of the trip was relaxation with minimal exertion of energy. I went camping for seven days and seven nights, hiked in the morning, swam in the afternoon and went for a bike ride before it got dark. When I would turn down an afternoon run in-between it all my Dad would look at me like I was the laziest bit of scum on the planet. Thank god my Mom always advocated for a few hours of sun bathing with a book by the lake. From birth until I figured out how to get out of my summer camping trips, by working at vegetable stands, I spent a majority of the seven days complaining about how much I hated the nature. How I swore my future vacations would never involve burning a single calorie. Twenty years later, I get giddy over the prospect of a good outdoor adventure. So when my new friend Neha and I overheard that Dani, Mr. Easy on the Eyes from Buenos Aires, was doing an overnight trek by himself, we took it upon ourselves to tag alone in order to add some body heat to his two person tent. After inviting ourself along for the journey, we bought a mountain load of food but refused to purchase a mat because paying 10 american dollars for a piece of camping equipment that would keep us from freezing to death when sleeping next to a glacier was simply out of the question. For god sakes we are from cold countrys, we told him, we don t need a whimpy mat. Reaching the top of a mountain, after stopping to slide down a snowy ledge on our bottoms, nearly crashed into a pile of rocks but opted for getting frost bitten hands to stop us instead, all the fellow campers thought we were out of our mind. They gave us all their spare clothes to lay under our sleeping bags and said a prayer for us. I burried myself into my sleeping bag, zipped it up and snored the night away. The next morning I was complimented on my ability to sleep anywhere, followed by comparisons to a snorting pig. Day dreaming the morning away, I slipped and fell on my butt walking down the mountain. I brushed off my bum, returned to la-la land, and didn t see one of the million little rocks on the trail and busted my knee open two minutes later. Dani used his first aid kit to patch me up, his first time using it in a month of trekking. He wasn t the least bit surprised he had to use his emergency tools after being with us for a day, he hastily commented.  Forgetting that I was wounded, Dani made us practically run down the mountain to catch the only bus back to Bariloche, at 5pm. Blisters, bug bites and lots of bitching later, we made it back by three thirty.

Last week, I found myself voluntarily embarking on a 15 kilometer hike up Cerro Tronador, outside Bariloche, Argentina. When I rang my parents to tell them about it, I think they nearly fainted.

Growing up my friends all went on vacations to the beach and or other destinations where the main focus of the trip was relaxation with minimal exertion of energy. I went camping for seven days and seven nights, hiked in the morning, swam in the afternoon and went for a bike ride before it got dark. When I would turn down an afternoon run in-between it all my Dad would look at me like I was the laziest bit of scum on the planet. Thank god my Mom always advocated for a few hours of sun bathing with a book by the lake.

From birth until I figured out how to get out of my summer camping trips, by working at vegetable stands, I spent a majority of the seven days complaining about how much I hated the nature. How I swore my future vacations would never involve burning a single calorie.

Twenty years later, I get giddy over the prospect of a good outdoor adventure. So when my new friend Neha and I overheard that Dani, Mr. Easy on the Eyes from Buenos Aires, was doing an overnight trek by himself, we took it upon ourselves to tag alone in order to add some body heat to his two person tent. After inviting ourself along for the journey, we bought a mountain load of food but refused to purchase a mat because paying 10 american dollars for a piece of camping equipment that would keep us from freezing to death when sleeping next to a glacier was simply out of the question. For god sakes we are from cold countrys, we told him, we don t need a whimpy mat.

Reaching the top of a mountain, after stopping to slide down a snowy ledge on our bottoms, nearly crashed into a pile of rocks but opted for getting frost bitten hands to stop us instead, all the fellow campers thought we were out of our mind. They gave us all their spare clothes to lay under our sleeping bags and said a prayer for us. I burried myself into my sleeping bag, zipped it up and snored the night away. The next morning I was complimented on my ability to sleep anywhere, followed by comparisons to a snorting pig.

Day dreaming the morning away, I slipped and fell on my butt walking down the mountain. I brushed off my bum, returned to la-la land, and didn t see one of the million little rocks on the trail and busted my knee open two minutes later. Dani used his first aid kit to patch me up, his first time using it in a month of trekking. He wasn t the least bit surprised he had to use his emergency tools after being with us for a day, he hastily commented. 

Forgetting that I was wounded, Dani made us practically run down the mountain to catch the only bus back to Bariloche, at 5pm. Blisters, bug bites and lots of bitching later, we made it back by three thirty.

A traveling failure.

It´s barely even February and I think I´ve already won the crown for worst traveler of year. Between my lack of planning and frequency to ´misplace´ my belongings, I´m sure I´ll get them all back one day, I might as well just cop a burger crown and write Hot Mess on the front of it. Oh wait, I just lost the only bic ink pen I stole from Tom.

To help you judge my standing in the competition, I´ve put together a few examples, some from before the new year but they´ll help you get a better picture of future traveling failures to come.

First stop of the trip, Bogota- Left behind a running top. And you know what, if I still had that asics shirt right now I´d be running marathons down here. Ha. A small flashlight that I lent to Nadirah one night when she woke up at 3am and decided it was a prime time to turn on the overhead light and catch up on some reading. A month later I returned to Bogota, went to a regatone club, stepped downstairs to use the bathroom and when I came out the club had closed for the night, my black sweater left behind. In frantic spanish-lish, I told the bouncer I was a poor traveler with no clothes and really needed to get it back. After many attempts, mostly in comprehendible spanish from a Colombian girl who felt bad for me, he let me back upstairs but it was gone.

La Cuidad Perdida Trek- After trekking in the pouring rain for five days we terminated our hike with a big meal and multiple beers at our guide, Jorge´s, family restaurant at the base of the mountain. It started to downpour as we waited for the van to pick us up so to pass the time we drank some more. Three hours later we were, not in a sober state of mind, wet, cold and trekking in the dark till a van came along and picked us up. Somewhere along the way I lost my purple frye sandals, that were in the side compartment of a book bag I borrowed for the trek.

Multiple layers of skin- Walking down the street, Chilean empanada in hand I could barely control myself. Yes, I needed to hold the bottom with a handful of napkins in order not to get third degree burn, but the thought of waiting any longer to take a bite was just as bad as putting a tub of ice cream in front of a five year old and telling them they have to finish their vegetables before dessert. So I took a bite, more of a small nibble on the toasted corner, and out dripped the insides of my meat, onion and bean empanada right onto my wrist. A month later I have a scar to remember the day by.

After riding on the back of an Argentinean guys motorcycle to a Lago Puelo, who I swear to god had a goal to kill an american judging by how fast he drove over the speed bumps, I unclenched my arms from the back rest, went to step off and tapped my leg on the exhaust pipe resulting in a burn the size of an oreo cookie, later developing mulitple blisters that resembled gushers.

And I might know a girl who accidently vomited in a bag that she forgot had her brand new spanish-english dictionary, a book she convinced her friends mom to let her borrow during a visit in Chile, stating she would take extra special care of it,  and her second journal, the first one got soaked in a rain storm, inside of it. Supposedly, her sickness was due to drinking the tap water. Thankfully, the journal survived with minimal injuries. The books didn´t make it out alive. I can´t identify the subject though because I swore not to reveal her name due to utter embarrassment.

My goal for February- to straighten up my act.

three wet rats en la calle

I can spot a good diner from a mile away. The cheesier the decor, the better the food. If old tattered men occupy plastic lawn chairs in front of the shop, chain smoking while drinking the morning away, I´m attracted like a magnet. Now, while Argentina might not have what we Americans call a typical diner, they sure do have alot of divvy little restaurants with cheap beer, greasy food and chain smokers. 

I´ve inherited this trait from my dad, who nine times out of ten is totally off when he picks, what he thinks is a mom and pop shop on some highway pull off in no-where-ville, North Carolina. This usually results in my mom yelling at him as she pulls hair out of her food while stating she will never let him pick another restaurant again. Not to worry my future fellow travelers, my judgment is far better. Only once have I dragged people into a restaurant that served milanese chicken, al dente. 

One of my current travel companions, Tom, has the same prefence in restaurants. So yesterday, when I spotted one during our hunger hunt in Rosario, Argentina, I knew we only had to convince Gabe, the third member of our trio. Gabe, who had been in Rosario for three days prior to our arrival, hadn´t even discovered this gem yet. I couldn´t believe it. Since there were no menus, I asked the waitress what they served and when she didn´t answer to my liking, I asked her if I could have fried eggs and toast. Tom ordered the same but added in steak and french fries, immediately after which Gabe and I said ´we´ll have what that.´All of this communicated with my spanish that no one understands here because they replace the ll sound for ja here. God damn Argentineans. 

So we wait. I run to the bank, come back and we wait some more. After 20 minutes we see the waitress coming down the street, plastic bag in hand, with an outline of what looks like a steak inside. Ten minutes later we get our drinks, the waitress pops to the office across the street and delivers coffee and croissants, thirty minutes later our lunch arrives.

Clearly, what we ordered was not on the menu seeing as it took the cook and the waitress three trips to carry out all of food. And the cook, woo, she looked exhausted, it appeared as if she took a dip in the deep fryer along with the heaping bowl of french fries she put on the table, right next to a full loaf of toasted bread, in front of our glistening plates of fried steak and eggs. And did we eat it all, minus the stale tasting bread, yes we did and it was amazing. 

It started to down pour so Tom and I decided we should wait out the rain with a liter of Quilmes-cheap Argentinean brew. Gabe had a spanish lesson at 2pm so we opted out on getting another liter, paid up and took on the rain. For three hearty meals, a liter of beer, a soft drink, bottled water, and coffee it costs us in total, 25 american dollars.

Oh but to back track here for a moment, before leaving I used the ladies room where I found the floor scattered with cockroaches laying on their backs, pretending to play dead. I was convinced as soon as I flushed the toilet they would flip over, take me down and attack. 

I made it out of the bathroom alive, wrapped my purse in a plastic bag and headed for the street. Since no where, at least the places I´ve traveled thus far, in South America has a proper drainage system the roads and sidewalks were flooded. Gabe took off his shoes and then his shirt, which he wrapped his shoes in to ´keep dry,´or enable to show all the women of Rosario his bare chest. Tom, took my arm like I was his 90 year old grandmother since my knock off puma flip flops lacked any grip and I´d already had an incident where I wiped out down the stairs in a busy subway station in Buenos Aires. 

We followed Gabe, who took off running in a direction we soon would find was the complete opposite of the hostel. No one was in the street because they were all smart enough not to go for a stroll during a torrential down pour so stopped we by a store to ask where calle Pueyredon was. The shop keeper told us it was 50 blocks in the direction we just came from. At this point Gabe and I have already busted our ass on some marble textured side walk and we´re all freezing. No cab will pick us up because we look like three wet rats so we walk and walk and walk. Thank god the shop keeper was wrong, or maybe he just got his english numbers confused, but it was only 15 blocks.

We arrived back to the hostel to find out that Gabes spanish teacher didn´t come because of the weather and I informed Gabe he would never lead the way again. 

Bitchin bus rides.

For some people, the thought of sitting on a bus for 22 hours sounds as attempting as jumping off a bridge head first. But last weekend, after of gorging myself with enough food to feed a family and dancing until wee hours of the night, I lept at the opportunity to crawl into my sleeping bag and hibernate for a day.

I intended to leave on Sunday night but due to my lack of, ¨plannifaction- a new word created by Steve Wiland, äll tickets were sold when I inquired at 6 30 that night. Gathering my things to depart the next morning, I realized one of my shoe laces had blown away while air drying on the terrace. After scrounging to find a spare lace-one off my mud smeared running sneakers, my newly purchased black sweater had disappeared as well, my second sweater in 2 months. While some  people might say these examples are repercussions of my un-organization I´d say Santiago has a serious problem with petty thief and black market sales of night time bus tickets. Beware when you travel there.

Boarding the bus, ham and cheese sandwich in hand, I made a little cocoon and attempted to block out the blazing sun. Upon reaching the boarder we were booted off the bus and told to get rid of any produce on us. Awaiting our turn to pass, I sat on rock to read.  While turning a page of my book, the white peach I was eating rolled off the rock and fell smack dab in the dirt.

 Re-boarding the bus we were given our lunch, a ham and cheese sandwich.  I made friends with an Ecuador guy named Alejandro who offered me a free sleeping space on his friends apartment floor after three minutes of meeting him.  A true hippie at heart, he reprimanded me for my common usage of the word hate and told me I needed to flush the negative out of my mind.

 Soon after my lecture on how to love the world, I took part in the bus bingo game. Over the micro phone the first number was called- viente y siete, dosssssssss siete- the second time around breaking down the number for gringo assistance.  The game finished and the winner was awarded a bottle of wine. Then dinner was served.

 Plate of the night- ham, cheese, pineapple, and a roll. Ham and cheese sandwich number three, Hawaiian style this time around. The Zac Efron hit, Seventeen Again was shown. A real thriller it was but since the plot was so hard to follow, I fell asleep after ten minutes due to utter confusion.

 The next morning I arrived in Buenos Aires at 7am. My chair resembling a two year old´s car seat, I brushed off the bits of sandwich and cookies and exited the bus. Parted ways with my spiritual leader and got on another bus to the hostel.

Dinner parties in a different language.

 There are times, after traveling for two and a half months, that you’ll think you have conquered the Spanish language. For example, waking up from Spanish speaking dreams, (once you’re dreaming in Spanish you’re in the clear, so they say) even if the dreams involve less language less and more making out with hot Colombian men. OR, you know, when actually you understand what people are saying.

Any woo, Thursday night was a slap in the face for my Spanish alter ego. After six hours of sitting on the sideline to a Latin America speed speaking competition, Chile winning the event by a mile, I came up with a few tips to help my fellow patriots.

The gringa’s guide to surviving dinner parties in another language

1. Before you go out, buy the cheapest cigarettes you can find. Even if you’re not a smoker you’ll thank me. A great way to blend in and not look like you’re totally lost in space, is to chain smoke with the rest of them. Even if you don’t converse with them, let them bum cigarettes off you all night and you will be invited back.

2. Escape to the bathroom. No one will notice you’re gone because you’ve only said three words in last past three hours. Fix your hair, rummage through the cabinets, compare their tampax preference to yours, maybe pee, take as long as you want.

3. If there is a dog, befriend it. There’s no language barrier when you’re rubbing his belly, and letting him jump all over you-his favorite thing to do and the one thing his owner is trying to train him not to do. You’ll be best friends in two seconds, after which you can go compliment the owner on what a good dog he has. 

4. Lastly, drink like a fish. The more you drink the less you’ll care. Maybe you’ll even build up the confidence to say something.