Suddenly, it seems almost in the snap of my fingers, I awoke to the cloudless, cornflower blue summer sky in Buenos Aires city. How did I get here? Just yesterday I was suffering through another 100 degree afternoon on the farm, swatting furiously at flies and dodging the hornet swarms. And now here I sit, once more perched on a balcony overlooking a narrow, tree-lined street in BA, as though it were once more my very first moments in Argentina. It is eerie the way life seems to constantly loop back around on itself and we relive moments thought long past.
I remember how I felt last time: overwhelmed, uncertain, out of control, reckless. My Spanish didn’t extend much beyond “hola” and the numbers 1-5. The city was huge, the people entirely unfamiliar, and time seemed to stretch out infinitely in front of me. It was a feeling of freedom so vast it swallowed me up. I remember looking over at Patrick and thinking: “Thank God I’m not alone.” I remember all this now as though it were reminiscences of an old friend: gone but not forgotten. And in a way, it is.
I was a different person then, and I can see very clearly how much I’ve changed over these last eight tumultuous months. The city is still huge but it feels manageable now. My Spanish might actually be called conversational now and I don’t get a knot in my stomach when I think about navigating public transportation or asking for directions here. I have a pretty good understanding of the culture, and I’m not so preoccupied with making some kind of ghastly faux pas. I feel safe in my skin, I almost feel saavy. There is nothing here that I can’t handle. And I am alone now, in many ways. But it doesn’t feel so lonely in this bustling city with its million entertainments and nearly 14 million inhabitants. I feel content. Maybe even excited. What a new feeling (again)!
December 29, 2010
December 19, 2010
Another Mild Case of Dysentery 12/18
Now that I know this is for my blog, I feel I should be more descriptive. What is the farm like? Well, it is smaller in scale than I anticipated. Barely a half-acre of cultivated land, including a large garden growing row upon row of the same veggies, scattered fruit trees and an assortment of housing structures. Fortunately, some of the fruit trees are bearing, namely an overladen peach tree and a few mulberry trees. The fresh fruit helped to offset my hunger pains between organized meals. The buildings are clearly works of a novice hand, most of them constructed by unskilled volunteers such as myself over the last several years. The roofs are plastic siding, artfully concealed beneath the drapery of saffron-colored saris. All except the kitchen that is, where the clear plastic reveals all manner of insects scurrying along above your head (and food).
We are living in an “ecohouse,” a rather unique construction of mud and wood hoisted four meters off the ground on palm wood stilts. The first night here, a week ago now, a fantastic storm washed out part of the mud walls, bathing our backpacks in mud and water. In the wind, the whole little house sways like mad, flexible by design on its palm stilts. Last night brought another rain shower and all day today the wind has howled through the cracks, but the sway has become second nature to me now and today I found it lulled me to sleep.
The whole park is home to an undetermined number of Hare Krishna followers, the girls and women in white cotton saris and the men in saffron kurtas and dhotis. All of the Hare Krishnas have Indian names, the food is all vegetarian and cooked in Indian style (albeit without any of the spice), and the meeting halls and public places are all decorated with stenciled images of the holy Indian cow. For the first few days, I sometimes awoke confused, thinking I was in India again as someone’s lyrical Sanskrit chant floated out to me on the breeze. But no, this is certainly not India; although that distant country is so highly revered here that I am loathe to attempt to explain my own, more mundane experience there. To the Hare Krishnas here in this remote Argentine town, India is a land of perfect spirituality, full of only temples and swamis and lifelong yogis, where everyone is on a constant search for samathi (transcendence) and no one feels their hunger or poverty or the injustice of corruption or the ineffectual nature of the crippled government system. How to communicate the rivers of human feces flowing freely in the slums? The mile upon heart-rending mile of sunken-eyed children so impoverished they have ceased to dream of school? The fourteen-year backlog of the judicial system that lets rapists, murders, and thieves walk free and unmolested through the same village as their victims for over a decade?
But they are persistent and determinedly naive in their dedication to this faith, this way of life. Nearly once a day, I am engaged in a lengthy conversation about “the philosophy.” I have noticed that those volunteers who are less adept at Spanish are generally ignored, since most of the initiates do not speak any English. They are all eager to learn, although I feel conflicted about teaching them if their only goal is conversion. Regardless, I am not teaching here. Upon arrival, the Hare Krishnas seemed eager to have a teacher, but they are set in their ways and seem resentful of any personal contributions by the volunteers. I feel like nothing more than a body, quite similar to my feelings at Trader Joe’s. I feel the volunteers here are seen only as disposable, eager manual labor that should not step out of place and who should remain distinctly separate; it is hard to believe that we are actually paying a hefty fee for the privilege of being here. I so badly wanted to be a part of a community, to contribute my unique set of skills and knowledge to the betterment of the whole, but always the answer here is NO: no cooking, no English classes, no art, nothing out of the ordinary. I feel so frustrated and unappreciated.
What’s more, I have been sick for three days now. Another mild case of dysentery, I believe. Again, I think the culprit is the unclean state of the kitchen here. Helping prepare food this week, I observed countless flies, left to swarm over the cooked food sometimes for hours before it was served. There are also cockroaches, fleas from the various animals on the property, and a general lack of soap for proper sanitation. This too, brings back images of India, but I don’t think it’s any excuse. Five volunteers have been felled by this sickness in the short week we’ve been here. Those aren’t great odds. I am aching to leave. I don’t like it here and that conviction only gets stronger every day. But now I am too weak to travel, and I have to eat more of the food until I can get my strength back. I have been working on a small bowl of rice for over an hour now.
But Patrick seems reluctant to leave. Despite the inconveniences, he is in love with this stark, empty countryside, with the novelty of performing manual labor everyday, with the quaint charm of the thousands of fireflies that swarm the garden at night. It is beautiful at night, with the moon hanging huge and milky white and those thousand blinking lights among the vegetables. But it is not enough for me. I hate feeling so underutilized when I can see easy ways to improve many things here. I hate the banality of the daily labor, always the same and always hot, hard work. I hate the attitude of the Hare Krishnas towards outsiders, even if they seem peaceful and loving to one another. I hate the isolation, the lack of sanitation, and the idea that I am paying for it all. With the little amount of time I have left in Argentina, I want to find a better place. I need to.
We are living in an “ecohouse,” a rather unique construction of mud and wood hoisted four meters off the ground on palm wood stilts. The first night here, a week ago now, a fantastic storm washed out part of the mud walls, bathing our backpacks in mud and water. In the wind, the whole little house sways like mad, flexible by design on its palm stilts. Last night brought another rain shower and all day today the wind has howled through the cracks, but the sway has become second nature to me now and today I found it lulled me to sleep.
The whole park is home to an undetermined number of Hare Krishna followers, the girls and women in white cotton saris and the men in saffron kurtas and dhotis. All of the Hare Krishnas have Indian names, the food is all vegetarian and cooked in Indian style (albeit without any of the spice), and the meeting halls and public places are all decorated with stenciled images of the holy Indian cow. For the first few days, I sometimes awoke confused, thinking I was in India again as someone’s lyrical Sanskrit chant floated out to me on the breeze. But no, this is certainly not India; although that distant country is so highly revered here that I am loathe to attempt to explain my own, more mundane experience there. To the Hare Krishnas here in this remote Argentine town, India is a land of perfect spirituality, full of only temples and swamis and lifelong yogis, where everyone is on a constant search for samathi (transcendence) and no one feels their hunger or poverty or the injustice of corruption or the ineffectual nature of the crippled government system. How to communicate the rivers of human feces flowing freely in the slums? The mile upon heart-rending mile of sunken-eyed children so impoverished they have ceased to dream of school? The fourteen-year backlog of the judicial system that lets rapists, murders, and thieves walk free and unmolested through the same village as their victims for over a decade?
But they are persistent and determinedly naive in their dedication to this faith, this way of life. Nearly once a day, I am engaged in a lengthy conversation about “the philosophy.” I have noticed that those volunteers who are less adept at Spanish are generally ignored, since most of the initiates do not speak any English. They are all eager to learn, although I feel conflicted about teaching them if their only goal is conversion. Regardless, I am not teaching here. Upon arrival, the Hare Krishnas seemed eager to have a teacher, but they are set in their ways and seem resentful of any personal contributions by the volunteers. I feel like nothing more than a body, quite similar to my feelings at Trader Joe’s. I feel the volunteers here are seen only as disposable, eager manual labor that should not step out of place and who should remain distinctly separate; it is hard to believe that we are actually paying a hefty fee for the privilege of being here. I so badly wanted to be a part of a community, to contribute my unique set of skills and knowledge to the betterment of the whole, but always the answer here is NO: no cooking, no English classes, no art, nothing out of the ordinary. I feel so frustrated and unappreciated.
What’s more, I have been sick for three days now. Another mild case of dysentery, I believe. Again, I think the culprit is the unclean state of the kitchen here. Helping prepare food this week, I observed countless flies, left to swarm over the cooked food sometimes for hours before it was served. There are also cockroaches, fleas from the various animals on the property, and a general lack of soap for proper sanitation. This too, brings back images of India, but I don’t think it’s any excuse. Five volunteers have been felled by this sickness in the short week we’ve been here. Those aren’t great odds. I am aching to leave. I don’t like it here and that conviction only gets stronger every day. But now I am too weak to travel, and I have to eat more of the food until I can get my strength back. I have been working on a small bowl of rice for over an hour now.
But Patrick seems reluctant to leave. Despite the inconveniences, he is in love with this stark, empty countryside, with the novelty of performing manual labor everyday, with the quaint charm of the thousands of fireflies that swarm the garden at night. It is beautiful at night, with the moon hanging huge and milky white and those thousand blinking lights among the vegetables. But it is not enough for me. I hate feeling so underutilized when I can see easy ways to improve many things here. I hate the banality of the daily labor, always the same and always hot, hard work. I hate the attitude of the Hare Krishnas towards outsiders, even if they seem peaceful and loving to one another. I hate the isolation, the lack of sanitation, and the idea that I am paying for it all. With the little amount of time I have left in Argentina, I want to find a better place. I need to.
First Impressions of the Farm 12/11
I ask: what am I doing here? In this little “treehouse” in the middle of nowhere, Argentina. Which is different, slightly, from nowhere, Oregon or nowhere, Hawaii or nowhere, India. They each feel different, but only slightly. Perhaps this is why these sorts of places make me uncomfortable. It is the sense of unending, inescapable sameness that makes me feel lost. My first impression is that I don’t like it. I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach which feels like anxiety. I also feel out of place, and I don’t like that either. I feel like the teenage heroines of those stories I read when I was young, hardened city girls who get sent to their cousin/uncle/grandfather’s farm for the summer, where they learn the value of hard physical labor, and weekly showers, and that real beauty doesn’t require (or accept) heels and make-up and sparkly decorations. Was it only last night that I dressed up to join similarly dressed up girls at a downtown bar? Where I drank a slick cocktail on ice and chatted about such inanities as the best sushi in town?
December 6, 2010
Losing It
It only seems appropriate that this blog should come full circle. I just re-read my very first post here and it really broke my (already broken) heart. Let's reminisce for a moment:
"I am so grateful to have Patrick, my love, to share this experience with. I feel that from this point on, we are bound together in a way I have never tethered myself to another in the past. Now, we share the bond of having done something, together. Now, we are not only together, but making our way forward, establishing memories of a great experience (or awful, who knows?) that will last a lifetime. Now, no matter what we become in the future, we will always be each other's partner in this moment of extraordinary experience."
After months of struggle together, suddenly we are no longer together. And although it is tempting to say that this recent development has made the experience awful, it is not true. This experience has certainly made me stronger, just as this break-up inevitably will. But the end of my relationship with the man I truly loved and treasured and counted on and trusted in- my so called PARTNER- has definitely made the entire purpose of this trip seem more obscure. Why did I come here, to the end of the world, if not to live with my love and build a life together? What was the point in sacrificing so much if the end only brings... the end?
When I think about those first hazy, humid moments in Buenos Aires when I wrote those lines almost 8 months ago, I see that for me, the experience was always about being together. Because of this unwavering conviction that our love was the first priority, I allowed our relationship to consume about 95% of my time and energy here. I have spent so many- countless- hours loving and loathing and pleading and pacifying Patrick that I often felt like I didn't even know where I was. In those moments of pain and elation, we might have been on the moon or maybe Timbuktu. We might never have left home at all.
Unfortunately, I think that Patrick would have preferred it that way. From the beginning, he was afraid and reluctant to try nearly everything: making friends, teaching, applying for jobs, taking classes, finding an apartment, finding any sort of happiness. He has been determined to live like a tourist- always looking toward the flight home and his comfort zone. Over the last few months, it became frightening clear that my love was willing to do almost anything to get out of this situation. Very quickly, I was the only reason to stay, and so all his anger and frustration with himself and his circumstances were unleashed on me. Suddenly, I was the culprit who was ruining his life, instead of the lover and friend who he began this journey with. And in the end, I was left with that old clique: "It's absolutely not you, its me." But is this ever really the truth? And does it really matter, since I lose just as much (or more)?
I feel betrayed in many ways. I feel that Pat betrayed me by agreeing to embark on this adventure and then never actually committing to live it. I feel that he betrayed me by convincing me to quit my job and leave Argentina several months before we agreed upon, and then breaking up with me anyway. I feel betrayed by his behavior in the end, when he chose to make me his enemy. But I also feel that I betrayed myself. I fought for this life and this dream for a long time. It was a changeable dream that started as Africa and the Peace Corps and a solitary adventure, and after much revision, finally ended up as a delayed arrival in South America with the man I unexpectedly fell in love with while waiting to leave. But I allowed this dream to dilate into a single pinprick: my relationship. I allowed myself to ignore so much, to not experience so many unknown facets of this place, because of my stubborn conviction to be in love. And so this is the reason why this break-up feels doubly painful: because I am losing both the dream and the love.
Yet, the trip isn't quite over. We still have nearly two months before the first available flight leaves for home. Two months that just happen to include Christmas, New Year, and our would-be two year anniversary. Two of the hardest months to be suddenly, oh-so-painfully alone. And despite all his best efforts to leave, Patrick is stuck here too. So now we are faced with the momentous task of starting a new kind of relationship: friendship. In three days, we leave for the organic farm where we have committed to six weeks of work. Separate beds, but not separate lives just yet. I challenge myself to spend this time neither wallowing in depression nor obsessing about how to be friendly, but simply soaking up as much of the present as possible. And I guess I have to ask myself: would I do it again? How can I learn to balance love and my seemingly impossible, unreasonably huge dreams of living a different kind of life? Will I ever be able to find a true partner who can help me live the dream instead of reducing my world to a single ambiguous space?
I am still searching: for love, for my dream of a different sort of life, for a way to love myself, even when I'm alone. It is the search that brought me here and I guess it is my purpose in life. But from now on I think my priorities will be different: Love myself, love my life, love another.
"I am so grateful to have Patrick, my love, to share this experience with. I feel that from this point on, we are bound together in a way I have never tethered myself to another in the past. Now, we share the bond of having done something, together. Now, we are not only together, but making our way forward, establishing memories of a great experience (or awful, who knows?) that will last a lifetime. Now, no matter what we become in the future, we will always be each other's partner in this moment of extraordinary experience."
After months of struggle together, suddenly we are no longer together. And although it is tempting to say that this recent development has made the experience awful, it is not true. This experience has certainly made me stronger, just as this break-up inevitably will. But the end of my relationship with the man I truly loved and treasured and counted on and trusted in- my so called PARTNER- has definitely made the entire purpose of this trip seem more obscure. Why did I come here, to the end of the world, if not to live with my love and build a life together? What was the point in sacrificing so much if the end only brings... the end?
When I think about those first hazy, humid moments in Buenos Aires when I wrote those lines almost 8 months ago, I see that for me, the experience was always about being together. Because of this unwavering conviction that our love was the first priority, I allowed our relationship to consume about 95% of my time and energy here. I have spent so many- countless- hours loving and loathing and pleading and pacifying Patrick that I often felt like I didn't even know where I was. In those moments of pain and elation, we might have been on the moon or maybe Timbuktu. We might never have left home at all.
Unfortunately, I think that Patrick would have preferred it that way. From the beginning, he was afraid and reluctant to try nearly everything: making friends, teaching, applying for jobs, taking classes, finding an apartment, finding any sort of happiness. He has been determined to live like a tourist- always looking toward the flight home and his comfort zone. Over the last few months, it became frightening clear that my love was willing to do almost anything to get out of this situation. Very quickly, I was the only reason to stay, and so all his anger and frustration with himself and his circumstances were unleashed on me. Suddenly, I was the culprit who was ruining his life, instead of the lover and friend who he began this journey with. And in the end, I was left with that old clique: "It's absolutely not you, its me." But is this ever really the truth? And does it really matter, since I lose just as much (or more)?
I feel betrayed in many ways. I feel that Pat betrayed me by agreeing to embark on this adventure and then never actually committing to live it. I feel that he betrayed me by convincing me to quit my job and leave Argentina several months before we agreed upon, and then breaking up with me anyway. I feel betrayed by his behavior in the end, when he chose to make me his enemy. But I also feel that I betrayed myself. I fought for this life and this dream for a long time. It was a changeable dream that started as Africa and the Peace Corps and a solitary adventure, and after much revision, finally ended up as a delayed arrival in South America with the man I unexpectedly fell in love with while waiting to leave. But I allowed this dream to dilate into a single pinprick: my relationship. I allowed myself to ignore so much, to not experience so many unknown facets of this place, because of my stubborn conviction to be in love. And so this is the reason why this break-up feels doubly painful: because I am losing both the dream and the love.
Yet, the trip isn't quite over. We still have nearly two months before the first available flight leaves for home. Two months that just happen to include Christmas, New Year, and our would-be two year anniversary. Two of the hardest months to be suddenly, oh-so-painfully alone. And despite all his best efforts to leave, Patrick is stuck here too. So now we are faced with the momentous task of starting a new kind of relationship: friendship. In three days, we leave for the organic farm where we have committed to six weeks of work. Separate beds, but not separate lives just yet. I challenge myself to spend this time neither wallowing in depression nor obsessing about how to be friendly, but simply soaking up as much of the present as possible. And I guess I have to ask myself: would I do it again? How can I learn to balance love and my seemingly impossible, unreasonably huge dreams of living a different kind of life? Will I ever be able to find a true partner who can help me live the dream instead of reducing my world to a single ambiguous space?
I am still searching: for love, for my dream of a different sort of life, for a way to love myself, even when I'm alone. It is the search that brought me here and I guess it is my purpose in life. But from now on I think my priorities will be different: Love myself, love my life, love another.
December 4, 2010
Playing Tourist
Because yet another week has passed, I know I must write something here today. Because that is my promise to myself, and I've already fudged it more than once. I just don't know what to say. The truth is that my rocky relationship with Patrick is consuming so much of my time and energy that it can sometimes feel as though there is nothing else in my life. But of course, there is so much more happening, I just need a zen moment to process it all. Excuse me while I try to meditate.
Ok. So I guess I want to talk a little bit about tourists. Since Pat finally quit his hostel job with the awful schedule, we have really been trying our very best to wring the most out of Mendoza by revisting our favorite tourist activities and finally getting around to trying the ones we never had time to try before. Of course, until last week, I still had a full weekday schedule, which means that we've been playing tourist during some of the busiest times in town. But that very aspect of theatrics is what really makes our visits to tourist hotspots unique: we are "playing" at being new to Mendoza and therefore seeing the city with new eyes.
After you live somewhere abroad for even a relatively short period of time, you usually begin to exist in a sort of no-man's land: not quite tourist, not quite native. This feeling of limbo can be uncomfortable at times. Sometimes it makes me angry when local touts assume that I can't speak a word of Spanish or don't know how much the bus costs or insist on pushing some hostel on me. I mean, I walk across Mendoza several times a day, use the bus system like an old pro, and have a pretty solid grasp of the layout of the land after over 6 months here, and no: I don't care that your hostel has "free friend day", whatever the hell that means. Unfortunately, the local tourism industry is just kicking into high gear, and there are enough clueless travelers who are also wearing chacos and smearing on copious amounts of sunscreen to make me an easy target if I even get within range of a popular tourist destination.
In some places its worse than others, and expats all over the world usually struggle to avoid being lumped into the "tourist crowd" for their whole time in residence abroad. Yet after spending so much time trying to avoid being a tourist, I have begun to discover some of the benefits of voluntarily throwing your lot in with the tourist crowd. For one thing, it makes you feel really good about your language skills, knowledge of the area, and typically wider range of experiences in the place. It also makes me feel validated in my decision to live abroad, since for the first time in a long time people have been asking me "How do you do it?" instead of "why are you here?". And after wave upon wave of tourists who are innocently clueless, completely lacking any knowledge of Spanish, or just plain rude or unengaged, the tour operators are only too happy be able to show us around in their native tongue and share anecdotes about living here. Occasionally, this even translates into discounts or free stuff!
But probably the best part about playing tourist in your own town is that you get to interact with an incredibly diverse range of people who are so awe-inspired by the place you are currently living, they have traveled around the world just spend a day or a week in your stomping grounds. It is humbling and fascinating to see Mendoza all shiny and new, through the eyes of the tourists who are just passing through. And at that moment, it really feels great to be able to say: "yeah, I live here."
As our time in Mendoza comes to a close, I feel honored to say that I called this place home, even for a little while. And I can appreciate all the amazing Mendocinians who constantly make me feel like a novice as much as the tourists who make me feel like a hero, because in different ways they each challenge me to be a better individual and appreciate this unique experience more.
ps*** Now that we're on the move again, I've allowed myself to begin dreaming of all the things I am looking forward to in the US. And sad to say it, but Tillamook cheddar cheese is still number one. Perhaps I need to play tourist in Oregon too, so that I can get some perspective on this growing obsession...
Ok. So I guess I want to talk a little bit about tourists. Since Pat finally quit his hostel job with the awful schedule, we have really been trying our very best to wring the most out of Mendoza by revisting our favorite tourist activities and finally getting around to trying the ones we never had time to try before. Of course, until last week, I still had a full weekday schedule, which means that we've been playing tourist during some of the busiest times in town. But that very aspect of theatrics is what really makes our visits to tourist hotspots unique: we are "playing" at being new to Mendoza and therefore seeing the city with new eyes.
After you live somewhere abroad for even a relatively short period of time, you usually begin to exist in a sort of no-man's land: not quite tourist, not quite native. This feeling of limbo can be uncomfortable at times. Sometimes it makes me angry when local touts assume that I can't speak a word of Spanish or don't know how much the bus costs or insist on pushing some hostel on me. I mean, I walk across Mendoza several times a day, use the bus system like an old pro, and have a pretty solid grasp of the layout of the land after over 6 months here, and no: I don't care that your hostel has "free friend day", whatever the hell that means. Unfortunately, the local tourism industry is just kicking into high gear, and there are enough clueless travelers who are also wearing chacos and smearing on copious amounts of sunscreen to make me an easy target if I even get within range of a popular tourist destination.
In some places its worse than others, and expats all over the world usually struggle to avoid being lumped into the "tourist crowd" for their whole time in residence abroad. Yet after spending so much time trying to avoid being a tourist, I have begun to discover some of the benefits of voluntarily throwing your lot in with the tourist crowd. For one thing, it makes you feel really good about your language skills, knowledge of the area, and typically wider range of experiences in the place. It also makes me feel validated in my decision to live abroad, since for the first time in a long time people have been asking me "How do you do it?" instead of "why are you here?". And after wave upon wave of tourists who are innocently clueless, completely lacking any knowledge of Spanish, or just plain rude or unengaged, the tour operators are only too happy be able to show us around in their native tongue and share anecdotes about living here. Occasionally, this even translates into discounts or free stuff!
But probably the best part about playing tourist in your own town is that you get to interact with an incredibly diverse range of people who are so awe-inspired by the place you are currently living, they have traveled around the world just spend a day or a week in your stomping grounds. It is humbling and fascinating to see Mendoza all shiny and new, through the eyes of the tourists who are just passing through. And at that moment, it really feels great to be able to say: "yeah, I live here."
As our time in Mendoza comes to a close, I feel honored to say that I called this place home, even for a little while. And I can appreciate all the amazing Mendocinians who constantly make me feel like a novice as much as the tourists who make me feel like a hero, because in different ways they each challenge me to be a better individual and appreciate this unique experience more.
ps*** Now that we're on the move again, I've allowed myself to begin dreaming of all the things I am looking forward to in the US. And sad to say it, but Tillamook cheddar cheese is still number one. Perhaps I need to play tourist in Oregon too, so that I can get some perspective on this growing obsession...
November 24, 2010
Giving Thanks
Oh boy, I've officially broken my one cardinal rule of this blog, and neglected writing for over a week (over two at this point!). I'm sorry. As life in Mendoza winds down for me, I have been working frantically to tie up all my loose ends, including finishing all my lessons and giving final reviews, collecting payments (always a pain in Argentina), buying presents for friends and family back home, and then buying an additional suitcase to contain said presents along with all my own purchases. I have also been fielding some very interesting job offers from various locales in South and Central America, as I weigh my options for the future. And of course, preparing for my next adventure: life on the farm!
But wait... leaving Mendoza? That's right, we are officially hitching up the wagon and leaving Mendoza behind in almost two weeks. Although Mendoza has certianly challenged us, enticed us, confounded us, and embraced us in its own unique way, it's time to move on. And now that the austral summer is in full swing with Christmas just around the corner, I am more than ready to escape the stifling dry heat and tempestuous clouds of sand and pollen that are currently wreaking havoc on my allergies.
Of course, we are not quite ready to leave the warmth of summer after waiting nearly 10 months for its delayed arrival, so we are sticking around Argentina for another two months. In all honesty, I would stay longer if I could, but even with full-time work and job offers in three different cities, I am dead broke. Despite our best efforts, Argentina has gotten the better of us financially and we decided its better to leave before our debts get overwhelming.
For the next two months, we will be working at an organic farm and yoga retreat center in the city of Lujan, about an hour outside of Buenos Aires. Hopefully, this experience will not only give us a much-needed taste of country life, but also allow us to spend more time outside, in meditation and personal renewal, and with each other. In addition, we get to participate in as many yoga classes as our sadly out-of-shape bodies can take. Ideally, I hope to embark on my next adventure more fit: physically and mentally. And hopefully I'll get a killer tan too!
There is so much more to share with you all, including our weekend trip to San Rafael to see Canon Atuel, "the grand canyon of South America" and my many hilarious and frustrating encounters with my lively (sometimes unbelievable) students. Teaching, living, and learning in Argentina has certainly been a challenge, but as I prepare to trade the classroom for early mornings on the farm, I can feel grateful for all the challenges I have met, all the things I have learned about this culture and myself, and also all the wonderful things I can look forward to embracing again whenever I make it back the US; namely cheddar cheese, northwest concerts, and all my amazing friends and family. And although I won't be having anything close to a traditional Thanksgiving celebration tomorrow, I can still take this moment to express my gratitude for all things past, present, and future that conspire in mysterious ways to make me a better person.
But wait... leaving Mendoza? That's right, we are officially hitching up the wagon and leaving Mendoza behind in almost two weeks. Although Mendoza has certianly challenged us, enticed us, confounded us, and embraced us in its own unique way, it's time to move on. And now that the austral summer is in full swing with Christmas just around the corner, I am more than ready to escape the stifling dry heat and tempestuous clouds of sand and pollen that are currently wreaking havoc on my allergies.
Of course, we are not quite ready to leave the warmth of summer after waiting nearly 10 months for its delayed arrival, so we are sticking around Argentina for another two months. In all honesty, I would stay longer if I could, but even with full-time work and job offers in three different cities, I am dead broke. Despite our best efforts, Argentina has gotten the better of us financially and we decided its better to leave before our debts get overwhelming.
For the next two months, we will be working at an organic farm and yoga retreat center in the city of Lujan, about an hour outside of Buenos Aires. Hopefully, this experience will not only give us a much-needed taste of country life, but also allow us to spend more time outside, in meditation and personal renewal, and with each other. In addition, we get to participate in as many yoga classes as our sadly out-of-shape bodies can take. Ideally, I hope to embark on my next adventure more fit: physically and mentally. And hopefully I'll get a killer tan too!
There is so much more to share with you all, including our weekend trip to San Rafael to see Canon Atuel, "the grand canyon of South America" and my many hilarious and frustrating encounters with my lively (sometimes unbelievable) students. Teaching, living, and learning in Argentina has certainly been a challenge, but as I prepare to trade the classroom for early mornings on the farm, I can feel grateful for all the challenges I have met, all the things I have learned about this culture and myself, and also all the wonderful things I can look forward to embracing again whenever I make it back the US; namely cheddar cheese, northwest concerts, and all my amazing friends and family. And although I won't be having anything close to a traditional Thanksgiving celebration tomorrow, I can still take this moment to express my gratitude for all things past, present, and future that conspire in mysterious ways to make me a better person.
November 5, 2010
Rain in the Desert
As an Oregon native, I have the unique ability to find incredible comfort and solidarity in gray skies, rainy days, and a constant dampness in almost all my clothes. I still believe that the rain has a way of enclosing you, of making the world seem smaller, easier to tackle. Funny things happen when it rains. People become more determined in their destination: they duck their heads under gore-tex hoods or umbrellas and hurry through the rain towards an open doorway. Sometimes, they are forced to abandon their original destinations altogether, and spend a cozy moment or two in a coffee shop with complete strangers. Often, the rain makes people talk to each other in a way they might never otherwise: to comfort each other, to empathize, to look towards better weather with an incredible, unbroken solidarity. The rain is our common enemy and constant friend.
I think I learned how to live from the rain in my hometown. I learned how to be driven, to push through life as though constantly striving for the dry doorway in the distance. How to ignore the discomforts, the dampness and constant pitter-patter on my slowly wilting hood, and to keep my mind fixed on the promised warmth and comfort of that far-off destination. I learned how to appreciate a quiet moment in a comfortable place, to view unexpected circumstances and detours as small offerings of peace and moments of renewal. I learned how to be open and friendly, to empathize with others by sharing for a bit in their discomfort, to welcome casual conversation with strangers and forget my own insecurities. I learned how to comfort others, how to communicate hope by looking toward a better future, by finding a solution to the problem instead of feeling defeated. And I learned how to look at both sides of everything, the enemy and the friend, how to search for the lesson, the journey, or the moral in a bad experience. Yet there are some problems with this way of life, especially when I attempt to carry it with me into a completely different environment.
I think it has rained twice since I've been in Argentina, and they were middling, weak little storms that came blustering in on the back of a ferocious Zonda wind and then seemed to lose their nerve and drop crocodile tears on the hopeful earth. Mendoza, an oasis among a great desert, receives almost all its water from Andean snowmelt, which runs down the great peaks into carefully constructed aqueducts and canals which run along both sides of every street in town. What water isn't a gift from the mountains is collected as rainwater or pumped from scarce underground wells and stored in man-made lakes above ground. There are water-conservation efforts here, but like the fledgling recycling program, go largely unnoticed. Mendocinians are comfortable in their expectation that the water will come, reliable and timely every year.
Now that spring is here, the canals are flushed and full, the dirty water raging rapidly towards the north-eastern end of town as it collects more and more trash that is carelessly tossed into the choked streams. Overflows are common now, and city workers are called out to clear a clog in the line as the precious water gushes into major intersections or runs down neighborhood streets. The water is here, but I miss the rain.
When it does rain in Mendoza, most people choose to stay inside. Sometimes businesses close early or don't open at all, and the typically busy pedestrian streets are like ghost towns. The cafes bring their tables inside and bored waitresses look out at the rain from closed windows. No one talks about it. Everyone is waiting for it to end, so life can get back to normal. There is no solidarity, no common hopefulness. People are grumpy and rude and angry when it rains.
To a large extent, this is the way people live here: there is no hurry, no reason to dash for shelter or linger with strangers. Storms are an excuse to stay indoors, not venture out to strive for a new destination. When problems come up, they are dealt with leisurely. When requests are made or meetings scheduled, there is always a good chance they will be postponed or canceled. There is plenty of time for everything.
No one goes anywhere alone, no one is caught stranded by themselves. Life is lived in a big group of friends, family, and acquaintances, always together, never alone. People take the time to say hello but never stay in one place long enough to engage in a conversation: they have a schedule, someone to meet, and no burst of rain cloud ever gets in their way. People unfailingly answer their cellphones while having a conversation with a real person- be it a friendly chat over coffee, a class, or a business transaction. And during the rare moment of isolation, their cellphone becomes their companion as they have overly-loud, rapid conversations with an unseen friend.
People comfort each other through simple togetherness, an intimate knowledge of one another, or familial ties, not empathy. To a stranger, life is perpetually "bien bien" no matter what troubles haunt you. Any other response will get you blank stares or embarrassed looks, never any further inquiry. Bad experiences are forgotten or repressed, never embraced. Like the hushed memories of the Falklands War or the military disappearances of the 70's and 80's- bad experiences are taboo topics and should never be discussed, especially with strangers. In international relations, Argentinians have no constant friends or common enemies- they are an island unto themselves.
As a result of these two vastly different ways of life, I have never felt very comfortable in Argentina, despite its charm and beauty. I keep waiting for an unexpected moment to meet someone new, to share in a moment of empathy when I feel dejected, or to find peace and renewal when I am forced to slow down. But none of this ever happens here and I have been trying to duck my head and surge toward a friendly doorway in vain. I cannot push through this experience, resting during the hardest downpours and gaining strength from new encounters. Now, I have truly lost sight of my destination. Why am I here? And since the rain never comes to enclose me and make my world feel smaller and more manageable, I am feeling increasingly incapable of tackling the wide unknown.
I do not want to live like the desert people: every day with a vast, clear predictability that only reinforces customary behaviors. I like being a child of the rain, to live a driven life that is still full of unpredictable moments, unforeseen detours, and unexpected connections. Yet, my temporary residence among the desert has forced me to consider some important questions. Such as: Am I too often blinded by life's hardships, and push myself to achieve the closest goal instead of striving for the ultimate payoff? Do my dreams, relationships, and behaviors have any of the longevity of desert life? Am I too impulsive, incapable of commitment, too ready to abandon one life for another on a whim? Am I blind to the big picture in a way that is self-destructive? Perhaps spending more time here will help me shake the rain from my eyes, take off my hood, and take a rare look at the landscape of my life stretched out endlessly in front of me.
I think I learned how to live from the rain in my hometown. I learned how to be driven, to push through life as though constantly striving for the dry doorway in the distance. How to ignore the discomforts, the dampness and constant pitter-patter on my slowly wilting hood, and to keep my mind fixed on the promised warmth and comfort of that far-off destination. I learned how to appreciate a quiet moment in a comfortable place, to view unexpected circumstances and detours as small offerings of peace and moments of renewal. I learned how to be open and friendly, to empathize with others by sharing for a bit in their discomfort, to welcome casual conversation with strangers and forget my own insecurities. I learned how to comfort others, how to communicate hope by looking toward a better future, by finding a solution to the problem instead of feeling defeated. And I learned how to look at both sides of everything, the enemy and the friend, how to search for the lesson, the journey, or the moral in a bad experience. Yet there are some problems with this way of life, especially when I attempt to carry it with me into a completely different environment.
I think it has rained twice since I've been in Argentina, and they were middling, weak little storms that came blustering in on the back of a ferocious Zonda wind and then seemed to lose their nerve and drop crocodile tears on the hopeful earth. Mendoza, an oasis among a great desert, receives almost all its water from Andean snowmelt, which runs down the great peaks into carefully constructed aqueducts and canals which run along both sides of every street in town. What water isn't a gift from the mountains is collected as rainwater or pumped from scarce underground wells and stored in man-made lakes above ground. There are water-conservation efforts here, but like the fledgling recycling program, go largely unnoticed. Mendocinians are comfortable in their expectation that the water will come, reliable and timely every year.
Now that spring is here, the canals are flushed and full, the dirty water raging rapidly towards the north-eastern end of town as it collects more and more trash that is carelessly tossed into the choked streams. Overflows are common now, and city workers are called out to clear a clog in the line as the precious water gushes into major intersections or runs down neighborhood streets. The water is here, but I miss the rain.
When it does rain in Mendoza, most people choose to stay inside. Sometimes businesses close early or don't open at all, and the typically busy pedestrian streets are like ghost towns. The cafes bring their tables inside and bored waitresses look out at the rain from closed windows. No one talks about it. Everyone is waiting for it to end, so life can get back to normal. There is no solidarity, no common hopefulness. People are grumpy and rude and angry when it rains.
To a large extent, this is the way people live here: there is no hurry, no reason to dash for shelter or linger with strangers. Storms are an excuse to stay indoors, not venture out to strive for a new destination. When problems come up, they are dealt with leisurely. When requests are made or meetings scheduled, there is always a good chance they will be postponed or canceled. There is plenty of time for everything.
No one goes anywhere alone, no one is caught stranded by themselves. Life is lived in a big group of friends, family, and acquaintances, always together, never alone. People take the time to say hello but never stay in one place long enough to engage in a conversation: they have a schedule, someone to meet, and no burst of rain cloud ever gets in their way. People unfailingly answer their cellphones while having a conversation with a real person- be it a friendly chat over coffee, a class, or a business transaction. And during the rare moment of isolation, their cellphone becomes their companion as they have overly-loud, rapid conversations with an unseen friend.
People comfort each other through simple togetherness, an intimate knowledge of one another, or familial ties, not empathy. To a stranger, life is perpetually "bien bien" no matter what troubles haunt you. Any other response will get you blank stares or embarrassed looks, never any further inquiry. Bad experiences are forgotten or repressed, never embraced. Like the hushed memories of the Falklands War or the military disappearances of the 70's and 80's- bad experiences are taboo topics and should never be discussed, especially with strangers. In international relations, Argentinians have no constant friends or common enemies- they are an island unto themselves.
As a result of these two vastly different ways of life, I have never felt very comfortable in Argentina, despite its charm and beauty. I keep waiting for an unexpected moment to meet someone new, to share in a moment of empathy when I feel dejected, or to find peace and renewal when I am forced to slow down. But none of this ever happens here and I have been trying to duck my head and surge toward a friendly doorway in vain. I cannot push through this experience, resting during the hardest downpours and gaining strength from new encounters. Now, I have truly lost sight of my destination. Why am I here? And since the rain never comes to enclose me and make my world feel smaller and more manageable, I am feeling increasingly incapable of tackling the wide unknown.
I do not want to live like the desert people: every day with a vast, clear predictability that only reinforces customary behaviors. I like being a child of the rain, to live a driven life that is still full of unpredictable moments, unforeseen detours, and unexpected connections. Yet, my temporary residence among the desert has forced me to consider some important questions. Such as: Am I too often blinded by life's hardships, and push myself to achieve the closest goal instead of striving for the ultimate payoff? Do my dreams, relationships, and behaviors have any of the longevity of desert life? Am I too impulsive, incapable of commitment, too ready to abandon one life for another on a whim? Am I blind to the big picture in a way that is self-destructive? Perhaps spending more time here will help me shake the rain from my eyes, take off my hood, and take a rare look at the landscape of my life stretched out endlessly in front of me.
October 29, 2010
In All The World
"In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me. Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine, because I alone chose it -- I own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions, whether they be to others or myself. I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes. Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with all my parts. I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know -- but as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles and ways to find out more about me."
- Virgina Satir
Since returning from vacation nearly three weeks ago, my life has been changing, shifting around under my feet, rather dramatically. Decisions have been pondered over, agonized over, some made and others discarded. I have felt lonely, desperate, elated, strong, fearful, and useless. A whole rolling landscape of difficult emotions and even harder choices. I am struggling with resentment; trying to banish it from my mind. I am struggling with confidence; trying to woo it into my life. Most of all, I am wrestling with purpose; this idea that I should have one and should probably be a little closer to realizing what it is by now. But like the above quotation, I am really just trying to be friendly and loving to myself, all parts of me, so that I can courageously and hopefully start the next chapter of my life.
The truth is that I just don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Yet, when I look around me- at my friends, family, bosses, and students- I feel like I am already surrounded by grown-ups and I am just gate-crashing the party. When I look back on my life so far, I am starting to suspect that I made some ghastly errors when I took certain paths. Instead of leading me down the "wrong path", these errors have simply lead me to a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. I wonder now, if I should have fought the pressure and chosen to eschew university right after high school. I had no clue what I wanted then, and I wonder if being forced to choose before I was ready has resulted in me having no clue today. I chose a major because my mother told me simply "just choose something and follow through". I chose my thesis topic by spinning a globe and picking a place in the world. I am still shiftless, uncertain, lacking ambition, drive and that always illusive sense of purpose. So what's next?
Love. Someone recently told me that I am living my dream. But the truth is I am just chasing a dream. Chasing a dream of falling in love, moving to a far-away place and living free. A dream of finding purpose through experimentation instead of school, a dream of "falling into" my perfect career by sheer chance. A dream of taking crazy risks that magically, mysteriously, turn into the best decisions of my life. I've been chasing one dream the longest: the dream of finding somewhere in the world that will fall in love with me, before I ever have to figure out how to love myself. This is the dream that underlies most of my choices in life. This is my one long-standing fantasy. I want to find a place in the world- some far-flung community- where I am loved, accepted, honored, included, without ever owning my faults and weaknesses, my failures and insecurities. And for a very long time, I have been chasing that dream: moving from place place (once a year!) searching endlessly for a ready-made haven from myself. Love. How do I fall in love with myself?
Although I don't yet know when we are leaving Argentina, it is clear that we have crested our climax point, and are now moving steadily downhill toward a homeward journey. As I come to terms with this fact, I often feel incredibly disappointed. This has not been the experience I was hoping for, namely: the culmination of that one constant fantasy. I have not found my haven here; not in my relationship with my partner, not in my relationship with this place in the world. I still have a lot of searching ahead of me, a lot of uncertainty and perhaps more crazy risks. But now that my wheels are coasting downhill, I have started to dedicate much of my time to the question of: What's next? Is there still room for love, acceptance, and understanding in my relationship with Pat? Is there still a chance that two lost souls searching separately for their purpose in life can be successful together? Is there still room to explore my purpose in this career I have pursued to Argentina? Is teaching a viable and valuable way for me live while learning to love myself? If so, to what distant corner of the planet shall I fling myself next?
If the answer to these questions is no, then what? It is terrifying to think of starting again from that all-too-familiar place where I am single, broke, with no where to live, no useful job, no one to put my trust in. Where I have to start loving the most miserable version of myself. I always seem to take the hardest road in life. Yet if that is the place from which I must begin again, I want to do it this time with a better attitude and less guilt. I want to be friendly and loving to myself first, so that I can seek out the answers to my personal puzzles with courage and hope. So that I can build myself into that long-sought-after haven and take it with me when I explore the distant corners of this world.
- Virgina Satir
Since returning from vacation nearly three weeks ago, my life has been changing, shifting around under my feet, rather dramatically. Decisions have been pondered over, agonized over, some made and others discarded. I have felt lonely, desperate, elated, strong, fearful, and useless. A whole rolling landscape of difficult emotions and even harder choices. I am struggling with resentment; trying to banish it from my mind. I am struggling with confidence; trying to woo it into my life. Most of all, I am wrestling with purpose; this idea that I should have one and should probably be a little closer to realizing what it is by now. But like the above quotation, I am really just trying to be friendly and loving to myself, all parts of me, so that I can courageously and hopefully start the next chapter of my life.
The truth is that I just don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Yet, when I look around me- at my friends, family, bosses, and students- I feel like I am already surrounded by grown-ups and I am just gate-crashing the party. When I look back on my life so far, I am starting to suspect that I made some ghastly errors when I took certain paths. Instead of leading me down the "wrong path", these errors have simply lead me to a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. I wonder now, if I should have fought the pressure and chosen to eschew university right after high school. I had no clue what I wanted then, and I wonder if being forced to choose before I was ready has resulted in me having no clue today. I chose a major because my mother told me simply "just choose something and follow through". I chose my thesis topic by spinning a globe and picking a place in the world. I am still shiftless, uncertain, lacking ambition, drive and that always illusive sense of purpose. So what's next?
Love. Someone recently told me that I am living my dream. But the truth is I am just chasing a dream. Chasing a dream of falling in love, moving to a far-away place and living free. A dream of finding purpose through experimentation instead of school, a dream of "falling into" my perfect career by sheer chance. A dream of taking crazy risks that magically, mysteriously, turn into the best decisions of my life. I've been chasing one dream the longest: the dream of finding somewhere in the world that will fall in love with me, before I ever have to figure out how to love myself. This is the dream that underlies most of my choices in life. This is my one long-standing fantasy. I want to find a place in the world- some far-flung community- where I am loved, accepted, honored, included, without ever owning my faults and weaknesses, my failures and insecurities. And for a very long time, I have been chasing that dream: moving from place place (once a year!) searching endlessly for a ready-made haven from myself. Love. How do I fall in love with myself?
Although I don't yet know when we are leaving Argentina, it is clear that we have crested our climax point, and are now moving steadily downhill toward a homeward journey. As I come to terms with this fact, I often feel incredibly disappointed. This has not been the experience I was hoping for, namely: the culmination of that one constant fantasy. I have not found my haven here; not in my relationship with my partner, not in my relationship with this place in the world. I still have a lot of searching ahead of me, a lot of uncertainty and perhaps more crazy risks. But now that my wheels are coasting downhill, I have started to dedicate much of my time to the question of: What's next? Is there still room for love, acceptance, and understanding in my relationship with Pat? Is there still a chance that two lost souls searching separately for their purpose in life can be successful together? Is there still room to explore my purpose in this career I have pursued to Argentina? Is teaching a viable and valuable way for me live while learning to love myself? If so, to what distant corner of the planet shall I fling myself next?
If the answer to these questions is no, then what? It is terrifying to think of starting again from that all-too-familiar place where I am single, broke, with no where to live, no useful job, no one to put my trust in. Where I have to start loving the most miserable version of myself. I always seem to take the hardest road in life. Yet if that is the place from which I must begin again, I want to do it this time with a better attitude and less guilt. I want to be friendly and loving to myself first, so that I can seek out the answers to my personal puzzles with courage and hope. So that I can build myself into that long-sought-after haven and take it with me when I explore the distant corners of this world.
October 24, 2010
Into the Realm of Magical Things
Entering Puerto Varas, I swore I could smell the water. This beautiful little town sits on the shores of Lake Llanquihue, which is so immense that the sailboats bobbing in the surf along the town pier made me imagine that we were, in fact, in the Mediterranean. The lake is really a small sea, or would be if it were in Europe. However, the immensity of the South American landscape dwarfs even this huge expanse of water, diminishing it to a simple "Lago". Yet the scale of the lake lends the town a sort of marine environment, and along with fresh, cool breezes, Puerto Varas boasts some seriously good seafood joints. Like Bariloche on the other side of the border, Puerto Varas was settled by a mix of Swiss, German, and Chilean natives. However, Puerto Varas also throws a significant Swedish population into the mix, just to make it a little more interesting. After sharing a delicious seafood meal at a restaurant appropriately named "Mediteraneo", we found a seriously cozy hostel on the north side of town, where we gratefully found the best bed in all of South America, or at least in our experience so far. Hostal Compass Del Sur is run by a fantastic Swedish/Chilean couple out of a huge, ancient rambling house that features wood stoves on every floor, fantastic homemade bread, and (did i mention?) the best bed ever! After an extremely pleasant nap, we headed out in search of the microbrews that were rumored to exist here. It wasn't easy, but eventually we followed a tip from a local waitress, who instructed us to go to the "dark side of the lake" where the lights of the tourist restaurants and hotels faded away to reveal jagged black rocks along the shore of the lake. Eventually, we found a great local bar with an extensive selection of specialty brews. Along with seafood and microbrews, we also bought some of the best dried fruit and nuts I've ever tasted in Puerto Varas.
Munching on the world's most delicious almonds the next morning, we drove until Highway 5 abruptly ended at the termination of Chile's mainland. From here, the country dissolves into increasingly smaller islands until it eventually tapers away into the glacial tip just miles from Antarctica. Undeterred, we caught a ferry to the largest of these myriad islands: the mystical island of Chiloe.
Chiloe is a world unto itself, and like the rest of Chile, it is breathtaking. Roughly 180 by 60 km, Chiloe has a folklore, handicraft industry, and local cuisine all it's own. It is supposedly home to all sorts of magical creatures, from witches and gnomes to talking animals. The towns on Chiloe are all relatively small, although Castro, the largest, feels busy and important during the evening rush. Of course, we stopped for a picnic at the very first beach we could find on Chiloe, just outside of Ancud. The sight of the ocean after months in the desert made Pat positively giddy. We walked along this deserted beach until sundown, hunting for sea glass and shells among the bounty on shore. I even found a whole starfish for the first time in my life. Of course, true to South American standards of size, it was too big and smelly to put in the car.
We spent the first night in Castro, at Hostel Palafito, which was on pilings on the bay, as indicated by its name. Unfortunately, this place was a bit of a splurge for us, and we couldn't stay another night. We booked a new hostel online, then went on a search to locate it downtown the next morning. When we finally arrived at the discreet address, we found a ramshackle building with a definite 45 degree lean. Upstairs, the hostel turned out be little more than a family renting out rooms, but the dysfunctional shower, army of flea-ridden animals, and militant looking adolescent son gave me the creeps. The proprietor herself was a sweet, good-natured lady who I can only wish the best of luck. But we opted to leave Castro behind and go in search of the penguins.
As is typical of us, we got distracted by the forest instead, and ended up spending the day in Parque Nacional Chiloe. This preserve covers most of the western half of the island. It is full of ancient rainforest, isolated beaches, and hidden lakes. We opted for the beach, and had an eventful hike through forest, pastureland, and eventually ankle-deep cow muck, before we reached a beautiful, deserted beach that looked eerily like my home in Oregon. Huge dunes gave way to windswept waves and unique rock formations on the cliffs. It was cold, slightly gray, and I was wearing a windbreaker as we ran among the dunes looking for good place to hunker down out of the wind. I felt a strange feeling of homesickness well up in my stomach as I was bombarded with memories of running along the dunes in Oregon with my brother (mostly) hunting treasure, playing pirate, or whatever various games we invented in our secret world. Even now, I am tearing up as I remember how that far-flung beach at the end of the world brought me so incredibly close to home for a moment.
Still on a vague trajectory toward the penguin colony, we made our way back to Ancud, the nothernmost town on Chiloe. Here, we once again lost our way in the darkness, but eventually found a great hostel overlooking the ocean. In the morning, we were disappointed to discover that the penguins, although indeed currently nesting off the western coast, were viewable only by boat with quite a hefty fee. It would also take close to an hour of travel time to see the nesting penguins for just under 15 minutes. So, we hopped the ferry back to the mainland and started our long drive north to Santiago along Highway 5.
Although it took us nearly double the time to return to Mendoza on the Chilean side as it did to blow through the Pampas across the border, Highway 5 is so well- maintained and boasts plenty of sights on small detours that it definitely seemed worth it. We stopped to see Saltos del Laja, an impressive waterfall with delicious empanada stands out front. We also took a detour towards two hot spring resorts in central Chile: Panimavida and Quinamavida. These were both too expensive for actual soaking, but they gave us a chance to experience the lush volcanic wonderland and friendly, picturesque villages that lie along the Andes in central Chile. Our hunt for more chilean empanadas was rewarded gratuitously, and we ate nothing else all day. Around sunset, we hit Santiago, where I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a mattress stranded in the middle of the freeway, and then drove on into the cactus farms around Paso de Los Andes. Making our way up the 29 switchbacks around Portillo in the dark was a treacherous but thrilling adventure, made all the more of both by the onset of slap-happiness in both of us road-weary travelers. We made it home by 1am: 7500 km covered in just under 7 days.
It was one of the best highlights of our time here so far and it also reminded us what it feels like to spend time together, having fun. We both realized that there are some serious deprivations happening in our lives in Mendoza, not the least of which is having time with one another. We have just one more epic road trip planned before we leave, when we head south into Patagonia again in order to reach the frozen glacial wonderland at Tierra Del Fuego: otherwise known as the end of the world. I can only hope that it will provide me with such a wealth of experience to share with all of you again.
Munching on the world's most delicious almonds the next morning, we drove until Highway 5 abruptly ended at the termination of Chile's mainland. From here, the country dissolves into increasingly smaller islands until it eventually tapers away into the glacial tip just miles from Antarctica. Undeterred, we caught a ferry to the largest of these myriad islands: the mystical island of Chiloe.
Chiloe is a world unto itself, and like the rest of Chile, it is breathtaking. Roughly 180 by 60 km, Chiloe has a folklore, handicraft industry, and local cuisine all it's own. It is supposedly home to all sorts of magical creatures, from witches and gnomes to talking animals. The towns on Chiloe are all relatively small, although Castro, the largest, feels busy and important during the evening rush. Of course, we stopped for a picnic at the very first beach we could find on Chiloe, just outside of Ancud. The sight of the ocean after months in the desert made Pat positively giddy. We walked along this deserted beach until sundown, hunting for sea glass and shells among the bounty on shore. I even found a whole starfish for the first time in my life. Of course, true to South American standards of size, it was too big and smelly to put in the car.
We spent the first night in Castro, at Hostel Palafito, which was on pilings on the bay, as indicated by its name. Unfortunately, this place was a bit of a splurge for us, and we couldn't stay another night. We booked a new hostel online, then went on a search to locate it downtown the next morning. When we finally arrived at the discreet address, we found a ramshackle building with a definite 45 degree lean. Upstairs, the hostel turned out be little more than a family renting out rooms, but the dysfunctional shower, army of flea-ridden animals, and militant looking adolescent son gave me the creeps. The proprietor herself was a sweet, good-natured lady who I can only wish the best of luck. But we opted to leave Castro behind and go in search of the penguins.
As is typical of us, we got distracted by the forest instead, and ended up spending the day in Parque Nacional Chiloe. This preserve covers most of the western half of the island. It is full of ancient rainforest, isolated beaches, and hidden lakes. We opted for the beach, and had an eventful hike through forest, pastureland, and eventually ankle-deep cow muck, before we reached a beautiful, deserted beach that looked eerily like my home in Oregon. Huge dunes gave way to windswept waves and unique rock formations on the cliffs. It was cold, slightly gray, and I was wearing a windbreaker as we ran among the dunes looking for good place to hunker down out of the wind. I felt a strange feeling of homesickness well up in my stomach as I was bombarded with memories of running along the dunes in Oregon with my brother (mostly) hunting treasure, playing pirate, or whatever various games we invented in our secret world. Even now, I am tearing up as I remember how that far-flung beach at the end of the world brought me so incredibly close to home for a moment.
Still on a vague trajectory toward the penguin colony, we made our way back to Ancud, the nothernmost town on Chiloe. Here, we once again lost our way in the darkness, but eventually found a great hostel overlooking the ocean. In the morning, we were disappointed to discover that the penguins, although indeed currently nesting off the western coast, were viewable only by boat with quite a hefty fee. It would also take close to an hour of travel time to see the nesting penguins for just under 15 minutes. So, we hopped the ferry back to the mainland and started our long drive north to Santiago along Highway 5.
Although it took us nearly double the time to return to Mendoza on the Chilean side as it did to blow through the Pampas across the border, Highway 5 is so well- maintained and boasts plenty of sights on small detours that it definitely seemed worth it. We stopped to see Saltos del Laja, an impressive waterfall with delicious empanada stands out front. We also took a detour towards two hot spring resorts in central Chile: Panimavida and Quinamavida. These were both too expensive for actual soaking, but they gave us a chance to experience the lush volcanic wonderland and friendly, picturesque villages that lie along the Andes in central Chile. Our hunt for more chilean empanadas was rewarded gratuitously, and we ate nothing else all day. Around sunset, we hit Santiago, where I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a mattress stranded in the middle of the freeway, and then drove on into the cactus farms around Paso de Los Andes. Making our way up the 29 switchbacks around Portillo in the dark was a treacherous but thrilling adventure, made all the more of both by the onset of slap-happiness in both of us road-weary travelers. We made it home by 1am: 7500 km covered in just under 7 days.
It was one of the best highlights of our time here so far and it also reminded us what it feels like to spend time together, having fun. We both realized that there are some serious deprivations happening in our lives in Mendoza, not the least of which is having time with one another. We have just one more epic road trip planned before we leave, when we head south into Patagonia again in order to reach the frozen glacial wonderland at Tierra Del Fuego: otherwise known as the end of the world. I can only hope that it will provide me with such a wealth of experience to share with all of you again.
"You're Not Updating Your Blog Up to My Standards"
I know I've been slacking with my updates, but when Miss Sasha C. left me that ominous message, I knew it was finally time to take action. Thanks Sash, for keeping me on task!
The problem with not posting updates about your life is that life keeps going, constantly adding new things to the list of what I should discuss here which just makes it that much harder to finally sit down and write. Here are a few notable topics in my life since my last entry:
1- The overdue synopsis of my fabulous road trip.
2- The story of Sr. Leonardo Empanada, my new kitten, and how we came to be together under strange circumstances.
3-The details of summertime in Mendoza in order to make my friends in the Northern Hemisphere envious of my slowly tanning legs...
4- My plans for the future and why I've started feeling that I'm under voluntary exile.
5- My Mendoza Death Trip, which I still have not written about despite the utterly newsworthy aspect of the experience.
Now obviously, I cannot address all of these things in just one blog entry. Yet, by the time I get around to addressing them all, new things will have undoubtedly been added to the list. So, here's what's going to happen: I am going to discuss just one here today and then you, my loyal readers, will give me some feedback on what other topics sound important and tell me what to write about. Ok, diving in.
After a bit of a rocky start, our vacation was epic, fabulous, and ever-so-slightly life changing. When we left Mendoza on Sunday morning, we planned to take Route 40 all the way to the northern reaches of Patagonia, where we would stop for a few days in Bariloche. However, after reaching San Rafael, just a short 3 hour jaunt to the south, we lost the scent of Route 40: it just sort of seems to melt away. Now, this is certainly not unusual in Argentina, as the signage is...let's just say less than helpful. So we valiantly went hunting for the highway by asking directions in a few local gas stations. Here, we learned something interesting: Not only does Route 40 lack signage for nearly the whole of it's many-thousand kilometer stretch into Patagoina, but many parts of this "major highway" are impassable unless you are armed with something approximating a safari jeep or maybe even an army tank. How baffling! Since on any driving map of Argentina, Route 40 is not only the most consistently labeled route south, but also highlighted in a thick red line indicating, well, a highway. Once again bested by Argentina's constantly surprising lack of order or sanity, we were diverted east, into the strange wilderness of the Pampas for a grueling 12 hour drive through some of the world's vastest emptiness in 90 degree heat.
The road through the Pampas was not bad in and of itself, and the astonishing emptiness meant that highway cops, always scarce in Argentina, were non-existent for the whole of our journey to Bariloche. The road stretched endlessly through the scrubby grasses, armed with poisonous barbs even on the smallest plants, and the dust and heat created a constantly swirling sort of vacuum inside our non-air conditioned rental car. Occasionally, the dust gave way to a small road side petrol station or a one-horse town, but since it was Sunday, these were hardly thriving metropolises of friendly interaction. Fortunately, we were able to fill up the gas tank and occasionally our water bottles, but on the whole it was a long and lonely drive. After 6 hours, I was stripped down to just my t-shirt and underwear, Pat bare-chested until he started to get a sunburn. We stopped once to eat some salami and cheese on the side of the road, when Pat kindly reminded me that Argentina's native tarantulas live here, in the Pampas. After that, I was a bit more nervous to pee in the bushes.
Around sunset, we rolled into Patagonia, which was clearly demarcated by a sudden explosion of tall green trees, rolling hills, fruit orchards, and a lazy river winding through what surely appeared to us as the promised land. Like school kids on summer break, we pulled off at the first bend of the river, stripped down and dove into the crisp, cool water as picnicking families looked on in amazement (no, we weren't naked, just crazy). It was my first time in a river since leaving Oregon well over a year ago and it was delicious. The water cooled our core temperatures down to normal range and we continued on our way in much higher spirits. As we rounded the next river bend, we saw a horse grazing picturesquely near some fishermen sharing a bottle of wine and the whole scene appeared to be something out of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. At some point in the long, interminable night of driving that followed, we stopped to clamber onto the hood of our car and gaze in wonder at the Patagonian night sky, where stars and milky galaxies stretched from horizon to horizon under a huge blue moon.
Bariloche is best described by photos, as it is a place of breathtaking beauty and sharp contrast that is nearly impossible to capture with words. In the heart of the Lakes District, this little mountain town was orignially settled by a mix of German, Swiss, and Spanish settlers, which has created a strange and unique Argentinian culuture. The town is dominated by tourism, full of shops and restaurants, many of which are extremely high quality. Due to the swiss/german influence, Bariloche is also home to world-famous chocolate, artfully displayed in whimsical chocolate shops with mouthwatering window displays. Rapa Nui, a purple and chocolate-colored confection of a shop with whole cases of truffles, a chocolate fountain, and gold-wrapped parcels lining the walls, was by far my favorite. My only regret is that, due to camera failure, I could not document this little wonderland for my friend Sabina, who might just move in if she could see it. However, the true wonder of Bariloche lies outside of town, from the enourmous, glacial clear lake on which the town is perched, to the immense bamboo forests of Llao Llao, which we spent an extremely enjoyable day ducking our heads through. The countless mountain lakes, explosion of green forests, and towering Andean peaks looks more like Austria than Argentina. Perhaps it is appropriate then, that Bariloche is also rumored to be the heart of the post-war Nazi immigration to Argentina. It is hard to imagine Josef Mengele, the "doctor of death", among the purple confectionary of Rapa Nui, but according to some local experts, his residence in Bariloche is a well-documented fact.
Even the awesome beauty of Bariloche was easily rivaled by our next landing spot however: the incredible volcanic rainforests of Parque Nacional Puyehue. This Chilean national preserve is the unlikely gateway to Chile from the southern border crossing and it is one hell of a welcome mat. Huge, tree-covered volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds crown a landscape with such heavy vegetation that it seems improbable to stick your hand through. Tropical-colored flowers, Chilean parrots, and tiny Pudu all live here. Parts of the park are also home to small, weather-worn ranches, where the world's happiest-looking cows graze on small parcels of pasture painstakingly cleared from the cloying forest. The drive through the park is nearly 50 km long, and it is breathtaking all the way. Eventually, the road intersects with Highway 5, a proper, well-marked and beautifully constructed toll road that stretches the entire length of Chile. We took this south, to Puerto Varas, on the shore of Lake Llanquihue, the thrid-largest lake in all of South America.
To be continued...
The problem with not posting updates about your life is that life keeps going, constantly adding new things to the list of what I should discuss here which just makes it that much harder to finally sit down and write. Here are a few notable topics in my life since my last entry:
1- The overdue synopsis of my fabulous road trip.
2- The story of Sr. Leonardo Empanada, my new kitten, and how we came to be together under strange circumstances.
3-The details of summertime in Mendoza in order to make my friends in the Northern Hemisphere envious of my slowly tanning legs...
4- My plans for the future and why I've started feeling that I'm under voluntary exile.
5- My Mendoza Death Trip, which I still have not written about despite the utterly newsworthy aspect of the experience.
Now obviously, I cannot address all of these things in just one blog entry. Yet, by the time I get around to addressing them all, new things will have undoubtedly been added to the list. So, here's what's going to happen: I am going to discuss just one here today and then you, my loyal readers, will give me some feedback on what other topics sound important and tell me what to write about. Ok, diving in.
After a bit of a rocky start, our vacation was epic, fabulous, and ever-so-slightly life changing. When we left Mendoza on Sunday morning, we planned to take Route 40 all the way to the northern reaches of Patagonia, where we would stop for a few days in Bariloche. However, after reaching San Rafael, just a short 3 hour jaunt to the south, we lost the scent of Route 40: it just sort of seems to melt away. Now, this is certainly not unusual in Argentina, as the signage is...let's just say less than helpful. So we valiantly went hunting for the highway by asking directions in a few local gas stations. Here, we learned something interesting: Not only does Route 40 lack signage for nearly the whole of it's many-thousand kilometer stretch into Patagoina, but many parts of this "major highway" are impassable unless you are armed with something approximating a safari jeep or maybe even an army tank. How baffling! Since on any driving map of Argentina, Route 40 is not only the most consistently labeled route south, but also highlighted in a thick red line indicating, well, a highway. Once again bested by Argentina's constantly surprising lack of order or sanity, we were diverted east, into the strange wilderness of the Pampas for a grueling 12 hour drive through some of the world's vastest emptiness in 90 degree heat.
The road through the Pampas was not bad in and of itself, and the astonishing emptiness meant that highway cops, always scarce in Argentina, were non-existent for the whole of our journey to Bariloche. The road stretched endlessly through the scrubby grasses, armed with poisonous barbs even on the smallest plants, and the dust and heat created a constantly swirling sort of vacuum inside our non-air conditioned rental car. Occasionally, the dust gave way to a small road side petrol station or a one-horse town, but since it was Sunday, these were hardly thriving metropolises of friendly interaction. Fortunately, we were able to fill up the gas tank and occasionally our water bottles, but on the whole it was a long and lonely drive. After 6 hours, I was stripped down to just my t-shirt and underwear, Pat bare-chested until he started to get a sunburn. We stopped once to eat some salami and cheese on the side of the road, when Pat kindly reminded me that Argentina's native tarantulas live here, in the Pampas. After that, I was a bit more nervous to pee in the bushes.
Around sunset, we rolled into Patagonia, which was clearly demarcated by a sudden explosion of tall green trees, rolling hills, fruit orchards, and a lazy river winding through what surely appeared to us as the promised land. Like school kids on summer break, we pulled off at the first bend of the river, stripped down and dove into the crisp, cool water as picnicking families looked on in amazement (no, we weren't naked, just crazy). It was my first time in a river since leaving Oregon well over a year ago and it was delicious. The water cooled our core temperatures down to normal range and we continued on our way in much higher spirits. As we rounded the next river bend, we saw a horse grazing picturesquely near some fishermen sharing a bottle of wine and the whole scene appeared to be something out of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. At some point in the long, interminable night of driving that followed, we stopped to clamber onto the hood of our car and gaze in wonder at the Patagonian night sky, where stars and milky galaxies stretched from horizon to horizon under a huge blue moon.
Bariloche is best described by photos, as it is a place of breathtaking beauty and sharp contrast that is nearly impossible to capture with words. In the heart of the Lakes District, this little mountain town was orignially settled by a mix of German, Swiss, and Spanish settlers, which has created a strange and unique Argentinian culuture. The town is dominated by tourism, full of shops and restaurants, many of which are extremely high quality. Due to the swiss/german influence, Bariloche is also home to world-famous chocolate, artfully displayed in whimsical chocolate shops with mouthwatering window displays. Rapa Nui, a purple and chocolate-colored confection of a shop with whole cases of truffles, a chocolate fountain, and gold-wrapped parcels lining the walls, was by far my favorite. My only regret is that, due to camera failure, I could not document this little wonderland for my friend Sabina, who might just move in if she could see it. However, the true wonder of Bariloche lies outside of town, from the enourmous, glacial clear lake on which the town is perched, to the immense bamboo forests of Llao Llao, which we spent an extremely enjoyable day ducking our heads through. The countless mountain lakes, explosion of green forests, and towering Andean peaks looks more like Austria than Argentina. Perhaps it is appropriate then, that Bariloche is also rumored to be the heart of the post-war Nazi immigration to Argentina. It is hard to imagine Josef Mengele, the "doctor of death", among the purple confectionary of Rapa Nui, but according to some local experts, his residence in Bariloche is a well-documented fact.
Even the awesome beauty of Bariloche was easily rivaled by our next landing spot however: the incredible volcanic rainforests of Parque Nacional Puyehue. This Chilean national preserve is the unlikely gateway to Chile from the southern border crossing and it is one hell of a welcome mat. Huge, tree-covered volcanic peaks wreathed in clouds crown a landscape with such heavy vegetation that it seems improbable to stick your hand through. Tropical-colored flowers, Chilean parrots, and tiny Pudu all live here. Parts of the park are also home to small, weather-worn ranches, where the world's happiest-looking cows graze on small parcels of pasture painstakingly cleared from the cloying forest. The drive through the park is nearly 50 km long, and it is breathtaking all the way. Eventually, the road intersects with Highway 5, a proper, well-marked and beautifully constructed toll road that stretches the entire length of Chile. We took this south, to Puerto Varas, on the shore of Lake Llanquihue, the thrid-largest lake in all of South America.
To be continued...
October 7, 2010
Road Trip
Following two long weeks in which I was absolutely swamped with work, Pat and I are preparing to take our first real vacation since we arrived in Argentina nearly 6 months ago. Of course, this vacation is strategically timed to enable us to renew our 90-day tourist visas once again. But it is a bonafide vacation nonetheless. So what's the plan?
First, we are heading south (about 15 hours south) to Bariloche, famous for its breathtaking lakes and mountain peaks, its backcountry skiing and hiking trails, and it's chocolate. Ymmmm, yes. Chocolate! Although the allure of chocolate is always strong for me, we plan to spend just one or two nights in Bariloche this time, with the intention of hitting it up again in January when we finally trek all the way through Patagonia to the end of the world.
After a couple of relaxing nights in "romantic" Bariloche, we will cruise west, ever westward until we hit the Chilean coast and soak in a long-awaited view of the ocean. At this point, my main objective is to gorge myself on as much fresh seafood as humanly possible, while longing around beachside restaurants and haunting the local fishing spots.
Next, we plan to head yet farther south, where we hope to catch the once-daily ferry to Chiloe Island, the second largest of the scattered islands that make up Chilean Patagonia. This island hosts one of the oldest civilizations in Chile, and is called the "magic island" due to the company of elves, dwarves, and south american styled leprechauns it supposedly hosts. There may be some truth to the local legend of magic here, as Chiloe is the site of some strange happenings in history, including the epicenter of the Valdivian Quake of 1960, the strongest earthquake ever recorded at 9.5 on the richter scale. The western half of the island is wild, covered with the protected Valdivian rainforests, while the eastern half is home to a startling aray of wildlife, including Penguins! The local specialty is a kind of seafood luau, where the local catch is slow-roasted in a hole in the ground all day, then enjoyed at night around a lively campfire. Yum!
If we don't fall under the spell of witches or penguins in Chiloe, we will catch the ferry back to the mainland after a couple of days, then make our way up route five all the way to Santiago. Although this toll road is substantially more expensive than its Argentinian counterpart across the border, I have it on good authority that it is not only a vastly more pleasurable drive, but also boasts some more impressive scenery, namely mile upon mile of towering volcanoes. Chile is home to over 500 active volcanoes, a fact which continues to change the landscape and carve out new, breathtaking features. If we are lucky, we hope to locate one of the hundreds of natural hot springs that dot the volcanic landscape, with toasty, soothing waters warmed by all that fiery magma churning underground in one of the world's most active subduction zones.
Although we would love to linger in Santiago, or more likely the famed northern beach towns west of the capital, for now we will have to drive straight over the pass and on to Mendoza for our rendezvous with the real world. We plan to return to this portion of Chile in December, when we will once again need to cross the border to obtain that prized visa stamp. All of this is made possible by one very helpful connection here in Mendoza: I happen to teach the regional manager of Avis rental cars, who obligingly hooked us up with the "corporate family discount" and thus saved us nearly 1000 pesos with a single keystroke. A big, fat beso to you! Now, I am just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't break down in the middle of the wild on either side of the border.
First, we are heading south (about 15 hours south) to Bariloche, famous for its breathtaking lakes and mountain peaks, its backcountry skiing and hiking trails, and it's chocolate. Ymmmm, yes. Chocolate! Although the allure of chocolate is always strong for me, we plan to spend just one or two nights in Bariloche this time, with the intention of hitting it up again in January when we finally trek all the way through Patagonia to the end of the world.
After a couple of relaxing nights in "romantic" Bariloche, we will cruise west, ever westward until we hit the Chilean coast and soak in a long-awaited view of the ocean. At this point, my main objective is to gorge myself on as much fresh seafood as humanly possible, while longing around beachside restaurants and haunting the local fishing spots.
Next, we plan to head yet farther south, where we hope to catch the once-daily ferry to Chiloe Island, the second largest of the scattered islands that make up Chilean Patagonia. This island hosts one of the oldest civilizations in Chile, and is called the "magic island" due to the company of elves, dwarves, and south american styled leprechauns it supposedly hosts. There may be some truth to the local legend of magic here, as Chiloe is the site of some strange happenings in history, including the epicenter of the Valdivian Quake of 1960, the strongest earthquake ever recorded at 9.5 on the richter scale. The western half of the island is wild, covered with the protected Valdivian rainforests, while the eastern half is home to a startling aray of wildlife, including Penguins! The local specialty is a kind of seafood luau, where the local catch is slow-roasted in a hole in the ground all day, then enjoyed at night around a lively campfire. Yum!
If we don't fall under the spell of witches or penguins in Chiloe, we will catch the ferry back to the mainland after a couple of days, then make our way up route five all the way to Santiago. Although this toll road is substantially more expensive than its Argentinian counterpart across the border, I have it on good authority that it is not only a vastly more pleasurable drive, but also boasts some more impressive scenery, namely mile upon mile of towering volcanoes. Chile is home to over 500 active volcanoes, a fact which continues to change the landscape and carve out new, breathtaking features. If we are lucky, we hope to locate one of the hundreds of natural hot springs that dot the volcanic landscape, with toasty, soothing waters warmed by all that fiery magma churning underground in one of the world's most active subduction zones.
Although we would love to linger in Santiago, or more likely the famed northern beach towns west of the capital, for now we will have to drive straight over the pass and on to Mendoza for our rendezvous with the real world. We plan to return to this portion of Chile in December, when we will once again need to cross the border to obtain that prized visa stamp. All of this is made possible by one very helpful connection here in Mendoza: I happen to teach the regional manager of Avis rental cars, who obligingly hooked us up with the "corporate family discount" and thus saved us nearly 1000 pesos with a single keystroke. A big, fat beso to you! Now, I am just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't break down in the middle of the wild on either side of the border.
September 19, 2010
Smoke Free (It's a Long One, Beware!)
I have been waiting for some significant downtime all week in order to write out my "Mendoza Death Trip" experience (a la Michael Lesy), but now that I find myself in front of the computer with nowhere to go I realize that it will have to wait. Because at the moment, there is only one thing on my mind...
I am a smoker. I am a nicotine addict. For last 4 years, I have been avoiding this concession. I have been checking the little "no" box at doctor's offices, hiding cigarettes in my underwear drawer, and spouting all sorts of excuses to myself and others about why I need "just this one." Compared to many smokers, I am a lightweight: I have never smoked more than 3 cigarettes in a single day. But since I started smoking the occasional cigarette over 4 years ago, I have had thousands and quite frankly, it is time to stop lying to myself. So there it is: I am a smoker and its finally time to quit.
I know that reading this blog entry will make many people in my life very disappointed in me. Yet I believe that in order to be successful, I need to start this difficult journey from an honest place.
In an effort to gird myself against the tragic difficulties of quitting, I have prepared some visual aids: a calendar where I can track when and how much I smoke everyday; 3 copies of a picture of a damaged lung- oozing black tar- for my mirror, ashtray, and calendar; a list of 101 stress-relieving activities; about.com's article on triggers and craving-kickers; and my own personal list of reasons to quit (on 16 post-its stuck all over the house). Yet I know that all this is only a crutch for my enfeebled mind, which will crave cigarettes regardless of my most intellectual efforts to dissuade it.
Now, the real catch is my location. I am choosing to quit smoking in South America, where 11 year olds buy cigarettes to smoke with their pudding cups, where butts litter the ground even in the most remote mountains, where the antiquated practice of smoking indoors is still roundly embraced and many people offer you a cigarette upon introduction, just as a social nicety. I often feel like I've been thrown into an episode of Mad Men . Forget avoiding smokers while you ween yourself off, here it is impossible to go one minute without cigarettes crowding your consciousness.
Ironically, it is the ubiquitousness of cigarettes in Argentina that has made me determined to quit. In nice, clean, organized United States, there is something about joining the elite determination of the smokers outside on a winter day, that makes smoking feel satisfyingly subversive. But here, where smoking is so openly accepted and indiscriminately encouraged, the sinister realities of smoking are incredibly in-your-face.
As I light up on my balcony, I can look down into the courtyard and witness the sea of butts littering the grass amid the vibrant rose bushes. From an unseen balcony in my neighborhood, I can hear the rattling hack of a long-time smoker. On the corner, I can see the listless group of teenagers, barely old enough to have breasts to fill out their tank tops, casually sharing a smoke. In every park, plaza, and promenade smokers stroll with cigarette in hand and carelessly toss their butts into the classical fountains, manicured lawns, and elaborate street murals. Medical clinics teem with withered grandmothers leaning on their portable oxygen tanks. And the young always look old beyond their years- heart-breakingly gorgeous girls of 16 or 18 with deep lines already carved around their mouths, wrinkling the corners of their wide, innocent eyes.
Confronted with smoking on such a large scale, amid the daily tragedies, there can be no doubt: I cannot justify this any longer. So I've decided to examine the reasons behind my addiction, both in an effort to channel my energy into a more healthy response to triggers and also perhaps in order to better understand the psyche of smoke-obsessed Argentina.
I smoke because:
I think it calms me down when I am upset. I have trained myself to stop crying, stop fighting, and stop panicking when I have a cigarette. Whenever I feel out of control, I automatically turn to smoking.
I think it helps me be creative. In university, when I routinely wrote 2-4 analytical treatises per week, I started smoking cigarettes to concentrate and clarify my thought process. This was partially a self-fulfilling prophecy: when I first declared my major an upperclassmen told me that all English majors start smoking by the end of their second year.
Many of my friends smoke, and all of my boyfriends. I have never dated a man who didn't smoke. I never had a list of "deal-breakers" and so I accepted my partner's smoking as part of the man. But spending so much intimate time with a smoker desensitizes you to the unseemly effects of smoking- bad breath, smelly clothes etc. I don't know why so many of my friends smoke, but I have noticed a disproportionate tendency towards smoking in my friends who work or study in the arts. And I have always been attracted to artists.
Smoking makes me feel more confident. This is an old excuse that I have never admitted to before. But I often feel that my hands reveal my insecurity more than any other part of my anatomy. When I feel uncomfortable, my hands have an embarrassing tendency to fidget or (too often) knock things over.
Finally, I am self-destructive. I often feel that I deserve to be hurt because I am a bad person, or I have failed in some way. Smoking is that little bit of daily destruction that makes me feel like I have punished myself for my failures and I can now try again. Yes, this is supremely messed up.
In all of these illuminating and deeply personal reasons for smoking, I can see something of the Argentine mindset reflected:
In my experience, it is difficult to get things done here, and often the frustration of many small failures or endless waiting feels overwhelming. I see more people smoking outside of government offices, the post office, and at bus stops for example. The endless waiting is just one big excuse for a smoke break.
Argentinians love to talk. They love to discuss difficult issues and stay up until the wee hours of the morning espousing about art, music, politics, and more. They idealize the word pasion and almost everyone I've met has asked me: what is your passion in life? In their hearts, they are incredibly creative and smoking cigarettes seems to feed this endless discussion and make everyone more willing to speak their mind; reveal their pasion.
Everyone smokes. Parents, children, lovers, friends, bosses, delivery drivers. It is constantly around you, and so the stigma is removed.
Finally, Argentinians harbor a spirit of competition with more developed countries. They despise the phrase "third-world" and they believe that they have a lot to offer the international community. Yet the ongoing economic instability, government upheaval, and geographical isolation of Argentina make many feel a little insecure about their country's place in the world. Perhaps this national insecurity contributes to a nation of smokers who just need something to do with their hands?
While I may feel some affinity with the huge Marlboro ad that is Argentina, I recognize that like so many bad habits in the world at large, change can only come one person at a time. And so I am giving up my cigarettes and challenging myself to face my triggers with a new heart. Hopefully, in the process of quitting I have started to gain a new understanding of myself and the hazy world around me.
** I want to quit naturally, which is, of course, the hardest path. But I would welcome any suggestions for natural aids that you have tried, heard of, or come across while randomly searching online. I also welcome condemnation from any local friends who catch me smoking from this point on.
I am a smoker. I am a nicotine addict. For last 4 years, I have been avoiding this concession. I have been checking the little "no" box at doctor's offices, hiding cigarettes in my underwear drawer, and spouting all sorts of excuses to myself and others about why I need "just this one." Compared to many smokers, I am a lightweight: I have never smoked more than 3 cigarettes in a single day. But since I started smoking the occasional cigarette over 4 years ago, I have had thousands and quite frankly, it is time to stop lying to myself. So there it is: I am a smoker and its finally time to quit.
I know that reading this blog entry will make many people in my life very disappointed in me. Yet I believe that in order to be successful, I need to start this difficult journey from an honest place.
In an effort to gird myself against the tragic difficulties of quitting, I have prepared some visual aids: a calendar where I can track when and how much I smoke everyday; 3 copies of a picture of a damaged lung- oozing black tar- for my mirror, ashtray, and calendar; a list of 101 stress-relieving activities; about.com's article on triggers and craving-kickers; and my own personal list of reasons to quit (on 16 post-its stuck all over the house). Yet I know that all this is only a crutch for my enfeebled mind, which will crave cigarettes regardless of my most intellectual efforts to dissuade it.
Now, the real catch is my location. I am choosing to quit smoking in South America, where 11 year olds buy cigarettes to smoke with their pudding cups, where butts litter the ground even in the most remote mountains, where the antiquated practice of smoking indoors is still roundly embraced and many people offer you a cigarette upon introduction, just as a social nicety. I often feel like I've been thrown into an episode of Mad Men . Forget avoiding smokers while you ween yourself off, here it is impossible to go one minute without cigarettes crowding your consciousness.
Ironically, it is the ubiquitousness of cigarettes in Argentina that has made me determined to quit. In nice, clean, organized United States, there is something about joining the elite determination of the smokers outside on a winter day, that makes smoking feel satisfyingly subversive. But here, where smoking is so openly accepted and indiscriminately encouraged, the sinister realities of smoking are incredibly in-your-face.
As I light up on my balcony, I can look down into the courtyard and witness the sea of butts littering the grass amid the vibrant rose bushes. From an unseen balcony in my neighborhood, I can hear the rattling hack of a long-time smoker. On the corner, I can see the listless group of teenagers, barely old enough to have breasts to fill out their tank tops, casually sharing a smoke. In every park, plaza, and promenade smokers stroll with cigarette in hand and carelessly toss their butts into the classical fountains, manicured lawns, and elaborate street murals. Medical clinics teem with withered grandmothers leaning on their portable oxygen tanks. And the young always look old beyond their years- heart-breakingly gorgeous girls of 16 or 18 with deep lines already carved around their mouths, wrinkling the corners of their wide, innocent eyes.
Confronted with smoking on such a large scale, amid the daily tragedies, there can be no doubt: I cannot justify this any longer. So I've decided to examine the reasons behind my addiction, both in an effort to channel my energy into a more healthy response to triggers and also perhaps in order to better understand the psyche of smoke-obsessed Argentina.
I smoke because:
I think it calms me down when I am upset. I have trained myself to stop crying, stop fighting, and stop panicking when I have a cigarette. Whenever I feel out of control, I automatically turn to smoking.
I think it helps me be creative. In university, when I routinely wrote 2-4 analytical treatises per week, I started smoking cigarettes to concentrate and clarify my thought process. This was partially a self-fulfilling prophecy: when I first declared my major an upperclassmen told me that all English majors start smoking by the end of their second year.
Many of my friends smoke, and all of my boyfriends. I have never dated a man who didn't smoke. I never had a list of "deal-breakers" and so I accepted my partner's smoking as part of the man. But spending so much intimate time with a smoker desensitizes you to the unseemly effects of smoking- bad breath, smelly clothes etc. I don't know why so many of my friends smoke, but I have noticed a disproportionate tendency towards smoking in my friends who work or study in the arts. And I have always been attracted to artists.
Smoking makes me feel more confident. This is an old excuse that I have never admitted to before. But I often feel that my hands reveal my insecurity more than any other part of my anatomy. When I feel uncomfortable, my hands have an embarrassing tendency to fidget or (too often) knock things over.
Finally, I am self-destructive. I often feel that I deserve to be hurt because I am a bad person, or I have failed in some way. Smoking is that little bit of daily destruction that makes me feel like I have punished myself for my failures and I can now try again. Yes, this is supremely messed up.
In all of these illuminating and deeply personal reasons for smoking, I can see something of the Argentine mindset reflected:
In my experience, it is difficult to get things done here, and often the frustration of many small failures or endless waiting feels overwhelming. I see more people smoking outside of government offices, the post office, and at bus stops for example. The endless waiting is just one big excuse for a smoke break.
Argentinians love to talk. They love to discuss difficult issues and stay up until the wee hours of the morning espousing about art, music, politics, and more. They idealize the word pasion and almost everyone I've met has asked me: what is your passion in life? In their hearts, they are incredibly creative and smoking cigarettes seems to feed this endless discussion and make everyone more willing to speak their mind; reveal their pasion.
Everyone smokes. Parents, children, lovers, friends, bosses, delivery drivers. It is constantly around you, and so the stigma is removed.
Finally, Argentinians harbor a spirit of competition with more developed countries. They despise the phrase "third-world" and they believe that they have a lot to offer the international community. Yet the ongoing economic instability, government upheaval, and geographical isolation of Argentina make many feel a little insecure about their country's place in the world. Perhaps this national insecurity contributes to a nation of smokers who just need something to do with their hands?
While I may feel some affinity with the huge Marlboro ad that is Argentina, I recognize that like so many bad habits in the world at large, change can only come one person at a time. And so I am giving up my cigarettes and challenging myself to face my triggers with a new heart. Hopefully, in the process of quitting I have started to gain a new understanding of myself and the hazy world around me.
** I want to quit naturally, which is, of course, the hardest path. But I would welcome any suggestions for natural aids that you have tried, heard of, or come across while randomly searching online. I also welcome condemnation from any local friends who catch me smoking from this point on.
September 13, 2010
Lessons For a Teacher
If not for my overwhelming penchant for procrastination, I would definitely postpone this entry until later in the week. However, I have recently discovered that part of being a teacher is: homework. That is, teachers must spend a lot of time outside of the classroom preparing lesson plans, researching new learning tools, and finding inspiration for fun, engaging, and ultimately effective lessons. Ugh. Homework! Never my strong suit and always a catalyst for my "manana syndrome", I really, really don't like doing my homework. So here I am, blogging early on in my so-far uneventful week instead of buckling down and planning the rest of my lessons. Oh well, I'm a creative person and I believe I work best under pressure. (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it!)
Last week was a nice change of pace. Pursuing my new found goal to finally make some friends, I went out almost every night last week. Thursday night drinks at the Irish Pub with Martin, my "park friend" as he will henceforth be known. Cheesecake and cafe on Wednesday with Alfre, the couchsurfer (exclusively in spanish). A stroll in the Park with Ana Friday afternoon, discussing education and the overwhelming stupidity of too many tourists (also in spanish). Lunch at Patrona on Saturday with my love to meet a nice expat couple from Austin, TX. A bottle of wine, the most delicious open-faced sandwiches with white wine and honey dipping sauce, and tiramisu for desert. Delicious! And finally, cream stout at the region's only microbrewery with Pat on Saturday night. Poor little Pat- he is clearly so deprived of good beer that he just couldn't stop drinking! I believe he woke up with his first hangover in Argentina on Sunday.
All of this activity was more stimulation than my social life has seen in months. Living with loneliness is often a part of the expat life, at least in the beginning. But I am hopeful that with the coming of the spring (at last!) I can finally stop asking: "Am I really going to be here for a year without making a single friend?" (a la Jess). It does require effort, and a little perseverance, but I feel like I am also beginning to blossom here. I hope that this can be the beginning of a more open-minded and positive chapter of our Mendocinian adventure.
Through all the isolation, I have learned that I should never take for granted the ease of making friends at home. It is truly remarkable to be able to establish an easy and ongoing connection with coworkers, friends of friends, and random strangers by striking up a simple conversation in an unexpected place. Here, it is a treat to speak in english now and then, and a ongoing challenge to try to communicate in spanish. But often, something is lost in both these exchanges. In english, I sometimes find myself talking simply to talk- forgetting my own view of the world in favor of actually having a conversation. In spanish, I always feel dull, uneducated, and timid because it is difficult to communicate complex ideas. Whenever we do make it "home", I vow to cherish the friendships I have and revel in the moments of happy serendipity when I can "click" with a new acquaintance. I want to be better, more open about allowing these casual acquaintances to blossom into friendships instead of allowing the moment to pass unnoticed.
In addition to discovering that teachers have to do homework and friendships should never be taken for granted, I have also been re-learning not to take things personally. The one book I begged my mother to send me was the one I have never left behind before: The Four Agreements. If you haven't read it, do so. If you have, then you know why it sits next to my bible on the bookshelf. The no-nonsense wisdom of this little book always comes as a revelation to me- no matter how many times I read it. And the lesson that always hits home the most is: Don't take it personally!
For me, this is especially important when traveling. There are a lot of stupid things that can really make you feel like crap when you are in a foreign place. For example, the shop girls here almost always laugh and make nasty comments about me. For a long time, this made me want to throw their clothes in their snotty faces and walk out. Or how my students laugh at my spanish, even though I routinely sit through hours of their crappy english every week with a benevolent (and sincere!) smile of encouragement on my face. Or the way that so many Argentine drivers try to run you over, while unapologetically flipping the bird/cursing/making vulgar suggestions- all for simply crossing the road when you have the right of way. Right of way? Now that is a foreign word in South America...
But ultimately, none of this behavior has anything to do with me. I didn't walk into the clothing store naked; I never make fun of my students; and I always look both ways (3-4 times) before attempting to cross the street. This kind of behavior, along with so many other things I don't like about Argentina, are completely detached from me, as a person. All I can do is strive to develop myself as a strong, unique, and independent individual and let the poor behavior of others slide off my back like I bathed in teflon. As much as I want to change the world for the better, the only person I really have control over is me. I am learning (again) that people always learn best by example, not by instruction. I strive to carry this philosophy into my classroom, into my friendships, and into my many less-than-ideal interactions with others every day. It's not me, it's you Argentina. But I still value our friendship.
Last week was a nice change of pace. Pursuing my new found goal to finally make some friends, I went out almost every night last week. Thursday night drinks at the Irish Pub with Martin, my "park friend" as he will henceforth be known. Cheesecake and cafe on Wednesday with Alfre, the couchsurfer (exclusively in spanish). A stroll in the Park with Ana Friday afternoon, discussing education and the overwhelming stupidity of too many tourists (also in spanish). Lunch at Patrona on Saturday with my love to meet a nice expat couple from Austin, TX. A bottle of wine, the most delicious open-faced sandwiches with white wine and honey dipping sauce, and tiramisu for desert. Delicious! And finally, cream stout at the region's only microbrewery with Pat on Saturday night. Poor little Pat- he is clearly so deprived of good beer that he just couldn't stop drinking! I believe he woke up with his first hangover in Argentina on Sunday.
All of this activity was more stimulation than my social life has seen in months. Living with loneliness is often a part of the expat life, at least in the beginning. But I am hopeful that with the coming of the spring (at last!) I can finally stop asking: "Am I really going to be here for a year without making a single friend?" (a la Jess). It does require effort, and a little perseverance, but I feel like I am also beginning to blossom here. I hope that this can be the beginning of a more open-minded and positive chapter of our Mendocinian adventure.
Through all the isolation, I have learned that I should never take for granted the ease of making friends at home. It is truly remarkable to be able to establish an easy and ongoing connection with coworkers, friends of friends, and random strangers by striking up a simple conversation in an unexpected place. Here, it is a treat to speak in english now and then, and a ongoing challenge to try to communicate in spanish. But often, something is lost in both these exchanges. In english, I sometimes find myself talking simply to talk- forgetting my own view of the world in favor of actually having a conversation. In spanish, I always feel dull, uneducated, and timid because it is difficult to communicate complex ideas. Whenever we do make it "home", I vow to cherish the friendships I have and revel in the moments of happy serendipity when I can "click" with a new acquaintance. I want to be better, more open about allowing these casual acquaintances to blossom into friendships instead of allowing the moment to pass unnoticed.
In addition to discovering that teachers have to do homework and friendships should never be taken for granted, I have also been re-learning not to take things personally. The one book I begged my mother to send me was the one I have never left behind before: The Four Agreements. If you haven't read it, do so. If you have, then you know why it sits next to my bible on the bookshelf. The no-nonsense wisdom of this little book always comes as a revelation to me- no matter how many times I read it. And the lesson that always hits home the most is: Don't take it personally!
For me, this is especially important when traveling. There are a lot of stupid things that can really make you feel like crap when you are in a foreign place. For example, the shop girls here almost always laugh and make nasty comments about me. For a long time, this made me want to throw their clothes in their snotty faces and walk out. Or how my students laugh at my spanish, even though I routinely sit through hours of their crappy english every week with a benevolent (and sincere!) smile of encouragement on my face. Or the way that so many Argentine drivers try to run you over, while unapologetically flipping the bird/cursing/making vulgar suggestions- all for simply crossing the road when you have the right of way. Right of way? Now that is a foreign word in South America...
But ultimately, none of this behavior has anything to do with me. I didn't walk into the clothing store naked; I never make fun of my students; and I always look both ways (3-4 times) before attempting to cross the street. This kind of behavior, along with so many other things I don't like about Argentina, are completely detached from me, as a person. All I can do is strive to develop myself as a strong, unique, and independent individual and let the poor behavior of others slide off my back like I bathed in teflon. As much as I want to change the world for the better, the only person I really have control over is me. I am learning (again) that people always learn best by example, not by instruction. I strive to carry this philosophy into my classroom, into my friendships, and into my many less-than-ideal interactions with others every day. It's not me, it's you Argentina. But I still value our friendship.
September 9, 2010
Progress
For the past couple of weeks, I've really been struggling with being alone. With Pat working tons of hours at the hostel while his boss enjoys a pseudo maternity leave, I've been spending a lot of time on my own. Since we got together, Pat and I have been fairly inseparable and this has only been compounded by the move down here. My shaky grasp on Spanish and the general insularity of the Mendocinians has made me even more shy and reluctant to seek out friendships here. But I think I may finally be making some progress on dragging myself out of my shell.
Like many expats living abroad, I realized that I really have to seek out connections and make myself more open to meeting people every day. To this end, I've been making a concerted effort to spend more of my free time outside- in the park, in a cafe, or just taking a stroll. Of course, this is made infinitely easier by the long-awaited arrival of warmer weather and it is really pleasant to recline in the park with a good book now. Last weekend, while I was doing just that, I heard the familiar pick-up line: "Hey, where are you from?" It's not very creative, but it's popular. Instead of ignoring it altogether I smiled and responded in kind, which led to a surprisingly pleasant conversation with an interesting and well-traveled Mendocinian in spanglish. When I told him I was here with my boyfriend, he didn't immediately mumble an excuse and walk away as I have come to expect, but shrugged and said "bad for me, but good for you!" An unlikely start but a new connection that I hope will prove beneficial for us both. Plus, he has a super cute puppy, which never hurts...
I also decided to use the couchsurfing network to better advantage, and joined the "Mendoza group," where I met a few friendly locals who were willing to indulge me in a little Spanish practice. Last week, I met Ana, a lawyer and native portena who now lives in Mendoza with her sweet family. We had a short but friendly conversation in Spanish and agreed to meet up every Friday evening when she takes dance classes in my neighborhood. Last night, I met another couchsurfer, a nice guy who owns a small taxi company and a big house in Godoy Cruz, a district on the north side of Mendoza. We talked for two hours in Spanish, until my brain started to get a little fuzzy and my vocabulary began to slip in a decidedly negative direction. Although we parted on friendly terms, I can't help but feel that the poor guy was a little bored, since I can still only discuss basic themes in Spanish and he speaks absolutely no English. Still, it was nice to sit outside and have a chat.
Since my Spanish is still a bit shaky for any sort of philosophical discussion and I feel hopelessly overwhelmed by the large gatherings of friends and family that are the norm here, I think I also need to seek out some friendly expats. When we first moved to Mendoza, Pat connected with a nice American guy who hosts an expat meet-up on Wednesday nights. Somehow, between my work schedule and my timidity, I never went. I think I will try and reconnect with him however, and see if I can find a friendly group of English-speakers who might like to indulge in a little face time with this lonesome American.
Weeks ago, I met a great American guy on the packed 5pm trole bus from downtown and I am still kicking myself for not exchanging contact info with him. The trole was packed, we got off at different stops, and I had a lesson to get home for. But now that I am feeling a little more extroverted, I wish I had made more of an effort to connect. I guess I was just hoping that given the small size of Mendoza, we might run into each other again someday. Here's to hoping that day still comes!
All in all, I feel like I need to make some connections here before I will feel anything close to contentment. A huge part of me wishes that we had opted to settle in Buenos Aires, where the big city environment would yield more chances to make connections, and the huge group of expats is exponentially easier to integrate with than the scattered group here in Mendoza. Another huge part of me wishes that I had studied Spanish (at all, or more ardently) before arriving, since I continue to feel that the language barrier is a huge disadvantage in making friends. In addition, teaching english all day affords me precious little chance for true interaction in Spanish, as I rush from one lesson to another and strive to make my students engage in meaningful, interesting conversations. I want nothing more than to sit on the other side of one of my lessons someday, and learn Spanish from a dedicated and (hopefully) engaging native speaker.
I opted to discontinue my lessons with Intercultural after the first month- worn down by the difficult, rush-hour bus commute across the city twice a week, only to be scolded by my professor for not squeezing in AT LEAST 4 hours of grammar study every week. None of the other students in my class worked, and I already felt inferior to their 4-7 years of previous study. I found myself feeling more reluctant to speak in Spanish after every class, convinced of my ineptitude in a language I never formally studied. So I'm trying a more non-traditional route and hoping that someone will have enough patience to hang out with my bad Spanish as it (hopefully) improves slowly. Although I did get a promising lead on a affordable private tutor in my neighborhood this week.
Finally, I wish I had committed to attending "teacher's day" at the new institute where I started teaching twice a week. Even though it costs money and most of the teachers are Argentines, it would have been a good opportunity to mingle on a day when I have no where else to be. I have learned many things about myself since I moved here, but coming to terms with my own natural introversion has been one of the hardest to accept. I have been blessed with many great friends in my life, but I realize now that most of them are the result of happy circumstance and not my own effort. After almost 5 lonely months, its time that I learned to step out of my comfort zone and take a chance. Maybe I am a more engaging person than I realize. Maybe we all are.
Like many expats living abroad, I realized that I really have to seek out connections and make myself more open to meeting people every day. To this end, I've been making a concerted effort to spend more of my free time outside- in the park, in a cafe, or just taking a stroll. Of course, this is made infinitely easier by the long-awaited arrival of warmer weather and it is really pleasant to recline in the park with a good book now. Last weekend, while I was doing just that, I heard the familiar pick-up line: "Hey, where are you from?" It's not very creative, but it's popular. Instead of ignoring it altogether I smiled and responded in kind, which led to a surprisingly pleasant conversation with an interesting and well-traveled Mendocinian in spanglish. When I told him I was here with my boyfriend, he didn't immediately mumble an excuse and walk away as I have come to expect, but shrugged and said "bad for me, but good for you!" An unlikely start but a new connection that I hope will prove beneficial for us both. Plus, he has a super cute puppy, which never hurts...
I also decided to use the couchsurfing network to better advantage, and joined the "Mendoza group," where I met a few friendly locals who were willing to indulge me in a little Spanish practice. Last week, I met Ana, a lawyer and native portena who now lives in Mendoza with her sweet family. We had a short but friendly conversation in Spanish and agreed to meet up every Friday evening when she takes dance classes in my neighborhood. Last night, I met another couchsurfer, a nice guy who owns a small taxi company and a big house in Godoy Cruz, a district on the north side of Mendoza. We talked for two hours in Spanish, until my brain started to get a little fuzzy and my vocabulary began to slip in a decidedly negative direction. Although we parted on friendly terms, I can't help but feel that the poor guy was a little bored, since I can still only discuss basic themes in Spanish and he speaks absolutely no English. Still, it was nice to sit outside and have a chat.
Since my Spanish is still a bit shaky for any sort of philosophical discussion and I feel hopelessly overwhelmed by the large gatherings of friends and family that are the norm here, I think I also need to seek out some friendly expats. When we first moved to Mendoza, Pat connected with a nice American guy who hosts an expat meet-up on Wednesday nights. Somehow, between my work schedule and my timidity, I never went. I think I will try and reconnect with him however, and see if I can find a friendly group of English-speakers who might like to indulge in a little face time with this lonesome American.
Weeks ago, I met a great American guy on the packed 5pm trole bus from downtown and I am still kicking myself for not exchanging contact info with him. The trole was packed, we got off at different stops, and I had a lesson to get home for. But now that I am feeling a little more extroverted, I wish I had made more of an effort to connect. I guess I was just hoping that given the small size of Mendoza, we might run into each other again someday. Here's to hoping that day still comes!
All in all, I feel like I need to make some connections here before I will feel anything close to contentment. A huge part of me wishes that we had opted to settle in Buenos Aires, where the big city environment would yield more chances to make connections, and the huge group of expats is exponentially easier to integrate with than the scattered group here in Mendoza. Another huge part of me wishes that I had studied Spanish (at all, or more ardently) before arriving, since I continue to feel that the language barrier is a huge disadvantage in making friends. In addition, teaching english all day affords me precious little chance for true interaction in Spanish, as I rush from one lesson to another and strive to make my students engage in meaningful, interesting conversations. I want nothing more than to sit on the other side of one of my lessons someday, and learn Spanish from a dedicated and (hopefully) engaging native speaker.
I opted to discontinue my lessons with Intercultural after the first month- worn down by the difficult, rush-hour bus commute across the city twice a week, only to be scolded by my professor for not squeezing in AT LEAST 4 hours of grammar study every week. None of the other students in my class worked, and I already felt inferior to their 4-7 years of previous study. I found myself feeling more reluctant to speak in Spanish after every class, convinced of my ineptitude in a language I never formally studied. So I'm trying a more non-traditional route and hoping that someone will have enough patience to hang out with my bad Spanish as it (hopefully) improves slowly. Although I did get a promising lead on a affordable private tutor in my neighborhood this week.
Finally, I wish I had committed to attending "teacher's day" at the new institute where I started teaching twice a week. Even though it costs money and most of the teachers are Argentines, it would have been a good opportunity to mingle on a day when I have no where else to be. I have learned many things about myself since I moved here, but coming to terms with my own natural introversion has been one of the hardest to accept. I have been blessed with many great friends in my life, but I realize now that most of them are the result of happy circumstance and not my own effort. After almost 5 lonely months, its time that I learned to step out of my comfort zone and take a chance. Maybe I am a more engaging person than I realize. Maybe we all are.
September 3, 2010
Snow, Sacrifice and Sweet Reward
Another cold, gray, windswept winter day stretches out before me. After such a tantalizing taste of spring, this harsh return to winter desolation makes me feel apathetic at best, hopeless at the most critical moments. It also makes me feel introspective, as I am once again shuttered up inside four walls, unable to tolerate the cold, dry wind as it whips up little piles of trash into desperate, South American dirt devils that dance forlornly in the streets. Even my language tends toward the literary and obtuse on a day like this, as you can see. And so it is with resignation and regret that I sit down to write this afternoon, while my newly acquired bicycle remains depressingly inert on the back balcony. No sunny rides through the park for me today, alas.
So the winter is back with a cruel vengeance made all the more acute after a blissful week of sun that made me momentarily giddy and optimistic. Just three days ago, I was telling Patrick how much I enjoyed my long walking commutes across Mendoza now that I can linger in the numerous parks and plazas that dot this city. Not long ago, the first blossoms began to emerge from the stubbornly skeletal trees and I picked a handful of fragrant lavender outside the bleak industrial office complex where I teach every Tuesday afternoon. In a spontaneous fit of spring fever, Pat bought me two dozen fresh daffodils from a corner vendor outside our local panaderia. Their vibrant yellow color now looks almost grotesque against the bleak gray color of the sky. Oh, how long I could wax morose about this never-ending winter! How many endless dark entries I could compose in honor of this unique and slow-suffering form of torture! But in the end, there is nothing I can do except offer up words of frustration to the unfeeling gods of weather and wonder at the irony of a winter storm blanketing Mendoza with deep cold just a few short weeks after our last-ditch effort to embrace the winter at a balding ski resort.
In my almost feverish desperation about the return of winter, I had fitful dreams all night about returning to Santa Barbara, where we resolutely unpacked our boxes and went to live indefinitely in a Bedouin tent by the sea. Amongst the comically stereotypical embroidered walls of our elaborate new shelter, we placed Pat's thick memory foam mattress topper on the sand and laid down together to listen to the ocean lap gently at our feet. The California sun was shining in a particularly golden way, and everything felt warm and cozy. When I opened my eyes I could only see the harsh red glow of my electric heater and feel the weight of my thick pile of blankets, pulled all the way up over my cold little head. When Pat made it home this morning at 9 am, I simply refused to emerge from my restless delirium, and peacefully dreamt on until noon.
Despite this mournful soliloquy about the winter, I know that spring is coming. I know that soon, the weather really will be warm and golden (probably even excessively so) and that this means the conclusion of a full season here in Argentina. Since we continue to struggle to earn enough money to live sustainably here, our projected time-frame for living in Argentina has been progressively shrinking. Although our official plan was "indefinite," we internally maintained a more definite goal of staying here for about one year. During this year, we intended to see the many worthy attractions of Argentina, as well as travel to some neighboring countries for a more comprehensive taste of South America.
Unfortunately, our expansive travel plans have encountered two serious obstacles: money (as mentioned above) and distance. For most seasoned (or novice) travelers, South America presents a unique challenge: the immense size and the scattered sparsity of major areas of habitation (and thus home to the various necessities of travel such as: hostels, food, and transportation) make it incredibly time consuming to travel around to various destinations. To illustrate this point, I offer this example: from Mendoza to Bariloche, the next major destination to the south (as in, not just empty desert) is a grueling 17 hour bus ride. And if you entertain hopes of seeing the far south (Patagonia!), you best prepare yourself for a 40 hour ride in seats that recline just enough to hint at comfort but rarely enough to encourage actual sleep. To the north is the same story: 31 hours to Salta and Jujuy, over 40 to the outer stretches of Igauzu. Mendoza to Santiago, Chile, just a mere hop on any map of the region, is a 8-10 hour bus ride.
In India, I solved the problem of distance by buying cheap, one-way airline tickets on small charter services, often not securing my return passage until my day of departure. But air travel in South America is expensive, usually reserved only for the most affluent and a one-time expense for the budget traveler at best. Like most major industries in Argentina, air travel is a joint venture of the government and private business, making it a more or less a monopoly that doesn't bother with competition. Thus, flights are more expensive during times of high traffic and there are no cheap deals to be found. In addition, only the largest cities in Argentina have an airport, and these all form a belt girdling the center of the country. There are airports in the far north and south, but they are a little complex. You can fly to Igazu, for example, but you have to land on the Brazilian side, and then wrestle your way through customs in order to see the park.
Expensive air travel doesn't make ground transportation any cheaper or more convenient, either. A round trip ticket from Mendoza to Calfate, in Patagonia, is just slightly over $400 USD per person, or roughly 2 months wages for this poor teacher. That is transportation only, making our planned December trip to Patagonia not only an incredible feat of endurance but also hopelessly out of our price range. At this rate, we will be lucky to take just two or three major trips to all the incredible sights in Argentina, with both of us working grueling hours in the intervening weeks to earn enough to keep us afloat.
Thus, our "grand adventure" is slowly turning into a more modest undertaking, our ambitious plans scaled down to just a few incredible experiences. We are forced to choose our few "must-see" destinations and pursue them with dogged determination and yet still embrace the realization that getting to Patagonia will probably leave us in debt. All of my visions for "weekend getaways", modeled after my sister's enviable weekly excursions to different countries in Europe last year (while she was working in The Netherlands) are unfortunately dashed by the constraints of time and distance. To pay the bills, Pat works an opposite schedule from me, and even with two free days a week, most destinations are too far away to be a feasible weekend destination.
For our friends who have expressed an interest in visiting us while we are here, I would suggest you start planning more seriously for a trip in the near future. Already, our plans to stay a full year have been scaled back two months, and the unfortunate realization we have come to recently is: every trip we take costs us in time: the time we get to stay down here. So Patagonia in December also means that we forfeit the month of May. Iguazu in February means that our return tickets are now scheduled for March 1. This is a sad trade, but our joint monetary practicality (considerably less as individuals) forbids us from sinking too far into debt in the service of an extended adventure.
Psychologists say that the emotional reward for a task that you work hard to earn is exponentially greater than the emotional payoff for something that comes easily. But I have learned through this experience that sometimes working toward a goal requires you to sacrifice many other, equally satisfying goals. Perhaps in this heartbreaking act of pruning we learn to value what is most important and we manage to find our true destinies. Or perhaps we just experience our emotional payoff for the goals we do reach so much more sweetly because it is washed in the sourness of sacrifice.
So the winter is back with a cruel vengeance made all the more acute after a blissful week of sun that made me momentarily giddy and optimistic. Just three days ago, I was telling Patrick how much I enjoyed my long walking commutes across Mendoza now that I can linger in the numerous parks and plazas that dot this city. Not long ago, the first blossoms began to emerge from the stubbornly skeletal trees and I picked a handful of fragrant lavender outside the bleak industrial office complex where I teach every Tuesday afternoon. In a spontaneous fit of spring fever, Pat bought me two dozen fresh daffodils from a corner vendor outside our local panaderia. Their vibrant yellow color now looks almost grotesque against the bleak gray color of the sky. Oh, how long I could wax morose about this never-ending winter! How many endless dark entries I could compose in honor of this unique and slow-suffering form of torture! But in the end, there is nothing I can do except offer up words of frustration to the unfeeling gods of weather and wonder at the irony of a winter storm blanketing Mendoza with deep cold just a few short weeks after our last-ditch effort to embrace the winter at a balding ski resort.
In my almost feverish desperation about the return of winter, I had fitful dreams all night about returning to Santa Barbara, where we resolutely unpacked our boxes and went to live indefinitely in a Bedouin tent by the sea. Amongst the comically stereotypical embroidered walls of our elaborate new shelter, we placed Pat's thick memory foam mattress topper on the sand and laid down together to listen to the ocean lap gently at our feet. The California sun was shining in a particularly golden way, and everything felt warm and cozy. When I opened my eyes I could only see the harsh red glow of my electric heater and feel the weight of my thick pile of blankets, pulled all the way up over my cold little head. When Pat made it home this morning at 9 am, I simply refused to emerge from my restless delirium, and peacefully dreamt on until noon.
Despite this mournful soliloquy about the winter, I know that spring is coming. I know that soon, the weather really will be warm and golden (probably even excessively so) and that this means the conclusion of a full season here in Argentina. Since we continue to struggle to earn enough money to live sustainably here, our projected time-frame for living in Argentina has been progressively shrinking. Although our official plan was "indefinite," we internally maintained a more definite goal of staying here for about one year. During this year, we intended to see the many worthy attractions of Argentina, as well as travel to some neighboring countries for a more comprehensive taste of South America.
Unfortunately, our expansive travel plans have encountered two serious obstacles: money (as mentioned above) and distance. For most seasoned (or novice) travelers, South America presents a unique challenge: the immense size and the scattered sparsity of major areas of habitation (and thus home to the various necessities of travel such as: hostels, food, and transportation) make it incredibly time consuming to travel around to various destinations. To illustrate this point, I offer this example: from Mendoza to Bariloche, the next major destination to the south (as in, not just empty desert) is a grueling 17 hour bus ride. And if you entertain hopes of seeing the far south (Patagonia!), you best prepare yourself for a 40 hour ride in seats that recline just enough to hint at comfort but rarely enough to encourage actual sleep. To the north is the same story: 31 hours to Salta and Jujuy, over 40 to the outer stretches of Igauzu. Mendoza to Santiago, Chile, just a mere hop on any map of the region, is a 8-10 hour bus ride.
In India, I solved the problem of distance by buying cheap, one-way airline tickets on small charter services, often not securing my return passage until my day of departure. But air travel in South America is expensive, usually reserved only for the most affluent and a one-time expense for the budget traveler at best. Like most major industries in Argentina, air travel is a joint venture of the government and private business, making it a more or less a monopoly that doesn't bother with competition. Thus, flights are more expensive during times of high traffic and there are no cheap deals to be found. In addition, only the largest cities in Argentina have an airport, and these all form a belt girdling the center of the country. There are airports in the far north and south, but they are a little complex. You can fly to Igazu, for example, but you have to land on the Brazilian side, and then wrestle your way through customs in order to see the park.
Expensive air travel doesn't make ground transportation any cheaper or more convenient, either. A round trip ticket from Mendoza to Calfate, in Patagonia, is just slightly over $400 USD per person, or roughly 2 months wages for this poor teacher. That is transportation only, making our planned December trip to Patagonia not only an incredible feat of endurance but also hopelessly out of our price range. At this rate, we will be lucky to take just two or three major trips to all the incredible sights in Argentina, with both of us working grueling hours in the intervening weeks to earn enough to keep us afloat.
Thus, our "grand adventure" is slowly turning into a more modest undertaking, our ambitious plans scaled down to just a few incredible experiences. We are forced to choose our few "must-see" destinations and pursue them with dogged determination and yet still embrace the realization that getting to Patagonia will probably leave us in debt. All of my visions for "weekend getaways", modeled after my sister's enviable weekly excursions to different countries in Europe last year (while she was working in The Netherlands) are unfortunately dashed by the constraints of time and distance. To pay the bills, Pat works an opposite schedule from me, and even with two free days a week, most destinations are too far away to be a feasible weekend destination.
For our friends who have expressed an interest in visiting us while we are here, I would suggest you start planning more seriously for a trip in the near future. Already, our plans to stay a full year have been scaled back two months, and the unfortunate realization we have come to recently is: every trip we take costs us in time: the time we get to stay down here. So Patagonia in December also means that we forfeit the month of May. Iguazu in February means that our return tickets are now scheduled for March 1. This is a sad trade, but our joint monetary practicality (considerably less as individuals) forbids us from sinking too far into debt in the service of an extended adventure.
Psychologists say that the emotional reward for a task that you work hard to earn is exponentially greater than the emotional payoff for something that comes easily. But I have learned through this experience that sometimes working toward a goal requires you to sacrifice many other, equally satisfying goals. Perhaps in this heartbreaking act of pruning we learn to value what is most important and we manage to find our true destinies. Or perhaps we just experience our emotional payoff for the goals we do reach so much more sweetly because it is washed in the sourness of sacrifice.
August 27, 2010
Co-Dependency in an Empty Bed
It is not customary for me to write a new post after so recently (barely two days) completing my last one, but I am bored, lonely and somehow suffering from insomnia despite my grueling week. I should be sleeping, but instead I'm writing.
So what to write about? I don't honestly have much to say tonight. This is the fifth night in a row that I've slept by myself and the bed seems big and cold. I'm bummed out, trying to plan a fun activity for myself tomorrow- solo. I should be excited that it is Saturday, I'm free, and I can go anywhere I want. I am in a strange, open country and it is finally warm enough to spend extended periods outdoors. But I feel blue, nonetheless. And this realization makes me feel even more blue, because it leads to an even more upsetting revelation: I think I've become one of those "couple" travelers. You know the ones; that cute couple who never ventures out alone, who look at each other to finish sentences and leftover food. Who only make friends with other couples and never like to entertain. Yeah, I think I'm one of THOSE.
Sure, it sucks to travel alone after you get used to having a partner. Its sooo nice to know you have someone to watch your back, and your bags when you have to use the tiny, dirty, bus terminal bathroom. Its wonderful to have someone else who can tell your stories, explain your background and travel itinerary, and just talk when you are too tired. And here, especially, its wonderful to travel with a man and avoid sticky (potentially scary) situations when you get invited out by a horde of restless men or end up in a shared dorm with six guys all scratching their balls through exefficio boxer shorts in the morning. It's nice to avoid the inevitable creepy tricks and undercurrent of sexual conquest that always seem to haunt the lone female traveler.
And yet, I am an independent woman! I have traveled across the Indian subcontinent all by my lonesome, and made good friends along the way. I have lived in foreign cities, I have gotten lost (and found my way home), disentangled myself from leering men, navigated a crowded rush-hour subway, all without the aid of a partner. I am good at planning adventures, making friends. Why should this be so hard for me now? I guess co-dependency is catching, and highly addictive.
So here is my vow for the weekend: I WILL be an independent traveler and I will experience something new on my own. Even if it is a small trip, I feel I must break this cycle of loneliness that is so obviously of my own making. As I read on Sabi's facebook today: "Loneliness is a state of mind. It's not about finding the right person, it's about becoming the right person." Even though I am blessed with a partner who assuages my feelings of loneliness AND finishes my leftovers, I need to become my own counsel, my own best friend. So tonight, I will sleep in the middle of this big bed, spread-eagle and unapologetically hogging all the covers...
So what to write about? I don't honestly have much to say tonight. This is the fifth night in a row that I've slept by myself and the bed seems big and cold. I'm bummed out, trying to plan a fun activity for myself tomorrow- solo. I should be excited that it is Saturday, I'm free, and I can go anywhere I want. I am in a strange, open country and it is finally warm enough to spend extended periods outdoors. But I feel blue, nonetheless. And this realization makes me feel even more blue, because it leads to an even more upsetting revelation: I think I've become one of those "couple" travelers. You know the ones; that cute couple who never ventures out alone, who look at each other to finish sentences and leftover food. Who only make friends with other couples and never like to entertain. Yeah, I think I'm one of THOSE.
Sure, it sucks to travel alone after you get used to having a partner. Its sooo nice to know you have someone to watch your back, and your bags when you have to use the tiny, dirty, bus terminal bathroom. Its wonderful to have someone else who can tell your stories, explain your background and travel itinerary, and just talk when you are too tired. And here, especially, its wonderful to travel with a man and avoid sticky (potentially scary) situations when you get invited out by a horde of restless men or end up in a shared dorm with six guys all scratching their balls through exefficio boxer shorts in the morning. It's nice to avoid the inevitable creepy tricks and undercurrent of sexual conquest that always seem to haunt the lone female traveler.
And yet, I am an independent woman! I have traveled across the Indian subcontinent all by my lonesome, and made good friends along the way. I have lived in foreign cities, I have gotten lost (and found my way home), disentangled myself from leering men, navigated a crowded rush-hour subway, all without the aid of a partner. I am good at planning adventures, making friends. Why should this be so hard for me now? I guess co-dependency is catching, and highly addictive.
So here is my vow for the weekend: I WILL be an independent traveler and I will experience something new on my own. Even if it is a small trip, I feel I must break this cycle of loneliness that is so obviously of my own making. As I read on Sabi's facebook today: "Loneliness is a state of mind. It's not about finding the right person, it's about becoming the right person." Even though I am blessed with a partner who assuages my feelings of loneliness AND finishes my leftovers, I need to become my own counsel, my own best friend. So tonight, I will sleep in the middle of this big bed, spread-eagle and unapologetically hogging all the covers...
August 26, 2010
I Went: Skiing in the Andes (Finally)
The title is a give-away. The experience was not what I expected. I survived to tell the tale. Here goes:
On Monday, we finally strapped on some fiberglass, pulled on those torturous boots, and swaddled ourselves in fluffy parkas and waterproof pants. Indeed- we finally went skiing in the Andes. When you come to South America just in time for winter and especially if you decide to settle just a stone's throw from the Andes in cozy Mendoza, you would think that a ski trip is more or less compulsory. After all, the Andes Mountains boast some world-class skiing. Portillo, just a few kilometers across the border in Chile, is the official "summer" Olympic training grounds for ski racers from the northern hemisphere. Bariloche, south of Mendoza, is world-renowned for its towering peaks. And Las Lenas is one of the largest resorts in the whole southern hemisphere. Unless you are a "lodge bunny," skiing in the Andes is a dream come true.
Unfortunately, not all dreams come true exactly as you imagined. Last season (2009) was one of the best on record in South America. The resorts were positively dumped on for 3 full months, and many an extreme skiing video was filmed in the area. However, as is so often the case, a fantastic season is often followed by a drought of sorts. Alas, 2010 turned out to be one of the WORST seasons on record. One well-known resort near Mendoza, Penitentes, never even managed to open this season. The Andes remain stubbornly brown, only their uppermost peaks graced with a light dusting of snow. In addition, the Zonda wind (see my previous entries for a fuller explanation of this freak meteorological phenomenon) has been particularly brutal this season, routinely closing down ski lifts and summit runs for days at a time. So, despite all my longing to scurry off to the mountains all winter, the Andes didn't put on much of a show for me.
However, after my friend Lele wrote me from India to say: "I hope you've gone skiing," I felt it was time to take the chance, spend the money, and get myself to the slopes before this once in a lifetime (I hope not, but let's be realistic) opportunity irrevocably passed me by.
While a normal season would yield plenty of options for skiing in mid-August, the dismal 2010 season forced us to chase the snow. In addition, the trek was complicated by our tight and constantly conflicting work schedules. The result being that we had only one day (36 hours) to get to a resort (with snow), ski, and get back to Mendoza in time for my 8am class on Tuesday. Apparently, this is not normal judging by the reaction of locals, who grimace in mock horror (or maybe real?) and say something along the lines of: "no no not for me" or "I guess you're young."
Nonetheless, we went for it. We rented skis, boots, parkas and other assorted necessities. We packed food for three meals. We pulled our turtlenecks and buffs out of the bottom drawer, where they were resting peacefully after a loooong winter. We bought two bus tickets, and we spent a lot of money. We were off to Las Lenas, rumored to have decent snow and within ten hours drive time from Mendoza.
Here is a brief recap of our day:
4pm-12am Pat works his Sunday shift at the hostel.
1am To the terminal with 80 pounds of gear (slight exaggeration, but not much)
2:30 am We board the bus for Las Lenas
8:00 am Arrive at Las Lenas
8:15 am Finally wrestle our equipment from the bus and head to the resort
8:30 am Return to Las Lenas bus terminal for our lift tickets
8:45 am Janel spends 80 pesos on a pair of "Made in china" sunglasses
9:00 am Mate break
9:15 am finally on the lift
9:30 am still on the lift as we struggle (slowly) toward the summit
9:45 am see above
10:00 am First run!
5:00 pm Off the mountain, back to the bus
5:30 pm Leave Las Lenas just as fresh snow starts to fall
12:00 am Arrive back in Mendoza
8:15 am Janel oversleeps and misses her class.
So was it worth it? To be honest, the snow was crap. Mostly ice, some slush on the lower runs. It was crowded, despite being a Monday and the lack of snow. The lifts were incredibly slow, most of the mountain bare dirt and very ugly. It was extremely expensive and we are both still exhausted from the grueling schedule. But...
I still had a blast! Maybe my seemingly unwarranted enjoyment had something to do with the fact that I haven't been skiing (anywhere) in 4 long seasons. Maybe I loved it because it was something new. Maybe I managed to find beauty in all those high peaks, stacked up against each other like so many dominoes as far as the eye can see, even if they were brown instead of white.
Without a doubt, our timing was terrible. But in the end, I think I'll still take a nice day at Timberline or Beaver Creek over the Andes in the future. For one thing, there are no trees in the Andes. The runs are bare and stark and decidedly less magical without those enchanted tree tunnels. For another, everyone seemed to be a novice, leading to a lot of accidents on the slopes. And finally, even the double blacks were pretty boring. I expected more excitement from all those jagged peaks. My assessment: overrated.
On Monday, we finally strapped on some fiberglass, pulled on those torturous boots, and swaddled ourselves in fluffy parkas and waterproof pants. Indeed- we finally went skiing in the Andes. When you come to South America just in time for winter and especially if you decide to settle just a stone's throw from the Andes in cozy Mendoza, you would think that a ski trip is more or less compulsory. After all, the Andes Mountains boast some world-class skiing. Portillo, just a few kilometers across the border in Chile, is the official "summer" Olympic training grounds for ski racers from the northern hemisphere. Bariloche, south of Mendoza, is world-renowned for its towering peaks. And Las Lenas is one of the largest resorts in the whole southern hemisphere. Unless you are a "lodge bunny," skiing in the Andes is a dream come true.
Unfortunately, not all dreams come true exactly as you imagined. Last season (2009) was one of the best on record in South America. The resorts were positively dumped on for 3 full months, and many an extreme skiing video was filmed in the area. However, as is so often the case, a fantastic season is often followed by a drought of sorts. Alas, 2010 turned out to be one of the WORST seasons on record. One well-known resort near Mendoza, Penitentes, never even managed to open this season. The Andes remain stubbornly brown, only their uppermost peaks graced with a light dusting of snow. In addition, the Zonda wind (see my previous entries for a fuller explanation of this freak meteorological phenomenon) has been particularly brutal this season, routinely closing down ski lifts and summit runs for days at a time. So, despite all my longing to scurry off to the mountains all winter, the Andes didn't put on much of a show for me.
However, after my friend Lele wrote me from India to say: "I hope you've gone skiing," I felt it was time to take the chance, spend the money, and get myself to the slopes before this once in a lifetime (I hope not, but let's be realistic) opportunity irrevocably passed me by.
While a normal season would yield plenty of options for skiing in mid-August, the dismal 2010 season forced us to chase the snow. In addition, the trek was complicated by our tight and constantly conflicting work schedules. The result being that we had only one day (36 hours) to get to a resort (with snow), ski, and get back to Mendoza in time for my 8am class on Tuesday. Apparently, this is not normal judging by the reaction of locals, who grimace in mock horror (or maybe real?) and say something along the lines of: "no no not for me" or "I guess you're young."
Nonetheless, we went for it. We rented skis, boots, parkas and other assorted necessities. We packed food for three meals. We pulled our turtlenecks and buffs out of the bottom drawer, where they were resting peacefully after a loooong winter. We bought two bus tickets, and we spent a lot of money. We were off to Las Lenas, rumored to have decent snow and within ten hours drive time from Mendoza.
Here is a brief recap of our day:
4pm-12am Pat works his Sunday shift at the hostel.
1am To the terminal with 80 pounds of gear (slight exaggeration, but not much)
2:30 am We board the bus for Las Lenas
8:00 am Arrive at Las Lenas
8:15 am Finally wrestle our equipment from the bus and head to the resort
8:30 am Return to Las Lenas bus terminal for our lift tickets
8:45 am Janel spends 80 pesos on a pair of "Made in china" sunglasses
9:00 am Mate break
9:15 am finally on the lift
9:30 am still on the lift as we struggle (slowly) toward the summit
9:45 am see above
10:00 am First run!
5:00 pm Off the mountain, back to the bus
5:30 pm Leave Las Lenas just as fresh snow starts to fall
12:00 am Arrive back in Mendoza
8:15 am Janel oversleeps and misses her class.
So was it worth it? To be honest, the snow was crap. Mostly ice, some slush on the lower runs. It was crowded, despite being a Monday and the lack of snow. The lifts were incredibly slow, most of the mountain bare dirt and very ugly. It was extremely expensive and we are both still exhausted from the grueling schedule. But...
I still had a blast! Maybe my seemingly unwarranted enjoyment had something to do with the fact that I haven't been skiing (anywhere) in 4 long seasons. Maybe I loved it because it was something new. Maybe I managed to find beauty in all those high peaks, stacked up against each other like so many dominoes as far as the eye can see, even if they were brown instead of white.
Without a doubt, our timing was terrible. But in the end, I think I'll still take a nice day at Timberline or Beaver Creek over the Andes in the future. For one thing, there are no trees in the Andes. The runs are bare and stark and decidedly less magical without those enchanted tree tunnels. For another, everyone seemed to be a novice, leading to a lot of accidents on the slopes. And finally, even the double blacks were pretty boring. I expected more excitement from all those jagged peaks. My assessment: overrated.
August 19, 2010
A Day in the Life
Today I:
Skipped Spanish class. I didn't do my homework and I felt disinclined to suffer the humiliation...again. Call it a "mental health day."
Ate 4 medialunas (baby croissants, smeared with dulce de leche) while sitting on my bed in my "fat pants." If I were watching Bridget Jones and nursing a vodka tonic, I might start to worry...
Tried to add up my finances by calculating exactly how much money we've spent in the last 4 months, minus the amount of money we have made. I gave up in despair (see previous entry) when i realized that I have made less than $500, total.
Woke up to a beautiful spring morning, with countless birds chirping and the sun shining (and warm!). The pleasures of spring were so acute that I elected to leave my ipod at home for the first time in months, needing no distraction to compel me to trek to work.
Got hit on about 20 times on my way to my first class. The best of which went something like this: I cross the street and the sun falls on my face as I leave the shadow of a tall building. The 75-80 year old man hobbling across the street opposite me stares, open-mouthed, then grabs his heart and moans "ah, mi corazooon!" I stop, alarmed and suspecting a heart attack. Instead, he gives me a mischievous wink and does a small jig, still in the middle of the street. Classic, mildly creepy, but mostly adorable.
Fell in love with my boyfriend all over again when I read his heartfelt blog entry (while on my medialuna binge). It is wonderful, rewarding, and beautiful to see him open up, to find himself and grow here. I only hope we can find ourselves... together.
Finished the second book of the trilogy entitled "Josephine B." that my mom sent me from home. This shameless smut/historical fiction has a mysterious hold on me. I think the last time I was so entranced by almost sleezy romance with a taste of historical fact was the "Outlander" series, after which I swore I would find me a sexy redhead. Hmmm....
Ate a pound of meat lasagna. IN ADDITION to the medialunas. Now that spring is here, I guess its time for a run?
Searched in vain for a bicycle pump. Like most things in Argentina, a small task somehow made large, time-consuming, and ultimately futile. I did find a bike shop that might be able to put some air in my two flat tires, IF I haul it across town AND somehow ignore the soft-core porn pasted on all four walls (floor to ceiling). This may a perfect candidate for "would you rather..."
Visited five separate ski rental shops, searching for the lowest price and the most obnoxious neon one-piece ski suit around. Unfortunately, it turns out that renting a boring gray north face jacket is cheaper than an adult onesie that 1982 threw up on. How can that be correct? This is taking the hipster scene too far! I demand to be photographed skiing in the Andes wearing a neon pink jumper. Let's make it happen, Argentina, I've only got one chance.
That's about it. Boring, completely unproductive (unless you count eating my body weight in fat), and yet completely typical of my life here. I'm not sure if I'm doing something right or failing miserably at life. I've never felt so aimless...
Skipped Spanish class. I didn't do my homework and I felt disinclined to suffer the humiliation...again. Call it a "mental health day."
Ate 4 medialunas (baby croissants, smeared with dulce de leche) while sitting on my bed in my "fat pants." If I were watching Bridget Jones and nursing a vodka tonic, I might start to worry...
Tried to add up my finances by calculating exactly how much money we've spent in the last 4 months, minus the amount of money we have made. I gave up in despair (see previous entry) when i realized that I have made less than $500, total.
Woke up to a beautiful spring morning, with countless birds chirping and the sun shining (and warm!). The pleasures of spring were so acute that I elected to leave my ipod at home for the first time in months, needing no distraction to compel me to trek to work.
Got hit on about 20 times on my way to my first class. The best of which went something like this: I cross the street and the sun falls on my face as I leave the shadow of a tall building. The 75-80 year old man hobbling across the street opposite me stares, open-mouthed, then grabs his heart and moans "ah, mi corazooon!" I stop, alarmed and suspecting a heart attack. Instead, he gives me a mischievous wink and does a small jig, still in the middle of the street. Classic, mildly creepy, but mostly adorable.
Fell in love with my boyfriend all over again when I read his heartfelt blog entry (while on my medialuna binge). It is wonderful, rewarding, and beautiful to see him open up, to find himself and grow here. I only hope we can find ourselves... together.
Finished the second book of the trilogy entitled "Josephine B." that my mom sent me from home. This shameless smut/historical fiction has a mysterious hold on me. I think the last time I was so entranced by almost sleezy romance with a taste of historical fact was the "Outlander" series, after which I swore I would find me a sexy redhead. Hmmm....
Ate a pound of meat lasagna. IN ADDITION to the medialunas. Now that spring is here, I guess its time for a run?
Searched in vain for a bicycle pump. Like most things in Argentina, a small task somehow made large, time-consuming, and ultimately futile. I did find a bike shop that might be able to put some air in my two flat tires, IF I haul it across town AND somehow ignore the soft-core porn pasted on all four walls (floor to ceiling). This may a perfect candidate for "would you rather..."
Visited five separate ski rental shops, searching for the lowest price and the most obnoxious neon one-piece ski suit around. Unfortunately, it turns out that renting a boring gray north face jacket is cheaper than an adult onesie that 1982 threw up on. How can that be correct? This is taking the hipster scene too far! I demand to be photographed skiing in the Andes wearing a neon pink jumper. Let's make it happen, Argentina, I've only got one chance.
That's about it. Boring, completely unproductive (unless you count eating my body weight in fat), and yet completely typical of my life here. I'm not sure if I'm doing something right or failing miserably at life. I've never felt so aimless...
August 13, 2010
Lonesome
Feeling lonely, feeling low.
Feeling like I have nowhere to go.
Feeling cold, another day of snow.
So lonely, so low.
Feeling like I have nowhere to go.
Feeling cold, another day of snow.
So lonely, so low.
August 6, 2010
A Little Spring in my Step
Lately, I find myself to be increasingly thankful for what I have. This is a welcome reprieve from the self-loathing and intense feelings of failure I have experienced for a number of weeks. One day last week, shortly after the last failed attempt to cross the border I believe, I simply lost my mind. That is to say, I lost the ability to communicate internally or externally, and I could feel myself reeling from too much stress. At this point, I wisely kicked Pat out of our room, turned on some soothing yoga music and proceeded to meditate for roughly 30 minutes. The deep, conscious breathing and the soothing music brought me back down to earth long enough to see how much I have to be thankful for. Here are a few notable things I would like to mention:
Even though I have a bright red rash on my cheeks from daily exposure to the bitterly cold air that has been wailing through Mendoza this week, everyone keeps telling me that really: this is probably the last cold spell of the winter. Halleujah! Spring is on the way. I have never been more ready for a sunburn in my life...
Several weeks ago, my warm-hearted mother took pity on me and sent a box of clothes, books, and Burt's Bees chapstick via USPS. As many of you may have heard, the post office in Argentina is fairly world-renowned at losing, stealing, or permanently interring international mail at the customs office in Buenos Aires. After hearing the recounting of several tales of woe from friends and acquaintances here, I harbored very little hope of ever receiving said package. If it did make it to me, I fully expected to pay an exorbitant fee for the privilege of carrying it out of the post office in one piece. However, by some inconceivable stroke of good fortune, my package not only made it to Argentina, but to the local post office in Mendoza in one piece: unopened, unmolested and mysteriously free of accumulated charges. In the end, I walked out those doors clutching my package to my chest, blissfully unaware of the cruel, cold wind with a Chirstmas-morning smile plastered resolutely on my face.
After weeks of fairly starving for work as we struggled to pay our rent AND buy food, offers of employment have been comparatively flying my way lately. As many teachers here have commented: it is extremely difficult to get started but once you are established a bit, there is plenty of demand. In other words, if you want to come live in Argentina, you most surely need a very large nest egg to live off for at least a few months. But eventually, your name gets around, and if the people have good things to say about you, work will surely come your way. Now, my problem seems to be finding a way to make my schedule stretch and cut my commute time down to zero, while still partaking of that most glorious South American ritual: the daily siesta.
Against all odds, I have an incredible, warm, and cozy apartment that feels like home. Why do I say against all odds? Because every other foreigner I have met here has been struggling to find a place to call home. Some of them for three or four times as long as I have even been in Argentina. Why is it so difficult? It all stems from the fact that the government here likes to make it really easy to be illegal, and really difficult to be legal. And just like in the States, being an illegal comes with all sorts of problems and limitations. One of the biggest being the fact that you often have to pay your ENTIRE rent up front to find a place to live. Every time I come home, I feel so lucky to have chanced into this great place through a random connection that just happened to click.
I started Spanish class this week! The profound nature of this accomplishment can really only be appreciated by reading my blog entry entitled Mission Spanish: Impossible. I am greatly indebted to a certain gentleman named Sergio, who really went way out of his way to make this class work for me; including a price discount, a used book he scrounged up from the basement, and an offer of free personal grammar lessons if I felt totally drowned in my lack of formal training. To Sergio and all the others out there who really put themselves out to help others, I am so thankful for you!
And I am most eternally thankful for my family and friends. It has been difficult to make real connections down here, more difficult that I expected. Partly owing to the language barrier exacerbated my failure to learn Spanish before arrival, partly due to the insular nature of the community in which we chose to settle. Nonetheless, I often miss the easy connection of friends and family here and I am blessed to have many who care enough to keep in touch despite the long distance. Besos to you all! And to my most constant companion, friend, and support- Thanks Dumples- I love you more every day and I truly could not do this without you (and don't be mad that I published your nickname online...)
Even though I have a bright red rash on my cheeks from daily exposure to the bitterly cold air that has been wailing through Mendoza this week, everyone keeps telling me that really: this is probably the last cold spell of the winter. Halleujah! Spring is on the way. I have never been more ready for a sunburn in my life...
Several weeks ago, my warm-hearted mother took pity on me and sent a box of clothes, books, and Burt's Bees chapstick via USPS. As many of you may have heard, the post office in Argentina is fairly world-renowned at losing, stealing, or permanently interring international mail at the customs office in Buenos Aires. After hearing the recounting of several tales of woe from friends and acquaintances here, I harbored very little hope of ever receiving said package. If it did make it to me, I fully expected to pay an exorbitant fee for the privilege of carrying it out of the post office in one piece. However, by some inconceivable stroke of good fortune, my package not only made it to Argentina, but to the local post office in Mendoza in one piece: unopened, unmolested and mysteriously free of accumulated charges. In the end, I walked out those doors clutching my package to my chest, blissfully unaware of the cruel, cold wind with a Chirstmas-morning smile plastered resolutely on my face.
After weeks of fairly starving for work as we struggled to pay our rent AND buy food, offers of employment have been comparatively flying my way lately. As many teachers here have commented: it is extremely difficult to get started but once you are established a bit, there is plenty of demand. In other words, if you want to come live in Argentina, you most surely need a very large nest egg to live off for at least a few months. But eventually, your name gets around, and if the people have good things to say about you, work will surely come your way. Now, my problem seems to be finding a way to make my schedule stretch and cut my commute time down to zero, while still partaking of that most glorious South American ritual: the daily siesta.
Against all odds, I have an incredible, warm, and cozy apartment that feels like home. Why do I say against all odds? Because every other foreigner I have met here has been struggling to find a place to call home. Some of them for three or four times as long as I have even been in Argentina. Why is it so difficult? It all stems from the fact that the government here likes to make it really easy to be illegal, and really difficult to be legal. And just like in the States, being an illegal comes with all sorts of problems and limitations. One of the biggest being the fact that you often have to pay your ENTIRE rent up front to find a place to live. Every time I come home, I feel so lucky to have chanced into this great place through a random connection that just happened to click.
I started Spanish class this week! The profound nature of this accomplishment can really only be appreciated by reading my blog entry entitled Mission Spanish: Impossible. I am greatly indebted to a certain gentleman named Sergio, who really went way out of his way to make this class work for me; including a price discount, a used book he scrounged up from the basement, and an offer of free personal grammar lessons if I felt totally drowned in my lack of formal training. To Sergio and all the others out there who really put themselves out to help others, I am so thankful for you!
And I am most eternally thankful for my family and friends. It has been difficult to make real connections down here, more difficult that I expected. Partly owing to the language barrier exacerbated my failure to learn Spanish before arrival, partly due to the insular nature of the community in which we chose to settle. Nonetheless, I often miss the easy connection of friends and family here and I am blessed to have many who care enough to keep in touch despite the long distance. Besos to you all! And to my most constant companion, friend, and support- Thanks Dumples- I love you more every day and I truly could not do this without you (and don't be mad that I published your nickname online...)
July 24, 2010
Mission Chile: Impossible
I thought that maybe I could turn all the impossible situations in my life right now into some kind of running column. So I already discussed the impossibility of learning spanish here. Now i want to talk about the impossibility of crossing the border into Chile, and thus renewing our visas. The failure of Mission Chile means only one thing: rapid deportation. Failure is not an option.
As many of you know, it is nearly impossible to obtain a work visa in Argentina. The government is highly opposed to work visas for foreigners because they require a lot more paperwork. At least that is the main reason as far as I can figure. So we are living (and working) here on 3-month tourist visas. In short, this means we must leave Argentina every 90 days in order to continue living here. This necessity certainly informed our decision of where to live. Bs. As. is just a boat ride away from Uruguay; Mendoza just a few miles from Chile. These are by far the easiest exit points for visa renewals. However, when we chose Mendoza/Chile, we stupidly failed to factor in one small detail: our visas were due to expire at the end of July (the absolute dead of winter here), and we had to cross over the highest mountain range in South America. Hmmmm.... a bad move for which we are paying dearly now.
For the last 3 weeks, the pass to Chile has been closed. Sometimes, the reason is listed as heavy snow or ice, but more often the problem is wind. One particular type of wind, usually: the Zonda wind. The Zonda winds are specific to the Andes, although similar weather patterns create the Santa Ana winds in Santa Barbara, for example. The Zonda is a super strong, super heated mass of dry air that is forced up over the Andes by an incoming cold air stormfront. The Zonda is incredibly strong and incredibly dangerous when you happen to be traveling down a narrow, icy mountain road at the bottom of a mountainous valley more than 4000 m above sea level. The Zonda is a mighty foe.
So for the last 3 weekends, we have been making and canceling hostel/hotel reservations in various locales in Chile. Each weekend, we wake up early, check the pass conditions, and reluctantly return to bed in Mendoza. Thwarted again! However, this weekend just so happens to be our last chance. And Mission Chile is once again proving to be: Impossible! The Zonda has thwarted us once more, and I don't know what to do. And as I said, failure is not an option for this mission. So we will try again tomorrow, and then maybe we will be forced to go on the lam in the mountains, or turn to bribery...
As many of you know, it is nearly impossible to obtain a work visa in Argentina. The government is highly opposed to work visas for foreigners because they require a lot more paperwork. At least that is the main reason as far as I can figure. So we are living (and working) here on 3-month tourist visas. In short, this means we must leave Argentina every 90 days in order to continue living here. This necessity certainly informed our decision of where to live. Bs. As. is just a boat ride away from Uruguay; Mendoza just a few miles from Chile. These are by far the easiest exit points for visa renewals. However, when we chose Mendoza/Chile, we stupidly failed to factor in one small detail: our visas were due to expire at the end of July (the absolute dead of winter here), and we had to cross over the highest mountain range in South America. Hmmmm.... a bad move for which we are paying dearly now.
For the last 3 weeks, the pass to Chile has been closed. Sometimes, the reason is listed as heavy snow or ice, but more often the problem is wind. One particular type of wind, usually: the Zonda wind. The Zonda winds are specific to the Andes, although similar weather patterns create the Santa Ana winds in Santa Barbara, for example. The Zonda is a super strong, super heated mass of dry air that is forced up over the Andes by an incoming cold air stormfront. The Zonda is incredibly strong and incredibly dangerous when you happen to be traveling down a narrow, icy mountain road at the bottom of a mountainous valley more than 4000 m above sea level. The Zonda is a mighty foe.
So for the last 3 weekends, we have been making and canceling hostel/hotel reservations in various locales in Chile. Each weekend, we wake up early, check the pass conditions, and reluctantly return to bed in Mendoza. Thwarted again! However, this weekend just so happens to be our last chance. And Mission Chile is once again proving to be: Impossible! The Zonda has thwarted us once more, and I don't know what to do. And as I said, failure is not an option for this mission. So we will try again tomorrow, and then maybe we will be forced to go on the lam in the mountains, or turn to bribery...
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