They Were the Best of Times, They Were the Worst of Times

Allow us to reintroduce ourselves to your inbox!  Apologies for leaving the blog dormant for over a month, but spending the holidays with family and friends, eating, drinking and pursuing  general merriment—good God it was great—left little time for our ramblings and photo sharing.  So let’s get caught up!

After Patagonia, we traveled north to spend a few weeks exploring other areas of Argentina including Bariloche, Mendoza and Buenos Aires.  What follows is a tale limited to our week in Buenos Aires, but our time wine tasting in Mendoza and exploring the lakes of Bariloche was no less remarkable.

After receiving the royal treatment at home over the holidays, the hospitality continued during our cherished time with family in Paris (both will be written-up in the very near future).   From Paris, we moved onto Barcelona where the fine hospitality unexpectedly continued for a few days with our host Patrice—my French cousin’s girlfriend’s uncle.  Despite an intimidating all-black/all-the-time wardrobe, Patrice was the kindest host we could have asked for:  he bought us breakfast each morning, cooked dinner for us on Three Kings Day, and was even willing to swap some music with me (he has an unbelievable collection).

Tonight we’re in Seville, Spain, settling into hostel-life again (hopefully these are the last dorms for a while as things should get cheaper in Africa and India).  But rest assured—back on the road we’re recommitted and inspired again to continue documenting our trip and sharing our experiences.

As our momentum rebuilds, we’re excited for what lies ahead, yet, at the same time, we realize—now more than ever—how great of a home we have to come back to.  We’ll miss you all dearly, we’ll be sure to travel safely, and we look forward to seeing you again soon.  September’s just around the corner!

But without further ado, Buenos Aires!

Although just a tale of one city, our last days in South America did provide for a long list of memories—most fond, one terrible.  For seven days, we lived like locals: we stayed and hosted parties in a fully equipped apartment, we enjoyed outstanding meals each day, and we shared some great times with new friends.  All was perfect until our eighth and final day—one of the more hellish to-date—saw my uncontrollable stomach trapped in an even more uncontrollable hostel.  Battling a stomach bug while listening to a stoned guy in the next room scream-along to a live Pearl Jam album was a pretty miserable experience I hope no one ever has to endure.

But First, The BEST

Sure, visiting a sun-drenched Buenos Aires—a city with amalgamated culture, provocative history, cheap wine, and abundant beef—with the woman you love will undoubtedly lead to unforgettable experiences.  But being able to do so while living, eating and drinking with a solid group of new friends takes the experience to a whole new level (while, of course, drastically intensifying the hangovers).

Quite serendipitously, Nils and Jo—British newlyweds that we befriended earlier on the Inca Trail—happened to be ending their South American journey in Buenos Aires during the same week we were doing the same.  To get the most out of the week, and to cut costs, we decided to rent and share a two-bedroom apartment together.  Before our arrival, we secured the space through one of the city’s many apartment sites and agreed to a weekly rate that was actually below the rates of many of the far inferior hostels we’d previously frequented while traveling.   Although thrilled with the price, we suspended any feelings of satisfaction until arrival as after all, we’ve been duped before.

We were the first to arrive at Humberto Prima 454, the address we’d call home for the next seven days.  We were pleasantly surprised:  the ornate, three-story former mansion—not unlike a well-established New York brownstone—sat in the late-afternoon shadows of its taller companions surrounding Plaza Dorrego, a quaint but lively square in the city’s San Telmo barrio (Spanish for ‘neighborhood’).  Stepping through the building’s heavy oak doors, complete with stained glass windows, we were led into the open-air, mosaic-floored corridor through which we eventually found our second floor apartment.  The apartment was simple, clean and stylish (surprisingly, just as the pictures suggested).  It had all the essentials: TV, wifi, full kitchen, updated bathroom.  The beds actually had down pillows opposed to the large cotton-covered sponges on which we’d become accustomed to resting our heads.  And interestingly, only three or four feet above our breakfast table, the kitchen wall-clock was set in what looked like an over-sized, mounted painter’s palette that doubled as a wine holder.  This attention grabbing creation—part time-keeper, part wine-storage, part wall-art—held eight bottles of wine that looked as if they were protruding from the wall, seemingly levitating on their sides high above the room.  The sweet old woman who owned the apartment told us we could help ourselves to as much as we wanted as long as we replenished the stock before we left.  We accepted her offer.  Later referred to as “wall wine”, we uncorked a few bottles in a late-night (actually early morning) attempt to keep a party going.  With our glasses full again, we toasted to our well-stocked apartment.  However, with just one sip, we discovered that the “wall wine” of Humberto Prima 454 (#8) represents, quite possibly, the worst of what Argentina has to offer.  At first we thought maybe we just had bad luck with the first bottle.  But each time we “went to the wall”, the wine tasted like a vomit-inducing concoction of vodka, olive-oil and grape juice.  On our last day, we restocked the few empty slots in the wall with the cheapest bottles we could find, surely perpetuating a vicious cycle started long before our time in Buenos Aires.

Rounding out our Buenos Aires friends—and bolstering global representation—were Mick and Jeanine, another couple traveling through South America that Nils and Jo had previously met in Bolivia.  Mick, a tall, hilarious Aussie, and Jeanine, a sweet, laid-back South African, had both studied to become wine makers in their respective home countries.  A shared desire to work on wineries in different parts of the world eventually brought each of them to California’s Napa Valley where they met three years ago.  Ever since, they’ve traveled together, working at wineries and traveling for pleasure when possible.   In addition to being great people to hang out with, Mick and Jeanine treated us to a fantastic night of homemade pizza and unpretentiously selected nearly every bottle of wine that we drank throughout the week (except when restocking the wall—that was easy: bottom shelf).  Totally changing my perception of a wine maker, Mick eschewed using the sophisticated—yet often meaningless—lexicon to describe wine (i.e. “oaky”, “dry”, “tannin-rich”, etc).  Although fully versed with this more bourgeoisie word list, he chose instead to use more accessible vocabulary like “tasty” and, my favorite, “smashable”.  We generally drank Malbec, the grape Argentina is known for, but often tried others such as Torentes, an outstanding chilled white wine—more tasty than ‘smashable’—that was refreshing to drink in the late-afternoon heat, marking the end of a great day and the start of an even better night.*

Christoph, Cyn, a Grizzly Bear, Jeanine, Mick, Nils, and Jo

Together, we all enjoyed our days in Argentina’s capital.  One day we ventured into the Boca barrio, a blue-collar port neighborhood, famous for its vibrant, multi-colored buildings and its historic soccer club, the Boca Juniors.  Intrigued by the rich tradition of the club, Nils and I took a tour of the Boca Juniors’ stadium.  Although a bit pricey, the tour was well worth it as the large, horseshoe-shaped structure—comparable to many of the larger universities’ football stadiums in the States—has seen numerous championship-winning clubs and for a time was home to Diego Maradona, a soccer player widely regarded as one of the greatest ever to play the game.

On Sunday we explored the San Telmo market—a huge antique and culture fair held weekly in Dorrego Square (right outside our door).  Stalls selling food, antiques and hand-made goods spilled into the square’s surrounding neighborhood; groups of drummers loudly zigzagged the streets collecting tips along the way; professional tango dancers (old-timers, but still good) set up their portable dance floors and mounted their speakers in the fair’s busier intersections.

On one of our last days in the city, we picnicked in a park in the city’s lush Palermo barrio next to a flock of geese that tried to bully us out of their territory.  For less than US$3 per person we enjoyed a feast of cured ham sandwiches with wine, cheese and fruit.   Afterwards we went to the city’s racetrack where we bet on a few horse races (I bet on “Lady Liberty” and won, turning 5 pesos into 10—winnings of US$1.30!).

But our best times were always had back in the apartment on Humberto Prima.  Early in the week, we reserved one of our nights to hold a “curry-off”—a cook-off between Nils’ and Jeanine’s respective curry recipes.  Less a competition and more a celebration of good curry, the meal required a large number of ingredients that were acquired throughout the week.  When the night finally came, Nils, given his roots, may have had a slight advantage with a recipe that had been perfected over the years by his family in Sri Lanka, that teardrop-shaped paradise of a country off India’s southern coast.  Despite the formidable competition, Jeanine fearlessly cooked up her own South African version that, although a bit more sweet than spicy, was devilishly good all the same.  Served with homemade naan (Mick Dundee’s contribution), the meal was an explosion of flavor and one of the finest we’ve had yet on the road.  Cynthia and I—admittedly not the best team in the kitchen after years of cubicle meals—struggled throughout the week to find ways to contribute.   Finally though, on the morning after our curry feast, we were able to use the leftover meats and veggies from pizza night and the two curries from the previous night to whip up some omelets for the group that weren’t too shabby.

Each night after our dinners—often starting as late as midnight and ending sometimes at three in the morning, as is the custom in Buenos Aires—we kept the wine and the conversation flowing.  Some nights we ventured out to a few bars and listened to live music.  Other nights we stayed in and hung out in our living room, listened to music and enjoyed each other’s company.   One night, as vintage Christmas music oozed out of my crappy travel speakers, Mick and I discussed the unmatched qualities of Bing Crosby’s voice—a voice so warm and rich that, as Mick puts it, “it’s like physical matter; like a fleece blanket for your ear drums.”

One night, after one of our home-cooked feasts, we realized we hadn’t taken a group photo yet.  Jo quickly grabbed her camera, turned it to self-timer mode, and set it on the ledge of the window connecting the kitchen and the living room.  After a few warm and fuzzy group shots, someone suggested the possibility of a ‘zany shot’. For those unfamiliar, the zany shot (which definitely goes by other names as well) is that photographic moment that’s allowed to get a little strange and above all, encourages self-expression—no matter how weird—from the photo’s subjects.  Little did everyone know, the zany shot is a personal favorite of mine.  For my “zany pose”, I went with what I like to call “terrified-curious”: a frightening contortion of my face coupled with a curious investigation of one of the huge metal ants adorning the living room wall behind us.  I guess the zoomed-in result speaks for itself, but the group was quite…well, terrified and curious with the result.  They awarded me with Most Valuable Pose honors and affectionately named the look “Serial Killer Face”.  Although, upon further review, I have to say honorable mention goes to Jo’s “cross-eyed lean-back” and Mick’s T-grab.

The WORST

We went out with a bang on our last night.  We drank wine and champagne and ate insane amounts of beef at La Cabrera, one of Argentina’s most well-known steakhouses frequented by tourists and locals alike.  We ate slowly and ended up being one of the last to leave the restaurant at around 2am.  After having had the better part of a shared prime rib, I honestly felt fuller than I ever have before.  We attempted to keep the party going afterwards at a bar, but I was so full that even my most basic dance moves proved challenging.  Reluctantly, we ended the night, knowing the following morning would see us all part ways and scatter the globe to our respective home countries.

The next morning I was sad to see every one go, of course, but I had bigger issues—stomach issues to be exact.  We thought it could’ve been the food.  But everyone at the table ordered the same dish and, most vindicating to the restaurant, I shared my meal with Cynthia who managed to avoid any problems.  It could’ve been the few glasses of water that I had at the bar.  Since drinking water isn’t always readily available in South America, the bar tender had to go back into the kitchen and get it from the tap—always a little sketchy.  Or possibly it was simply God teaching me a lesson: Though shalt not abuse thy body with prime rib so much that it prevents showcasing thine ironically good dance moves. Whatever the cause, the next morning my stomach was angry.  I barely had enough time between commode visits to make it to the hostel where we spent our last night.**

Hunched over in pain, ghost-white and sweating in the ninety-degree heat, I waited on the sidewalk as Cynthia rang the bell of the hostel door.  We were let in by a girl who didn’t speak English but was able to make it clear that she did not work there.  We followed her through a main corridor—littered with beer bottles, shoes and other debris—and into the main room that slightly resembled a lobby.  The room’s smell of old cigarettes and stale beer baked in the afternoon heat.  I stumbled to rest on a worn-out brown pleather ottoman as Cynthia looked in vain for someone who worked there.   I badly need to get into our room and Cynthia was doing her best to get the key.  Two young girls and a young guy—the budding Eddie Veter—sat casually amidst the room’s filth and engaged in conversation in Spanish.  Presumably because I looked so miserable, the guy—who looked like a shirtless, nipple-ringed version of Emile Hirsch—came over to me and kindly introduced himself in basic English.  Appreciating the gesture, I used every ounce of energy not to seem curt, but the exchange of pleasantries distracted me from my main goal: not puking and/or pooping my pants.

A young American woman—barefoot in a simple dress with hair still soaked from a shower—walked into the room and said hello, quickly kissing us on both cheeks, making it very clear she’d lived in Argentina long enough to adopt the local greeting.  It was evident she was from California as 1.) she used the word “stoked” instead of “excited” twice in five minutes, and 2.) she told us so.  Yet she didn’t work for the hostel either, but thankfully she at least knew where the keys were.  From behind the bar—also covered in bottles, cans, ashtrays and various papers—she produced an old set of keys.  She led us out of the main room and showed us to the only available room—a place that would become my dungeon of abdominal pain for the next twenty-four hours.

Soon after I settled in, Cynthia left to enjoy the day.  But Emile Hirsch stayed in.  After getting blazed, he decided to blast some Pearl Jam, strum along on his guitar and sing his heart out.  With the base reverberating off the walls and ceiling of my room, I tried in vain to sleep.  He didn’t know the lyrics (with Pearl Jam, I can’t blame him I guess) so each verse consisted of a voice-cracking combination of howling gibberish and broken Spanglish.  He took breaks here and there (read: passed out) on the main room’s old black couch, but he soon woke up and got back to work.

Oh, and later we found a few bed bugs.

With a frugal trip around the world, we realize that nightmare-ish episodes like this are bound to occur here and there.  Now, three months into our journey, we’re happy to say that, so far at least, they’ve been few and far between.   As always though, we take the good with the bad, knowing that, in the long run, the former will always outweigh the latter.  With Buenos Aires, this surely was the case.

Notes:

*Not to be left out, Christoph, a university friend of Jeanine’s from South Africa, flew in from his home in Santiago, Chile and spent the weekend with us.  Despite his regrettable love of reggaton music, he was a solid addition and a pleasure to hang out with.

**Nils, Jo, Mick and Jeanine left one day earlier than we did so we had to get our own place for the last night.