Rainbow
Just a lucky shot of a bird and a rainbow.
Chocolate
In addition to world-famous steaks, fantastic wines, and excellent pizzas and pastas ((One need look no further than restaurant menus for evidence of the effect the wave of 20th century Italian immigrants had on Argentina.)), Argentina, especially Patagonia, is also renown for it production of both chocolate and ice cream. Rough place to travel, I know.
Know The Difference
El Bolsón: where even the dogs have dreadlocks. This is hippie country, through and through, a town effectively dedicated to that alternative lifestyle. It’s a place where the park benches remain empty – the citizens prefer to sit in circles on the grass, cross-legged, joints and acoustic guitars being passed around. Everyone here is exactly the same in their practice of non-conformity. Worship Che and Bob as twin idols, corporations are bad by some unspecified but passionate reasoning, the government is up to something evil, try to be vegan, all that stuff. Essentially, it’s the story of hippies everywhere – big ideas, but everyone is too stoned to start the revolution.
Hippies and backpackers are like poison ivy and sunflowers – we may be found in a lot of the same place but we’re very different things. We get lumped in with that barefoot, dreadlocked crowd for three main reasons: we occupy some of the same corners of the world, many of the first backpackers were hippies, and we share a general rejection of a conventional lifestyle.
Those first two points are rather incidental. Yes, hippies and backpackers wind up in some of the same places – lazy beach towns, chilled little mountain outposts – but how they get there, where they stay, and what they do there is generally very different. That’s rather obvious to the casual observer. And yes, historically, some of our most important traveling forefathers were hippies bouncing around Europe and India in brightly covered vans. But that stereotype is firmly “1960’s” in many people minds and not what they picture today’s vagabonds doing. The third reason is the most important because it’s where most of the confusion stems from.
Both the hippie and the traveler have, in their own way, declined the direct succession of things many people in the Western world choose to engage in: college-career-kids-retirement with no breaks in between. The fact that we both reject that path in life is what makes us one in so many people’s minds. We are irrevocably linked by the choice we’ve both made to do something alternative. But, just as it binds us together, therein also lies the key difference. The basis of the hippie ideology is a rejection of conventional society. They’re not only rejecting a lifestyle, they’re rejecting the entire culture that tried to force such a path upon them. Backpackers may take pride in rejecting standard ideas about career and routine, but as a group make no such claims about harshly disagreeing with society as a whole. Indeed, if anything, backpackers embrace “conventional” societal ideals – they travel the world in an effort to discover as many of them as they can. Hippies remove themselves from society because of fundamental disagreements about politics, ethics, or morals. Backpackers remove themselves as well - but only because irrepressible curiosity compels them to explore other ways of living. That is the critical difference.
Hippies leave home and all end up in the same place, regardless of where they are geographically. That place is surrounded by like-minded individuals, living life within the confines of a closed sub-culture, in the way they feel is right. There is nothing wrong with that. But they are not explorers, not in the sense that backpackers are. Because of the decision they’ve made about the status quo (that it is “wrong”, for whatever reason), there is no more exploration to be done.
Backpackers leave home and all end up in different places. They openly admit to not knowing what the “correct” way of living is, they’ve made no decisions one way or another. So they sample cultures, try to get inside and understand things. They feel their purpose is to experience all things, rather than live in a certain way that has been determined to be more “ethically correct”. Where the hippie brings his own vegan lunch, the backpacker orders the tasting menu of strange foreign delicacies.
Yes, there are backpackers who embrace some of the hippie concepts. And there are some full-blown hippies who backpack in the “traditional” way, but far fewer than you might think. I’ve met a traveling capitalist for every traveling hippie I’ve encountered, that ratio is 1/1. But, far more often than either, I just meet regular people. No extreme views on either side, no passionate speeches about things that need to change. They’re just curious about the world as it is and excited about the things they’re encountering. They sit down between the capitalist and the hippie and there’s no talk of politics or anything remotely in that realm. There’s only “Hey, did you guys hike up to the top of that hill? Wow! What a view!”
Tiny Horses
You learn a lot of things traveling. You learn how to look out for yourself and you realize things about other people’s cultures and you get a better sense of the world.
And, though you’re constantly surprised by the specifics of the things you’re figuring out, you sort of expect to learn those type of things. For instance, it’s logical that in traveling to foreign lands you would learn about foreign cultures. You didn’t know what you were going to learn, but it does make sense that you gained some insight into that general realm of knowledge.
Every once in a while, however, something totally unexpected crosses your path. When that happens, the preconceived notion you had about that absurdly random subject is suddenly, unexpectedly, done away with and replaced. It’s exciting, but it’s also slightly jarring. You didn’t expect to learn about that in this place, but such is the randomness of the world.
I, for instance, thought I knew how small horses could be. It wasn’t something I thought about a lot, but I did assume I had a pretty good grip on the general range of sizes a fully grown horse could be.
So when I got off the bus in a little hippie-town called El Bolsón and encountered those two little guys, well, I was a bit surprised. I was wandering around looking for my hostel, and there was some type of festival was going on throughout the town. I looked up, the crowd parted, and there were these two miniature horses.
“Hmmmm….those horses are very small. Are they baby regular horses? No, no baby regular horses have those disproportionally long legs. No, it seems those are adults, just super small. I know a couple of dogs bigger than those two horses. I guess horses can be pretty tiny.”
I paused, considering them.
“Alright now where is this hostel….”
Quite an Acronym
“Johnson, I’m giving you this Employee of the Month award because you embody everything we’re trying to do here. You believe in our motto, you work hard, you love this organization, and you dedicate yourself to it fully. You sir, are pure SCUM. Congratulations.”
Go Big or Go Home
“The bread makes the sandwich.”
My father taught me that maxim, and I’ve always found it to be true. But, especially when you’re working with lower-quality ingredients, a nice selection of sauces really does add to things. If you’ve got crunchy French bread, heirloom tomatoes, crisp lettuce, rare roast beef, and good, cold aged white cheddar cheese ((Sorry for the indulgence, that’s my favorite sandwich and I’m really hungry right now.)) then any sauce, besides maybe a little bit of mayo, is a travesty. But when the ingredients can’t speak for themselves, an interesting sauce can be a saving grace. Morfy’s, ((“Morfy’s”. Bad name for a restaurant. Someone told me the owner named it after his dog. Bad name for a dog too.)) a sandwich place near the water, relies on that concept – they encourage customers to slather things like “Mayo with Bacon” all over their chicken in an effort to distract them from how bad the chicken is. Unfortunately for Morfy’s, their sandwiches are too far-gone to be saved by any sauce. It doesn’t work at Morfy’s but I get the idea – make up for tasteless food with flavorful sauces.
As you can probably tell, I didn’t enjoy my meal at Morfy’s, sauce or no sauce. But it did inspire me to start changing the way I choose where to eat. I want to start adopting a system I see many of my fellow travelers use, which I’m calling “Go Big or Go Home”. Here’s the basic thinking within the context of the past few days:
Go Big or Go Home
Morfy’s, in all its flavorlessness, wasn’t expensive but it also wasn’t cheap. Big sandwich, high season, resort town, combo with fries and a coke – that adds up. 80 pesos.
El Boliche de Alberto, where I had the steak to end all steaks, was on the expensive side but it was both excellent and a proven commodity. Everyone knows about El Boliche de Alberto. It’s a proven commodity, a local treasure, the place to go. 160 pesos.
As the name implies, Go Big or Go Home means only going to the El Boliche de Albertos of the world, albeit less frequently, and never wasting money at a Morfy’s. You either eating at the most recommended restaurant you can find, regardless of cost, or you’re cooking something cheap in the hostel kitchen.
And El Boliche de Alberto was only twice as expensive! Though it should be noted that that ratio (2/1 , between a forgettable sandwich place and the best steakhouse in town) is skewed for a couple reasons: Morfy’s is a ripoff, I ordered a drink at Morfy’s and not at El Boliche de Alberto, El Boliche de Alberto is cheap for how great it is, etc. But still, a lot of backpackers adhere to this system at far higher ratios. They're cooking pasta-and-vegetables for every meal for days on end, and then having a well-deserved luxurious meal at the famous restaurant that's all on all the travel websites.
The system is flawed and hardly groundbreaking. There's something to be said for wandering into a completely unknown place and exploring a city's restaurants on your own terms, rather than being fully directed by the reviews of people who came before you. And cooking in the hostel can get old quickly. But, still, it's something I need to move towards. I've wasted far too much money at Morfy's.
The Culinary Moon
The dirty little secret about most steakhouses is that there is no secret. It’s not risotto, its grilled meat. There are no complicated preparations, no skillful mixing of complex ingredients. It’s a simple thing done well and everyone knows this. If you go to a high-end market, spend enough money on a good cut, and have even some experience in grilling, you can generally produce a steak rivaling what you’ll get at many steakhouses. Your sides might not be as good, and the ambience of a fine restaurant won’t be there, but the steak itself will be in the range of what you’re served at most places. Most places. What you get at a truly special steakhouse is some indefinable, but transcendent, elevation of that basic grilled meat art form.
When the lunar module landed on the moon, Walter Cronkite didn’t say anything. He just took off his glasses, rubbed his hands together, and shook his head, incredulous to what he had just experienced. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. He was aware enough of the moment to realize there was nothing he could add.
So, no. I’m not going to do the whole “restaurant review” thing. I’m not going to use all those adjectives and try to transport the reader. I landed on the culinary moon and I’m taking a cue from Walter.
Next time you’re in the southern hemisphere, go to El Boliche de Alberto in Bariloche, Argentina.
That is all.
Bariloche
Where the park benches are full of St. Bernard puppies taking naps.
Pristine Mountain
Sitting on top of a pristine mountain, looking out a clear, calm landscape. That's one of those "I should just build a wooden shack and live here" views.
Not Cool, Punks
I’ve written before about how impressed I’ve been with some of the graffiti I’ve seen in the South America. Whole city blocks covered in trippy murals that give some color to an otherwise bland city? Awesome! A graffiti-covered trail sign when you’re lost in the woods? Not so awesome.
Note To Dad
Let's book a tee time here.
This Is Harry
This is Harry. He is my kindred spirit. I named him Harry because he has lots of hair, more hair than a human at least. Chalk that lack of imagination up to the fact that I haven’t slept in a very long time.
It’s 4 AM and Harry and I are sitting in a gas station. It might not be ideal, but it’s better than the alternative – outside is 40 degrees, with ice cold pouring rain. Harry whimpers and I pat him on the head.
“That’s alright buddy. I’m a stray dog too.”
__________________________________________________________
The trouble began about a half day earlier, on the tail end of a 27-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires. We were stopped at a big trucker gas station in the south-west of Argentina, only four hours from our final destination of San Carlos de Bariloche. I’d gotten off the bus to stretch my legs and was talking to an Italian sailor named Alberto, the only other gringo onboard. I was looking at birds fluttering on the horizon. He was talking about India.
“Yes, this bus is bullshit. Long bus. But I did 36 hour bus in India. Oh no, no good. After that, I said ‘I will stay on the sea – on the boat!’”
“Yea, that sounds pretty rough.”
“It is not a matter, we are close.”
“Yea.”
“You have accommodation?”
I turned and our eyes met.
“Oh fuck.”
__________________________________________________________
I’ve been on the road, collectively, for about 15 months. Every once in a while I get it into my head that I might be getting good at this, that I might be becoming that veteran traveler I’ve come across so many times. And then I make a rookie mistake like this.
I had friends who’d come to Bariloche before and, as is travel code, reported back. Almost all of these advance reports said the same thing.
“Great place, but be sure to book ahead.”
“This is the Aspen of Argentina and it’s high season - don’t go without a hostel booked.”
“The locals are going, the gringos are going – be sure to book far in advance.”
You see, I’d been too busy doing absolutely nothing. The full minute it would have taken to book a hostel couldn’t have fit into my packed schedule of aimless wandering and arguing with friends about where to get food. I’d been cheerful, excited about a new town after so long in Buenos Aires, and this Italian had just burst my bubble of obliviousness. Yes, I was headed to a new place, but what would I find there?
__________________________________________________________
It turned out Alberto didn’t have a place to stay either. He was new to South America and was supposed to be on this trip with a girlfriend, who’d bailed at the last second. He’d just flown into Buenos Aires and from the looks of it, had been drinking for the whole four days he’d spent on the continent thus far. He did however, speak Spanish and have a cellphone. Perhaps all was not lost.
He called everywhere. Places far out of town, places neither of us could afford. All full. Night fell and Bariloche creeped closer and closer.
___________________________________________________________________
We pulled into town around 10 PM. I’d spent almost the entire journey hating that bus and now suddenly didn’t want to get off. But I remained optimistic. This is a tourist town containing thousands of hostel and hotels rooms. One must be vacant. I will find that one.
We caught a cab to a hostel called Penthouse 1004 because Alberto had heard good things about the staff. We needed local insight and, though we knew the Penthouse was full, the nice ladies at the reception desk seemed like a logical place to start our search.
And nice they were! We were allowed to store our bags and use the bathroom while the owner called hostels on our behalf. Nothing. I scoured the internet only to find most sites wouldn’t even let me search for a room, as it was so close to midnight. No luck. I walked to the streets to find a disconcerting trend: almost everywhere had handwritten “Full” signs, in Spanish and English, posted on their front door. It started to rain as I ran back to the Penthouse.
Alberto had become frustrated with our plight and, considering himself a macho traveler, announced he was going to “buy a bottle of gin and sit under a tree”. I wished him luck. I tried to bribe the Penthouse staff to let me sleep in the laundry room, to no avail. They were sweet but firm. I couldn’t blame them. At 1:30 the common area closed and it was time for me to go.
Even at this seemingly dismal point, I didn’t feel discouraged. I considered the positives. Bariloche, being a small rich resort town, was a safe place. Robberies were uncommon and, even so, I’d left most of my things at Penthouse for the night and had very little on me worth stealing. I’d read that there was a McDonald’s in this town and McDonald’s never closes right? I had some books to help me pass the time - I could read novels under a street lamp like some kind of tragic poet. Plus, I retained some hope on finding accommodation. I had a plan.
__________________________________________________________
People, I decided, would be the solution to all my problems. Travelers are inclusive group - I’d witnessed the camaraderie and teamwork of the backpacking community countless times along my assorted journeys. I simply needed to meet someone, some fellow citizen of the road, who would hear my plight and understand it and recognize themselves in me, and then wait for them to insist that I crash on their couch or floor. I needed to find and become part of a group, share a few strong drinks on this cold night, and be taken in by my fellow vagabonds, who would sneak me in past a guard to the warmth of a hostel. Yes, the backpackers would save me. And I knew just where to find them.
I ran to a bar, near what seemed like the center of things, as rain engulfed the town. I was excited by my task and, though I’m not necessarily an outgoing person, I thought of the whole thing as some kind of secret mission. I would identify my targets, charm them with my stories of adventure, relate my situation in a hapless but hilarious tone, and then graciously accept their charity. Time was an issue, as it was nearly 2 AM on Wednesday night in a small town, but I still felt irrationally confident.
Mission status: failure. There were a number of factors working against me. First, I’d wound up at a much more local, rather than backpacker, bar. Second, I was carrying a lot of books, which isn’t always the best look for a crowded bar. Third, there was a mix-up with the waiters when ordering a beer. I placed an order for a Pale Ale which took it’s time in arriving. In that waiting period, a different waiter approached to see if I needed anything. I tried to tell him that I’d already ordered a beer from a different waiter, but my broken Spanish turned that communication into something like “Hello! Yes, yes, yes…I had a Pale Ale beer before….with a man….a different man….” Rightfully confused, he interpreted the whole thing as me trying to order a Pale Ale. Both beers arrived simultaneously, placed down carefully as my small table for one was covered in books. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Loner Nerd Alcoholic. The Unattractiveness Trifecta. This might not work.
__________________________________________________________
My plan of finding some generous benefactor abandoned, I collected my books and left the bar. To the McDonald’s it is. I’ll stagger my coffee and food purchases over the course of the night so they can’t throw me out for not buying anything. It was only about 5 hours till sunrise and then the promise of a new day would invigorate me. Things could be worse.
Closed. McDonald’s! Closed from midnight to 8 AM. WHAT? Do these people not like money? Do they not know how strong the urge of the drunk twenty-somethings is to order multiple Big Macs at 4AM? I wondered where Alberto was and if there was any space under that tree.
I walked down the street slowly, fully dejected. Any optimism I’d had about the potential of this night had been drained from me. This was no longer an opportunity for adventure or some bizarre travel challenge or an inconvenient-but-also-sort-of-fun problem that needed to be dealt with. This just sucked. I was going to spend the night alone, in the freezing rain, and there was no one to blame for that.
I looked up and saw my last chance. The bright lights of the YPF gas station. I’d passed it earlier and vaguely remembered a small sitting area. Maybe that’d be open. More likely, they lock the doors at night and do all business through a small cashier window. But at least it was something to walk towards. It’s not like I had anything else to do.
When I got under the roof of the gas pumps, I walked slowly, savoring the hope. This was one of the only lighted places left in town. This needed to work. It was either here or a night spent outside. I leaned against the door and, thankfully, it gave way. It was open. I was in.
And so here I sit. Safe, warm enough, drinking bad coffee, eating generic candy bars. Complaining and pitying myself when I have the right to do neither. I only realize now, near the end of this “ordeal”, how much I dramatized this thing inside my own head. It was inconvenience that I couldn’t help but experience as tragedy. The whole thing reminded me of being in a foreign ATM booth when your card doesn’t work. Suddenly the world seems to become very real. You feel a pang of unfamiliar fear. “I want food and I might not have the money to get it.”
But it’s not real, at least not when you take a step back. An ATM card failed. That’s no disaster. You probably have back-up cards. Or hidden cash. Or travel companions to borrow from. Or parents to wire you money. Or a dozen friends to call. Its not that you don’t have money. It’s that you briefly don’t have access to money. Those two situations shouldn’t be confused.
It was the same with tonight. I didn’t rough it or make my way on the streets or experience any kind of true despair. I forgot to make a booking and the resort town was full. I was forced to be without a desired bed for a few hours. I drank beer and sipped coffee and ate candy. The horror, the horror.
I tried to realize the basis for my tragic interpretation of what had happened. It had only very little to do with the now, with the immediate circumstance of not having something. That sudden, unfamiliar fear wasn’t coming from “I might go hungry for the next few hours” or “I might not find a room tonight”. It was coming from trying to imagine, even in some small way, the reality of having to live life that way and being terrified at even my own naïve, unqualified, imagination. I know that’s bullshit. It’s like playing paintball and saying “Geez, war must be scary.” But it’s how I felt.
It was like looking over a cliff and imagining yourself falling off. And then scrambling backwards and sitting down and trying to remember to be thankful.
My story must end here, I need to go bribe the cashier. He’s trying to throw Harry out in the rain.
Start The Empanada Revolution
Empandas are the classic Argentinian backpacker food. Relatively cheap, filling, and available absolutely everywhere. In fact, empanadas are so ubiquitous in Argentina, I've developed an unofficial cost of living indicator based on empanda price. Similar to the well-known Big Mac Index, the Empanada Value Analysis Number uses the price of a single empanada, purchased to-go at a standard local fast-food restaurant, to determine the relative price levels in a town in Argentina. The reference chart look something like this:
Emapanada Value Analysis Number
(price of one empanada)
<6 pesos: A place to hang for a while, you never see prices like this!
6 pesos: Surprisingly cheap town for Argentina.
7 pesos: Not too bad.
8 pesos: Standard.
9 pesos: A bit pricey.
10 pesos: This is a notably expensive town.
>10 pesos: Time to leave.
