tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29146551974186888192024-03-12T20:55:44.031-04:00Greg's Travel BlogGreg's Travel Writeups and TipsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-77702794789984493362012-09-20T12:55:00.004-04:002012-11-13T19:55:07.506-05:00Brasil: Fun, Friendly, and Dangerous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What Brasil has to offer</td></tr>
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I arrived in Brasil a little more than a year ago, and the first thing I noticed is how everyone lives behind a 10-foot high wall or fence. Most of these walls also have electric fences or barbed wire on top, with cameras attached to the outer walls of the houses and bars fixed around the windows. "This place looks like a prison," I thought to myself. "But why?"<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Everyone told me how dangerous it was living here. I'm currently in Curitiba, one of the more important cities in the south, which is also rumored to be as dangerous as Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo on a per-capita basis. "It wasn't like this twenty years ago," I was told, but then I listened to how multiple people had had multiple cars stolen, houses broken into, or were robbed on the street at gunpoint or by knife...day and night...on busy streets and quiet roads. It happens every day to many people all over the country.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of the crime scene through my kitchen window</td></tr>
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I didn't believe them. Of course I did, but all I saw in the coming months were people going about their business in a normal way. No crime whatsoever. Is there an atmosphere of selfishness and an eye-for-an-eye here? Yes, this place bleeds insecurity, but I had just spent six months living in Chile before Brasil and remembered how everyone was afraid there, too, in spite of the idea that Chile is supposedly one of the safest countries in the world. "Is it possible that Brasilians are just paranoid?" I thought. For a long time, I believed just that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical way of protecting your house in Brasil</td></tr>
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The proof for me was that I never saw the violence. At one point my girlfriend's father had his car stolen from his house. He has an electric fence and the thieves managed to get into the house and steal the car anyway, but that was at night and no one saw it happen. We wondered how they got in and saw that it wasn't that difficult in some places to get around the fence. "Thieves here are lazy," I was told. "If they see that it's easy, they'll steal from you. If not, then they'll find a place that's not so difficult. It's all about opportunity." Has anything been changed with the fence? Not that I've seen. What's the point? More security? Actually, it's probably needed.<br />
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So this explained to some degree the electric fences, and barbed wire, and alarms, and cameras, and tall walls, and private security guards working overnight at the doctor's house next door. This explained the paranoia; it wasn't so much paranoia as it was smart: protect and you will be protected. Of course, this is only a patch. Protect and you shall be protected, but what about the culture? What about community policing? What about what the politicians think or are willing to do? Protect and you shall be protected, and corrupt and you shall be corrupted, too. It's a sickening disease. And while Brasilians will tell you they care, the truth of the matter is that they don't. They complain in private, and they do nothing practical to stop it. Is it just the thieves who are lazy? Laziness breeds laziness, too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't afford the electric bill? Go with barbed wire</td></tr>
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Naturally, I started paying more attention and being aware. I hated this part about me. Coming from the U.S. where supposedly we live in a country of fear, I was practicing it first-hand now. I walk a lot at night. I teach English and many of my students can only take classes after work. Walking the empty, dark streets at night is necessary, but I never expected what happened to me last Friday night.<br />
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Normally on Fridays I have class, and those students give me a ride to my girlfriend's house after class. But this week they were travelling, so I was in my house painting (<a href="http://www.gregmasonburns.com/">I'm also an artist, too</a>). It was about 9:30 when my girlfriend came on Skype and asked me when I was coming over. "I'm a bit tired, can you pick me up?" I asked. She picked me up forty-five minutes later in her father's Chevy Montana pick-up, which she was borrowing for the day, and we were on our way, or so we thought. Upon backing out of the yard, a man passed behind the truck. Nothing to be concerned about because this normal. After all, my house isn't the only one on the street. So we let him pass and we pulled out, closed the door to the yard, and drove off.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that's a playground</td></tr>
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As we were driving off, however, my girlfriend noticed through the rear-view mirror that the man had stopped and turned around. He looked suspicious in the way he turned around and then started walking back toward the wall around my building. We stopped to watch him, and he stopped at the wall near my apartment and looked at us as if he was waiting for us to drive off. We drove around the corner to see if he was going to jump the wall (my house does not have any additional protection on top of the wall). Upon coming back on the street, we noticed he was gone, and we were too quick for him to simply walk away. "He jumped," we thought.<br />
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Now, in Brasil, you don't go back. Going back means getting shot. Going back means something bad. You never want to catch a thief because you never know what he'll do. You never, never, never go back. But there were two girls in one of the small apartments inside the building. They were alone. We couldn't just drive away. Call the cops? They never would have come. They only come if someone is already hurt (more proof on that later). It was up to us to be sure that everything was OK. "What if the guy got inside and got to the girls?" we thought. So we went back.<br />
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I clicked the clicker to open the gate and we drove in. We looked. Phew, nothing. He went somewhere else. There was one other place in the yard he could have hidden, behind a wooden board, so we got out of the car to check. Within a second after that two guys, one with a gun, came running in the yard behind us. The guy with the gun went to my girlfriend presumably because she had the key. I got out of the car with my hands up and walked off to the side. She did the same, except to the front of the car. The guy without the gun got in the car and the guy with the gun suddenly couldn't see me. Why? Because there was a tree between the front of the car where he was and the side yard, where I was standing. Shouting in Portuguese, which I didn't understand due to the slang and speed of his language, he said I was getting away. My girlfriend convinced him that I'd respond to English. I did when she told me to "Come here." Funny, after she said that, he said "Come here" as well.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Inv8d7tstyANwN68V5K1vk5Cv28lF3-Tb5u8rVkgzDMw9L1POZd2k2k1pIpvf2vsegroesPz1CeOXwYOPS_LUM_WZhsvxODGGLzUu2NIx_Vz_vRjJ3AGHMLJkcW8E3geo0hd2A9N537y/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Inv8d7tstyANwN68V5K1vk5Cv28lF3-Tb5u8rVkgzDMw9L1POZd2k2k1pIpvf2vsegroesPz1CeOXwYOPS_LUM_WZhsvxODGGLzUu2NIx_Vz_vRjJ3AGHMLJkcW8E3geo0hd2A9N537y/s320/IMG_0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More electric fences</td></tr>
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The whole thing lasted about ten minutes. The girls, who live upstairs, saw the whole thing and were calling the police while it happened. Did they show up? Of course not. So we went to the station to file an official complaint. While there we met a woman who was reporting a home invasion. The thieves stole everything electrical from her house, also at gunpoint. Another guy had his truck with two motorcycles in the back stolen the same way. There were 150 inmates trying to cut the bars to the cell inside. Why? Because the cell only holds 40 people. How many police were there to protect the station? Three. The police were never going to show up. And we knew we'd never see the car again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQGvgk0AF9CSrceKTHvBHR5tHbrO7mhQTpnfH8jC045rH1C156kXHAFJEkSpuGmOR7WfND8o1fpWv8H9drNAx66sle0Zzb0qYchTlXEARV2kNLyrMplBo8HqO3VXSGoMN4QbefLWAdfyW/s1600/IMG_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQGvgk0AF9CSrceKTHvBHR5tHbrO7mhQTpnfH8jC045rH1C156kXHAFJEkSpuGmOR7WfND8o1fpWv8H9drNAx66sle0Zzb0qYchTlXEARV2kNLyrMplBo8HqO3VXSGoMN4QbefLWAdfyW/s320/IMG_0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Broken glass, the cheapest option</td></tr>
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I lost my backpack, some clothes, an expensive pair of prescription sunglasses, and a fading MP3 player. Nothing I can't live without. My girlfriend lost nothing. Her father lost the truck, but it was insured, so no problems there. It was a business vehicle anyway. We gained scars, images, and memories, of course. I knew I didn't want to live here anymore. When she finishes her PhD, we're going to make a decision. To where? I don't know, but not here. If this is normal, then I don't want normal.<br />
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My point? Look, Brasil has some wonderful people. The people are friendly, the beaches are great, the food is fantastic, and the culture is world-class. But it's not a country fit for the Olympics or the World Cup. It's a country where people are more concerned about their cars, their houses, their smartphones, and themselves...and no one else. They've failed as a country to come together be something great. I truly believe that Brasil has all the ingredients to be one of the world's greatest countries, both now and historically. The people are smart, entrepreneurial, great negotiators, even greater communicators, and wonderfully hospitable. They have amazing natural resources and the potential and willingness to be something greater than they are. But they never will be. They never will be because they do nothing about the corruptibility of their society, the politicians, and the police. They do nothing about the safety of the community; they only protect themselves. It's a country of separation, not togetherness. Is my country (U.S.A.) perfect? Of course not. Everyone all over the world knows our problems. And even though Americans often refer to themselves as Italian-Americans, African-Americans, Irish-Americans, etc. (I'm Scottish-American), when it comes to a moment of crisis, we're all Americans, and we all work together. Is that a perfect solution? Of course not. Of course we go too far sometimes, and of course many people all over the world hate how we respond, but the difference is that we do something. The great tragedy in Brasil isn't that they don't do anything, it's that they never will.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKiIMjC8b2CA0oD1F_Yz8URUgQLc49mTL76Pnh5lrqcMidehLWfDVVM9mRdI697cMdWsWHX_xkgZBoburMfGzCV8nlD6DMlF2JJrfSv-t41kjuNqGuQOgcbv6NheZYlxw6EOQUKyOMKTd/s1600/IMG_0012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKiIMjC8b2CA0oD1F_Yz8URUgQLc49mTL76Pnh5lrqcMidehLWfDVVM9mRdI697cMdWsWHX_xkgZBoburMfGzCV8nlD6DMlF2JJrfSv-t41kjuNqGuQOgcbv6NheZYlxw6EOQUKyOMKTd/s320/IMG_0012.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where we think the bastards were hiding</td></tr>
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I love my girlfriend and I really like my friends here. I'm enjoying learning Portuguese and Brasil has been a great place for me to develop as a person. I would love to live someday in Florianopolis, that southern island with all those so many great beaches, seafood restaurants, and relaxed atmosphere, but I don't want this, not just for myself, but for my friends here, too. Many of my students the past year have told me how all they want to do is leave Brasil. Most want to go to the U.S. or Canada, the latter of which currently has friendly incentives to encourage Brasilians to emigrate there. Some are thinking about Europe in spite of the financial crises there. Only my girlfriend wants to stay to make Brasil a better place (as a university professor, she's positioned well to do just that, too). I admire her for that, but even this incident has shaken her. Will we be better? Of course, but we'll never forget.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxl-LAuVH0C2iNRuZSStQan8uW4iASanhyphenhyphenQ5vhBY9HaHGxtCPdXfFO6ZO34J3W-LtggnqctoV8xcP3-J2sTpknW5JT5mPfGoO5fxOQupv_MUUC9pSp1VNbPeUO00bwM2YnyO4SUgUsffg/s1600/Mariscal+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxl-LAuVH0C2iNRuZSStQan8uW4iASanhyphenhyphenQ5vhBY9HaHGxtCPdXfFO6ZO34J3W-LtggnqctoV8xcP3-J2sTpknW5JT5mPfGoO5fxOQupv_MUUC9pSp1VNbPeUO00bwM2YnyO4SUgUsffg/s320/Mariscal+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beauty of Brasil</td></tr>
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My girlfriend, god bless her, started a <a href="http://www.avaaz.org/po/petition/Seguranca_comunitaria_na_minha_cidade/?cqpdrbb">petition</a> to bring community policing back to Curitiba. So far? Forty-two people (as of Sept 20, 2012), and she knows a lot of people. So what will happen if she gets to the 100 people she's asked for? I have no idea. If I had to guess, it'll get ignored. The politicians here seemingly only care about power, money, and, well, more power and money. Public safety is certainly not on their list of priorities. Why would it be? They're safe. Their families are safe, and the people who vote for them are able to afford more and better patches...cameras, electric fences, barbed wire. Who wants to live like this? I don't know, but they do, because they do nothing about it (my girlfriend's petition excepted, of course).<br />
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And what's next? The landlord is thinking of putting a camera on the house now. Will I feel safer with this patch? Yes. But, will I feel safer? Absolutely not.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijEJkz5Cpt9K6s32ugF6ng_mL98OxAXreoigm4XzS_9py1ccD2rX-v8ZdfKHsXoNXvPkp1vZ42LjWtTtM1CZiysZMOWYsDPy_VK1_5O7n6fH_27K_JUxHyBsnBAXq73E3MBfx4OIbgsjtG/s1600/IMG_0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijEJkz5Cpt9K6s32ugF6ng_mL98OxAXreoigm4XzS_9py1ccD2rX-v8ZdfKHsXoNXvPkp1vZ42LjWtTtM1CZiysZMOWYsDPy_VK1_5O7n6fH_27K_JUxHyBsnBAXq73E3MBfx4OIbgsjtG/s320/IMG_0057.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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(I recognize that this article is anecdotal. Quotes are not direct quotes, but they're definitely close enough)<br />
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Edit: To be clear, I am saying that what happened to me and my girlfriend is fairly normal. While you may not get carjacked, crime (robbery and theft) is a big enough problem that it affects everyone...and in some places especially tourists.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-84769627414797299742011-06-10T11:19:00.004-04:002011-06-10T11:28:53.762-04:00Motels in South America<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.skianything.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/9242010-All-American-Motel-In-Custer-SD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.skianything.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/9242010-All-American-Motel-In-Custer-SD.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical "All-American Motel"<br />
(Image from skianything.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">In South America the motels are specific places for folks to go and have sex. This isn't a sleaze thing; it's culturally important because people in South America don't move out of the house until they're married, and that sometimes doesn't happen until about 40 years old. It is an absolutely bizarre concept for</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"> North Americans to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">not move out at the age of 18, but it's phenomenally common in South America. Knowing this, it is understandable why these motels exist, because who wants to bring the girl from the bar home to mom?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">However, in a completely different context, I was talking with some friends the other day and I joked that one of them, who was struggling to find summer work, could get a job at his father's motel (the North American kind - i.e. - non-sexual) and he looked at me with one eyebrow cocked and asked, "What would my father have anything to do with a motel?" I was confused, until the others laughed at the notion of my friend's father running brothel. This led me to wonder aloud, "Why would you think that first and not about the standard sleep-while-travelling kind?"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a little context, motels in South America serve as rather important and common institutions: a fair amount of "dating" takes place in these places. As noted above, when living at home it is hard to bring a date, or even a steady girlfriend or boyfriend, home for a night of intimacy. Something about having to have tea and snacks with mom in front of the TV before heading upstairs seems a little depressing let alone wondering if mom has turned the TV up just to avoid having to hear the muffled sounds from the other side of the bedroom door. Of course, the most awkward moment isn't even getting through the front door to the bedroom, but it's asking mom if the coffee is fresh without looking her in the eye the next morning. In short, whether the notion of living at home until one is married is weird or not, at the very least, knowing that this is a cultural reality in South America makes the existence of motels understandable at the very least.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuvqOd2WwxpaSgtdYuZ8fNljsQ59g7Tku7GgEP1pvfSGuKGKN-yNCPqbfYVfrtbEdwoqzH_96Z_RToad5h59Iktvfd4DtCY0UlIwi7m9mWtch0BjKntIlTlxdEbQSupEpFM_LWOhg8O-F/s1600/001+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIuvqOd2WwxpaSgtdYuZ8fNljsQ59g7Tku7GgEP1pvfSGuKGKN-yNCPqbfYVfrtbEdwoqzH_96Z_RToad5h59Iktvfd4DtCY0UlIwi7m9mWtch0BjKntIlTlxdEbQSupEpFM_LWOhg8O-F/s320/001+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The "Hotel" Santa Victoria to the right of the green window</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(my old room)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I'm not exactly a connoisseur of these places, I do have some experience as a result of living next door to one in Santiago de Chile. I have also had conversations with folks in Brasil about these places, so while my experience isn't perfect, it is, on the very shallow surface, somewhat knowledgeable. In fact, it's enough to note that the quality varies wildly from place to place, or maybe even from country to country. For instance, the place next door to my apartment in Santiago was so close to me that it was common, while walking across the living room and dining room to and from the kitchen, to look out the windows and practically be able to wave and say, "hola!" to the dude smoking a cigarette out of his room's window after he had previously gotten his girlfriend to serenade me with her moans for an hour or so (come to think of it, if it was that long then maybe there were two guys, but I digress, even if my roommates and I occasionally had discussions regarding just how many people were in the room due to how many hours we'd hear a particular woman groan). Now this place was only slight better than a dump. You could see into the downstairs room pretty easily (no, we never saw anything like that, but the cleaners left the windows open when there was no one in the room). It looked like a Motel 6 in Detroit, the part of town that would make Eminem cringe, and yet it was full all the time. I'm not just talking weekends either, though undoubtedly that's when the loudest sex was often heard. Weekdays, mornings, afternoons, two o'clock on a Tuesday morning, it didn't matter; we heard sex coming from those rooms on a regular basis. It was simply a place to have sex, nothing less and nothing more, and despite it's low quality, it was popular.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS1nUIAxjrNL2oLbZAAb_McY-PhTX_RQprwWC1MYHgY1ubw_XdkFQ" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS1nUIAxjrNL2oLbZAAb_McY-PhTX_RQprwWC1MYHgY1ubw_XdkFQ" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Notice the lack of windows (those are TVs) on the entrance </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">on the right of this fortress-like motel</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(image from moteleiro.com.br)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was in Chile, but then there is this strip of highway in Curitiba, Brasil where there are about a dozen motels, all of which are so secret that when one drives up one doesn't do business with a person behind a counter but with a person behind a concrete wall instead. Seriously, these things are fortresses. When one pays, one uses one of those holes in the wall that one finds at bank drive-throughs. They're built like this so that no one knows who comes and who goes. Each room has a garage so that folks don't have to get out of the car outside the room. It's funny because many years ago there was a scandal in Brasil about a government official finding his wife at one of these places. These places are supposed to be secretive for a reason, and that motel apparently blew it (excuse the pun). Still, the place in Santiago wasn't so secretive. When one walked in one was greeted by the desk person who showed the couple to their room. While it is outside the scope of this post, I wonder what the difference says about the dating scene in both Brasil and Chile.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://guiademoteis.com.br/motelblog/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/CURITIBA-CELEBRITY-300x202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://guiademoteis.com.br/motelblog/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/CURITIBA-CELEBRITY-300x202.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A multi-level motel suite in Curitiba</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(image from guidemoteis.com.br)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">But I digress again. I was speaking more about the quality, and from what I understand the quality in Brasil (or at least in Curitiba) is nothing like in that place next door to me in Chile. The ones in Brasil have waterfall pools. They have 40-inch flat screen TVs, bars, bottles of champagne stocked to the gills in the fridge, and gourmet meals delivered to your room (left in a private, closet-like room attached only to your bedroom so that no one can come in and see you, of course). The cost can be as high as $400 (US) per night for the suites and $150 for the crappy rooms without the waterfall pool, but still with a hot tub large enough for six people. It's funny because these places are so nice and expensive that Brasilians actually use them for parties. I know someone who, upon going there for the first time with his girlfriend, was stunned to hear the woman on the other end of the speaker ask him how many people were renting the room. He turned to his girlfriend and wondered aloud, "Aren't these just for sex?" She laughed and said, "No, they're for parties, too, and not the sexual kind."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"> <i>Seriously</i>? Well, to be honest, it seems like good business planning to me, so what do I care, but imagine being asked that question when going to the motel for a completely </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">different</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">, and fairly, the original reason. It makes one start wondering which friends should be invited next time.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://theworldoffroad.gr/photos/1238/theworldoffroad-00746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://theworldoffroad.gr/photos/1238/theworldoffroad-00746.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Inside a Chilean institution (and invention): a cafe con pierna</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Image from theworldoffroad.gr)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OK, I see the flaw in my quality argument: that maybe the place next to my apartment in Santiago was simply a cheap motel while Curitiba has it's own cheap places, it's just that the expensive places happen to be located along the main road to the airport, of which I had regular exposure to during my stay there. Maybe there are expensive motels in Chile, too, like the ones in Curitiba, and to be honest I believe that's the case, I just don't know where they are. But I'm not entirely convinced that the quality question I created isn't completely inaccurate. I'm not going to go into this in-depth because: 1) I'm not an expert and; 2) as stated above, this isn't the place for it, but let's just say that Chileans and Brasilians are different in many ways, not least of which is personality, which dictates a lot about how people approach life. Chileans, while not afraid to step out a bit with their cafes con piernas, are fairly conservative people and don't really seem the type to overindulge in luxury as a society. Simply put, Brasilians like flash, and that says a lot to me about how motels might also be a higher quality in Brasil, in general, than in Chile. Also, the motels in Curitiba aren't exactly in the best neighborhood (not that it's a slum, but it's not in the posh part of town either), whereas in Santiago I didn't live in a particularly bad part of town. So, even if not perfect, I can draw some conclusions. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;">But the real question here goes back to my original question I posed to my friends: where did this notion of motels only for sex come from outside of South America? Is it common in Canada? North Carolina? Scotland? Spain? Australia? Indonesia? I'm curious, and I'm also curious to know what the quality is in these other locations. I'm not talking about Vegas or Atlantic City, the two cities where I wouldn't be surprised if a South American style motel existed, but within the mainstream community instead. I never knew these places existed like this outside of sleazy Vegas, and when I first learned about them in South America I thought it was a specific cultural thing, which it is. Since kids generally move out when they're 18 in North America, it is significantly less necessary in North America than it is in South America. But there it is, at least three friends had that idea first, and now I'm left wondering, where the hell was I?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #212126;"> </span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4South America-8.783195 -55.491477000000032-43.5954905 -86.187327000000039 26.0291005 -24.795627000000032tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-33764433894730084402011-05-04T15:32:00.398-04:002011-05-04T20:17:19.870-04:00Transportation in Santiago and Chile<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mV1QJ2jOsQuZ7RUc18xt2kKi7l_0hxAT1b6eVxV5BYWrCqyOzb41p0vl2UjE7fEuqttkFQ7KSHC22_anDKtckW1asvjM3s7gk2XeAPsHyYsDaMjEc-7Ah0Jfuurlh6n9HD_RQbFT-n68/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mV1QJ2jOsQuZ7RUc18xt2kKi7l_0hxAT1b6eVxV5BYWrCqyOzb41p0vl2UjE7fEuqttkFQ7KSHC22_anDKtckW1asvjM3s7gk2XeAPsHyYsDaMjEc-7Ah0Jfuurlh6n9HD_RQbFT-n68/s320/IMG_0037.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Baquedano Metro station, the busiest in the Santiago<br />
system, located at Plaza Italia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Chile has an excellent transportation infrastructure. Use it instead of renting a car and you'll save lots of money, waste only a little more time, and probably end up enjoying your travelling experiences more. Below are alternatives for getting around Chile in general with tips on getting around Santiago noted below that.<br />
<br />
<b>Getting Around Chile</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<u>Long-distance</u>:<br />
<br />
Chile is a long and thin country. While in some places one can get from the sea to the border with Argentina in about three hours, it could take over a week to get from the border with Peru in the north to the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego. Obviously flying is the quickest way to get from one place to the next over large distances, but South Americans in general, and Chileans are no different, tend to take buses instead due to their relative value over planes. Also, departure and arrival times make busing convenient as well. And let's be clear, the quality of buses in Chile <i>blow</i> <i>North American and European buses out of the water</i>. It's not even close, folks. For US$40 one can take an overnight bus from Santiago to Pucon and eat and sleep better than with a first class ticket on a plane. Yes, it's a nine-hour ride, but if it leaves at 11pm and arrives 8am and you slept in a seat better than a bed in a hostel then does it really matter? For some, it might, but trust me when I say that it is easy to get a good night's sleep on these buses and it will save a lot of money, too.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>The most popular bus companies in Chile are Pullman Bus and Turbus. There are many other companies (such as AndesMar and Cruz del Sur, among others), and these other companies may offer better prices for only a slightly lower level of comfort, but be aware that this lower level of comfort may a big difference on a 30-hour trip from Santiago to Arica, for instance.<br />
<div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6XMXfCLjVgHBYJ8MAKnDHi4NYb9K5SWOTpVJ31_9KL1sqCoNNxAglt-Kxo3UBR2IwQNerE3IZ7YUplS1KzsnVd9qlgVOcYA5saV16BkG9LwHfpA554KJcKBpNnYmL-M6vFb7Sy2VfwSL/s1600/IMG_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6XMXfCLjVgHBYJ8MAKnDHi4NYb9K5SWOTpVJ31_9KL1sqCoNNxAglt-Kxo3UBR2IwQNerE3IZ7YUplS1KzsnVd9qlgVOcYA5saV16BkG9LwHfpA554KJcKBpNnYmL-M6vFb7Sy2VfwSL/s320/IMG_0006.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Landmark: The Entel Tower on the Alameda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Regarding which seat to buy, the type of seat varies according to the distance and the company. The names of the types of seats vary from company to company, but in general below are what you can expect to see:<br />
<ul><li><u>Semi-cama</u>: A standard seat, usually used for short distances. A lesser version of this may be called <u>Classico</u> on some buses and it usually has a slightly smaller reclination degree. Semi-cama seats are the same as a typical Greyhound seat in the US. They are the only types of seats you'll be able to buy for trips from Santiago to Valparaiso, for instance, which is only about an hour's ride. They improve in quality the longer the distance, however, so a Semi-cama seat on the six-hour ride from Santiago to La Serena may only be slightly better than those on the Valparaiso trip (maybe the difference between Classico and Semi-cama). However, a Semi-cama seat on the 24-hour trip to Buenos Aires will be much more comfortable than the one to Valparaiso. I know friends who have taken this seat to Buenos Aires and have said it was fine, but I wouldn't do it myself. I did take the Semi-cama seat from Santiago to La Serena, however, and was more than comfortable. A Semi-cama seat will be on the second level of a two-story bus.</li>
<li><u>Cama</u>: These are the "Lazy-boys." Cama seats don't recline all the way into a bed, but they recline well enough to get comfortable (if you can take a nap in a Lazy-boy at home then you're good to go). They are also considerably wider than a Semi-cama seat. Most buses will put four or five seats to a row in the Semi-cama section upstairs and only three to a row in the Cama section downstairs. Cama seats also come with a meal and usually only have about nine people in the section (three rows of three) whereas the Semi-cama section upstairs may have as many as 40 people packed in. These are more commonly used for the shorter over-night stays. I took one from Santiago to Pucon and again from Osorno to Santiago and slept fine. </li>
<li><u>Premium / Executivo</u>: The "beds." These recline all the way and are great for those long trips that last over twenty hours. I've never taken a trip long enough to require one of these, but I know people who have and they say they are worth it. Thirty hours is a long time on a bus, so you might as well relax.</li>
</ul><u>Shorter Trips</u>:<br />
<br />
Getting out into the countryside from the main towns isn't that difficult either, though one may need to ask a few questions to ensure one gets the proper bus. Microbuses run just about everywhere fairly frequently, even to the smallest towns three hours away where the nicer buses noted above may not go. And they are fairly cheap, too. Don't be surprised, however, to stand for three hours if you're going to a popular weekend destination if you get to the bus stop late. For instance, it may only cost US$6.00 to get from Santiago to Banos Morales in Cajon de Maipo, but if you get to the stop at 7:50 for the 8am bus then you'll likely not get a seat...and the final 90 minutes of the three-hour trip is on a bumpy dirt road (albeit the trip is damn worth it).<br />
<br />
Still, unless you want more freedom, a car is not needed in Chile. Between the microbuses, taxis, and collectivos (more on these last two under the "Santiago" section), you should be able to get around easily, cheaply, and efficiently. Even if you don't know where to get off, just ask the driver in advance and (s)he'll stop there. All of these methods of transportation stop and pick up anywhere along the road (i.e. - not necessarily at bus stops only). Even the long-distance buses seem to stop and pick up passengers in the middle of nowhere, so don't worry too much if you're stranded. Something will come along.<br />
<br />
<u>Hitchhiking</u>:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2v0vop7pUvN8Z8a7kE9yKK8Ax2TAjXXpiguripv_PpJXLacia6XQmC8py1Mi_oACUjZV6xqVp3BKbiT7AKLPveEIu0seamqp0efD_MA0iDPrXnzEPOYaxqcrmDkdwNSy8VDy85-Q8Ttz/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2v0vop7pUvN8Z8a7kE9yKK8Ax2TAjXXpiguripv_PpJXLacia6XQmC8py1Mi_oACUjZV6xqVp3BKbiT7AKLPveEIu0seamqp0efD_MA0iDPrXnzEPOYaxqcrmDkdwNSy8VDy85-Q8Ttz/s320/IMG_0002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Landmark: Cerro San Cristobal (without the virgin <br />
Mary in view)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>First the standard warning: Hitchhiking is generally not considered safe and should be avoided unless you are desperate or you really know what you're doing. Having said that, hitchhiking in Chile, particularly in the country (not really recommended in Santiago), is pretty safe, even if one doesn't speak Spanish. While knowing Spanish will certainly get you to where you need to go more effectively, people in the countryside are really friendly and willing to pick up travelers. I've hitched three times (twice on the same road on the same day) without issue each time. However, I really only recommend hitchhiking if you're desperate to get back into town by a certain hour and you're not sure when the next bus, taxi, or collectivo will come along.<br />
<br />
<b>Santiago</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Santiago is a metropolitan area of over six million people spread out over several municipalities and neighborhoods. While walking is easy to do once one knows the city, there are various transportation options available to get around more quickly.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Firstly, it important to note the more important streets in Santiago. All the road noted below essentially intersect at Plaza Italia, where Santiago and Providencia meet. The major road named </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Bernard O'Higgins is never called that, even though all the street signs say Bernard O'Higgins on them. Instead, it is known as the Alameda, and it is the major thoroughfare in Santiago Centro. It runs east-west from Plaza Italia. Merced also runs east-west from Plaza Italia in the same direction as the Alameda, but they form a sort of triangle between them, so they aren't perfectly parallel. Merced follows Parque Forestal along the river. Providencia, which later splits in the city of Providencia, into both Providencia in one direction and September 11 in the other direction (not in memory of 2001), runs east-west on the other side of Plaza Italia along Parque Forestal from the Alameda, and </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Vicuna Mackenna runs north-south from Plaza Italia away from the river.</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><u>Landmarks</u></span></b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lpsYx_eGKsKGBaTA3S9LmjkAdnOChCPjxA778_hM66QOnpFKcTwUnIiPWRWjIKuFTjjbrcCNSCgTJXHqUFGk27zU_7Bm0XM765ILgRLQ-FwyTFDwkrZK9Fjnb6xMMQLsry029ATrA_Jo/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lpsYx_eGKsKGBaTA3S9LmjkAdnOChCPjxA778_hM66QOnpFKcTwUnIiPWRWjIKuFTjjbrcCNSCgTJXHqUFGk27zU_7Bm0XM765ILgRLQ-FwyTFDwkrZK9Fjnb6xMMQLsry029ATrA_Jo/s320/IMG_0001.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Landmark: The Movistar Building<br />
as seen from Plaza Italia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">One of the most frustrating things people will say to you when giving directions is to head north, south, east, or west. One would think this would be easy to do since the Andes to the east are so close and recognizable, but the problem is that Santiago has a lot of skyscrapers. Get the inconvenience? Yeah, what good is knowing where you are in relation to the mountains if you can't see them?</span></b><br />
<br />
As of 2011, there are three main landmarks that I've picked out for knowing where you are. Another landmark, the to-be tallest building in the area currently being built in Providencia, should be added in a year or so once construction finishes. While there are many other landmarks (the Bayer Asperin sign on the Alameda, the Canon advertisement in Plaza Italia, Santa Lucia between Parque Forestal and the Alameda, the neon Claro sign near Plaza Italia, and La Moneda and the flag pole on the Alemeda, for instance), one of these three noted below are generally easy to spot from just about anywhere in the city.<br />
<br />
The Entel Tower is the tall, thin, round communications tower with the neon signs just off the Alemeda. It kind of looks like the Space Needle in Seattle and the CN Tower in Toronto (not quite, but close enough). If you're near the tower then you're near La Moneda and just beyond the Centro area of Santiago heading toward Barrio Brasil.<br />
<br />
The Movistar building is the tall, glass, modern building with a communications spike sticking out the top. It sits in Plaza Italia (near the Canon and Claro signs) and is next to the Baquedano subway stop (the busiest station in the Metro system). If you're standing below this tower then you are right between Providencia and Santiago. The main roads that surround it are Merced, the Alameda, and Providencia, and both Parque Forestal and Parque Bustamante are nearby.<br />
<br />
Finally, Cerro San Cristobal is the tall hill with the statue of the virgin Mary on top in the neighborhood of Bella Vista, which is split between Providencia to the east and Recoleta to the west. While it may seem redundant to mention the Movistar building and Cristobal as separate landmarks due to their proximity to each other, Cristobal is actually much easier to see in certain parts of the city and vice-versa with the Movistar building in other parts.<br />
<br />
<u>BIP</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPShbJWRlok8b8SOPoBp7QE6wiovjiVn4Zau8uspI_f_eoxR7geFcyhL5GGc5GwZDtqq80rvBxHjGORjUXInnudy92iBpnq_VVammHf03kgkQaQ_fDjvx56D7GOMzEbVp-tPrvEPOQxCJ0/s1600/IMG_0012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPShbJWRlok8b8SOPoBp7QE6wiovjiVn4Zau8uspI_f_eoxR7geFcyhL5GGc5GwZDtqq80rvBxHjGORjUXInnudy92iBpnq_VVammHf03kgkQaQ_fDjvx56D7GOMzEbVp-tPrvEPOQxCJ0/s320/IMG_0012.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recharge your BIP Card here<br />
(and your cell phone, too)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The BIP card is a small blue card that is required on all Transantiago buses. It can be used on the subway, too, and when used to transfer between the subway and buses, or between buses and other buses, within one hour, the transfer is free. The cost of the BIP is approximately US$2.50, and unfortunately that money does not go toward your travel. The good side is that many people do have spare BIP cards that they are often willing to give you for free.<br />
<br />
BIP cards can be recharged in many different ways. The obvious place to recharge it is at a subway station either at the ticket booth or the automatic machines. You can recharge with cash or a credit card at either place. Alternatively, many small convenience stores around town can charge your card, too. Just look for the recharge BIP card signs in the windows. By the way, you can also often recharge your phones at these stores, too.<br />
<br />
<u>Subway</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
<a href="http://www.metrosantiago.cl/">The Santiago Metro</a> system is easy, cheap, and fast. It will get you to just about any of the major areas with little effort. A couple of things to note, however: 1) it is swelteringly hot in the summer, especially during rush hour when the subway is insanely packed; 2) there are different prices for different times of day (it costs more at rush hour, for instance) and; 3) the damn thing stops running at 11pm (seriously?!?!).<br />
<br />
The good thing is that the maps are easy to use and the stops are well marked. They are also easy to find on the streets, too. Just look for the three red triangles that denote the entrances. One annoying thing about the residents of Santiago, however, is that they will crowd the doors, so be ready to push your way through to the doors as you near your stop. The word "permiso" combined with a polite push usually does the trick.<br />
<br />
The subway systems accepts cash, credit card, and the BIP card.<br />
<br />
<u>Buses</u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_Uj11jiUOqHjHkj9CIDRbEa6FDdqd2IXrMErrpFZA1kKwC8hB0k7wnpPiOr87uVY9qzTpZM18Usu0gVS5WQ1miBXRulkuWdASDNUZyavwfM96rcJvMJ0rkgb-wWNnyfIGueqLNi9zFBb/s1600/IMG_0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_Uj11jiUOqHjHkj9CIDRbEa6FDdqd2IXrMErrpFZA1kKwC8hB0k7wnpPiOr87uVY9qzTpZM18Usu0gVS5WQ1miBXRulkuWdASDNUZyavwfM96rcJvMJ0rkgb-wWNnyfIGueqLNi9zFBb/s320/IMG_0030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Transantiago Bus (BIP cards only)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are generally two types of buses in and around Santiago: the microbuses and the <a href="http://www.transantiagoinforma.cl/">Transantiago</a> buses. The microbuses are more regional and generally take people from Santiago to the outskirts where the subway and the Transantiago buses don't go. The microbuses take cash only, but they aren't that expensive. They are also much older and adventurously rickety.<br />
<br />
The Transantiago buses, on the other, only take the BIP card and DO NOT accept cash. A real bummer? Maybe, but not really. For one, the BIP card not only saves time by allowing the passengers to "beep"-and-go, but they allow for free transfers within an hour from bus to bus, bus to subway, and from the subway to the bus, so getting to where you need to go regardless of transportation method is pretty cheap (costing a bit more than US$1.00).<br />
<br />
The buses run 24 hours, so it is worth it to get your hands on a BIP card, especially since the subway closes at 11pm and taxis like to take the "long way" around if one's Spanish isn't up to snuff.<br />
<br />
<u>Taxis</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmoGhmxg0-Mop7jxpfJz94rnEe9sDlK7eCvTvDwpkw5exq70o1VtbaOaqoGosN6s2aX98hAK2EVzGvGvGLE0Vkt59iKNl1wne4ygGhBSUNRfNYjfy9ek0nON_aZaqJYfHaOzwB2U9SMusi/s1600/IMG_0007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmoGhmxg0-Mop7jxpfJz94rnEe9sDlK7eCvTvDwpkw5exq70o1VtbaOaqoGosN6s2aX98hAK2EVzGvGvGLE0Vkt59iKNl1wne4ygGhBSUNRfNYjfy9ek0nON_aZaqJYfHaOzwB2U9SMusi/s320/IMG_0007.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A taxi, notice the yellow roof</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Taxis are pretty easy to use in Santiago (and in Chile in general). They have yellow roofs, and they are the quickest mode of transportation because they can go anywhere. However, the downside is that they are obviously more expensive (though still cheap by North American and European standards). The other downside is that if you don't know where you're going exactly, and if they smell that, then they aren't the quickest method, if you catch my drift. Many a foreigner have taken the city tour, so watch out. If you know where you're going, however, don't be afraid to ask him to pull over. What you do after this is up to you. Some people refuse to pay. Others will pay. If you don't pay, and if the driver calls the Carabinero's (the police - green uniforms), then don't expect the police to necessarily side with you. Even still, you may be able to argue enough to just walk away without anyone chasing you down. Caution is obviously required, though.<br />
<br />
Having said that, about the only thing dangerous regarding Chilean taxi drivers is that they like to rip you off. This is actually an unfortunate cultural element common in Chile in general; merchants generally think it is acceptable to charge foreigners more money because they think the foreigner can simply afford it, or at least that's the attitude. Otherwise, the people in Chile are very friendly and non-violent. I would be very surprised to hear that a person was ever mugged or held at knife or gunpoint by a taxi driver (this isn't Buenos Aires). Really, the only transgression will the be the extra street or two. Otherwise, they'll be very friendly and helpful.<br />
<br />
<u>Collectivos</u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbe_XjyMBrFgycmV5qWJ0J6bF9Ul_N2vpuYD0bizE0DjQoOsMqcIPKAv1FofSElO3Yamo7ELjEPdAmiA8P0IMfu8CCnyqM_momGRHvUzCwqjTmcOzYN8lmcglvT9ReyWabrbJQ57J3eiS5/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbe_XjyMBrFgycmV5qWJ0J6bF9Ul_N2vpuYD0bizE0DjQoOsMqcIPKAv1FofSElO3Yamo7ELjEPdAmiA8P0IMfu8CCnyqM_momGRHvUzCwqjTmcOzYN8lmcglvT9ReyWabrbJQ57J3eiS5/s320/IMG_0010.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A collectivo: notice the sign describing<br />
the fixed route</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Collectivos are a mix between buses and taxis. They are cars, but they follow fixed routes for a set price, and they are easily identifiable by their signs on the roof depicting the route they travel. The set price isn't always noted or published, however, so don't be surprised to pay a different price for the same trip on different days. Generally speaking, however, collectivos are a good method of transportation. They will stop and pick people up along the way (they may get crowded), but with a crowd of people in the car it is obviously much harder for them to charge you more. They are also much quicker than buses, particularly when heading out of the larger cities and towns to the smaller villages. It took me a while to trust taxis in Santiago, but collectivos were a different story. They are easy to use and I recommend using them if you know they will save you time.<br />
<br />
<u>Travel to and from the Airport</u><br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
The taxis at the airport are notorious for raising the prices on foreigners. A reasonable taxi ride without the meter between the airport and Santiago is about US$24. With the meter it is actually about US$18, depending on where you're going, but again, if you make them turn on the meter then they're probably going to get that extra money by driving you around anyway, so pick your poison.<br />
<br />
However, you'll find the taxi drivers there, despite being the most aggressive you've probably ever encountered, are actually really friendly. If you simply tell them you want to take the bus (or the "Blue Bus") then they'll happily show you where to pick it up. They may ask you a few more times in fluent English if you're sure you want the bus, but if you're polite they are actually really friendly and will show you the way without expecting a tip.<br />
<br />
The Blue Blue, as it is known, is a very convenient and cheap way to travel between the airport and Santiago. It costs about US$3.00 and takes about 45 minutes, only about 20 minutes longer than a taxi at a fraction of the price. It picks up on the right-hand side of the departures area every 15 minutes or so. It stops at various stops along the way, but the first subway stop is Pajaritos on the way to Santiago. From there it stops at several subway stops along the way mostly on the Alameda until it stops for good at the Los Heroes subway stop and near the La Moneda subway stop. The Blue Bus takes cash only and does not take the BIP card.<br />
<br />
If your flight is an early one, and since the Blue Bus doesn't start running until 6am, there is another option other than a taxi: TransVIP. TransVIP is one of those van / shuttle services that charges only about US$12 for a ride to the airport, and it runs 24 hours. You need to contact them (ask your hostel or hotel to make a reservation) and you may need to leave for the airport much earlier than you would have with the bus or a taxi (because they will drive around the city picking other passengers up, too), but for the price, it's a safe and reliable method of getting out to the airport. It's also much cheaper than a taxi.<br />
<br />
So that's for getting around Chile and Santiago. Hopefully this helps. Be sure to click on the links for the Metro and the Transantiago buses. You'll find maps there as well as helpful route-finding features that allow you enter your start point and destination. Once you do that, the websites will tell you which bus and subway to take. It's pretty easy once you get the hang of it.<br />
<br />
And if you're looking for maps, the airport, the tourism offices, and most hostels and hotels have excellent maps of Santiago. Outside the city, well, be prepared for a little adventure and to meet some really nice people.<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2Chile-35.675147 -71.542968999999971-54.998731000000006 -93.390668999999974 -16.351563000000002 -49.695268999999968tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-62529820262464585572011-03-03T19:48:00.283-05:002011-05-04T15:32:13.156-04:00Dancing in Buenos Aires<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5014/5476677715_333f805504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5014/5476677715_333f805504.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thinking about Argentina</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Having come to Chile to write for six months, I was faced with the common 90-day limit on being in the country that everyone else faces without permission to stay longer. My original plan was to take the bus east, over the Andes and past the magnificent Aconcagua, to Mendoza to renew my tourist visa. This was a cheap, quick, and easy way to accomplish this feat, but as I met friends here in Chile, and as we talked about the must-see cultural places in South America, and as we did this I realized that I wasn't going to visit the northern part of the continent, I soon came to the conclusion that I really wanted to go to Buenos Aires instead.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
My hope was to see this cultural giant over five days. It is supposedly the most European city on the continent, and even though that may not impress some people, particularly those who want to get away from Europe, it was interesting to me because I find European cities, in general (places such as Düsseldorf excluded from this), architecturally and culturally interesting. Unfortunately, rain kept us from seeing more during the day, so as a result, those first few nights, when the weather was mostly clear, we spent in Palermo near Plaza Cortazar, which is a great place to breathe in the nightly atmosphere unless one wants mixed drinks. As we found out our very first night in Buenos Aires, the mixed drinks are insanely weak there. To put it bluntly, after having three mixed drinks at three different bars that night, I will never buy another mixed drink in Buenos Aires again. The water is significantly cheaper for the same product.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5292/5476620209_e7c4bfb902.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5292/5476620209_e7c4bfb902.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sculpture at San Martin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On the second night, we ate at the famous <i>La Cabrera</i> steakhouse. It was here that we had to wait an hour-and-a-half to get a seat, which we expected and didn't mind mainly because they served free champagne while we waited (which we also knew in advance and kind planned around). I managed to break the champagne serving table by leaning against it (hey, my legs were tired!), however, and that was the end of the champagne for the night, (I do feel a little guilty for ruining that for everyone). Having said this, though, while the food was certainly fantastic, I would give this restaurant a skip if you're looking for good steak. Yes, it is a landmark of sorts, but really, the steak in Argentina is so good and so common that it is really easy to find excellent food everywhere without the wait and the inflated prices. I don't want anyone to think the food was poor here or undervalued - it certainly was not - but I think there are better options.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5254/5477213556_336c8f6e25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5254/5477213556_336c8f6e25.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Obelisk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>For instance, we had a much better dinner the next night just around the corner from <i>La Cabrera</i> at a place called <i>Meridiano 58</i>. It was raining that night, so we were lucky to have chosen this place as we did. After having walked around for a few blocks, we finally "settled" on this place and as soon as we sat down the heavens opened up. The service was excellent, the food even better, and the upstairs window was seat perfect for watching a guy and gal make out under the eaves of the bar across the street. They were making out so aggressively that we made an under/over bet that they'd be naked in less than an hour. Proof was never finalized, so we will never know who won the bet.<br />
<br />
But back to the point at hand, the food and presentation at <i>Meridiano 58</i> were better than at <i>La Cabrera</i> and the prices were better, too. So, remember, don't be so hasty to eat at the steakhouses recommended in the guidebooks; yes, they're good, but it is important to note that they are <i>all</i> good.<br />
<br />
Before eating at <i>Meridiano 58</i>, however, we met up with some friends of a friend who made all sorts of recommendations for our final two days. We met at their new tango studio (one is a teacher, one is her husband, and the other is doing tango documentaries - see the final paragraph for more info on that) and chatted for a while. It was a very informative meeting for a couple of reasons: 1) we learned that there would be a free tango show put on by the most famous show, <i>Tango Argentino</i>, the next evening down by the obelisk and; 2) I was given a good walking tour to do the next day while my friends slept off a hard night clubbing in Palermo. Since the rain had dampened our spirit for sightseeing the previous couple of days, I was excited to finally get out and see the city.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5298/5476636887_9b14898d45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5298/5476636887_9b14898d45.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballet and opera in Plaza Lavalle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The next day began with my friends conking out on the bed at six-thirty in the morning and with me leaving the room a few hours later at eleven. I started out in the heavy mist at Plaza San Martin, where we were staying, and then moved my way west toward the wide open Avenida 9 de Julio. The obelisk was ever-present to the south, which stood tall like a needle erupting from the empty green malls that split up the streets around me, and I walked that way somewhat disappointingly looking for the grand buildings everyone had told me about. Yes, the architecture was nice, but it was mostly of the big blocky building kind that, despite their subtle differences, were too similar to really appear dramatic to my eyes.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5011/5477237216_1a5970a31b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5011/5477237216_1a5970a31b.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new built onto the old at Plaza Lavalle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Plaza Lavalle, however, near the courthouse, was my first taste of discovering a quiet, green space with excellent architecture. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, to my right, as I walked along the avenue. I wasn't sure if I'd have the time to make this quick pit-stop because the tour seemed long and I wasn't sure how long it would take me to get to the agreed-upon lunch location I had previously made with my friends, but I was here to see things and not worry so much about time, so I turned to the right anyway and was pleasantly rewarded with what I saw. My two favorite shots of this park were of the Teatro Colon (the hall for opera and ballet) and a strange building across the way that was a mix of modernity and the old European styles seen across the city. The courthouse itself was a nice building, but it was really no different than the other large, blocky buildings on Avenida 9 de Julio, so I didn't stick around long for that.<br />
<br />
From there I moved on to Avenida de Mayo, which is where I gratefully took a wrong turn. Gratefully is definitely the correct word because I think this side of Av de Mayo, toward Plaza del Congreso, is much prettier than the one heading toward Plaza de Mayo. The buildings here were more interesting to me, and, as you may be able to see by the photo at the top of this post, el Congreso Nacional is a remarkably beautiful building despite its appearance as being in disrepair. If I had been paying better attention to the map then I never would have seen this pretty section of town.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5293/5476613199_c12ae15224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5293/5476613199_c12ae15224.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Av de Mayo (the good side)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I hadn't actually discovered I was in the wrong place until I realized that none of the buildings at Plaza del Congreso were pink in color. The map appeared backward to me, but after a while I realized that I had gone in completely the opposite direction. Once I figured that out, I headed back in the other direction toward Plaza de Mayo, which, despite the fact that there were some nice and important buildings there, too, I didn't linger here due to the lack of sights. Yes, Casa Rosada and the cathedral are worth seeing, particularly if you can get in for a free tour of the government building, but the sights really started when I finally found Defensa, the road I was initially looking for over by Plaza del Congreso.<br />
<br />
Defensa is an old-world cobblestoned street that leads right into the heart of San Telmo, a sort of bohemian neighborhood that is more gentrified now than it probably was a few decades ago. Despite the gentrification, which is really only because of the quality of shops, restaurants, and cafes established there, the buildings still grow vines that go from the ground to the top; the churches still feel cozily old; the balconies, strewn with vines, clean laundry, long curtains swaying in the breeze, and built with green, wrought copper or heavy iron railings, invited me in as if I belonged up there and not on the quiet street below; and the people moved about such they <i>lived</i> there instead of behaving as if they were there only for the tourists. It had a neighborhood feel to it, and for once I was really excited to be in Buenos Aires.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5139/5477281394_0f8564b373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5139/5477281394_0f8564b373.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The oldness of Defensa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I probably walked twice the distance of Defensa in crossing the street alone just so I could take pictures of both sides. Really, if there is one thing to do in Buenos Aires, it is to take your time walking along Defensa from Plaza de Mayo to Plaza Lezama where San Telmo and Boca meet.<br />
<br />
Plaza Lezama was actually my goal for the day, but as I mentioned above, I supposed to meet my friends at the corner of Defensa and Estados Unidos at two o'clock. I honestly wasn't sure if they were going to make it (they came into the room pretty heavy from a hard night of partying), but I didn't want to make that assumption and ditch them when they were likely tired and hungover. So I settled down on the corner and waited for them. As luck turned out, they were only a half-hour late, so I was glad that I didn't walk all the way to the end of the road, as I neither would have made it back in time nor would have enjoyed myself at the park. It was also a good thing that I met them, too, because their cab driver (they were too hungover to do the same walk I had done) had recommended a restaurant on Estados Unidos just a few steps down from our meeting place.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5018/5495878454_4f16f0824b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5018/5495878454_4f16f0824b.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the churches on Defensa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After some confusion on which restaurant it actually was that he had recommended, we ate at <i>La Brigada</i>. At first we thought it was <i>La Rosalia</i> across the street that we were supposed to go to, which is also odd because as I was looking at the slide show on their website (to ensure I had the right restaurant in this blog) I swear I saw one of our tango friends (the husband) in one of the pictures (what a coincidence!), but the outside(ish) seating seemed noisy due to the construction at the nearby intersection. So we went to <i>La Brigada</i> instead and had another excellent meal. The prices weren't as great compared to the value as <i>Meridiano 58</i>, but the atmosphere was fun and we enjoyed our lunch. For my friends, it was a good chance to regain any lost energy and strength that had been sapped on the dance floor the night before.<br />
<br />
After revitalizing our moods, we all headed to Plaza Lezama, which was a treat to visit. For one, it gave us a chance to see Feria de San Telmo, which is a cute little square with nice buildings and merchants selling their wares. The road beyond that stops being interesting for a while, but after we crossed under the highway things picked up again, except this time the area is less gentrified and a bit more genuine. This is where San Telmo meets Boca, the latter of which I did not get to see but, from my friends's pictures, which they got to see after we all returned from <a href="http://gregburnstravelblog.blogspot.com/2011/03/dreamy-uruguay.html">Uruguay</a> (the three of us went to Uruguay the next day. See the link to read that write-up), it appears as if it is well worth the visit, but only before five pm (because that's when the police leave the area).<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5291/5477283194_0756a15e0d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5291/5477283194_0756a15e0d.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza Lezama</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The park itself is big and green with lots of nice statues and long paths with trees hanging overhead, but it was the streets around the park that intrigued me the most. Large murals dotted the landscape, and real-life character was painted on the buildings's facades. Groups of men, young and old, gathered around the stone tables to play chess, backgammon, and cards, and the people here, more local than the tourists on Defensa, relaxed in the warm afternoon sun that had finally broken through the rainclouds.<br />
<br />
But then it was time to go. It was now show time, and we wanted to score excellent seats for the free tango show down by the obelisk. We were lucky and did get our wish and, oddly again, ran into <i>another</i> one of our tango friends at the show (the videographer). I talked with him for a while before the show started and agreed to meet up with him after I got back from Uruguay.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5098/5476684131_ab3648e214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5098/5476684131_ab3648e214.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rehearsal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The show itself was fantastic and the atmosphere electric. Once the daytime lights fell and the nighttime curtains rose, and when the sky was a crystal clear blue, the crowd cheered and sighed with awe as the performers moved each other across the stage. It was funny because we were sitting next to the sound stage and the workers were talking to each other throughout the show, but the serious tango viewers kept shushing them to be quiet so that they could let the music soak into their minds. There was even a nude stage change that I barely caught (yes, it was the woman in the photo above, dammit!), too.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5215/5476877043_3724bb8c5f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5215/5476877043_3724bb8c5f.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seconds before the stage change</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5292/5477287402_8ed0569743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5292/5477287402_8ed0569743.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the cathedral at Plaza de Mayo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The show was a nice way end to our trip in Buenos Aires together. We were off to Uruguay the next day, and when we returned to Buenos Aires a few days later, we only had a few hours together for lunch before my friends headed north to Iguazu Falls. I wished that I had seen more, and maybe attended a Milonga or two (the local tango dance houses) after seeing the show, but that's OK. I got a good feel from the city and I plan to return again someday in the future.<br />
<br />
One side note: I met up with my videographer friend after returning from Uruguay so that we could discuss our art projects. It is always nice to discuss these things with fellow artists, even if the artist doesn't completely understand the other artist's field of work. He is doing a documentary on the history of the Milongas as well as setting up a business to do mini-documentaries for tourists coming to Buenos Aires to learn how to tango. A website for <i>Tango2Go</i> should be up by the middle of March, 2010. To make the story nice in the end, we went to <i>La Rosalia</i>, the place across the street from <i>La Brigada</i>, you know, the one that was initially too noisy? Well, in the end, it tied <i>Medriano 58</i> for the best food and value that I had in Buenos Aires.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5017/5495878050_93faeebbda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5017/5495878050_93faeebbda.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A final look at another church on Defensa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-4185804101138905402011-03-02T20:23:00.001-05:002016-01-22T08:10:29.611-05:00Dreamy Uruguay<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5218/5479725864_22340fff05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5218/5479725864_22340fff05.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty and the Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When we first stepped out of the bus terminal in Montevideo, and after we had walked along the green-painted sidewalk comically noted for tourists, when we got out to Rambla Franklin D. Roosevelt in search of a cab that would take us to the Tres Cruces bus terminal a couple of miles away, we were happy that we had decided to skip the capital of Uruguay in favor of the white sandy beaches of Punta del Este up north.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I fully admit that we didn't get to see the old part of town, which, as one friend described to me, is well worth the visit. I've heard that the Rambla Sur is incredibly pretty, too, but let's face it, what we saw on the bus ride north and the bus ride west - two ends of the city from near the center - was not worth sticking around for. In fact, what I saw made me rather angry: where was all the money from Punta del Este being spent?<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5092/5479135589_760ee432bf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5092/5479135589_760ee432bf.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montevideo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Punta del Este is a playground for the rich. It is South America's version of the French Riviera, and for good reason, too. It's beaches are pristine on both sides of the peninsula: The surfers rejoice on the windward side while those in need of relaxation snooze away on the leeward side. The villages around Punta, too, all also offer excellent cuisine, night-life options, day-time shopping, and lazy-day activities for when the beach has become a bit too much (but seriously, when do these beaches become too much?). As a result, Punta is an incredibly wealthy area. The streets are well taken care of, the shops are all modern, the restaurants top-notch, and things such as security, fashion, and peace of mind are what anyone would expect at any top-rated resort town in the world. In short, it is not the epitome of the old-world, crumbling, poverty-textured images one often gets of South American destinations. So why, I asked, was Montevideo so crappy looking?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
I never did find the answer to this question, but I did learn that my initial perceptions were not real. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.e-architect.co.uk/images/jpgs/uruguay/carrasco_airport_ing310708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.e-architect.co.uk/images/jpgs/uruguay/carrasco_airport_ing310708.jpg" height="213" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrasco International Airport<br />photo by Daniela Macadden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For one, the amazingly rebuilt Tres Cruces bus terminal was astoundingly modern (it apparently burned a year ago, and to see it in its current condition is quite amazing). In fact, it was significantly more modern than any other bus terminal I had been to in South America, North America, and Europe. I was suspicious of this because it seems that some countries make their transportation centers modern in order to make the foreign visitor feel at home. So again, why the modern facility and the poor neighborhoods?<br />
<br />
I had the same question when I saw the airport, which in itself is probably the prettiest airport I had ever seen. In fact, seeing the airport initially confirmed my suspicions that Uruguay was spending a lot of money to keep people coming back to places like Punta del Este by providing them with a seamless transition from transportation to hotel. But then I started noticing the houses and the cars. I noticed the cars first in Montevideo, and then the houses outside of town toward the airport. When travelling in a poor country, it is expected to see old cars. Why? Well, how can a poor person afford a new one? The truth is, the cars on the road would have been what I would have been in the market for had I still been living in the northeastern section of the United States. In fact, I saw my own model on the road fairly often. I wasn't making millions at home, but I was doing OK and my car fit my salary. There were <i>loads</i> of these cars on the road, and that was what made me think that it wasn't Uruguay that was poor but more that Montevideo is a crap town (again, despite what my friend says about the old part of town that I never got to see).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5134/5479148203_fdefcebc7d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5134/5479148203_fdefcebc7d.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Drowning Swimmer sculpture at La Playa Brava,<br />
Punta del Este</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So we only had four days for Uruguay, and really three of those were reserved for travel. Sunday was going to take us all day to get from Buenos Aires to Manantialles, which is about twenty minutes north of Punta del Este. We had all day on Monday to play in Punta before hopping on two different buses on Tuesday to Colonia del Sacremento, which on the other side of Montevideo from Punta. On Wednesday, we were scheduled to return to Buenos Aires where my two friends were heading north to Iguazu Falls and I was flying back to Santiago de Chile. We all figured this would be an OK schedule, but for me it definitely was not. I wanted more time in all places Uruguay. In fact, if I ever return, I'll return for at least a month, but at the very least, our time was short and we didn't feel guilty skipping over Montevideo this time around.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5479137455_4e38948119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5479137455_4e38948119.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Barra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Punta del Este is another world, at least it was for me. Other than living in Hawaii when I was young and visiting a few outcast family members living in California, I had never really been to a beach resort town. Yes, I've been to Curacao and to Greece, and I have visited Florida, too, but none of the places I actually went to were destinations. Punta is a destination with big surf on one side of the peninsula and a calm sea on the other. Fancy houses and tall, luxury towers lined the beaches with fast cars humming along the ramblas and big yachts floating just off shore. We were a little late in the season for there to be too many hot bikinis in action (we were there in late Feb when the families tend to show up), but the lights that light up the streets where the food is eaten slowly over wine and drinks told me that this is a place worth coming to in January when both the air and the sights are hot.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5054/5479129547_520f3a45e2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5054/5479129547_520f3a45e2.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bikini Beach in La Barra at sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our hostel was in Manantialles, on the other side of La Barra from Punta, and it is quieter over there than it is on the Punta side of things, but even then there was still enough to garner our interests and keep us occupied. The truth is that I prefer the quiet life, so I was happy there, but I still have a bit of playboy in me, even if I don't like hitting the dance clubs until <s>four</s> six in the morning. The mixture of the quiet side with the fast side made things definitely good for me, particularly to return to, as well. We sat on the beach all day on Tuesday and had probably the best dinner, drinks, and dessert on the entire trip Monday night. And let's be clear about one thing, the mixed drinks, as we found out, are <i>much</i> stronger in Uruguay than they are in Buenos Aires.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5176/5479051909_44c75f343e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5176/5479051909_44c75f343e.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colonia del Sacremento</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a great two nights in Punta, we awoke to some controversy on Tuesday. I had already bought my tickets to Colonia the night before while my friends steadfastly refused to do so at the same time. They won't admit it, but when it was discovered that the alarm clock was an hour slow, and when I had to rush to catch my bus at ten-thirty, they stayed behind figuring it wasn't worth rushing to miss a bus when their tickets hadn't even been bought yet. I ended up missing the bus, but thankfully COT, the bus company, agreeably changed my ticket to the eleven o'clock bus for free. I figured this would give my friends time to meet up and we'd still catch the same bus. Well, eleven came and went and I was alone on my away to Montevideo. Even then I held out hope that we'd get on the same bus to Colonia because even the twelve o'clock bus from Punta would get them to Montevideo in time for the two-thirty to Colonia. But I ate my lunch alone and got a good deal of writing done before I was on the next bus alone, again. I figured they'd then show up in the early evening, but then I remembered that one of the friends told me not to wait at the bus station in Colonia for them.<br />
<br />
"Hmmm..." I thought.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5479650172_2d0ac1de10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5220/5479650172_2d0ac1de10.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plaza below the lighthouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
OK, so I wasn't that naive. I made the assumption the night I bought my ticket that they wanted an extra day in Punta. As it turned out, I was correct. Again, they won't admit to having planned that, but really, there's more truth to that than there is falsity. They finally showed up, <i>significantly</i> browner than the day before, at about ten o'clock that night, well after I had seen what I wanted to see in Colonia.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5131/5479696498_51ff1202ea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5131/5479696498_51ff1202ea.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical street in Colonia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But enough of that, what of Colonia del Sacremento? The town is only an hour's boat ride from Buenos Aires, making it a popular day-trip from the bustling city to the south. And why would one go to Colonia for just one day? I don't know, to be honest, because I felt that with the five hours I had that it wasn't enough. Colonia is a very old, small city (or large town) right on the water. Its cobblestoned streets and tilting brick buildings, with its working lighthouse that one can climb to the very top of, and it's trees overhanging the lamp-light streets, made me feel as romantic as I've ever felt in a place before. The downtown area can easily be done in a day, but why stay for only one day? Bring that special lady (or guy) with you and spend more time enjoying the quiet hours under the yellow tint of the street lamps than racing from place to place. Walk for an hour and stop for lunch. Then walk another hour and grab a coffee or a glass of wine at another petite cafe somewhere in a neighborhood that could be anywhere in Italy. Take the days and enjoy the coastline, which I unfortunately did not have a chance to do. Snap lots of pictures that will certainly end up framed on walls that the grandkids will fight over years later. That is what Colonia was to me. I really regret only giving myself one day to explore it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5020/5479710360_fc21d2a852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5020/5479710360_fc21d2a852.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quiet cafe at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In fact, I regret only giving myself one day to explore Punta as well, or even just a few days to explore Uruguay. I would have loved to have gone north to the quieter beaches north of Paloma (some of which are so remote that one can only get there by dune buggy, walking, or on horseback). In fact, I'd also like to go into the center to Duranzo or Tacuarembo, but that will have to be saved for another time. Until now, I carry with me over 200 photos, four days, and a yearning to return someday.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5052/5479173167_e046138009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5052/5479173167_e046138009.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surfing near Punta del Este</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2Uruguay-32.522779 -55.765835-37.152163 -63.236538 -27.893394999999998 -48.295132tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-10588199560689064742011-03-01T18:13:00.001-05:002011-03-01T18:13:45.130-05:00South American Women (so far)<ol><li>Uruguay</li>
<li>Argentina</li>
<li>Chile</li>
</ol><div>I have only been to three countries, and I've heard many things about the women in Columbia and Brasil, too, so maybe this list will change, but for now this is how it stands in my eyes (which may not be important to anyone except me). I will be in Brasil soon, so I'll get a chance to do update this in a few months (First published in March 2011).</div><div><a name='more'></a>Look, let's not fight over the sexism of this post. Yes, I know, some of you may be appalled by such a list: one that degrades women as sex objects at the top of the list or degrades women by valuing them only by looks at the bottom. I could not agree more that it is not the most appropriate way to express things. However, I'm not very scientific (I loathed biology in school, for instance), not very good-looking myself (short, bald, and with a bit of a belly), and don't really care what people think. I am a man, and like most men, I like to look at beautiful women. I'm not out trying to have sex with everyone beautiful woman I meet, but I tend to smile more when I'm taking a walk and there are loads of beautiful women on the street. In short, as most men do, I tend to notice when I am around lots of beautiful women, so this is about that.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This is also not so much of a ranking as it is an observation, of mine entirely, of where the gorgeous women in South America tend to live. I have heard so much about the Latin woman and how certain countries seem to have better water, so to speak, than other countries. To be fair, as previously noted, I have only yet been to the countries listed above, so this list may expand as time goes on. Actually, it will expand because I will be travelling more in the coming years.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Now on to the list:</div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5013/5489738305_f3aa247e56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5013/5489738305_f3aa247e56.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Presidential Guard at La Moneda</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>It is true that Chile has some beautiful women, but beyond that tasty upper crust things drop off considerably when one digs into the meat of things. This makes the gorgeous woman in Chile incredibly desirable and highly sought after, thus taking her off the market as soon as she comes off it, which may actually be never. Otherwise, one's options are limited to the incredibly loyal and friendly middle and lower classes. Of course, if you are a man who craves the perfect wife, then maybe Chile is the place for you. I admit wholeheartedly that the Chilean women I know have impressed me as women more than most places I have been to; they're real people down here and really know how to live life well. But if you're not looking for that, then your desires are best found elsewhere. The lone exception to this, however, is the forever popular fetish men have here with the female Carabinero. Seriously, even the ugly ones are stunning!</div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5098/5476684131_ab3648e214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5098/5476684131_ab3648e214.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Argentina, they make one go, "Wait, what?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>Now, I may be shot for not putting the Argentinean woman on top - and to be clear, I'd never say no to that - because they are every bit as gorgeous and stylish as any woman on earth. To walk through the streets of Buenos Aires, or Mendoza, or Bariloche and not walk home without a kink in one's neck is nearly impossible. Sensual doesn't even begin to describe the sexual flirtation that begins when she dresses in the morning and ends when she undresses at night. Merely walking in public is enough to drive any man crazy, but herein lies the problem: they are beautiful and they know it. To start a conversation with an Argentinean woman is easy, mainly because she makes it easy to want to, but to finish takes years and requires a competitive spirit among men that often seems downright unfair (yes, I'm bald and according to my lady friends, the Argentine men are damn good looking, too). I am not one of those men who likes to compete in such a fashion, so the Argentinean woman may seduce me but she'll hurt me before I ever get off the ground...or better yet, before I even fall.</div><div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5218/5479725864_22340fff05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5218/5479725864_22340fff05.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The women of Uruguay are dreamy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>Uruguay is a country of small towns and big dreams. Its coast is white with sand and its country green with farms. The blend of Portuguese from the north, Italian from the south, and Spanish the land over give it the perfect mix of culture and desire, and the women add in the wonderful ingredient of simplicity. Like their gorgeous neighbors to the south, they are well-versed in Italian styles, but unlike their southern counterparts they have a small town attitude about them. They want to have fun and they know how to outwork their man when necessary. No pouting for the door to be held open, only smiles and graciousness instead. Yes, the Argentine woman is generally physically prettier (but only slightly so), but the Uruguayan woman knows how to treat her man, and to me, that is more desirable than overburdening expectations. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-37752480873845124042010-02-17T13:47:00.004-05:002010-02-23T09:52:41.951-05:00Why flying Jet Blue is a dangerous propositionLook, everyone has issues with airlines, and when it comes to bad weather, airlines screw passengers all the time. Most carriers, however, work with other airlines and try to get you to your destination. Jet Blue, however, does not, and here is my story. (there are airline complaint links listed below) (bloggers note: photos are not indicative of the actual day's weather noted below).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://extras.mnginteractive.com/live/media/site36/2009/1030/20091030_125205_cd30coverart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="198" src="http://extras.mnginteractive.com/live/media/site36/2009/1030/20091030_125205_cd30coverart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I've always wanted to be a writer, so one day I decided I was going to do it. I needed a place where I could live cheaply for a year so that my savings would last longer and give me a better chance of making all my dreams come true. I chose to live abroad for a while, and as a result I decided to spend time with family before heading off. Also, because I live in Boston, and because Boston winters drag on forever from January through March, I wanted to get some time in the sun when I had the chance. I booked a multi-city trip from Boston to Las Vegas to Anaheim over the course of a week. The idea was to get three good solid days of rock climbing in at Red Rocks in Vegas before heading south to California to visit family for a few days. Jet Blue had the best rates for this multi-city trip by far, so I chose them. My climbing partner, who was only going to Vegas for the climbing part, booked a flight on Continental. She'd get to Vegas an hour before me, so our timing was perfect. Red Rocks, here we come!<br />
<br />
Boston gets snow, and sometimes that snow wreaks havoc with transportation. Naturally, we got about seven inches of snow on the day my friend and I were supposed to fly. The good thing is that these seven inches fell over the course of 16 hours, which makes it easier to clear roads and, obviously, runways. But, Logan being Logan, my friend and I were concerned about cancellations. At noon, my 8pm flight with Jet Blue was still on and her 5pm flight with Continental was still on. She went to the airport at 3pm and I checked my flight status once again: it was cancelled.<br />
<br />
This was disappointing and I was worried because if I couldn't get out then that would shorten our climbing days. Now, to be clear, there are opportunities to do short climbs at Red Rocks, but that's not what my partner and I like to climb. We go to Red Rocks for the long, all-day climbs that tend to last more than 10 hours car-to-car. So if I arrived late the next day then that essentially cut our climbing hopes down a day. Sure, we'd still play around on the short stuff that afternoon, and that's better than nothing is when you're in Boston in the dead of the winter, but it's not how we wanted to spend our money.<br />
<br />
OK, but it's bad weather, right? I mean, this happens. I'm disappointed, but after the bad-weather fiasco that Jet Blue had a few years ago you know they've fixed this problem right? Wrong. They haven't. I called Jet Blue and they said the earliest flight they could get me on was a 6am flight that went through JFK and then on to Vegas after that. This is tough to swallow because it means two things: 1) it's not a direct flight anymore (a mere annoyance, but I can live with it) and; 2) it doesn't get me to Vegas until noon. This last part is more annoying because now it means I am missing a whole day of long climbing. Bummer.<br />
<br />
I asked Jet Blue what they could do for me that night. <br />
<br />
"There's nothing sir, the 6am flight is the earliest I can book you," the Jet Blue representative said.<br />
<br />
"What about another carrier?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"We don't do that, sir. We don't have contracts with other carriers."<br />
<br />
Well, that settles that, I guess. I had to take the 6am flight and had to suck up the late landing. Yeah, I know, this happens in bad weather, but it was really disappointing that Jet Blue doesn’t work with other carriers.<br />
<br />
I called my friend.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, Continental cancelled my flight, but they got me on a direct flight with US Airways. Maybe I'll be able to get there early enough tonight to meet up with friends for the night."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2769/4235946290_14f69d08e4_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="213" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2769/4235946290_14f69d08e4_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Her US Airways flight, which Continental put her on (BTW - Continental and US Airways are both a part of the Star Alliance network), ended up taking off at about 7pm. That's only an hour earlier than when my Jet Blue flight was scheduled to take off, and it was an hour closer to the meat of the storm. In other words, an 8pm takeoff time should have been better considering weather than a 7pm flight, and still US Airways took off on a direct flight to Vegas while Jet Blue was cancelled. Hmmm...<br />
<br />
Well, there's nothing I can do at this point. Jet Blue claimed the airport cancelled the flights. I was suspicious of this, but whatever; I'm just a consumer and I know crap.<br />
<br />
I wake up at 330am the next morning because now I need to spend $30 on a cab to get to the airport (because the subway doesn't run that early in Boston) when I wouldn't have the night before (because I could have taken the subway on my monthly pass). I check the status of the flight again before doing anything else: <strong><u><em>Cancelled</em></u></strong>. "What is going on?"<br />
<br />
The snow had stopped and it was supposed to be a nice day today in Boston, so there shouldn't have been any bad weather coming east. I checked the weather across the US, including Vegas, and found the same: there was no bad weather. I called Jet Blue.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry sir, but that flight was cancelled due to weather. There's nothing we can do," the Jet Blue representative said.<br />
<br />
"Um, the weather is fine. What's going on?"<br />
<br />
"I'm not on the ground there sir, there's obviously nothing I can do. We don't cancel flights due to weather, the airport does." There was that "the airport cancels flights" comment again. I looked on JetBlue.com while I was on the phone and they had three flights taking off to JFK starting at 730am. The 730am flight would have allowed me to make my connection to Vegas still. "I'm sorry sir but those flights are all booked. The earliest I can get on is a direct flight at 8pm tonight."<br />
<br />
<em>What?!?!</em> So there I was; I had either the option to cancel my trip for a full refund (and screw over my climbing partner who was already there because her airline somehow wasn’t cancelled) or miss an entire day of climbing (no longer just a short day). There was really only one option, and that was to accept a seat on the 8pm flight and miss a whole day. I was really mad at this point, but I became furious when I heard a noise a few hours later. I lifted my head off the pillow and listened again because I wasn't sure if it was a snow plow (for a moment I gave the Jet Blue representative the benefit of the doubt in case there <em>was</em> snow still coming down) or an airplane. A few minutes later I heard another noise, and it was a plane. Then there was another, and then there was another. They were landing and taking off. I looked at the clock: it was 6am, the same time my cancelled-due-to-weather flight was cancelled.<br />
<br />
I went back to sleep, and when I awoke I called <a href="http://www.massport.com/logan/default.aspx">Massport</a>, who runs Logan Airport in Boston, and I asked a simple question:<br />
<br />
"Hi, I have a broad question. I hope you can answer this. Who cancels flights?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://msnbcmedia4.msn.com/j/ap/20333680-8631-46c3-b110-d22487f9764a.h2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="191" src="http://msnbcmedia4.msn.com/j/ap/20333680-8631-46c3-b110-d22487f9764a.h2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"Well, sir, there are a lot of different players. Essentially there are three factors in involved: The FAA with regards to flight plans, the airport because we clear the runways, and the airlines. Generally speaking all three work together on cancellations. We, Massport, don't really cancel flights. We have certainly told airlines and the FAA that we can't keep up with the weather, and that factor alone has cancelled flights, but we don't make that decision. The FAA does when it comes to flight plans and the airlines do when it comes to schedules."<br />
<br />
"That's great, thanks. I appreciate your answer. So I've been hearing planes fly over my house this morning."<br />
<br />
"That's correct sir, there are no weather related issues here at the airport today."<br />
<br />
"Really? Because Jet Blue said the airport cancelled my flight due to weather."<br />
<br />
"Last night or this morning?"<br />
<br />
"Well, both, but I'm more interested in this morning."<br />
<br />
"It's possible they were cancelled last night by the FAA. I don't know anything about that off the top of my head. Planes were definitely taking off all day yesterday, though. On a day like yesterday when we do get a fair amount of snow but we can keep up with it then it is usually up to the airline to cancel. Maybe they got cancelled by the FAA."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, well, my friend ended up having a very similar flight pattern and she flew out OK."<br />
<br />
"Then it's probably the airline then. It certainly wasn't us."<br />
<br />
"What about this morning though."<br />
<br />
"They cancelled because of weather you said?"<br />
<br />
"That's correct."<br />
<br />
"That's on them. We're open and running fine. There are no weather related issues here this morning."<br />
<br />
I thanked her, and then I called Jet Blue. They insisted it wasn't their fault and they insisted all they could do was cancel my flight and refund the full amount or put me on the 8pm flight. They couldn't get me on that 730am flight because it was full.<br />
<br />
So I decided to file a complaint with both <a href="http://www.jetblue.com/help/contactus/help_contact_problems.aspx">Jet Blue</a> and the <a href="http://airconsumer.ost.dot.gov/problems.htm">US Department of Transportation</a>. It's only been one day, so I haven't heard anything yet, but once I do then I will update this blog with another post.<br />
<br />
So why is flying Jet Blue a dangerous proposition? Because they don't work with other carriers to get you to their destination for one. But more importantly, they lie. They flat out lie about cancellations. Of course, because consumers aren't protected, airlines can do whatever they want, and that's what Jet Blue did. I'm not saying other airlines don't screw passenger over either, but this blog post is a testament to what other airlines do for their customers in direct contrast to what Jet Blue does. Continental got my friend to her destination that day, even in bad weather. Jet Blue made me wait 24 hours and cut my vacation short by a full third of its original length. Be careful when you choose Jet Blue. They haven't learned any lessons from previous years at all.<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Final edit</u></strong>: Oh yeah, JetBlue.com tried charging me $50 for my first bag when I checked in online, but their <a href="http://help.jetblue.com/SRVS/CGI-BIN/webisapi.dll?New,Kb=askBlue,case=obj(634)">checked baggage requirements</a> clearly state that the first checked bag is free. I called them on this and thier representative was confused. Clearly there was an error on their website and he thanked me for notifying them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-53990018777020350042009-12-28T14:34:00.004-05:002011-05-04T15:31:49.651-04:00Chile - The Final Days: La Serena<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2556/4118714810_9b4212fc96_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2556/4118714810_9b4212fc96_m.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The foam washed around my bare feet, and even though I had been walking for nearly eleven hours straight, it was only the sting of a sure-fire sunburn that dampened my spirits. Otherwise, I felt worlds away from everything, and that was exactly what I sought.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2728/4118803828_f6508920b7_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2728/4118803828_f6508920b7_m.jpg" /></a><br />
Alejandro met me at the station. I did not know him, so our meeting was unplanned. He knew I needed a place to stay, though. His trained eye had spotted me as soon as I stepped off the bus. In fact, even though he might not have known what I looked like, he knew I was going to be there just as he knew everyone else before me was going to be there. If I had been in the US then I would have been skeptical. We don't offer our homes to strangers as they do in Chile, but I knew this was a common practice so, despite the fact it was my first time, I knew what to do.<br />
<br />
My jeans were rolled up to my knees and my shoes were tied together and looped around my bag's shoulder strap. The sun beat down from the east while I walked south toward Coquimbo. Alejandro said it was too far to walk, but I had nothing but time on my side and nothing to do but walk and walk and walk.<br />
<br />
- Alejandro: Seven thousand per night. You have your own bedroom, alone.<br />
- Me: OK.<br />
- Alejandro: It this way, half hours walk. You want to take bus?<br />
- Me: I'm out of cash. I need a cambio to exchange my money.<br />
- Alejandro: OK, we walk then. Come, this way.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2617/4118708042_1eb2578738_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2617/4118708042_1eb2578738_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The beach was empty, but there were enough there for me to feel different. I'm as gringo as a fire truck is red, so I get plenty of stares - and Chileans like to stare, sleepily with their thoughts rolling across their brown pupils. Yet if I tried to read their thoughts they awoke suddenly and glared at me as if it was nobody's business to stare into their soul. Maybe it's my camera they're looking at. No. That's racist, even though I was warned by Jose Luis, that Chilean back in Santiago who let me stay in his house for a few nights (and let me come and go as I wished with a spare key), that Chileans are thieves and wouldn't be afraid to take a knife and rip open the pack strapped to a person's back just to steal whatever fell out first. Since then, on his advice, whenever I've worn my pack on both shoulders, I've walked sideways with an eye peering at random moments over whichever shoulder I felt like looking over. Is it so racist to wonder why they're staring at you when they don't like to be stared at and I've been warned by a Chilean to beware? Why am I so special? It must be that I'm gringo and not because of the camera. There's no other reason why. Simply put, after living in a country that can be home to nearly every race on earth, it feels strange to be different. I feel perfectly safe, but I feel even safer alone.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>- Me: I don't have cash right now. I can't pay you tonight.<br />
- Alejandro: You need cash?<br />
- Me: I need a cambio, to change my Argentine pesos.<br />
- Alejandro: You have cash.<br />
- Me: Yes, but not Chilean. I can't pay you until tomorrow.<br />
- Alejandro: Is OK. Tomorrow you go to cambio and pay me then. Is OK. No worries, no worries at all.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2667/4117937173_b75aa7a8af_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2667/4117937173_b75aa7a8af_m.jpg" /></a>A surfer plays in the riptides and the 10-foot waves just off the shoreline. A lone fisherman slowly cruises south just beyond the surfer and beyond where the waves begin to crash. Four Chilean Navy ships zigzag their way into Coquimbo. The metal cross, ugly and dramatic, standing tall above a neighborhood I won't visit on a peninsula across the bay and a landmark to everyone who can see the hill it stands upon and over, shines when the clouds move from under the sun. My ankles get wet at the edge of where the waves recede back into the sea. At times, the waves are bigger and my pants get wet, too.</div><br />
- Alejandro: Where you from?<br />
- Me: I live in Boston. In the US.<br />
- Alejandro: Boston? Yes, that is a rich part of the country.<br />
- Me: Not for everyone. I'm moving because I can't afford to live there (I lie).<br />
- Alejandro: Yes, it is expensive. Yes, yes. I learn English from <em>My Fair Lady</em>. You understand what I say?<br />
- Me: Yes, I understand perfectly.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2737/4118033003_1c8d9a3311_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2737/4118033003_1c8d9a3311_m.jpg" /></a></div>The beaches are one long stretch of sand from the lighthouse in La Serena to the broken dock where the pelicans lay in Coquimbo. High rise towers line one side of the beach while water lines the other. I'm heading south so that the rising sun is to my left and the glimmering sea is to my right. The Pacific is warm here, warmer than I expected it to be. Alejandro told me it would be cold. I guess for him it would be. It's only spring, and if I had 80-degree water in the middle of the summer then I would consider 60-degree water to be cold in the spring, too. Thankfully I come from the land of 40-degree water that never gets warmer than 55F in the summer and has occasionally frozen so solid that one can walk off the town pier to the islands that are about a mile away. If I wasn't so sketched out by losing my cameras and books I'd strip down into my boxers and jump in. I wish I was with someone, and I wish she was as crazy as me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2668/4118018181_5f19ac0846_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2668/4118018181_5f19ac0846_m.jpg" /></a></div>We reached Alejandro's house after a half hour walk from the bus station. He lived right downtown, and the path we took was good for me because I got a nice tour of the town along the way. La Serena has about 20 churches all within a few blocks of one another. They're old, too. I'm not sure why there are so many, but there they are on every corner standing guard over the cobble-stone walkways that are lined with every kind of shop desired by the high-class middle-class shopper. Or does that make them rich here? I can't tell.<br />
<br />
The downtown is pretty, too. I mentioned the cobblestone streets and churches, but what I can't describe, and what photos can't illuminate is the atmosphere of calm sauntering from one street to the next. There's an easy feel to simply walking around. And while the shopping district isn't strictly closed for walking only, it feels as if it is; it is so much so that I found myself wandering out into the street with my head up high, gazing at the sites, and frequently honked at by on-coming cars.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2710/4118017265_12fe896e2a_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2710/4118017265_12fe896e2a_m.jpg" /></a></div>Lunch was supposed to peaceful at the only restaurant on the beach that was open this early in the year. There was no one inside when I walked in, but no sooner did I sit down than a group of American birthday revelers clamored at a long table just a few feet from me. My fish was good (some Peruvian whitefish with rice and beer), but while my legs were tired I preferred walking to the noise. It's funny, too, because by this time I was emotionally fatigued by having to communicate in a language I didn't know. English was good for me to hear and speak, but there were also times when I felt perfectly comfortable not knowing what was being said around me. I think most people want to know what is being said, just in case it is about them. When bad things are said about me I become driven. I feel uneasy when good things are said. Sometimes, when I need to relax and not think or try too hard, it is best to not know.<br />
<br />
The sun was hot and high in the sky by this point in the day. I was about three-quarters of the way to Coquimbo, which is the rough-and-tumble port town at the other end of the sand from the pretty La Serena. My head was getting warm and I didn't have a hat with me. Was it a mistake to continue? Maybe, but what was there to lose except for peeling skin?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2606/4118024505_283b4d3950_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2606/4118024505_283b4d3950_m.jpg" /></a></div>The room was plain, and the bed sagged, and the covers on the bed were old and seemed dirty, but the pillowcases felt clean and I didn't see any dust on the floor or on the one table near the door. Overall the house could have been quite nice inside with its long, one-floor hallway with rooms to the left and large windows revealing the quiet courtyard outside to the right. The plain exterior house was shaped like the letter "U" with the rooms on the left of the house, the bathroom, living room, dining room, and front entryway rounding the bottom, with the kitchen on the right. The courtyard sat in between the rooms and the kitchen with the dining room at the base, and it extended away from the street toward a muddy garden with unkempt trees in the back. His sister and cousin, both in their 50s at least, lived in one room together and barely spoke to him. The dogs were the friendliest Boxers I had ever met. No one would have known what was inside by the look of the outside. The key worked fine when I came and went on my own.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2605/4117940591_4db2019f71_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2605/4117940591_4db2019f71_m.jpg" /></a>He lived across from the grocery store, and since I knew it would take credit cards I found it easy to find dinner (pre-made spaghetti with vegetables and some bread). I sat in the courtyard to rest from my body after 26-hours of travelling and read about the surrounding area. Alejandro brought me a map. Maybe I'd go for a walk in the evening just to get my bearings settled. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Coquimbo really was rough and tumble. If I were comfortable in my own surly ways then I would have felt right at home here, but I was vulnerable and I knew it. I did one loop through the British Quarter and headed back to the beach. My surliness is an asset at times, but I can only get it going when I'm comfortable and confident that it is true and honest. If I had to defend myself here I'd have to really fake it. Considering the fact that I was tired, I wasn't sure I could.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2728/4118712094_260765de33_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2728/4118712094_260765de33_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The walk back was interesting because I was less weary from walking and more worried about the sting on my head and arms. I sat on a set of steps and watched a bunch of people play an organized beach soccer game (which was apparently going to be followed by beach volleyball - it must have been a club of some sort where two teams - red and blue - compete against each other in various sports. They weren't athletes, just people playing games). An old homeless man approached me and asked me something in Spanish. I was a bit worried, but I had to tell him that I neither understood him nor Spanish. He could have taken advantage of me then, and that was what I expected (I expected to have to get up and run off and away from his advancements that were probably for money, cigarettes, or booze), but when I told him he just looked at me, thought for a moment, and seemed to nod his head and shrug his shoulders before he walked off without incident. It was satisfying to see a man so down on his luck simply walk away as if he knew there was nothing he could do, despite the fact there was so much he could have done. It didn't matter anyway; I had no cash on me. Or maybe he didn't ask me for that at all. Maybe I just assumed. Not everyone who is haggard is asking for money. I know that. I should have done a better job of remembering it. After that, the soccer game was less interesting.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2515/4118033539_27e0f72e9b_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2515/4118033539_27e0f72e9b_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The night felt dirty. I didn't want to sleep in the bed, but I had no other place to go for the night. I could have gone around to the various hostels, but why when the price was right and I had a room to myself. Yes, a hostel would probably be cleaner and kept better, but at least I was alone, it was quiet, and I was in the center of town. I had a big day ahead of me, so I didn't worry too much and soon I was asleep.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There were two American girls staying at Alejandro's. They were in the room next to me and I learned a lot about the area from them. One of them had been living and teaching English in Santiago. She was a wealth of information. I bought them some good cheese and bread for their dinner in exchange for a taste of their meal and knowledge. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2496/4117944397_8977dc189e_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2496/4117944397_8977dc189e_m.jpg" /></a></div>On the way to Coquimbo I avoided the streams that fed from the streets out into the ocean. They looked dirty, dirtier than what brown water should look like if it is simply being run off the land. This made for a lot of extra walking and some jumping. I walked through them on the way back. "Fuck it," I said. I had seen enough people doing the same thing. This place isn't so poor and uneducated that people don't know about raw sewage. La Serena isn't a slum where kids play in places one typically only sees in help-the-poor TV commercials. If the locals, wearing expensive jeans or shorts, are walking through the streams then they must be OK. Lots of people walked through them. It made me a bit queasy to stroll along and have this dirty water plow up against the tops of my ankles, but I was certain that I wouldn't lose my feet as a result. "It's only fucking water," I told myself. "I'm not so high and mighty that I can't walk through it."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2785/4118792968_1e31f17907_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2785/4118792968_1e31f17907_m.jpg" /></a></div>My evening stroll through town was quick and easy. I wanted an ice cream and when I had eaten it my walk was nearly over. The town was quiet when I first arrived, but that was likely because it was Sunday and off-season. The night, however, was busier. People were out and about running to the store, the market, from the restaurants to the bars. I was lost in between and happy about it.<br />
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The next day I went looking for new places to stay, but all the hostels were full. I was stuck staying at Alejandro's with the two girls again. That was OK. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. Dinner was fish and rice. I had some homemade ice cream for dessert.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2684/4118715376_6bdbacb8d4_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2684/4118715376_6bdbacb8d4_m.jpg" /></a></div>My second night there was an easy night to fall asleep. Alejandro was amazed that I had walked all the way from La Serena to Coquimbo and back. "Is over twenty miles," he said after doing the math in his head. We looked it up on <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&tab=wl">Google</a> and it came up to be a little less than 25 miles round-trip. "That's not a problem," I lied. "I walk that distance all the time." He then showed me that when he was young he and some friends had walked from the other side of the peninsula in Coquimbo to La Serena. "We were drunk and had girls with us," he said. "They didn't want to walk but there were no taxis. It took us many hours. Many, many hours. You know <em>My Fair Lady</em>? I learn English from that, and my brother. He was teacher of English. My English is good?" I told him it was.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2689/4118791722_643b0fd428_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2689/4118791722_643b0fd428_m.jpg" /></a></div>There were good bus schedules on the way back to Santiago. I was down to my last 5000 pesos, and I knew I'd need 400 for the subway in Santiago and another 1400 pesos for the bus from the subway to the airport. That left me with about 3000 pesos. I bought the girls some bread and cheese my last night, and later I bought an ice cream. I had 2000 pesos left. <br />
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The bus stopped at the pit stop again, but I saved my cash. I didn't even run next door to the Esso station as I did on the way up. Instead I napped as much as I could and took in the scenery, too. In a few hours I'd be on a plane back to Boston. I had learned so much and yet not enough during this two-week trip. Chile wasn't what I expected it to be, but it was enough, and that was what I needed. No, unlike what some have said, this is not an adventure. Going to Chile is not the end-goal. The goal is to write, and if I went anywhere that peaked my curiosity then I likely wouldn't write. I'd explore instead, and <em>that</em> is an adventure. I don't care what I learn down south. Sure, I'd like to learn some things. I'd love to climb as much as I can, and to learn a little Spanish would be helpful, but I don't care so much about that. I just want to write, so what I learned was enough. I'm going to plop my butt down and write, and then go home, and then maybe someday, when I've done what I want to do and my curiosity has peaked and I know what to look for then maybe, just maybe, I'll come back and learn and see more. But in the meantime, all I want to do is write.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all 2009 Chile and Argentina pictures</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2785/4118792968_1e31f17907_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2785/4118792968_1e31f17907_m.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-3481475673107343632009-12-22T16:49:00.001-05:002011-05-04T15:31:35.898-04:00Chile - The longest ride: Bariloche-to-Osorno-to-Santiago-to-La Serena<div><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2769/4118705464_418745e2f5_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2769/4118705464_418745e2f5_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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<div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">We got to Osorno three hours late, and I was so exhausted that I couldn't walk. They didn't want to, but it took 30 men to carry me and my lethargy off the bus. AndesMar considered charging me for the extra drama, but I told them I'd bring them bad luck for a century if they tried.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2505/4118627592_3d8ee9cd2a_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2505/4118627592_3d8ee9cd2a_m.jpg" /></a></div>I had a note from Cruz del Sur, the bus waiting for me to finally arrive, that said they would see if they could accommodate me on another bus if I was late (which I was). I expected a battle, so I enlisted all the best and youngest and healthiest and smartest men in Osorno, and I armed them to the hilt with diamond-sharpened pitchforks, atomic hand grenades, and lullaby music that I knew would put the enemy to sleep before I blew them up.<br />
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It turned out to not be necessary. I could get on the next bus to Santiago in 45 minutes. The army had come to fight and was furious at the peaceful solution. But I paid them off by buying them all empanadas with two eggs instead of one. It was not long before I was asleep and heading north toward Santiago.<br />
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It was 8am and the sun was warm already. I was hungry, but unlike the other passengers on the Bariloche-to-Osorno bus, I didn't change my Argentine pesos to Chilean pesos at the border. In fact, I had no Chilean pesos on me, but that didn't bother me. All I needed to do was find a currency exchange booth (there are plenty of these in Chile because banks don't do currency exchange) and voila! I'd have cash.<br />
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But I was struck by one thing when I stepped out of the bus station and onto the street: it was slow, very slow. Cars were hardly on the road and I could count on one hand the number of people walking on the sidewalk. Stores all around me were shuttered with metal gates, and it was quiet. The bustling sounds that I had dodged only a week before had disappeared. Maybe it wasn't 8am. Maybe it was earlier. That didn't seem right, but it didn't matter to me either. All that mattered was that I got two things: cash (for food) and a bus ticket to La Serena.<br />
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Part of the problem, however, was that "no cash" doesn't just mean "no food." It also meant no subway ride, and the heavy pack I was lugging around was a friend's that didn't fit me well. The long walk to Estacion Central was made easier by the empty streets, but by a half-hour passed I wished I had made change at the border because I was struggling to move forward with all that weight sitting uncomfortably on my back. Finally, my shoulders ached and begged me to not go any further. My whole body wanted to sit down, so imagine my happiness when I stumbled across a Scotiabanc ATM machine. I'm not much of a fan of Bank of America, but before I left I opened an account with them because I knew I could take cash out of a Scotiabanc ATM without incurring penalties. Cash! Finally!<br />
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I reached for my money clip and flipped through the useless foreign cash and other cards from top to bottom before having to start over again at the top. I went to the bottom again and thought to myself, "what the fuck? Where's my ATM card?"<br />
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"SHIT!"<br />
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I didn't know where it was. I suspected that while in Bariloche I had left it in one of those ATM machines that asks if you want another transaction after you're done. Well, at least I <em>hoped</em> that was the case. It was the last time I had used it. It didn't seem likely that it was stolen because I had all my other cards and cash on me. Oddly I felt OK about that, but the stress of having lost my card (and, if it was in fact left in the machine with the option to conduct more business, the stress of wondering how much money had been taken out by the first person to come along and recognize that I was open for business) was lost in my desperation of knowing that I couldn't eat until the currency exchange places opened, and that I couldn't take the Metro to Estacion Central, which is where the buses to La Serena were located, and even though I could see the open air where the station was, it seemed still so far away.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2583/4117854349_f5dba1749c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2583/4117854349_f5dba1749c_m.jpg" /></a></div>I <strike>staggered</strike> wandered toward the bus station hoping that the currency exchanges would open soon. The sun was pretty high in the sky at this point and the streets were still bare. I was confused. What time did Santiago come alive? I know I had seen it busier than this when I was there during the week - oh crap! That was it. I wasn't in Santiago during the week; it was Sunday! Chile is one of those countries that still shuts down on Sunday. Damn, damn, damn it all and back it again. That meant no banks, no food this early in the morning (Chileans really don't eat breakfast the way Americans do), and a long, long, hungry ride ahead.<br />
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All hope was lost until I found a currency exchange that opened at 10am. It was 930am, so I walked to the ticket booths, which are a 15-minute walk from the bus terminal, and bought a ticket to La Serena that left at - GULP! - 10:15am.<br />
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I rushed back. If I got to the booth at 10am then I'd have time to exchange my cash and still make the bus. And how I hoped I would make it back to the exchange place in time! The ride to La Serena was going to be seven hours and I doubted they would have free food on board. In fact, I was sure that they'd have these vendors with local foods and drinks (fairly common actually) get on the bus and sell us food during the journey. That was all fine and dandy, but not if I didn't have any cash.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2551/4118026407_9a05b18cbe_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2551/4118026407_9a05b18cbe_m.jpg" /></a>The currency exchange booth came into view at 9:58am. No one was in line. Good. If I was lucky then they'd be open a couple of minutes early. But then I noticed that the light inside the booth was dark. Shit. No one was inside. OK, that's fine. Maybe they were setting up in back. Maybe there were rules about opening early. Maybe I had a chance. I waited and watched my watch tick past 10. Then it was 10:02, and I didn't know how far of a walk it was from the booth to the bus terminal. Then it was 10:05 and then it was 10:10. Whoever it was who was supposed work on Sunday had failed me. I rushed to the terminal and found it was farther away than I assumed. I was out of breath, but I checked my bags and got on the bus just before it pulled out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2579/4118025519_f9298cee8b_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2579/4118025519_f9298cee8b_m.jpg" /></a></div>Vendors came on the bus as expected, and as expected I waived them off. It was noon before I felt the rumble in my stomach hit me for the first time. I counted back to when I last ate and it was in Bariloche way back at around 2pm the previous day. There were only five hours left until La Serena. "I can hold off," I convinced myself, but who was I kidding? Even when I got to La Serena I was going to have to find a place that was open on Sunday that accepted credit cards. Suddenly Monday morning, a whole 40+ hours after I had last eaten, was the next possible time to eat. And then it hit me again; not the hunger, but the realization that hostels don't take credit cards. "Fuck," I said to myself. "It's an expensive hotel or a night on the beach." Despite the fact that I was wide awake and well rested from all the sitting, sleeping, and napping since I first got on a bus in Bariloche, sleeping now seemed vital when I envisioned myself curled up with my bag under a quiet tree. Nighttime suddenly became awake time because I didn't want to get mugged in Spanish when I all I spoke was English.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2756/4118794656_3af1eb9f5e_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2756/4118794656_3af1eb9f5e_m.jpg" /></a></div>My fortune changed when the bus pulled into a pit stop built specifically for long-distance buses to stop and give their passengers a chance to stretch their legs and get some food. The food court was modern, too, with flat panel TV screens airing the latest music videos and there was an electronic food sign, too. Yes! This was good. They certainly <em>had</em> to accept credit cards. There was no way they didn't, except there was a way, and they didn't, and I nearly collapsed from a complete lack of hope when I remembered that I saw an Esso station right next door. Esso. Esso. Esso...EXON! "Fuck yeah, they've got chips at least and there's no way they <em>don't</em> take cards."<br />
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I asked the bus driver how long we'd be at the stop. He gave me an answer and I pretended to understand. Then I bolted around the corner toward the gas station. They had the Visa/MasterCard sign on the door. I was in luck. I went inside and picked up a bag of Doritos and a bag of M&Ms (thank God they had M&Ms because those dumb Rocklets aren't a very good substitution). I turned around to see if they had fruit, and when I did I noticed that they had a grill. HOT FOOD! YES!!!!!<br />
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The steak, tomato, and avocado sandwich shot to the top of my list. There was a bit of confusion on what I was ordered, but I was happy when the woman behind the counter finally understood me. But I still had no clue how long the bus would be at the stop. At the worst I had a good view of the exit, so I would see the bus pulling out of the pit stop. But I didn't want to have to run and hope they'd see me running. I wanted to get back in time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2593/4118797000_b0937e265e_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2593/4118797000_b0937e265e_m.jpg" /></a></div>The woman behind the counter was polite, but the grill had yet to be turned on. Then it was and I was happy, but then I realized that it needed to be warmed up. Then it was happy and I felt good hearing the steak strips sizzling on the hot metal. But where were my fries? Why weren't they cooked yet? Maybe they were already cooked and just sitting in a warm location. Nope. I then saw the woman take out the frozen fries and dump them in the frier. "Fuck man, fuck! Get the lead out!"<br />
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Five minutes passed by. The steak was done but the fries weren't. Then they had to heat the bread. That took longer than I hoped, and despite the fact that I swore I said I wanted everything on it, she asked me for each individual item. Then the fries were done, and she asked me something I didn't understand. "What? I don't understand." I looked at my watch, she asked again, I shook my head, she asked again, I pointed to my watch and then toward the bus station, and then she moved everything from an eat-in plate to a take-out package. I went to take the food when she pointed to the register. "Oh yeah," I muttered, "I gotta pay first."<br />
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Thankfully the cashier knew what I had ordered. I paid and ran out nodding my head and smiling as the cook said something that I didn't understand. The only buses that had left the station at this point weren't mine. So long as I ran up the exit road then I stood a chance of not getting left behind. I hit the exit road, ran up it, turned the corner of the pit stop building and saw my bus pulling back. "WHOA!" I yelled waving my arms. The bus stopped, the door opened, I got on, I sat in my seat, and I ate for the first time since the day before. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-4795509973355519732009-12-16T15:01:00.002-05:002011-05-04T15:31:23.043-04:00Bariloche, Argentina: A World of Wonder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2489/4118688158_f0b47b97f1_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2489/4118688158_f0b47b97f1_m.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Home will always be home, and the view atop Cadillac Mountain on a crystal clear day, when the air is so crisp that one can stand on the granite slabs, overlook Frenchman's Bay and the "porcupines" that protect Bar Harbor, and hear, word for word, the radio conversations between lobsterman about a half-mile away, will always be my most heartfelt favorite in the world. But Bariloche, Argentina, with its cavalry of white peaks standing guard over the massive and forever fresh and blue Lago Nahuel Huapi, is the most beautiful place I've ever seen on earth.<br />
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The ride from Puerto Varas to Bariloche was about six hours. The first half was in Chile, and it was pretty to look at. There were lush green valleys walled in by 'Gunks-like cliffs and topped by coned, white volcanoes. Long vines hung off the rock walls and grey-trunk firs towered over the winding road. Then there is the border - two stops separated by a few miles of snowy, barren outcrops, and then there is Argentina.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2470/4118655974_3c5ed8d87e_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2470/4118655974_3c5ed8d87e_m.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The lake is huge, massive; it sometimes takes days to cross by boat if the weather is bad. And it is blue, sparkling blue with a hundred coves and inlets all protected by long islands and arching peninsulas that make it impossible to see the entire lake at once, even if standing on top of the tallest peak in the area. I took nearly twenty photos through the bus windows the first hour that I saw the lake. It was awe inspiring at its greatest.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2542/4118657836_e775bde0ce_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2542/4118657836_e775bde0ce_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2699/4117931515_a98f625ded_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2699/4117931515_a98f625ded_m.jpg" width="200" /></a>Bariloche itself is a small, German and Swiss inspired town complete with chalet architecture, cobblestone streets, steep stone staircases, and Saint Bernard dogs with the rum casks dangling under their furry necks. If I could live here forever then I would, and maybe I will.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2755/4118698002_352bcc1307_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2755/4118698002_352bcc1307_m.jpg" width="150" /></a>I went on a bike ride with Roy (Israel) and Stephanie and Rachel (both UK) on a dramatic loop of views west of Bariloche along the southern edge of the lake. We relaxed on the beaches, chilled on cliff tops, shared travel info, and battled the many hills that eventually wore us out by the end of the day.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2566/4117904383_6f206c9f0f_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2566/4117904383_6f206c9f0f_m.jpg" width="200" /></a>We returned to the log cabin Bolsa de Deporte and showered so that we would be clean for our first Argentinean steak, which was good and huge and filling beyond belief.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The next day was a quiet one. Stephanie and Rachel headed north to the vineyards while Roy and I took the chair lift to the top of Cerro Campanario, a hill just outside of town with magnificent views of the surrounding area. In fact, the views here were beyond anything I have ever witnessed. Spectacular is not even a word that can be used in Bariloche because it is too low.</div><br />
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Then it was time to leave. I had a seat on AndesMar on the 2pm bus that would get me to Osorno, Chile at 7pm. Then I had a two-hour wait for my sleeper seat on the overnight Cruz del Sur bus that would leave at 8:45pm for Santiago. And then the AndesMar bus was 90 minutes late arriving in Bariloche, and the man on the bus said we'd arrive by 9pm, and my ticket to Santiago was non-refundable. How did I get myself into this mess? Well, all other buses from Bariloche to Osorno left early in the morning. Because Santiago is a good 12 hours north of Osorno, I wanted to sleep on an overnight bus. Osorno is not much of a town either. I had a heavy rucksack with all my gear, a heavy shoulder bag with my valuables, and an eight-hour wait in a crummy town if I left that early. So I decided to take the only afternoon bus, and because I had a two-hour wait in Osorno for the bus the Santiago, I didn't think for a moment that there would be a problem getting to Osorno, even with customs being a bit of a drag (btw - the bus companies lie about time between Chile and Argentina. Always assume it'll take a couple of hours longer than they advertise).<br />
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Thankfully the guy on the AndesMar bus was able to call ahead to Cruz del Sur in Osorno to try to work something out. Cruz del Sur told him they'd try to get me on a later bus, but there was no guarantee. "Great," I thought. "I was going to have to find a hostel late at night, and then spend the next day in Osorno waiting for the next night's fleet of overnight buses to leave." Amused was not the right word to describe my disposition.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2660/4117890577_d8166ba5fb_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2660/4117890577_d8166ba5fb_m.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I held out hope that we'd actually make it on time. I wanted to believe that customs would be smooth (and it was), but there were other obstacles that I didn't anticipate. For one, we seemed to stop forever in a small town outside Bariloche called Angostura. It's a pretty town that I'd like to visit when I come back through here again, but what seemed as if what should have been a 15-minute wait turned out to be a 30-minute wait. I watched the second hand tick on my watch for a while until I gave up and watched the finish line of the adventure road race that was going on at the same time.<br />
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Then we finally took off, and even though we crept through town to avoid the racers and spectators, I was hopeful that this was a planned stop and that traffic ahead would be light. But no sooner did my hopes rise did they plummet back to earth: we had stopped for gas just on the outskirts of town.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2772/4117924957_5c3a18865c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2772/4117924957_5c3a18865c_m.jpg" width="150" /></a>I'm a good driver, but when I'm impatient I do a lot of yelling and swearing. It was killing me to sit there in the back of the bus and watch the pump rolling over and over all the while having to keep my mouth shut. Again, after about 20 minutes at the gas station, we were on our way. Customs, which I thought would be the hold up, was good leaving Argentina. But the miles between the Argentine and Chilean borders are hilly and slow, and we had a fucking lame driver behind the wheel who didn't know how to drive. I probably did the suicide-shoot-me-in-the-head with my hands-as-guns motion about a half-dozen times every 15 minutes. I knew I wasn't making the Santiago bus. That's a $35 loss of ticket (because it was non-refundable), $20 at least for a hostel room in Osorno (if the cheapest one was open at that time of night), and another lost day that was supposed to be spent in the northern beach town of La Serena.</div><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">FUCK ME!!!!!</span><br />
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It was good that the AndesMar man called Cruz del Sur, because if he hadn't then I would have been in a greater state of anger and frustration. I gave up worrying when we finally left the Chilean border crossing. We were going to be late and all hope depended on Cruz del Sur hooking me up on a later bus. My fingers were crossed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2581/4117935169_da50f0867c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2581/4117935169_da50f0867c_m.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-79431645030780904072009-12-14T15:03:00.002-05:002011-05-04T15:30:45.428-04:00Chile - Day Seven: Puerto VarasSo I got up and rushed around to run errands before hopping on a bus from Pucon to Puerto Varas. I needed to photocopy the Bariloche, Argentina info out of the hostel’s guidebook (because I didn't have the Argentinean book - only Chile), eat breakfast, buy lunch, shop the bus companies for prices, and get a picture of the still unseen volcano Villarica.<br />
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The sun was out for the first time in days, and I saw the top of the cone of Villarica when I stepped outside. It was as clear as day - its whiteness rising upward from the earth's crust dramatically and close; my chest tingled and I shuddered at the thought that I was so close to death, not because the volcano was going to erupt - far from it considering it had last erupted in 1971, but more because I placed myself in a position where escape was nearly impossible if it did erupt. I've been in situations where death felt real, yet I always knew there was a way to get out of it and, that if I did die, then it wouldn't be from a lack of trying to stay alive. This was different. The chances of getting swallowed by lava or choked by toxic gases were slimmer than me getting hit by a bus, except the fear, as it always has been with me, isn't about the actual dying; it's about not being able to do anything about it while death swallowed me whole. The volcano was right there. There. I could point at and know that I was staring at something ominous and deceitful. I know this because my first two days in Pucon were spent photographing the conical hills to the north with the firm belief that, with all the clouds covering the entire area, at least one of these hills, with their rutted ribs where lava had clearly once flowed, was Villarica. It was shocking to see that the clouds had completely hidden the giant directly to the south, and I felt foolish for leaving my camera inside the hostel.<br />
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My errands took longer than expected. One of the bus stations was a fair distance away and it was difficult to find (as was a photocopy store), so when I had finished buying my ticket, eating breakfast, buying lunch, and photocopying the travel book, I had 15 minutes to pack. There was no time to even say goodbye to the friends I had made at Hostal Refugio, and that made me a little sad. Unfortunately that wasn't all that made me frown. My camera was ready to fire away when I stepped outside, but when I looked to the south and aimed my lens up where the volcano was supposed to be, all I saw was white, except it wasn't the snowpacked slopes. Clouds had covered the tip of the mountain once more. And while I could still see the base, which I hadn't even known existed to the south until today, no one wants to see a picture of a wide, snow-white base topped by a wider cloud-white top. The moment was ruined.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2690/4118651882_c870c6bed7_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rs="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2690/4118651882_c870c6bed7_m.jpg" width="150" /></a>I took one picture, sighed, and got on the bus. We rolled into a nearby small town on the other side of Villarica an hour later and I managed to get one picture through the glass window beyond the town's rooftops, over signs, and in between power lines. Its whiteness amazed me, even though the backside of the Volcano is not as snowed in as the Pucon side. There were green rolling hills that went higher than the lowest snow on Villarica, and yet while those rolling hills were green to the top, Villarica was nearly snow the bottom. The dead volcanoes to the north were green, and the live volcano, with magma turning inside of it, was a frozen peak. Nature, it seemed to me at that moment, was odd.</div><br />
The ride to Puerto Varas was somewhat smooth. It wasn't until I got on the bus when I found out it didn't stop in town. In fact, it dropped me off at a freaking toll booth on the highway. But that turned out OK because a microbus came by a couple of minutes later and the ride into town wasn't that long anyway.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2762/4117882195_397444fe82_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rs="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2762/4117882195_397444fe82_m.jpg" /></a>The land between Pucon and Puerto Varas was lush, green, and fertile with vineyards, farms, and orchards dotting the rolling hills. And the individual properties were separated by those tall, thin poplars that I fell in love with from Monet's paintings in Giverny. I love poplars. I always have, and I don't know why. They're tools of society. Sure, they're wild, but they serve a delineating role set forth by humans to establish whose land belongs to whom. And they accept their role proudly with their militaristic stances. They rise straight up in the air, sky-high, and because they can grow so close to each other, it is impossible to not understand their message: this side is my owner's side and that side is your side, please respect the difference. I've always been one to break the rules. Following rules are for people who lack the courage to find their own ways. It's a harsh reality to live with all the time (and like anyone, I'm not perfectly regimented even in my own sentiments, which are frustratingly honest because even when one strives to buck trends, one is, in fact, establishing new rules to live by). So I wonder why poplars are so beautiful to me. It might be because they succeed so magnificently in their role that they literally stand out above all the other trees. It might also be because they are so in line with their role, and the fact that they stand so proudly because of their role, that they seem to be breaking the very rules that I find dear to me: they're loyal to their masters while I demand loyalty from the people I associate with. For one there is an honor for sacrificing society's riches and going alone in search of one's own riches, and for the other there is an honor for sacrificing one's own riches for the benefit of others. Maybe it's the stark difference between the two that I find beautiful. At the very least I find the beauty in respecting the poplars for what they are: graceful sentinels, breathtaking, and unwavering.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2675/4117882577_b9f9e1221b_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rs="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2675/4117882577_b9f9e1221b_m.jpg" /></a>I arrived in Puerto Varas under heavy clouds and a thick mist. There were no views and the forecast was for more of the same the next few days, so that evening I bought a ticket for the next morning to head to Bariloche.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But my short time in Puerto Varas was the most productive of my entire trip. While this has been a little bit of a vacation, it was scheduled to be more homework for deciding where to live in Chile. I got very little info about Santiago, learned that I didn't like Vina del Mar or Valparaiso, learned that Pucon wasn't for me, and that was it. I was hoping to learn where to find apartments, how to rent, how to live, and where to find the climbing community. All I had found so far was that the climbing community is closed to outsiders, that info on apartments is bad if you don't speak Spanish (yeah, I know, that's on me), and nothing else. It had been a very frustrating trip thus far.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Then I arrived at the French-speaking hostel Casa Margouya (a relief since I actually can speak French) and found three things: Americans living in Santiago (i.e. - English speakers who knew how to rent, where to look, and what living was like for Gringos, which, surprise! surprise! is something that most Chileans aren't going to know), climbers in Puerto Varas who were open to climbing without requiring advance payment, and another American who now lives in Puerto Varas who knows how to find places to live in town. SCORE! AWESOME! AWESOME! AWESOME!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I went to dinner with the Americans living in Santiago mainly because I wanted to learn more about living there. It was a productive dinner. They told me a lot and gave me some ideas and warnings. I had fish and they had these massive emapandas (a popular pastry-like dish in Chile). The size of the empanadas surprised everyone, but it was a dinner menu that we ordered from, so it wasn't completely surprising when we factored that in. The beer was good, too, but I couldn't stay out late. I had an early-morning bus to catch to Argentina, and I wanted to be up for what I was told would be a fantastic ride.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-48853036803289832812009-12-10T15:09:00.004-05:002011-05-04T15:30:20.109-04:00Chile - Days Five & Six: Pucon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2516/4117860529_471e22633e_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2516/4117860529_471e22633e_m.jpg" /></a></div>The last time someone wrote "rien" in his diary he got his head chopped off. I'm not going to tempt fate, mainly because there is a steaming volcano a few miles from here, but what the hell - Pucon is small, it's Sunday in a country that still shuts down on Sundays, and I'm in a summer tourist town in the thrust of early spring. In other words, it's slow. <br />
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</div><a name='more'></a><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2746/4117861227_4d126ce9a6_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2746/4117861227_4d126ce9a6_m.jpg" /></a>While I don't mind pina coladas, I'm not a fan of getting caught in the rain. I went for a walk along the quiet streets of this village that can be completely walked around in less than twenty minutes. Where did I go if I had already seen all of the downtown area? I don't know. I looked at the volcano and walked toward it when I got out of town, and when I found a dirt road going to Rio-whatever, I turned down the dirt road and walked toward the end. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And then the air became heavy and wet. It wasn't hard, but there was enough water falling from the sky that I felt the dampness through my jeans and saw spots on my glasses. The rain came from the left, and there were tall, thick, green trees stacked nicely next to each other that made a nice wall that I could walk behind. So when I turned around, when the rain had ceased flying through the air and instead fell straight to the ground with loud slaps on the muddy dust, the trees, now on my right, kept me from getting soaked. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But after I passed the trees and reached the tarred road that went back to town, my cover disappeared, and when I turned right the rain spit directly in my face and all over my only set of clean clothes. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I was wet when I got back into town. If it weren't for the B&B with a large roof over its door then I would have been soaked. There was just enough wetness to annoy me, but not enough to deter my thoughts on how bored I'd be if I went back to the hostel for the rest of the afternoon. If the rain had continued then I would have settled with boredom over sickness, but the rain stopped when I reached the outskirts of town so I headed to the lake instead. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2664/4118628892_7a10a5f348_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2664/4118628892_7a10a5f348_m.jpg" /></a>There is a long walk along the black sandy beach. I took that toward the mountains with the hope that I'd find a path into the woods. But as I neared the end, the wind pick me up and tossed me into one of the summer cabin yards that lined the edge of the lake. In fact, the wind was so strong that when I finally regained my strength and balance I was only able to walk at an angle such that when the wind died, even for a split second, I collapsed straight to the ground as a bag of rocks would if tiredly dropped by someone who could not care less about holding the bag any longer. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Then it rained again. And when I got back to town it stopped raining again. There was no way to win this fight, so I said, "Fuck it," and bought my first ice cream in Chile. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It is understandable why Pucon is an adrenaline-based town. It is right below Villarica, the active, steaming volcano, which, if it blew, would kill me in a day. I don't worry, though, because there's only been two eruptions in the past sixty years, with the last one coming in 1971. No one died from lava, either. Instead, the lava redirected two rivers, and the rivers flowed over soft ground, and the soft ground gave way to a rumbling collapse of the earth that wiped out a bunch of small towns and the hundreds who lived in them. So yeah, that's why it is an adrenaline-based town. But that's OK, because while fire stations in the US have forest fire warnings (green for good, yellow for caution, red for danger), the fire station here has the same thing...except it is for toxic gas instead. Today the arrow is on green.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2230/4117870305_fd3e4a1bb0_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2230/4117870305_fd3e4a1bb0_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But Pucon isn't for me. Sure, it is pretty and small and I could live here, but not under the current circumstances. I'm in no position to spend money for fun, and that is what Pucon is; it's a playground for those who want to spend money on fun. And to be clear, it isn't a playground for the rich, per se. It's just that with the way the activities are set up it is difficult to do anything alone. It is much easier to hire a guide to take you anywhere. I want to be with people, not pay for them. I just want to climb with people, not pay to climb. It isn't selfish. It's more that I want to live my life as normal. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Anyway, I'll have fun tonight. It is difficult to get to the nearby hot springs, particularly for me who would have to negotiate a price in Spanish. But thankfully some nice folks from the hostel are going and they arranged it for me. So I'm going for three hours tonight when the sky is supposed to be clear and starry. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The hot springs were great. There were four pools and the first one we went into, the closest to the road, was the hottest. Five of us went: there were two girls from Germany, me, and a couple from The Netherlands. We stayed three hours and that was long enough. Even though we all had fun together, it was one of those nights and moments when I wished I was with someone. I felt the springs were romantic. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I went to El Cani the next day. El Cani is a private nature preserve set aside by a few generous citizens. This is becoming a trend in Chile, and I think it is a very good thing. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2690/4118651882_c870c6bed7_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2690/4118651882_c870c6bed7_m.jpg" width="150" /></a>I heard the views of Villarica, which, due to the cloud cover of the past few days, I had yet to get a picture of, were great. There were also several lakes nestled tightly amongst the steep, lush-green mountains that surrounded all of Pucon. I took a microbus (this time it was easier than when in Valparaiso) about a half-hour out of town and got dropped off at the rustic office at the base. The price was CH$3000 (about US$6) to hike up the steep, muddy hill that I'm sure would have made for a perfect mudslide had the volcano decided to erupt at that moment. I had four hours to hike up as high as I could go before turning back so that I could catch the last bus back into town. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2751/4117863295_69447a8516_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2751/4117863295_69447a8516_m.jpg" width="200" /></a>The trail was a broken road with deep, muddy ruts only good for a mule or the most rugged, low-gear 4x4 trucks, and it was steep. I started out at the base, where I was surround by sheep and cattle farms, with my down vest zipped to my chin, a thin hat over my head, and my hands planted stiffly in my vest pockets. The steepness eventually got to me. Within twenty minutes of climbing my head was bald and my chest, warmed only by a light fleece shirt, was exposed to the cool, snowy wind that tumbled down from the top. The refugio, the octagonal shed that was as bare bones as a lean-to, was an hour uphill from the base. I was tired when I got to it, but only the out-of-breath kind. My energy was as raging as the heaving in my chest was healthy in the thin, mountain air. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2683/4117871211_48ddeb5160_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2683/4117871211_48ddeb5160_m.jpg" width="200" /></a>I went inside the refugio. There was a fire pit in the middle and an iron stove for cooking to the side. The dark and leaky edges had benches for sleeping. It was dirty and drafty, but I'd sleep there in a heart beat if I knew I could play in the surrounding wilderness all day. Outside there were views of two lakes: the one in Pucon to my left and another lake to my right. It was only a moment, but I recognized that yearning to stay forever as soon as it hit me. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2569/4117874735_879a5c3f64_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2569/4117874735_879a5c3f64_m.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But I didn't have much time to linger. There was just enough time to head uphill into the snow for a few minutes before heading back. The snow started out thin. It was just a dusting at first, but within 50 feet it was accumulated such that it was difficult for me to keep my balance on the steeper terrain. My sneakers started to get wet on the sides after another 100 feet, and then my ankles became buried under the coldness after yet another 100 feet. I was grateful to have footprints to step into, but then I came across a stream, and on the other side the snow was a foot thick and the terrain too steep without good shoes. I imagined that snowshoes would be needed within 500 feet after the stream. I turned back even though I knew I'd have over an hour's wait at the bottom for the bus. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The snow on the trail wasn't my only problem, either. The sporadic rain that had passed over me on the way up to the refugio was now hail. Within minutes it turned to snow, and where there was only a dusting of snow just above the refugio, I found my sneakers wet and my socks cold from deeper drifts that weren't there when I started up. I was grateful when I stepped back onto dry ground. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was early, so I chatted with the guides at the base. Then I waited at the bus stop and watched two people on horses herd two bulls down the road. </div><br />
Later that night at the hostel we all talked, shared climbing pictures from past trips, and I decided to head to Bariloche, Argentina.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all 2009 Chile and Argentina pics.</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2508/4117878483_dab2a6b404_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2508/4117878483_dab2a6b404_m.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-78089521613638677232009-12-07T16:35:00.009-05:002011-05-04T15:30:08.766-04:00Chile - Day Four:<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2534/4118619246_2f153e3480_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2534/4118619246_2f153e3480_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
I slept well.<br />
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This day served many purposes. One was to find out where I was going after this <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2612/4117843891_bdaf333444_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2612/4117843891_bdaf333444_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 180px;" /></a>day. My choices were Pucon, Puerto Montt, Puerto Varas, or La Serena. La Serena is up north, with the others south and only Pucon is not next to another town I´m heading to down there. The other purpose was to walk around Barrio Brasil, which, according to a couple of the travel guides, is supposedly the "hood" of Santiago, but since this is where my hostel is, I know better that it isn't.<br />
My travels south (or north, if that may be) are dependent on where I can crash <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2662/4118612354_3cc3ab1c18_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2662/4118612354_3cc3ab1c18_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 180px;" /></a>for a night. If I can stay with Boris in Puerto Varas then maybe I´ll go there on an overnight bus tonight. If not, maybe I´ll stay with Daniel in Puerto Montt, but his roommates are not happy with him having couchsurfers. I haven´t heard from Boris in days, and staying with Daniel isn´t looking good.<br />
But until then, I´ll check out Barrio Brasil. Don´t worry though, despite its "hood" description, the reputation is rather tame. Besides, I like it here more than anywhere else in Santiago. Have I found my place to live? We shall see.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2595/4118610658_bf5777ffa2_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2595/4118610658_bf5777ffa2_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
And we saw, and what we saw was good, and what was good was quiet and peaceful, and lazy, and easy, and a relief. I´m not sure how good of a neighborhood it is, but it seemed fine to me. Yes, it is run down, but it is so peaceful here. I just can´t see it being different than any normal run down neighborhood in Boston. I´d walk down most of those no problem (well, OK, not all of them no problem, but you know what I´m saying - once you get used to a place you learn that the ugly parts aren´t as bad as they seem when you first see them). There´s nothing more to say than I liked it.<br />
<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2634/4117850769_5e4d28095b_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2634/4117850769_5e4d28095b_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 180px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a>BTW - I´m getting better at Spanish. Some conversations are better than others, but there is a noted, albeit slow, progress. Maybe I just have more confidence. Here´s hoping it continues.<br />
I walked through a quiet park called Quinta Normal that reminded me of a palm-tree filled Boston Garden (not the Common, but the more heavily shaded Garden). It was quiet, green, probably not safe at night (maybe not during the day!), and enjoyable. I then ate at a restaurant that could have been a maritime museum. And then I went and price-shopped, in Spanish, the prices for bus trips to Pucon. I´m leaving at 10:30pm tonight and arrive there at 8am the next day. Wooooo!!!!<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2733/4117846381_23e206b073_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2733/4117846381_23e206b073_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all 2009 Chile / Argentina pics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-89939386564261930592009-11-27T13:22:00.006-05:002011-05-04T15:29:54.310-04:00Chile - Day Three: Valparaiso and Vina del marWhoever said central Chile is similar to the Mediterranean was spot on. Unlike American deserts, or even unlike the semi-arid climate of Colorado, it is both dry and lush; around Santiago, there is enough brown in between the green that one might think they are in the desert after it has rained, but there is real grass here and the grass holds to the ground so there isn´t dust or loose dirt blowing through the air as it does in Colorado or Dallas or New Mexico. I´ve said it before - this is Greece in South America.<br />
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The closer one gets to Valparaiso, and the dark Pacific Ocean that dominates its business, the greener the land gets with vineyards and tall, thin sequoia-like trees. I don´t know what the trees are exactly, but they are as tall a tree as I´ve ever seen. The fir trees look soft, as if their needles would make a comfortable bed if they fell to the ground. But the dirt is still a hardened mud red. The landscape has now turned into the Sierras of California.<br />
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I step off the bus in Valparaiso amidst a tornado of loose plastic bags. Walking through the bus station is no different than hiking through six feet of fresh snow. I trudge through the garbage with each foot lifted higher than my hip just to move forward.<br />
The cobblestone streets here are narrow and the sidewalks have only enough room for one person despite the thousands trying to use them. I was warned of pickpockets, so I keep my bag close and I put my head on a swivel.<br />
Valparaiso is steep. The hills rise from the sea to outer space, up where Pablo Neruda has another home, so I became an astronaut and climbed the broken streets and the crumbling sidewalks until I am bored with views of the endless sea filled with cargo and naval ships. There is only so much one can enjoy when tall, <a href="http://images.wikia.com/starwars/images/8/8f/ATAT-CHRON.jpg">evil, Star Wars-like-AT-AT-Walkers</a> dominate the shoreline pretending to be <a href="http://cache1.asset-cache.net/xc/1337783.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=17A4AD9FDB9CF1939057D9939C83F106D2C7A09E11105E91B01E70F2B3269972">longshoreman cranes</a>. The hills are the quietest I had heard since I arrived in Chile - no diesel buses, no crowds, no shouting hawkers, but these streets aren´t interesting to me, so I head down to eat before going to Vina del Mar.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2713/4118592008_f339bd7133_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2713/4118592008_f339bd7133_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
I´m having a difficult time trusting the small holes-in-the-wall restaurants here. We avoid them in the US unless we know them. We´re generally suspicious of their cleanliness, but everything is dirty here and these food places that are smaller than my closet at home are the norm. In fact, they replace McDonald's and are supposedly healthier with more fish and grilled meat options. But I'm still leery, and my Spanish is too weak to eat a place where it is likely English is not understood, so I keep going until I find a better place, where there's a menu that I can read, translate, and understand within reason what I'm about to order, eat, and digest.<br />
Hours later my walking has turned to stumbling. There is no breakfast in Chile as there is in the US, and it´s late in the day so I´m hungry, light-headed, confused, and afraid - not out of fear but from the hopelessness of knowing that wherever I go they won´t understand me nor me them. I gaze at the lines of normal people standing at the portable carts that dot the streets. The people, the native Spanish speakers, those who are normal here and living life as I do at home in Boston, are waiting for a quick empanada or maybe just some bread and nuts. It all looks so good and my stomach craves anything I can stuff into it. I wish all empanadas were the same so I could just go up to a vendor, point, pay, chew, and swallow. But despite my surging dizziness I am able to remember that they aren't made equal. While in Chile they all have at least an egg and olive inside the pocket-like pastry (I had two empanadas in Argentina without egg and olive), they can also have any combination of steak, chicken, pork, fish, and / or cheese mixed in. That means knowing the words to ask for the right combination, understanding the words said back to me, and paying the right amount. My head is too muddled for that, so I walk on and try not to look at all the quick fast-food options around me.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2504/4118592864_4bc23c38fe_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2504/4118592864_4bc23c38fe_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
Random stumbling is the closest I can came to describing how I'm walking at this point. It's worse than being drunk because at least when I'm drunk I <em>know</em> I'm walking funny. But this, I don't know what this is. It's uncontrollable. It's weakness in the head and muscles, particularly in the legs where fatigue and balance have switched positions so that the former has more control than the latter. I must look strange to the locals. Not only am I as white as a ghost, but my face feels blank and my eyes distant. It takes a great effort to not bump into people while I'm staggering along. I need food fast.<br />
I finally go to a hamburger place because my instincts tell me to eat. I order the only thing I know to eat, a burger and fries. I don't even know what the waiter is telling me, so I point to the picture and say, "medium." He understands. The cook cooks, and I eat my food afterward. It's OK, not great, but I feel better and it´s sunny out. On a normal day back home I'd head back to my apartment and rest. I'd visit the other places on my list another day because I have that luxury. But I only have two weeks in Chile to check things over, so, despite my near disaster and hour earlier of falling face first onto the hard stone streets, the beach calls.<br />
OK, so I´m still far from being good at asking how much it costs to use a microbus. Let´s just say the transaction doesn´t go smoothly and leave it at that. Then the microbus drops me off in the mini Miami that is Vina del Mar.<br />
What a difference there is between the three towns I have visited. On one side <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2800/4117828941_10c74bc85c_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2800/4117828941_10c74bc85c_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 180px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a>there is the filthy Valparaiso. In the middle is the simply unkempt Santiago. And at the far other end is clean and pristine Vina del Mar. It is obvious why this is the way it is. Santiago is a living and working city; it´s the house that one tries to keep clean but doesn´t because of how hectic life is. Valparaiso is the rock star younger brother that everyone hopes will be special someday. But the <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2780/4117835703_371d62898a_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2780/4117835703_371d62898a_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 180px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a>reality is he never learned how to take care of himself and he thinks his poor behavior, which never went punished - indeed, it actually went rewarded by UNESCO for some reason - is a character positive. But Vina, even if a bit stuffy, is manicured because when people go to the beach they want it to be pretty. Yes, it has the tacky beachfront high-tower condominiums, but it was nice to see overall. And for the first time in my young trip here I feel the urge to relax, so I take my shoes off, roll up my jeans (not high enough at times!), and feel the hard sand gather in between my toes while the cool, salty sea froths over my feet and up my ankles and calf when the waves are strongest.<br />
Then I hop on a microbus and pay full price for what should have been a four-stop trip, even though I'm on the bus for five stops beyond where I was supposed to get off.<br />
Back in Santiago, I meet Otto from Switzerland and we head around the corner for a beer. We chill for an hour, nursing the our beer and talking about our lives and travels. I´m an aspiring writer researching my next step, and he´s a burnt out mechanical engineer who is travelling for a year. This part of his trip is six months from Mexico City to Patagonia. The next six months, after Christmas at home, is Asia. I envy him a little, but not much. I wish that I had more of his tolerance of hard daily living. I just can´t put up with people like that - always changing languages and cultures. In the end I feel better about who I am, or at least I can admit it. Hunger and dizziness aside, confusion isn't so bad when it can be domesticated. It is much easier to be confused on a daily basis when things are the same every day. I'm not getting much better with my Spanish but at least I can get on a bus, ride an hour away from my comfortable bed, see two towns, eat, and come back safely without much of a hitch. OK, so I got a little confused on the microbuses in and around Valparaiso and Vina del Mar, but I got where I needed to go. With a little practice, it won't cost me so much over time. I still won't understand everything, but at least I'll understand what I need to. This all sees possible now, even if I still haven't seem as much of the light as I'd like to. Still, at least there is some light. I put that in my back pocket, put my head on my pillow in the hostel, and fall into a deep sleep that should leave me rested for the next day.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2692/4117836301_88e2c93365_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2692/4117836301_88e2c93365_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all 2009 Chile & Argentina Pics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-41444053242626420572009-11-25T11:22:00.012-05:002011-05-04T15:29:38.763-04:00Chile - Day Two: Santiago<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2626/4117796681_8b130a8864_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2626/4117796681_8b130a8864_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>Santiago is an ugly city, and the Mapocho River smells like shit, the air is thick with pollutants, and everything is dirty. The women are much too average and the men are stiff in their suits. I am disappointed.<br />
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<em>What luck I had when I went to eat lunch late in the afternoon at the Centro Mercado, which is the local fish market. I was looking for a cheap place to have fish and rice, and I wanted to drink and write for a while in order to rest from the red sun. I did not want to fall into to the steely tourist traps and the book said to find on the edge of the market the less touristy La Paila Dennisse. I walked through and didn´t see it. There were many places and their waiters were flagging me down. It´s a madhouse of trout, squid, octopus, snapper, salmon, haddock, eel - and they all smell as bad as good fish should smell. I loved it, and this what I was looking for. Only Greece offered cheap seafood as good, but I had to find La Paila Dennisse.</em><br />
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I went to see Providencia and Bella Vista, two of the neighborhoods I had been<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2770/4118561778_ea257b4965_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2770/4118561778_ea257b4965_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 180px;" /></a> told were good ones to live in. The walk from Las Condes through Providencia through Bella Vista (up Cerro San Cristobal and back down again) to the Centro Mercado was long. In fact, I walked so much that my feet fell off. I didn´t notice it for several blocks when I looked down at the curb and saw my ankles scraping the hard concrete sidewalk. I went back and found them in the possession of a poor student. She gave them back, but I had to buy a poem from her first.<br />
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<em>I decided to run for it, and I found the searing sunshine peering through the tin doors and solid silver roof ahead of me. It was hot, and I was day three in the same clothes (Air Canada had yet to deliver my bag), but I would rather take my chances with a portable cart outside that sold hot peanuts for CH$400 than buy a CH$5,000 fish for CH$10,000.</em><br />
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The walking was much faster when I had my feet again. And I went from Providencia to Bella Vista to the top of Cerro San Cristobal where the locked up Virgin Mary stands high and looks over the city of smog so thick that my nostrils swelled and ran off to the poor student for protection. So I had to pay her again for another poem to get my nostrils back, and I tried to take some pictures but they were no good, and I´ll have to go there again when the wind is blowing stronger and there is no bad air hovering above the city. The Virgin Mary, it seemed to me, was destitute in this clouded land. That didn't bother me so much as the fog did, because though I've believed that I could see a world without her, I wasn't prepared for the view to be so murky in her absence.<br />
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<em>I walked through three times and did not see it. The right side had fish on ice that you buy for home. The left was the same thing. In front was an arcade or a cheap casino - I think it was a casino. I looked around and saw short, fat, dark-haired men with mustaches that curled down over the edge of their lips like handlebars on a bike. They were holding up menus and running toward me saying, "Aqui, Aqui!" They shouted that over and over again to get me to go here or there. I didn´t understand - "No Etiendo!" Their eyes lit up and they smiled the evil grin of expensive services and they charged harder; "Aqui! AQUI!" The walls closed around me. They got tighter and tighter and I didn´t understand anything they said. I was fucked; I was fucked into spending too much, of getting robbed the wild west way where what you don´t know cannot hurt you. </em><br />
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I was stunned at how disappointing Providencia was. It was supposed to be the middle class neighborhood, and instead it was a series of rows of run-down apartment complexes that had more laundry hanging from the sagging porches than it had cleanly painted walls. I likened it to the first time I saw Macy's in New York City: after all the years of seeing the glamorous Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on television, my jaw dropped when, from the heights of the Empire State Building, I saw the peeled paint flaking off the crumbling exterior brick wall of the storied department store. It was a dump, and my disappointment in New York City was sealed, and even though I didn't quite feel the same way going into Providencia, I wasn't prepared for the malaise I'd feel after realizing the one nice neighborhood I considered living in Santiago was no more than a back street alley darkened by neglect and littered with garbage and ruins.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2687/4117779239_4843720a58_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2687/4117779239_4843720a58_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
There were some bright spots, however. The fountain between Providencia and Bella Vista was nice, and so was the open air in this same area near the polluted Rio Mapocho. And then there was Bella Vista itself. This area is the known as the party section of Santiago, and I could see it was true because I was there in the dead of the day and all the buildings, except for a few tourist shops, were gated up while their owners and patrons rested for another wild night that had not yet begun. I liked the colorful buildings, and I liked the bustling student atmosphere on the streets. Pablo Neruda, the proud Chilean poet who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971, lived under the gentle, quiet trees where the cobblestone streets meet the base of the hill where the Virgin Mary oversees the city.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2494/4118552940_304e676956_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2494/4118552940_304e676956_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
<em>When I reached the daylight I was nervous. People bombed around everywhere: there were construction workers, kids, school girls in uniform, those stiff men in suits, Bohemians in flowered skirts looking at my bag with wild eyes, and people, just people; they were everywhere and I stepped in line and walked along the sidewalk, outside the Mercado, until I turned left down a wider street. Then I felt the heat beat down on my bald head. My feet ached from miles of walking and all I wanted to do was to sit down in the shade.</em><br />
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I took the funicular to the top of the steep hill. The view should be <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2543/4118571436_c32e1fb476_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2543/4118571436_c32e1fb476_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 180px;" /></a>spectacular, but with the low hanging haze of smog that tortures this city on a regular basis, it was difficult to find good pictures. Also, the mountains of snow that cap the Andes that are the on the eastern rim of the city had mostly dripped into the valley from the warm spring sun. Brown haze and brown hills make for a blend that requires bright white in order for an appealing photo can be taken. The contrasts simply weren't that interesting. <br />
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<em>I turned left again and walked past a cart with sausages, tomato, and avocado. It would be easy to order because I could look up in my book the word that described the ingredients. But I wanted to sit. I NEEDED to sit. So I turned left again and went into the madhouse and its shade again.</em><br />
<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2583/4118577144_24ea4a1bf9_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2583/4118577144_24ea4a1bf9_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 180px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a>Which brings me to another point, while there are areas that are nicer than others, it is difficult to tell one end of Santiago from another. All the neighborhoods blend together like the seasons in Scotland do: one can't tell when one season ends and another begins, but when one is standing in the middle of the new season, it feels different. In Santiago, the brown is the same from one block to the next, but the shapes change and this makes walking in this city both pleasant and frustrating. One the one hand, it is nice to stroll along the avenues taking in the slight changes of scenery as if watching life grow from infantality to old age. If one walks enough then there is adolescence, adult-hood, the mid-life crisis, the golden age, and death, and all the minor set-backs and growth periods that everyone experiences throughout life. On the other hand, however, walking from one point to the next leaves one wondering, "when the fuck will I ever get there?" because the buildings may grow from shacks to palaces in the blink of an eye, but they never go from the shantiest shack to the grossest affluence in less than a thousand breaths.<br />
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<em>I was immediately hounded by a serious man in a white shirt that was stained from cutting fish. He was firm. His eyebrows were dark and pointed inward toward his nose and he swayed back and forth on his feet as if he was nervous. "Aqui, Aqui," he said, and I relented. The waitress brought me a menu and I ordered octopus with rice. She brought me a beer and I sat back, looked up at the chalkboard menu above me on the wall and read,"La Paila Dennisse."</em><br />
<em>It was as good of an octopus as I´d had in Greece.</em><br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2760/4117809357_cc06401c4a_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2760/4117809357_cc06401c4a_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
After Bella Vista I headed to the Centro Mercado for my fish. The walk was nice, but hot. I followed a dusty path of tall, green trees and walked past an old government building and the art museum. The dirty river was to my right, and even though I couldn't smell it, I imagined its stench to have vapors capable of causing<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2780/4118585782_258f96df69_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2780/4118585782_258f96df69_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 180px;" /></a> welts and an immediate vomiting death, so I stayed well left under the cover of the green leaves. Friends have asked me why I don't like the dry heat of the desert, and I've always said that it is because with humidity one knows when it is too hot. Dry air is more comfortable, but the heat is just as dangerous and I personally cannot feel that my body has been exposed to the dry heat until it is too late. I <em>always</em> get sick in the dry heat, so all I could think about was getting to the cool shade and smells of the fish market for lunch. But I was lost, too, both in a world I literally couldn't understand and in a world seemingly without a destination now that I had seen that Santiago was rather bland. The sun was beating through the trees and all the brown buildings looked the same. I asked for directions, was given them, and went on my way. I didn't understand the directions, so a few minutes later, when the first person I asked was well out of sight, I asked another person. <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2647/4118559436_c8bfb1c37b_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2647/4118559436_c8bfb1c37b_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 180px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a>Again, I didn't understand, but I walked forward anyway and hoped to recognize the square building I was heading toward. Saliva formed under my tongue and when I spat it out it came out as dust. Pretty soon dirt formed in my gums when the saliva took refuge with the poor student. My bag, which was full with two guidebooks and two cameras - one with an extra zoom lens, was heavy on my shoulder, so I switched it only to find that I had switched shoulders only a few minutes earlier and now both shoulders were sore. But onward I went still in search of food. I asked for directions again and understood nothing. Then I asked again and understood nothing. Finally a man who was going in the same direction as me pointed to the building, and until I stepped inside I was relieved to see the ice packs glowing in the dark building. Then the accosting began, and I still didn't understand. Confusion reigned until luck found what I was looking for. But even then, I still didn't understand what the waitress was telling me. So I ordered my food blindly and got only partly what I expected to get. She brought me more, and I still didn't understand, but I ate it anyway. Then I paid.<br />
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<em>Of course, the best was the fish juice drink. There´s nothing better from a lobster than sucking the juices from the claws. This mussel juice and water that she served me was murky in a glass with stuff on the bottom. I drank it slowly, over an hour, to savor the taste of home so far away.</em><br />
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And then I asked Rita, the waitress, how to get to the Plaza de Armas, and she said it in Spanish, rapido, and I understood, and it felt like the start of a miracle.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2766/4118567592_acc4452d24_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2766/4118567592_acc4452d24_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 180px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all Chile / Argentina 2009 pics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2914655197418688819.post-74413384695052642602009-11-24T21:46:00.016-05:002011-05-04T15:29:17.453-04:00Chile Day One: Getting ThereYeah, OK, so no worries here. There`s not a care in the world. This is when I unveil the sword and prime it for the knarled jungle vines ahead. I hit Logan and Logan spit me off to Philly, and Philly spun me to Toronto, and I`m now circling Toronto and I want to see the CN Tower. But all I can see from here to eternity are straight lines of flickering lights intersected at ninety-degree angles by more straight lines that fade to infinity on this flat world, has no curves that I can see that bring all the straight lines beautifully together; there's just people going one way versus others going another way versus me rounding in the plane above them on my way to the straight runway below.<br />
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I`m disappointed by the grid streets. It`s something one sees when flying west where the bureaucrats became kings and the land was divided by their grand ideas of efficiency and planning. Vegas is wild with colors and lights, but it is boring as shit to fly over except for the mountains of lights that disguise the flaws of laziness. Toronto is an eastern city; it is not supposed to be this way. Eastern cities aren`t planned, they are built to grow with the hand-me-down clothes passed on from generation to generation. One gets lost in Eastern cities and their crooked roads that lead from village to village. One doesn`t drive straight to the edge of life in a straight line. That`s too fast, too efficient, too painless, and too, well, I don`t know what it is because I won`t see it coming around the corner when it is my turn to hand down my clothes to someone younger than me.<br />
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There is a two-hour wait in Toronto and I`ve asked Fernando if I can charge my MP3 player on his computer. Fernando from Rosario, Argentina, three hours north of Buenos Aires, travelling back from Canada for the South American summer after spending the northern summer in Quebec City as a waiter, which he`s done now for five years - six months on and six months off, now at forty-nine years old, with two grown sons in their twenties left behind in Canada, a girlfriend waiting for him in Argentina, a book on how to be a waiter on his computer waiting to be published with his paintings adorning the start of each chapter he has written on serving, talking, uncorking, and all the misadventures he has had. The man has lived in every country of the world except those he hasn`t been to yet or found the time to settle down for any length of time. He is multi-lingual several times over and he is flying home to rest for six months, showing me pictures of his home and all the places he has visited, and letting me charge my endless supply of music at the same time. He`s old though, and he pops a Tylenol PM for the overnight flight that lasts ten hours (and he still has another three to fly after that, and then another three to drive after that). We shake hands and go to our separate aisles, separated only by one row, six seats, and a central console where the flight staff prepares the warm meals. I hope he sells his book and the handbags he has painted. He hopes my books sells forever.<br />
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Sleep comes soon.<br />
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But it isn`t enough. If a man needs a thousand winks then I get five hundred, and this flight was twice as long as a normal night`s rest. This is not to mention that it was cold where I sat. I had to walk a thousand rows toward the back of the plane before I felt warm air melt the sheet of ice that had grown over my clothes and stuck to my skin. I had to circle the plane a hundred times extra after that just to get my blood pumping again so that my skin changed back from pure white to yellow to blue to my skin`s natural peach before I looked normal again. And even then I felt more like an oil slick on a cold ocean than I did like running water from a faucet. I felt worse for the crew because other than the pilots they had to stand the whole flight so that their knees stuck straight and they waddled through the ailes like penguins with stiff legs after a while.<br />
It did not help that my luggage wanted to go see the beaches of Sao Paulo instead of Santiago.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2710/4117776315_3c044aba89_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2710/4117776315_3c044aba89_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
I was accosted by a hundred mad taxi drivers who wanted to drive me to Las Condes, which is where I was staying. I chose the blue bus and was happy for it. The CH$1400 it cost me was mounds better than the price I was certain to pay under the heaviness of the black hooded cabs.<br />
Jose Luis Barro was not home when I arrived. So I lugged my five-hundred pound carry-on with me to see El Muro - the climbing gym - and the Plaza de Armas for food. I walked too much for a man who had been in the same clothes for more than twenty-four hours. I was exhausted, and I looked forward to my Escudo beer and grilled salmon with rice.<br />
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Santiago is drab even in its nice neighborhoods. It is Thessaloniki, Greece with bigger mountains and no sea. The air is difficult to breathe. I can`t wait to get to Peurto Varas where the air is supposedly cleaner than here.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2504/4118548292_35870dd3c4_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2504/4118548292_35870dd3c4_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
I may have a job already when I arrive. Diego needs routesetters at the climbing gym. Even if it means free climbing then it is worth it.<br />
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I am so tired right now. My feet hurt, and I have learned how to say, "Sorry, I don`t speak Spanish" by heart now, too. The mental fatigue weighs more than the physical curses, and I could carry only half a horse before I left; now it is half a midget`s limb.<br />
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The Union Bar on Nuevo York is a man`s kind of place: the floor is dusty, the paint peeling, there are holes in the table cloths, which are only brushed cleaned instead of shaken or wiped, and the food was simple and magnificent. I didn`t want to talk to anyone. I didn`t want to explain once again that I don`t speak Spanish. No pretext. I just wanted to fucking eat my salmon and rice and drink my god damned beer. And they let me, and after my sixteenth salmon, I finished. I had forty-five minutes to meet Jose Luis Barro. It was time to rest, because if I said "oui" when I meant "si", and if I said "Puis je" when I meant "Puede" one more time then I was going SCREAM! Thank God I only punched myself for my stupidity until my eyes fell out instead. Screaming would have been emotionally too difficult to explain.<br />
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One final story for today: I had an interesting end to the day before heading to Jose Luis Barro`s penthouse palace that overlooks the dry Andes. Earlier in the day I bought four Metro tickets, one for now and three for later. I used the second one a little while later to go someplace in between the restaurant and Jose Luis Barro's, and then I was heading back and put the ticket in the machine but the turnstile wouldn`t turn. Two people came up to me and said something in Spanish. I told them I did not understand, but they kept talking. It took about ten minutes before the woman showed me, not told me, but showed me that my ticket was for non-rush hour only and that a more expensive ticket was now required. They let me give back the old tickets with extra money, which made the ticket seller laugh, in exchange for the more expensive ticket.<br />
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<a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2524/4117777285_e7858cfef9_m.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2524/4117777285_e7858cfef9_m.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
Jose Luis Barro`s house is great. He is great, too. Tomorrow I`ll investigate a few of the neighborhoods so that I can see where I might want to live when I come here in February.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8412478@N02/sets/72157622746790887/">Click here for all 2009 Chile and Argentina Pics</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0