Protest Entre Ríos style and horses have oranges for breakfast

Hugo Ramón, my landlord for the weekend, had his legs spread about shoulder length apart. With the right foot slightly in front of the left and his eyes glaring straight into mine, he demonstrated the proper form of taking mate. Hugo cupped the mate with his right and and comfortably rested his left hand on his hip.

Why have a steak when a few cows are available?

"When talking to a gaucho you must show all your hands and look them straight in the eyes," he said in exceptionally slow Spanish for my benefit. "No surprises." Pretending to have a poncho and a knife, he faked a stab and retreated quickly while shielding himself with a make-belief poncho.

Hugo is not a gaucho. He is a painter and he rents his spare room out to Carnival tourists. Like others here in Entre Ríos Province, Hugo incessantly drinks mate, an herbal tea common in Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay, and parts of South of Brazil.

A Gualeguaychú protest against a proposed paper mill across the river in Uruguay

* * *

I arrived in Gualeguaychú late on Friday afternoon. Having no reservations for a bed or a room at a hotel, I arrived with my tent and sleeping bag figuring I will sort myself out along the riverside beaches if need be. But alas, even the campgrounds are full! It is Carnival weekend.

"Che, che," Hugo yelled at me as I walked by his house. "Need a room?"

It´s perfect. The room is dark, hot, and slightly damp. But Hugo and his family speak no English (I got great Spanish lessons all weekend), are massively friendly hosts, and even showed me around town in his vintage Malibu.

All for 25 pesos a night . . .

The host's opinion of Carnival tourists came free of charge: Porteños (dangerous and crazy), Chileans (feminine and gay), Americans (can't dance and drink too much).

Gualeguaychú Carnival


* * *

"Lluvia," Samuel, one of Aurora's employees, said to me as he motioned to the sky. It is already 11pm on Sunday night. But if rain is coming, I better arm my tent with its rainfly. Sure enough, as the day broke in the morning, rain came pouring out of the heavens.

Not more than an hour ago, I got dropped off at the side of a remote highway, approximately 6 hours north of Buenos Aires. With nothing but the stars, my headlamp, and highway markers to guide me, I had two simple choices - hike the 12 km to Parque Nacional el Palmar's campsite, or take the 4 km walk to Aurora del Palmar, a nearby private reserve reportedly with superb campsites.

"Leave it to me," the Neuvo Expreso bus driver said to me earlier in the afternoon at the Gualeguaychú bus terminal. "I will get you to the Parque Nacional el Palmar." Marcello Daniel Bauza, broke into a big smile when he found out that I lived in Washington, DC. "I used to play professional soccer for the Washington Diplomats," the driver said to me. "How about if I speak English to you, and you can practice your Spanish with me?"

Sunset at La Aurora del Palmar

So off we went for the three hour ride, with the red glare of the bus' speedometer reflecting off our faces, chatting in Spanglish. At what we thought was the right distance marker, Marcello yelled "now!" With more of a rolling pause than a stop, the bus door swung open and I jumped out with my rucksack.

One worry I had walking on Highway 14 to Aurora del Palmar is the pace of traffic. Because of the rural nature of the route, I am not visible to oncoming cars and trucks until their headlights are close enough to reflect off my backpack. Keeping the headlamp on more as a warning to passing traffic, I took care to step off the road whenever cars came by.

2 km after I passed the national park marker, a white Toyota pickup with Argentina's national park ranger crest on its door stopped 100 meters in front of me. "Where are you going?" the driver grinned at me.

Horses and sheep have oranges for breakfast at La Aurora

More pictures of the trip can be found here.

To Gualeguaychú

On the road again.

For 34 pesos this Flechabus will get me to Gualeguaychú, home of Argentina's carnival, or el Carnaval del Pais. I adore Buenos Aires but feel a constant urge to see the rest of this country. I will spend two days in Gualeguaychú and move north to Colón, another river town in Argentina's Mesopotamia. I've got my gears with me and will then travel to Parque Nacional El Palmar for camping and a safari in Argentina's subtropic north.

On another note, I find myself adopting some Porteño habits. I carry my Guía T (bus guide) with me everywhere I go and find myself hoarding coins (my reason for doing this is explained here). Instead of using my credit card at the supermarket or at restaurants, I will use cash just to break up the larger bills and to get coins for bus rides.

My shameless marketing and time to Carnaval (don't think it's a verb but ...)

I actually haven't touched a steak for a whole week! Not improbably but I must break my fast today.

Señora Hu, the owner of Restaurante Lai Lai, waved at me as soon as I entered the eatery last night. "Come! It's past 10pm and we're just about to have dinner," she said to me. "Join us." Such offer of a family style Taiwanese meal is difficult to resist.

The señora got me a liter of Quilmes and disappeared into the kitchen. "I've been cooking," she happily said as she reemerged. "The kitchen staff don't know these dishes well enough." So at no cost to me, I had three cup chicken (a Taiwanese specialty), mapo tofu, and a plate of fragrant eggplants stirred fried with garlic and basil.

Señora Hu has taken me in - all on account of my Taiwanese-accented Chinese. It's no matter to her that I am American and not Taiwanese. She's offered help with Buenos Aires know-hows and her perspectives as an immigrant who came to Argentina with nothing but her family and faith. So for last night, she refused payment for my meal.

If you are in Buenos Aires and read this blog for some odd reason, visit Restaurante Lai Lai in Barrio Chino - especially if you want authentic Taiwanese/Chinese dishes outside of the usual fried rice or beef with broccoli. Details on Guía Oleo are here.

On another note, I am off this afternoon to get bus tickets for Guayleguachú's carnaval. While there are options closer to home in Buenos Aires, Gualeguaychú is only a three hour bus trip. The festival is documented here by a friend and here by a travel web site on Argentina.

Ricos tacos

Since I am an Angeleno, I naturally think proper tacos should be cooked and served out of the back of a roach coach. But, I am in Argentina, the land spices left behind.

Except for an annoying but light cough, I am better today. I went to my Spanish lesson this afternoon and was able to be up and about. By 9pm I was craving dinner, and more importantly, a proper pint. I didn't want a liter of watery Quilmes, but desired a beer with taste.

"RICOS TACOS" the neon sign in front of La Fabríca del Taco declared!

La Fabríca del Taco's tacos

Unnatural! Proper Mexican in Buenos Aires?

The carne asada tacos came in about the right size. But alas, the tortilla was flour instead of corn and the meat a wee bit overcooked. But the tacos did come with plenty of chopped onions and cilantro and I had three salsas to choose from: poco picante, picante regular, and muy picante (a little spicy, regular spicy, very spicy).

Muy picante salsa was actually spicy. I broke a sweat and asked for more lemonade.

Poco Picante, Picante Regular, or Muy Picante!

On the way home I stopped at Antares, a neighborhood brewpub I've yet to try. As a friend recommended, Antares brews are atypical of other Argentine cervezas. They were rich with flavors and served in proper British pint glasses.

Antares Pub in Palermo Soho

A caffeinated life

I woke up Monday morning with a cold. My head was twirling around and I lost my voice. I had to cancel my Spanish lesson and stayed home to recover. But there's only so much time I can spend inside before I lose my mind!

Although Café del Botánico is right downstairs from my apartment and has far better food, I only go there for their medialunas. So, I packed my books and my homework and headed to DiVino, my usual neighborhood café and vinoteca. For the price of 7 pesos/US$2 for a cup of café con leche, I sat at DiVino for nearly four hours and read, wrote my journal, did my Spanish homework, and watched Palermo go by on bikes, roller blades, on foot, and in cars and buses. I stayed until dinner time (which is 10-11pm in Buenos Aires) before I headed home.

It probably helps that DiVino has a lovely waitress who doesn't pay me a bit of attention no matter how much I try to speak to her in my poor Spanish.

Castellano only please!

"SPEAK SPANISH," the man seated in front of us demanded! As my friend and I were the only English speakers on the bus, it was very obvious that the indignant man was speaking to us.

We're were not speaking loudly by any measure, especially with the bus engine roaring and the traffic flying past us. Nonetheless, my friend and I lowered our voices and tried to take the man's concerns in mind.

Once again he turned around and let loose another volley of demands. Now - in my amateurish stage, my ability to understand rapidly-spoken Spanish is poor. Further, it was only 17hr00 and the man smelled heavily of alcohol. Between the pace of his speech and the slurring, I understood very few of his insults. Nevertheless, I got the point.

I understand where he is coming from. I am a visitor to Argentina and I should respect the local language and customs. As Americans, we demand the same of visitors to the United States.

But I am trying. I have been to Spanish school, hired a tutor, and sought out language exchange partners to make Porteño friends and practice my Spanish as much as possible. But it takes time and I've only been here for three weeks.

Voy a apolillar a la playa

The gentle sound of the lapping waves and the still-hot but gradually setting sun inspired a siesta after the rigors of lunching at La Huella, the José Ignacio beach bungalow that serves everything from sushi, the never-missing selection of steaks, to grilled brótola, a fish commonly found in the region's waters. So it is timely my friend just taught me apolillar, an Argentine slang meaning "to crash," or to fall asleep.

"Hello I am the sushi director at La Huella," the blue-eyed woman in a mildly Asian-inspired outfit said to us as we settled into our seat. Well that's the first time I've met a sushi director anywhere!

But that's the pleasure on traveling - to be surprised - sometimes good and sometimes bad.

* * *

Thanks to the generosity of a couple friends and their family, I visited Punta del Este last weekend. A region situated on Uruguay's eastern coast, the beach resort is the summer playground of well-heeled Porteños and Brazilians. Out were my usually frugal affairs of hostel bunks and a liter of Quilmes beer; I passed the weekend feeling distinctly underdressed during social affairs.

But a lovely weekend it was. Unlike the oven that is Buenos Aires during the summer, the Atlantic sea breeze, the sandy beaches, and the chic eateries of La Barra and José Ignacio all contributed to softening my will to return to the city - as enjoyable as Buenos Aires is.

It is easy to forget that not all the world live like this.

Of chilled Chardonnays while overlooking an Uruguayan sunset, a vivacious grandmother who rode the waves on an inner tube and advised that the best way to improve my Spanish is to date a pretty Porteña, a former diplomat who powered up his boat to offer me a tour of Punta del Este, to a night at a fashion show my friend produced, I am unlikely to repeat such a weekend any time soon.

* * *

So yes - voy a apolillar a la playa, or I'm going to crash on the beach.

In business to lose money

Famous is the difficulty of finding coins and getting businesses to make change for large bills in Buenos Aires. Where have all the coins gone? "No sé," or "I don't know," said every Porteño I asked. My Porteña roommate tells me she sometimes go from bank to bank trying to collect enough change for the week.

Just this afternoon I went to the local Disco supermarket and bought a baguette and an orange Fanta. The bill came to AR$4.91. I gave a 5 peso note and got 10 centavos back. Three days ago I took a taxi home and the meter told me AR$5.80. I gave AR$10 and got back a AR$5 note. How do businesses deal with taxes and audits when their receipts don't square up with cash on hand?

Coins are essential in the Porteños' daily lives. One needs coins to take buses and many Subte (subway) stations loudly display "NO HAY MONEDAS," or no coins to make change. So if one wants to buy a 10 trip Subte card (AR$11), it's best to turn up with exactly AR$11. Where to come up with that 1 peso coin is another story.

Thinking about this makes me tired. Time for a siesta.

Cats in the park

A change in weather today brought about a different pace of life. Suddenly Porteños are wearing coats and the outdoor crowd at Café del Botánico downstairs is a little thinner. Bloody hell it's only 21C!

Just yesterday it was 39C and unbearably hot. But for some reason I don't mind. Is it because I am not in Washington, DC looking at federal workers setting up bleacher seats and portable toilets for the Obama inauguration?

Nonetheless the warm weather is driving my thoughts to the beach. The news reported that my momentary respite will end soon and summer will vengefully return next week. Thank goodness a Porteño friend invited me to join him and his girlfriend at their Punta del Este beach house in Uruguay next Friday.


On another note, the Botanical Garden across the street is a curious institution. It's lovingly manicured and a peaceful sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. I can hear and see all the activities from my balcony. Families gather, couples neck, and children frolic amongst the greens. But unlike most parks I know, dogs aren't allowed (blasphemy!). The Botánico seems to be a haven for cats. Heaps and heaps of felines nap lazily in the park and jealously guard the entrance should an unsuspecting fido decide to intrude.

Desayuno Porteño*

I am becoming less and less aware of my surroundings. I still pay attention to where I'm going and continue to trot around like a puppy's first time out in a new neighborhood, letting my curiosity get the best of me. But after eight days in Buenos Aires and a few days of Spanish classes, I am feeling more settled and more comfortable.

I still have a great deal to learn, but can now converse in basic Spanish phrases, like ordering food at restaurants, asking for directions and change, or directing taxis to my desired destination.

I now have my local bakery (Café del Botánico), where I get my breakfast of two medialunas** and one café con leche***. I have been frequenting the same empanada/pizza shop, and most recently, discovered a new neighborhood tapas cafe, where one can order what seems like an infinite variety of small dishes from a bar. Just yesterday the pizza shop owner took my order, heard my strange accent (I made the mistake of pronouncing the number 15 in French instead of in the school-taught Porteño accent), smiled and quizzed me about where I'm from, and asked me to return often.

Today, as I took my 30 minutes walk from my apartment to my Spanish language school, I discovered that I unconsciously took my iPod and had been listening to music and my BBC World News podcast. While walking with an iPod would be normal for me in New York or Washington, I have been too busy exploring to care about listening to music on my walks.

I guess I am making progress. I am now more comfortable with my new home and the new language.

However, this clothing store on the way to school didn't escape my attention.


* a continental breakfast of a cup of coffee, two medialunas, and a glass of juice. All for less than US$3
** the Porteño version of the croissant. It is slightly sweet but every bit as good as the French version
*** the Latin American version of Café Au Lait

The Redcoats are coming

How the professionals do it

History has it when British troops marched on Buenos Aires in 1806, residents of San Telmo slowed the advancing invaders by pouring pots of boiling water off their balconies.

By evidence of this blogger's Sunday visit to San Telmo, a neighborhood that claims to be BsAs' oldest district, the British are still coming . . . and the Americans, the Germans, the Italians, the Japanese . . .

Instead of scalding foreign toppers with hot water, today's Argentines are showering the visitors with unending tango music and Buenos Aires largest antique market.

* * * *

Too much playing tourist makes me cranky.

When I lived in Washington, I would get impatient with visitors who clogged up the Metro's escalators. Moreover, I've plenty of time in Buenos Aires. Unlike the average tourist with a fortnight in Argentina, I'm planning to stay here and learn the language.

But what is one to do when one's curiosity overcomes one's phobia of big crowds and overpriced restaurants? It's a fine Sunday with a breezy 25 Celsius. Time to have a walk.

Besides, my Spanish classes start tomorrow. It's almost time to stop being a tourist, live a more structured life, and more importantly, start learning the language, culture, and the city's people.

What the chica made me do after I stole her hat

Ironically, tonight I am joining an Argentine and a former Washington Rugby Football Club teammate to watch the Pittsburgh Steelers at a pub.

For those who are interested in seeing my stumbles about San Telmo, have a look at my photos on Picasa.

Barrio taiwanés?

The bus system in Buenos Aires is confusing. Unlike Portland or Washington, where one can easily find bus schedules and routes online, managing the BsAs bus system, or colectivos as they’re known here, can take a bit of time.

“I’ll take you to the nearest stop and get you on the right bus home,” the owner of Restaurant Lai Lai assured me.

I wasn’t expecting this level of service when I got to Buenos Aires’ Barrio Chino last tonight. I was simply looking for a meal to take me a little closer to home, and perhaps an ethnic Chinese or Asian grocery store to get some instant noodles. But when Señora Hu, Lai Lai’s owner, heard my Taiwanese-accented Mandarin, she invited me to stay longer and chat. My initial hope of a short meal and some time to reflect and write my journal turned into an animated conversation about my trip to Argentina and Hu’s 20 plus years’ stay in BsAs as a Taiwanese Argentinean. It’s funny that my first substantive conversation in town wasn’t in English or even Spanish, but Chinese.

I would compare Belgrano to some of the more fancied American neighborhoods like Brentwood in Los Angeles or parts of Park Slope in Brooklyn. Originally founded as a northern suburb to Buenos Aires, Belgrano has been integrated into the city and is situated close to venerable institutions such as the Argentine Polo Ground. The neighborhood is home to chic cafés and fashionable boutiques. Unlike Palermo, which still retains a bohemian air about the neighborhood, Belgrano denizens look like the country club type. Barrio Chino sits deep inside Belgrano.


“Actually, many Barrio Chino restaurants are Taiwanese-owned,” Señora Hu expressed with a certain level of pride. While English is my primary language, as a Chinese speaker, I definitely detected many Barrio Chino business owners speaking Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent. I even overheard a Chinese supermarket owner speaking to his friends in the Taiwanese dialect, which is as different to Mandarin as Portuguese is to Spanish.

More than two decades ago, my parents worked up the courage to move the family to the United States. But my folks had the advantage of being solidly middle class and university-educated. These Taiwanese and Chinese immigrants came to Argentina and other parts of South America not knowing what to expect, mostly without capital and spoke no Spanish.

* * * *

I feel like I am spending a lot of time documenting my initial days here in Argentina. Perhaps I’m spending too much time blogging. But I feel like I should take every opportunity to record my experience here.

Kiosco

A Palermo parilla I lunched at today.
Steak with garlic mustard sauce, salad, and sparkling water = AR$24/US$7.

Third day in Buenos Aires and I am in full discovery mode. As a newcomer to Argentina, every street corner is overwhelming my senses. I fully examine storefronts and restaurant menus and constantly look up unknown words in my pocket Spanish dictionary. It is exciting to be in a new city and learning about a different lifestyle. Who knows how long this sensation will last? But I’m going to enjoy this feeling before life becomes routine.

Kioscos are to Buenos Aires what 7 Elevens are to Taipei. Gringos may think the ubiquitous 24/7 convenience stores are a North American habit, but the Taiwanese have perfected the concept and have dotted their cities with more 7 Elevens than mailboxes.

My local Kiosco

Kioscos are similar to the Taiwanese 7 Elevens. They are usually small and narrow holes in the wall that sell everything from mobile phone recharge cards, sodas, snacks, tobacco, and alcohol. My Porteña roommate tells me Kioscos are on nearly every BsAs block.

This morning I registered for a one-week intensive Spanish class at the Daniela Wasser School. As a crash course for visiting North Americans, Europeans, and other tourists, it is a bit expensive at US$190 for 20 hours of instruction. But since I speak almost no Spanish, I don’t want to wait until March for the Universidad de Buenos Aires’ Español para Extrajeros program to start.

BsAs seems to be mostly an Ibero-Italian city. Aside from the language, the Spanish and Italian culinary influences are especially noticeable. Outside of local dishes like steaks, steaks, steaks, and every other available cow part, one can readily find pizzerias, pasta, tapas or heladerias (Italian ice cream shops) and confiterias (bakeries and cafés).

But walking back from Daniela Wasser School earlier this afternoon, I stumbled upon perhaps an Arab neighborhood (or at least a group of Middle Eastern restaurants) in Palermo, on Avenida Raul Scalabrini Ortiz between Cordoba and Nicaragua. While the initial eatery I encountered had an unassuming front with a simple Comida Árabe sign, I soon came across four or five other Arab restaurants, complete with garish faux Middle Eastern facades and advertised belly dancers. I think I’ll take some time out to explore the first of these eateries.

PS – I also realize that I live on Arab Republic of Syria Street (Republica Árabe Siria).

Looking out my balcony onto Republica Árabe Siria. Jardin Botanico to the left.

Suerte!

It is very sunny.

That was my first impression of Buenos Aires (BsAs) as my flight descended upon Argentina’s capital city. Having just left a cold and snowy North American Christmas, summer in January is fantastic!

* * * *

I feel like a child. I am in a foreign land where I lack proper command of the local language and sound less coherent than a 2-year old. This shortcoming makes life in my new home very interesting, at least until I improve my Spanish.

Subte station in Buenos Aires

“Where are you from?” two señoras asked in Spanish as I stepped into a locutoria (calling center and Internet cafe).

“At least I got that one,” I thought to myself. Struggling with my two rucksacks with a combined weight of around 40kg, I replied in the most disgraceful Español, “Yo soy Californiano.”

“Suerte!” they wished me luck as we parted.

My poor Spanish makes daily life more difficult. For example, on my first day I went shopping for a prepaid mobile phone SIM card. While I returned with the right item, I couldn’t successful call customer service and activate my phone. This morning I went to the supermarket and had an entire conversation in Spanish with a very nice señora. Aside from telling her that I am American and I’m in BsAs to study Spanish, I haven’t a clue what we talked about. I just nodded, smiled a lot, and said muchas gracias whenever the lady offered another helpful suggestion.

* * * *

shady Arenales Street just around the corner from my apartment

Palermo is my new neighborhood. From my balcony I can see the leafy Jardin Botanico (Botanical Garden) across the street and I can find life’s necessities all within a few blocks; Disco, a local supermarket, is three blocks from my apartment; I found a nearby store that carries wine from Familia Bianchi, one of my favorite Malbec producers from the Mendoza region; the Subte, Buenos Aires’ subway, is literally right at my building’s front door.

Palermo, the neighborhood of Jorge Luis Borges, is geographically large and culturally and gastronomically diverse. From what my roommate told me, Palermo Soho (because it is trendy like Soho) offers some of Buenos Aires best boutique shopping and bars; Palermo Hollywood (because of the area’s high concentration of movie studios, actors, and directors) is geared towards the fashionistas and entertainers; while Palermo Chico, sitting prettily by the Rio de la Plata (River Plate), is one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhood.

Russel Street in Palermo Soho

* * * *

It is almost 1:30am now. As I gaze across the Jardin Botanico at the nearby highrises of the Belgrano neighborhood, it is getting increasingly challenging to keep my eyes open. Tomorrow is another big day; I will be going to a language institute to register for a beginner Spanish course to start next Monday.

Go day

Departure day is finally here. I get on my flight from Washington, DC tonight and will arrive at Buenos Aires at 10am tomorrow morning. The last minute details are mundane, but I had a bit of running around this morning, closing my bank account, visiting my credit union to withdraw some US currency, and to visit my dogs, whose ashes are buried at Folger Park on Capitol Hill. It's a bit emotional to leave them behind and I'll think of them often.

Mentally I am swinging between a high level of anxiety and excitement. I'm excited to get on the road and explore my new world, but also question if I've made the right choice to quite my job and head to a new country without any assurances of what I'll find. But c'est la vie.

I can't believe I managed to fit my life into a 70 liter and a 40 liter backpack. Except for a couple books and sweatshirts I left behind, everything else got in. Buenos Aires isn't quite the backwoods and I'll be able to get the common items while I'm living there, but I tried to take Rick Ridgeway's attitude regarding packing for a trip. When he and his team prepared for their trek across the Tibetan high desert, Ridgeway's mantra was " If we don't have it, we can't get it, and if we can't get it, we don't need it."

Next stop, BsAs.

Mother's tears

Goodbyes, it's one of those things I'm not very good at.

Standing in the 5:30am Portland wind and rain, holding mother as she cried in my arms, was heartbreaking. I'm sure my absence is much harder on mother than on me. I am leaving once again for another continent, and with the exception of this weekend in Washington, DC, will be away from family for the better part of 2009.

Arriving at Portland International Airport this morning, I saw scenes similar to what I went through earlier; mothers saying goodbye to sons and daughters; families saying farewell to departing fathers and mothers. Before 9/11, I never noticed how many military personnel move through civilian airports. Since Oregon does not have a federal military base, and judging by their unit insignias, many servicemen and women I saw this morning are reservists and national guards being deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. What a challenging farewell and start of a new year for their families!

What's a Walla Walla?

"This is Walla Walla kiddo," Mr. Sapolil Cellars winemaker said as he commented on the eastern Washington State town's lack of nightlife. I was originally keen on visiting Cayuse, but a big SOLD OUT sign at the winery's tasting room redirected me to its neighbor.

It has been a bittersweet Christmas, a week of celebrating mother's return to the States but also my goodbye as I leave in January 2009 for my adventures in Argentina.

* * * *

We collected our rental car amidst a dull Oregon rain. It was already mid-morning but it felt early. Although it's already December 28th, most of Portland still slumbered in its post-Saturnalia food coma.


Portland International Airport, NE 181st Street, Gresham, and Troutdale . . . . One by one, mother, the sister, and I counted as we sped past Portland's eastern suburbs and into the Columbia River Gorge. Anticipating the majestic views of the river valley, we were instead greeted by a steady and increasingly energetic rain. It was as if mother nature desired no visitors and did its best to turn back the city slickers.

At the end of the last ice age, the Missoula Floods angrily rushed millions of tons of ice down the Columbia, cutting through the volcanic Cascade Mountains and creating the 80-miles long Gorge. Jagged bluffs, sometimes up to 4,000 feet/1,200 meters, now flank the mighty river's northern and southern banks.

Multnomah Falls

But on this wintry day, Mt. Hood and her shy sisters hid behind a thick white veil.

I cannot say exactly when the landscape changed, perhaps at the Dalles, the end of the Oregon Trail. The narrow and dramatic Gorge gave way to open sky and a high desert landscape befitting of Clint Eastwood's spaghetti westerns.

* * * *

Although I am a Willamette Valley and Burgundy Pinot Noir man, my first bottle of L'Ecole No. 41 Estate Syrah filled my head with fanciful imagination. The Blue Mountains, the high deserts bordering Idaho, and very warm summer days and the cool nights welcome the migrants from the South of France to the new world. Merlot from Bordeaux and Syrah from the Rhône have found a happy home in Walla Walla.

Excitedly ejecting myself out of our rental car each time we pull up to a new winery, I sampled offerings from L'Ecole No. 41, Woodward Canyon, Bergevin Lane, and finally Sapolil Cellars. But while the Syrahs were definitely worth the four hours drive, what struck me the most is the contrast between the winemakers' connection to the land they farm*, and their commitment to produce creative and quality wines; some converted rocky family plots that were unsuitable for planting wheat or onions but are great for the vines, while others came from as far away as France because of Walla Walla's freewheeling wine making culture.

* * * *

Unlike our eastward drive two days ago, today's trip back to Portland was smooth and relatively free of nature's wrath. Although it was still cloudy, the sun occasionally came out to play.

Today, the Columbia River Gorge was a pensive grand old lady who cautiously permitted us into her realm.

* Many Walla Walla winemakers commented that they're 3rd or 5th generation Walla Walla residents.

For lodging we stayed at the Walla Walla Inns' downtown location.

Progress

I feel a bit like General John Burgoyne, the British commander who fought the Continental Army while refusing to part with his creature comforts. It's not like Buenos Aires is the wilderness of the Adirondacks, but . . .

Before

Attempt # 1 - Stuff everything in the rucksacks and hope they fit. It didn't work.

Attempt #2 - Tidy up the tarp, lay out the gears in a somewhat orderly fashion, then repack the rucksacks. It was better, but not there yet.

Attempt #3 - Remove 20% of my clothes, then repack. Almost there.

I'll have to have another go at it. All this packing worked up an appetite for dinner and a few pints.

I am willing to turn down some of my clothes but refuse to slim down on my wet/cold weather gears and my books (which adds at least 20 lbs to my pack). We all have to make sacrifices for the revolution.

After - ish

Are you local?

As Grizzly Adams steered the raft down the New River (actually we paddled up the river since the New River flows south to north), I struggled with getting my head on right. The previous night had been rough. Camped out along the Shenandoah River, out tents got washed out by the inbound hurricane and we spent the whole night shivering under our improvised tarp city. Short of sleep, knee deep in mud, and wet and cold, we did what any sensible weekend warrior would do - we drank our entire weekend's supply of alcohol in one night.

Actually Grizzly Adams isn't our guide's name. But since I can't remember what he called himself and he was one towering, bearded, jolly and loquacious fella', Grizzly Adams it is.

"In West Virginia, a non-native only becomes local when the last person who knew you when you moved into town dies," Grizzie imparted upon us. "I arrived over 20-years ago and I'm still not local."

As much as I adore trekking and camping on the Appalachian Trail and rafting and rock climbing in the New River Gorge, I have no desire to pick up and move to the Mountain State.

But just now when I was laboring away at the gym, I got to thinking. How long must one live in a place before one becomes local? I have spent most of my life in three cities: Taipei, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC.

In the self-styled entertainment capital of the world, one earns the privilege of being an Angeleno as soon as one moves into town, find a trustworthy barman, bagel shop, burger drive through, and sort out one's favorite beach and roach coach (Southern Californian lingo for taco truck).

In Washington, very few I associate with are natives. Except for some generations-old Chevy Chase or Fairfax County families (which are outside the city limits anyway), many Washington residents are from somewhere else and go somewhere else for Christmas and Thanksgiving. After 16 years living in Washington, I hold a Brooklyn driver's license and still call myself a Californian.

Even in Taipei, most are from elsewhere in Taiwan or China. As a Japanese city originally designed for 600,000 residents, the City of Azaleas still works off the same 1895 grid but is now bulging with 2.6 million residents. Do the math and it's fairly obvious that most Taipeiers are from somewhere else. Around the time of the last big war, gramps moves the family to Taipei from Miaoli County, a quiet farming community 142 km south of Taipei.

I'm going to Buenos Aires soon. What am I going to be? I'm quite sure I won't be a Porteño. But am I going to be a traveler visiting Argentina or am I going to be a Buenos Aires resident?

NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS

“Mate, be back in a little while.”

We watched with our jaws to the floor as the kilted man hoisted his bagpipes and headed out the hostel. It was an unlikely gathering of strangers right before Christmas. The Argie, a Mexican, and I, all in our 20s, and then the 40-something Scot checked in. After playing his pipes for sometime in the cobblestone streets of altstadt Zürich, the Scotsman came back and we headed to a pub on Hauptbahnhof Straße to celebrate his earnings. Travelers make friends easily.

Street tag in Bern, Switzerland in December 2001

After my month-long sojourn in Chile and the south of Argentina, it was back to business on Capitol Hill. My unstructured and pleasurable life of a hobo was over.

“You gotta turn on CNN!” my friend screamed into the phone.

It was a perfect September morning in Washington. The day was sunny and warm and the sky was the bluest shade of blue. Having just returned from South America ten days ago, I was taking my time easing back to life in the rat race.

I watched in amazement as the news commentators debated about the gaping hole in the World Trade Center. Hours later, the Twin Towers tumbled to the ground and the Pentagon was ablaze. Mobile phones crashed and thousands of Capitol Hill staffers, members of Congress, lobbyists, police officers, and visitors wandered the grounds.

“A plane is heading for the Capitol!” some speculated.

Just then a sonic boom thundered across the southern sky. I dropped behind a metal file cabinet and thought it was my time - and I couldn’t even use the mobile to call mom. But it was an air force fighter climbing to intercept possible inbound airliners.

What followed was months of anger and confusion. The government had to act but anthrax chased us out of our Capitol Hill offices. We held meetings at cafes and I scribbled floor speeches and drafted legislation in hallways and on notebook paper. Those were uncertain times.

NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS, declared France’s Le Monde.

We are all Americans indeed. Outside of my family, the first people to contact me about my safety were Marie and Xavier, a Parisian couple I met at San Pedro de Atacama in Chile. Travelers make friends easily.

“It’s time to stop being scared,” I thought to myself. “It’s time to travel again.”

Three months after that day of days, I bought the first cheap ticket to the first attractive location I saw. It was Zürich.