What am I doing

Egypt… why the name of Carlyn’s photo album is perfect: Once is Enough

netsy19 — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 08:20:00 GMT

Remember that feeling before Christmas… that anticipation… like when you were little and couldn’t sleep because you were going to Disneyland the next day? That excitement of wanting to go to bed extra early so the next day will come even sooner? Not since the anticipation of the breakfast buffet at the hotel near Harvard, have I wanted to go to bed at five o’clock just so that I morning will come sooner (that buffet was awesome… just ask anyone who played college softball… there was a waffle bar… and pancakes… and little mini Heinz catsup bottles… it was like Christmas for starving college students) ok… where was I? Oh yeah… I havn’t had that feeling in years until the day before we were scheduled to dock in Alexandria Egypt.

We were going to Africa.

We were going to Egypt.

We were going to see the Pyramids.

The only surviving World Wonder of the ORIGINAL World Wonders This was big… Rhodes was cool, but the Colossus is gone. Gardens of Babylon… Gone. Statue of Athena… Gone. Light house in Alexandria… dude, we’re going to Alexandria! Yeah, but it’s gone too.

THE PYRAMIDS! Out in the middle of the desert… camels and stuff. I was like a giddy five year old who had just eaten one of those yard long pixy sticks… I couldn’t sit still…. I was going to get to go to the pyramids. This, needless to say was a quite an interesting cruise for a trip to a conservative Arab nation… being a ship of 2500 gay men getting. I’m not quite sure who thought this would be a good idea and I’m really not sure if Egypt knew what hit them.

After a night of tossing and turning due to the excitement of visiting a world wonder made worse by the Jurassic park vibration being caused by the 3am-7am disco above my head. Six thirty came none too soon and I was too excited to eat. Meeting in Ocean View I was that ungodly chipper morning person receiving guttural growls from my bleary eyed dining companions while they slowly attempted to eat their bacon in peace.

8am… All the gay men had been told to act as straight as possible, and I had dressed in my most modest linen pants and sleeved shirt. No House of the Virgin Mary/ Blue Mosque short shorts and strapless shirt issues today. Mainly because I had been told I wouldn’t be let off the ship. What seamed like the entire crew assembled on the I-95 (the main corridor running forward to aft in crew areas on deck 2) and were handed back our passports (the first time I had seen mine in five months) and lined up to be led to our busses (approx. one hour later)

Bus One, the casino bus (and apparently glassblowers, and Javi)… Being bus one does not necessarily mean that your bus will arrive first, but it does mean you will be able to get off the ship first and not have to stand in the provisions area any longer than necessary.

Minus the initial overwhelming, knock you down, eye watering smell of sulfur, the drive from Alexandria to Cairo is surprisingly similar to the drive from San Diego to Vegas… eerily similar, except instead of Carl’s Jr’s at the strip malls lining the side of the freeway it’s a Hardies, Starbucks, Burger King, Mc Donalds, Pizza Hut, and pretty much any other franchise America could export and call “food.” Under pass… just like the drive to Vegas…

Then, just like the drive to Vegas, there it was, a pyramid. Except this one wasn’t black, there was no light shining out of it, everything was a lot dirtier. And honestly, I think the Luxor actually has fewer buildings around it.

For those of you who have never been to the Pyramids, you will be surprised to find that they are in the middle of downtown Cairo. You can purchase a track home on the out skirts of the Pyramids, or perhaps you’d rather have a Pyramid in the your back yard, just a stones throw from your condo (which appeared to be made of mud… the whole city appeared to be made of mud) Not quite as serene as we had all assumed they would be. Everyone on the bus had pictured the pyramids just like they are in the, apparently photo shopped, photos… out in the middle of nowhere desert… maybe a stray camel wanders by every once and a while… out by themselves. Nope, they’re surrounded by city.

While this was all sinking in, our friendly tour guide informed us that we would have a half hour at the pyramids… WHAT? A half hour? That’s it? I drove 2.5 hours to get a stinking half hour? Fine… I’m going to take as many pictures as I possibly can in that half hour…. If I can detach the death grip of the small child attempting to sell me stuff, avoid his four brothers yelling “dolla, dolla, dolla, dolla” and sticking postcards to me, and not hold on to anything the guy with the camel hands me.

While tripping through the gauntlet of small children telling me they really like Canada (I’m Canadian today) and trying to apparently re-dress me as an Arab man (do NOT put that head dress on me… I have NO clue where that’s been) I notice Carlyn has been suckered onto a camel. HA. Sucker… What? Hold… huh? What’s this? A whip? What the? How did I end up sitting on a camel? DUDE… Camel guy has my camera? Camel’s standing up… Shit! ARIC… THAT GUY HAS MY CAMERA!!!!!!

Ok, Aric, being probably the most perfectly awesome guy for the situation (being in a bad mood) took charge. While my camel ran off with me, he retrieved my camera. While he was repeatedly asked to hold things, he, unlike me, refused every time. My personal favorite when he informed the man leading the camel that, NO, he was not going to hold the reins, THAT”S YOUR JOB!!!

Without Aric to physically place himself between me and guy trying to get my money I sincerely believe I would have returned to the ship with out a cent, and probably having most of my belongings replaced with postcards, headdresses and carved statues of Isis.

The police arrived with big guns and the camels and children scattered.

Back on the bus. Shuttled to an overlook for fifteen minutes of more pictures, more children selling things for “one Obama Dollar,” more guys trying to place things on my head (DON’T TOUCH ME I DON’T WANT LICE) and every male tourist posing in the same arms crossed chest puffed out I’m a man at the pyramids stance (for an example see Javi’s picture on facebook)

Back on the Bus. Dude, I always pictured the Sphinx as bigger… the one in Vegas is bigger. We have one half hour. Aric described it best when he commented that this looked like the place the local teens would hide behind to sneak late night beers.

My favorite is that the Sphinx is just about 150 yards away from a Pizza Hut. It’s noseless face actually stares directly at the big red and black plastic sign.

With all this running around in the Egyptian heat it was beginning to get rather warm and needless to say, in my long pants and sleeved shirt, I began to glissen… ok, I’m not going to lie…. I was perspiring like I’d just been sprayed down with a hose. I found out that this perspiring tended to make my pants stick to me. I then learned that when climbing up and down to get just the right pose kissing the sphinx, pants that stick do not have the same give that non stick pants. This led to five or six inch tear in the ass of said pants. There goes dressing conservatively so as to not show any skin.

Back on the Bus. LUNCH. Off to the Egyption Buffet. Nothing spells health code violation like B-U-F-F-E-T, and I don’t know about you, but the word parasite comes to mind when I think of Egypt. So lets combine the two! Fantastic idea! I have an even better idea… I’ll try a little bit of everything just incase something has been sitting out too long… Perfect! The best thing about lunch was the $3 Coke. It might very well have been the best coke I’ve ever had.

Back on the Bus. To sit on the bus and wait for the casino staff to return from KFC. Yep we all found out later that they had had a great idea.

Now, I know I was excited about what came next. A whole hour and a half at the papyrus store. I really would have felt like I missed out if I hadn’t had the opportunity to watch the papyrus making demonstration then wander around the store for the next hour… 30 minutes at the pyramids, 15 at the over look, 30 at the sphinx. Thank god we didn’t miss anything in the papyrus store.

Finally… back on the bus. Sleeping through the ride back, waking only when the tangible smell of sulfur hit me up side the head, we returned to the ship. Ending our trip to Egypt Carlyn and I wandered the makeshift souvenir shacks lining the port, looking at Egypt souvenirs made in china, we both bought something knowing full well that we would never, ever, ever be back to Egypt… ever….

I have my Made in China proof that I was there. I recommend it once. And if I ever have the inkling to visit again I’ll head to Vegas where the pyramid’s shiny, the sphinx is bigger and the buffet doesn’t give the entire entertainment department food poisoning…

Naples... coffee... life update

netsy19 — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 11:30:00 GMT

So I’m sitting here at a café in Naples sipping an espresso typing away on my laptop. Sounds romantic right? Have you ever been to Naples? I’m drinking the worlds strongest coffee hoping that it will overpower the smell of urine wafting towards me from the nearest planter. Naples is not the cleanest city to say the least. The coffee shop (the only coffee shop I’ve found so far with internet… sporadic at best) is situated under an overpass/bridge and everything is that same concrete/pollution grey except of course the urine soaked fake flowers in the planter to my right adding a little orange and green to the otherwise humid darkness. So I figured I’d suffer through and finally up date this blog, filling everyone in as to where I’ve been, what’s happening, etc. Its only been three or four months, so how much could have possibly happened right? Ha ha. I wont be filling you in on all the details but I’ll hit the big ones.

I’m wrapping up my six month stint on Solstice and am still enjoying myself although I think my body is starting to feel it. For the first time in my life I slept all day. I think I’m a bit tired.

I have two cruises left. The next is the Atlantis charter. This consists of 2450 gay men and a smattering of lesbians onboard for nine days. The ship in their own entertainment, cruise director, and DJs. Parties last all night and… here’s the kicker… We’re headed to Egypt. Dude, I get to see the pyramids… and no one is going to hit on me. It’s going to be awesome. We’re going to try our best to keep all the shows as family friendly as possible, maybe throwing in a rocket ship or light house in there every once and a while for fun. Hopefully, if I’m not too exhausted I’ll actually write something. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up because I live under the disco which apparently will be running around the clock.

The cruise after that is normal. I’ll be packing and getting everything ready for Eric to take over when he gets onboard and trying to see everything I haven’t seen at any of the ports. In theory I disembark the ship on the 18^th and fly out of Rome back to Corning on the 19^th where I will be greeted hopefully by someone picking me up (any volunteers) and a place to stay (anyone have a couch?) I’ll be in Corning for about 10 days… then off to Africa.

Yep, I’m going to Africa. Just bought the ticket yesterday and damn, Africa must be far away cause they done charged me a lot. It’s 27 hours of travel time, I lose a day there and a day on the way back. I’m headed to S. Africa to visit a friend I met onboard in Durban, then we (his dad, brother, and another friend) will be flying to Nairobi, Kenya, to then fly to Kilimanjaro, Tanzania.

Dude… I’m gonna hike Kilimanjaro. In case you didn’t know, it’s the highest mountain in Africa.

Yeah.

… then at some point I head back to Johannesburg and bum around in my usual style for a few days. Corning, ship, repeat.

So, at the moment I’m exhausted, facing a week of gay men partying above me 24 hours a day and attempting (not to successfully) to train to climb a really tall mountain. Yeah. I’ll let you know how it goes. So far most of my training has been focused on buying miscellaneous gear for the hike. Not such an easy task when you factor in the $.08 per minute I pay for a not particularly reliable internet connection. Or I have the option to wander the streets of various ports carrying my open lap top and looking lost. Believe it or not this sometimes works… other times it results in muggings (not yet thankfully though… but Naples is a bit on the rough side) But this has been the perfect excuse to buy a new coat in bright green with more features than my car. I’ll never pass up the opportunity to discuss the pros and cons of pit zips, 800 fill, DWR and having things seam sealed.

So… I’ll keep walking up the stairs to work everyday (10 floors, not too bad) and walk around the pool (a whole 1/8 of a mile) Unfortunately, there isn’t much opportunity to train at altitude seeing as I live 10ft above sea level…

And for those of you in SD I’m planning on being home the last week or so of October so we’ll all have to get together then and I can share my wacky stories of my weird and wonderful life.

Hopefully more to come soon. And if anyone is interested in accompanying me on this hike, let me know. The more the merrier.

Oh yeah… and I’m not kidding if anyone in Corning wants to lend out their couch.

Dude! I finally wrote something

netsy19 — Sun, 10 May 2009 05:26:00 GMT

So I think everyone would agree that I’m pretty much sucking at this whole blog thing…. Basically, I’ve been really busy… and really sick… all at the same time. Horrible combination. But, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been enjoying my self.

We’ve made it to the Med! Which is awesome… although, I havn’t really gotten off at many ports in the med, I can forsee it being awesome…. When I’m not sick.

The transatlantic cruise went un believeabley well. The demographic was perfect for us… 2200 passangers over 55. Glass collectors and long attention spans here we come. The only problem was that the cruise was 14 days long. In 14 days of shows we ended up pulling out all the stops. We had passangers asking us how to do an inclamo (for those of you that don’t know this two bubbles connected together.. a fairly time intensive piece that we wouldn’t usually do) Basically, we had groupies. We had a strong following of about 15 or so passangers who came to almost every show. Gail actually did come to every show. Missing dinners, leaving ports early, just to see us. She would also bring us snacks and when she found out that Brenna was leaving and didn’t have a carry on bag, Gail brought one up to the stage. We are garonteed to see some of these people in corning. Many promised to stop by this summer and say hi, others were already looking at class schedules. It was great. Except for the fact that at some point (or in my case, the entire time) we were sick. Brenna had it the easiest, Donnie had to sit out a few days, and I just felt like death the entire time… pretending that I wasn’t really sick.
There is some virus going around the ship and everyone on the crew has gotten it to some degree. I still feel like poop.

It probably doesn’t help that my room is directly below the disco so I get to here thump thump thump till 3 am every morning. Pretty much guaranteeing that I get a maximum of 5 hours of sleep.

So, Lisbon was awesome… we didn’t pay for our bus ride, we shopped, and of course, we ate Indian food (because it only makes sense that when in germany eat we should eat portugues, so when in Portugal we should eat Indian.)

In Sevilla… I didn’t get off the ship and attempted to get healthy again (this attempt failed)

In Malaga we ate Tapas and shopped… I now have a completely new wardrobe (always useful when all your other clothes are dirty and you want to avoid doing laundry)

In Barcelona Don, Brenna and I bought a ticket for the hop on hop off tourist bus and played tourist… Very easy to do with Don dressed in the all American polo, complete with Calaway golf hat and walking around confused as to why they don’t take the dollar anywhere. Asking questions (in English) like (holding out a handful of euro coins) “Can I get a ten spot for these?’ if you can imagine, it was pretty entertaining…. Barcelona is beautiful though and I would have loved to have spent a month there. Unfortunately we only had a few hours and had to be back on the ship by 6:30. But with the bus ride we were able to see quite a bit of the city. The architecture is AMAZING!

Piza, Florence…. Yeah, tried to get healthy and missed these. I hear there’s a cool tower or something though. Missed it. Maybe next time.

Rome… well, cittaviccia to be exact. About an hour outside of rome. I got off long enough to make sure that Brenna had a ride to rome and that Donnie made it to his bus and that Steve and Dan were able to get onboard.

This cruise: Santorini… Beautiful, I rode a donkey up and ate an octopus, drank wine and loved it. (for those of you not familiar with santorini, it’s the picture you always see of Greece. White houses blue domes, arches, pretty water… pictures don’t do it justice) And we got to ride donkeys up the steps to the city (it’s a very steep island we have to take a boat to then either walk up, tram up, or in our case donkey up) so mine was actually a mule, but I still had a blast.

Mykonos: Awesome. Little white houses, cute cafes, a little tiny beach in the town. Apparently there are really nice beaches on the other side of the island, but we didn’t make it to those. Maybe next week

More to come

On The Road Again

netsy19 — Thu, 5 Feb 2009 23:19:00 GMT

So… after a less than spectacular 19hour trip from Ft. Lauderdale to San Diego, I have spent the last two weeks doing, well, nothing. Ok, that’s a lie. I had a belated Christmas, got wicked sick, puppy sat a feisty yellow lab who had a taste for magnets, went to the driving range once, pretended to have graduated from Cornell’s Hotel School for a few nights, distracted Tracy and Rory at work, packed pretty much all my belongings, and took my car in to get a tune up before yet another road trip.
The tune up is where the problems started.
Thursday I took my car to the Mazda dealership (after my mom’s insistence) for an oil change and tire rotation. Driving home after paying a few hundred dollars more than anyone should ever pay for an oil change and tire rotation, I noticed, driving 60mph (being passed right an left) down 805, my watch, wrist, hand, and arm had begun to bounce and quiver right to left at what seemed to be a super sonic pace. It seemed my car had picked up a bit of a shimmy from the dealership. Then it hit me, they had rotated the tires….
Unfortunately my tires were not the same size. Why? you ask. Well, it seems that during my last adventure cross country, somewhere around telluride, some nice road worker had dug a trench. I proceeded to hit that trench. Going, at a low estimate, 70mph (don’t ask Donal… I’m sure his story paints my driving skills in a slightly different light) Not until the next day did Donal and I actually take a look at the tires. By that time my nice little low profile tires had each developed matching tumors in the sidewalls. These tumors threatened to burst the my front tires at any moment….
We were kind of near four corners. If you have ever been to four corners you would know there is not much there. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of visiting four corners (where Arizona, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico meet) imagine an immense desert, a two lane road… yeah, that’s about it. Oh and a gas station out of the last century, rusted, unused pumps, a few tires sprawled around, peeling faded blue and red strips painted where a sign should have been affixed and no 195/50R16 (apparently an odd sized low profile tire.) Lucky for us, there was a man “working” there, albeit there couldn’t have been much work. He was nice enough to look at me like I was crazy to have driven there at all, and point us back, 40miles or so, to Durango Colorado which, believe it or not had multiple tire stores from which we could choose.
Not that that meant they had my size tires. So basically, after having directed all the other information about my car to Donal (who doesn’t own a car or drive) the mechanic pulled me into the garage and bitched at me about keeping my car well aligned. Bitch session was due to the fact that I had warn the tires down to the steel belts… oops. But on my own behalf they tested the alignment and it was perfect. So, I was told that the only option was to replace my now busted front tires with larger tires (205/50R16) and then switch the larger tires to the rear.
This trip to the garage all came back to me in unmistakable clarity as I shook down the freeway with my larger, unbalanced tires now on the front of my car.
It was Thursday.
In denial, somehow thinking that this shaking had all been in my head, hoping I wouldn’t have to take my car back to the dealer, I had my mom drive my car… on the three quarters of a mile of freeway between our house and the grocery store there was only a slight quiver in the wheel not the ungodly shaking of the afternoon before. Granted I don’t think the car ever made it over 50, but it was enough that I could convince myself the shaking maybe was all in my head. I called the dealer to explain my oddly sized tire predicament and make sure the larger tires were safe on the front. I was told that, while it looked stupid, it was in fact, safe.
Sold.
No trip back to the dealer for me.
Saturday… Dad drove the car… we were all stunned that the doors didn’t fall off with that much shaking. Goodyear’s Superbowl Sunday hours were looked up and the car was brought in that morning.
Goodyear: My front tires (the smaller ones) were peeling. Mazda hadn’t told me that? My radiator something something (pointed out to me) tubey thing had a slight leak. Not really a problem, but had Mazda told me? No? My shocks were 30,000 miles past when they were supposed to be replaced. Mazda? No? Really?
See a theme here? So… somehow, for my safety, I agreed to get brand spanking new shocks. He’d make a deal for me though, the fourth one would be free, and he might even be able to cut a few bucks off the two new tires I needed also.
So, very rarely am I that girl. But when it comes to cars, I am that girl. The girl that knows absolutely nothing. I might as well walk into the office with my purse wide open and a sign on my forehead that says “fleece me” I can’t even pretend to know something, anything really. The vocabulary is all foreign to me. My alternator sprocket needs a new shroder head? Blankly nodding I do my best impression of a dear caught in headlights then ask how much it’s going to cost. $1300. Really? Well, you know best. Ok.
So, the tires, shocks and probably an alternator sprocket’s shroder head were paid for and replaced. But my car was now all shiny and ready to drive 3000 miles packed down with hundreds of pounds of my crap.
Or so I though. It was Sunday night by the time I got my car back to the house and started packing. The plan was to leave before noon Monday. Having packed my car full once or eight times before, I knew the routine. Cargo box on…. And shove as much stuff as possible into it. Although now I had quite a bit more stuff than previous years. Because of the cruise, I had to bring things like prom dresses and tasteful, smart causal attire, clothes that could no longer double as napkin or packing material. And all those clothes came with matching shoes. This looking nice think is a pain and takes up a lot of space.
So, in the cargo box goes cruise wear, tent, sleeping bag, ski pants, half my glass (30lbs) glass tools, climbing shoes, harness (you know, the essentials) In the trunk… well, anything else that would fit. Plus I had to factor in both parents (330lbs) and their stuff (dad: 15lbs, mom:50lbs) Because, apparently parents have to have somewhere to put their feet, I had to leave a few things home (to be shipped later): backpack, bike, golf clubs, bouldering pad, snorkeling gear, softball equipment, any and all kitchen items except my knife and espresso maker, and ski boots.
By noon-thirty Monday, after one minor breakdown (happens every time I have to tetris style mash all my things into my car) we were ready to go. House locked up, encyclopedia of Buddy waiting for the dog sitter, all other cars quietly parked and ready to go unused for a week, we backed out of the drive way only to hear the horrible gravel like grinding of my back tire on the inside of my wheel well.
Hmmm, I think it was just something shifting in the trunk…. AHHH, there it is again… ok, that’s not right. Straight back to good year. Long story short, 24hours, spring spacers, smaller tires (yep went back to the 195/50R16,) 21.6 miles of test driving my car while holding my breath waiting for a horrible grinding noise, and somekind of rusted suspension socket replacement later we were on our way… minus 43lbs of cruise clothing to be shipped later.
So New York here we come.

The "Real World"... ewwww

netsy19 — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 21:00:00 GMT

Waking up at incoherently at 4am to blearily look around the room, I wonder, “Where the hell am I?”

Wait, this is familiar, it’s coming back to me now… I’m home. Ahhhhh…

It’s nice to be back. San Diego’s not too bad a place. I can drink the water (not that I wasn’t drinking it in Buenos Aires… and I am still alive) I have a kitchen to use… and its stocked with usable pots and pans, complete with un flaking Teflon and with out the mystery black crust burnt to the bottom. There’s a refrigerator lacking miscellaneous rotting foodstuffs, my family is here, and home just wouldn’t be home without Buddy the bipolar dog.

It is going to take a while to readjust to “the real world.” Not that I’ve ever really lived there. I keep saying “gracias” to all the waiters. I know the customs guy yesterday really appreciated my “Hola.” Converting all the prices from “pesos” to dollars is not going to help me financially. I need to remember that a $15 meal here is actually $15 not $5. And the fussy South American plumbing has me well trained… I hesitate to throw the toilet paper in the toilet, only breaking down when I realize there is no trash can. (South American plumbing is sensitive… toilet paper is just too much, so it goes in the waste basket next to the toilet. This may not seem sanitary but I’m going to have to guess an overflowing toilet is worse.)

My favorite part of the return to the “real world,” is that it's time to think about making money again… well, I’ll put that thought off till after Hawaii in December, and I do have that day of work in Florida with the museum, but something tells me that’s not going to be quite enough to support myself for the coming year.

So, that ever fun thought…what odd job to do now? Somehow I need to figure out how to support my new travel habit… where next? India? Laos? Patagonia? I hear Thailand is nice. So many choices, so many great places, and I’ve got my rabies shots… Time to start planning…

Insomnia at 15,000ft

netsy19 — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 01:30:00 GMT

Sleeping on planes seems to be something I am physically incapable of. At this point, seeing as I had only gotten 10 hours of sleep in the last 3 nights (thanks to a chorus of snoring and 3am poker) I would think I could have slept anywhere. But no, not on a plane.

I was tired enough to nod off sitting outside gate A: upright on a stiff plastic chair, waiting for my plane to board. Occasionally I would jolt awake to make sure I hadn’t missed my flight...or that someone hadn’t stolen my bag (which was wrapped around my arm... I was tired enough that I’d probably have never noticed) But alas... shuteye on the actual flight eluded me.

Ok, I lie. I did nod off for a bit right before dinner was served. Yep, you heard right, they serve food on these Argentina airlines (beef, surprise, surprise...not that I'm complaining) as they should for $362 US one-way. I, being a well trained United States traveler, made sure to buy some sort of food before boarding for fear of a 6 hour flight with only a bag of peanuts to satiate my hunger. Needless to say, the $4 US ham and cheese sandwich I shoved in my face prior to take off was about as good as you might imagine a $4 airport sandwich to be... flavorless and overpriced. No sooner had I eaten than I wished it had never entered my mouth.

The few times I did fall asleep in my window seat, I was tired enough to wake up confused as to where I was, thinking I was still at the Hostel Esteril with all my buddies... only to be let down when I realized I was actually very uncomfortably pinned between a window and a small Peruvian woman, on my way to Lima (not all that excited about about Lima) and wondering if the weird pain emanating from my neck would go away soon.

On my trip, fellow travelers had shared with me a variety of remedies for this sleep problem. Most involved alcohol, Ambien, or Valium. Remembering this, I thought of the bottle of wine in my back pack (previously given to me as a going away present from Barak - an absolute sweet heart... do you see why I didn't want to leave Buenos Aires?)

Now I know what you’re thinking... "But how do you open the bottle of wine on a plane?" Well, due to hasty sleep deprived early morning packing coupled with a complete lack of forethought, I had, in my carry-on, my leatherman, complete with corkscrew and 3 inch knife. Now, how is it that this is still in my carry-on? Why didn’t security confiscate it? You’ve got me... While happy I didn’t loose my $50 multi-tool, I am not feeling any safer on this particular flight (oh wait, I’m armed... maybe I'm safer.) It’s not like I didn’t have to put my backpack thru an x-ray either (although on my way to security I was really hoping that x-ray machines hadn’t made it this far south yet) As casually as possible throwing my daypack over my shoulder and walking away from the security check point I envisioned a large uniformed Argentinean official tackling me from behind while yelling incoherently in Spanish. All due to my smuggling weapons into the duty free zone. But none of this occurred, I was free to get my exit stamp and wander, armed, thru the tax-free displays of perfume, cigarettes, alcohol, and (only in Argentina) grass-fed, free-range beef.

Potentially, I could open up my bottle of wine right there in 16F and drink myself to sleep. I might even have some of those mystery cold meds with the smiley faces that I got in Bolivia. I’m sure the combination would have me snoring just as loud as the guy sitting behind me.

The only problem with this scenario would be that in 2 hours I have to be semi-conscious enough to get my bags, get thru customs, and find a proper taxi to drive me to my hostel (you know, one that won’t kidnap me... I think it has something to do with the numbers on the window... or a certain sticker or something... I should probably figure this out) Oh, and people would probably look at me a bit funny were I to uncork a bottle at 15,000ft (they might not appreciate the knife either)

So, instead I guess I’ll just continue being that girl with her reading lamp on, unable to sleep. I’ll share my insomnia with those around me, lucky enough to be kept from counting sleep by the blinding light shining down from above me.

Misery loves company... I guess I could offer them a glass of wine.

Gallery: San Telmo

netsy19 — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 07:22:00 GMT

The Sunday Market

San Telmo Market

netsy19 — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 21:48:00 GMT

Headed to the San Telmo market this afternoon, while trying to avoid the prolific number of dog droppings, I noticed that all the side walks are different. It appears that each store owner/building owner is responsible for the side walk in front of their building. Most seem to be some sort of tile, some fancier than others, and many are often broken. This combination of broken tile, occasional gaping hole, and smattering of dog feces invariably means that 99.8% of your time while walking is spent looking at the ground. A bit of a shame in Buenos Aires since the architecture is pretty amazing, especially in the old part of San Telmo, where I was heading.

Sundays in San Telmo there is a market. It is huge. San Telmo is mostly antique stores to begin with (hundreds and hundreds of them with practically anything you can imagine) but on Sunday the road fills with all sorts of vendors, artists, musicians (you can never have enough accordions,) tango dancers, puppeteers, as well as hundreds and hundreds of tourists.

If you want a belt... San Telmo´s the place to go.

Mate gourd? San Telmo.

Handmade three foot princess marionette? You guessed it, San Telmo.

I need none of these things. I decided, being towards the end of the trip, I´d go out on a limb and eat my lunch from the street. A stand selling candied apples, kettle corn and candy coated peanuts (one of my staples in Bolivia) had candied strawberries... with kettle corn precariously stuck to the hard red shell. Had to try it. Next I decided to give the meat and cheese sandwich stand a try. At first slightly turned of by the fact that the meat and cheese was obviously not refrigerated, I reassured myself with the idea that:

a)it was cured meat (my personal choice was the salami)

b)the same stand was here last weekend, and if they were killing tourists with their food they probably wouldn´t be asked back.

It was great. Becoming a little gutsier (and figuring if i did get food poisoning what better place to do it than on my plane to Lima tomorrow) I wanted one of the empanadas a woman was selling from a basket. She was wandering thru the crowd but by the time I had finished my salami and cheese sandwich she had disappeared into the throng of tourists never to be seen again.

Surrounded by shoes, belts, jewelery, clothes, and tacky souvenirs, I realized I needed none of it. I also realized that I was looking at things and no longer translating prices into dollars, I am translating pesos into steak dinners.

"That is a cute shirt... but $35 pesos? I could get a steak and an ice cream for that."

My main reasoning for heading to San Telmo to day was exercise (some how I have to work off the half a cow I eat daily) and of course to steak out restaurants where I can eat another half a cow. I have 2 meals left in Buenos Aires and damn it if I´m going to waste them on bad food.

I was looking for a restaurant with one of the highest ratings in town from guiaoleo.com... a 27 out of 30, with a decent price point $21 pesos. I of course hadn´t written down the address, assuming i could remember it... 747 Boliviar? I know it was 747 some street starting with a B. Well, apparently it wasn´t Boliviar because that appeared to be a boarded up warehouse.

Lucky for me I stumbled across a corner restaurant a bit off the beaten path (meaning the road full of vendors and hundreds of tourists.) Ignoring the man trying to give me a flyer for the place, and not noting the name, I passed by the window to practically be stopped in my tracks. There was a man with what might have been the best looking meal I´ve ever seen. It was a simple white plate with a pastry bowl filled with some kind of extraordinary looking beef bourginone like mixture. Salivating, I had to keep myself from turning around and walking into the restaurant then and there.

Attempting to keep the drool from escaping my mouth and heading for my chin, I made the decision then and there, I know where i´m eating lunch tomorrow... if i can find the place again.

Getting a Cafe Latte Doble at a local cafe I planned out the rest of my day. Eat at Brocollino.

Brocollino is best restaurant I have eaten at while here in BA (actually eaten there twice.) I´ll be getting the Bife de Lomo in the mushroom leek sauce with a side of mashed potatoes. I´ve been looking forward to it all day. It was the best steak i´ve ever had (and at $50 pesos, not the cheapest) but I´ll split it with Rick, maybe have a side of lasagna, roll myself home, fat and happy, to pack up my bags, go to sleep, wake up and have that amazing looking beef and pastry dish for lunch.

I´m going to miss Buenos Aires.

Not really a Fiesta de la Tradition

netsy19 — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 01:27:00 GMT

I was modivatied... I was going to leave Buenos Aires for the first time in almost 2 weeks... visit a new place, see new sights, meet new people...

For my day trip I chose San Antonio de Areco, apparently the town where all the best crafts people of Argentina congragate. And it just happens that this last week and this weekend happen to be the yearly Fiesta de la tradition. A festival celebrating the Gaucho and gaucho culture (aka: cowboy and cowboy culture.)

I figured I´d head up for the day (since all the guide books informed me that most likely this time of year accomodation in San A. de Areco would be mighty hard to come by) look around, maybe pick up a well made silver souvenir or two. I on going Thursday, but after a tough day of museum hopping Wednesday, I hadden´t had time to go to the bus station and buy a ticket.

Sure I´d been told I could just show up and purchase a ticket a half hour before the bus... but when I slept in till 9:30 Thursday morning, the prospect of sitting on a bus for 2 hours, to arrive some time around 2 in the afternoon only to leave 3 to 4 hours later just didn´t apeal to me all that much. So instead I headed to the bus station to buy myself a ticket for friday. Figuring if I had a ticket I would have to go (not allowing myself to make anymore half ass excuses to stay in Bs. As.)

I ended up buying a ticket for 7:30 the next morning. Granted, I did not want to go this early... but my limited spanish prevents me from asking if there were any later busses (I really should look up the words for eariler and later... they could come in handy) So 7:30am it was.

Needless to say Thursday night I got no sleep. I didn´t even go out. I tried to go to bed early (2am) tossed and turned all night telling myself I better fall asleep soon because I needed to get up at 6. Mixed with four guys in my room arriving back from the bars at 4:30am and the ensuing symphony of snorring and it ment I got maybe a whole 2 hours of sleep.

Allarm goes off. There is no breakfast this early and nothing is open, so I make the only food I have... macaroni and soy sause (not one of my favorite breakfasts) I pack my backpack and realize that I have about 20 minutes to get to the subway, get on the subway, ride for 12 minutes, and walk a half mile to the bus station... or speed walk in my case. I needed to arrive at 7:15 for my 7:30, and I got there at 7:17.

Now the way the gigantic bus station works is that you are told that your bus will be some where between gates 24 and 36 (there are over 70 gates at the terminal) then you try and find a bus run by your company (Chevallier) with the final destination in the window (not San A. de Areco... someother town starting with a P)

Well.... no such bus.

Hmmm... did I miss it? If so I´m getting my ass back to the hostel as fast as possible and sleeping for the rest of the day.

Maybe its just late. There are a few older women who also look confused. Yep, they´re going to San A. de Areco too. One´s from Texas and the other´s from washington DC. In my delerious state I proceed to have a 45 minute converstion with them about travels, traveling, politics (of course you can´t have a conversation with out hitting on the Bush topic... no, i didn´t vote for him... yes, he sucks) where their children when to school...

"Oh, you went to Cornell? A lot of my son´s friends went to Cornell. What year did you graduate? 2002? Oh they were just graduating high school. Do you know anyone who went to Thomas Jefferson High in Virgina?" S

Seeing as the fact that I had told this woman I had grown up in San Diego and went to school in Upstate NY, I couldn´t really figure out why she might possibly think I would know someone who went to highschool in Virginia.

I have a head ache, think I´m getting a cold, am exhausted, and all my energy is being focused on trying to hold a conversation about cave paintings I didn´t see in Jujuy... all the while I´m contemplating just leaving, forfeiting my 21peso ticket and sleeping. This town cant be all that great right. No, I´ll wait... I´ll do it... I´ll be mad at myself if I don´t.

So finally when the bus arrives at 8:10, I´ve been up for 2 hours, I´m exausted and just want to sit and sleep. I have a window seat on the right side becaue after a five minute game of chirades (where I chose the left side because the word izquerda is so fun to say) I gleaned that the ticket man was telling me all the views were on the right. Not that it ended up mattering. You don´t see much when your sleeping.

I slept or was deleriously half awake the entire ride, ocasionally being woken up by the guy two rows back with the nex-tell walkie. Beep, beep, muffled yelling in spanish... beep, beep, beep, crystal clear yelling from the guy on the bus. As I tried to drift back to sleep, kicking myself for leaving my ear plugs at the hostel, I wondered why no spanish speaker had asked him to shut up, and nodded off to thoughts of throwning something hard at him.

Arriving at a gas station out side of San A. de Areco I was not all too impressed. I picked up a map from the woman with the porn magazine at what I can only assume was the info desk and began to walk the five blocks or so to the central square.

San Antonio de Areco was quaint... and empty as a ghost town. I though there was a festival here? Where is everybody? I picked up a litre of OJ (the cloudy kind... I found out a few weeks into the trip that has not in fact gone bad, it apparently is mixed with soy milk) hoping to drown my on coming cold with vitamin c... futilely trying to stop it in its tracks.

This hope would be dashed by the ensuing 3 hour walk in the rain... you know, the thing your mother tells you not to do unless you want to catch yourself a cold... or ensure the one you have stays with you.

I didn´t choose to walk in the rain. It was just that in the morning all the stores were so empty I didn´t want to be the only one walking around. So I went to lunch around noon (finding out there that I had missed the one and only gaucho event of the day which had occoured at 11... oh well) I had two lovely fillet mignons, a salad, and contemplated a glass of wine (only because it was cheaper than ordering water) but decided, with the ensuing cold, mid day alcohol probably wasn´t the best idea.

While happily eating by myself (even traveling alone, you are very rairly actually by yourself) Dave the very out going and very much too old for me (55+) man from the States invited me to join him at his table with his friend Ron... I politely declined.

After lunch and as it began to rain, I realized the mistake I had made. It was 2pm... siesta time. Everything was closed. San Antonio de Areco is a small town... that means every thing shuts down... and lucky me, its raining. Time to test my rain jacket.

This is where I learned the difference between water repellant and water resistant. My coat appears to be water resistant. What this means is that you stay dry for approximately 30 minutes after which the inside of your coat becomes damp then acts like a green house creating quite a bit of humidity. Then you walk around for the next 2 and a half hours wondering why none of these store have anytype of an over hang.

Finally I found an open store and spent so much time in it I felt obligated to buy someing... an other mate gourd? Why not? And maybe a bombilla or two. Sounds great.

In the end I was able to visit a few artisan shops (most were still closed by the time I had to leave) and the one store I really wanted to see, the chocolate store, had some school group in it all day... damn it, I´m soaking wet and i just want a hot chocolate.

Heading back to the bus station I found I had made yet another mistake. I had, apparently in passing, mentioned to my new frind Old Dave that I would be taking the 5:25 bus back to Buenos Aires. Guess who was there to back me into a corner and talk at me for the next 40 minutes (yep the bus was late) you guessed it Dave and Ron. After politely declining to meet Dave out that night, enduring his guessing what nationality I was (apparently I look latino,) as well as some minor invasions of my personal space (please don´t touch me) the bus arrived and I ran for it.

Dave and Ron thankfully were not able to change their tickets and accompany me, so I happily left them at the gas station and started my way back to Bs. As., again missing all the scenery due to the fact that I was sleeping.

Upon arriving back at the dorm all the guys (who I had not been able to go out with the previous night due to my early departure time) asked me how it was... I didn´t even know what to say... I searched for some postive thing that had come out of the day trip and all I could think of was the fact that i learned first hand the difference between water repelant and water resistant, and spent my afternoon actively avoiding Dave... they missed nothing and the fiesta was actually on saturday and sunday. I had learned nothing, seen nothing and been soaking wet... wait, I lied, I saw a really old bridge.

It was a bit of a let down, but I was so tired I didn´t even care. Did I go to sleep. No. I went out to dinner with a Sean, a new guy in the hostel fresh in from Hawaii. We got an icecream and ended up making circles in a very trendy Palermo bar trying and find the guy with the best mullet and/or rat tail all while wondering if the girls here were really only 14 or just looked that way. Found my way to my bed at 4:45 collapesed and figured it ended up not being too bad of a day after all.

Gallery: Buenos Aires

netsy19 — Fri, 9 Nov 2007 12:00:00 GMT

Quit looking at my ass

netsy19 — Thu, 8 Nov 2007 09:16:00 GMT

Buenos Aires has trained me well. The vendors in Peru and Bolivia would at least, at times recieve eye contact and perhaps a harsh "no gracias" when accosting me with postcards, gourds, jewerly and a plethora of lama related trinkets. The small girls in Salta, placing on our dinner table, packs of socks for sale would at least receive a weak smile, but here, in Buenos Aires, the importance of a military like discipline, walking in a straight line not flinching even if the man next to you is hit by a bus, has been beaten into me.

It mostly has to do with argentinan men´s constant need to assert their masculinity, letting you know that they are infact attracted to women. I had wittnessed this a bit in Mendoza: the occasional car horn, incoherent yell out a window, whistles, and my personal favorite... an odd kissing noise which all these men seemed to have honed to an art form. These advances I found mildly entertaining if not a bit annoying, but the men of Buenos Aires have taken it up a notch.

I´m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the average Buenos Aires man has issues with his masculinity.

Why do I state this broad assumption? Well, it is becuase I have yet to walk down the street here in Buenos Aires with out at least one whissle, click, or kissing noise. It seems they all find it very, very necessary to let it be known that they are attracted to women. Its not just the young guys and construction workers either... creepy 65+ yearolds.... buisness men... I had a 14 yearold make kissing noises at me (my first reaction was to tell him he was a bit young for me, but due to a combination of a lack of spanish and overwhelming urge to run I instead chose to ignore him)

I have been intentinally run into, my personal space has been violated multiple times, groups of men have made me uncomfortable enough to cross the street. But the move that creeps me out the most (I´ve lost track of how many times this has been done to me) is when a man, usually over 40, walking towards me actually stops, partially in my path, and proceeds to wordlessly stare at me, sometimes with the added bonus of a blatent and exagerated look up and down.

I have come to the conclusion this has nothing to do with how good you look... granted, if you are dressed like a hooker chances are you will probably garner a bit more attention/actually be physically assulted. Not to say I don´t feel safe (ok, so there were a few times I didn´t, but this always happens in broad daylight on busy streets) but frankly i was amazed by how unpicky these men were. I got most of my cat calls after having spent the 20 hours the previous night on a bus, unshowered, makeup free, slightly dirty (probably not smelling to great either) and dressed pretty conservatively in jeans and a tank-top. It´s to the point where I´m starting to get pissed.

I´ve even had men on the street click, whisle and say things to me when I was walking with another guy (but this does generally discourage them a bit) Of course what should I expect from a city who proudest symbol is a giant obolisk.

Luckly I don´t speak spanish. Otherwise i´m sure i´d be offened by whatever phrases and paragraphs these men keep spewing at me. So these homophobic, machimo, testosterone soaked men have trained me well, I´m like a scared puppy, trusting no one and consciously making an effort not to flinch, activly avoiding eye contact and reacting to nothing for fear that the heckling will only get worse... god help the man who is just trying to ask me what time it is.

Except for the constant effort of not drowning in a sea of testosterone, I´m having a blast and Buenos Aires is by far one of my favorite cities ever even with the 6am bed time.

All I want is a bed

netsy19 — Sun, 4 Nov 2007 22:05:00 GMT

It is 9:20am and for some god aweful reason I am awake and up.

It is the third day in a row that I have gone to bed at 6am or later and woken up at 9:20. This is not by my choice.

After being thrilled about finishing my spanish course and having the option of sleeping in I was informed that my bed was not avalible saturday morning and that I would need to change beds. This was fine, except that they also informed me that I would have to be up and out of my room by 10.

Thats just fine, I can handle that once. So, after going to a club, dansing a bit and exiting to find that it was light out and 6:30am. I returned to the hostel to fall asleep at 7, getting up a mear 2 and a half hours later to pack my bags and get ready for the move....

"What room am I moving to?"

"Let me check... oh, wait, your not moving till tomorrow morning"

Great... got up and packed for nothing, and I have to do it again Sunday morning. This information would have been nice to know earlier.

Sunday Sunday morning: this time the sunshine wasn´t quite as much of a shock, but waking up 2 hours after going to sleep still wasn´t high on my "really fun things to do" list. I´d gotten smart since Saturday and this time had not packed my bags.

"What room am I moving to?"

"Oh... we extended your bed for another night, you don´t have to move till tomorrow morning..."

Great, another day of sleep broken up by breakfast three hours after going to bed.

This time it wasn´t so bad. Sunday night all that was scheduled was a hostel bbq, and I was planning on getting some quality shut eye as soon as possible after stuffing my face with half my body weight of beef.... but then there was the weekly texas hold´em game. Only a $10 peson buy in... starting at 1:30 in the morning... why not, sounds like a great idea right... and I wasn´t doing half bad till about 4:30. I was actually kicking some ass till sleep deprivation force me to become stupid and go all in on a pair of Jacks... and you know, when I went out there were only 2 people left... I couldn´t just go to bed not knowing who won the pot...

Bed with the sun again.

But this morning I woke up at 9... ready to get to my new bed, only to be informed that the couple leaving my new room, one of whose beds I was taking, were not yet awake... and now I´ve packed, eaten breakfast, surfed the web, writen this, and they are still not out of their room...

Hopefully at somepoint durring my 17 days in Buenos Aires I´ll get a full 8 hours of sleep, but it sure as hell is not going to be today.

Mullets seem to be making a comeback

netsy19 — Thu, 1 Nov 2007 22:15:00 GMT

So, after 2 months of washing my hair with a combinaton campsoap and head n shoulders coupled with massive amounts of dust, it´s in pretty bad shape. Side-show bob shape. So, just like my break down with the jeans and the shirts, I broke down. I´ve decided that since I have returned to civilization (made extreemly obvious by the Curves for women I passed today)I would get my first South American haircut.

I figured it couldn´t be as bad as my hair modeling experience... a nearsighted five yearold with scizors couldn´t be as bad as my hair modeling experience.

At first I had thought I would just walk into a place (an actual salon had haircuts for just 40 pesos, so it wouldn´t really cost me that much) the problem here is that I don´t speak hair-cutting spanish. They haven´t covered that aspect of everyday life in my class yet. I´m sure it will be tomorrow. Yesterday they taught us how to have the "I´m on a diet conversation"...

"why aren´t you eating your chocolate cake?"

"Oh, I´m on a diet. I´ve got to loose 10kilos (22lbs!)."

"Really?... I think you look great."

Apparently, this is a common converstion here (I´m sure it couldn´t have anything to do with the diet of ice cream and steak) The only thing that would have made it better was if it had ended, "no those jeans don´t make you look fat"

But, anyway, back to the issue of the hair cut and how to get them not to shave my head... I asked the front desk and they informed me that there was a studio where the hair dressers spoke english. Huh, solves that problem. I jumped on it.

I gave them a call and made an appointment for 4 o´clock. After being told my hair was far to dry (in broken enlish... I tried to explain the campsoap/Boliva aspects of my hair care, but I think the subtle nuances were lost) I was given a mask (this is a first) told I should get high-lights (hell no) and sat under some type of steamy bubble thing (another first) asked if i needed a manacure (love one, but no) and whether or not I had eaten lunch (I´m not sure had I said no if I would get lunch, or how this played in at all, so I jut said yes) Ten or fifteen minutes later, little beads of sweat dripping down my somewhat sun burn nose (damn doxycycline) I was lead to the cutting chair.

How did I want my hair cut? This is always where I run into problems. Frankly, I just get lazy and don´t want to explain what I want. I always put too much trust in the ability of the hairdresser to read my mind (I should know by know that this rairly works) and my usual response to the question is "just make it healthy." Esscentially, I give them the green light.

When the hair starts falling I always question this approach. The idea I started with, that it´ll always grow back, starts to not sound quite as appealing. I begin to think about the amazing array of mullets I´ve been noticing... apparently a current argentinan trend and hope that is just popular for guys. I begin to pray my hairdresser won´t start experimenting on me. Lord knows last years "graduated bob with tendrals" was a disaster.

As he starts to thin my hair using some type of technique which removes long strands while making a horrible tearing sound the anguish and fear must have been beginning to show on my face. I was asked multiple times if everything was ok... was I alright with this. For some reason I decide to fake it and say yes, hopeing that he actually does know what he is doing. I will trust him.

Long story short, its all OK. I am mullet free (thank god) and it´s actually a pretty good cut. Shorter and curly (this can hide mostly anything) I´m ok with it. Now, I might really splurge and go and buy some conditioner... and maybe some mascara...

Sleep Deprivation and Ghestapo Spanish

netsy19 — Thu, 1 Nov 2007 20:24:00 GMT

Dinner at 11:30 at night? That sounds like a fantastic idea...

So the schedule is a bit different here. Since I arrived in Buenos Aires sleep has not been a priority. It seems breakfast is 9 to 12, lunch… sometime around 2ish, at 5 or 6 a snack, dinner 10 to 12, then you go out... you know, sometime around 2am. It just happens that if you go out prior to 2am, you will be the only one in the bar/club. Then, it is apparently normal to stay out till 6, maybe 7am. Is this a schedule I’m used to?

Not so much.

And, unfortunately, this was the week I decided to be responsible or something. I decided to get, like, some sort of edumacation while on this trip. I signed myself up for a Spanish class (ok, I know what you’re thinking... the end of the trip, really? does that make much sense?) Yes, I thought "better late than never." Well, I signed up before I realized that my new bedtime, due to my new dinnertime, would never be earlier than 2am. This makes a 9am class mildly miserable. Factor in the headache from the cleaning agents (they seem to use some kind of solvent which I swear is paint thinner,) the really small room, and teacher #2 speaking at a volume appropriate to reach the 50th row, and, well, it makes for a very long 4 hours of conjugating verbs, after which there is nothing I can do but return to the hostel and attempt to catch up on the sleep I missed because of my 2am ice-cream run.

I am useless.

My day revolves around what I will eat for dinner (oh, and have I had some amazing dinners) and whether or not I should compare and contrast different ice-cream shops (usually this ends up with me eating approx. a pint of ice-cream well after midnight... luckily, the shops are open till 3am and deliver. Just incase I’m to lazy to actually leave the hostel)

So, in short, the schedule is taking its toll (yes, I broke down and bought concealer... I had to, at this point I looked like the walking dead) If I could sleep into 11 it wouldn’t be a problem. So, I’m counting down till my morning do not consist of being yelled at in horrible accented Spanish and I can go out with everyone at 2am when they decided to go to the bar.

I know what you’re thinking.. "It’s a tough life" well, yeah... ok, so it’s not really that bad... I am enjoying all of it, and have learned a bit of Spanish... enough so that I can translate flavors and order ice-cream in a snap.

When I get rolled off the airplane I’ll be able to say "A mi, me gusta helado y carne, me gusta Argentina."

Gallery: Argentina

netsy19 — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 08:48:00 GMT

My own unique smell

netsy19 — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 16:35:00 GMT

So I´ve given up... broken down... it all started with the jeans, now I´m buying shirts.

It´s just that now I´m in a city, Buenos Aires. It´s actually quite a nice city and people seem to care about what they look (and smell like) and I´ve found that since I´m going to be here for a somewhat extended period of time, I should probably do the same.

Unfortunately, at some point in my journey my backpack picked up its own unique scent/odor. I think it is a combination of my hikingboots mixed with a wool sweater I bought the 3rd day (and have yet to launder-it´s wool, I don´t know how to deal with that... and no, i haven´t warn it in weeks, its just been tainting my other clothes) and of course there was that day I ran out of clean socks and chose to wear my sneakers without any (horrible decision... they now have unfortunately picked up a smell, similar to, but milder than -thank god- my climbing shoes... yeah, pretty bad) and then i think my backpack its self has obtained a variety of scents from all the fun places its been stored/thrown/stashed. Add to that the fact that the smell from the machu picchu treck just never really left, mix it all together and its, well, earthy (and not in a good way.)

So basiclly, even if i break down and pay to get my clothes professionally washed (hand washing in the sink only gets them so clean... yes they look clean, no, they do not smell clean) usually i´m changing locations fairly soon, so my newly washed, bright smelling clothes, then get packed in a not so bright smelling backpack and emerge unbelieveabley wrinkled, but also with a new vague odor associated with them.

All I want is to really feel clean. So, I´ve given up. I´m going shirt shopping. This should result in a clean shirt, factored this into the laundry I¨m doing today and i may for the first time in weeks have a completley clean ensemble. I may buy some new soap too...

And well, frankly, I´d like to look nice for once in 2 months. It´s not like I have make up, or can really do my hair or anything like that, but I would like to beable to go out to a restaurant and not look and smell like I just rolled off a mountain.

So, I´m headed to Ave. Florida to do a little shopping and maybe I´ll stop into a heladeria and pick up an icecream on the way.

Gallery: Salt flats

netsy19 — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 08:52:00 GMT

Salazar de Uyuni

Bikes, Wines, and Dozers

netsy19 — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 10:11:00 GMT

A wine tour in Mendoza, it congers images of mountains, vineyards... little dusty country roads, maybe a villa or two.

While there were dusty roads, it was due to the asphalt having been ripped up to be replaced. Not quite as quaint as I had imagined. Anna (a new friend from the hostel, both traveling alone we bonded instantly) and I decided to do the bike & wines tour thru the vineyards of Maipu (just outside Mendoza) we were not expecting the bulldozers, 4 lane roads, and massive amounts of construction. You could call it a bit of a shock.

We had spoken to the receptionist at the hostel (who spoke English... after Bolivia this made me feel spoiled) and she explained to us that we could do a half day, full day, or full day with transportation to the Bikes & Wines office. Essentially, what this included was bike rental, a map, and a bottle of water. A full day rental cost $35 pesos (about $10 US) and you could get transportation there and back for another $35 pesos... or you could take the bus for $1.40 each way (and that’s in pesos.)

Since there were two of us, we chose transportation option number 3: split a cab there and take a bus back. The reason for the cab is, when asked when the bus left for Maipu, the front desk explained that there wasn’t really a specific time per say... you just go to the stop and wait, eventually it comes.

Having spoken with a few people who had done the tour the day before, we were informed that a cab would cost about $20 pesos. Still less than $35 pesos... if your cabdriver doesn’t miss the exit drive in two gigantic circles and then get lost and have to ask for directions. $34 pesos later, I decided this was one of those times I would have liked to have spoken Spanish so that I could have told our driver that I knew he was driving us in circles... stop trying to screw us just cause we’re tourists. But, being non-Spanish speaking tourists, we were instead screwed by the cab driver and charged an extra $15 pesos for his lack of directional sense. Humph.

Once we arrived we were given some lovely bikes which looked as if they had been built and tuned some time in the late 50s. Somewhat recently they had been spray painted yellow to partially hide the rust. The seats didn’t adjust.

I spent the first mile or so looking like a complete fool with my knees practically hitting my chest. Finally the two of us used all our strength to twist the seat free so that I might be slightly more comfortable during the next 12km. Well 15km or so if you count the couple of times we got lost... and that was just one way.

It turns out the map we were given only included the roads leading to winery’s... no cross streets (oh, and no construction detours, and not really to scale... frankly, I’m not sure if could technically be defined as a map) making it particularly easy to, say… accidentally turn down an unknown street and wander off a few kilometers before realizing you are actually on Route 60 and going the complete wrong direction.

Having previously chatted with other hostel patrons about the tour, we had been informed that our best bet was to go to the last winery first and work our way back. 15K or so, and a few wrong turns later... we were contemplating not going to the last winery at all. But we stuck it out and kept pedaling, eventually finding the oak lined road surrounded by vineyards and olive groves we initially imagined... Exhausted, we arrived at the first winery only to find that there was a $10 peso tasting fee.

So, it was 11am, we had just biked 15+k, and we had gone to bed at 3am after 4 of us split 3.5 bottles of wine the night before. Believe it or not, neither of us really wanted any wine.... much less to pay for it.

So, when a van of Argentinean tourists appeared for a tour (which would be given in Spanish) we explained that we would just hop over to the olive oil manufacturer for a tour and then come back for a tour in English (we of course, had no intention of ever returning)

Off to the olive oil manufacturer. We had heard raves from hostel members about how extensive and interesting this tour was, how the guide would go in-depth about the intricacies of olive oil, how their pressing technique was so much better and why, how to pick out just the right oil for the correct dish... this was the tour we were excited about, and, for which we were willing to pay the surprise $5 peso fee.

Apparently they can and will go in-depth about all the ins and outs of olive oil, but only in Spanish. Not quite as impressive or interesting as we hoped. We did get to taste quite a few oils and olives after our walk thru what we inferred from our limited Spanish, guides broken English, and a badly played game of charades, was some kind of pressing equipment. Rather hungry at this point, I was quite happy with the tasting.

Skipping the first winery we started our way back, hitting the second winery. Again, $10 pesos. This time we decided to do it. Walking in we were confronted by a woman resting her weight on one hip, partially blocking the passage stating "Chicas... 10 pesos" while holding her hand outstretched and rubbing her fingers together in that “I need money” kind of way. Very welcoming...

We were further encouraged when the man pouring our samples kept opening bottles, discreetly sniffing them, looking around obviously thinking "hmmm, could I get away serving this" then wandering to the back room to dispose of the wine gone vinegar. Four samples later, we were not really that impressed.

In visiting the next 3 wineries we became better and better and finding ways to not pay the $10 peso charge and politely excuse ourselves. At the $25 pesos winery (a good bottle of wine in Argentina cost about $10 pesos... so $25 is rather much) we decided that it wasn’t a good idea to drink on an empty stomach... it could be dangerous, biking and all, so we were just going to run out and grab something to eat... we’ll be right back, we swear...

Well, we weren’t lying when we said we were going to get something to eat. There weren’t many places, but the tour company had recommended a delicatessen... we should have known better when they recommended anything. We also should have known better when we had to be buzzed thru a very fancy gate to get to the place...

It was not a deli that’s for sure.

It was a price fixed restaurant. We had our choice of pasta, a drink, and an ice cream for $35 pesos or… pasta, a drink, and an ice cream for $35 pesos. There was only one choice... and it was a bit pricey. But here is the problem. They have closed the gate behind us, its hard to come up with an excuse to leave, and its 3pm, we haven’t eaten anything since the handful of olives at 11, and there is no where else to go. It is eat here or do not eat at all. And not eating is not an option.

Now the ravioli was very good I’ll give them that, and the bread basket was amazing (3 different kinds of bread, and bread sticks) but the service was neglectful (probably due to the fact that they know they have a captive audience) finally, we were finished... then finally, 20 or 25 minutes later we actually received la cuienta we were able to pay and leave.

Now there were a few more wineries left, but neither Anna nor I were really in the mood for drinking, and frankly it was beginning to become unbelievably painful to sit on the bikes (these were not the most comfortable of seats... I think I was actually bruised) We opted to bike to the wineries to see what they looked like, but our real goal was to make it to the chocolate and liquor store before we had to get the bikes back at 5:30.

The chocolate and liquors were the highlight of the tour. Not only was it a beautiful little setting with all kinds of interesting jams, specialty liquors, and chocolate, but it was free. Oh my God... what a concept. And because it was free, we bought something... sure it was a little something, but they still got our money.

Last but not least off to the wine museum (usually the first stop on the tour) and I kicked myself that we hadn’t made it the first stop.

It looked like it would have been really interesting, huge vats, lots of wine machinery, collections of all kinds of neat looking objects... and a free glass of malbec (not that I wanted or could finish it... being exhausted and extremely dehydrated at this point)

There was a tour starting in 5 minutes, but we couldn’t go on it because we were so tired we couldn’t walk straight, and we had to return our bikes. so we peddled our sorry asses through the construction zone, back to the office and handed over our yellow excuses for bikes to the 70 year old man missing teeth who looked like he might have a mild case of leprosy.

Where the hell do we catch the bus?

Exhausted, after asking the information office (previously used by our taxi driver that morning) we collapsed in the grass to wait for 171, 172, or 173, pay our $1.40 pesos and head home to the Dama Jauna.... to enjoy a nice bottle of wine.

Horseback Riding Pinball

netsy19 — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 16:44:00 GMT

Supposedly Salta is breath taking... well, the natural rock and landscapes surrounding Salta.

I had read this on multiple websites, and guide books, but due to the fact that I arrived in the dark and had only wandered around the city (whose square is pretty stunning in itself) I had yet to experience this magnificence of nature.

In Tupiza, on my last horseback ride… interesting to say the least. The novice Australian guy, who almost fell off when his horse broke into a gallop, informed me that Salta had some amazing horseback riding. So, really, my only goal in Salta was to go for a horseback ride.

Luckily, at dinner with James and Emma, while having one of the worst bottles of white wine I’ve ever had as well as some fried chicken accompanied by a slab of lard and a fried banana (not one of my better meals, although one of my more expensive) I found out that they had signed up for an all day trip and they invited me along. It sounded great, and at only $50 US for transportation, breakfast, lunch, and a full day of horse back riding, it was a steal as far as I was concerned.

So, I attempted to contact the company. Multiple emails and phone call to disconnected numbers, and no luck. Finally someone responded to an email and informed me that the phone lines were down, but I was good to go. They would pick me up from my hostel at 9am the next day.

9:30am the next morning I was in a car with James, his cowboy hat, Emma, and my new pair of jeans. Yes, after a month and a half I finally broke down and bought myself a second pair of pants (with the excuse that it was because I needed them to ride) and frankly I’ve never been so happy to wear jeans in my life.

The ranch was about an hours drive south of Salta in a beautiful valley (the vegetation and scenery were reminiscent of California and for the first time in weeks I relaxed a bit and actually started to feel like I was on vacation) When we arrived at the ranch we were in awe. A beautiful house and emerging from it was Pablo… our very own gaucho, in full garb: baggy pants, chaps, sash belt complete with unbelievably large silver handled knife, and of course the hat. I think had Pablo looked a bit different it wouldn’t have been such a shock. The problem was that Pablo had the face comedy actor/cartoon character, young but with the hint of jowls, so in full regalia, sauntering out, my first reaction was to giggle. Knowing that would be inappropriate, I of course held it in and instead we all discussed Pablo’s appearance over our amazing breakfast on the terrace of an absolutely stunning 100-year-old ranch house.

The house was stunning, and it wasn’t just that, Pablo had the perfect family: an absolutely beautiful wife and gorgeous 5-year-old daughter. We had been dropped off inside an Argentinean fairy tale, and they were feeding us home-made bread and jam. James, Emma, and I all decided we could skip the horse back riding and just hang out at the ranch all day, move in and make ourselves comfortable.

We were then informed the horses were ready. I hadn’t emailed my experience level, so I was told I would be given an average horse (fine with me) and James was a dead beginner having never been on a horse, so we were all pretty sure he’d be getting a nag.

I was the first to be lead to my horse: mildly over weight with the colorings of a dalmatian. Looking at him I thought to myself, “perfect, short, stocky, probably nice and mellow.” Wow, couldn’t have been more wrong. Upon getting into my saddle my left foot apparently grazed, we will call him “Harmonica´s,” side. Immediately, his ears were pinned back (always a great sign) and he was dancing to his right. Spectacular.

The ride quickly became more interesting. Harmonica (I call him this because his name was the word for one of those pan flute things, but Emma translated it as Harmonica… not that Emma spoke a word of Spanish) wanted to run. But not in that happy, I just want to play way, more in the don’t touch me, I’m paranoid and freaking out kind of way. I kept him under control most of they ride till we found the briar patch.

I felt like I was in a pinball machine, bouncing from one sticker bush to the next. The horse freaks out. To get him to stop running I pull back on the reigns (apparently this was not the correct thing to do) further freaking the horse out. Then he sidesteps into a thorn bush and spooks himself. This is where I learn, hands on, that all the bushes in Argentina have thorns.

Once Harmonica runs through one sticker bush and spooks himself, PING, he bounces into another, PING, further surprising himself, PING, side steps into yet another, PING, PING, PING… Finally I am able to calm him and return to the group where Pablo (with a smile on his face) informs me that I am bleeding.

I look like I got in a fight with a cat on crack. My forearms are a collection of criss-crossed scratches, which are actually dripping blood. The thorns Harmonica had been nice enough to drag me through were razor sharp and crescent shaped, so they actually imbedded themselves in my skin.

Asking Pablo if there was any way to calm Harmonica down resulted in a chuckle and a shake of the head. Great, my horse had issues. Pablo then informed me that all the horses are trained to run if you raise your right hand. I hadn’t raised my right hand off my right leg the entire time I was trying to calm the basket case, but I did feel like this was information, which would have been prudent prior to beginning the trail ride.

I spent the rest of lunch trying to figure out exactly what freaked my horse out. I found out he didn’t like it when my feet touched him at all, even slightly brushing him began a spastic trot. He didn’t like it when I moved my right hand at all. Any pressure from my knees was bad. The slightest movement of the reigns was another reason to begin to panic. He didn’t like rocks, was extremely uncoordinated, and wasn’t a huge fan of water. Yes, definitely what I would have described as an average horse.

Lunchtime.

Getting off my horse resulted in the same ear pinning I received when I had mounted. He really seems to like me. I think we’re bonding.

Our horses were left in a coral and Pablo began to unpack ungodly amounts of meat from somewhere in his saddle. We were informed that we were to have an asado, translation: BBQ. The day just got better (not that it was really all that bad to begin with) Pablo then unpacked a bottle of wine. Wow, that had never looked so good. So, while Emma, James and I sat down to a nice glass of wine out of some stainless steal cups, Pablo ran around collecting fallen branches for the fire he managed to start in a matter of seconds.

Seasoned with salt, the meat was 5 or so pounds of assorted cuts that were thrown on the grill while we were finishing up the bottle of wine. What´s this, a second bottle? Where did that come from. Sounds wonderful.

Meat cooking, sitting back and relaxing, we all decided this was truly vacation. We hadn’t realized how stressful Bolivia was till we left. If only everyday could consist of a beautiful breakfast at an amazing ranch, a horseback ride, and massive amount of beef and wine for lunch. Piece by piece we tried the different cuts. Amazing. And what’s this? A third bottle of wine?

The first was the perfect surprise.

The second was quite nice, it would be great to have some with the steak.

The third… could you get a DUI on a horse? My horse was a bit of an issue to begin with. Did I really want to try to control him after almost a bottle of wine? Maybe it would be easier… he would sense I was more relaxed and he would relax… that was what I was going to tell myself.

The beef was amazing. A true Argentina meal: 3lbs of beef and a bottle of wine. Time to get back on the horses. Surprisingly, Harmonica had calmed down, and I don’t think it was the wine. We rode for about a half hour constantly being stung and pulled at by thorns and brambles (in the beginning of the ride, we were all curious why Pablo, in the unrelenting heat, had put on a long sleeve denim shirt… now we knew) till we were told it was too steep and we were going to have to hike. Ah, nothing like hiking up hill in the heat after a bottle of wine. But the view was worth it, absolutely beautiful.

Time to head back to the hacienda.

The entire ride back we day dreamed of what we would drink upon returning to civilization: ice water, grapefruit juice, a huge pitcher of lemonade. We had only had wine in the last 6 or 7 hours and were a bit parched.

Upon arriving at the house, we were welcomed with an old gin bottle full of ice water and a table set with homemade crackers and jam (and hot tea, but that wasn’t as appealing)

My day was made when Pablo’s wife emerged from the kitchen with chocolate ice cream. I couldn’t have dreamt of anything better. A tour of the grounds ensued: pool, pool house, guesthouse, garden, and they were in the midst of building another house. Absolutely amazing. We felt like we were welcomed into the family. We met the grandfather, played with the 5-year-old nephew, met the sister and were finally driven home by Pablo’s brother.

We finish up the day with exactly what we had been dreaming of… a huge pitcher of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice from a café in Salta’s central square.

Perfect day… minus the fact that I had been a human pinball and the bumpers had been briars... but that just means free souvenirs.

National Food

netsy19 — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 02:15:00 GMT

I have come to the conclusion, that were you to generalize S. American cuisine, it would be fried, accompanied by potatoes, and then something ridiculously sweet.

If it isn´t sprayed with sugar, served with jam, deep fried (all meat is cooked this way… not battered, just deep-fried) or white bread, you must not be in S. America.

I found out, if it is described as “chicken with creamed corn, bacon, asparagus, battered banana, and potato” what you will get is a piece of fried chicken, a cup of mashed corn, a slab of lard, no asparagus, a fried banana, and French fries. For some reason I was expecting something a little more cohesive than every item deep-fried and served separately (granted, I was curious how they were going to work the banana in there and make it taste good, but when you just serve it battered on the side it doesn’t really matter) I learned this order was a mistake.

I learned this the same day Emma, James and I learned that there is a “sitting fee” at restaurants (yes, they charge you anywhere from a peso to five pesos just to sit) and that when it says a litre of white wine, you may infact get sangria, white sangria (obviously it is because white wine isn’t sweet enough for south american tastes, adding fruit cocktail will make it that much better, I’m not complaining. I actually liked it quite a bit, it was just a supprise) Oh, and they don´t sell hats here, little girls go around with pack of socks and try and sell the to you while you eat dinner.

The next day, we learned the word for olive (aceituna) after a marathon game of chirades, involving the entire wait staff and the few spanish adj. I knew. It went something like, "they are green and black... trees... like a fruit but salty... small" all accompanied by miming. After being asked for the third time if you find them on cakes I gave up in search of a picture. Finally after a good 20 minutes we reversed our order of what we thought were olives (which turned out to be little cakes) and were able to order the olives, peanuts, and chips which apparently came free with everyone elses drinks. Granted they were drinking beer and we were drinking OJ, but still, it was happy hour. Don´t some things just come free?

But the most important food fact that Emma and I learned was that there is a distinct difference between something described as containg "veal" and something described as containg "veal meat." Just a hint, you want the veal meat... we realized that what Emma had was not, infact noodles, that was the "veal."

And, so far from all I have seen, the national food of Argentina is Helados- Ice Cream. After dinner one night (the dinner where we learned all about sitting fees, sangria, and fried bananas) James (of James and Emma from the Tupiza – Salta ordeal) suggested we not do a bar crawl, that we do an ice cream crawl.

There are 8 to 10 ice cream shops on the 4 block walk from my hostel to the square, and they are all packed at all times. This town has to be leading the world in ice cream stores per capita. From three o´clock on 80% of the people you see on the street have an ice-cream. It is amazing. And you don´t just see people with a cone. The vast majority is eating either a double cone (side by side, not up and down) or are eating straight out of a hand packed pint. (although it is really cool, i learned you can get 2 flavors in just one scoop... and it only cost s fifty cents. it must be that everyone is eating it just cause its so darn cheap)

With the combination of fried everything, no vegetables, (mad amounts of unbelievably good beef and wine) sugar and a main diet of ice cream, I just don´t understand how this country isn´t ridiculously overweight or dropping on street corners of heart attacks. I´m really curious to know what the average life expectancy is here.

I’ll tell you this, I’ve never wanted a salad so bad in my life. I´m off to get an icecream before my bus.