I Got My Hair Pierced in El Bolson.

It seems like a land that would draw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I grew up adoring that movie, never knowing it wasn't entirely true. My dad, who introduced me to Butch and the Kid, gave me In Patagonia before we left for Christmas. It touches upon the legend of the Wild Bunch and their addiction to hold-ups. Lloyd and I are in El Calafate now, in the heart of Patagonia. The town is full of watery-eyed, gortex-clad, walking stick-toting tourists, who come to walk amongst giants- the famed glaciars of Patagonia. The wind is incessant, and so seems to uproot the majority of the surrounding flora, save for some blustered wildflowers. Artisan chocolate and slow smoked lamb smatter menus. Microbrews and malbec are guzzled while the sun circles the sky lazily, never fully commiting to the concept of setting for a full nights rest. Parrilla is on every menu, and visible from every restaurant window. A meager, smoky fire sits under inclining steak stretched thin and taut over a wooden cross. Glaciers and ice capped mountains always seem to sit just on the other side of the range, accessible by inventive transport methods- mountain bike, 4x4, horse, or boat. The fruit is surprisingly fantastic, and we are frequently offered fresh raspberry jam, small bowls of cherries and, curiously, a plethora of nectarines, whose orchards surely cannot survive a windy, snowy life in Patagonia. Aside from empanadas, fast food life is limited. This is a culture of restaurants and slow cooked meat. Even beverages are slow. Yerba is a drink that requires an immense amount of intricate rituals. Mine is a wooden cup, made from trees up in the north west near Salta. I've been told that the flavor of this wood affects the yerba so dramatically that most people prefer gourds or metal. You fill your mate (the cup) 2/3 of the way with yerba (the tea like substance that Argentines inhale). Placing your hand on the top of the cup, dump the yerba out onto your hand and reverse back into the cup, thus allowing the silt to stick to your hand. Wipe your hand on your jeans, or Lloyd's jeans, as the case may be. Create a mini-hill in the cup after you dig your straw into the yerba, then pour hot, NOT BOILING, water onto the bottom of the hill, the opposite way your would pour a beer to avoid head. Refill infinite number of times. Enjoy. Tada!

Dedo Gordo.

We have finally made it to the wind-swept land of Patagonia. Mariah suggested many places in South America, but El Pueblito Hostel in the town of El Bolson is the only accomodation she recommended. Figures. Its hippy heaven. On our first night, we heard of a refugio, a refuge, called Dedo Gordo, Fat Finger. We packed a sandwhich and a warm pair of socks and hiked an impossibly steep hike five hours up the hills surrounding the valley El Pueblito nestles into, past waterfalls, wildflowers, and gauchos. Halfway, we caught up with seven Argentines, who were, aiding a strenuous hike with some tobacco smoke. They had ginormous bags, and I suddenly begin to feel we were underequipped with out baby day packs. They had sleeping bags, food, pillows, sleeping mats, lots and lots of things we did not have. When we reached the refugio, Lloyd was certain we hadn't reached the place yet. It was, maybe, MAYBE, 75 square meters. That's right. 8x8 feet. And 16 people slept in it that night. And two kittens. We filled each space of it, and everything hangs strategically from the rafters like an ecclectic laundry line. The four hour hike in the windy hills have left me slightly ill, so the gracious and slightly eccentric hosts have offered me a teaspoon of prepolio, which, from my broken spanish, translates to a kind of miracle liquid made from bee venom diluted in pisco, a very strong alcohol. It's horrible, but I pretend it works for everyones benefit, who want to see the american girl cured with a beloved argetine medecine. We were the only non natives, cats included, so we sat on a bench, massaging our weary feet and happily accepting the sitting down position. I was on a bench inches from the cast iron stove, apparently on the cats beds, because they perched on my knees, occasionally clamboring for the knee closest to the warmth. The windows were plastic sheets, I figure because getting most anything up into a place as remote as that required horse transport, surely, and glass isn't something a courrier would accept as a parcel if he travels by horse. Three people got lost on the hike up, not paying close enough attention to the red splotches of paint on a tree every fifty feet or so. They realized they went to far when they hit snow. SNOW, people. They owners of the place told me it once took someone nine hours to find the place. They made us a hearty starchy dinner while the 12 other hikers looked over their undercooked plain noodles with jealousy. I have no idea what the gypsies names are who I've been stuck with overnight in thie generous kitchen they calla refugio. Candle wax drips down empty bottles of Mendoza Malbec, Mate cups sit hald forgotten under various sausages drying on strings nailed to the walls of this rudely carved cabin, and the music from a pair of bongos, a guitar and a harmonica mix with the heat from teh sooty, cracked stove in the center of the room. Out of pity, we were placed closest to the stove, and given scratchy blankets. The next morning, we have a fill of coffee and homemade bread (they really do that well in this country) and dulce de leche (that too!), and paid the bill, which COMPLETELY cleaned us out. So much so that after our four hour hike back down the mountain, we didnt have enough to take the bus back into town. We had to convince a skeptical taxi cab to get us to a bank. After a microbrew in town and a huge lunch, we fell asleep back at El Pueblito at six p.m., and slept through the night, sore and very happy.

One uncomfortably intimate evening with Buenos Aires' domestic airport.

I'm not sure if we can tack this up to rustiness or cockiness, but I effed up. Royally. And I dragged Lloyd with me. We spontaneously purchased tickets last night to Ushuaia, the world's closest port to Antarctica, Argentina's mot southern city, "the end of the world". I haven't heard great things about it (expensive, grey, disappointing), but we needed to pick a direction in this pointy country, and bragging rights were not far from our minds. I booked us two tickets for a flights from Buenos Aires domestic airport to Ushuaia on January 13th at 5:00. I am not sitting in Buenos Aires' domestic terminal food court, baggage strewn at my feet, on January 13th, and the time is now 6:58. 6:58 p.m., 13 hours and 58 minutes after the flight took off at 5:00 a.m. Sigh. Stupid military time. Without an extra charge, we can take tommorow's 5 a.m. flight to Ushuaia...if two seats open up. Luckily, the airport is open 24 hours, Lloyd doesn't hate me, and I've got some documentation to take care of.
7:48- I buy hamburgers in the refreshingly crowded food court. We have yet to attract the attention of the employees who, I am sure, love watching sweating, swearing souls beat feet through the crowded terminal, hair unkempt, shoes untied, jackets trailing out of closes suitcases. I have offered to play as Lloyd's personal servant for the reminaing hours until, fingers crossed, our flight takes off, but he'll insist a burger will do. Fine. Done.
8:09- Vodka is added to our cokes.
8:54- Seats in food court are getting REALLY uncomfortable, but according to Lloyd's recent toilet break, there areother backpackers, who, apparently, also need to sleep in the airport because they too come from countries who don't observe military time because its STUPID.
9:30- Paige finishes her book, and sadly discovers that Lloyd doesn't like cards.
9:35- Paige gives in and watches soccer, which plays 29 hours a day in this country.
10:16- We move out of the food court when luckly locals are packing up and go home and sleep in their own beds. We watch an episode of Family Guy, one we've watched so much we quote most of the episode. Pretty sad when you watch television just to pass the time. Waiiiittt.... Isn't that what t.v. is for??
2:08- Jolt awake on the hard marble floor of the airport, zamboni type machine almost runs over my feet.
3:20- Check in our bags
5:01- Plane for Ushuaia leaves full as a tick on a dog, without Lloyd and Paige aboard.
5:02- Paige cries.
5:48- Retrieve bags from "Lost and Found". I am marginally relieved that they are not on their way to Ushuaia without their owners.
6:15- Moves in a hazy state for the next ten hours, misses a second flight to Ushuaia, gives in a buys a ticket to Bariloche, paying, in total, more than the longer flight to Ushuaia. Not the second sigh of the day.
I could go on. But I'm not too keen to relive the experience. All you people need to know is that we made it. To Bariloche, that is.

No, there isn't a rose between his teeth.

We were introduced into the sensuous world of tango in its appropriate capital. Now, let me say that days before I left, I had breakfast with my dad and seamus mcjorge, a very dear friend of ours. Seamus has become an avid salsa enthusiast after some trips to Cuba, and in the midst of gushing of its awesomeness, mentioned how stuffy tango is and how he would never want to, ahem, make love to a tango dancer. We sat in the french brasserie inspired cafe near Casa Rosada, Argentina's version of our White House, and watched some mesmerizing dancing on stage. The piano, cello, flute and ever so tangoesque accordian crooned emotion for the couple, who slank (which I believe is the past tense of slunk) around the stage, he with an unfortunately childish ponytail and she with heels and a revealing new outfit for each song. He flung her around, she kicked between his legs, a good time was had by all. All said and done, the tango is, to Seamus' credit, a technical dance meant for straight legs and rigid arms, all with heavy overtones of lust. A strange combination that seems to work for experienced lovers who understand each other very, very well.
To make the situation all the more charming, the show was held in Cafe Tortoni, the oldest cafe in Buenos Aires. It seems to capture Buenos Aires' european heartbeat, with its very french architecture, a wide bar filled with vermouth and backed by a large mirror, the name Cafe Tortoni painted with a stylized hand behind a tuxedoed waiter drying brandy glasses sullenly with a tea towel.

Oh, and then someone tried to pick lloyd's pocket on the subway. Ahh, the sophistication of travelling.

Settling

So, Ive got the double L down. Its "j". Like, Me jama Paige. Moving on. Lloyd and I managed to score an amazing room in the same hostel, after last nights live concert right outside our room carried on so loud and so long that the sweltering heat didn't seem to affect me. We are now perched on the corner of the block, looking down onto a moderatly busy intersection, but with superb views of all four directions. There is a curious closed patio facing the corner, where I shaved Lloyd's head this afternoon. I opened the three ten foot windows in the two by two space, and I imagined leaning out a la Evita, to speak to the citizens of the great city of Buenos Aires. It was all very romantic. Speaking of Eva Peron, we stopped by her cemetary yesterday, great big giant buildings erected in the honor of the cities wealthiest members, clad in ebony slabs and ivory angles. Tommorow, we tango. Well, technically, WE don't tango per se, but we have perchased tickets to see a show at cafe totori, the oldest cafe in Buenos Aires, where, going back to romanticism, I imagine Borges scribbling away or Che smoking a cigar. It was a day of Paige's imagination gone haywire.

Arrival

So, my mom keeps reminding me that if I continue on with my dream of being an interpreter, I will be able to continue travelling for many years to come. I am trying to eat this up, but, to be honest, the title of this blog could have also been the last hurrah. I am returning to school in a matter or mere months, and so I need to backpack it up like the half adult that I am.
I arrived in Buenos Aires today, in order to hit up Patagonia before it turns into a frozen wasteland, opting instead to see it with the rest of the travelling world, more specifically, every nationality besides american, BADAM BING! Anyone?
Its quite hot, but more noticable are the locals. They don't look mexican. Yes, I know its terribly racist to say this, but I don't have experience with anyone more south than mexico, and I was not expecting europeans and asians and the like. I like it. This means I fit in. And for the most part, I do ok, struggling through with my meager spanish, but what the hell is with the brazilian shu or ju? Its weird. Callao isnt "Cayao", its "Cabjwasdfa*&$%o". I'm outta my league. Where is Vista Del Sol when I need it? Well, were off tonight to get some beef and wine, then lying motionless in bed for ten or so hours, not so much sleeping as doing my best to become one with a really uncomfortable pillow and bed (ahhh hostels, how I've missed you so.)