The next day was spent trying to get our newcomer up to speed on the incredible cities, of which we ourselves had only begun to scratch the surface. After a coffee and submarine at the supremely elegant cafe Biela in Recoleta, we explored the Recoleta Cemetary, an incredibly beautiful burial
ground for all of Argentina's rich and famous, including the saintly Eva Peron, whose grave is surprisingly simple and unglamorous. The cemetery, though, is staggeringly beautiful, long corridors of mausoleums and great trees shading constructions of stone, iron, and glass. The sculptures of angels, owls, dragons, and fair maidens are worthy of a museum and the whole places seems like a palace of homage and less like a place of death. It is stunning, a new world pere lachez.
After a lunch of spectacular homemade pasta (ravioli especially) and massive ice cream (they don't mess around here but give you heaping piles of gelato). Staggering after this crippling lunch, we make our way down to the center of town, via an avenue of shockingly gaudy jewelry and watch stores. We stop for a quick nap and read in a park (not as pretty as the BG but fewer evil security guards). After another tour of the center, casa rosada, and agenda florida, we ride the sweaty subway back to Palermo. After a charming bartender lures us into a dark, jazz filled bar to serve us 15 year old whiskey on ice, we continue for the thing most present on our minds, dinner. The meal that evening was one of the finest we have known. Back (of course) to Las Cabras, where we snag the last table under the trees and then watch portenos queue around the block as we greedily order malbec (the best I have ever tasted, or any of us in fact) and three beautifully adorned steaks. Somehow this place manages to outdo the fancier restaurant in food quality and after that the battle is won, lovely decor, lighting, ambience, and the three of us, really and simply three of the very best old friends, long time traveling companions and veterans of adventures and escapades in Mexico, Canada, and every corner of the US, not to mention family members, laughing and telling tales and feasting and enjoying the life craved by so many, in this sweet city of runaways and metamorphoses and wilderness and culture, in circumstances none of us would even be bold enough to dream into being, and yet into which we have somehow stumbled, anticipating the coming days and reveling in adventures ranging from years ago to hours ago, savoring the Alegria de Argentina, y la Alegria de Amistad.
The next morning, exhausted by the various demands of the city, we make our way out to a nearby rivertown. We travel by train, bumping along through endless suburbs, and arrive in the estuary of the Rio Parana, the vast river that combines with the Rio Uruguay to form the vast Rio de la Plata which eventually flows to the sea. On the banks of the estuaries main vein is the small, quiet, and (after BA) heavenly tranquil town of Tigre. It is by now means a resort town, or even much of a tourist town, but is in fact a getaway for locals who get driven out of the city by heat and the intensity of the metropolis. The weather closes in as we arrive and, after checking into a sweet little hotel and having a lunch of piping hot freshly made empanadas de carne, we arrive at the river banks as rain begins to trickle down. We had expected a wash of tourism, trekking and boating, but it is midweek and the town is quiet (not necessarily such a tragedy). We hop into a water taxi and take a long loop through the delta, up and down various arms of the endlessly interconnected river. The river is lined with everything from the crumbling mansions of portenos with failed plans and the slyly hidden cottages of runaways (hard not to imagine Nazis and on the run criminals in a place as secluded as this), to adventure camps and run down trash-heaps, the whole this is in the tangle of sub tropical river delta jungle. The rain streams down, lending the whole thing a hard, unfriendly gleam of grey, but it is a fascinating exploration none the less. Disembarking, we make our way to the conspicuously huge and splendid museum of white colonnades. The art is enjoyable, the solitude lovely, and the respite from the rain a huge relief. We stumble across one truly brilliant painting. A masterpiece of the usage of light and focus, it depicts a retreat of defeated cavalry running from a ruinous battlefield. There are also a series of excellent ship paintings in the early (and thrilling) historical days of Buenos Aires.
As evening falls and we head home, we are sidetracked by an understated Naval Museum, which turns out to be one of the greatest historical museums any of us has ever seen. With an incomparable collection of huge, intricate model ships (ranging from Egyptian crafts to Viking longboard, Spanish galleons, English frigates, WWI battleships and even some unrealized designs) and a vast history of Argentinas naval exploits (summed up cruelly. if accurately, by Tom Stubbs, "One ship, and oh look, it was sunk by the English") and an incredible collection of huge tanks, anti aircraft guns, ordnance, and even huge aircraft in an otherwise very abandoned warehouse. It is staggeringly well presented, excellently laid out, and, most enjoyably, totally empty save ourselves.
Dinner that night is an interesting affair. The food (porkchops and brochettes) and wine (duh, malbec) is great, though not world class like the previous night, and the restaurant and in fact the whole town, is totally deserted (it really is off-season in Tigre today it seems, eerily reminiscent of the deserted Valencian coast). But we need little ambience as we create most of it ourselves, and we do not want for laughter or good cheer. That night we begin a tradition which we all relish in. After dinner, very much on the edge of sleep but still reeling with warmth and wine, we make our way to the nearest ice cream parlor (which for some reason stay open till past midnight, they know me too well) and savor a few more laughs over a sumptuous gelato before speeding back to the hotel for sweet repose. (sorry for the language, evidence of a strange diet of Thomas Hardy, Donna Tart, and speaking Spanish).
The next day dawns with coffee and croissants and all of us sitting at a caf by the river (all right it doesn't quite dawn that way but it eventually ends up that way). We head out in brilliant sunshine (which totally transforms Tigre) to a spot on the river where we are met by an amiable guide named Rodrigo in a beautiful wooden canoe. With him at the helm and the three of us paddling with impressive strength and militaristic precision, we cross the wide Tigre river and make our way into the narrow watery lanes of the inner delta. Four hours we paddle in relative quiet, through this strange water jungle. It is tranquil, with the sunlight filtering down through the vines and other locals speeding by in their own self-propelled boats (ranging from kayaks and canoes to one man rowboats). Occasionally we make out way up a deserted side river into what feels very much like unexplored territory. In the delta there are no roads, so the only mechanical sound
is the infrequent sound of a boat engine quietly chugging past. We stop at the boat house for welcome tea and a snack and admire the handiwork or the master craftsman who makes the beautifully worked and painted Indian canoes. Slowly we make our way back but as we pass through a sun filled open glade we ask if we can swim. The water is brown but, in the sun is not particularly ominous. We have already been repeatedly informed that there are no piranhas (despite the name of the river, the unrelated parana) or crocodiles or anacondas. We ask to swim and rodrigo responds "I love to swim here." great, I respond, and strip off my life jacket and tshirts. Suddenly he is uneasy. What are you doing? he asks. And I realize he did not expect us to actually follow through. It is only once me and my dad are floating on our backs in the still cool water that he informs Casey that no one on his boat trips has Ever gone swimming in the river. It remains unclear, as we bid Rodrigo farewell half an hour later, whether he was withholding information about some dangerous river creature or whether he is simply afraid of water, which would certainly be odd for a river guide.
Lunch is more fresh hot empanadas, this time enjoyed on a sunny riverbank, surrounded by other Argentines. With the sun out, and the weekend nearing, Tigre has transformed from a slightly grim suburb to an idyllic paradise. After lunch we swing by an amusing, but slightly ridiculous museum (think ten minute info video and the LOTS of gourds on display) where we are finally able to complete our own mate setup (consisting of the ground herb itself, a thermos for the hot water which has to be constantly replenished, a gourd and a bombilla, or intricate silver straw) so that we can now enjoy the life giving beverage wherever there is hot water (which, in this country of mate drinkers is Everywhere). Then we are back on the train, clattering drowsily towards Buenos Aires. After another divine afternoon in the Botanical Gardens (where we cleverly ensconce ourselves in a security guard free napping zone corner), we get a beer at Plaza Serrano and then go to dinner at the place Casey and I ate at when we first arrived. Another deserted restaurant but, with a funny waiter and great food, another wonderful meal. Then, in a fluster of exhaustion and anticipation we speed back to the hostel, throw our bags together and get in a taxi to the airport, in full anticipation of the fact that things are about to escalate seriously in terms of adventurosity (yes that's a word). After exhausting delays, as the warmth of food and wine wear off, we groggily board a midnight plane from this wild metropolis to the much wilder reaches of this land. We are going to Patagonia.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The next day was unbelievably exciting. Having resolved our business at the embassy, we went back to Giramondo (which has by the way established itself as a truly great hostel) and waited outside by a cafe. Incredibly refreshing agua con gas (by now a staple) gave us relief from the sun as we waited for our new companion, who appeared at last from crowds of meandering Argentines. None other than the infamous Tom Stubbs.
From here our adventures took a dramatic turn that lasted through every moment of the two weeks my dad was with us. Now Casey and I are adventurous, no doubt, but with Tom Stubbs at the helm, adventures take on a fever pitch. With no respite, save for five minute afternoon naps. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even left BA yet. That first afternoon we had a luxuriant lunch of guacamole grilled chicken under the cool shelter of the trees at las cabras, and then spent the afternoon giving dad a tour of Palermo, our part of town which we now knew like locals. Or at least like moderately well established tourists. In the afternoon we had an abortive attempt to show him the cool shady loveliness of a nap in the Botanical gardens, but were rudely interrupted by a security guard who refused to allow us to lie on the grass. Fair enough, far be it from me to want to relax in a park. So we lay down on the gravel path. Now Tom Stubbs only needs a five minute nap to recover from 24 hours of sleepless travel but before minutes had passed our buddy was back, growling jefe, you must get up. So an attempted nap on a park bench. This was also interrupted and abandoned. Our peaceful haven had been turned into a war zone. But, knowing the strength of the Argentine Botanical Association, we recognized defeat and beat a rapid retreat. We were refreshed by hot showers and a drink on a rooftop terrace overlooking Plaza Serrano, the lively beating heart of Palermo. Afterwards we met up with a friend of a friend of my dads who took us out to dinner. Just so happened this distant acquaintance was a super chic Argentine couple who were world travelers, lived in the fanciest part of town, and only went to the finest restaurants. We were sitting two tables down from the former president of Argentina. Yes, that kind of fancy restaurant. This was our first opportunity for real Argentine Parilla (grill) of the highest order, so we ordered steak, steak, and steak, with a side of malbec (generally regarded as Argentinas viticultural specialty). Incredibly, after a starter of sausage, grilled pork fat, and cheese, the meal arrived an it truly was just a steak. Not steak and potatoes, nor steak and salad but steak, a steak that weighs the same as my little sister and was as big as my head (which if you know is pretty big sometimes). The steak were huge. Eating them was a Herculean feat that required strategy and stamina, and large quantities of water. Little did we know, we would wake up later in the night sweating feverishly and screaming" No More please I just want water". But in fact the meal was excellent, the wine good, the restaurant stunning, and the chic company very entertaining. We slept like the dead that night.
From here our adventures took a dramatic turn that lasted through every moment of the two weeks my dad was with us. Now Casey and I are adventurous, no doubt, but with Tom Stubbs at the helm, adventures take on a fever pitch. With no respite, save for five minute afternoon naps. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even left BA yet. That first afternoon we had a luxuriant lunch of guacamole grilled chicken under the cool shelter of the trees at las cabras, and then spent the afternoon giving dad a tour of Palermo, our part of town which we now knew like locals. Or at least like moderately well established tourists. In the afternoon we had an abortive attempt to show him the cool shady loveliness of a nap in the Botanical gardens, but were rudely interrupted by a security guard who refused to allow us to lie on the grass. Fair enough, far be it from me to want to relax in a park. So we lay down on the gravel path. Now Tom Stubbs only needs a five minute nap to recover from 24 hours of sleepless travel but before minutes had passed our buddy was back, growling jefe, you must get up. So an attempted nap on a park bench. This was also interrupted and abandoned. Our peaceful haven had been turned into a war zone. But, knowing the strength of the Argentine Botanical Association, we recognized defeat and beat a rapid retreat. We were refreshed by hot showers and a drink on a rooftop terrace overlooking Plaza Serrano, the lively beating heart of Palermo. Afterwards we met up with a friend of a friend of my dads who took us out to dinner. Just so happened this distant acquaintance was a super chic Argentine couple who were world travelers, lived in the fanciest part of town, and only went to the finest restaurants. We were sitting two tables down from the former president of Argentina. Yes, that kind of fancy restaurant. This was our first opportunity for real Argentine Parilla (grill) of the highest order, so we ordered steak, steak, and steak, with a side of malbec (generally regarded as Argentinas viticultural specialty). Incredibly, after a starter of sausage, grilled pork fat, and cheese, the meal arrived an it truly was just a steak. Not steak and potatoes, nor steak and salad but steak, a steak that weighs the same as my little sister and was as big as my head (which if you know is pretty big sometimes). The steak were huge. Eating them was a Herculean feat that required strategy and stamina, and large quantities of water. Little did we know, we would wake up later in the night sweating feverishly and screaming" No More please I just want water". But in fact the meal was excellent, the wine good, the restaurant stunning, and the chic company very entertaining. We slept like the dead that night.
For a few days, having established ourselves in Buenos Aires and gotten the lay of the land, and with my eye fairly excruciating, we wander and soak up a few favorite spots. There are the botanical gardens, where long afternoon reading sessions interrupted only by naps take place on a regular basis. There is also the little cafe (called Las Cabras) where we go in the evening for mate (amazing Argentinian drink, similar to green tea but drunk out of a gourd) which leaves us buzzing with a natural version of caffeine. We try not to spend too much money on food in an extremely expensive city, with mixed results. Snack foods (especially empanadas) are delicious, and strangely, the fast food is far superior to fast food in the US due to extremely high quality beef being absurdly easy to find. The highlight of these days of soaking up the city is a visit to the Sunday fair in Recoleta, the nicest part of town. We spend hours wandering down long lanes of beautifully crafted handmade goods, lured by the glimmering Argentine silver and beautiful wood carving. As well as the ubiquitous mate gourds. Finally, after a lunch of empanadas, we collapse in a sun drained stupor on the packed lawn, where dozens of local porteno family lounge in sunday afternoon bliss. As a local guitarist veins to croon Latin American pop songs, we realize we are getting a tiny glimpse of real Argentina, real Recoleta. It is a wonderful, fulfilling, sun drenched afternoon. After days Like this, I sleep long hours in the evening relaxing my otherwise exhausted eyes, and Casey plays music with an amazing Australian guitarist and a band of other interesting folks from all over the world. There is no where quite like a hostel for meeting like minded people. Except, perhaps, a train station.
There was also the drama of the Brazilian Consulate. Now we knew at this point that we were going to be visiting the Grahams (who I stayed with in London) at their house in Brazil, where they live part of the year. As a UK citizen I didn't need a visa but for silly burocratic reasons having to do with the stubbornness of the US government, Casey, as an American citizen, has to have a tourist visa. He had tried to get one in London but they had said it would be easier at the consulate in Buenos Aires.
Everyone has dealt with difficult burocracies like this (think the DMV on steroids, with major governmental backing) and this was no exception. We finally found the embassy, which was cleverly hidden, and ascended to the appropriate floor. After going through a very half hearted security check, we found ourselves in a room with several other people and no one at any of the 6 attending desks. Finally a large woman with a thicket of frizzled black hair came bustling out, accusative, as if we had interrupted her lunch break (hard to imagine at 9am). "whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?!?" she demanded, as if she honestly could not imagine why two travelers had come to the Visa Desk of the Brazilian Consulate. When we told her that we (duh) had come to ask about getting a visa she said nonononono (the wizard will not see you now) you have to make an appointment or come back on Monday VERY early in the morning. Then she shuffled away. We waited until finally she returned whatwhatwhatwhatwhat!?!? We asked, with gentile calmness, if we could make an appointment now. Nonononono do it on the website. We left, discouraged but not defeated. There was absolutely no possibility of making an appointment so we returned very early Monday. We had been planning to be there by 7:30 since the doors, said the website, opened at 8. But we slept through our alarm and arrived, very much still asleep despite having traveled the subway and walked several miles (the subway in BA is fairly limited so there are always long distances to walk even when you do ride it) at 8. I had had a dream the night before, a premonition, that if we wore nice clothes everything would go smoothly. So there we were, decked out in my wrinkled white shirt from my Europa capital days a rumpled gray shirt Casey had picked up in Spain. Our finest finery. We were ready to do gentlemanly battle with mrs. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. But as it turned out the doors did not open till 9 (which One has to suppose is the Brazilian definition of VERY early). So we sat outside and watched mournfully as a crowd of visa petitioners just like us began to arrive. Of the ten or so people outside the embassy, most of them American, not on made eye contact with another. We all knew that we were there for the same purpose and we all wanted to win. The air was thick with tension. Finally the doors opened and we all streamed forward aggressively. Casey then made a brilliant move, like a chess player forcing a check mate. He elegantly opened the door for a very impatient Mrs. Whatwhat, offering a gentlemanly smile and a warm good morning. She smiled, barely, and we sensed that we might have just won ten points. But that left us at the back of a long line. We crowded into the office and filed into the Visa Line. There were two very ominous American boys, maybe a few years older than us, but clearly with similar intentions (the bastards, how dare they go to brazil, We are going to brazil), who were extremely well dressed and carried intimidating manilla folders full of official 'documentation. Folders!! I though, Alas!! Casey meanwhile pulled out a very tattered brazil itinerary, a half
completed application form, and his ragged passport. I began to lose hope. They had folders! But then, the tides turned. The two Americans stood with Mrs. WWWW (WhatWhatWhatWhat!! she yelled at them repeatedly) and she demanded to know the phone number of their hostel. They turned around, forlorn, and asked if anyone in the room had a lonely planet guidebook. Oh yes, I responded, charming and benevolent, indeed I do believe it seems I do. Out the guidebook
came with a flourish and with that simple graceful gesture, all the tension in the room, at least on this side of the desk, was evaporated. We were all on the same team. All American, all travelers, boldly going where (according to mrs wwww petulant sense of surprise, no man had traveled before). We were all in this together, rebel fighters against the vast overwhelming powers of the Evil Embassy of Death. We smiled and joked and told DMV stories with the others in line and the room filled up with golden light. On the other side of the desk of course, it was all still stormclouds. The two Americans finally turned away, having failed utterly (losers!!! Take that!!!) and we stepped up to the desk. And before she could even say you know what (whatwhat) Casey played his ace, with all the suave, mysterious charm of a Casanova. How are you? He asked her. And she melted. It was clear that no one in her illustrious career (which had evidently gone on far too long) had ever asked her that question, certainly not as warmly and genuinely as Casey had done. She beamed back for 2/5 of a second and then her expression closed up and she responded stalwartly: fine. But we had broken through the storm clouds, released a tiny ray of sunlight. Now, instead of Demanding passports and documents, she simply asked for them. We couldn't help holding our breath as she stamped forms and flipped through papers. It actually looked like we were going to make it. But then she stopped and we realized, with a sinking feeling, that we had run into the same obstacle as the two Americans who had failed before us. She wanted our address and phone number in Brazil. Ok, I said brightly, and then wondered what the hell
I was going to write. I didn't know the Grahams address so I scribbled down as many words as I could remember, the region, nearby town, name of family. As an afterthought, I also put down my dads phone number, sure that even if they did call him, he would cover for us. Meanwhile, mrs. Ww had escaped behind the screen into the staff area, where she always eagerly ran off whenever there was the slightest pause in the proceedings. Though she was under the pretext of doing official business, it was easy to imagine she was just escaping for coffee and gossip. She returned, skimmed over what I had written, and looked deeply dissatisfied. She looked up at us, and her eyes narrowed. Bring more information tomorrow, just in case. And go settle the payment at the bank. To our incredulous excitement, the slip she handed us said "visa pickup tomorrow 12:00." We had done it.
The visa itself, of course, looks beautiful, elegantly adorning Casey's Passport. Sweet victory.
Everyone has dealt with difficult burocracies like this (think the DMV on steroids, with major governmental backing) and this was no exception. We finally found the embassy, which was cleverly hidden, and ascended to the appropriate floor. After going through a very half hearted security check, we found ourselves in a room with several other people and no one at any of the 6 attending desks. Finally a large woman with a thicket of frizzled black hair came bustling out, accusative, as if we had interrupted her lunch break (hard to imagine at 9am). "whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?!?" she demanded, as if she honestly could not imagine why two travelers had come to the Visa Desk of the Brazilian Consulate. When we told her that we (duh) had come to ask about getting a visa she said nonononono (the wizard will not see you now) you have to make an appointment or come back on Monday VERY early in the morning. Then she shuffled away. We waited until finally she returned whatwhatwhatwhatwhat!?!? We asked, with gentile calmness, if we could make an appointment now. Nonononono do it on the website. We left, discouraged but not defeated. There was absolutely no possibility of making an appointment so we returned very early Monday. We had been planning to be there by 7:30 since the doors, said the website, opened at 8. But we slept through our alarm and arrived, very much still asleep despite having traveled the subway and walked several miles (the subway in BA is fairly limited so there are always long distances to walk even when you do ride it) at 8. I had had a dream the night before, a premonition, that if we wore nice clothes everything would go smoothly. So there we were, decked out in my wrinkled white shirt from my Europa capital days a rumpled gray shirt Casey had picked up in Spain. Our finest finery. We were ready to do gentlemanly battle with mrs. Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat. But as it turned out the doors did not open till 9 (which One has to suppose is the Brazilian definition of VERY early). So we sat outside and watched mournfully as a crowd of visa petitioners just like us began to arrive. Of the ten or so people outside the embassy, most of them American, not on made eye contact with another. We all knew that we were there for the same purpose and we all wanted to win. The air was thick with tension. Finally the doors opened and we all streamed forward aggressively. Casey then made a brilliant move, like a chess player forcing a check mate. He elegantly opened the door for a very impatient Mrs. Whatwhat, offering a gentlemanly smile and a warm good morning. She smiled, barely, and we sensed that we might have just won ten points. But that left us at the back of a long line. We crowded into the office and filed into the Visa Line. There were two very ominous American boys, maybe a few years older than us, but clearly with similar intentions (the bastards, how dare they go to brazil, We are going to brazil), who were extremely well dressed and carried intimidating manilla folders full of official 'documentation. Folders!! I though, Alas!! Casey meanwhile pulled out a very tattered brazil itinerary, a half
completed application form, and his ragged passport. I began to lose hope. They had folders! But then, the tides turned. The two Americans stood with Mrs. WWWW (WhatWhatWhatWhat!! she yelled at them repeatedly) and she demanded to know the phone number of their hostel. They turned around, forlorn, and asked if anyone in the room had a lonely planet guidebook. Oh yes, I responded, charming and benevolent, indeed I do believe it seems I do. Out the guidebook
came with a flourish and with that simple graceful gesture, all the tension in the room, at least on this side of the desk, was evaporated. We were all on the same team. All American, all travelers, boldly going where (according to mrs wwww petulant sense of surprise, no man had traveled before). We were all in this together, rebel fighters against the vast overwhelming powers of the Evil Embassy of Death. We smiled and joked and told DMV stories with the others in line and the room filled up with golden light. On the other side of the desk of course, it was all still stormclouds. The two Americans finally turned away, having failed utterly (losers!!! Take that!!!) and we stepped up to the desk. And before she could even say you know what (whatwhat) Casey played his ace, with all the suave, mysterious charm of a Casanova. How are you? He asked her. And she melted. It was clear that no one in her illustrious career (which had evidently gone on far too long) had ever asked her that question, certainly not as warmly and genuinely as Casey had done. She beamed back for 2/5 of a second and then her expression closed up and she responded stalwartly: fine. But we had broken through the storm clouds, released a tiny ray of sunlight. Now, instead of Demanding passports and documents, she simply asked for them. We couldn't help holding our breath as she stamped forms and flipped through papers. It actually looked like we were going to make it. But then she stopped and we realized, with a sinking feeling, that we had run into the same obstacle as the two Americans who had failed before us. She wanted our address and phone number in Brazil. Ok, I said brightly, and then wondered what the hell
I was going to write. I didn't know the Grahams address so I scribbled down as many words as I could remember, the region, nearby town, name of family. As an afterthought, I also put down my dads phone number, sure that even if they did call him, he would cover for us. Meanwhile, mrs. Ww had escaped behind the screen into the staff area, where she always eagerly ran off whenever there was the slightest pause in the proceedings. Though she was under the pretext of doing official business, it was easy to imagine she was just escaping for coffee and gossip. She returned, skimmed over what I had written, and looked deeply dissatisfied. She looked up at us, and her eyes narrowed. Bring more information tomorrow, just in case. And go settle the payment at the bank. To our incredulous excitement, the slip she handed us said "visa pickup tomorrow 12:00." We had done it.
The visa itself, of course, looks beautiful, elegantly adorning Casey's Passport. Sweet victory.
That night began a tedious and dramatic problem that has plagued us for weeks since. The crisis is now averted, so I will write about it's full course to spare it from the rest of the story, and because it did in fact effect much of the rest of the journey.
In the night, lying in the nocturnal heat of the city, my eyes began to weep, uncontrollably. I wiped at them all night but realized that something was really wrong. They had bothered me ever since working in Ehrwald due to overexposure to the sun (combined with snow) that had made my eyes dry and week. For several days before that night they had been seriously bothering me but, used to the difficulties of eyes, especially with contact lenses, I expected to simply let them heal, as eyes can in fact do with remarkable speed under most circumstances. But with that weeping night it was clear something should be done. The US embassy website listed good doctors and I went to one I knew was in the most expensive part of Buenos Aires, figuring that might increase the chances of a good doctor. Me and Casey made our way there with me in fairly excruciating pain . Imagine lots of sand in both eyes, but you can't blink it out. Closing your eyes hurts, and opening them hurts even more. So slowly we made our way there, and I sat in a waiting room for a couple hours with a dozen others, nodding in and out of consciousness partly from pain but mostly from exhaustion and heat. Finally I was called in, where a sweet opthamologist took very kind cautious care of my eyes and informed me that I had a corneal ulcer, like a vast (3 millimeters across!!) scab on my eye that was refusing to heal. She prescribed antibiotics and a huge eyepatch of white gauze and tape and told me to return the next day. The next few days, though the eye slowly healed and was decreasingly painful, I was essentially an invalid. At first, it was too painful to focus on anything so I just slept and lay in the dark for hours while Casey made buddies with musicians around the hostel. But as it became less painfully I still had the problem of the eye patch. Navigating the huge, packed, dusty streets with no peripheral vision or depth perception was quite a challenge, but I slowly improved, with Casey occasionally steering me and telling me when I could and could not cross streets. In fact, Casey was a great doctor, administering my eye drop antibiotics and my eye-goop medication which apparently was meant to form a protective coating around the eye. The corneal ulcer healed surely, and I finally removed my eyepatch. By this time I was wearing a much cooler, more intimidating black pirate eyepatch. Little kids were fascinated by my condition and would grab their mommies arm to say "what's the problem with his eye mama?" it took a lot of self restraint not to make monster noises and really freak them out. The best reaction I ever got was when I passed a group of little girls on my way to the bathroom, and while there took off the eyepatch for the evening (it was healed enough that this was ok) and then returned. They had slightly oohed and aahed when I passed with the eye patch moments earlier but when I passed without it they were simply stunned. A couple times when people asked what happened I would make up an interesting sorry but after one exchange, where I told a woman I had been mauled by a tiger and she said "really, was that while you were in Europe?" I realized that the drama and humor couldn't withstand the translation.
So eventually one corneal ulcer healed but then the other eye, exhausted from
doing all the work for a week, began to break down as well. I saw another doctor (by now we were in a strange little coastal Patagonian town, but more on that later) who informed
me that I had keratitis, as a result of the snowblindness I had suffered. Keratitis is like a dozen smaller corneal ulcers. Just wonderful. But after a couple days with him and more new antibiotics, I continued with my eyes almost fully restored. At this point I had several long phone consultations with doctors back in the states. Urged by my parents desire for my health, I was considering traveling home to get to the bottom of this problem. The general consensus among the doctors was that keratitis was not extremely dangerous, just took a very long time to heal. By now I had been forbidden from wearing contact lenses and had a new pair of glasses and super strong sun glasses to be worn at all times. My eyes, through all of this, were extremely, and I mean EXtremely sensitive to the sun, but with ultra heavy duty sunglasses and a hat I could usually survive. I did (and do actually, the sun sensitivity is the only part that continues) spend a lot of time looking at the ground and missing out on scenery, but I'm sure I haven't missed too much. One of my eyes worsened again and we spent a week camping in a little town (the town with the only opthamologist for a 1000 miles, seriously) but at the end of this the doctor sent me on my way with no eye patch, no pain, and lots more fancy medications. That brings the story of my annoying eyes to the present, where they are currently quite comfortable but still slowly healing. The doctors in the US said that as a result of snowblindness they need to grow a new epithileum, which I assume is some sort of outer protective layer, and this is the reason for the continued over sensitivity. But I got a very suave new pair of glasses out of the deal so I guess its not all bad.
In the night, lying in the nocturnal heat of the city, my eyes began to weep, uncontrollably. I wiped at them all night but realized that something was really wrong. They had bothered me ever since working in Ehrwald due to overexposure to the sun (combined with snow) that had made my eyes dry and week. For several days before that night they had been seriously bothering me but, used to the difficulties of eyes, especially with contact lenses, I expected to simply let them heal, as eyes can in fact do with remarkable speed under most circumstances. But with that weeping night it was clear something should be done. The US embassy website listed good doctors and I went to one I knew was in the most expensive part of Buenos Aires, figuring that might increase the chances of a good doctor. Me and Casey made our way there with me in fairly excruciating pain . Imagine lots of sand in both eyes, but you can't blink it out. Closing your eyes hurts, and opening them hurts even more. So slowly we made our way there, and I sat in a waiting room for a couple hours with a dozen others, nodding in and out of consciousness partly from pain but mostly from exhaustion and heat. Finally I was called in, where a sweet opthamologist took very kind cautious care of my eyes and informed me that I had a corneal ulcer, like a vast (3 millimeters across!!) scab on my eye that was refusing to heal. She prescribed antibiotics and a huge eyepatch of white gauze and tape and told me to return the next day. The next few days, though the eye slowly healed and was decreasingly painful, I was essentially an invalid. At first, it was too painful to focus on anything so I just slept and lay in the dark for hours while Casey made buddies with musicians around the hostel. But as it became less painfully I still had the problem of the eye patch. Navigating the huge, packed, dusty streets with no peripheral vision or depth perception was quite a challenge, but I slowly improved, with Casey occasionally steering me and telling me when I could and could not cross streets. In fact, Casey was a great doctor, administering my eye drop antibiotics and my eye-goop medication which apparently was meant to form a protective coating around the eye. The corneal ulcer healed surely, and I finally removed my eyepatch. By this time I was wearing a much cooler, more intimidating black pirate eyepatch. Little kids were fascinated by my condition and would grab their mommies arm to say "what's the problem with his eye mama?" it took a lot of self restraint not to make monster noises and really freak them out. The best reaction I ever got was when I passed a group of little girls on my way to the bathroom, and while there took off the eyepatch for the evening (it was healed enough that this was ok) and then returned. They had slightly oohed and aahed when I passed with the eye patch moments earlier but when I passed without it they were simply stunned. A couple times when people asked what happened I would make up an interesting sorry but after one exchange, where I told a woman I had been mauled by a tiger and she said "really, was that while you were in Europe?" I realized that the drama and humor couldn't withstand the translation.
So eventually one corneal ulcer healed but then the other eye, exhausted from
doing all the work for a week, began to break down as well. I saw another doctor (by now we were in a strange little coastal Patagonian town, but more on that later) who informed
me that I had keratitis, as a result of the snowblindness I had suffered. Keratitis is like a dozen smaller corneal ulcers. Just wonderful. But after a couple days with him and more new antibiotics, I continued with my eyes almost fully restored. At this point I had several long phone consultations with doctors back in the states. Urged by my parents desire for my health, I was considering traveling home to get to the bottom of this problem. The general consensus among the doctors was that keratitis was not extremely dangerous, just took a very long time to heal. By now I had been forbidden from wearing contact lenses and had a new pair of glasses and super strong sun glasses to be worn at all times. My eyes, through all of this, were extremely, and I mean EXtremely sensitive to the sun, but with ultra heavy duty sunglasses and a hat I could usually survive. I did (and do actually, the sun sensitivity is the only part that continues) spend a lot of time looking at the ground and missing out on scenery, but I'm sure I haven't missed too much. One of my eyes worsened again and we spent a week camping in a little town (the town with the only opthamologist for a 1000 miles, seriously) but at the end of this the doctor sent me on my way with no eye patch, no pain, and lots more fancy medications. That brings the story of my annoying eyes to the present, where they are currently quite comfortable but still slowly healing. The doctors in the US said that as a result of snowblindness they need to grow a new epithileum, which I assume is some sort of outer protective layer, and this is the reason for the continued over sensitivity. But I got a very suave new pair of glasses out of the deal so I guess its not all bad.
The next morning we rose, still riding the wave of exhilaration at our new world. We had ambitious plans to see much of the City. First we sped by subway (hot and sticky and crowded underground, always) to the Plaza de Mayo and the Avenida de Mayo, the beating heart of the city. There we wandered round the Casa Rosada, the seat of government and famous crooning point of Evita. It stood elegantly over a leafy plaza where protesters camped and picketed, most noticeably the "mothers of the disappeared," a heart-wrenching group of mothers demanding that the government somehow explain the mass disappearance of thousands of argentines in the Dirty War, only a few decades ago. After witness this center, and the avenue, which is clearly the center of commerce and traffic and the crossing paths of various people aimed in various directions, we turned onto Florida, the pedestrianized vein of utter tourism in the city center. Dozens of glittery, undesirable objects glinted up at us, as we pressed through crowds. Now, we as a pair don't look (in my opinion) very touristy or very vulnerable, but here we made again a slip that made us instant targets. We took out the guidebook to glance at a map and get oriented. But two teenaged boys swept in, first begging money then demanding it, then ominously grabbing Casey arm and moving around us. Ultimately we made an excuse and bolted away into the tangle of people and way up the street. This did nothing to abet our growing uneasiness with these big crowded throbbing centers of the city. But on we went, down narrow streets into San Telmo, the exciting, edgy, artsy part of town. It was packed with antique shops of staggering scale selling everything from vast collections of silver and crystal to (gulp) real Nazi peraphanalia, presumably from the swarm of Nazis (including, apparently, Mengele and Bohrmann) that escaped down here after the war under the shelter of the questionable Peron Government. The dark dusty shops and warehouses were fascinating, quite unlike anything we had seen thus far, but there was little that appealed in a practical sense to two budgeting backpackers. We tried to leaf through a vast old record collection, but the vendor refused to let us continue until we told him exactly which record we were looking for. An impossible question, so we moved on. We had a vast lunch at a great little restaurant of Milanesa (breaded steak) with potatoes and Quilmes. Stuffed, we made our way to a cool hill top park where we watched people walking dogs and old men competing fiercely at chess. Then we made our way to Plaza Dorega, the heart of San Telmo. We watched a luscious tango show in the center of the square, marveling at the incredible nature of a dance at once so controlled and so passionate. We went into an incredible cafe off the plaza. Dark and historic, with names and messages carved into the bar and tables, and rows of dusty old glass bottles along the walls, the place was pulsating with Buenos Aires. We ordered submarinos, an Argentine favorite (and now a favorite of ours too!) of boiled milk with a whole chocolate bar dropped wonderfully in. Sitting there, looking out on the plaza, was utterly perfect in every way imaginable. We also made a friend in a street vendor who wanted to chat with us and show us how he crested his wares, beautiful, meticulously created necklaces and earrings of beaten metal, even when he realized we were not very promising potential customers. Finally, we walked back to the center via Puerto Madero, the up and coming fancy new district of the city, with glittering new office buildings and executive-looking restaurants. It was a waterfront (along a series of canals) and a cool breeze slept, thankfully off the water.
The end of the day was a beer on the rooftop of the hostel with some of the other people staying there, and then a deep sleep. It is quite possible that we saw more of Buenos Aires that day than any visitor has ever done in a single day
The end of the day was a beer on the rooftop of the hostel with some of the other people staying there, and then a deep sleep. It is quite possible that we saw more of Buenos Aires that day than any visitor has ever done in a single day
Landing in Buenos Aires left us, even seasoned to the rapid and unpredictable vicissitudes of travel as we were, a bit stunned. We sat on the curb out front of the airport for several minutes with the warm wind wrapping welcoming around us. We gathered ourselves and took in the departure from Europe, our home of some 6 months, and what had become our familiar ground. We took in the vast shift in the dynamic of where we had left, foggy, energetic, focused, draining London, and the vastly different and thus far totally undiscovered Buenos Aires. After a few quiet moments of shock and awe blending with fierce anticipation, we picked up our bags and instruments, so well known now as to feel almost weightless, and made our way into the vast city center. Still wrapped mostly in layers of clothing adequate for cool European spring we were soon overheated and sweating in sticky South American heat. We sailed smoothly into town, to a hostel called GIramondo, a brightly colored, light filled old mansion (BA, a city of such severe and rapid economic ups and downs, has plenty of converted mansions) that seemed perfect, but did not solve our now urgent need for food and drink. After wandering for a few minutes, we found ourselves in the grassy, sun drenched back patio of a little restaurant, drinking coca cola from glass bottles that dripped with condensation. Lunch could not possibly have been nicer or simpler. Two grilled chicken breasts on beds of fresh greens, all with a hint of balsamic vinegar, with freshly baked bread. Eating this, in the warmth and sunshine, in our new city, at the start of a whole new string of adventures, was almost too sweet and good to be true, and we beamed through the whole meal.
After lunch we began what would he several days of endless wandering through what is really a vast city. Buenos Aires has 12 million people and has multiple central areas so it is totally unlike the small, clustered European cities we had gotten so used o navigating on foot. Luckily for us, our hostel is in Palermo, definitively the nicest neighborhood in the city, with quiet tree-filled streets and great restaurants and huge gorgeous green parks. We spent our afternoon exploring first the trendy. shop-filled Palermo Soho, and then the quieter, elegant Palermo Hollywood, as the north and south ends of the neighborhood have been nicknamed.
We made an obligatory and quote interesting stop at the Museo de Evita. Evita, merely a fascinating and endearing heroine back home, is literally treated as a saint in Argentina, and so to see this veritable shrine to her definitely said something about the people of the country where we would be spending several months.
As the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves wandering through the divine, cool leafy spaces of the cities beautiful botanical gardens. Drained by travel, heat, and te excitement of the new city, we collapsed gratefully on the co green grass and lounged luxuriantly as evening fell. The gardens are like a perfectly manicured jungle, exquisite.
In the evening we found a one of a kind restaurant in Palermo Hollywood, sheltered from the street by vast, sound muffling trees, and decorated in bright green and red. We drank Quilmes, Argentina's national beer. Though are palates are growing to be somewhat sophisticated having tasted ales and lagers from England to Austria, we enjoyed this Argentine specialty immensely.
After a pitstop at the hostel, we headed ambitiously far into the center of the city for a good cheap meal. After a good deal of walking it became clear we did not yet understand the scale of this city, and we decided to hop on the subway, which, it turned out, was incredibly cheap and efficient. We sped toward our destination but when we disembarked I made a mistake. I took out my IPhone to check the address of the restaurant and suddenly a hand wrapped around it's shining form to snatch it from my grasp. Instinctively my fingers flexed and gripped fiercely. The tug of war lasted only milliseconds and then the boy bolted away down the street ad disappeared, hands empty. Now we were shook up (not in kansas anymore (or California, or Europe)) and we struggled to find the restaurant in a hyperparanoid state of awareness. We actually spotted the boy again, and he and his buddy leered at us, but other than that it was all a series of shadows and noises and the endless rush of the big city that made us jumpy. We finally found the restaurant but somewhere in between the writing of our lonely planet guidebook and the present it had transformed from cheap good value family eatery into upscale bistro. We couldn't begin to splurge on meals just yet so, distraught and disoriented, we made our way laboriously back to Palermo, where we found our way into a big pizzeria (Argentina, with it's huge Italian population and culture, has amazing Italian food) where, glassy-eyed and motionless with fatigue, we ordered a vast pizza which we couldn't finish but brought back with us to the hostel. Back in Palermo we felt again safe and comfortable and relaxed, and we slept soundly that night, despite the heat and the rush of traffic only a few feet away outside.
After lunch we began what would he several days of endless wandering through what is really a vast city. Buenos Aires has 12 million people and has multiple central areas so it is totally unlike the small, clustered European cities we had gotten so used o navigating on foot. Luckily for us, our hostel is in Palermo, definitively the nicest neighborhood in the city, with quiet tree-filled streets and great restaurants and huge gorgeous green parks. We spent our afternoon exploring first the trendy. shop-filled Palermo Soho, and then the quieter, elegant Palermo Hollywood, as the north and south ends of the neighborhood have been nicknamed.
We made an obligatory and quote interesting stop at the Museo de Evita. Evita, merely a fascinating and endearing heroine back home, is literally treated as a saint in Argentina, and so to see this veritable shrine to her definitely said something about the people of the country where we would be spending several months.
As the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves wandering through the divine, cool leafy spaces of the cities beautiful botanical gardens. Drained by travel, heat, and te excitement of the new city, we collapsed gratefully on the co green grass and lounged luxuriantly as evening fell. The gardens are like a perfectly manicured jungle, exquisite.
In the evening we found a one of a kind restaurant in Palermo Hollywood, sheltered from the street by vast, sound muffling trees, and decorated in bright green and red. We drank Quilmes, Argentina's national beer. Though are palates are growing to be somewhat sophisticated having tasted ales and lagers from England to Austria, we enjoyed this Argentine specialty immensely.
After a pitstop at the hostel, we headed ambitiously far into the center of the city for a good cheap meal. After a good deal of walking it became clear we did not yet understand the scale of this city, and we decided to hop on the subway, which, it turned out, was incredibly cheap and efficient. We sped toward our destination but when we disembarked I made a mistake. I took out my IPhone to check the address of the restaurant and suddenly a hand wrapped around it's shining form to snatch it from my grasp. Instinctively my fingers flexed and gripped fiercely. The tug of war lasted only milliseconds and then the boy bolted away down the street ad disappeared, hands empty. Now we were shook up (not in kansas anymore (or California, or Europe)) and we struggled to find the restaurant in a hyperparanoid state of awareness. We actually spotted the boy again, and he and his buddy leered at us, but other than that it was all a series of shadows and noises and the endless rush of the big city that made us jumpy. We finally found the restaurant but somewhere in between the writing of our lonely planet guidebook and the present it had transformed from cheap good value family eatery into upscale bistro. We couldn't begin to splurge on meals just yet so, distraught and disoriented, we made our way laboriously back to Palermo, where we found our way into a big pizzeria (Argentina, with it's huge Italian population and culture, has amazing Italian food) where, glassy-eyed and motionless with fatigue, we ordered a vast pizza which we couldn't finish but brought back with us to the hostel. Back in Palermo we felt again safe and comfortable and relaxed, and we slept soundly that night, despite the heat and the rush of traffic only a few feet away outside.
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