In Transit

The first leg of my journey to China was an entry into the U.S., changing planes at Washington DC. Not having had much to eat on the previous 11 hour flight and facing the prospect of a further 5 hours, I caved and bought some airport food. I looked for the most un-fast-food-looking place I could find and settled for a toasted tuna sandwich. It was made "fresh", as in freshly transferred from the freezer to the grill, and wrapped in a couple layers of deli paper, then placed in a brown paper bag.

With no time to eat before boarding, I took it on the plane to wait until I was allowed to use my tray-table without causing whatever gruesome accidents all airlines fear will happen if you unfold them before reaching cruising altitude. (Severed arms? Dented foreheads? Passengers rendered uncontrollable by the sheer excitement of repeatedly folding and unfolding the tray-tables during the multi-thousand-foot climb? Who knows.) Unfortunately by that time the dirty little secret of the airport food stall had been revealed. The sandwich had soaked through all the layers of paper to literally drench the brown bag with grease. When I picked it up from the floor where I had left it during takeoff, there was a small pool of grease left behind. It occurred to me that it would be fitting if, when re-entering the U.S., the immigration control agent handed over one of those sandwiches when saying, "Welcome back to the United States, sir."

I wish I could remember the name of the stall to warn anyone reading this. Unfortunately the best I can do is to recommend giving a wide birth to any food around gate C-2 at Dulles International Airport. Oh Buenos Aires, I'm already longing for your empanadas and ice cream, with sidewalk cafes where people don't eat dinner until 11pm.

MIA

I was meant to catch a flight out of Buenos Aires last night when I realised I hadn't rounded out my tour of hospitals, so instead ended up spending many hours going through various tests and doctor's consultations with a slightly worrying case of an inflamed appendix. But that's a story for another day. Luckily I was cleared this morning and am about ready to set off.

The real point of this post is to let everyone know I'll be out of contact for the next 2 to 3 weeks. No blog posts unfortunately so as not to incriminate myself. I'll leave you with this strip from my favourite comic of all time, Calvin and Hobbes. (Click to enlarge.)

Language Progress

A few days ago I had a breakthrough. I sat down at a cafe and while waiting for my food to arrive, picked up Clarín. Now I know what you're thinking - uh oh, he's hitting the pills hard. No, it turns out that despite the name and logo, Clarín is one of the main papers in Buenos Aires. As far as I know there are no addictive properties, though they do try to draw you in by highlighting key phrases which makes it seem like you're reading a gossip column about Kate Winslet and Brad Pitt when in fact you're reading about the latest homicide.

In any case, I picked up the paper to kill time and found that I understood most of it. It took some work, but what a satisfying feeling. It's a change from my current project of reading the first Harry Potter in Spanish, which has me simultaneously looking up almost every word in my 1,100 page Spanish/English dictionary.

I also find myself having the occasional dream in Spanish. This of course can be confusing when English-speaking friends pop up and I push on trying to converse in broken Spanish with them. When I wake up I inevitably have dozens of grammatical questions about the things I said. They usually bug me until half an hour later when I can't remember the dream anymore.

Going... Going... Gone!

Yesterday I had a nice surprise waiting for me when I got back from working at the food bank. Someone had left a business card on my door with a short printed note. I seems "Patricia" had someone all lined up to buy my flat. I like people who show initiative, but I was baffled as I wasn't planning on selling the place. In fact, I assumed that, being merely a tenant, I couldn't legally do such a thing. But I put those doubts aside when it occurred to me that Patricia, who makes a living in real estate, must know more than I do about the intricacies of property law in Buenos Aires.

And the more I thought about selling the flat, the more it made sense. I've learnt that you should always have some leverage when bargaining. My landlord is holding a month's rent worth of deposit and I'd quite like it back when I leave. I can imagine squabbling over a broken glass or scuff on the floor, and it sure would give me an edge if I could casually mention the impending sale of his flat. The way I see it, he'd have to cave to my demands otherwise I'll be running around China with his money. Maybe as part of the bargaining I could even make him teach me the art of making mate like an Argentinian. Anyway, I digress...

As I was saying, the deal was starting to make a lot of sense. "Not only is this Patricia a go-getter, but she anticipated my needs," I thought. She sounded like someone it would be a pleasure to do business with.

So today I gave her a call. Being a clever businessman, I had prepared for the negotiations by thinking over how much my offering price should be. I needed to make sure I would be selling for an amount that would give me bargaining power with the landlord. After all, if I offered him only $400 in exchange for my $500 back, it wouldn't be very compelling for him. So I decided to use the deposit as a base and add a bit on top. $800 seemed like a fair price to me. I just hoped Patricia would think so too.

"I received your card," I said when she picked up the phone. And then added, "me encanta!" I'm not sure if this was the right thing to say, but I've heard it often in situations when someone is really enthusiastic about something, and I wanted to start the conversation off in a friendly manner.

I told her I was very interested in selling the apartment, and she seemed enthused. We talked a bit, and I asked about the buyer she had lined up. She was vague, but it appeared that her company had lot of clients, and lots of them were keen on purchasing it. She then said she was interested in coming to see the apartment. I thought it a bit strange considering she already had a buyer, but decided to let it slide until we got to the details of the deal.

Unfortunately things took a downward turn when the conversation turned to the topic of my renting the apartment.

"How long are you renting it for?" she asked.

"Two or three weeks more," I replied.

"Great. Well, give me a call when it's cleared out," she said, and before I could summon the correct phrases in Spanish to let her know that I would no longer be in the country by that time, much less in control of the flat, the conversation had ended. When I heard the "click," I knew Patricia had put the phone down not only on our conversation, but also on my dreams of running giddily through the streets spraying everyone with champagne from the proceeds of the sale. It seems I still have some things to learn about business negotiations in Buenos Aires. (I didn't even get to the price haggling, which I was looking forward to. I had secretly decided I would drop down to $600 if need be, but would put up a good fight first. I do quite like the place after all.) For now, I suppose I'll have to keep being careful not to damage the apartment before I leave.

Love All Around

From Anne's SLR Film

People in Buenos Aires have a fantastic way of replying whenever you thank them for something, be it at a store, at a restaurant, or on the street. "No, de nada," is the response, or some close variation thereof. While it may not look like much in writing, the "no" is always emphasised and drawn out in a way that makes it sound like a close friend saying "don't be silly, it was my pleasure".

The fact that this reaction to "gracias" follows as naturally as a bulb lighting up when you flick the switch is both comical and endearing. The other day as I was riding around on the metro, trying to take some pictures¹ of the old wooden carriages on the A line in rush hour, I was half tempted to blurt out a random "gracias" just to feel the warmth of dozens of "no, de nada chico"s shower down on me from all sides. I didn't, as I feared the inevitable awkward silence that would follow.

I'm slowly getting the impression that Argentina is a country that has embraced the philosophy described by The Beatles in "All You Need Is Love", and it's not only for the above reason. It's not uncommon to see couples heavily making out on park benches, in doorways, or just in the middle of the sidewalk. The love here also extends to inanimate objects like mate and the thermoses bearing hot water with which to make it. Whether relaxing in parks or strolling through a Sunday antique market, it often seemed like Anne and I were the only ones without the companionship of a gourd and thermos.

There is a very precise technique to making mate to which I am not privy. I can only assume that as young schoolchildren, Argentinians spend years in science class learning the exact temperature to heat the water to, how to pack the mate leaves in the gourd, and where to place the filter straw you drink the tea through. In all fairness, maybe my slightly bitter sarcasm comes from feeling like the kid left out of all the games of duck-duck-goose wherever I go. Though I should say that now I've started helping at a food bank, I've been initiated in the social ritual of mate drinking, and I can see the attraction.

I have heard that people in Uruguay actually exceed Argentinians in their mate obsession. Apparently some have perfected the technique of holding an open thermos in the crook of their armpit and a cup in the hand of the same arm, then shifting their shoulder slightly to pour hot water into the cup. While riding a bike. This I have decided I have to see, so I'm hoping to take a weekend culture safari there to spot it in the wild.

1. Unfortunately, all the pictures are far too dark. I will need to get better scans somewhere, or perhaps find some high-speed film and spend another hour in hot stuffy underground carriages to get better ones.↩

Correction

I made a mistake in my previous post when I mentioned Argentinian beef exports are forbidden. Attempting in depth discussions in Spanish is dangerous for me, as it seems I misunderstand things worse than Ronald Reagan when he tried to use Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA" as his political campaign theme song. What I'm trying to say is, I was wrong - beef exports are allowed.

From 2 to 1

From Anne's SLR Film

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I planned my stay in Buenos Aires to extend a month or so past when Anne returned to Germany. Having just got back alone from going to the airport with her, it sure doesn't feel like a good idea. We've shared a lot of good times and she's taken care of me through bad news, as well as the many times I got sick.

We've had to leave each other at airports about as many times as I have fingers on my hands. They say things get easier with practice, but in this case all it's done is let me know ahead of time exactly how hard it will be here without her.

Have a safe trip home Anne, and good luck starting your job. I miss you.

A New Home

I signed a 1 month apartment rental contract on Monday. At least I think I did. The contract was in Spanish, so for all I know there may have been some subtle legalese which obligates me to donate organs too, but so far no-one wielding a scalpel has come knocking at my door. In any case, I'm now living in a one-room place in a nice area of Buenos Aires. There's a sushi takeout one block over (California rolls continuously beckon) and a video rental store nearby with a sign outside for Samuel L. Jackson's "Terror a Bordo". I can't help but think that with a translated name like that, "Snakes on a Plane" probably loses its comedic value.

I'm really enjoying having my own space and being able to buy groceries to cook. I saw a bottle of "Mexico Sauce" in the supermarket which piqued my curiosity. How do you distil an entire country into a small liquid filled bottle? And what would go in "America Sauce"? 2 parts entrepreneurial spirit, 1 part religious fervour, a dash of political corruption and a sprinkling of ignorance, all mixed in an oil base?

Food

So you walk into a restaurant. The lights are dimmed and the place is nicely furnished - dark cherry wood tables, off-white cream linen. You look around and see couples talking, their faces lit by the candles on the tables. Some light music plays softly in the background.

You sit down and order yourself ravioli with a tomato cream sauce, a side salad, and a glass of wine. The food arrives and you tuck in. The pasta is fresh, the ricotta and cheese filling is subtle, the rose sauce has a touch of garlic, and all the flavours mix wonderfully in your mouth. It's one of the best meals you've had recently. Although you're stuffed at the end, you can't pass up trying a desert - a crepe filled with dulce de leche and a scoop of banana ice cream on the side. When made with real fruit and cream, banana ice cream is tough to do right. But from the first bite, it's clear this place knows what they're doing. It's smooth and creamy, not icy, and with only enough sugar and vanilla to bring out the flavour of banana, not smother the taste.

When the check comes, you signal to the waiter. "This can't be right. The prices on this bill are all mixed up."

"Oh no sir," replies the waiter, "I'm quite sure we didn't make a mistake."

"But look," you say, "right here. My main dish - you've only charged me the price of a side of fries. In fact, the total on this bill is a third of what it should be."

"That's right sir. We're running a special right now."

"Really? That's incredible! Fantastic!"

"It is sir. In fact, we're not the only ones. Kesta, next door to us, is doing the same thing. And so is Mezziati, 2 blocks south. In fact, come to think of it, so is every restaurant in this whole city."

"What an opportunity," you think as you pay your bill and walk out dumbstruck. As you wander home, you think about trying ultra-chic Olsen's the following night where a main is normally a wallet-busting $45, now reduced to an easier-to-swallow $15.

---

Welcome to the world of Argentinean restaurants. Of course, had the above scenario been true, the waiter's reaction would have been more along the lines of "Are you nuts? Our economy crashed. Thanks for rubbing it in my face buddy."

But as a foreigner without the problems of a devalued currency, it's a strange place to be. Places like Peru and India are cheap, but in many cases so is the quality. My experiences so far in Argentina suggest prices are low without the corresponding drop in quality. Ordering a deliciously prepared organic, free-range, grass fed steak costs little more than a Big Mac in the US. Even the airline-style meal on the bus from Bariloche to Buenos Aires came with steak. I've heard that one of the reasons meat is so cheap is because exports are forbidden. Opening up meat to exporting would raise the local price, which in turn would enrage much of the populace for whom it is a large part of the culture.

I was surprised a few nights ago to walk into what I thought would be a nice casual cafe, only to be treated to excellent service, extras like fresh bread with a tomato and herb sauce, and a pizza covered with chopped fresh basil. (In our first several months of travel Anne and I had trouble finding anything fresh. If you grew up in Ecuador you'd be forgiven for thinking carrots are grown in tins on supermarket shelves. So I was excited by fresh basil.)

It's a nice place to end my South American travels, and I think I'm going to enjoy the following weeks here in Buenos Aires. It's also interesting to try to understand the cause of the current scenario. I'm slowly uncovering memories of high school economics classes with Mr. Martin, although it's too bad many of them were scheduled right after lunch when I was at my drowsiest.

Dreams

I've heard it said that when you start dreaming in another language, you know you're starting to get a good grip on it. A couple weeks ago I had a dream where I was in a store and the lady behind the counter was speaking Spanish to me. Great stuff, except I couldn't understand a single thing she said. I wonder if that counts?

In totally unrelated news, I got another roll of film developed. Pictures are online here. Try to ignore the washed out look of many of them - I really need to get better quality scans at some point. Had I had them ready earlier, this photo would have gone under the title of my "Summer in Patagonia" post.

From Chile / Patag...

Next stop: Buenos Aires

Tonight my stomach is full with home-cooked steak, wine, and chocolates. Tomorrow I leave Bariloche, which has supplied me with this excellent food. (Chocolate and ice cream are the delicacies this town has a reputation for.) One of the things I've really liked about walking around here is seeing the window displays at the chocolate stores. Or more precisely, the people standing looking at them. There's one store with a chocolate fountain in the big glass display, and I love seeing full grown adults stop and stare at it, like kids seeing the newest toy on the other side of the glass just before Christmas. You don't see that innocent wonder on display by adults much.

Summer in Patagonia

From Patagonia

Trying to find inspiration to write after several weeks' absence from the internet is difficult. It would be easy to continue coasting along without looking at emails or blogging but, as with getting out of bed on the weekend, what's good for me sometimes requires effort.

We ended up spending 9 days on the Paine circuit. The terrain ranged from the famous Torres to the immense Glaciar Grey, the weather from rain to snow to the occasional bit of sun to extremely windy, as this entry from the minimal diary I kept describes:

Day 3: Crossed a pass. Wind so strong it blew the spit out of my mouth and the snot out of my nose.

With gusts that literally pushed me backwards several steps, this was no exaggeration. The first half of the trail was relatively isolated and provided a chance to meet some of the other trekkers whose trip coincided with mine and Anne's. Among others was the group we ended up joining at the end of every day, the retired Alaskan couple on their fifth trip to Torres del Paine and whose hiking abilities far surpassed mine, and a woman from New York who commented on the second day that she could have seen the same scenery in New Hampshire. Anne restrained herself from suggesting she go back and finish her hike there.

Apart from the shared conversations while warming ourselves round wood-fired stoves, some of them expanded my knowledge of the English language. Memorably, I learnt the phrase "fuck this shit" can be used not only when you are tired of many days hiking and camping without a shower, but also as a concise way of signifying your desire to leave the dinner table.

The second half of the trail was more accessible to buses and ferries from the nearest town, which brought many day hikers staying in comfy lodges. They breezed past with tiny backpacks by day, and at night as I pitched tent and huddled over my camping stove to cook dinner, I consoled myself by feeling smugly superior.

Speaking of dinner, food figured prominently in the 4-5 sentences I wrote to my diary each day. It's no surprise that when spending hours every day trekking to the next campsite while staring at a spot on the ground roughly 2 meters in front of you, fantasizing about food becomes a regular pastime. I went from imagining what I'd like to eat, to telling Anne in tantalising detail how I would prepare the food (heat up the pan with olive oil, tip in chopped onions, listen to them sizzle, add salt and fresh ground black pepper while you smell the aroma of the onions beginning to caramelise, etc.), to writing diary entries such as this:

Day 5: Leftovers @ breakfast. 2 women who paid for a meal at the hut couldn't finish their food. Excellent start. Too bad we won't see them again.

All this despite eating very well considering Anne and I carried our supplies for the entire trek. Maybe my body is starting to notice the 6kgs I've lost since the start of my travels several months ago and wants them back.

The second hike was a much shorter and easier 4-day affair in Parque Nacional Los Glaciares in Argentinian Patagonia. Christmas day brought views of 2 beautiful ice cold lakes at the base of the Fitzroy peak, along with a lunch where the friend we hiked with excitedly exclaimed, "It's Christmas! What do you normally do to celebrate?" to a trio of Israelis.

Despite the short days, Anne and I, together with a couple others, rewarded ourselves with a large home-cooked steak and vegetable stir-fry dinner at the end. After 3 bottles of wine between the 4 of us, we decided to check out the only bar in town. We stopped en route to convince some renovation workers in the supermarket to open the doors at 1am and let us buy 2 more bottles, which the bar let us bring inside - a sure sign of a friendly small town. We realised the next day on the 15 hour bus ride over unpaved bumpy road just how bad this seemingly good idea was.

The next couple weeks will be a journey north, recrossing into Chile to travel part of the scenic Carretera Austral up the Andes. I'm hoping to make it to Argentina's winemaking region before heading to Buenos Aires. I've been wanting to do a bike tour of wineries - a combination, like chocolate fondue with strawberries, that has the potential to fantastically exceed the already enjoyable sum of its parts.