I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales

Five days in Wales have passed but the songs and words still rest in my head. The Welsh rugby supporters in Millennium Stadium serenading the English . . . "bread of heaven, bread of heaven . . . feed me until I want no more!" still drone in my ears. The conversations meandered and were imprecise, but words spoken in the Swansea house where Dylan Thomas grew up brought back images, some good and some bittersweet, to reflect. As the three year anniversary of my father's passing clung to my thoughts, surfaced the verse "Do not go gently into that good night. Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage rage against the dying of the light". I still haven't got peace for never properly knowing the old man.

Almost four weeks ago I left Paris and reached the White Cliffs of Dover by ferry. That rainy morning on 27 July the wind blew over the Channel as if mother nature was unhappy with me. My mind raced with anticipation.

Two weeks at St. Antony's College were filled with cheers, engaging talks, new friends, good mates, hopes for the future, and unwilling goodbyes. Oxford treated me well and I didn't want to say farewell. On came Wales, with her fire breathing dragon and her gentle people. Of an uncertain night in Cardiff ending with the superb hospitality of a Welsh policeman, of kind travelers who stopped to give a lift to a perfect stranger stranded at the side of the road, and an elegant Swansea lady who put her soul and her fortune into the memories of a poet.

Cheer!

The Turf Tavern

Oxford, England

Paros, Grecia

4 julio 2011

Al contrario de la ferocidad de la temperatura del día, cuando la calle estuvo vacía, por la noche los paseos de Paroikia estan tan animados y la parte vieja llena de inhabitantes locales y viajeros. La Isla de Paros me ha tratado bien los dos días pasados. Aunque la vida acá no está tan emocionante como otras islas de Grecia, me alegra este lugar. Esta isla me ha atrapado el corazón con su gente amistosa y las noches dulces de Paroikia.

Las calles de Paroikia estan tan llenas de movimiento en la noche! En realidad, tengo sueño después de un día donde he pasado abajo del sol griego. Unicamente me quiero descansar en mi propria cama. Pero con más vagando, me pierdo y me animo más. Con cada puerta que pasé, hay músicas diferentes – las familias que ríen juntas, los niños que juegan el fútbol en las callecitas - sencillamente disfrutando el verano de esta isla.

Happy birthday to the United States!

* * *

In contrast to the day, when people took shelter from the bright Aegean sun, at night Paroikia's narrow lanes teemed with life, with shops, eateries and cafes teeming with locals and travelers. Though the island is not as exciting as other Greek isles, Paros captured my heart with its well-mannered people and Paroikia's gentle but lively evenings.

The streets of Paroikia is so full of life tonight! Actually, after spending a full day under the brightGreek sun, I'm exhausted. I only want to rest in my own bed and sleep. But with more wandering, the more I lost myself in the cheerfulness of the streets. With the passing of each door a new music drifted into the air – families who laugh together, boys who play football in the alleys and teenagers who flirt on the beaches - simply enjoying a warm summer night on the island.

Joyeux anniversaire aux États Unis!

Sunrise on the Aegean

So I'm on the road again. Actually, to be precise this time I am on the sea. Though four hours of sleep over the last two days of traveling by plane and by ferry made for an exhausting arrival to Santorini, it was nice to be lost in the shadows on the early morning, in my own thoughts, only to be animated by a brilliant sunrise.

Day one was logistical in nature. With arrival to Athens uneventful, sorting out the geography of this large city and the ferries were nonetheless something I was in no humor to deal with. Even prior to departing Paris, I was really not looking forward to airports, train stations and docks again. I'm just tired.

Market day on rue Cler

Sunset from Pont Royal

Happy hour in Belleville

By Comédie Française

Biking to French class in the evening

Study break from the university

Home in Alicante, for a moment

Starting line for the Santa Pola Half Marathon

Alicante reminded me a bit of being home in Buenos Aires. As I was leaving at 07h30 for the bus to the Santa Pola Half Marathon, smartly dressed Alicantinos were joyously filing out of bars and night clubs - a wee bit intoxicated, singing, smoking, looking for an open cafe for breakfast - simply enjoying being young on an early Sunday morning.

Not familiar with the region I anxiously got the the bus station early and bought my ticket from Alicante to Santa Pola. Nervous I was for the half marathon. I hadn't properly train for the two previous weeks, and traveling solo I didn't have any trusted companions to air my anxieties. Not knowing how to handle the jitters, I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my apprehensions. It was a long 30-minute bus trip.

1:39:44 it took me for the half marathon.

Santa Barbara Castle, Alicante, Spain

The night before a valencian half marathon / Avant de une demi-marathon en Valence

Un méandre / A wander

Bir-Hakeim Monument

Plaza de la Constitución, San Sebastián, Spain

Soy mochilero nuevamente / Backpacking again

A poster by the Pamplona Bullring / Un poster por la Plaza de Toro de Pamplona

Al contrario de las imágenes Hemingway había retratado, donde la multitud festejaba durante las Sanfermines y los amantes se peleaban, Pamplona en noviembre parecía austera y melancólica. No había muchos turistas, toros furiosos, aristócratas inglésas viajando, y con la excepción de yo mismo, pocos borrachos.

Por la mañana, me voy de España. Paris yo vengo! Era una visita corta efectivamente.

Cafe Iruño, where Hemingway drank / donde Hemingway tomaba
Pamplona

Llegué a España hace unos días. Originariamente, querría conocer el País Vasco en ambos lados de la frontera. En Biarritz, por las razónes que fueran, subí otro tren directamente para España. Que aventura!

San Sebastián la lluviosa. Con un chaparrón que no podía detenerse, la cuidad por el Urumea me parecía como una dama gris, con tanta tristeza! Sin embargo, adentro, fuera de la cólera de la pachamama, me daba un gusto la cocina vasca y unos nuevos amigos del País Vasco y de Galicia.

Pintxo bar in San Sebastián / Un bar de pintxos en San Sebastián

* * *

I had originally wanted to visit both sides of the Basque country. But for whatever reason, upon arriving at Biarritz Tuesday afternoon and after a short lunch by the beach, I immediately boarded another train directly for Spain. It wasn't a plan. But it felt right.

Pamplona Town Hall / El Ayuntamiento de Pamplona

Pamplona in November was very different than that of Hemingway´s famous novel. Without the raging bulls charging down the narrow lanes, around-the-clock San Fermin Festival goers, and the bickering lovers with multiple affairs, the city seemed forlorn, austere, melancholic. Except for me, there weren't even that many drunks stumbling around the city squares.

San Sebastián during my visit was rainy and cold. I was chilled to the bones, but found warm companionship with travelers and locals alike. It felt good speaking Spanish again! With pintxos, txakoli wine, and lively conversations with a few new Basque and Galician friends, I merrily passed two days inside, out of mother nature´s fury.

Bar Eruko for pintxos and txakoli San Sebastián

/Comiendo pintxos y tomando txakoli en Bar Eruko, San Sebastián

Mea Culpa: No protesters!/no había manifestantes!/pas des manifestants!

Since I got to France I just haven't had the motivation to write for pleasure. Because I have been short on words, I'll include some photos I took today while biking around Paris.

on Saint-Honoré Street/en la calle Saint-Honoré/au rue Saint-Honoré

* * *

Desde que llegué a Francia simplemente no tenía la motivación para escribir únicamente por el placer. Ya que he estado corto de palabras recientemente, acá están unas fotos que saqué mientras estaba vagando por Paris esta tarde.

By the Lourve/Por el Lourve/Par le Lourve

* * *

Depuis que je suis arrivé en France je n'avais pas la motivation d'écrire uniquement pour le plaisir. Mais puisque dernièrement j'ai été brève des mots, voici quelques photos que je pris cet après-midi pendant je fis du vélo à travers Paris.

Place Georges Pompidou

Paris and Team Accidental Pawnstars

My heart was pounding as the slow drizzle started coming down. Having turned my ankle earlier in the day, pain shot through with each step I took. First I tried singing old rugby songs from my university days. When that didn't work, my mind drifted to conjugating Spanish and French verbs.

It has been six months since I left Argentina and returned to the United States. I left Argentina with hopes, but no plans. I knew I wanted to pursue graduate degrees, but when I left South America I had no offers from universities yet. I knew I wanted no part of returning to politics and living in Washington, DC again, but didn't know where I would like to be. Although I adored Buenos Aires, it wasn't home. The trouble is, I don't know where home is.

* * *

I first heard about the Laurel Highlands Ultra Race just three weeks ago. While I have never considered myself a runner, the thought of racing around in the woods with buddies appealed to me. So, with less than two months' training, I joined two friends from college to run the 77-mile (124km) relay race on 12 June, 2010.

With very limited time to achieve a very specific goal, I set myself to train. I ran a few miles everyday, at times with friends, but mostly solo. Meanwhile, I waited for answers from graduate schools I applied to. With possible destinations like Paris, Brussels, or Brooklyn for next year, I grew increasingly excited and anxious as days passed without news.

At approximately 00h00 on race day, we the three members of Team Accidental Pawnstars set out from Washington, DC for southwestern Pennsylvania. By 04h00, we pulled into the starting line of the Laurel Highlands Ultra Race at Ohiopyle, PA. At 05h30, without any sleep the previous night, the first leg of the race kicked off.

It wasn't until my teammate finished the first leg and tagged me in for my part that my heart started racing. Time and distance passed quickly - much faster than I anticipated. It was an hour before I realized that I needed to hydrate.

Me at my first aid station

Feeling pretty good and still energetic after the 13 miles (21km) of my first leg, my second leg of the relay quickly turned into an exercise in pain management. The trail was fairly technical, with rocks hidden under heavy vegetation. Not able to see where I was stepping, I twisted my left ankle several times and my pace slowed to a crawl. For almost 10 miles (16km), my run was reduced to a wobble, with only my heart willing me onto the finish line. Nothing sounded sweeter than the sight of my last aid station and the erupting cheers from waiting crew teams as someone shouted "RUNNER COMING IN!" By the time Team Accidental Pawnstars finished all 77-miles, 15 hours, 59 minutes, and 30 seconds had passed.

Even I as write two days after the race, I am still reliving fond memories of the Laurel Highlands. I have found similar feelings amongst other runners I met on Saturday. The lovely images of running in the woods, most of it alone and among wild rhododendron, laurel, and fern, continue to flash in my head. The cheerful companionship of my two friends, and other runners and spectators, who constantly urged on all competitors, was like nothing I have experienced before in other athletic events. I may have discovered a new addiction.

Damn you Dave and Joe!

* * *

In late August, my life will take another turn as I move to Paris, France for my graduate studies. So, in eight short months after I left Argentina for the United States, I will move once again to live the happy life of an expatriate.

The last days / Los últimos dias

I have two more days left in South America. But it feels like I have reached the end of my journey.

Just a day ago I was in Cabo Polonio, the most isolated town of Uruguay's Atlantic coastal region. Splendidly detached from the outside by sand dunes, no roads, electricity, and other modern amenities, perfect strangers who gathered in Cabo quickly became friends. Without distractions such as televisions, the Internet, etc., we spent hours on the beaches and long nights, cooking, making tropical cocktails and drinking wine.

But now I am tired. Sitting in a hostel in Montevideo, Uruguay, waiting for my evening flight back to Buenos Aires, I am suddenly anxious to return to the United States to see my friends and family.

* * *

Tengo dos dias más en Sudamérica. Pero ya siento que ha llegado el fin de mi viaje.

Solamente hace un dia estuve en Cabo Polonio, uno de los pueblos más remotos de la costa de Uruguay. Espléndidamente aislado por las dunas, y la falta de eletricidad, calles, y otros servicios modernos, desconocidosque llegaron a Cabo se hicieron amigos rapidamente. Sin distracciónes como la tele, Internet, etc., pasamos mucho tiempo en las playas y las noches cocinando, tomando vino y haciendo cocteles tropicales.

Pero ahora estoy cansado. Me quedo en un hostel de Montevideo, Uruguay, esperando para mi vuelo esta noches, de repente me vuelvo ansioso regresar a EE.UU para ver mis amigos y familia.

Che!

Oktoberfest, Villa General Belgrano, Córdoba

"CHE!" nos decían a cada rato unos muchachos de Rosario esa noche. En esos momentos, bien ebrio y solamente alegre de tener la oportunidad de conocer a otra gente, simplemente contestaba lo mismo y me moría de risa entre mis nuevos amigos. Era la Fiesta de la Cerveza Nacional de Argentina, o el Oktoberfest en Villa General Belgrano de la Provincia de Córdoba.

Han pasado casi doce meses desde que llegué a Buenos Aires. En muchas maneras, ha sido un largo año. En ciertos momentos, me sentí aislado y quise volver a casa. Como un extranjero bien en el medio de una de las ciudades más grandes en las Américas, soy un desconocido en una tierra extraña. Llegué sin mucho conocimiento de Argentina, del idioma, y sin niguna idea de cómo los porteños me recibirían.

En cambio, me he divertido tanto, que el año pasó volando. Distinto de cuando llegué, ya puedo conversar con los sudamericanos adecuadamente. Aunque ningún argentino me identificaría como un habitante local, la habilidad de tener charlas más profundas con ellos debe ser uno de los aspectos más satisfactorios de mi viaje aquí.

Tres Morros, Jujuy

En los últimos meses, mientras preferí viajar alegremente más que documentar, he dejado de lado escribir en este blog. Desde que regresé de Brasil en agosto, he viajado a la Provincia de Córdoba por el Octoberfest de Argentina, seguí el sol hacia el norte hasta Salta y Jujuy para contemplar las Salinas Grandes, y subí cerros con tantos colores, que sin duda, Van Gogh hubiera pasado una vida entera interpretando en lienzo estas obras de la naturaleza.

The Hills of Pumamarca, Jujuy/Las Colinas de Pumamarca, Jujuy

La semana pasada, finalmente tuve la oportunidad de conocer Uruguay. No puedo explicar como me siento ahora, pero tengo un sentimiento de alegría y lamento al mismo tiempo. Mientras he tenido casi un año entero para conocer esta parte de América Latina, ya he aprendido tantas cosas sobre ella, que me parece que tengo mucho más para entender y experimentar. Como dije anteriormente, es como que solamente vi un preestreno de un libro que quizás nunca pueda terminar. En unas semanas, voy a marcharme de Argentina con una sensación de melancolía.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

En Punta del Diablo en la Banda Oriental, encontré un poco de paz. En ese pueblito tranquilo, estaba el Juancho, el viejo cerca del mar. Todo el día se sentaba al lado de su choza destartalada, la que quería vender por U$S10.000, y hablaba con cualquier persona que quisiera hablar. Estaba la hijita de Juan, el almacenero local, que quería practicar inglés pero sólo sonreía con timidez después de unas palabras, y los pescadores que pescaban cuando quisieran y vendían lo que fuera que el mar les reglaba.

* * *

"CHE!" a group of lads from Rosario called to us for the duration of the night. In those moments, well past soberness and only happy that I had the opportunity to met friends, I simply reciprocated in that most Argentine of greetings and let loose a great laugh amongst my new companions. It was Argentina's National Beer Festival, also known as the Oktoberfest at Villa General Belgrano, Córdoba Province.

Oktoberfest, Villa General Belgran, Córdoba

It has been almost twelve months since I arrived at Buenos Aires. In many ways, it has been a long year. In certain moments, I felt isolated and wanted to go home. As a foreigner in the middle of one of the largest cities in the Americas, I was a stranger in a new land. I arrived without much knowledge of Argentina, of the language, and without any idea how the locals would receive me.

Conversely, I have been enjoying myself so much that the year simply flew by. Unlike when I first arrived, I can now move past the basics and enjoy more profound conversations with South Americans. While no Argentine would make the mistake of thinking me a local, sorting out the communications issue must be one of the most satisfying aspect of my travels here.

The Great Salt Flats/Salinas Grandes

In the past few months, happy to experience rather than document, I have neglected to write in this blog. Since returning from Brazil in August, I have traveled to Córdoba Province for Argentina's Octoberfest, chased the sun north to Salta and Jujuy Provinces to gaze at one of the world's great salt flats, and hiked surging peaks with so many colors that Van Gogh surely could have spent a lifetime duplicating nature's work on canvas.

Last week I finally had the opportunity to explore Uruguay. At this moment I really cannot explain the feelings in my head, a cocktail of happiness and regret at the same time. While I have had almost an entire year to get to know this part of Latin America, and I have learned so much, it feels that I have so much more to see and experience. As I said before, it is like I have only read the jacket of a book that I might never finish. In a few weeks, I will leave Argentina swimming in a sea of melancholy.

Punta del Diablo, Uruguay

In Punta del Diablo, Uruguay, I found a little bit of peace. In this peaceful seaside village, there was the Juancho, literally an old man by the sea. All day he would sit on the side of his broken-down shack, which he would like to sell for US$10,000, and talk with whomever wanted to talk. Then there was the little daughter of Juan, the local grocer, who wanted to practice English, but would only smile shyly after a few words, and the fishermen who fished whenever they wanted and would sell whatever gifts the sea brought them.

Lady, the puppy at El Diablo Tranquilo Hostel/Lady, la cachorra del Diablo Tranquilo Hostel

The small pleasures / Los pequeños placeres

Choripan, a 6 pesos piece of greasy sausage heaven

While Buenos Aires gradually lurches forward to spring and the Northern Hemisphere grows colder by the day, I approach the end of my sojourn in Argentina. Soon it will be December and the time for me to return to the United States.

So each time I venture out into the city, I feel compelled to take stock of my year and enjoy the small pleasures of living in the city of Santa Maria.

* * *

Mientras Buenos Aires alcanza gradualmente la primavera y el Hemisferio del Norte hace más frío cada día, se acerca el fin de mi estadía en Argentina. Dentro de poco deciembre llegará y el momento de regresar a Estados Unidos.

Entonces cada vez que paseo por la ciudad, soy consciente de mi año y disfrutar los pequeños placeres de vivir en la ciudad de Santa María.

Brazil's Gold Trail / El Camino del Oro de Brasil

The namoradeiras of Brazil / Las namoradeiras de Brasil

(Written in August 2009) Up and down the hills I climbed and descended through Ouro Prêto's ancient cobblestone streets, occasionally accompanied by a chorus of church bells. In many ways the mountains and the sky around this Portuguese colonial town reminded me of northern New Mexico.

Every sixty minutes, the Church of Our Lady of Carmen (Nossa Senhora do Carmo), which straddles one of the more prominent hills of the city and overlooks Praça Tiradentes, Ouro Prêto's main town square, would ring in the new hour. But instead of the orderly bells of North American or European cathedrals, those of Ouro Prêto were somehow different - perhaps more spontaneous. Like that of an Indian marching band, with whom each note is more casually and individually articulated but somehow would harmonize to produce music, the bells of Ouro Prêto seemed to celebrate the joie de vivre that is unique only to Brazil.

St. Francis of Assissi Church, Ouro Prêto / La Iglesia de San Francisco de Asís, Ouro Prêto

Just the previous week, I was in Paraty, in Rio de Janeiro State. As the port that transferred Brazil's wealth to Lisbon, Paraty's architecture expressed the exuberance of the colonial Portuguese and their old world masters, but perhaps not the despair of the African slaves who labored this land.

The Paraty Habor / El Puerto de Paraty

* * *

(Escrito agosto 2009) Subía y descendía por los callejónes de adoquínes antiguos de Ouro Prêto, ocasionalmente me acompañaba un coro de las campanas de las iglesias. En muchos sentidos las montañas y el cielo de este pueblo colonial portugués me recordían del norte de Neuvo Mexico.

Tiradentes Square, Ouro Prêto / Plaza Tiradentes, Ouro Prêto

Cada sesenta minutos, la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen, la que se sienta una de las colinas del pueblo más prominente y da a Praça Tiradentes, la plaza principal de Ouro Prêto, sonaran en la nueva hora. Pero en vez de las campanas ordenadas de las catedrales norteamericanas o europeas, las de Ouro Prêto eran diferentes por alguna razón – quizás más espontáneas. Como lo de una banda de India, con el que cada nota es expresada individualmente y con más informalidad pero con alguna manera armonizarían para realizar música, las campanas de Ouro Prêto paracía celebrar la única alegría de vivir de Brasil.

Solamente la semana anterior, estaba en Paraty del Estado de Rio de Janeiro. Como el puerto que exportaba la riqueza de Brasil a Lisboa, la arquitectura de Paraty expresaba la exuberancia de los colonos portugueses y sus señores, pero quizás no las desesperaciónes de los esclavos africanos que trabajaban esta tierra.

Captain "Jack Sparrow" of Paraty / El Capitan "Jack Sparrow" de Paraty

Rio de Janeiro

They call her the marvelous city.

While Rio de Janeiro is a city of amazing natural beauty, with the emerald green water of the Guanabara Bay and the ocean forming a striking contrast with the granite hills of the Corcovado and Sugar Loaf, with only three days, I felt like I couldn’t possibly get to know it as I would like to.

Whereas São Paulo is geared towards commerce and seemed more of an international metropolis, with the sound of the waves and the beat of the samba, Rio de Janeiro felt like a beach town. Although Rio was once the only capital of a European country outside of Europe, and was also once the seat of the Brazilian Republic, Cariocas (residents of Rio de Janeiro) carry themselves without pretension and were quick to offer their smiles.

The Santa Teresa Tram / El tranvía de Santa Teresa

But for an afternoon of exploring the Santa Teresa neighborhood via its tram (called the Bondinho or Bonde), I was happy to drink caipirinhas on the beach and whiled away my time in Rio with the pleasures of the sand, the surf, and the sun.

* * *

La llaman la ciudad maravillosa.

Aunque Río de Janeiro es una ciudad de belleza insuperable, con agua verde esmeralda de la Bahía de Guanabara y el mar formando un contraste llamativo con las colinas de granito de Corcovado y Pan de Azúcar, me pareció que con sólo tres días, no pude conocerla como me gustaría.

A bikini vendor on the beach / un vendedor de bikini en la playa

Mientras que San Pablo es una ciudad empresarial y parece una metrópolis internacional, con el sonido de las olas y la zamba, Río parece una ciudad de playa. Aunque Río había sido la única capital de un país europeo afuera de Europa, y una vez también la sede de la República de Brasil, los cariocas (los habitantes de Río de Janeiro) se comportan sin pretensión y me ofrecían sus sonrisas fácilmente.

Pero por una tarde explorando el barrio de Santa Teresa en tranvía (lo llaman “Bondinho” o “Bonde”), me alegré de tomar caipiriñas en la playa y pasé mi estadía en Río con el placer de sentir el sol, las olas, y la arena.

A Santa Teresa neighborhood bar / Un bar del barrio de Santa Teresa