Buenos Aires

After another sleepless overnight bus, I arrived in Buenos Aires exhausted. Excited as I was to see the city, I spent a day recharging at my hostel. The next afternoon, I had to find another place to stay because the hostel was full. Waiting on my bed was Steve, a friendly and outgoing Brit. He´s got a red beard, a nice collection of floral t-shirts, and either a brilliant wit or an endlessly funny accent. When I left for the apartment I´d found on Airbnb, he tagged along. Mariana, the apartment owner and my new housemate, assumed Steve was my boyfriend. She offered us tea, and the three of us were fast friends.

Buenos Aires felt familiar and comfortable. I ate well and drank late with Steve, Mariana, a trio of attractive Brazilian Med students, and few others from Steve’s hostel. One night, at a fancy dinner with six people who barely knew each other, we played “Two Truths and a Lie.” I was slightly offended that nearly everyone got this wrong: I have three "moms." I won a state tennis championship. I had a hair replacement procedure (See: Wayne Rooney).

In addition to the thriving nightlife, BA has a lot to offer. Among my favorite finds were a world famous burger joint, a speakeasy in a flower shop, a 24 hour pingpong, billiards, and foosball bar, and 20 something professional soccer teams. The people are also extremely attractive. I really enjoyed it there. Overall, the city and my setup made me feel more at home-away-from-home than at any point since living in Italy, which gave me a good chance to reflect and relax...

At the risk of seriously boring you, I'm going to elaborate. Here´s a bit of a “what I’m thinking” interlude from all the “what I’m doing.”

This trip has been incredible. By the time I'm finished, I suspect it will have been the best and most important year of my life. No Shit. People want to find chinks in the armor, and seem curious about the dark side of extended solo travel. What are the challenges? What do I miss about home? Etc. I miss peanut butter. I love my family and friends and am anxious to see them again - in fact, travelling and making friends from everywhere has often made me more appreciative of my people - but that never translates to wanting this ride to end. Although there are moments - usually lazy mornings, or lonely nights - when life doesn't feel as good as it is. When I remember that I still have questions to answer at home, and that I'm really just kicking the can down a very long and beautiful road. Or when I'm reminded that I'm consuming, polluting, and making impossible-to-maintain friendships. And I'm not creating. My artistic and productive side, which was proud to be a hard-working and successful professional, occasionally feels lost. I also get traveler’s FOMO. There’s always someone with a more interesting story to tell. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing it wrong. But the lows don't last long. They’re irrational. It is hard to know how, or if, this trip is changing me. I only know that I feel free, excited about what I've done, anxious to explore more, and extremely fortunate to be here.

Road Trip

The freedom of having my own set of wheels was well worth the wait. We had an amazing five days full of kind people, few tourists, beautiful national parks, and wide-open roads. But it got off to a rocky start. As a pedestrian, I'd seen many well-behaved cars flagged down by parked police officers. The drivers always seemed unbothered, and the cops looked relaxed. I assumed these were routine license or sobriety checks. And after two hours of driving we'd already gone through several checkpoints. So when we got waved to the side when passing though a fourth checkpoint, I thought nothing of it. But 20 minutes later the officer handed me a $75 ticket for driving without my headlights on - in broad daylight. He was unsympathetic, and handed me “la multa” with a gotcha-gringo smirk. You live, you learn. It turns out cops everywhere are pricks.

Otherwise, it was smooth sailing. With a couple of exceptions, roads were great, accommodations were comfortable, and people were friendly and helpful. We were caught off guard by a constant struggle to find gas and food, but one or both always arrived just in time. THIS was, more or less, our route. I would struggle to list or describe all the highlights, but here are a few:

We visited Parque Provincial Ischigualasto and Parque Nacional Sierra de las Quijadas, which are two of the three parks that together comprise “La Ruta de los Dinosaurios.” Seeing the fossils and a certified, in-context, barely cordoned-off dinosaur footprint were definite highlights.

There were long stretches of empty roads flanked by beautiful rural landscapes of all kinds. Marion and I both wanted to spend more time exploring the remote villages along the way. As a side note, I have to admit some bias here. When I picture small American towns and back-country roads, I think of the NRA, mega-churches, and people that would think the aforementioned dinosaur footprint is “probably about 6,000 years old.” And yet, when abroad, I am enamored by the same rustic escapes I would avoid at home. Why? Dunno.

After checking us into our hostel on night three, the man behind the front desk asked us if we wanted dinner. He suggested we go next door, buy a chicken, a pepper and “nada mas.” Two hours later we were treated to an incredible asado feast, which we enjoyed around a backyard table with the charismatic hostel owner, eight of his friends and two other french travelers.

The last day we drove across the mountains on a one lane gravel and dirt road, and we didn't see a single car for 2 hours between towns. It was as peaceful of a place as I can imagine, and the scenery was stunning, albeit simple.

Marion was a great travel buddy. We used almost exclusively Spanish to communicate, which must have been a strange sight for anyone that could see how poorly we both spoke. But we enjoyed making fun of each other's accents, and generally agreed on the important stuff and travelled at about the same pace.

Cordoba

Another overnight bus got me to Cordoba, this time very comfortably. Unlike the previous week, I had no problem finding a hostel. It turned out Cordoba was fresh out of tourists, so I spent much of the week wandering around the city solo, or hanging out with people that worked at (or lived at) my hostel. It was the first time since those first two days in Brazil that I failed to meet anyone that spoke fluent English, but now that I have learned the backpacking ropes, I enjoyed the time alone.

A full night in Argentina looks something like this: dinner at 11, drinks at 1, dancing at 3, sleep at 6. I’ve seen many toddlers eating with their families well past midnight. Even a laid back night here can go past 4. And because my hostel served croutons and jam for “breakfast,” I didn’t bother to wake up before 11 all week. Suddenly, I felt like a freshman in college again; sleeping until lunch and still wanting an afternoon nap. A group of hostel employees playing Dave Matthews Band and Greenday from the lobby adjacent my room completed the illusion.

I considered skipping Cordoba, but I'm glad I didn't. The center of the city nicely combines a colonial history with a modern incarnation as a university town. I spent my days exploring old buildings and new museums, and my nights with locals in sidewalk bars (fittingly) full of college students. My Spanish is still very limited, but it has gotten good enough that I can survive an evening with a non English speaker. This, more or less, has been the goal since I arrived, so I am happy to report that progress is good.

A few days into my stay, a pair of french girls I’d met in Mendoza arrived in Cordoba. We spent a bit of time exploring together, but didn't link up often. Marion and I did, however, decide to take a five day road trip, and backtrack towards Mendoza to see the parks we were unable to reach during the Easter holiday. I was finally able to find a rental car that wasn't outrageously expensive, so the plan stuck.

Mendoza

The bus from Valparaiso to Mendoza took exactly 8 hours. Although the view from my seat wasn’t quite what I hoped it would be, the drive across the Andes was spectacular. The formula was simple: gray rock, gray sky, white snow, and a lonely road snaking between imposing mountains. At 22,841 ft, nearby Aconcagua is the tallest mountain outside of Asia, and it’s got plenty of company. The road itself is also impressive. During one stretch near the Argentine border, the bus navigated 27 switchbacks in just over five miles.

After several hours the mountains turned to foothills, and rocks to vineyards. Mendoza, the heart of Argentina's wine region, is a verdant city with a beautiful, mountainous backdrop (see above). But my time there wasn't as relaxed as a week in wine country should be. I met some great people, some hilarious people, and some obnoxious people. I spent a day biking between vineyards and tasting wine, and a couple days exploring the city and its surroundings. But I also spent a lot of time suffering the consequences of not pre-planning a busy Easter holiday (a four day weekend for Argentineans!). Every hostel was booked, every car was reserved, every bus was full, and every store was closed. The National Parks I wanted to explore nearby felt JUST out of reach. I spent 5 nights in 4 hostels, and two of them were terrible.

On the flipside, I enjoyed spending much of the weekend with a group of vacationing Argentinians, and it was nice to see a city in vacation mode. I went to an actual discotheque (ew. that word.). I also learned that beef is such a pervasive part of Argentine culture that it is (borderline?) acceptable to compliment someone’s figure by saying “¡Que lomo!” (What a Tenderloin!).

Valparaiso

There is a lot I could say about Valparaiso.

It became the largest port in South America during the California Gold Rush, but collapsed just as quickly after the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914. Colorful houses and ornate buildings were vandalized and left to crumble. 100 years later, thanks to Chile's growth as an agricultural exporter, and an influx of tourists after Unesco named Valparaiso a World Heritage Site in 2003, there's been a renaissance. The city was given a facelift. But when old walls were covered with fresh paint, they were quickly tagged anew. So property owners allowed street artists to paint murals on their walls, because they aren’t usually vandalized. This unofficial embrace of graffiti art fostered a very creative culture. Now, world-famous muralists flock to Valpo, and students sit on winding stairways, furiously filling sketchbooks with drawings of the city.

Valparaiso's grit is matched by its charm. It is a patchwork of brightly colored corrugated houses, thanks to some construction techniques that relied heavily on shipyard scraps. It's also (allegedly) the only city in the world that still uses funiculars as part of its public transportation system. It plays host to an unusual mix of dock workers, businessmen, casinos, artists, students, tourists, prostitutes, and stray dogs.

I'm sorry for rambling, but the point is that it's a unique place that is especially alluring to designers and artists. I also met a trio of Germans whose company I really enjoyed, so it was inevitable that "one or two days" would turn into a full week.

The highlights: Wandering around the city, A vegan dinner at a “restaurant” that was really just some guy’s house, a day at the beach, shopping at the farmer’s market, and the usual dose of good times getting to know good people. The lowlights: Stepping in dog shit. That time I dumped a whole beer in Lene’s lap. Learning that sometimes the same qualities that make hostels great places to meet people also make them terrible places to avoid people you’d rather not have in tow.

Santiago

Southern Chile had been amazing thanks to the abundant natural beauty and the people, but certainly not the towns and cities themselves. They had seemed to get worse the further we moved north. So, after hearing that Santiago wasn’t worth any time, I was expecting the worst. I ended up there because it was the cheapest destination from Puerto Montt, and because the bus ride across the Andes to Mendoza is supposed to be spectacular. I assumed I’d be there for a quick day or two and head for the greener pastures of Argentina.

I walked out of the metro station to warm and sunny weather, palm trees, live music in a shady plaza, people riding bikes, and the energetic buzz of a city with places to go. It seemed clean, well-dressed, cosmopolitan, artistic, young, friendly. And it was the first time since starting this trip that I no schedule. I went to a few museums and (gasp) a church, partied until 6 am, watched El Classico in a bar full of Madrid fans, and went to dinner with a nun-turned-lawyer. I spent four days there, and enjoyed all of them.

Navimag

Without a car at our disposal, We took a 24 hour ferry from Coyhaique to Puerto Montt. It was a derelict operation. Formerly a popular booze cruise, alcohol was no longer served thanks to a series of unfortunate events. A trip had been halted by a beer can carelessly thrown into the engine room. A cabin had been destroyed when someone passed out after lighting a camping stove in their room to cook a midnight meal. So, we did what any gentlemen like ourselves would do without alcohol at their disposal. We played chess.

Even though we passed through the best landscapes overnight, the voyage was beautiful, and it gave me a thirst to return to Patagonia to properly explore the relatively untouched  mountains along the carretera austral.

We disembarked in Puerto Montt, a city that even the locals dislike. Prostitutes. Stray dogs. Casinos. The stench of canneries. It made Coyhaique look downright charming. It was possibly the ugliest place I’ve ever been, and the gray weather wasn’t doing it any favors. The guide book says that the best thing about Puerto Montt is the variety of ways to leave.

It was a shame that Clay’s last hours were spent there, although we made the best of it. I really enjoyed the two and a half weeks since Clay had arrived. I was excited to get out of the wind and cold, and to get back to the rhythm of travelling solo, but I was sad to see him go.

Coyhaique, Etc.

Generally speaking, the rest of our time in Patagonia was unremarkable. Our plan had been to rent a car and drive the Carretera Austral, but that turned out to be impossibly expensive. From El Chalten, we basically just stumbled our way back into Chile and up the coast, until we reached Puerto Montt where Clays departure was scheduled. There were beautiful moments though, especially during a few bus rides, and some other unexpected highlights. Vast plains, green valleys, huge mountains, and ridgelines that look like the crooked teeth of some predatory fish.

An aside: Israelis travel in huge numbers, and they aren’t especially popular. They tend to band together and stick to routes well worn by other Israeli backpackers. They have a reputation of being loud, inflexible, and more interested in bringing Israel to the world than expanding their perspectives. I was beginning to buy in to the stereotypes, but wasn’t happy about it. Shortly after El Chalten I told Clay that I needed to somehow expose myself to more Israelis for longer. It’s too easy to see a caricature from a distance.

So, I couldn’t complain when we arrived in Coyhaique, and two guys who noticed we looked lost led us to a hostel that we quickly learned was “99.9% Israeli.” The hostel was a total dump and was overcrowded, but the only out would have been to tell a room full of Israelis that they had bad taste, or that I wasn’t fond of their kind. Give it a night, I thought to myself.

Coyhaique is a stopover town, and offers little more than a couple good fishing spots. It’s especially bleak when the weather is bad and the fish aren’t biting. But here’s the moral of the story: We spent 4 days failing to find a car, fishing without much luck, sleeping in a shithole hostel, exploring a bummer of a town, suffering through a rain storm, surrounded by Israelis, and somehow had a great time. There had been good people, quirky places, a wonderful lady cooking breakfasts, and a life that was delightfully different. It all culminated in a homemade burrito dinner on the last night, where Clay and I watched 15 stoned Israelis devour 2 bowls of guacamole we’d made for them, and we thoroughly enjoyed their company. Go figure.

El Chalten and Mt. Fitz Roy

Next up was El Chalten, a small town with just a few paved roads. It exists because it is walking distance to one of Patagonia’s most picturesque series of peaks. Our day spent hiking to the viewpoint at Laguna de Los Tres was maybe best since Clay arrived. The scenery was on par with Torres del Paine, and we weren’t sitting on a bus. We hiked roughly 12 miles through battered, twisted forests, marshy plains and up a steep mountain to another alpine lake, at the foot of a series of dramatic granite peaks. At times, Patagonia made me feel like I was in a Lord of the Rings movie.

The following day was rainy, and we were exhausted. We took the day to repack our bags, recover and shop. At dinner time, we found a bar selling local microbrews. Shockingly, we nearly missed our 10pm bus. I almost wished we HAD missed it, because it was a miserable overnight ride. Uncomfortable seats and sweltering heat kept me awake all night.

El Calafate and Perito Moreno

After a morning spent line-drying everything in our packs, we took the 5 hour bus to El Calafate, Argentina. Tobias, a Dane who was the best friend we’d made on the W trek was in town waiting for us. Its well known that Argentina has some of the best meat in the world, so our first dinner in the land of Messi was always going to be a steak. Tobias had been in El Calafate a few weeks before, so he took us to a restaurant he’d liked. The recommendation was good and my steak was delicious. We stopped at a bar for one drink after dinner, and bid farewell to Tobias.

The next morning, a small bus collected us from our hostel atop the hill. There was a tour guide on board, who used the hour long drive to Parque Nacional Los Glaciares to tell us about the landscape. She was a quirky, energetic lady, prone to over-dramatization and laughing at her own jokes. “And now, prepare, your mind, your body, your soul, and every cell of your body, because in a moment, you will see for the first time, the spectacular PERITO MORENO GLACIER.” I wished she’d had a soundtrack.

She was right, it was spectacular. I’d been excited to see it, but also expected to be somewhat underwhelmed by a very touristy block of ice. But I was blown away. First of all, it’s BIG. Roughly 200 ft. from the water line to the peak of its face, and at least a couple miles across. But more importantly, it was exhilarating to watch the glacier calve. Chunks of ice the size of 20-story office buildings splashed into the water, accompanied by a sound similar to the crack of nearby thunder. I got goosebumps. We spent 3 hours at the park, and my eyes were on the glacier almost the entire time. It was very difficult to look away, for fear of missing something big. But you feel a little silly, because 99% of the time, nothing is happening.