Paris of the Southern hemisphere

[I'm now back home, getting back into the swing of the real world. Thanks for reading this far! Only this post plus one more to go.]

Landing in Buenos Aires was a shock to the system. 

There was no wind.

It was blazing hot.

The air was really humid.

I'm sure by now you've figured out that Buenos Aires (the air was so good) means "good airs," but indeed, it was actually hazy, humid, and a bit gross. It wasn't the crisp and beautiful Patagonian air anyway. Still, for the early settlers, I'm sure anything that wasn't "malaria" was muy bueno. 

It was also a far cry from the polluted air of some cities I've been to, so no complaints.

No time to think about that though: we were in a classic sprawling Latin American city and had to get to the hotel. Questions abounded: how safe was it? How expensive was it? How likely were we to be pickpocketed? 

The airport had a QR system to lock in a rate for a taxi. We did this and then got in a cab, showing the driver. We started driving, and then the driver started saying something in Spanish we didn't understand, but he appeared to be looking for more money. Something about autopista. The guy was very nice and I said ok. I thought "work with it - let's see what happens." Ellie wondered aloud if we were being scammed. I wasn't sure. I quickly got out my Spanish dictionary and looked up autopista: freeway. A ha, I got it. The driver tried to explain again just as we pulled onto an on ramp. I held up my dictionary to show him I understood, and he smiled. 

And, right on queue, we approached a toll booth. 150 pesos. He turned and looked at me, expectantly. 

"Oh, you need the cash now!" I wasn't expecting that. I quickly pulled out the pesos and we were on the way again. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Many thanks to my aunt for the very generous sharing of hotel rewards points, we were staying at the Marriott snack dab in the heart of the city. It's located in the bustling 9te de Julio, a magnificent promenade carrying some dozen lanes of traffic plus dedicated bus lanes down the middle. Between the lanes and the medians, one could not cross the entire promenade in one light cycle, so I propose to rename it Two-Thirds Boulevard. On the bright side, getting stuck in the median right in front of the Marriott gives you the best seat in BA to admire a Washington Monument-esque obelisk in the center of the promenade and the great Teatro Colon opera house a block the opposite direction. 

Well, the best seat except for the Marriott's rooftop pool on the 23rd floor. 

Staying in the Marriott was great. Extremely comfy beds, extravagant breakfast, really helpful concierge. But it was also a fascinating cultural experience. It was chock full of Americans. If you've ever people-watched Americans in another country, you know where I'm going with this.

In my opinion, a lot of American travelers tend to make unreasonable requests of service staff. There's a certain expectation not only of perfection, but of telepathy. Example: The room isn't ready for another half hour or so. Outrage. "Well how are they going to let us know when it's ready!?" Gasp, heaven forbid you wander around a bit or hang out at the bar and just come back in an hour. 

Never mind that the staff speak perfect English, have called six venues to find you exactly what you want, and have arranged for door to door transport so you don't have to take any risks on the streets at night; it's only grumpy face if the cost is a bit higher than you expected or there's a slight hiccup along the way. 

You also find that places like the Marriott are little havens for Americans to let loose and clump together like birds of a feather. It's not uncommon to hear a group of Americans from all the way across the lobby laughing out loud, talking about home, or sharing a slightly culturally insensitive anecdote. Awkward.

Or, totally unaware of who's in a tour van, assuming everyone wants to be part of their conversation. 

So I find these moments fascinating. I like my people, who are friendly, outgoing, and honest. I'm a proud American and I try to channel these best qualities. But I also have plenty of eye roll and cringe moments abroad. I find myself apologetic for my compatriots. 

For my part as a traveler, I think it's important to always watch and listen, being graceful, grateful, and respectful when I'm in someone else's "house".

By the time we were settled into our rooms, which by the way, were upgraded for free by the amazing concierge staff, it was already mid afternoon. We had deliberately under-planned the Buenos Aires portion of the trip to see how we felt.

So we hit the streets. Our host at Estancia La Estela was a native of BA and had given us a number of recommendations. We decided on this first afternoon we'd go to the obelisk and the stately Avenida de Mayo, stopping at the 160 year old Cafe Tortoni along the way. Stuffed with sandwiches and decadent chocolate tarts (think: Vienna coffee house), we worked our way south rather haphazardly. That's the best way to see a city. Touristy areas gave way to local neighborhoods of varying degrees of affluence, and we soaked it all in (and kept an eye on our stuff!).

We wound or way into the famous neighborhood called La Boca. Italian immigrants landed here in the early 1900s and created this extremely colorful Bohemian part of town. They built ramshackle modular dwellings in patchwork fashion, stacked on top of each other. It became an artists' community and all of the facades are painted in extremely bright colors: oranges, blues, pinks, greens, yellows... It's like a quilt. Throughout the neighborhood, painted plaster characters lean out of upstairs balconies, "yelling" at passersby or beckoning to each other. Market stalls fill the streets, which have a persistent festival atmosphere. 

Not only did we walk through the neighborhood, but we also passed by the stadium for CABJ, Club Athletico Boca Juniors, one of the Cinco Grandes ("big five") soccer teams in Argentina. One of the winningest teams in all of football, it's fair to say they're the Yankees of Argentina. And their blue and gold gear was proudly on show all over the city. 

As dusk drew near, Ellie and I caught a bus back to the obelisk, feeling very comfortable in this culturally vibrant city.

*******

Where Thursday we went south, Friday we went north. Our first stop was a tour of the Teatro Colon, an opera house of sufficient grandeur to rival any in Europe. Supposedly it's has superior acoustics and Pavarotti remarked that these were it's only deficiency; even the slightest error by a performer would be readily noticed by the audience. 

After asking in four places (in Spanish!) where to obtain a subway Sube card, we finally obtained one at a street newspaper stall. The subway itself was excellent - air conditioned, clean, and modern! I love a good subway experience. 

We got off at the Recoleta, BA's wealthy cemetery. I can hear dad now: people are dying to get in. Seriously though, the cemetery in this posh part of town houses row after row after row of mausoleums, packed in like sardines such that there's actually no greenery in the cemetery at all. Just streets of the dead and tile walkways between them. The names of the people here match the names of BA's most prominent streets: D. Sarmiento, H. Yriguren, Juan Duarte, and, of course, Eva Peron, amongst others: presidents of Argentina. The Duartes, including Eva, have a surprisingly plain black marble tomb. 

Our next stop on the tour was Palermo. This chic neighborhood in north central BA is full of tree-lined streets with various shops and restaurants. There was a lot of fashion here, and we enjoyed both popping into different places and getting some good people-watching in. Luccianos Helados (The self proclaimed "masters of ice cream"), The Burger Joint. Ogham bar. And - the best name: the Penguin of Palermo cafe.

This neighborhood also has the best Argentinian food in BA, but those places book months in advance so - no go. Just as well, as we were feeling kind of beefed out (I can't wait for a salad!).

After a golden hour walk through the Rosedel garden, which was in peak bloom and peak parakeet ("squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk", etc), we returned to the hotel to regroup before the evening.

And what an evening! We had booked a 10 pm tango show as our last hurrah in BA. Our show was in an intimate brick cellar with black box style stage. A live tango band consisting of upright piano, bass, violins and two accordions played a set of truly wonderful tango music. Three tango couples danced with flare and passion. There were legs everywhere and acrobatic lifts to boot. A mesmerizing and tantalizing performance... Makes me want to get back into dancing, honestly!

By the way, there were no roses in teeth, in case you wondered. But there were some other folk acts - beautiful opera; guitar, flute, and pipe music, and a stirring (if touristy) rendition of Don't Cry for Me Argentina. Fitting given we'd seen Eva's grave earlier.

And that's pretty much a wrap! Ellie's flight was early on Saturday whereas mine was at night. So I had much of a day on my own. Aside from blogging, I walked to the San Telmo neighborhood, the oldest part of town. Where much of BA has distinctly Parisian architecture, San Telmo is distinctly Spanish, with a gorgeous church and a convent in Spanish style. I also wandered to see the Congress, another magnificent state building in the center of town. With a ceremonial MacDonald's (what, bacon cheese fries and dulce de leche soft serve!?!?) to round out the cultural experience, I headed to the airport.

But I don't guanaco!

Horsing Around

It was really sad checking out from the Estancia in the morning. The staff had been great. The food and wine were great. The relaxing was great.  The room was stunning (and had a blazing shower worthy of refreshing two weary hikers). We had also made new friends with a British couple who were at the end of a month-long trip. She is a pilot and he, a diver. We talked travel and backpacking and the Estancia and Covid, and all sorts. 

It was our last day in Patagonia - for the first time it felt like we were coming to the end of our adventure.

After checking out, we did have one more estancia experience however. A three- hour horseback ride and lunch. The estancia had about a dozen horses that were allowed to roam free over huge swaths of land. When we arrived at the stables, however, three chestnut horses had been brought in and saddled. A private trip!

Our guide, Nelson, didn't speak any English, but as the British guy had said, he was basically a horse whisperer. We put on chaps and Nelson helped us into the saddle. 

I haven't been in a saddle since I was a child. I don't think I've ever been given reins. I quickly felt out of my depth. So I set myself some goals:

1. Take photos, but don't drop the phone!

2. Don't rock the boat. Don't fall off the horse.

3. Before the trip, my parents exhorted me to not harass the locals. I thought that was good advice in this situation.

4. Hold on. See #2.

5. Go wherever the horse goes.

Nelson steered his horse toward the gate. He gave a little whistle. Our horses fell in line. Four ranch dogs decided to tag along.

Everything was silent. The horses walked silently in the sand and, since we rode single file, we couldn't really talk to each other. We left the estancia and followed the lake shore, weaving around and climbing over sand dunes. The views of Lago Viedma, Rio La Leona, and the distant snowy mountains were wild, fierce, and remote in the ever-present wind. I felt connected to millennia of pioneering and exploration in the American West, Asia, South America, Australia, Africa, and Europe. 

We walked along the beach. The wind had worked up some waves and whitecaps, which splashed at our feet. It turns out the horses were scared by the waves and my horse spontaneously broke into a trot to evade the water lapping up on shore. I bounced around in the saddle awkwardly. Poor horse. Poor Dan. After about an hour of walking peacefully (except when the dogs wrangled an armadillo, RIP), punctuated by random trots (see #2) and a few impromptu grassy snacks and sips of steam water (see #5), we came to a little pond with a refugio, or shelter. A wind-torn Argentinian flag flew overhead (a common sight in Patagonia!). There were a couple picnic tables, an outdoor sink, and a corrugated metal sheet in a semicircle. Ellie and I sat down. The dogs were already asleep in the beautiful sunshine.

Nelson went to work, unpacking a bag strapped to his horse. First he pulled out a rustic serving board. It had little holes which he filled with olives, jambon, ornately curled cheese slices, peanuts, and salami. Ellie and I dove in. 

Next, he got an axe from somewhere and chopped some of the twisted gnarly local deadwood. It was extremely dry. Gray outside, yellow inside. He built a fire inside the metal sheet, a wind break. I remembered building a campfire in the backcountry in Yellowstone and how terrified I was of starting a forest fire. I guess that's why the windbreak was slightly protruding into the pond. A quick extinguisher.

A big cast iron pan with three legs emerged from behind the windbreak and was placed in the fire. Nelson pulled out about 6 onions and a couple red peppers and swiftly sliced them like a Michelin star chef. A healthy dose of oil was heated, and then in went the veggies.

Then, three face-sized steaks an inch thick emerged from the bag. Ellie's eyes widened: "whoa!" At first I think she wondered if that included portions for the dogs, but no - just the humans. Nelson salted them thoroughly, then salted the veggies. A herb (oregano?) Was also added to the pan. Finally, as the onions were looking good, the steaks were added. Mmm, the smells. Fire, onions, beef. Yes.

Shortly thereafter, we indulged in our feast: a serving board for each, overflowing with steak, onions, and peppers. A nice basket of bread was a perfect accompaniment, but slightly out of place with the rustic rancher meal. The dogs woke from their slumber to come investigate; no scraps went to waste.

And finally, Nelson came out of the cabin with Cachefaz alfajor for each. I pocketed mine for later.

Alfajores are the dulce de leche sandwiches found all over Argentina. There are several main brands/variants such as Cachefaz and Havanna, although dozens of them exist. Havanna is what we had first thing when we arrived in Buenos Aires - two cakey chocolate or vanilla cookies with dulce de leche filling and maybe another layer, all coated in a chocolate ganache. The Cachefaz alfajores were vanilla biscuits with dulce de leche filling, with the edge of the sandwich rolled in desiccated coconut. I can count the number of Starbucks I saw this trip on one hand, but in Argentina there was a Havanna on every city block.

We packed up and got back on our trusty steeds to return to the estancia. There was a lot more trotting and I finally realized I'd bounce around less if I gripped the horse more tightly with my legs. It must be exhausting spending a day on a horse...

Horse ride complete and feeling extremely content, we hopped in the car and returned to El Calafate. We returned our other trusty steed to the car rental and then took a bus to our hostel. For our last Patagonian meal we went out for... Italian! There's a significant Italian immigrant community in Argentina, and the pizza is quite good. I had Del Bosque, a combination of "forest" mushrooms and olives. Ellie had pumpkin ravioli, a popular Patagonian option.

The next morning, we hopped on the plane back to Buenos Aires (the air is so good).