no penguin, no cry

It was bound to happen at some point: a total and complete meltdown.

I love traveling abroad, I do. I have discussed often here my love of being in foreign countries and of speaking other languages, but it’s also really stressful--no matter how much fun you’re having.   

Being completely out of my normal routine for over three weeks: not exercising, not sleeping much, eating a completely different (extremely carnivorous) diet along with the stress of booking and dealing with hotels, trying to get my foreign cell phone to work and the million other details of being abroad have been wearing me thin. And while I’m having a lot of fun learning Spanish and feel I’m making progress, the constant knowledge that I’m missing at least some of the nuances of any given interaction is not exactly calming.

Monday morning I went to see the national park in Ushuaia with a group of some 20 Portuguese retirees. It stuck me as odd how much Ushuaia reminds me of home with the mountains and clear lakes. Monday afternoon was the thing I’d been waiting for: the penguins. My hotel had assured me that all of the penguin tours left between 3 and 3:30 so to just come down a few minutes before 3 and they’d set me up. Being the time-conscious American that I am I went down at 2:30pm at which point the ‘concierge’ let me know that there was a chance the boats wouldn’t be gong out that afternoon because of weather. I looked at him stricken. What? No. The penguins! Once in a lifetime! Not to worry though, he told me, there is another excursion that goes by land. I perked up as I recalled that this was the one my friend had told me about where you could walk with the penguins. Hurray! Oh no, he said when he hung up the phone, they’ve already left but not to worry, the boats probably won’t get cancelled.

I probably don’t have to tell you what happened next. The boats got cancelled. The woman told me I could to go tomorrow. I felt the tears coming on. I’m leaving tomorrow I told her. You can go on the shorter excursion she offered, to see the sea lions and the lighthouse. Sea lions? Lighthouses? Seen those. But what else could I do? It was too late to do anything else with the day. Mortifyingly I burst into tears while buying my ticket.

Once the tears started I just couldn’t seem to compose myself. It wasn’t just the penguins of course. It was all the stress of the trip, the emotional highs and lows, the exhaustion, all of the rumination on the meaning of my life, the exhilarating and alienating feeling of being in a foreign country on my own.

                           a colony of King Cormorants, who are black and white but still not penguins 

So there I was crying my eyes out in the corner of the catamaran getting jostled by tourists and feeling humiliated that I was crying in public; which only made me feel worse and cry more; a bad cycle I think most of us are familiar with. Somewhere deep down I knew that this would be at least a little humorous later on.

One of the guys from the boat kindly brought me some tissues. Later when I finally pulled it together after we set sail I went to get some coffee; he asked me if I was feeling better. I told him I was. Where are you from? He asked (the ubiquitous question). United States, Seattle I told him and his jaw dropped. Seattle? Julia is from Seattle, he said gesturing to the guide. I was completely confused. How could that be? Her Spanish was perfect and she didn’t even speak English with a particularly American sounding accent. She turned out to be from Camano Island, a small place near where my aunt and uncle live.

In between her entertaining and informative explanations of the history of the channel we chatted about home and how she ended up here. She had married an Argentine she’d met while traveling in Mexico. I dabble in traveling and living abroad, but Julia is the real deal: fully expatriated, fluent (and I don’t use that word lightly) in the language, married to one of their own.

                                                        lighthouse at the end of the world

When I asked if she had any good recommendations for dinner that night she asked me if I’d like to come to her house. She and her husband run a small company that makes videos of the boats trips for tourists; she picked me up at my hotel and I went on her rounds with her dropping off the videos from the day. It was clear the two of them worked hard and despite her ex-pat status, she had a recognizably American entrepreneurial spirit. We talked about all the many things we loved about Argentina and the things we missed about the U.S: including vegetables, which are in sparse supply here--this, is particularly tough on her as she’s a vegetarian. Yes, I went on a boat tour in a country famous for its meat, in a city on the opposite end of the world from where I live and my tour guide was a vegetarian from my own backyard.

I had a lovely evening drinking wine and eating torta with her and her husband. Julia and I talked long into the night about her fascinating life in this odd beautiful place. She told me about being a boat guide and which tourists were the worst, she explained to me how the native people of Ushuaia--the Yamanas --lived with no clothing and how they were able to swim in water that would kill your or I in about 5 minutes (the explanation involved a lot of sea lion blubber). She also shared her theory on one of my other burning questions: why the hell are Argentine people so skinny (more on this later).

So I missed the penguins but if I hadn’t missed the penguins I wouldn’t have met Julia. That’s the serendipity of travel for you. 

the end of the world as we know it

Some tips for the flight into Ushuaia: get a window and take your xanax, the view is almost as heart-stopping as the turbulence.

There is something incredibly humbling about being in this place: for all practical purposes the end of the world (though I felt a bit cheated when I discovered today that there is a town of 2,000 on one of the islands that is a bit further south called Port Williams, they must not have as big of a marketing budget as Ushuaia). To see this city and the surrounding area--barren and inhospitable--reminds you that the world is not just for us, that it is here of its own accord. To look across the Beagle Channel and know that all that lies on the other side is Antarctica puts one in a state of proufound calm.

Yesterday I took a lake excursion in a 4x4 with a guide, a cook and another couple. It's funny, here I am, about as far away from home as I could possibly be and the landscape rather reminds me of...home, with the moutnains and lakes and trees. It was fun to be out and about with only a small group. The couple was made up of an American glass blower who lives in a cabin in Colorado with no running water and an Arengtine engineer who lives near Buenos Aires. I assumed in the beginning that they both spoke both languages as she insinuated that it would be fine if our darling guide Juan did the tour in English and he explained that he would be fine with Spanish as he understood it perfectly. In fact the opposite turned out to be true; she spoke not a word of English (actually she could say 'stop', 'shut up' and 'sit down' the really important things I suppose) and he may well have understood Spanish as he's been in the country for some months but he certaintly didn't speak it. This made me feel pretty smug as nothing warms the heart of a struggling language student than being in the presence of someone who speaks the language even worse.

We stopped in the forest halfway through the day to eat a seriously delicious lunch of, what else, chorizo, steak and malbec. I finally asked the woman how she and her boyfriend managed to talk to each other. 'We don't talk,' she said and we both collapsed in laughter.

Though her boyfriend seemed releived to finally be around another anglophone, he also seemed perfectly confident with his ham-handed attempts at Spanish and professed to speak it just fine when asked. I begin every attempt at conversation in Spanish with a litany of diclaimers: I'm learning, I only speak a little etc so that my efforts are met with low expectations and head pats. So in a way I had to admire the guy's chutzpah. With their seemingly different backgrounds I would ask what these two have to talk about but they just don't talk: how perfectly simple.

I did have a good time with them, making the instant and instantly-disolved bonds of people who find themselves travelling together. Our guide Juan and our cook Nacho were a total hoot. Nacho is a big lover of American music and I taught him the correct words to Sweet Caroline as we all belted it our while crossing the Lago Escondito on our little boat. Nacho is also a painter and writer and I even managed a halfway intelligent conversation with him after lunch about reading in other languages and how faithful translation of a text is in many ways impossible.

Sorry there are no pictures today--I left my converter in my last hotel in BsAs so I am not writing from my laptop: there are consequences to packing under the influence people.

lost weekend part II

On Sunday when we finally recovered from our mighty Saturday night excursion we headed to San Telmo for the famous open air market. While there we discovered yet MORE people dancing in the streets.

Speaking of which, I consulted Julianna (my new expert on all things Brazilian) about what the hair flipping dance from Saturday might have been. She said it sounded like Lambada. Lambada! The forbidden dance, people! I couldn't have made that whole scene up if I tried.

In San Telmo we shopped a bit and then lounged around in Plaza Darrego drinking wine and watching beginner tango dancers stare at their feet as they followed a lesson being held there under the lights. After the sun had set we headed to dinner.

A word about steak before I tell you about our dinner. I don't really eat it at home. I don't think that I have ever in my life actually ordered a steak in a restaurant before coming to Argentina. It's one of those things that I just got it in my head that I didn't care for and now can't remember quite why. Even though red meat is not a big part of my diet at home, you really have to have a damn good reason for abstaining while you're here. To not eat the steak here is as unthinkable as suggesting that tango was actually born in Uruguay (or you know, vice-versa if you're in Montevideo).

La Brigada came recommended to us via a lovely, savvy friend who used to live here. Now readers, there is good food and then there are the steaks at La Brigada. The steak here is so good it's primal; each time I took a bite I could feel my brain flooding with endorphins. It was so good I'm not even sure I can keep it PG if I go into any more detail. Everywhere in the restaurant you could see people with the same expression, the rapturous look of someone who knows they are eating one of the best meals of their life. We ate until we couldn't eat anymore. And then we ordered this:

Knowing that we were unlikely to top this even in the land of a thousands parillas (that's BBQ in Spanish y'all) we ate our final dinner at Osaka which was some of the finest sushi I've had in a long time and afforded Maya and I the chance to join forces to decipher the menu which was in Spanish and Japanese.

Today I'm on my way to Colonia to meet up with the Uruguayan host family I stayed with nine years ago. Besos from the Buquebus!

lost weekend part 1

I remember now why I've never been successful at keeping a diary. The same thing always happens: I miss a couple of days and then I am overwhelmed by the number of things that have happened since I last wrote and I give up. But not this time dear readers! For the sake of all fifteen of you (and my mom, hi mom!) I will recount my epic weekend in several installments.

My two dear New York friends Margaret and Maya came down for a visit on Friday and left yesterday. Sometimes I feel like I should have more things in my life figured out at this point but one thing I feel like I have absolutely nailed is the friend bit. Mine are amazing; smart, funny, well-travelled, loyal and wonderful--the kind of girls who would hop on an international flight for a long weekend. Something we all noticed while were out together this weekend was the seeming lack of groups of women. In New York if you go to any given bar or restaurant at any given time you will see packs of girlfriends everywhere. I like to think that this absence is because all the of the cool girls are off taking fabulous vacations together in Bariloche but maybe it's just not such a thing down here.

                                                                       the garden at Olsen 

One thing I haven't been so keen on down here is the breakfast food. Much like in Europe, breakfast is usually a pastry and coffee as opposed to the eggs, fruit, bread etc that we eat in the US. I have mentioned before that I am serious about breakfast and I'm even more serious about brunch on the weekends. In the spirt of this most sacred of New York activities we found a couple of fabulous spots courtesy of the wonderful blog A Gringo in Buenos Aires (which I highly recommend to anyone visiting): Oui Oui on Saturday and the delicious Olsen Cafe where you can get your huevos revueltos with a side of 'tude (in case you're really missing New York). We spent much of the rest of our time lounging by the pool and seeing some sights. Buenos Aires is like New York in that you simply can not do everything during one visit and we all came with long lists of 'must-dos'; we chose carefully and well. 

Neither of them speak Spanish so I got to do a lot of translating (some badly: we had a rather alarming incident with a cab driver wherein I confused the words 'espacio' and 'despacio' causing my friend to slam the door when he'd just asked us to be careful with it). Being with them made me realize how much more Spanish I am picking up than when I first arrived but also cued me in to what I might be missing. My friends pointed out to me that the waiter on Friday night was flirting his face off when I was chatting with him. Really? I asked. I had been so focused on trying to understand the meaning of his words that I had become blind to the million other signals that people send when they speak.

                              Margaret is really excited about the over the top tea service at the Alvear 

Another amusing language related incident took place on Saturday after visiting the magnificent cemetary in Recoleta when we went for tea at the uber posh Alvear Palace Hotel (which trust, skip the Faena and go here if you want to get your luxury living on). As we were waiting to be seated a couple asked the hostess in English for a table she said she apologized but if they didn't have a reservation she would have to seat them inside instead of in the beautiful garden. As we also didn't have a reservation we were disappointed to hear this but content to sit inside. However, I asked for a table in Spanish and somehow miraculously there was space in the garden. Now, I'm not certain that this was because I had asked in Spanish--the whims of hostesses in posh places are always mysterious after all--but I like to think it helped.

                           Don Julio where you get to sign your empty wine bottle to add to the decor

Saturday night we had a grand adventure that included some delicious steak at a charming local joint called Don Julio, drinks at the Hotel Faena (which I can only reccommend if you really, really like Philippe Stark; two rounds of drinks here was more expensive than the most expensive dinner we had) and some dancing. The other reason the Hotel Faena made it onto my naughty list was because the waitress gave us terrible directions to the nightclub we were heading to and we ended up on a wild goose chase and had to get a cab anyway. We did however inadvertently stumble into one of the more amazing moments of my trip so far: an open air dance party in the middle of the park. The people were doing some Brazilian dance that looked a lot like saslsa but seemed to include quite a lot more hair flipping. A guy explained it to me but I can't recall the name. We stood there watching in awe as though we had stumbled upon a mirage. I got asked to dance and of course I went for it; I even gamely through in some hair tosses. I'm sure I didn't look as good as the Brazilian girls but it was still better than my tango. Why oh why doesn't this sort of thing happen in the US? (Or does it? Tell me where!) Why can't be life be more life my beloved bad dance movies where people just dance in the streets?

We did finally make it to the nightclub and I had my second night of staying out until the sun came up. I still haven't completely recovered but you know, when in Rome! Or as my Brazilian friend Julianna says (a more colorful phrase I think) when you're in hell, you might as well kiss the devil.

More on the epic weekend tomorrow including where to go if you want the best steak of your life en serio. 

you always remember your first

                                                           tango singers making tango face


Oh Flavio. I'm glad it was you. You were commanding yet gentle; firm but kind. I was afraid but you showed me what to do. We had a moment you and I. We laughed. We cried. Well, I cried on the inside anyway for my disastrous amateur tango. Yes, tango. What did you think I was talking about?

The milonga was not quite what I had pictured. I had been lead to believe that it would be full of older, mercifully slow-moving, heavily aftershaved men who would communicate via some subtle code of lingering glances and eyebrow raises. But in fact, the milonga that Nina and I ventured out to last night was full of attractive, hip looking young people who were all gliding around the floor like they'd come out of the womb doing the tango.

Up until then I'd been feeling pretty good about my progress in tango. I had killed it in class that afternoon; I was nailing my ochos, my camina was on point. I had taken a private lesson earlier in the week and I was able to follow the instructor perfectly. I kept glancing at myself in the mirrors and thinking 'hey! Look at that- I'm totally doing the tango!' 'Muy bien!' my instructors said, 'you must do other dances as well'. 'Why yes,' I said, 'I salsa,' and I beamed.

All that misplaced confidence lasted about five seconds once I did get asked to dance last night. Some tall, rather handsome porteno came over to ask me and I was so nervous that I was shaking a little bit. I danced with my eyes closed not so that I could feel the music but so I wouldn't have to see the snickers I was imagining on the faces of the many, many people watching. When you dance with someone in a milonga, you stay with them for four songs. Four songs! Do you know how long that is? What a commitment that is? Poor Flavio. But he was so nice, 'you have the idea' he said. The idea maybe; the steps, the posture and the rhythm not so much.

He graciously stayed with me for all four songs and then returned me to my seat. 'Was it as bad as I thought?' I asked Nina. 'I thought you looked pretty good for a beginner.' Reader, she was being kind. By 'good' I'm pretty sure she meant 'you didn't actually fall down, there's that.' Then a little while later, like a gift from God a set of salsa music came on. Flavio came to collect me and we tore up the mostly empty dance floor. I felt a little bit redeemed in the eyes of the crowd who had just watched me stumble through the world's most awkward tango; I'm also pretty sure I might've flashed them a couple of times since I was not wearing a dress appropriate for salsa but I'm at peace with that.

The important thing is that I have now danced the tango in an Argentine milonga and I had a blast. Watching the other dancers gave me a lot to aspire to.

Tell me about your first time.

Tango

The Tango doesn't exactly look easy but it can look simple in some ways to a novice's eye. The dancers can appear to not be doing very much at times. I'm used to dancing salsa which involves constant movement. There is none of this in tango, the back is always straight and any movement above the waist must be subtle and precise as anything. All dances need good communication between partners but none as much as tango.

My dance classes here are a mix of people typical to what I see in the US, that is to say a group of people who would not likely be found in a room together for any other reason. I love to speculate about what brings people to join these classes, are they trying to breath life back into a marriage? Meet someone? Get some exercise? Did they OD on Dancing with the Stars? Or do they just have a list of things they always wanted to do and this happens to be the moment. So in this way my classes have a comfortable familiarity; the students are all ages, all nationalities with all kinds of different lives outside of the classroom. There are still those men I know well by now, the ones who have NO idea what they're doing but don't hesitate to instruct you or let you know when they think you've made a mistake.

Even though I have had to break myself a little bit of some of my salsa training, having some dance training at all is incredibly helpful. Both Tango and Salsa can be said to be sexy dances but in exactly opposite ways. Salsa is cheerful and quick, a dance of happiness and parties; the connection is light and flirtatious--kind of like the best first date ever. Tango is a dance full of longing and romantic desperation; a dance of people who have either missed their chance to be together or know they will never get one at all. You don't know the meaning of dancing together 'as one' until you've done tango; you must be close enough to the man to know what he will do before he does it. Salsa is like a public makeout in the street between two people too enamored of each other to care and Tango is an embrace in a dark alley between two people who are being separated by forces beyond their control; a dance of mistresses (well, originally of prostitutes).

I admit that I don't like to be a novice at anything. It's why I don't dabble in things, I either plunge in or give it up right away. Tonight Nina and I are going to the milonga for the first time. I'm terrified naturally but I have to stop and ask myself of what am I terrified exactly? Of looking stupid? Am I really afraid of that? It is the same with speaking spanish, am I afraid I won't be understood? That I will say something stupid or offensive?

And if I'm not here to face these fears than why AM I here?

I am a visitor here, I am not permanent

Tonight I am meeting some ex-pat friends of a friend who live here in Buenos Aires. I am thoroughly looking forward to meeting them and hearing the real story about what life here is like. In the meantime, I have become friends with some of the other students at the language school as I hoped I would. They are truly in the same place as I am; a city they are seeing through the rose colored glasses of being on vacation here. We remain ignorant to the downside of living here as only visitors can. I've met two girls from Denmark and Brazil respectively who I've been spending most of my time with; we're all around thirty, single, here alone and getting away from very busy lives back home. Relationships made while traveling are of a special variety that isn't necessarily available to us in the rest of our lives; they are instantaneous, uncomplicated and usually fated to remain forever sparkling and untouched in our memories.  

I remember visiting New York before I lived there; I remember how every mundane thing was a thrill when I was visiting and how it seemed such a different place when I came to live there. It would be the same thing anywhere I know. Life is life wherever you go, you can't outrun it and the longer you stay some place the deeper and more complicated your relationships with the place and the people there become.

It's a little hard to think of going back to cold, dark Seattle right now. The warm summer breezes and the seeming ease of life here is lulling me into a stupor and it's hard not to toy with the idea that it doesn't all have to end. And yet, in this day of constant communication I find my real life is reaching me here no matter how many miles away it is. News of a friends declining health, news (or rather no news!) from agents about the book and work email can all still reach me.

The question is, can we really ever get away from it all?