I don't want dengue fever.../No quiero dengue...

View of the falls from the Lower Trail/Vista de las cataratas de Paseo Inferior

So I was told to beware of dengue fever in the North of Argentina, for the mosquitos there are especially fierce and may transmit the dreaded disease. But nonetheless, Iguazú is a bloody big waterfall and I badly wanted to see it.

Traveling with mother is a little different than going solo. On me own I tend to move on a whim. I awake when I want to, eat and drink what and when I desire, and tend to make last minute decisions to jump on a bus, train, or plane to satisfy random curiosities. Such is the life of a solo male traveler.

The evil birds that tried to steal my lunch/
Los pájaros malvados que intentaba robar mi almuerzo

With mother, the decision-making process was more laborious, but rewarding in different ways. In this case, our accommodations were more luxurious but the schedule more structured. But I did not have the opportunity to socialize with other travelers or locals. However, the most important thing was I got to travel with mother while she is still active enough to do so.

Puerto Iguazú, a Northern Argentine frontier town separated from Paraguay and Brazil by the River Iguazú, was fairly low-key as tourist towns go. Outside of the immediate areas of the Iguazú National Park and the town's bus stations, the local denizens are desperately poor and the environment a world apart from the cosmopolitan Argentine capital. Further, perhaps due to the town's location as an international crossroad, the Argentine Gendarmes were out in force at every street corner, directing traffic and stopping buses to question travelers.


Originally founded in 1610 in present day Brazil, the San Ignacio Reduction relocated to its current location in 1696. Far from my youthful fancies of Indiana Jones-like discoveries, I reached the Jesuit ruins by a 5 hour bus ride from Puerto Iguazú, stayed at the Adventure Hostel and ordered take-out pizza. Perhaps because it was low season, but for a small dog who followed us for two hours through the ruins, mother and I got to experience the Guaraní baroque grandeur of San Ignacio Miní in splendid isolation.

* * *

Me dijeron que debería tener cuidado con el dengue en el norte de Argentina, ya que los mosquitos allá son especialmente fieros y podrían contagiar la enfermedad temida. Sin embargo, Las Cataratas Iguazú es un sitio famoso y realmente lo quería ver.

Viajando con mi mamá es un poco diferente a mis viajes solos. En esos casos yo suelo despertarme y viajar cuando quiera, comer y tomar lo que desee. Esa es la vida de un viajero solo.

Pero cuando con mi mamá, el proceso para tomar una decisión es más laborioso, pero gratificante en formas distintas. En este caso, neustro alojamiento era más lujoso pero el plan más estructurado. Pero no tuve la oportunidad de conocer a otros viajeros y a la gente local. Sin embargo, lo más importante fue poder viajar con mi mamá mientras ella puede hacerlo todavía.

The Devil's Throat/La Garganta del Diablo

Puerto Iguazú, un pueblo en la frontera que está separado de Paraguay y Brasil por el Río Iguazú, era muy tranquilo. Afuera de los distritos inmediatamente de las cataratas y la terminal ómnibus, las habitantes locales son desesperademente pobre y estan en otro mundo fuera de la capital federal cosmopolita. Además, quizás por la ubicación en la frontera, había agentes de la Gendarmería Nacional Argentina en cada esquina, dirigiendo los coches y deteniendo los colectivos para interrogar a los viajeros.

The San Ignacio Mission's Catherdral/El Catedral de San Ignacio

Originariamente establecido en 1610 en lo que ahora es Brasil, la reducción de San Ignacio se instaló en su sitio actual en 1696. Lejos de mi fantasia juvenil de Indiana Jones, llegué a las ruinas jesuitas con un colectivo que tardó 5 horas, pasé la noche en el Adventure Hostel, y pedí una pizza para llevar. Tal vez porque era temprada baja, con la excepción de un perrito que nos acompañó por dos horas en las ruinas, pudimos conocer la grandiosidad barroca de los Guaranís en un aisiamiento espléndido.

Los Buenmozos de Boulogne

The chants started as soon as I exited the San Isidro train station. In Buenos Aires, the rugby derby doesn't come any bigger than the rivalry between San Isidro Club (SIC) and Club Atlético San Isidro (CASI). I found the CASI stadium by simply following the boys of Los Buenmozos de Boulogne (the "Good-looking ones from Boulogne"), SIC's supporter club.

Rather unlike the United States, where ruggers play on muddy municipally owned fields, the grounds at CASI was immaculate and the atmosphere electric. But since a friend was a former SIC player, I had my bias for the night and happily cheered for the winning side.

* * *

Las canciónes comenzaron inmediatamente después de salir de Estación San Isidro. En Buenos Aires, no hay rivalidad de rugby más importante que el clásico entre San Isidro Club (SIC) y Club Atlético San Isidro (CASI). Hallé estadio de CASI con Los Buenmozos de Boulogne, los hinchas de SIC.

Más que las canchas de rugby en EE.UU, donde los jugadores competen en el barro frecuentemente, las instalaciones deportivas de CASI era impecable y el ambiente eletrizante. Pero ya que tengo un amigo que jugaba para SIC, tenía mi prejuicio y alegremente vitoreaba para el equipo que ganó.

A gentleman in search of . . . / Un señor quiere conocer . . .

Every time I take the 29 bus from Palermo to San Telmo I see this sign at the bus stop at the corner of Paraguay and Sanchez de Bustamante. The gentleman in question wants to meet girls, ladies, or Paraguayans (female). It seems to me that to him, Paraguayan women are not in the girl or lady category.

The sign says:

I wish to meet unattached single girls, ladies, Paraguayan women, to start a respectful and humble relationship. I am a single and available 48 years old gentleman. I live in Palermo at Bulnes and Soler.

Nacho

* * *

Cada vez tomo el colectivo 29 de Palermo a San Telmo yo veo este cartel en la parada en la esquina de Paraguay y Sanchez de Bustamente. El señor que lo ha publicado quiere conocer chicas, señoras, o paraguayas. Me parece que para él, las paraguayas no estan en la categoría de la chica o la señora.

El cartel dice:

Deseo conocer chicas, señoras, paraguayas, sin compromisos, solas, para iniciar una relación de amistad seria y con mucho respecto y humildad. Soy un señor de 48 años, solo, libre.

Vivo en Palermo. Bulnes y Soler.

Nacho

Autumn arrives / Llegó otoño

The autumn weather is finally setting in here at Buenos Aires. The long promised rain is here and the temperature went from the low 20'sº C last week to below 15º C today. The weather is definitely changing but to me it's far from cold. Looking at how the Porteños are dressed one would think we're living in Tierra del Fuego.

But everything is relative. I remember visiting my parents in Taipei during Christmas and was amazed that pedestrians were wearing wool winter coats in 20º C climate.

Tomorrow mother is coming to visit for a month. Frankly I'm not sure how we're going to spend one month together in a 20 square meter apartment. But I am excited about her visit and want to show her Argentina.

No Spanish classes in May since my teacher is on vacation. So in an effort to improve I'm reading more, meeting more Porteños for language exchanges, and am going to start blogging in Spanish as well. After four months of learning the language I hope that I am at least coherent.

Please correct my Spanish if you wish.

* * *

Llegó el clima de otoño a Buenos Aires. La lluvia prometida esta aquí y la temperatura bajó de más o menos 20º C la última semana a abajo 15º C hoy. Sin duda el tiempo está cambiando pero puedo opinar que no está haciendo frío. Mire a las ropas de los porteños parece estamos en Tierra del Fuego.

Pero todo es relativo. Recuerdo una visita a mis papás en Taipei durante la época de la Navidad y me asombré que la gente en las calles usaba los abrigos de invierno durante el clima de 20º C.

Mañana mi mamá va a llegar a Buenos Aires por un mes. Francamente yo no soy seguro como vamos a pasar un mes juntos en mi departamento de 20 metro cuadrado. Pero me entusiasmo de su visita y le quiero mostrar Argentina.

No hay las clases de castellano en mayo porque mi profesora tiene vacacciones. Entonces en un esfuerzo para mejorar mi castellano estoy leyendo más, conociendo otros porteños por los intercambios del idioma, y empenzé escribir este blog en castellano también. Después de cuatro meces de aprender este lengua, espero que estoy por lo menos coherente.

Por favo, corrija mi castellan si lo desee.

A Yankee key

Since my mother is visiting me in Buenos Aires this week, I went around the neighborhood to get an extra set of door keys made. However, every locksmith I visited gave me a blank look after they saw one of the keys I wanted to reproduce.

"What's this?" locksmith X, Y, and Z all asked.

"My door key," I would reply.

All told me they don't have the key I wanted and probably nobody in Buenos Aires does.

Finally, the fourth locksmith I visited told me I have a yankee key, that he doesn't have it either, and asked me why I'm doing with such a key.

Around the block

Steakhouse across the street

Buenos Aires is full of lovely architecture. Wander around the city center or just around the block from my apartment, one simply has to look up to see alluring artwork.

House across the street

However, I don't live in one of them.

Chez Ted

Delivery service in BsAs

I ordered food for delivery for the first time since I got to Buenos Aires. I haven't ordered home because it is so convenient to just go downstairs to pick up whatever I want. Within a couple blocks I have supermarkets, convenient stores, pizzerias, empanada shops, steakhouses and other restaurants, and even a couple 24 hour alcohol delivery services.

But, I also haven't called for delivery because of the language issue. Face-to-face I can communicate and sort things out. Rapid fire Spanish over the phone isn't my strength yet. But tonight, I figured what the heck and called.

Buenos Aires is a town where one can get many items delivered. Food, booze, ice cream, and others (use your imagination). I have seen delivery boys/girls on bikes or roller blades, pizza or ice cream in one hand and the mobile phone pressed to their ears, weaving in and out of traffic . . .

Tigre and San Isidro

Yesterday I woke up really early for some reason and couldn't fall back asleep. As a result I finished my studies by mid afternoon and decided to take some time to explore two cities north of Buenos Aires.

Tigre is a tranquil town away from the hustle and bustle of BsAs. It is on the northern edge of the metropolitan area and water taxis are the main form of transportation for many who live or visit there.

On the way back to Buenos Aires I hopped off the train and stopped in San Isidro, a wealthy suburb and the heart of rugby football in Buenos Aires. I didn't see the Rugby Museum but simply walked around the compact historical area before catching the train back into town.

Transportation is cheap and easy. The Mitre Line, which originates from Retiro Train Station in downtown Buenos Aires, was less than AR$1. The Tren de la Costa, which is more pleasant but requires a connection at either Maipú or Libertador Station, is AR$12 one way (or AR$24 roundtrip).

For a few more photos see the slideshow below.

Patiperro: Travels in Chile during March 2009

"Why did you lie?" the rather attractive Chilean Customs agent asked. Being the good friend that I am, I squarely pointed my finger at my friend and cried "he did it. He brought the apple into Chile!"

The sign said I can be fined 1 million Chilean Pesos (or is it 10 million Pesos?) for bringing agricultural products into Chile. Even at 609 pesos to US$1, it is more than what I had in my wallet.

At 2,250 meters high, Paso Los Libertadores is a major border crossing between Chile and Argentina. At that altitude, even during late summer, I was shivering cold while standing around explaining myself to Chilean Customs.

It has been since 2002 when I was in Chile. Last time I was here, it was a 36 hour affair for a friend's wedding. Chile was my first introduction to South America and this narrow strip of land between the Pacific Ocean and the Andes Mountains has a special place in my heart.

After a couple months of learning Argentine Spanish, the language in Chile seemed vastly different. Santiagueños (residents of Santiago) talk fast and chop their words into bits. It is something akin to talking to an Australian. It's not breakfast . . . it's a brekkie!

A friend called Santiago "Sanhattan." As the country's largest
city and capital, Santiago is also Chile's financial center.

"Super bien!" Monica at Ají Hostel said to me as we checked in.

So much for all the Spanish superlatives I've been learning. It reminded me of all the hours I spent in high school studying German words like "wunderbar," only to hear "super!" when I traveled in Germany.

* * *

In Chilean slang, a patiperro is a globetrotter, or one who travels often.

Santiago's proximity to sunny sandy beaches on the Pacific Ocean was one of the reasons J. and I decided to cross into Chile rather than striking north to Salta in the Argentine Northwest.

Another reason was seafood; Chile is blessed with fresh blue water fish and crustaceans. So in less than 14 days' time, J. and I have crossed the Río de la Plata into Uruguay, biked and drank wine in Argentina's Mendoza Province, traversed the Andes Mountain to see a friend in Santiago, drank pisco sour in the cafés and bars of colorful and moody Valparaiso, and idled away on the beaches of Viña del Mar.

Cerro Bellavista, Valparaiso, Chile

Formerly serving as the first major port after westbound ships from Europe and the American East Coast rounded Cape Horn, Valparaiso took in the world's immigrants, sailors, and whalers. Literally, the city's name means Valle Paraiso, or Paradise Valley.

A Valparaiso Coca Cola Driver striking a pose

This hilly city by the ocean prospered during the late 19th and early 20th century as trade with the Pacific Coast increased and gold prospectors stopped here for provisions on their way to California and Alaska. However, since the Panama Canal and the Port of San Antonio (Chile) superceded Valparaiso's commercial importance, the city reinvented itself as one of Chile's main cultural centers.

Pablo Neruda, the famed Chilean poet and communist, made Valparaiso and the nearby fishing village of Isla Negra his home. The Chilean Admiralty is also based here and UNESCO, the United Nations cultural agency, named the entire city a world heritage site. Centered around the port, neighborhoods grew out of the surrounding steep hills and residents, who are also called Porteños, still use the city's funiculars as transportation.

The hills of Valparaiso

In honor of Mr. Neduda, I guess it is fitting I got into an argument with a French communist barmaid.

Malas palabras

“Chicos!” the man outside the Retiro Bus Station in Buenos Aires belted out. “Need a taxi?”

Strange, with only two months in Buenos Aires, that typically friendly Argentine greeting instantly set me at ease, like I am home. After two weeks of traveling, I guess I am home - or at least where I currently park myself when not on the road.

* * *

“Acá?” my friend J. asked as he pointed at the tourist map. Detecting our American and French accent, the hostel attendant seemed amused and smilingly corrected us. “Aquí,” she corrected us using what Spanish speakers in most other Latin American countries would use for “here.” How easily one adapts to the language of your host country - except we’re in Uruguay, not Argentina!

Crossing the Río de la Plata into Uruguay is about as easy as entering France via the English Channel. After checking in at the Buquebus ferry station in Buenos Aires, immigration and customs officials from Argentina and Uruguay efficiently processed passengers through the formalities. In a little under an hour, I had crossed the muddy waters of the Río de la Plata and was on foot to find a bed for the night in Colonia del Sacramento.

Stretching approximately 50 kilometers wide, the Río de la Plata both connects and separates Argentina and Uruguay. The two nations share many things in common; both speak with a similar accent, a common history with the Spanish motherland, and the near fanatical habit of drinking mate.

It was not always so peaceful. During more turbulent times, the Portuguese crown occupied what is now Uruguay and had designs on the modest Spanish settlement that is now Buenos Aires. Colonia was established as a fort to deter Spanish incursion north of the river and to monitor Castilian maritime activities in the region.

Colonia is like a town frozen in time. Ceded to the Spanish in exchange for Madrid’s recognition of the Portuguese crown’s dominion in Brazil, the town lost its former raison d’être. Possessing little industry, Colonia’s historic old city is tidily preserved; the old city gate and a section of the fortification still remain to welcome modern day visitors. To Porteños, Colonia is a daytrip to enjoy what Buenos Aires doesn’t offer – soft sandy beaches along the river. To many North American and European expatriates living in the Río de la Plata region, the ferry crossing is an easy trip to renew one’s 90-day tourist visa.

* * *

It is good to be on the road again. After weeks of being stationary in Buenos Aires, I am happy to be traveling again - to see new places and to explore. Travelers tend to be kind; we exchange information about logistics, places to visit, books to trade, and share meals and wine. In a short night in Colonia, I broke bread with a Canadian, a Norwegian, a Quebecoise, and a French girl. Conversations flowed freely and some of us exchanged contact information with the promise of future encounters. Who knows if we will ever meet again?

But some travelers also astound me with their lack of regard for the local culture and language. An European I met in Colonia, despite 2 months in Buenos Aires, didn’t know how to order a beer in Spanish. An American I ran into in Argentina, marched right up to a Porteño and demanded in one word “bathroom!” No "please" or "por favor." Perhaps their time in South America is so short they cannot bring themselves to be polite?

One issue with being away from Buenos Aires is that I am not in my Spanish class. However, outside of conversations with my friends and other travelers, I try to speak exclusively in Spanish. This brought both amusement and compliments from South Americans. In many places, obviously accustomed to throngs of tourists and well versed in English to serve their business needs, they seemed pleased and humored to see a foreigner making the effort to speak their language. Many replied to me in English but reverted to their native tongue after noticing my efforts to engage in Spanish. In addition, once outside of touristic areas, Spanish is king and I've no other option but to improve.

* * *

“You speak Spanish with a Porteño accent,” Mauro*, one of Bikes and Wines’s employees giggled. That comment was later echoed by Alejandro, an amiable young mountain guide we hired to take us up the 3,500 meters tall Cerro Arenales near Mendoza. "Malas palabras," Alejandro laughingly joked. "You're learning all the bad words from Buenos Aires."

“Well at least I’m learning something in Buenos Aires,“ I thought to myself. It was shortly after 10am, almost a little early for wine tastings.

Originally the idea sounded intriguing. What could be more fun than visiting Mendoza wineries on bike!

However, with an empty stomach and five or six wineries to visit for the day, I imagined the prospect of falling off the bike after a wee tipple and like Humpty Dumpty never getting up again. Further, unlike the quaint country lanes of Napa Valley or the Santa Ynez, Mendoza’s wineries are set in the working neighborhoods of Maipu and Luján de Cuyo. That translated into Mendocinos going about their daily lives and city buses and cars roaring past us.


“Hola! de dónde sos?” the owner of Bikes and Wines and the adjacent ice cream shop greeted me. “Soy de California,” I replied, “from California.” When J. pulled in and the proprietor heard his accent and asked my friend “Vous être francais? – are you French?” So the conversation went on in English, Spanish, and French.

“They call me Gulí,” he said. With a friendly wave he invited us to sit down for ice cream after we had returned the mountain bikes. Among many flavors on the offering one he is experimenting is Malbec ice cream. Introducing us to two of his friends sitting on the terrace, Gulí returned to serving his customers, both travelers and Mendocinos.

Traveling in South America, one becomes accustomed, or even immune, to seeing poverty. It is everywhere, in the subway, on the streets, casually but constantly confronting you; the shoeless children begging for coins; the older ladies who should be enjoying their retirement but instead is selling cookies on the street corners.

However, while Argentina, like any country, has issues lifting its economically challenged population into middle class, education is excellent. Most Argentine university graduates speak far better English than I can manage in Spanish. Many are also fluent in French. Biking around Mendoza’s wineries, I rode past a secondary school advertising its instructions in Spanish, English, and German. With Gulí and his two friends, our conversation flowed from English to French. I requested the opportunity to use my Spanish and they were happy to oblige. One lady, who was quite advanced in age, even told me she is learning Chinese!

* * *

“Watch out for flying fruits!” Mike at Hostel Lao cautioned. Mike is an Englishman who left the United Kingdom, traveled the world, and settled amongst the vines with a Mendocina who speaks Spanish as if she is singing.

With that warning I was off to see one of the world’s biggest wine festivals. Starting with the Bishop’s blessing of the grapes on the last day of February, the culmination of Mendoza’s wine harvest festival, or Fiesta Nacional de la Vendimia, kicked off with Vía Blanca, or the parade of queens.


Designed to promote Mendoza as a wine region, each department within the province is represented by a queen. Ranging from 18 – 25 years old, smartly dressed and parading about downtown Mendoza atop lavishly designed floats, the queens vied for attention and hurled native products from their region into the crowd. It is astonishing to see these petite beauties launching objects, some quite large, 5-10 meters into the masses. In two hours, I saw grapes, apples, cantaloupes, and even bottles of wine flying through Mendoza’s brightly lit sky!

Perhaps giddy with too much Malbec, the parade announcer in front of me would turn every 15 – 20 minutes, ask where I’m from, then promptly ignore my response and cry out for the crowd to welcome the visitor from Japan.

* * *

Next, how I almost got expelled from Chile and my week by the sea in Valparaiso and Viña del Mar.

* I’m not sure if that was his name because I forgot to ask for the spelling.

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