Tonight, I am tired. I am full of empanadas, wine, and anticipation. In the morning, we move to our new apartment. I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that we actually have an apartment in Argentina, but i'm rapidly warming up to the idea. No more hostels! No more annoying, drunk British travelers to wake me up in the middle of the night and monopolize the communal kitchen! From tomorrow, we will have a place to call home, right in the heart of Mendoza.

But enough about tomorrow, what about today? Today, we went wine tasting at long last! After nearly three full weeks in Mendoza, the wine capital of Argentina, we finally managed to get our act together and make it out to Mr. Hugo, our friendly local wine bike tour guide. In fact, tour guide might be an overestimation of his job description. Mr. Hugo has a pretty amazing life. A genial man somewhere in his 50's, Mr. Hugo runs a brisk business out of his home in Maipu, just south of Mendoza and right in the middle of a number of vineyards. Mr. Hugo welcomes tourists and locals alike with a generous cup of wine as soon as you enter his front yard. Lined up against the wall of his garage are 50 or so bicycles, from cruisers with baskets to mountain bikes with gears. When we arrived, a group of six British tourists were all riding off on shaky tandem bikes. And that was before they started drinking. I hope they found their balance before they hit too many wineries. After the initial cup of wine, Mr. Hugo handed us a small map of the area while his wife drew in the various destinations. Then we chose our bikes and off we went!

Our first stop was the museum of wine making in Maipu, mostly because the tour included a free glass of wine. Can't pass that up! The tour was actually great, a self-guided romp through two centuries of wine making in the region. The museum also housed an active winery, with huge oak barrels lining the walls. These barrels were, we decided upon closer inspection, quite large enough to comfortably live in. In fact, it appeared that one of the barrels housed a small office.

Next, we headed to a chocolateria and liquor house. Here, we started our tasting with some delicious olive oil, followed by tasty olive tapenades. Soon enough, however, we came to the liquors. Along with chocolate and dulche de leche liquors, this little gem also featured absinthe tasting, tobacco liquor, and dead russian, a potent mixture of pimentos and vodka. Although the tobacco liqour was surprisingly delicious, the absinthe was brutal, even though all five us split just one shot. Note for future travelers: not the best way to start a day of drinking. We did, however, buy some of the tastiest dulche de leche con cafe I've ever had the pleasure of introducing to my tongue.

On the way to the next stop, one of our companions somehow managed to break the pedal off his bike. I mean, the whole contraption just sort of...snapped. Luckily, a kindly moto-cop called Mr. Hugo for us, who loaded a new bike into his mini-van and drove it out to us. He also gave us a free extra hour for our trouble. Best of all, our friend the motocop became our personal police escort, slowly following behind us all the way to the next winery. We never figured out his motive in this but we were highly amused. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, at least in comparison to the absinthe and police escort. We had some excellent wines in some beautiful locations, overlooking vineyards just starting to turn colors after the harvest. We bought a bottle of 2002 tempranillo, a new kind of wine for me. When we returned to Mr. Hugo, he filled our glasses full and invited us all to hang out for a bit, which we did, and enjoy the sunset, which was beautiful. Wine country, Argentina style.

The Andes!

I remember once having a dream about the Andes, the vast mountain range that stretches between Chile and Argentina like a long, jagged backbone. In the dream, these mountains were wild; brown-green valleys and black jagged peaks set against a sky of vivid blue and tumultuous grey clouds. Far below me in a valley, a river wound lazily through the peaks and a small town lay nestled in the crook of a huge black volcano. In my dream, the Andes seemed remote and surreal. When I woke up, the images floated away into the dim recesses of my mind. I did not think of the Andes as solid ground. I did not think of them as accessible to me.

Yesterday, I rode in a rented chevy (2 wheel drive) all the way from Mendoza to the Chilean border. Along the way, I stopped to gaze in awe at Aconcagua, the tallest peak outside of the Himalayas; at Inca point, where multi-colored mineral waters flow over rocky ridges and swirl around ancient dwellings; and to Christo Redemptor, a historic statue 4000 meters above sea level straddling the now defunct dizzy switchbacks of the old border crossing. At this final destination, I stood in the icy cold wind and looked out at the Andes. Below me, brown-green valleys collided with jagged, snowy black peaks that scraped a brilliant blue sky studded with swirling grey clouds. The river wound a lazy path through the pass and a small mountain settlement perched precariously at the base of a massive landslide. I had an overwhelming sense of deja vu. It is not everyday that my dream-world collides so powerfully with the present.

The Andes look just as I pictured them, which is a truly rare occurrence for a traveler. Usually, reality is so different from the pictures, thrown off by the small details like the strong smell of feces (the Taj Mahal), or something big like a massive coal mine or logging operation. So many grand places lose scale in person, or are disturbed irrevocably by the passage of time. For me, the Andes were a powerful experience of awe and delight. Driving through the impossible tunnels, seeing the massive glaciers atop ancient and incredible peaks was truly a unique experience I will never forget. Luckily, we took hundreds of epic pictures so that you too, can dream of the Andes and maybe one day stand as I did, looking down with a nauseating sense of deja vu at your dream come true.

That's all for tonight. I think the more mundane details of my life here are unworthy to share space with the Andes. Another post, another time. Good night.

Sick Sunday

Today we spent the entire day inside our hostel. As warm and hospitable as this place is, I am feeling a bit stir-crazy. Unfortunately, I am ill. Too bad! I can't help but feel the injustice of this timing: right as the bicentennial celebration kicks into high gear. I am crossing my fingers to cross the threshold tomorrow and venture out into the madness. Also tomorrow: I finally get to use my new Mate gourd after letting it steep for two days. Two days! Let the healing powers of the Yerba begin... I did accomplish one thing today though; check out the new pictures of beautiful, sleepy La Cumbre and lively Mendoza I managed to post. Also, please leave comments if you feel so inclined, I love to read them!

Tomorrow, I will also attempt to purchase a winter coat/angora sweater. Whichever comes first, because it is getting cold here! Of course, with the holiday I might be doing more window shopping than actual purchasing. What is warmer: leather or wool coat?

Finding Home

Whew. I have a lot of information to catch up on. It all started when we decided to take a "vacation from vacation." It wrapped up with our unprecedented decision to settle down. I think we have found a home at last. Now the work begins...

After staying in Cordoba for about a week, we decided it was time to move on. The city is nice, very charming in its own way. Filled with old churches, universities, and of course, many cafes and bars, it is especially beautiful at night when all the ancient buildings (some dating back to the 1600's) are lit from underneath. I would definitely recommend it as a stop on any tour of Argentina. However, as a place to settle, I found Cordoba a little lacking. Although it is a large city (among the top three in Argentina) it lacks the bustle of a real metropolis, while simultaneously being too crowded and cramped to evoke the peace of a small town. More persuasive yet, the cafe in Cordoba was consistently burned. Since I officially got hooked on Argentinian cafe in Buenos Aires, this was a decidedly undesirable situation. Also, I guess I felt that Cordoba, for all its unique regional identity, was in some ways trying to imitate Buenos Aires, which just cannot be equaled. Everything in Buenos Aires is big, loud, passionate, or perfection. Cordoba, in many ways (including the cafe) came off as somewhat second-rate.

So, after being worn down by the crazy go-go of Buenos Aires, and the cramped hustle of Cordoba, we decided it was time for a vacation from our seemingly indefinite vacation. Off to the mountains! We took a city bus up into the Alta Sierras, to a small town called La Cumbre. Nestled among ski resorts and mountain lakes, La Cumbre has perfected the image of a sleepy mountain town. For two blissful nights, we holed up in hostel El Condor, an old colonial English house complete with a woodstove in the kitchen and a glassed-in solarium. The weather steadily worsened, eventually bringing freezing temperatures and icy rain. Cozy and warm inside, we drank homemade wine with Fidel and the family while stoking the fire and playing with Juanicito, a three-month old poodle puppy. When it was time for bed, we retired upstairs, where I got to enjoy the pleasures of my own bedroom fireplace. Turns out, fireplaces six feet from the bed are actually not so enjoyable, particularly when the icy wind sends plumes of smoke into the room. Nonetheless, we slept soundly and were reluctant to leave. Fortune must have heard this sentiment though, because when we tried to leave, the bus driver decided to take the day off, and we found ourselves stranded. We ended up boarding a "red-eye" bus at 1 am, after waiting outside in the rain for 45 minutes.

Upon finally arriving in Mendoza, we were dazed from the early departure, the cold weather (my backpack was considerably lighter because I was WEARING most of my clothes), and the dizzying vision of morning mist rising from vast acres of grapes. Ah.... wine country, Argentina style.

From the beginning, I loved Mendoza. The wide avenues are lined with towering deciduous trees irrigated by flowing ditches that run alongside every avenue in town. Sprinkled with expansive and picturesuqe plazas, dotted with cafes (perfectly brewed cafe inside), restaurants and wine bars, this place is exquisite. Of course, it also comes included with the prerequisite South American trash heaps on all street corners, but thankfully there is a city-wide campaign using mimes to encourage recycling. Really. Mimes. Yes...

Mendoza feels like a city. It is really happening all the time (excluding siesta, strictly observed here), with music, tango shows, lots of cultured and crazy wine drinkers, museums and sidewalk art shows, and a nice Saturday market. It is also slow, with an easy-going attitude evinced most profoundly by our jovial innkeeper, Javier. Everything here is centered around the good life- good food, wine, friends, art, and fun. I like it. I like it a lot. In fact, after 5 days here, we feel wholly disinclined to depart. So here we will stay, settle, and hopefully find some work and an apartment soon. So it begins: life after vacation. But what a fun trip its been so far, and how lucky I feel to be able to cruise just a fraction of this vast land, dipping my toe here and there until I found a place to call home.

One in Every City

The title for today's entry refers to two things that I have found in pretty much every city I've visted and/or lived in; one good and one not-so-good. The first is the fantastic art museum we visted today in Nueva Cordoba; the latter is an obnoxious British man.

After setting no less than four alarms this morning, we finally managed to make it to breakfast. At last! Fresh cafe con leche (gratis) and some delicious pan put me in a better mood right from the start. I felt inspired to speak spanish todo de dia, which I did, mas o menos, without any major hang-ups. I sucessfully ordered food, gave directions to our surly cab driver and even inquired as to the price of some beautiful boots that I saw in a shop window. Even more impressive, I managed to leave the boot shop without buying them! At the end of the day, Pat complimented my Spanish, and I had to agree for once- I had a very good day and I think I learned a lot. My, how breakfast changes things!

Our destination for today was Nueva Cordoba, the other side of town. This area contains the Universidad de Nacional, several beautiful cathedrals, many many restaurants, cafes, heladarias, and a surplus of museums, high-rise apartments and the largest park in the city: Parque Sarimiento. Orginally, we thought to take a cab, but after our rigorous training in Buenos Aires, we felt sufficiently conditioned to walk the distance. After the midday bustle through Vieja Cordoba's many crowded shopping districts (bursting with carnicieras), we enjoyed the more leisurely pace and realatively wide open spaces of Nueva Cordoba. One of the first sights we encountered was the impressive facade of the Parroquia Sagrado Corazon de Jesus de los Capuchinos. You should all check out the plethora of pictures I took here in order to appreciate the quintessential gothic construction, complete with gargoyles. Another interesting element of this building was the one missing steeple, which was purposefully omitted to signify "human imperfection", or so claims my Lonely Planet.

After stopping for some compulsory empanadas (my new obession are Jamon y Queso, served warm) and kiwi gelato, we came upon the Museo Evita, one of several fine art museums in Cordoba. Making our way through four floors of Argentinian art, I feel that I learned so much about the history and psyche of this country. Most of the art was distinctly sorrowful, reflecting the dark and troubled history of the country. From graphic depictions of the hardships of the first colonists, to a deeply disturbing series called "Manos Anonimas" by Carlos Alonso which detailed the horrific history of military dissapearnces in Argentina from 1976 to the mid 80's, I really began to understand the darkness inherent in the Argentine psyche. And yet, the museum was housed in a flamboyantly French palatial estate, complete with dangling chandeliers, immaculate gardens and brightly painted walls. The contrast struck me as very indicative of the delicate balance between dark and bright, sorrow and joie de virve that I see all around me in Argentina.

We returned to our hostel (by cab, we aren't THAT well conditioned), where we cooked another delicious meal and retired to the terrazia to relax. Unfortunately, we were joined by one of the less savory fixtures of traveling abroad: a pretentious, obnoxious British man. Okay, to give the guy credit, he has moved around a bit, but the way he cut off all my sentences, insisted that South America was "dirty" and "disease-ridden" and attempted to enlighten us about the correctness of the new Arizona immigration policy, I can tell you very clearly: he is British at heart. After living in India, I became very wary of British travelers. In India, most of the British people I encountered maintained an unfounded colonial attitude about India- despite the fact that India has not been a British colony for nearly a century at this point. I was put off by their sense of entitlement, their insistence on belittling the host country, and their very obnoxious attempts to side with W. Bush. Since then, I tend to steer clear of British travelers, especially the older men, at all costs while abroad. I won't hold my breath, but I really, really hope that I will meet some more likeable British folk at some point down here. In the meantime, I plan to give Senor Britanica a wide berth, and maybe reconsider working at one of the many British-run language schools in Argentina.

Una Pelicula Incomprehensible

Today I felt... incompetent. It all began when we somehow managed to sleep through breakfast, again. Since this is the one meal that is included with the cost of our hostel, it seems reckless and inadvisable to miss it. Even more so when you miss it several times a week.

Missing breakfast meant that I had to shower and get dressed while my stomach rumbled and my mood rapidly soured. When I finally managed to struggle into some clothes and head out in search of food, the strong breeze blew my skirt (wrap-around style) apart, and I unintentionally flashed a group of disgruntled parking attendants. Great. Now I'll have to take the long way around the block from now on.

After finally consuming a wholly unsatisfying burnt pizza and an equally burnt cup of coffee, I returned to the hostel for the better part of the afternoon, where I wrestled with this f****ing blog and played ping-pong with Pat in the communal kitchen. It was a deeply productive afternoon.

At dinner, the waiter scolded me for inserting an English phrase into my halting attempt at Spanish, saying: "Do you mind speaking Spanish, because I really think you need to learn it." Of course he said this in flawless English, which made me feel like the world's most inarticulate person and threw my qualifications to teach into sharp relief, temporarily sinking me into a desperate pit of doubt and despair. Maybe I should devise a way to get paid for studying instead.

Always seeking new learning opportunities, I suggested we catch a movie en Espanol after dinner. Of course, the local movie theater was only playing American movies, dubbed over. As a result, I spent a good two hours with "Iron Man 2" watching really bad acting, bolstered by a weak plot line rendered decidedly incompressible by the rapid Spanish dialogue. I left feeling confused, slightly disturbed, and very incompetent. I hope tomorrow is a better day! Como se dice "hope", otra vez...

Cordoba and My First Carniceria

After four great days spent getting lost in Buenos Aires, we decided to move on to Cordoba, the second largest city in Argentina.

Cordoba is the old capital of Argentina, now known mostly as the educational center of the country. It is home to approximately one million people, although there is a near constant influx of domestic and international students.

Upon arrival, I think I was expecting to see some kind of old palatial university campuses, filled with students bustling off to class and frumpy Argentine professors. Against my better instincts, I had been building up Cordoba in my mind as some kind of regression to my own days at college.

In reality, Cordoba feels like a small, rather provincial town. Perhaps it is just the contrast with Buenos Aires, but it seems vastly more contained, with a slower overall pace to life. Of course, it doesn't help that we arrived on a Sunday, in a deeply catholic country, so all (and I mean ALL) the shops were closed. The streets were more or less deserted, with wistful bits of trash blowing the in the high Pampas breeze. In desperation, we scavenged some sandwiches from a roadside stall, along with a couple of beers (Quilmes, the most popular down here) and locked ourselves in our hotel room for the rest of the day. We watched High Fidelity, dubbed in Spanish, while downing our makeshift meal. I learned the word for "check" (cuenta) and then we passed out again. There goes our first Sunday.

Today, we woke up to a whole different city. The street outside our hotel was positively packed with people, and with all the shutters finally up on the shops, I could see that here too, the number of boot shops was disproportionately large. Clearly, I need a job so that I can start shopping.

After an eventful trek around the main plaza loaded down with our heavy backpacks, we managed to find a reasonable, comfortable hostel. This time, we opted for a doble room so that we could actually sleep in the same bed. After dropping our stuff, we popped into a cafe for some cafe con leche and ham sandwiches (with huevos! so good...). Then, we found our way to the river, where we plopped down in a grassy park near the water and watched our neighbor strip down to his underwear to do calisthenics while standing on his head. I tried to take pictures, but alas, he was moving too fast.

After a restful sojourn by the river, we headed to the downtown marketplace to buy some food for dinner. As usual, we found plenty of fresh, delicious vegetables. But tonight was different: I wanted to try cooking some carne.

In Argentina, as in many places around the world, one cannot simply waltz into a supermarket and pick up some pre-packaged beef from the refrigerated section. No, if one wishes to eat meat here, you are required to patronize your local carniceria, or meat shop. For those of you who don't know, I recently came off a three-year vegetarian kick, so this whole animal carcass thing is new to me, or newly new (born again carnivore?). Thus, the idea of actually entering a carniceria was a bit daunting to me.

Driven by my strange new bloodlust for sumptuous Argentinian meat, we tentatively entered a corner shop. Inside, I was overwhelmed by the smell of raw meat, the sound of the butcher's table saw, and the 5kg bag of raw intestine being purchased by an 85lb grandmother. The horror! We perused the selection from the doorway while I wrapped my scarf around my nose. Everyone was buying huge quantities of meat and I knew then how out of our league we were. When we finally approached the counter, we asked for 2 thin slices of carne. The butcher looked at us in disbelief. "Are you sure?" he asked. Yes. He gave us three and shook his head disapprovingly. Apparently, Costco is in the wrong market; Argentinians like their meat in bulk!

Outside, I gagged a bit and made a beeline for the nearest baby clothes shop. Surrounded by fluffy fabrics i felt my equilibrium return somewhat and we were able to head back out on the street to get lost yet again on our way back to the hostel, where we cooked up some mighty delicious carne!

Buenos Aires: Land of Smelly Buses

This is the enormity of my thoughts on day two in Argentina...

Buenos Aires, while in possession of a world-class subway system, beautiful parks (at least in Palermo) and the single widest avenue in the world (which is really not that wide, its all in the classification of "avenue"), is full of smelly, loud buses.

I expressed this little tidbit of eagle-eyed observation to my dear friend Sabina, who laughed (via facebook chat) and largely dismissed it. But really, Buenos Aires: why so many smelly buses? The pollution makes my eyes sting, and the entirety of Ave de Mayo was filled with smelly buses from Plaza de Mayo to Puerto Madero today!

All things considered, I really like Buenos Aires, but the smelly buses with their constant, insistent honking make the whole city seem less...seemly.

However, to make up for the smelly buses (in my opinion it about evens the playing field), Buenos Aires also seems to posses the highest per-block ratio of boot shops in the world. For anyone who knows me well, this is something akin to the old adage "kid in a candy shop." I love boots almost to distraction, and so to find a whole city positively brimming with boot shops makes me want to skip up and down with a big, goofy grin on my face. Thankfully, Patrick is around to pull me out of the path of an oncoming smelly bus...

One Day Down, Inumerable To Go...

Okay, I admit it: I procrastinated the start of this blog until a whole week into our trip. Why? Its a shallow, self-conscious reason; I just couldn't think of a good name for it. Despite having a week to debate the merits of possible titles, I'm still not sure I'm satisfied but I figured I better get going already, before all my entries are written in retrospect. So with many apologies, I don't have much to say about our first three days in Argentina. We spent them in the capital, Buenos Aires. Our time was pretty evenly divided between getting lost and stuffing ourselves with delicious, delicious food. As a consolation prize, I would like to share my first journal entry, written late at night on the rooftop terrace of our hostel, the conclusion of day one in Argentina:

"Sitting on the terrazia, five floors above street level in Buenos Aires- a large city that never seems to slumber. I, of course, am exhausted. Fully satiated after eating some of the best ravioli I've ever had, I am one step closer to Italy and one giant leap further from everything I hate about America. I am amazed, overwhelmed and nervous about my arrival here. After so much preparation it seems nearly impossible to have finally arrived. But what will happen next is a great mystery to me.

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, no matter who we become in the future, we will always be each other's partner in this moment of extraordinary experience.

I do not feel the same dreamlike state I experienced upon arriving in India, however. Perhaps that trip will always remain like my first love; burned into me, untouchable, impossible to replicate, forever golden-hued and perfect no matter how many imperfections it truly contained. There is no sense of reality in first love.

Yet, maybe this are just very different this time, in a realistic way. i am not alone, for one. And the language, if not familiar, is at least comprehensible to me. The people are at once friendly and aloof in a way that exudes cool, collected charm. My blonde hair does not cause people to stop dead in their tracks and gape, open-mouthed, the way it sometimes did in Jaipur. It is nice to be able to blend in here. If not completely, then at least in a crowd, at least upon first impression (before I open my mouth an vomit my atrocious Spanish). In Buenos Aires, people speak to me first in Spanish, no initial trace of suspicion about my being a clueless foreigner. I am happy, in this moment, that we are here, not in Thailand or even India again. I am happy to be able to feel that I might be able to settle here and feel- as impossible as it seems- at home. "

Seeking Something More

After approximately 24 hours travel time, I landed at Ezezia International Airport in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Accompanied by my loving and brilliant boyfriend, we gleefully fled the mind-numbing consumer confines of the United States, circa 2010, for the wide open freedom of Argentina. A new country, waaaay south of the border seemed like as good a flight path as any. Armed with our newly minted TOEFL/TEFL certificates, we are hoping to find gainful employment as English teachers here in Argentina, somehow.

What follows is my account of this search for something more, a different kind of life in a place we hope makes life seem worth living.