One more thing. A final thought. A short story, and then you can forever close this little blogbook, if you have had the tenacity to read this far. There will be no post about our actual return and arrival home. The adventures have ended, the final flight will be joyful, but simple. Returning is not the story itself, and wont be told here.

But for this one little story.

Last night, the night before our departure, we stood in line waiting to grab a pizza, and a big, weatherbeaten woman with a warm smile and glittering eyes sitting with her husband leaned over to us. Where are you from? She asked in Spanish. We told her, and shortly after explained the whole year and the endless travels and how they had come to such a glorious conclusion.
Oh, she murmured, Que linda. How lovely.
Yes, we replied, we know.
Did you go to the north? she asked and we affirmed. Did you feel the spirit of Pachamama (mother earth) in the land and the people there? I can feel it. I love it. I sometimes take a handful of sweet earth, the earth of my homeland, and rub it on my hands, and I feel the spirit of the earth within me.
Yes, we replied, we understand.
Do you love nature? She asked. Do you love travel? Do you sometimes stand in the night and look up at the moon, la bella luna, and revel in its sweet and simple beauty? Sometimes I look at the moon for hours and ask it questions and even though I get no real response I know and understand, and I have my answers. Do you know what I mean?
Yes, we replied, we do.
Don't you love the way nature clears your mind? And travel. When I travel, I feel healthy and whole. My mind is cleared and my soul is cleaned. Oh how lovely. I wish I were young enough to travel. I wish I could travel with you, even for a week, even for a day. It is wonderful to be young.
Yes, we wordlessly replied, we know.
Do you watch the sunrise? Always, always try to watch the sunrise. Try never to miss it. It is so beautiful, so pure, so clean and good. Never let it pass you by. Every day has a sunrise. Every day. Be there for it. Do you understand?
Yes, we replied, we do.
Do you know how lucky you are? How lovely it is? How lucky you are?
Yes, we replied, we know. We do.
What you are doing, what you have done, it is very beautiful.
And she embraced us and said good bye and we said Yes, we know.

The next day we rose late (having not slept until 6am) and after an unusually good breakfast (this hostel really is the best) and an exploration of the hostel (hard to describe but think clean, colorful, great beatles stones england art, che guevara stuff, cool lighting, narrow hallways, beautiful rooftop patio, movie room, everything!!), set off into the streets of Rosario. Our exploration, nearly devoid of energy, was not the best we have ever had, but we did enjoy some gorgeous architecture, the best we have seen in Latin America, a great duo of girls playing tango tunes on violin and bandoneon (Argentine version of the accordeon), and some pretty parks. We stopped for vast plates of chicken and potatoes which we ate in a crammed executive hole in the wall packed with suit wearing business people, budgeting like us, but presumably saving Their funds for their big break. The afternoon was enjoyable, and the city was nice, more relaxed than BA but not as picturesque as Cordoba. But eventually we had to say, in the words of Austin Powers "And I´m Spent" and return to the hostel for an afternoon of meeting new friends (from Peru, England, and Holland) and playing music with them (one of them was a decent guitarist and liked great music), watching a movie, and cooking a delicious meal of gnocchi and pizza cooked at home but freshly made at the market, and augmented by my finest work as a cook, an incredible tomato sauce (hold your applause please). Aware that our time on the road is slowly but surely drawing to a close, we relish every moment, meals and nights sleep and new friends and new songs, all in a kind of detached dream world.
The next morning we clean up and pack up and set off on a long hike across the city to the bus terminal, where we board a bus to a small town called San Antonio de Areco. We sit in the front seats, with the stunning upper level windows, and listen to Of Montreal as we stream down tree lined avenues in the Pampas (farmlands) of Argentina, from which comes all the beloved produce, especially beef, that makes Argentina so wonderful. It is also the home of the legendary Gaucho (think cowboys, but coooooooler). The town itself is comfortable and pretty, and we head across to the edge of town where we find a vast deserted campground. We build a roaring fire and make a meal of scrambled eggs and roasted vegetables and, huddling around the dying embers, we eventually return to the tent. For the last time. Certainly there will be plenty of camping this summer, and into the endless future, but the gravity of this, our last night in the wilds of argentina, does not desert us.
The next morning, however, we are slightly less nostalgic and more bitter as it is, in fact, bitterly cold. The ground has frozen, the grass is heavily frosted, and the water that was left in the pots and pans is frozen over with a not insubstantial layer of ice. I stand by the still river, and watch the mist rise off the water and wind through the barren trees as the sun rises, thinking of mild California warmth, but also saying a farewell to the unparralleled beauty of this incredible natural country. I return to camp and whip up eggs, coffee and toast and drag the whimpering Casey out of the cold tent and into the colder morning. We wrap up in every item of clothing we have and pull out groaning intstruments that seem themselves homesick for warm, stable-temperature rooms, where it is not humid, freezing, hot, dusty, or raining. But groaning into tune we manage to play the sun up, and play the morning into full swing, and soon the sun is glowing gently down and everything is thawing and the leaves start to inexplicably pour down from the trees in torrents, making a wild, surreal seasonal moment. The poignancy of the moment, the music, changing seasons, beautiful forest, and imminent return, all colliding in one moment, is overwhelming. We set out as the day rolls on, wandering around the town and quickly stripping our far too many layers. The town is GauchoHQ, famous for silver and leather work, and indeed even our well seasoned eyes are impressed by what we see, though our quota for things to drag home has long been exceeded. We wander through the lovely plaza, visit a gorgeous chocolate shop utterly reminiscent of the movie Chocolat, and are given a piece of incredible restorative goodness. As the afternoon wears on, we get a delicious ice cream at a lovely terraced cafe, and then stretch out on the grass by the river, shirts and shoes thrown aside, in utter contrast with the freezing morning and, very content, we talk about the future. I think it might be that moment, looking back to yesterday, sitting with Casey in a funny little town in the middle of nowhere, by a lovely sunlit river, surrounded by laughing picnics and soccer games and friendly people and wild dogs, sitting there, comfortable, but excited, as always, by a new place, and talking languidly but seriously about a million possible and impossible, probable and imporbable, and above all difficult to imagine futures for boh and either of us. Where will we be, who, what, when? Asking those questions, anxious but not scared of the answers, in that bizarre and beautiful setting, will never be forgotten.

The train clattered through the surreal night, as we began to realize that we were as far off the tourist track as we had yet been. Everyone around us was a local, speeding across the country in the cheapest manner to work, family, or holiday. After splitting our dinner of pastry with the old gentleman sitting next to us, he became quite engaging, asking about where we had been and giving his opinion on Argentine girls. He was not the last, nor the first. We have had now many, many conversations with locals, all of whom without exception are exceedingly friendly. The guaranteed lines are: where are you from? Do you like mate? Do you like the girls here? (usually asked by gravelling v oiced old men) and Oh my dear how wonderful? (Usually asked by bubbly voiced old women). There were also the inevitable questions about the instrument. Are we a band? Do we play Jennifer Lopez songs? No? Guns and Roses? No? Metallica? No. Oh. But these conversations, conducted in rapid and barely comprehensible Spanish, are invariably entertaining and amusing, none more so than that which came at the end of the train ride. We had been clattering along, with not a wink of sleep due to noise and desperation not to miss our 4am stop, and no music due to a dead Ipod, and the only book an inscrutably dense Faulkner, and were waiting for our imminent stop. At one point our old gentleman disappeared and he was replaced by the most unsatisfactory person on the bus. The guy had been maching around since the beginning, giving orders like "everyone close your windows" which seemed to be purely for his enjoyment as he was not in anyway affiliated with the train company. He was massive in bulk and personality, and we had seen him three times approach a group of first musicians, then little children, then middle aged men, and break into spontaneous and emotional song, sung to the tune of his Ipod which, he seemed not to realize, no one else could hear. Amusing, you may be thinking. Indeed, for the first few minutes, or hours. Afterwards, not so much. But of course this vast sweaty singing mass chose to settle himself to sleep on our bench, and so we scrunched against the window, tried to sleep and awaited the dawn. I diverted conversation excellently with my best version of: Me No Hablow Eshpinowl seenor, so we were safe at least  from that. Or so we thought. Eventually he turned to us and, apparently unaware that we looked brutally tired and uncomfortable, started in by saying: you know, i talk a bit english? Ok, i said. You like music? Yeah. I very muhc do like verry much music, i think the human voice is very much beautiful. (he seemed to be gathering himself to burst into song so i parried with a halfhearted) What kind of music do you like. Oh oh Oooooh, do you know Oh oh OOOOOOh Alberto Francisco? No. Oh oh Oooooh Diego Monvedo? No. Oh oh Oooooh Juan De Lorche? No. (and so on until we reached) Ohohoh Jennifer Lopez. Um, yes. Oh I love her she is my lover she is my girlfriend Oh oh Oooooh I love her. Do you know pamela anderson. Um, yes. Oh I love her she is my girlfriend oh oh oh yes I very much. I love american Idol. Oh oh yes very much. Ok, I say, doing my best polite conversation terminator, which of course fails. Casey has a slightly different tactic and is simply glaring at this guy with a look that says (extremely clearly) It is 3 oclock in the morning and if you say another word about American Idol I will lay hands on you. I will choke you out. That is, it is extremely clear to me but apparently not to this Mr. OH! Finally, mercifully, the train begins to stop and we roll into the station, leaping eagerly from our seats before Mr. Oh can give us an anticipated farewell hug. Moments later we are marching through the intense darkness of Rosario, the sort of second city of Argentina. We hop in a cab (for the first time in Argentina, shameful, but permissible only because it is 4am in a strange city). We arrive at our hostel and fnd that it is beyond compare the coolest one we have yet seen, and wander around it in awe before retreating to our absurdly comfortable beds with thick warm comforters. In utter bliss, beyond exhaustion, we talk for what seems like hours before drifting sweetly into oblivion.

Our last day in Cafayate was as mild and delightful as those preceding it. Another morning spent eating pastry and drinking coffee with my book at a rickety wooden table made of recycled wine barrels as the bright morning sunshine filtered through the ancient grapevines. Casey rose eventually and we spent the morning hanging out with our friends. We packed up our things and then bought a picnic of epic proportions. Two dozen meat and onion filled empanadas, and several deliciously ripe avocados and tomatoes, as well as a cold bottle of crisp dry torrontes, consumed in the hot sun beneath the grapevines, left us fit only to stagger onto our bus and fall into blissful, full-bellied snoozes. 
We woke to stark scenery of rolling brown hills with copses of bare deciduous trees. Above us thin multicoloured clouds floated, impossibly bright shades of pink and green produced by some strange circumstance of sun and altitude. We coasted into a strange and tiny town in the mountains. Utterly deserted, and with none of the charm that we had grown used to in Tilcara and Cafayate, our new town of Tafi del Valle was still refreshing with it's wide vistas and clear mountain air. We wandered to a deserted campsite where absurdly high prices turned us away and then found another "campsite" which, more accurately, was the back yard of a big
friendly old man named Alejandro who charged almost nothing and called us "my boys" in Spanish, repeatedly checking to make sure we were comfortable. Clearing away a bit of rubbish, we found ourselves in a cozy hollow looking over rolling hills of berry bushes. Moments after, we were joined by an extremely friendly guy named Diego, who we spent a couple days with due to his easy going style, and classic argentine generosity, as well as standard argentine cooking skills. That evening we had a cooking experiment that met with mixed reviews. I made a soup of noodles, tomatoes, onions, and bell peppers, (our diet improved significantly after we learned that vegetables here cost almost nothing) and aji, a favorite spice in Argentina. Unfortunately my clumsy fingers let fall a fairly vast amount of spice into the soup and so we spent several panting, gasping minutes consuming something so spicy that it was almost impossible to consume. Despite this, it was a comfortable, campfire-warned night, and we slept well. The next morning we ate fresh bread and jam for breakfast, and realized that we had only two weeks remaining in our odyssey. This realization brought on a mix of excitement and anxiety, for though the pull of friends, family, and homely comforts is irresistible, those joys are marred slightly by the awareness that with the end of the travels came the end of a holiday from
responsibility and, in a sense, from the future. Setting aside these ponderings, however, we set off up a long winding road into the hills, until we found a simple statue of Christ the redeemer on a hillside looking down on the breathtaking valley, with distant lakes and mountain passes and rolling banks of fog gleaming serenely. Though the statue was not quite comparable to the more famous example in Rio, it was a decent hike, and we spent much of the afternoon eating a picnic and lying in the sun on a big rock above the statue that was a perfect vantage point. As evening fell we trekked back to town, and allowed Diego to order us around in the purchasing of another delectable asado. Having worked as a professional chef, Diego was quite skilled and innovative, and we ate several courses of roast vegetables and perfectly cooked chicken. By the time the long, luxurious meal was ended (with the final simple touch of a crisp apple) we were warm and smelling of campfire, and we retreated to a cozy warm tent. 
We left in the middle of the next day, spending several hours at bus stations and on buses, including a drive through surreal, mist covered, mystical looking forest, before arriving at dawn the next morning in Cordoba, the geographical heart and energetic nexus of Argentina. We trekked across town in the predawn darkness to a huge labyrinthine hostel, where we were warmly welcomed and filled with coffee before we headed back out onto the streets, now lit with sunshine and full of people. We spent the day exploring various corners of the city. Like a smaller, more cheerful, and easily walkable version of Buenos Aires.
We found a luthier, and old argentine man who lived on the outskirts of town, to repair my violin, which had been broken since Brazil. His house was full of cigar smoke and the skeletons of half built guitars and violins, and he handled my crippled violin with expert care, so we left well comforted that he would have it healed in no time. We also bought our tickets for our return (by train, on the ancient train line that still operates haphazardly across the country) for the following week, and explored a vast park reminiscent of Helen Putnam, a winding aqueduct that cut through the city, a bustling produce market where we haggled over succulent pears, a plaza wear we ate a picnic amidst crowds of students and lusty soccer games, an series of old buildings built by the Jesuits, including a gorgeous church that almost approached European splendor, an old jesuit crypt under the city that was only recently uncovered by a telephone company laying wires and was eerie and mythical, and a lovely and lively main plaza, that bustled with people and trees and artisans and argentine flags. Our long wander ended in a walk up a beautiful, trellis covered pedestrianized street full of stores and food and art, which led us meanderingly back to our hostel. By the time we returned the hour was late, so we whipped up some pasta and lounged on the patio with an upbeat crowd of travelers and students drinking Quilmes Stout (the national favorite). Multi-lingual, confusingly-accented conversation wound on until at last, well satisfied with what we had begun to know of Cordoba, we slipped away to warm bed. 

After a late start and a good breakfast with some of the best coffee yet found in Argentina, we set off with light packs to head north for a couple days. The usual, routine procedure of finding the right bus and riding it slowly north while reading, listening to music, and taking in stunning countryside, brought us eventually to a new town called La Cumbre in the early afternoon. We set up camp in a quiet, isolated creekside campground underneath tree dappled sunlight, and set off to explore the town. We found an incredible dusty old bookshop that had a few ideal books in English but looked like no one had entered it for years (the price on my dusty book read "two shillings"). We settled on a terrace for a beer and watched the sunset, before returning to camp for a hearty meal over a roaring fire and a sleep frequently broken by ferociously barking dogs. I rose early after the sleepless night and walked up a winding path to another statue of Jesus that stood over the town. From the chilly lookout I watched the sunrise, then struck into town for some necessaries. By the time Casey woke I had showered, done laundry in the camps concrete basin, and laid out a breakfast of fresh pastry and orange juice (a drink which inevitably makes us both think of mornings at the tatums house). The day was spent languidly unthreatening brilliant sunshine, hanging around the lovely campsite reading and talking and stretching out in the sun, exceedingly conscious that this luxury of truly doing nothing for a day would not last long, and would be eliminated when we returned home. After a vast and delicious lunch of milanesa at a cafe in town, we hopped on a bus back to Cordoba, conscious of having "accomplished" nothing in La Cumbre, but well pleased with it all the same. On our return, after swinging by the hostel (and changing into our pathetic excuse for nice clean clothes) we struck out to the Teatro del Libertador, a grand but somewhat uninspiring concert hall, where we watched a performance of the local Chamber orchestra and an incredible 26 year old violinist. The performance was delightful, with highlights in a soul-stirring rendition of Barbers adagio, and solo pieces including an elegant Bach Concerto, a violin version of the arias from Bizet's Carmen, and several other incredible pieces. Though the calibre of performance was not the highest we had seen, the spirit and passion and sheer skill of the soloist was shocking, and he was dragged back after long minutes of applause for two fantastic encores. When we fell into bed that night with our heads whirling with music, we were thrilled and moved. In the silent darkness of the empty dorm room, with music-filled dreams, we sped through the night. The next morning we explored a long avenue lined with music shops. Despite the improbability of dragging home various instruments or accouterment, we were able to judge and enjoy various guitars and other musical wonders. Then we struck across the city again to pick up a much improved violin and talk with the wise and eccentric old luthier, before returning or a lunch of savory tarts (sort of like quiche) in the hostel patio. After lunch i brought out my beloved, newly restored instrument, and played and impromptu, but much appreciated recital (inspired by, but not approaching in quality, what we had seen the night before). Then, once again, we set out, this time going south, and arrived, after a long winding road past stunning, sunset-illuminated lakes, in the town of Villa general Belgrano. The town, though tacky and over-touristy, is famous for being founded and inhabited by the survivors of a German battle ship that sunk off the coast of Buenos Aires. We camped in the yard of a beautiful hostel (reminiscent of elronds last homely house) more like a sophisticated lodge than anything, and made a meal that was a good cut above our usual standard, with sausages on fresh bread and a cast salad including delectable crunchy bell peppers. We were joined after dinner by a super friendly Chicago girl named Laura who was vacationing from her study abroad in BA. She was a lot of fun and we all stayed up late talking and singing. She was the First person to join in with us by improvising lyrics for an improvised song. She sang, with a gorgeous voice, a melancholy song about going home that brought us all almost to tears (as we are all returning before too long). after a good stretch of stargazing and weary good nights, we retreated into the tent. The hostel, run by a slightly suspicious, ultra-formal, and very intimidating German, served an incredible breakfast (unique in hostels, and in Argentina, where breakfast is very much under appreciated). The breakfast included homemade oatmeal, homemade yogurt, homemade bread, homemade jams, and great coffee. We ate for hours and, when we could consume no more, packed up camp an headed out of town (despite it's history the town is fairly kitchy and not very pleasant so it was time to move on. Our next town was much more agreeable, a tiny, completely pedestrianized village perched in the hills, and separated by a footbridge from the world of cars and fumes. We hiked a long path up and down steep hills to a pleasant campsite on the edge of the wild. We pitched camp ad wandered through the sweet, very Germanic (almost reminiscent of Ehrwald) village, meeting up again with Laura to share a locally brewed beer and a beautiful apfelstrudel. We wandered into the hills to a gorgeous green swimming hole, where we lounged briefly on the sunny rocks and then, buying some groceries, returned to town. We met some friendly argentines and chatted and played music, then gathered wood for a huge fire on which we roasted vegetables and burgers and ate a vast feast. We sat around the fire, warm and full, and stargazed at the spotless sky for hours until the coals slowly dissipated. Then we returned through the cold night to our tent, where we slept a sleep broken by the ominous sound of galloping horse hooves (in all honesty, our "campground" is really just someones horse pasture). The next morning broke bitterly cold and misty, so we lingered over breakfast and then struck into the hills (which looked more than anything like some wilderness in the Scottish highlands) for some exploring. After a good deal of trekking we climbed two tall pines and reclined comfortably in their wavering topmost boughs, reading the morning away. When we returned to camp it was to find that our resident horse (who was lovely but a bit belligerent) had eaten our little jar of honey, which we had bought at great expense to liven up our steady diet of apples and pears as sweet tooth satisfiers. When we came to terms with this tragedy we headed into town and, glum with the bitter weather, bought a huge hot meal of German egg noodles and ale at a cozy little restaurant (the bizarrely named Swiss house, set in a german town, in the Scottish highlands of Argentina, all very confusing and incongruous). After gorging ourselves on this meal, we contentedly strolled back to camp, lit up a fire, played some music and, before too long, retreated into the tent for a few hours of reading and music and, eventually, bed. 
The next morning was again cold and drizzly but, nit disheartened, we made a vast vat of coffee and a hot brunch of pasta, and relaxed on the camps comfortable deck, in the shelter. We eventually set of exploring, and spent hours wandering the endless paths through the woods. The entire area, with dark mossy pine groves and tumbled rocky clearings and a low, clinging mist, was utterly mystical and mythical, and we could easily imagine, and almost envision nymphs, dryads, and gnomes emerging into sight around every bend. We stumbled upon a breathtaking old graveyard filled with Germans (fairly obvious names like  Helmut Anz, who were born in hamburg or Munich and died in this town La Cumbrecita. Then we wandered to an incredible lookout, and finally to a splendid waterfall that streamed down over jagged rocks into a deep clear green pool. We mustered our courage and, losing no time lest we should lose boldness, tore off our clothes off and leapt into the swimming hole. Brutally cold, but totally exhilarating, the water left us gasping and panting on the rocks, adrenaline pumping ferociously through our veins as Argentines laughed gleefully looking down on us from the viewpoint. Shuddering but happy, we returned to town and from thence to camp. We strolled up into the hills and, in the fading light, played music, writing songs in a nook in the mysterious rocks, with not a soul for miles. After dinner (completed with a bottle of torrontes from bodega Nanni, which we visited in Cafayate), we made friends with a French guy who was passing by and spent the evening chatting with him. After he left, we had an exuberant session of painting in our notebooks with Casey's watercolors as we listened to Chopin. Our energy slowly faded and, artistically and adventurously fulfilled, we slept on the sheltered platform, free of dogs and horses and rain, but surrounded by other mysterious night noises that brought dreams of monsters emerging from the mythical hills around us. The next morning was splendidly sunny, so we dried out our wet things and spent the morning getting organized and reenergized for our final week of travel. We felt light and good and clean after hot showers (had to dry in the sun, our new habit since various towels have been lost or stolen), and set off from our much loved campsite in high spirits. Lunch was a loaf of delicious bread and a bag of caramelized nuts purchased with our last 7 pesos (there is no ATM in this town, leaving us a but stranded), enjoyed by a bubbling brook on the edge of town, near the bus terminal. In the late afternoon we boarded a bus (not without some difficulty, we had ran out of cash and they didn't except cards so I had to bargain and beg and exchange my I'D until I got cash at our destination and paid our fares) and powered towards Cordoba, stopping in a Strange town called Alta Gracia for the night. It was a long hike to the empty, inhospitable hostel, but we found a store next door that sold handmade ravioli and handmade hamburgers, so we threw together a feast of a meal and collapsed into sweet repose. 
The next morning brought bight sunshine and a good breakfast. Then we struck out into the town, exploring first the gorgeous old Jesuit compound, which included a simple, lovely chapel, and various cloisters, rooms, and courtyards, all beautifully constructed with lovely architecture and a nicely laid out museum. Afterwards, we made our way to the house of the famous Che Guevara, also a lovely museum (all museums are free on Wednesday, lucky us) and wandered among the touching and revolutionary memorabilia and incredible photos of this argentine icon who transformed Cuba. Pictures of Castro and Chavez paying homage in the very rooms we were wandering were bizarre, and the museum as a whole was fascinating. We wandered back to the center of town, strolling around the reservoir and eating a picnic of delicious empanadas (some of the best we have had) by the lakeside. Then we read by the lakeside in the sunshine for a while, relishing the relief from the bitter weather that plagued us in Cumbrecita. And ice cream finished off a good afternoon, then we gathered our things and leapt on a bus that sped us on a bus to Cordoba, where we walked over to the train station and, even now, are waiting to depart and speed towards Rosario, where we will be only a short ways away from BA and our final departure. The train is crowded with laughing people, crying babies, and work-worn commuters. Not many tourists as this is not the luxury coach, but we are comfortable enough and will arrive in yet another new city in the early hours of the coming morn.  

Cafayate made an incredible impression on us from the very first moment. We stepped out of the bus and were accosted by the usual crowd offering hostel accommodation. Usually this is quite annoying but this time we really had no plans so we let them pitch their deals. One man, with long flowing hair, and an indigenous American look, came up to us and said, in Spanish that he had a great hostel nearby at a good price. His manner and conviction were such that we followed without question. We entered a lovely old yellow building through an unmarked door, and found ourselves in the most entrancingly lovely, grapevine filled courtyard, with carved wood adorning the mural-covered walls and a cozy round table set below a big bunch of bright blossoming flowers. It was too good to be true. We were given a cozy private room (a total luxury, unheard of at this price) and then the owner asked us if we wanted to come get some lunch. Again, overwhelmed by his genuine manner, we agreed, and he lead us (along with another Argentine girl at the hostel) to a fantastic tucked away restaurant where we conversed rapidly and good humouredly in Spanish over Salta beer and humitas (like creamy corn tamales, a local specialty) and roast chicken. The guy (Claudio) was cheerful and easygoing enough that he could communicate with Casey (though they had not a word of eachothers language). After an exceedingly satisfying lunch, Claudio led us around the town, ending up at the main plaza where he insisted we try a local surprise: wine ice cream! Though we expected creamy sweet helado flavoured slightly of grapes, what we got was in fact what tasted like frozen wine, bitter and alcoholic, but an utterly ingenious creation. Exhausted by food and sun and excitement, we retreated to the cool leafy hostel (called Lo de Chichi, or Chichi's house) to relax in the courtyard with some impressive Peruvian craftsmen (a man who works with silver, creating incredibly necklaces with 10,000 chain links, and a woman who works with leather, making ingenious little leather coin cases) who were also very friendly. Meeting them and some others in the hostel, it began to be clear that Claudio doesn't pick just anyone for the hostel, but seems to restrict his invitations to craftspeople and musicians. The better for us!! We were totally at home and very happy with the place, and dinner that night preceded a very intense dream-filled sleep in a room that was blissfully dark and totally, totally silent. 
The next morning we awoke to golden sunshine winding through the grapevines to a little table beneath that was laden with coffee and simple but delectable pastries and jam. We ate and then gathered our energy for what would be a fairly ambitious day. We rented to bikes and then, with them in the hold, rode a local bus 50 kilometers up the Quebrada de Cafayate, where we were dropped off. The bike ride was probably the most spectacular I have ever done. The gentle incline and excellent pavement made for easy riding, and the golden sunshine was nicely refreshed by a cool breeze. But above all this was the landscape, as stunning as you could possibly imagine. Combine the grand canyon with monument valley, add the dimensions of a prehistoric dinosaur hunting ground, and a flavor of awe-inspiring eastern religious architecture and multiply it all by a thousand, and perhaps an image begins to form. Vast cliffs jut out of the earth in colorful red sandstone, at bizarre and impossible-seeming angles. Rocks that look like mouths, soldiers, obelisks, ships, and every other form imaginable. A powerful river edged by lush greenery winds it's way through the whole thing, and a peaceful, deserted highway meanders along side. This we rode for 30 miles, stopping for lunch (there is now starting to develop a serious competition about best picnic spot in argentina) and a dip in the muddy water, only approachable though thigh deep sloppy mud that seemed suspiciously like quicksand. We continued at leisure, but our speed increased when we ran out of water and the sun set, chilling even our exercise heated bodies to the core. But the last few miles were not unpleasant, for we were rolling through valleys strangely reminiscent of our own napa valley. Flat, tree lined highways with extensive golden vineyards on either side and imposing but slightly surreal chateau planted in the vineyards heart. Cafayate is the wine growing center of northern Argentina, famous especially for a crisp white wine native to the region called Torrontes. So we pedaled slowly through the vineyards as our energy began to flag, and rolled into the plaza with the cool evening, dropped the bikes and returned home for gallons of cold water and a big carbohydrate rush of pasta to relieve aching limbs and stomachs. That night we stayed up talking and playing music with Claudio and a group of french travelers from Lille. The music (primarily a native flute and drum with caseys guitar) was bizarre and excellent, and the company and wine were good. We eventually retired, glowing with warmth of a dozen different kinds. 
The next day was one of simple pleasures. A late rise, a good breakfast, a long walk up the valley to a sloping rock filled riverbed lined with sand that was literally shining with minerals so it looked like it was made of gold. A long hike up that stony riverbed, seeing goats, a snake, and a fox, before finally stopping to swim in the frigid but fantastic river pools and then bask on sun warmed rocks, eat apples, drink the pure water, nap luxuriantly, read for hours, play in the mud and swim some more. And eventually a lazy return, a good meal with good company, and to bed. The only disturbance was two very loud smelly drunk guys from town who begged claudio until he let then sleep in our room. But they only stayed one night (thank god!). 

We are already stepping off the bus in the cold and the dark at 7am before we really realize we are awake. It takes several more minutes of trudging along up a seemingly endless white dust road to nowhere, in the dark starry night, that we begin to have second thoughts about what the he'll we are doing. We set out at 5am to catch the only bus to the famous ruins of Quilmes, but now we are not sure what we have done is smart, or even safe. We have no idea where we are, and no truly warm clothes, and it is bitterly cold, as only a desert can be. We walk as quickly as cold muscles will carry us, breathing shallowly, trying everything we can think of to keep warm. We have nowhere to go, no way to get back, or get warm. No plan B. For a moment the whole thing is a bit terrifying, but then the eastern skyline begins to lighten and over the course of a terribly long hour, the sun rises and warms the earth. By the time it is fully risen, we are perched on a rocky promontory above the gorgeous sprawling ruins of the sacred ancient city of the quilmes people, who (though ultimately destroyed by the Spanish) were the only tribe to ever successfully resist Inca conquest. The ruins, a patchwork quilt of homes, work spaces, and temples, light up rapidly in the golden life-giving light, and the tall cactuses begin to throw long shadows. We have a perfect perch from which to view and then explore the city, and the sunrise, well, it defies description. The most amazing aspect of the ruins, we find, as we climb the long jagged ridges that surround them, are the work spaces where pits are dug into the solid rock, presumably for food preparation, to work as a mortar and pestle. The time devoted to this is beyond comprehension, and in these ancient places of communal work, the voices of the cooks can be easily imagined, laughing, gossiping, worrying about inca and Spanish invasions. It is surreal. We finally reach a high point, a sort of Quilmes Hilltop Villa (presumably the primo real estate) and have views not only of the astonishing ruins but even all the way back to cafayate and across the valley to snow covered mythical Andes. We break our fast on the epic mountain top and then descend, recross the desert to the bus stop, and catch a ride back to town, finally conquering awe-shaken minds. The afternoon is filled with an exciting new novelty: wine tasting!! Dressing in our finest Napa Casual attire (totally unnecessary but still fun) we go with one of our French friends to a bodega (winery) and ask for the complimentary tour and tasting (does such a thing exist for free in California?). We are guided around and given an impressive tour, and then treated to a tasting that redefines the limitations of the palate. The first winery is a large one that uses only metal containers instead of oak. The second is a tiny boutique winery recently founded ad distinguished by top of the line equipment from Italy. The third is huge, wholly organic, and one of the oldest in Argentina. We train our palates in the art of wine tasting and rapidly become experts and connoisseurs. 
Our verdicts. 
Bodega Domingo
Torrontes: delightfully crisp and fresh, but not too fruity
Malbec: mild and drinkable, but unable to accompany steak (big problem).
Bodega transito
Torrontes: mild and smooth, uninteresting
Malbec: fantastic, sharp, peppery, intense
Cabernet: fruity and smooth but Not napa-worthy
Bodega Nanni
Torrontes: citrusy and bright, best torrontes we've had
Tannat: hefty and acidic, peppery, powerful 
Late harvest torrontes: desert wine, delicious, honey,  great note to end on.
So there you go, instant understanding and mastery of the art! Joking aside, it was an extremely fun, entertaining, elegant way to spend the afternoon, especially since the girl at the last place was from Boston and spoke english and was very fun and funny. 
That evening Claudio insisted that we would all have an asado, so we went out with him and purchased several different kinds of meat and veg, and got a roaring fire going. Wine was served and we cooked with the french group happily, and the asado was served in courses, two different kinds of chorizo, then crispy ribs, and finally 
a hefty rump steak. All accompanied by a vast salad, fresh bread, potatoes, and, of course, good red wine. After the dinner the guitar came out for dozens of improvised verses about Cafayate and Lo de Chichi. The evening was beyond ideal, and, though Claudio was a bit heart broken that we didn't go clubbing with him, I would not change anything about that day for the world. And besides, we slept damn well.

We left Buenos Aires (the permanent crossroads of our south American adventure) once again, and hopped on a rickety train that took us to the main bus terminal. We stood in the freight section, surrounded by tense chain-smoking business men and drug dealers, with the windows open and the city hurtling past. We leapt down, backpack laden, onto the platform, and staggered out to Retiro Terminal, where we went through our normal bus procedure. Having now given up entirely any pretense of planning anything ahead of time, we simply wander over to the bus terminal and take the next bus to our destination, which may be in ten minutes or four hours. This time it was four hours so we munched some empanadas and waited (something which, between reading writing singing and talking, we have become quite adept at). Then we boarded the bus and coasted through the afternoon and night, sailing north into the mountains. There is one very strange thing about the Argentine buses, and that is the movies they play. We have had a bus that played only Ben Stiller movies for 12 hours (my worst nightmare), a bus that played the first 30 minutes of each movie before changing, and various buses that play the strangest selection of movies imaginable, including a Texas Bromance, a movie that took place entirely in a club, and the most absurd action movie ever created, starring Every action movie actor in the business. We would both prefer a book any day, but unfortunately the movies are played LOUD on the buses speakers and so is fairly difficult to ignore. Our first destination, which we reached the following afternoon, was Salta, a beautiful city of elegant colonial architecture and tree lined avenues. We found an excellent hostel (we are very much connoisseurs of hostels at this point, and absolutely disdain the very idea of a hotel) and then wandered into town for lunch (steak sandwiches from a street stand) and ice cream on the plaza. The city was overflowing with tourism and tourists, artisan shops (with beautiful cloth of llama wool and colorful Bolivian blankets), and people selling tours and day trips. The city was lovely, but quite in your face. We got away from the noise and action by hiking up a long winding stairway that lead to a hilltop that looks over the town. We climbed 1,020 stairs before arriving at the green grass and waterfalls at the top. It was a Sunday, so the place was pleasantly buzzing with Argentine families taking a relaxing afternoon outing. We descended as the evening fell, and returned to the hostel, where we made friends from France (Matieu),  Denmark (Benedicta), and New Zealand.  The hostel made a big batch of meat empanadas so we all ate together, talking and sharing stories as it is so infinitely easy to do with other backpackers. We drank Salta, the local beer, and one of the best we have had. The evening ended in a gradual cheerful exodus towards bed, and we slept, happy to be in a new place and truly on the road again. 
The following day found us traveling two hours north to Jujuy (pronounced, amusingly hoohawee, like a sound someone might make when they are very happy). Jujuy was similar to in scale, but the atmosphere was utterly different. Far less touristy, it in fact felt like a real working town, not a destination at all. We had an awesome lunch at a real locals place, that served vast helpings of rice and meat and french fries, accompanied by a Litre bottle of Fanta (we try to be healthy but don't always succeed). We spent a pleasant afternoon walking around the market, and hanging around the plaza, and visiting an archeological museum with eerie skeletons of children sacrificed by the Incas on nearby mountain tops. By the end of the afternoon we started to feel a distinct desire to return to the small villages and beautiful landscapes of the kind that we had liked so much in Patagonia. So after a fun evening of cooking dinner and watching ghostbusters in Spanish, making friends with our very adventurous Dutch roommate Sanders, and a brilliant nights sleep due to a fantastically comfortable hostel, we moved on again, to a little mountain town called Tilcara. The bus ride is about 30 miles long but takes two hours, since the bus driver inexplicably drives incredibly slowly and takes long leisurely breaks whenever it suits him. 
Tilcara appears at first as a simple dusty town, but we hesitate to pass judgment, first dropping bags and setting up camp in a leafy, quiet riverside campground, and then heading over to the nearest cafe (essentially a guys sitting room with tables in it)  where we are served heaping sizzling plates of barbecued lamb (Cordero), salad, fresh bread, and the local goat cheese for which this region is apparently renowned. It was washed down with delicious fresh peach juice. It seems that we don't eat too often, but when we do, we eat superbly well. After this decadent feast we walked meanderingly through town, eventually finding a road that led out of town to a nearby pucara (Inca fortress). Joining up with Benedicta, a friend from
Salta who we met on the path, we trekked along through the valley until we came to a bluff with impressive cliffs and topped by crumbling ruins. We made our way up and spent an hour wandering through houses and temples and along pathways tread hundreds of years ago by Mapuche (native to Argentina) and Inca (originally from Peru but thee empire expanded to northern Argentina before collapsing) people. The structures had been partly rebuilt and we could get a sense of the place, the living areas, and the militaristic advantage of the cliff, which had a commanding position in the surrounding mountains. The palpable age and history of the place was comparable, though wildly different, from the roman ruins of Alesia that we visited in Burgundy. 
Wandering back as the sun disappeared of the hilltop, glinting on the water before disappearing entirely, we found some other friends from Salta in the towns main plaza and settled down in a cozy sidewalk cafe for some submarinos. It was warm and cheerful, and the town grew on us as we gazed out on it, and wandered through it in the twilight. It was only when we had bought burgers to grill on a fire at our campsite that we found that there was no firewood to be found or bought. Dark and starting to be cold, but utterly stubborn and with no intention of giving up, we bought charcoal and (in an absence of standard lighter fluid)  96% rubbing alcohol. By now hunger was growing, so we threw the whole thing together and tried to get it burning. At first this was to no avail, so we scrapped it and tried again. But it became clear that pages from a tattered copy of Grapes of Wrath and green twigs were not sufficient to start anything longer than a ten-second blaze. Once again the ashes were scooped out and we went on a careful hunt around the campground, searching for even the tiniest bit of firewood as tempers started to wear thin and dinner started to look like bread and mustard. Finally a tiny blaze was got going and Casey carefully fed it coals and nurtures it while I went to plan B. We still had the tiniest bit of camp fuel left in our stove, so I got that blazing and started to cook the frozen hamburgers in mustard goop. It was slow going, but our spirits were high with red wine and success and before too long we had thawed burgers which (abandoning grilling) we threw into the coals and allowed to cook through. It was 10:30 by the time we ate (we had promised to meet our friends at the bar at 9 but food took definite precedence). Despite snickering neighbor campers and a slight sense of shame (we had, after all, considered ourselves hardy, experienced campers) we consumed our hot, long awaited dinner with gusto. We slept blissfully well, in a way that is only possible in a tent, with bellies full of fire roasted (or coal singed as the case may be) food. 

Though i wanted to strike out into the impressive, unexplored surrounding Quebrada de Humahuaca (canyons) Casey was insistent that today was a day to explore the nearby waterfall, so that is what we did, setting off up a long dusty path, with hot sun blazing down on our bare backs. On the long, winding path into the mountains, we met a porteno named Santiago who was also exploring the area. We formed a quick, solid trekking friendship and set off with him, higher up into the hills on a treacherous, sinuous path, that in the heat of the day, led us at last to a glittering, powerful stream of water that crashed down viciously into the canyon where we were standing. Whooping with joy we threw of our shoes an leapt into the powerful, almost crushing stream of water, which, icy and exhilarating, poured down on weary limbs and dusty hair. We explored various rocky pools below the waterfall, thrilling with the purity and energy of the water, but barely able to withstand it's cold. We drank deeply of the waterfalls that trickled down conveniently from the rocks on mossy beds, and the water (which goes straight to Tilcara to be consumed) was pure and delicious beyond anything we could imagine. We drank deeply of every aspect of the canyon and the waterfall, enjoying it for hours until the sun left the narrow space in darkness. Then we retreated down the canyon (saying goodbye to Santiago) to a sun drenched spot where we ate a long-awaited picnic and slept blissfully on sun warmed rocks that sheltered us from the sun. When we finally returned to town, it was with minds and bodies refreshed and rejuvenated and battered from heat and cold and bliss. Back in town we wandered through the artisans markets (where the dominant theme is unquestionably Llamas!) and then retuned to our campsite, where we sang and wrote and relaxed before heading into town for dinner (not that we had by any means given up on the BBQ. In fact, Casey was roped into helping some other campers get their fire going under the same circumstances which he, understandably, failed to do). We found a little bar on a dusty side-street and ate delectable llama burgers. Definitely best burger of the trip, llama is amazing. (sorry dad, that I got angry at you that one time for feeding the family our pet llama. Soon as I get home let's slaughter the rest of them!). 
The peaceful nature of the campsite was broken only by the loud, persistent, and out of tune marching band which paraded around at ungodly hours with a blasphemous rendition of Simon and Garfunkels El Condor Pasa. That night I finished my Steinbeck, the predominant feature of which (not having enough money and living on very little food) was familiar, and the next morning I was moved by the story to do what one of steinbecks characters does, and spend a little extra on good food. So the next morning we had breakfast (itself a rare occurrence) of milk (milk!!), apples, fresh bread, and dolce de leche. We ate on Caseys colorful new woven blanket in the brilliant sunshine of a fresh new cloudless mountain morning. Lounging, catlike, in the sun, we eventually roused ourselves and set off once again into the hills. This time we abandoned paths and set off up a random canyon. We trekked through the tough terrain, stopping at one point to sit on an eerily mystical seat of stone, where our minds wandered blissfully for what seemed like hours in the sun. For ages we kept a deliberate and flawless silence, drinking it all in and thinking, meditating in the utter silence of the mountains, any human beings certainly miles away. The location and the silence where perfect beyond compare, but we eventually  set off to find a more panoramic spot for lunch. Reaching the top of a ridge over the canyon, we perched on a precipitous, crumbly ledge, and looked out on the meandering canyons, the mighty mountains of the Andes, and the distant, tree filled town of Tilcara. Here again we relaxed, read and ate, our standard lunch of bread (excellent loaves of bread in northern Argentina), ham, and cheese, with juicy apples to finish. Eventually, as there were no crystalline waterfalls, our water bottle ran dry, and we returned to the town. 
Thrilled with the Quebrada and our exploration of it, we packed up camp and boarded a bus for Cafayate which, after a night spent in Salta, was our next destination. 

We only have one real day in Rio de Janeiro, so we decide to make it count. We rise fairly early, eat a vast breakfast of good coffee, cake, and fresh rolls with cheese, and watermelon (very different from the Argentine brakfast of Nothing...they do not eat breakfast, or drink coffee, so Brazil is very luxurious in comparison). Meet a very cool Parisien girl who asks to be called "Z" since her name is apparently too difficult to pronounce (suspect....) and a guy from Michigan. We decide to go on the iconic Rio expedition. We ride a bus across the city and then a train up to the top of Mount Corcovado, where stands the iconic (literally) statue of Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer), who looks out benevolently over the truly staggering view, his arms spread and his gaze loving. Though packed with tourists and prone to Stupid posing photographs, the spot is truly one of a kind. The views, of the city, the beaches, lakes, mountains, sugarloaf, soccer stadiums, jungle, it is all too incredible. I think Rio is the most beautifully situated and impressively laid out city in the world. From the top of the mountain, looming over the vast metropolis, it is awe inspiring.
We descend, and go with Z to Copacabana again, where we drink cold coconut water (out of the coconut, which they simply hack open with a machete to drink out of, brilliantly tropical), swim in the warm, salty water, lie on the perfect,fine, white sand, and watch incredibly athletic boogieboarding and surfing, from the safety of the beach. We have a great conversation with Z, who is one of the most like minded people we have met on all of our travels, and is a lot of fun. The evening winds down and we head back to the hostel. After some mate and music, we throw on our bags, salty and sweaty and just about tired of travelling, and set out yet again, saying goodbye to our new friend and leaving Rio having enjoyed it superbly despite such a short time spent there.
Another bus across the city, then a bus to Sao Paulo, we arrive at 4am and take another bus to the airport where we wait a few hours for our flight and then, before we know it, we are back in Buenos Aires,  (which, amazingly, is starting to feel a lot like hoooome to us). We walk back to the hostel through the beautiful parks of palermo, stopping for a Choripan (sausage sandwich) for lunch. We spend the day getting organized, refreshing our supply of books, doing laundry and getting hair cut (or hacked off by a crazy argentine rather) and preparing to continue our epic exploration of Argentina tomorrow. we are off to Salta, in the Andean Northwest. But for now, a little rest, in between the endless, but endlessly rewarding, travelling.

But leave we must, and we eventually do, early on a morning that is pleasantly grey and cool. Spared of the tropical heat for a morning, perfect travelling conditions, we bid goodbye to Gi and the house of Paradise, and Oliven drives us to the pier. Then begins an Odyssey the likes of which we have never experienced before, and do not pln to do again soon. We discover how huge Brazil really is.
We take a two hour ferry across the bay to the biggest town in the local area. Camamu is still too small to offer many bus services, so we take a "short" ride north to Salvador, the capital of Bahia. Short turns out to mean 5 hours and when we arrive, we are not in the city but across another bay. So we board a ferry that takes us across to the city as the sun sets. Now it is dark and we are in a strange city and are nowhere near the bus terminal. An evil cap driver takes us there, and we find a bus down to Rio. BUt it is not until 7am, which means a 12 hour wait at the terminal (no point slogging across the city to a hostel and back). Delirious after so long with no sleep, and a strange eerie night in the almost vacant (save for cockroaches) terminal, we finally board our bus. 26 hours brings us to Rio. A long time, made worse by lack of communication (Portuguese is soo difficult) and lack of food. But we sleep long hours and eventually arrive, or so we think, in Rio. We ask the driver, he confirms, we get off. But it is not Rio. So back on another bus and finally after 4 more hours we arrie in RIO DE JANEIRO. We take a city bus across town and find a brilliant hostel and, 60 hours after setting out from the house in Bahia, we have arrived. The afternoon sours slightly when Casey´s credit card is stolen by an ATM at a vacant bank (sunday) and then a suspicious guy tries to get his pin number. So we are down to one credit card between us.

But the day improves finally as we sip Ciapirinhas and Brahmas at a cafe on Praia Cobacabana (the most sensuous beach in the universe) watching impressive soccer and volleyball games, and gorgeous people strutting along the sand. We eat bolinhos de bacalau (fried cod) and whitebait, and luxuriate in a truly amazing city. The hostel is brilliant, full of fun (english speaking, it has been a while...) people wo tell brilliant stories. We make friends, but collapse eventually, worn out by travel.

And strangely, one morning, a week after Easter, the house was empty. The various Grahams were drawn away, either by work or school or Gap Year plans, and we were left alone. After such an odyssey north, they refused to let us leave. So we enjoyed a second week, equally luxurious but utterly different from the first. Gone were the loud rambunctious meals and games of charades, late nights and group expeditions. Except for Oliven (the incredibly friendly guy who manages the place) and Gi, who works with him, the staff and chef were gone as well, and the house was essentially shut down, save for a few rooms for us. We still ate delectable meals and swam and lounged and read, but now we truly were on our own schedule. We stayed up late watching movies, playing cards, writing songs, listening to music, reading (I never knew I could read so much in a week, and I read a lot). It is quiet, but blissfully so, and after all the long nights and big cities, loud noises and dusty streets, bus rides and plane rides and days without food and uncomfortable beds, we do not miss a moment of this splendor. We capture every moment, savor every swim and meal and sun drenched nap. Our skin turns from deathly pale to tinted brown to a lustrous golden (hate to be vain but it is hard not to notice when you spend 12 hrs a day in the sun). We go for long walks along the beach, stroll into town, ride the quad around. We get to know Oliven and Gi (they even invite us to go to a party with them, despite the language barrier). We have long intellectual discussions Tolkeins Silmarillion and the epic Watchmen and other than that, mostly just stare off across the rolling atlantic, visible through the vivid palms. One night we watch the Rolling Stones Shine A Light Movie (absolutely mandatory, one of the best band movies EVER) and end up dancing, singing Sympathy for the Devil at the top of our lungs, having air guitar solos and air drum solos and finally, at the epic ending, leaping into the pool in the dead of night with whoops of Rolling Stones mania. May sound like a quiet night in to some, but it was a blast.

The day before we leave (an event we dread), we go out to the cabana on the beach and play classical music at maximum volume on the speakers and lay back,  drinking beer and enjoying the heat of the afternoon and the gradual descent into twilight. The tide is at an all time high and is perfect for boogieboarding, so we leap into the wives and ride them up and down as music rolls through the air and warm tropical rain begins to fall. When we get out of the water, the rain intensifies and the clouds over the ocean are suddenly illuminated by a magnificent double rainbow, a complete arc, and utterly vivid. Franz Ferdinand blares from the speakers as we soak up a moment that doesn´t seem like it could be more idyllic.

The large group of people that inhabited the beach house for our first week included lots of Grahams, as well as their extended family and friends, gathered for a sublime tropical Semana Santa (Easter). We spent most of our time with Will (our age, on his gap year working in Spain and England and now traveling), his Italian friend Cosima (who is a pro skier who has been a much more impressive ski instructor than I, in italy. She also reads a lot and would get up at 8 with me to read at the beginning of the day), wills cousin Marco (half Brazilian half LA kid, loves glee and justin bieber), and Patrick (although younger than any of us, has much more impressive prospects, as he is training to be a professional tennis player and is already winning south American championships, as he now lives and trains in Brazil. Wow.). Though these are not all the characters, they are the ones we spent most of time with. Although the general day to day has already been described as simple luxury and relaxation, we also had several expeditions. One day brought a waterskiing trip, which was sublime, since I hadn't water-skied in ages, and the setting couldn't have been better. Gliding in sunshine on flat turquoise water 20 feet away from palm laden white beaches. It felt impossibly picturesque. My waterskiing was definitely improved by all that real Skiing in Austria. Casey had a blistering sun burn (as did I actually, inevitable after no exposure for a long european winter and Patagonian autumn) so he reclined in the gorgeous speedboat and watched Will, Marco, and I wipe out dramatically and often. Another day brought another boat trip, this time speeding across the glittering water up the estuary to a massive waterfall. The swimming, in the cold fresh water of the falls, was fantastic (despite warnings that anacondas are often swept down the falls), and Will, Patrick, Casey, and I climbed up the slippery slimey face of the roaring falls, plunging and leaping through the rushing water to reach a panoramic vista framed by dense, tropical (very tropical, this is the closest either of us have been to the equator) jungle, lush and dripping with vines. We look out over the meandering estuary and the distant bay, interspersed with desert islands and mangrove swamps. The speedboat, anchored at the foot of the falls and sprayed in a constant, delicate mist, seems tiny below us. After exploring the jungle above the falls, we descend and leap back into the boat and, as if on cue, a wild tropical rainstorm closes in. Now during our two weeks in Bahia rain storms were frequent and intense, but usually very short. But this was a different matter. Rain lashed down as the boat pounded over the growing swells and waves, driving into an ever darkening cloud. We were miles from the town, and the boat battled back towards the coast, spray and wind and rain lashing like shards of glass against our faces as we all sat, poised, wrapped in turban-like towels to protect our faces, bearing the brunt of the wild, almost unbelievable storm.

But not every day was filled with this genre of adventure. One day brought a trip into the local town of Barra Grande on the quadbike with Patrick (whose driving skills are, to say the least, still being developed) who sped confidently and haphazardly through muddy puddles and down sandy lanes into the little town. He brought us to a bar where a friend of his made passionfruit caipirinhas, and we lounged in the humid heat and sunshine, enjoying the simple life that many of the locals seem to live (from what I can tell, the hunched, wrinkled inhabitants of Barra Grande are in the same chairs, sipping the same caipirinhas, as they were when I visited three years ago). The town is tiny (villages seem to be the theme of this gap yah), but benefits from the exuberant lifestyle of such a gorgeous tropical beachfront. And Patrick, speaking fluent Portuguese, is a good guide (despite the fact that he drives worse than my brother. yes. worse. i know.).


Another day we all piled into the Land Rover Defender (definitely the gap year vehicle of choice) and speed over to another town to meet some friends off the boat. They never show up, so we spend the entire evening watching the tropical sunset across the bay, digging and playing in the sand, burying limbs and torsos in the deep sand, and enjoying a cozy little nook in the tangle of the coastline.


One night brings a party, but of exactly the kind that we prefer. No clubs or raves (we are, recall, in the middle of Nowhere, and that is coming from someone who has been to Thorpe and Ehrwald) but simply the five of us (Marco, Will, Cosima, Casey and I) out in the small cabana right on the beach, blasting music and dancing and running around on the sand and singing along at the top of our lungs, surrounded by people who somehow, suddenly, are great friends. It is fun, the most fun we have had with people our age since we left home. They are a great crew, and we all get along great, despite some small differences in musical taste (as I mentioned Marco is a fan of Bieber, among others...no comment. Hope emma doesnt read this).


The week is blissful in the kind of way that only well earned rest and relaxation, in the perfect spot, surrounded by wonderful people, can be.

So what is utter luxury? It is waking up whenever you so desire, with absolutely no demands on your time. For me this means 8oclock, so I can read for an hour in the morning sun before anyone else is up. For Casey it's more like 10 or 11. Utter luxury is steaming cups of incomparable Brazilian coffee and a vast spread of homemade pastries (created by the professional chef and served by the friendly, fun Brazilian staff) and tropical fruits and jams and tapioca and eggs and fresh bread for the baker in town. Luxury is sunshine so hot that by the time breakfast is finished a swim is obligatory. Luxury is swimming first in the ocean, rolling waves of warm (really warm) equatorial water crashing joyfully onto a white sandy beach that stretches for miles in either direction, edged by absurdly leaning coconut palms that disappear into a distant haze as the beach curves away into the distance. Utter luxury is going from the ocean to an icy fresh shower in the palm grove and then plunging into the crystalline pool. Then you can go back to the ocean and start over again. Luxury is deciding whether you want to relax on a pool chair, in a hammock, on bean bags or rocking chairs or floating pool chairs or window seats or just keep moving around from spot to spot and sun to shade and back again. Luxury is swimming whenever you even begin to overheat and drying off in the tropical sun. Luxury is the cool Breeze combatting the humid heat. Its an icy caipirinha (the Brazilian drink of choice,  the local sugar cane rum cachaca mixed with excessive amounts of sugar and lime). It's a huge lunch that leaves you desperately in need of a nap, although you have done nothing of sufficient exertion to deserve one. It's having a freshly baked cake constantly present on the counter to snack on throughout the afternoon. It's fresh squeezed fruit juices (mango, guava, passionfruit, pineapple, caja) and cold coconut water. 
It's having a churrasco (Brazilian version of the asado). It's passionfruit everything (candy, juice, pudding, cake). It's long exhausting boogie boarding sessions and then sunbathing to recover. Its playing heated card games with will and lilly. Its watching everyone patrol Jedi style hunting flies with electric fly swatters. Its poring through dozens of books in the long lazy days. Its Casey taking charge of the big boSe speakers to blast all manner of good music through the afternoon and evening. It's the tropical sunset over the ocean and a cold Brahma (Brazilian beer) before dinner. It's a vast feast of a dinner, followed by an elegantly presented glass of good scotch (no no, he insists) from Charlie. It's a wild, after dinner game of charades that threatens to collapse into all out warfare. It's a late night swim in the warm and eerily lot pool beneath the palm trees. It's going hunting for fireflies in the garden with Will and Patrick, worrying about stepping on anacondas in the garden, in the dark after everyone has gone to bed and the lights are out. It's catching the bright fireflies and then letting them escape. It's finally drifting off to bed, in a cool dark room between crisp sheets. It's dreaming vividly all night long (something about this place). Its being excited to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

We spent one night in Buenos Aires, at Giramondo, the hostel that gas begun to feel very much like home. With a whirl of new friends and packing for the next day, the afternoon passed quickly, and we only grabbed a few hours of sleep before a 3am start (actually Casey didn't sleep at all). We set off from the hostel with lightened bags and hopped into a taxi with a driver who shored steadily all the way to the airport, although he didn't seem to he asleep. Traveling is, of course, extremely exhausting at 4 in the morning, but it is the sort of thing we have gotten fairly used to, and before we knew it we found ourselves disembarking in the sticky humid air of Sao Paulo, Brazil.

We spent three days in Sao Paulo, based at a comfortable hostel in a very nice part of town. The hostel was packed with friendly (but very bizarre) people, and several musicians, so we spent much of the three days jamming with an incredible argentine guitar player who also played a bizarre combination of a base and a guitar with no body or plucking. Our audience included a guy from Iran who claimed to be part of the most violent dangerous gang in Europe, an absurdly racist Chinese girl with a strong British accent who hated new York but proudly wore an I Heart NY tshirt, a flamboyantly gay guy who insisted on taking a dozen photos of anyone who took their shirt off for an instant in the heat, and a music-obsessed Frenchman not unlike a more worldly Jean-louise. There was also a massive Brazilian filmmaker who stumbled into me drunkenly demanding a rendition of Beethovens 9th which I was supposed to recognize from a slurred dumdumdumddum daaadaaadummdum. 
It was a very entertaining scene and the music was as always, beloved. Though we spent much of our time just hanging around the hostel, we also dud a few expeditions into Sao Paulo, which is a Massive, and not very touristy city. But we enjoyed wandering around the lovely parque ibirapuera (where we watched a spectacular water show in the fountains set in the parks main lake), and meandered up agenda Oscar friere, a street lined with the most elegant opulent row of designer shops we had every seen (outdoing London, new York, and any other competition). Shopping was not on the agenda, but we did find a good bookshop with an English section where we were able to stock up on reading material. While in the city, we ate vast, cheap meals of meat, rice, and beans at little street side eateries. We also discovered a totally incredible restaurant called casa jaya, a music bar and vegan restaurant. Where we listened to fantastic musicians serenading us as we feasted of mountains of salad, rice beans, and stew. The greenery was an incredible treat after such a long time of cheap food. And the setting was so beautiful, a shady little corner down the stairs from street level, the walls all painted lovely oranges and tropical plants and flowers thick in every direction. We stayed at this paradise for hours. We were loving the novelty of a new country, though it shares a border with Argentina they are utterly different in every way. The language barrier was frustrating after speaking Spanish for a month but not impossible. All in all we enjoyed our few days there and when they ended we had another dawn start, leaping onto a subway and cutting across the city to the domestic airport, where we boarded a flight north to Bahia (whenever we told people in Sao Paulo that we were going to Bahia they were extremely jealous). We landed at a tiny airport in the middle of nowhere, a fishing town called Ilheus, where we met Analida Graham, who I had stayed with in London and who would now be our host again. She is originally Brazilian and so the family (her, Charlie, and kids Alex, Will, Patrick, and Lilly) spends a lot of time in Brazil and had invited us (and several other friends, making for quite a full house) to their beach house for Easter. We rode with Analida north to the port of Camamu, where we were met by several other grahams in their speedboat, the Lillibelle, and shot out across leaping waves to a tiny town on the other side of the bay. Then we rode in a landrover down the narrow spit of land till we arrived at the isolated and luxurious beach house. We arrived as darkness settled, in time for a vast meal, with all 20 or so people gathered around the enormous dining table. We fell asleep early that night, after a very long day of traveling, but we were immensely excited about the two weeks of utter luxury that would begin the next morning. 

We leave the hostel Very early, with Jana. We part ways with her (sadly, she is really the best friend we have met on the road) and hop on a bus up to San Martin De Los Andes. The bus ride is spectacular, gliding in sunshine through incredible countryside, with views of dozens of surreally blue lakes and the distant Volcan Lanin, a picture perfect cone that stands along, magnificently covered in snow. We arrive in San Martin, which is a perfectly beautiful, quaint, lakeside town in the mountain forest, and go exploring. It is one of the loveliest places we have seen, and Casey in fact makes definite plans to retire here. I am more in favor of a remote estancia in the lake district from which I can access the impressive Bariloche and the charming San Martin. We have a lunch of chicken sandwiches and strawberry milkshakes down on the beach, in blazing sunlight but constant brisk wind. We wander through the sweet town, rent bikes for the next day, and return eventually to the hostel which is almost empty but where (surprise) we find (in our dorm room) our two French buddies from the ride up to Bolson. It's a small world when you are traveling around the end of the earth, we are beginning to find. We go out for pizza and choripan (argentine favorite, chorizo sandwich) and great artisanal beer, another local specialty. Wandering back through town we witness and eerie, extremely vicious dog-fight, but otherwise the town is silent, although there are occasional choruses of dogs barking all through the night. 
The next day we pack up our things and step out into bright sunshine with a spring in our step. It is still cold and windy, but the sun is brilliant. We pickup our bikes (which are barely worthy of the name mountain bike, tiny, with now handle bar grips, or suspension, or anything, but we're not complaining) and hit the trail. The day just happens to be the day of a huge local marathon, so the first mile or so up Very steep hills down which runners are speeding to the end of their race. It is a big event and very cool to witness, although peddling up endless hills takes most of our focus. We make our way up dirt roads to the top of a ridge above town, where rough paths guide us through flickering sunlight with the sounds of the town below (primarily dogs barking and the announcer telling the runners times). We are in beautiful national park Lanin, in ancient forest, and although the biking is hard work, it is well worth it. Eventually we make it to an incredible viewpoint at the too of a spit of land, and look out over the vast, magnificent Lago Lacar. It is one of the most stunning panoramas either of us has ever seen, and we spend a couple hours at the top, nestled out of the wind with our backs to a cozy, moss covered bank, drinking it all in. We read and relax in the sunshine, in another one of those perfect spots. Suddenly a small wisp of cloud covers the sun, and I look up to see a vast bank of clouds speeding across the lake towards us. Within ten minutes the mountain weather has changed utterly, from bright sunshine to the darkness of heavy clouds. As it begins to rain we retreat a little ways down the hill to a cottage that serves food. We sit in a beautiful little cabin of carved wood while a cheerful hostess makes us delicious and much needed burgers. The rain clears a bit and with energy restored, we attempt to speed back down to the town. But the trail we are following down becomes impossibly steep and narrow, as well as covered in slippery leaves, so we make our way fairly slowly. Finally we arrive at the town, were we make our way out along a road that wraps around the lake (amazingly smooth and paved after a morning of steep gravel and mud). But suddenly the weather comes crashing down for real and we find ourselves speeding along through a fierce rainstorm. We glide downhill back into town, with rain flying into eyes and face and chilling our hands
until they are fairly stuck to the handlebars. We drop the bikes at the shop and retreat into a fantastically
Cozy chocolate shop called Abuela Goye where we huddle at a wooden table by a crackling wood stove. The place is bathed in golden light and exudes cheerfulness and relaxation, especially with the rain outside. After a milkshake and a waffle (an incredible mountain of waffle, homemade raspberry jam, blackberries, raspberries, calafate berries, walnuts, almonds, fresh cream, chocolate flakes, chocolate sauce, and gourmet chocolate rope, we are lounging in decadent splendor. Eventually we reluctantly leave and board a bus back to Bariloche , where we nap heavily and wake to watch more lovely, albeit stormy, Lake District panoramas sweep by in shades of green and blue and turquoise. Back at our beloved hostel, we feast on a pile of empanadas and hang out with Pepe. The crowd is fairly obnoxious (unusual, but definitely possible, in a hostel) and so it is an early night, but we sleep splendidly. I rise for a brisk walk through gorgeous, sunny, cool, Bariloche. I run some errands (replenishing my vast but constantly disappearing supply of optical antibiotics) and then meet Casey at the hostel and we return to the station. Our bus this time heads back to Buenos Aires (20 hrs) and beyond that more adventure. For now, however, we are on the bus, luxuriating in 1st class (or coche super cama, sleeper class) with great food, champagne in plastic champagne flutes, great service, movies, and fully (seriously, Fully) reclining seats. And all for about 10 dollars more than normal class. We are treating ourselves as we roll onward through the splendid mountains, forests, plains, rock formations, and gorgeous lakes. 

The big day begins far too early, but the excitement of what is in store pulls the four of us out of bed and we dress and descend in the silent hostel (as partying epicenters, hostels rarely have anyone rising before noon, unless they are off on an expedition, like us) and eat some breakfast and coffee. We are carrying bags full of layers of clothes, unsure of weather and whether we will get wet. There is slight tension stemming from the fact that Casey and I basically begged the charming Jana to come with us, forcing her to spend money, forfeit a bus ticket, and do something she has never done before. We are confident she will love it, but equally sure that our reputations are on the line. Finally the van arrives and we pile in. The four of us make quite a troop, and to our ranks is added the immediately amiable and charismatic Will, a quintessential Brit and resident of Clapham, the London neighborhood where I lived in december. We share stories, sign ominous liability release forms, listen to lectures from the cheerful and amusing river guides, and eat complimentary chocolates from one of the fancy chocolate stores in town. The weather is neither good nor bad, but simply grey, when we arrive at the riverside estancia that will serve as our base. We eat a second breakfast of medialunas and coffee and explore the little farm, with it's grungy kittens and chickens, as the boats are inflated.  Then we don various layers of gear, wet suits, life jackets, helmets, and paddles, and head down to the river. Our crew of 5 leaps into one boat while a larger but older group of Argentines amble into the other. Guides leap in and, after a short lecture on safety and rowing commands, we are swirling away down the frigid mountain river Manso, through National Park Nahuel Huapi, east towards Chile. Casey and I are sitting in the front of the boat, coordinating the rowing and taking the brunt of any incoming water. Surprisingly our experience (rivers in California and Washington with T Stubbs, Oregon and others with School) kicks in and we find ourselves exceedingly coordinated and effective. The coordination may have something to do with the fact that 7 months of near constant companionship has made us very nearly telepathic. Will is a powerhouse, sitting behind me, never breaking rhythm or
faltering. Jana squeals a bit too often with fright and cold, but is otherwise a decent team member. Pepe is a disaster of weak, out of time, and more than once casey delivers a viciously condescending, well-timed comment about Pepes ineffectiveness. Our guide is a brilliant comedy routine. He instigates a misplaced flirtation between Jana and another river guide, and calls Pepe Pepe Le Piu (a smelly Disney character, a bit horrific as a joke since Pepes feet really are abominable). We stroke admirably and in perfect time, and we stream down the river. We hit some
hard rapids, and the boat is all but overturned, with 4 of us floating rapidly away through the frigid ice melt. We pull each other back in and power onwards. We try to "surf" on a big hole in the waves, and after four traumatic attempts, give up, and continue down the river. The surfing requires nerves of steel, as Casey and I have to paddle ferociously until the final moment, and then keep paddling as water pours into the boat. Then we all have to leap to the left to avoid flipping. It was the nerves of steel that got me, as I always leapt a millisecond too early. We go swimming down the easier rapids, and the water is chilling but thrilling. The team work is fun, always the most unique aspect of a rafting trip. At one point we come around a corner and find a vast pile of rocks filling the entire river. The guide freaks out (Very convincingly) "oh my god, there's been a rockslide, we are gonna have to abandon the boats and swim. Everybody out!! Jana, go!!!" we are all in a panic until e reveals the joke, and we give him credit for the deadpan acting. We make it through various "rock and a hard place" moments, past jagged boulders and high imposing rock walls. Throughout it all, humor flies through the boat in various colors, absurd puns from Casey, dry British wit from Will, and morbid jokes from me. Other than the light humor, the whole thing is characteristically thrilling, albeit very exciting. Adrenaline keeps us warm as it  occasionally showers with cold rain, before returning to broken sunshine. And if the rafting itself is extraordinary, the scenery we pass through defies description. By the river banks of carved granite (forming strange shapes, forms, and tunnels of black smooth rock) the forest is lush and verdant and dense, almost jungle like. But higher up the forest seems to become alpine, with surreal snowy jagged peaks visible high above. When we come around corners to see glittering waterfalls pouring diamond drops of sun-refracted water into the river. Natural perfection. Mist rising over the trees evokes undiscovered jungle, and truly we are some of the only people to see this stretch of the river and the national park, which is only accessible by raft. Finally, with a solid heave, we paddle into a sheltered cove where the adventure ends. A grizzled gaucho (argentine cowboy) awaits on horseback, in incredible garb of furry animal-skin chaps and spurred boots. He is like something out of the history of Argentina. He deflates the boats and throws the big bundles on the horses spindly back. 
We climb up, sopping wet and freezing, through the steep dense forest. When we get to the top of the rise, we find that we are in Chile, that we have crossed the border while rafting. Though strangely similar to Argentina (which is only about ten feet away), it is funny that we have ended up here, since we spent the previous evening convincing Jana Not to go to Chile and instead to come rafting. We change into dry clothes and leap back in the van, still buzzing with adrenaline. We speed back to the estancia, everyone including the driver eager for asado. The feast that awaits us there is beyond compare. It is not our first asado, but we have probably never been so hungry for anything. We eat heaps of salad and potatoes gorgeous sourdough. But of course it is all about the meat, bife de lomo and chorizo, which come out in unstoppable waves from a seemingly endless supply in the kitchen. We feast, ravenous and exhausted and exhilarated, drinking good red wine and reminiscing about our recent adventure as if we were lifelong friends. When we literally cannot consume another bite of beef, out comes a gorgeous raspberry tart with fresh cream and delicious coffee (the best we have had in Argentina). Basking in the sublime nature of such a perfect day, and full to bursting with great food, we climb into the car, laughing, and fall into deep sleep. We arrive back in Bariloche and, not ye totally sated, Casey and Jana and I walk into town and go to the incredible chocolate shop Rapa Nui, where we order vast heaping piles of ice cream (three huge scoops of various flavors with incoherent names in a vast, bowl-like cone, slathered with chocolate sauce), too good to be true, and recline in a colorful little booth in the kids play area of the cafe. We eat until the ice cream is gone and our stomachs are, again full to bursting (what a day of indulgence) and then lounge in a near-comatose state, as Casey translates (or more accurately, repeats from memory) the words of Aladin, which has just begun to show on the kids area TV screen. We slowly meander home, collapsing into a relaxed stupor in our cozy hostel. For a while we read and catch up on admin, then Will shows up (he is staying in a hostel down the street but by now we are all inseparable) and we all gather round in the hang out room for a long, wonderful, utterly memorable evening of drinks, travel stories, plans for the future, favorite Argentina tales, and various other warm, joking "banter" as Will (a gap yah-like Londoner) would probably say. That night, as we pack our things to head out the next morning, leaving seems again like a horrible prospect, as it always seems to be. 

We pull into a dark and rainy town called El Bolson at midnight. For some reason we haven't booked a hostel, and the town, which is a small one, seems entirely shut down. We follow some friends from the bus through the rain and the cold in an attempt to find a hostel. Hostels, for all their benefits, are extremely hard to find, but eventually we do run into one, nice enough, (although the stairway up to the dorm is made of rickety, random pieces of wood haphazardly nailed together, bit scary). We settle down, make friends with an American from DC named Dave, and before long have fallen into an exhausted sleep. 
Bolson, as it turns out, is the Argentine version of Sebastapol. It calls itself a non-nuclear ecological collective as opposed to a town, and is famous for it's hippie identity, beautiful artisan crafts, and marijuana. It lives up to it's reputation on all counts. Great hippie spirit, multiple people trying to sell us vast amounts of "special flower", and totally incredible crafts. We are there luckily on the day of an artisans market, and so we stroll through a beautiful park with impressive wood carved sculptures, passing stands selling every possible incarnation of Argentine silver, Patagonian hardwoods, Alpaca (an lustrous alloy of silver and nickel for which the region is famous), Chilean lapis lazuli, and rodacrosita, a lovely pink stone found only in this stretch of the Andes. The craftsmanship is truly stunning, and the artisans are charming rather than aggressive in their attempts to sell. We buy very little but make friends with a few of the artisans. With bellies full of market empanadas, we lounge in the sun and continue wandering around the eclectic town. Eventually the beautiful morning transitions into a dreary drizzling afternoon, and we head back to the cheerful hostel, a place unusually much more Argentine than gringo. We talk for a couple hours with Mathias, the friendly and loquacious guy at the front desk, drinking mate and discussing everything from indigenous populations (he is full blood Mapuche) to world politics (he has been unconditionally denied entry to the US). The hostel fills up with interesting people, an we have a fantastic asado (barbecue), in the rain, with mathias cooking, us playing music, and everything wildly, contagiously happy. We meet a girl from BA who makes up a song about potatoes (as she slices them) as Casey and I play accompaniment and supply backup vocals. We chat with Dave (who knows and loves Sublime, first person abroad we have met) and another American, Pepe, who is going to Stanford (first American we have met on a gap year)  and plays the violin (my violin) beautifully. It's a night packed with excitement, music, laughter, and red, red wine. Eventually around 11 the asado is done, and we feast on chorizo and a questionable (but satisfying) cut of beef. Dave wipes out (bit too much wine) making a huge scene and adding to the hilarity, and we all fall asleep in the wee hours in good spirits. 

The following morning starts grey and drizzly and we decide that Bolson can no longer hold our attention. So we hop on a short bus north to Bariloche, the capital of the Lake District, which is the most scenic and beloved region of Patagonia and in fact Argentina. Incredibly, as we approach, the clouds clear, and dazzling sunlight illuminates a land of green forests (with interspersed trees of brilliant gold), snow-capped mountains (there is good skiing here in July), and stunningly blue lakes. We spend our afternoon in Bariloche, which is windy but beautiful, immaculate, friendly, and a bit too touristy. We get some lunch with Dave and then wander through the town to the plaza, which is beautifully designed (sort of a Patagonian version of Alpine architecture) and finally get to the chocolate shops. Bariloche is renowned for it's chocolate and ice cream, which is apparently the best in the country. We end up at a shop that is somewhere in between Hogwarts and Willy Wonka in terms of magnificence. Gorgeous chocolate fountains, splendid displays, chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies as big as a small child. There is even chocolate beer, which we try (it is surprisingly delicious). The decadence is wonderful. 
Eventually we wander back to our hostel (called hostel 41 below, very gringo-y but one of the best hostels we have stayed in) to make a much needed laundromat run. Who should be in our dorm room but Jana, the wonderful Australian that I befriended on a cold morning in Chalten. The coincidence is wonderful, but even more so is the chance to hang out with her. Dave (who as it turns out is a great cook) makes us all a gorgeous dish of bolognese, and we all settle around red wine, in the coziest of hostels, and hang out. It is a warm wonderful evening. Casey and I decide to go river rafting the next day (we don't really have the budget for tours etc but we make an exception because we love rafting and this area is apparently world class), and we convince Pepe and Jana (who actually is so won over by our persuasion that she abandons a bus ticket and a rendezvous with friends in Chile to come with us). The cheerful night ends with us all rushing to get some much needed sleep before and early start for rafting

Our days in Chalten and the surrounding Fitzroy Mountains are certainly some of the most wonderful I can ever remember. The town, as I mentioned on our first visit, is small and quaint and charming, but has an edge given to it by the universal passion for adventure. We stay (in between camping on the mountain) at fairly gritty but comfortable enough hostels, where we meet some entertaining people from Canada and Australia. One girl who has just bought a little puppy (interesting choice while backpacking) and another guy from
an unspecified location who is of such an extremist branch of religion (really not sure which) that he can't drive, read, buy groceries, or use a light switch OR (and this led to some
Confusion) ask someone to do any of these things for him. He would come into our room and say I can't turn on the light In the bathroom. 
Would you like me to do it? Casey responded. 
I didn't say that. He snapped. And we eventually figured out what was going on.
There was also an Israeli guy who insisted that traveling solo was better, and persistently tried to convince Casey to start traveling alone. Casey responded that he had travelled
alone and he did in fact really like traveling with his companion. The guy then tried to convince us to travel with him, which seemed a bit hypocritical.  Other than that it was your fairly standard mix of upbeat and interesting hostellers. 
One morning I rose early and thoroughly explored Chalten. A beautiful rainbow (a full arc, so rare!!) crossed the cloudy tempestuous sky, and I wandered through the sleepy village. It had by now (mid April) mostly shut down for the season, but there were some interesting nooks and crannies. I bought a copy of as you like it (amusingly one of the only books in English, but more than adequate for a shakespearophile like me) because I had run out of books. I ended up at the service station (only place with wifi in town, and the satellite was broken) drinking pear juice with a really cool girl from Australia. 
She had come from where we were going to, and vice versa, so we got to exchange advice, recommendations, etc. 
As far as food went, we rewarded ourselves with massive meals after long days of hiking with huge feasts at the Cerveceria (honestly one of the best meals I can remember, due to great beer and food and utter exhaustion) and at a little pizza joint in town, where we consumed enough food to feed about 7 people (we had walked about 15 miles that day to be fair). When we were in the mountains, we traveled light, eating mostly pasta and powdered soup and coffee, and the occasional pastry from La Panaderia Nieve (our favorite pastry shop, and makers of the best alfajores so far). 
But these are all side notes when it comes to Chalten, because 90% of our time there was spent hiking and exploring the mountains, valleys, and lakes of the national park. The first day we hiked up to Laguna Torre, at the foot of Cerro Torre, an incredible toothy crag, which is very hard to spot due to constant cloud cover. The peak was stunning to see, and even more so knowing that it is one of the hardest to scale in the world. The lake at its foot was a windswept icy steel grey mass, and the wind blew directly off the glacier at the opposite end. We camped in a little riverbank glade on the borderline between the wooded valley and the barren rocky mountainside. The campsite was idyllic, and almost deserted, and a glacier fed river swept by loudly and comfortingly at all hours. We ate well despite the fact that i spilled our first attempt at boiling water, and scurried into our tent while it was still light, due to the biting cold. But as we lay in bed that night, our minds flickered with images of the forest we had walked through that morning. It is on of the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life. Along with the alpine woods of ehrwald and the terrain on Stubbs Ranch it is literally the loveliest forest I have known. It is autumn in Argentina now, and the trees have transformed rapidly into blazing reds, oranges, and golds. Really brilliant colors, an aided by the sunshine, and the fact that the small leaves allowed plenty of light to filter through. The trees range in size from tiny dense little clusters of saplings to vast strands that feel as old as time. The only description that seemed to fit was JRR Tolkein's description of the magical wood of Lothlorien. I won't misquote it here, but the essence, of timeless youth and beauty, of still serene perfection broken only by the rustle of a breeze or the gurgle of a stream, and the fierce flames that seemed to burn in the incendiary colors of the leaves as one walked, sun dappled, through soft green grass, was hard not to feel. It was a place of such utter exquisite perfection that we couldn't help but be inspired by it. We wanted to paint, write poetry, compose symphonies, odes, homages to this place. And the light, relentlessly divine, endlessly pleasing to the eye. Taking photos felt futile because once the camera was out everything needed to be captured, everything was photogenic. It was dreamlike, ethereal, something that couldn't possibly be, but was. 

When I woke in the morning I was filled with excitement to be where I was (a good feeling to have in the morning). I climbed up to a rocky overlook just above the campsite and looked up at the mountains and down over the valley. Casey eventually joined me and we enjoyed the sunshine, the panoramas, and the relentless wind (which we have come to recognize as Patagonia's defining feature). After a breakfast of soup and coffee we set off. We dunked our heads in the first stream we came to, then dunked them
again and again, the bitter coldness irresistible. We walked on in sunshine, shirtless, glacial water a respite from the heat, our bags almost weightless as we seemed to glide through the woods "over hill and through dale" taking a different path back to Chalten  (where we would recharge our batteries before being drawn relentlessly back into the mountains). The endless amounts of fallen trees occasionally brought to mind an elephant graveyard, but other than that this was, to us, still pure Lorien. We eventually arrived at a pair of lakes Lagos Madre y Hija, and, drawn by still blazing sun, blue water, and a soft pebbly beach, we threw down our packs and ran into the water, tumbling  off a steep dropoff that sent instantly from ankle depth to about 10 feet deep. The swim, and the sun basking which followed it, were delightful, and then we were back on our way, through the loveliest woodland we had yet seen. We paused by another lake as the day started to wind down, rolled up our jeans and waded around. We ran into a few girls who had been "following" us, or rather had stayed at the same hostel and been on the same trails repeatedly and so we introduced ourselves and made more new friends (Australians, again). Then we sat by the lake in the fading light, almost unable to understand, or come to terms with, the incomparable beauty of our surroundings. 

Our second expedition into the Fitzroys brought us back to Lago Capri (site of my infamous nude snow swim) where there was a nice deserted campsite. We arrived early in the afternoon and then climbed to the top of the hill to have lunch. We settled in a glade, sheltered from wind and bathed in sun that wad so utterly idyllic that we did not move from it, even when the empanadas and pastries were finished, even after mate and a snack of green tea, even after a sweet sunny nap, we did not leave that perfect glen, but sat there, our backs to a tree, writing and reading and talking and basking in the moment. The moment lasted until the sun went down and we retreated to make dinner. The glade, I should add (and I'm not embarrassed by the multiple lord of the rings references) was, if anything, comparable to the spot where frodo sits reading in the heart of the Shire at the very beginning of the story. Yes, that perfect. 
Before making dinner we walked to a lookout rock and watch the sun set of Cerro Fitzroy, famous symbol of the Glacial mountains and another famous conquest for mountain climbers. Fitzroy is incredible difficult to see (always covered by clouds) so we were extremely lucky. Dinner was again, simple and again, delicious. Afterwards we wandered though pitch darkness, letting our eyes adjust, to the edge of the lake, and sat their looking at brilliant stars and the moon-bathed silhouette of Fitzroy, by now like an old friend. Though Casey tried to scare us both with imitations of old Greg coming out of the lake, the whole thing was utterly still and peaceful, and more calming and sleep-inducing than anything I can imagine. 
The next morning we rose late and ate the rest of our supplies, packed up and left our packs hidden in our glade, and hiked (traveling light and quick) to Lago de Los Tres. This is the nearest point to the might Fitz, and the toughest hiking in the park. The first couple hours were standard trekking but the final hour was a steep uphill climb, almost hand over hand over slippery uneven rocks. Signs along the way warned not to attempt unless you were a very experienced hiker with very good equipment. And definitely not to attempt in snow or high wind. Well it wasn't snowing but for wind, well, I can't imagine it getting much higher. But we braved the treacherous climb and finally, after a long slog, found ourselves at the strangely still lake surrounded by looming glaciers, with the mighty mountain rising ominously and powerfully above us. By now it was late afternoon and, after relishing the spot for half an hour, we descended, and returned to lago Capri at forced march pace. And that, considering how fast our normal hiking pace is, is extremely fast. We descended into Chalten that evening utterly exhausted, having hiked what the park estimated to be 8 hours of hiking in a mere 4 and a half. Which is not half bad, in our humble opinion, and certainly deserving of a large feast as a reward. After dinner we hung out at the service station (definitely Not the nicest part of town, but not unbearable) and then got our things together and boarded a late night bus north. As I write this we are on thar bus bumping along slowly on the famous Patagonian Route 40 (which is, for a large part, unlaced). We are making our way north to the cheerful hippie town of El Bolson and from their to the lakeside tourist city of Bariloche. The bus is supremely comfortable and packed with all manner of interesting people, but the long hours are uncomfortably reminiscent of that greyhound trip all those months ago...