Buenos Aires--do you ever sleep?
It’s been a while…Buenos Aires didn’t really allow for a lot of sitting down and writing time, a fact that I would be reintroduced to time and again. For a lot of people, Buenos Aires signifies tango, beef, matè, Evita…for me, Buenos Aires signified endless walking and exploring, finally seeing green inside a city (including grass you could walk on, dare I mention nap on—a dream come true for me!), staying up far too late every night, football/soccer, and the reincarnation of my first year of MDA camp (read that, a pick of the day—whoops, I’m regressing). Let’s go back to the beginning, though…
I got to the Lima airport to catch my flight at about 8:00 am. Everything was going fine, although I was tired from staying up super late the night before, having gone to yet another massive national stadium concert with Dorita. The concert started at 7:30 pm and we left around 12:30 pm—and the concert wasn’t even finished yet! Needless to say I was dragging a bit and looking forward to sleeping on the plane. Ha! Sleeping on the plane indeed…well, we all boarded the plane and it looked like we were getting off to a bit of a late start. I had settled into my seat and was quite enjoying my In-Flight magazine, when the pilot announced that the airport communications workers were going on strike. They expected it to be done in two hours, but for the comfort of the passengers, we were going to need to deplane. Hmm. I’ve never realized that the length of a strike was so predictable, but they’re used to strikes in Lima, right? I loved the part where the pilot said that it was not TACA’s fault. (TACA being the airline—I will add a little recommendation here: NEVER fly with TACA.) I followed the rest of the passengers back into the airport to await for the end of the strike. Three hours went by, and I noticed that a sizeable number of passengers were starting to crowd around the information desk. Possibility of information? Yup, let’s go check that out. I didn’t understand all of what was said, but I saw lots of angry passenger faces—that can’t be good. I finally got a translation from a fellow traveler, who told me the airline was saying that the strike still wasn’t over, they couldn’t predict when it would be over and that people should probably go home. That’s not to say that they would know when we’d be able to get a new flight, and they weren’t going to pay for any transportation/food/hotel expenses since it was not TACA’s fault. The interesting part? TACA was the only airline whose flights weren’t leaving. We, the TACA passengers, sat inside the airport watching all of the other airlines’ flights take off on time, without a single problem. Apparently they had “resources” that TACA didn’t. Oh, but the other passengers on my flight were NOT having that—throughout the rest of the day, there were mini-mob scenes at our desk. I ended up befriending a few other fellow travelers, another American guy who’d spent the last year teaching English in Buenos Aires and whose flight home was leaving in three days, and a Scottish guy who’s been traveling around for the last eight months or so. The American was freaking out since TACA was saying it might be another 10 days until we could get another flight out. But the Scottish dude and I watched the goings-on and rabble-rousing crowd with amusement. Only in South America. Besides, the other passengers were doing a great job of fighting the fight and getting all hot-blooded for us, so why not sit back and enjoy the show?
Eventually TACA sent home all of the “local” passengers that had a home to go to, which probably should have included me, but hells no, I was going to stick it out! Eventually they informed us that the strike had stopped, but they couldn’t give us any guarantees about the flight. There was another flight to BA leaving in the evening, but the seats were all full (lies) and they couldn’t guarantee us anything. After a while, they took us to one of the airport restaurants and fed us dinner—great diversionary tactic. When we came back, we found out they’d made two lists—the first list, of travelers that were “in-transit” from one country to another, with Lima having just been a stopover. This list had priority. Then there was the other list…the list that my name was on. I sat at the desk for about an hour or two, watching them call out peoples’ names and issuing that priceless boarding pass. One after another, and my heart sank a little bit each time. I must have had a pretty sad look on my face, because a fellow passenger, a Venezuelan plastic surgeon from Florida, told me to go and start asking the ladies at the desk for my boarding pass. With his encouragement, I nosed my way in behind the desk, kept on pushing and poking here and there, and finally, lo and behold, I got a hold of a boarding pass. Yay!!! I get to go to Buenos Aires! It was like winning a lottery ticket. I boarded the flight and gave the thumbs up to my fellow traveling friends (who, both having been on the “in-transit” list, were already on the plane). I settled in, yet again, while we waited for the flight to leave. After another two hours of waiting for other passengers to get on the plane, our flight left at the lovely hour of 1:00 am. One lost day in BA, but an interesting day it certainly was.
We arrived bright and early, around 7:00 am, and the sun was out, the sky was blue, and I was so happy to be in another country! As we drove into the city, I noticed the European architecture, all of the trees…what a nice change from the dreariness of Lima! I climbed up the three flights of stairs to my hostel only to discover that my reservations had been canceled. (Go figure, I showed up about 15 hours late.) I did manage to get a bed for the night, though I spent the next night in some random hostel in Recoleta, about 10 blocks away. Not bad, though, because after that I was able to stay in the same bed for the next six nights. That first day, though, I dragged myself out of the room to do some walking around to get myself oriented a bit. Then I took a much-needed nap, then headed upstairs to see what the atmosphere was like in the hostel. I ended up meeting Chris and Lizzie that night, a pair from England, and we went out to Palermo for dinner and to go out to Glam a (yay!) gay club. We got to the club around 1:30, and it wasn’t even beginning to get started. Seriously, I don’t think people in Buenos Aires sleep! The bar didn’t even start peaking until about 4:00 am, and we had to head out shortly thereafter because we were exhausted. The next day there was more wandering around the city, more relaxing.
On Saturday I went to the Argentina vs. Bolivia football game, my first real soccer game. I went with the group from my Scottish friend’s hostel, which boded well for me because there were tons of guys who could explain the rules of soccer (I think I’ve got the off-sides rule down) and show me who was who. I definitely think soccer’s my new favorite sport to watch and Argentina is currently rated as the top team in South America, so it was a really good game to watch. I even have a favorite player! Yeah, I totally know about football now…Martin, my biggest soccer-loving friend, I definitely thought of you while I was there. : ) That night, all of the traveling crowd headed out to Pacha, some big, internationally renowned club (that obviously I had never heard of!) where I was followed around by an increasingly creepy Frenchman from our hostel. I kept on wandering off to talk to the guys I’d met earlier at the football game, and he’d keep on showing up at my side. After a while of that, I thought, “Screw this!” and as soon as Frenchman went off to buy more drinks, I decided to run away into the crowd and hide, and I found the Scottish friend who helped me make an escape. (After letting my other hostel friends know that I was okay and leaving, of course.)
The next day I finally got a chance to relax and spent most of the day with two other Americans, Cassidy from Hawaii (who reminds me so much of Saoirse with the way she talks and the way she holds herself) and Dave from Pennsylvania. Dave and I went to Colonia, Uruguay the next day, which I absolutely fell in love with. It’s yet another quaint, cobblestoned little town that sits right on the ginormous river that forms the border between Uruguay and Argentina, and it’s quiet, relaxed, full of trees, tourists, bikes…I could definitely live there for a while.
That night we had a tango lesson in our hostel and afterwards we sat around chit chatting, having some Argentinean wine (because that’s what you do in Argentina, you drink the wine!).
From left to right: creepy French dude, Dave (think Uruguay trip), Lizzie, Chris
I decided that I was going to have an early night, so I headed downstairs to read, write, and fall asleep early. (Early being midnight.) I was quite possibly in the middle of a journal entry when one of my Brazilian roommates came in, one I hadn’t really met before, and we started talking about Carnival and Rio (where he lives). We went back upstairs where he proceeded to show me pictures from Carnaval last year, pictures of Rio, pictures of Brazil…there may have been more wine drinking going on…and then we ran out of wine and decided to go down to the corner kiosk to buy another bottle (I was definitely done at this point, but I was going to keep him company). We decided on some random red bottle of wine (how do you really pick a good bottle of wine?) and paid for it, then asked the clerk if he had a bottle opener since our kitchen was closed and locked off at this point. (This point being 2:00 am.) The clerk took out his handy little swiss-army knife gadget and tried using the corkscrew, which, when he pulled on it, started bending into a straight line. Ooh. Then Brazilian (whose name is actually not “Brazilian” but is in fact Andre, and I will henceforth call him by his given name—however, for you girls back at home, like Laura, who like nicknames, think of him as The Brazilian) decided he’d give the corkscrew another try, which turned out to be a bad idea, since the corkscrew broke off right inside the cork. Sheize. Uh…well, we decided to try the “Peter and Tina” style of wine opening, which came into play at Tina’s apartment which was always lacking a corkscrew. This method involves taking some sort of knife or hard, skinny metal object and trying to shove the cork inside the bottle. Andre and the clerk both tried the knife method, which also didn’t work. Then a few Argentineans, who were watching this whole attempted wine-opening debacle, came over to try to lend a hand. First they tried using the antenna of one of their cell phones to try to push in the cork, which obviously didn’t work. Then they tried using their keys and keychains. At this point, I was getting worried that the bottle might explode or something, and mentioned that thought aloud. Not two minutes later…KABOOM!!! The wine bottle exploded and shards of glass and wine went flying in all directions. We all looked down at our wine-splattered clothes, then down at the floor which was covered with purple…and…red. Uh-oh. Red? We looked at the Argentinean’s hands, which were covered with blood. Both of them. And not just a little bit of dripping blood, but the blood was flowing freely. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…He went into the bathroom to try to wash it off, but the blood just kept coming and coming. Eeeh! They wrapped up his hands in some towels and plastic bags from the store and his friend took him off to find a taxi to go to the hospital. We found out later that he’d gotten 12 stitches in one hand and is going to have to have surgery. All this for trying to help some people open a bottle of wine…I can never look at Argentinean wine the same way again. Andre and I went back to the hostel that night, shaken. I avoided that corner store for the rest of my time in BA.
Well, the next few days were spent walking around the city, seeing gardens and the Recoleta cemetery where Evita is buried. It’s easily the most elaborate and beautiful cemetery I’ve ever been to. I wandered around with The Todd, a policeman/actor from Vancouver, Canada, looking into one building after another, wondering just how far down into the ground each little structure went.
My last day in BA was spent with Andre and two other Brazilian friends, Rodrigo and Fabrizio, touring La Boca (a part of the city that is famous for its colorful buildings—which reminded me a bit of Fremont—and their club soccer team, the Boca Juniors) and going on a city tour.
That night Andre came out to dinner in Palermo with Chris, Lizzie and myself. 
I got probably three hours of sleep that night, too, and the next morning I took a 6:00 am taxi to the airport. Luckily, I made it to Cusco without anymore flight issues, my bag was the first one on the conveyor belt, and my homestay mom was waiting right outside for me.
Now here I am, back in Cusco, the city full of history, Inca walls and ruins, the food I love (minus the guinea pig)…and I start classes on Monday. Though speaking of Inca walls and ruins, I just got done having a conversation with my homestay brother, Nano, who was telling me that Machu Picchu, Sacsayhuaman and Cusco were not, in reality, constructed by the Incas but rather by some more ancient civilization. He told me the Incas were dwarfs and it’s impossible that they could have built those structures. He also told me that they’re part of the Lost City of Atlantis, and that the Nazca lines were made by extraterrestrials. Theories, lots and lots of theories there are…
I have a feeling that I will be spending a lot of time inside during my time here. It’s the rainy season, but luckily at the top of the house, there’s a patio-like room with glass on all sides so I can sit and watch the picturesque gray and white clouds surround the city and mountains. While I sit and study Spanish, pound away on the laptop, and read.
P.S. I’m going to try to shorten the bit about that MDA camp. Days one and two went by without any boys (other than my favorites at the club on Thursday, of course). : ) Saturday, creepy Frenchman and Scottish man. The next few days I was followed around relentlessly by an American, a very nice boy, but young and naïve so he clung to familiarity which made me want to get away! Then there was an American Andy from Ohio, one of my favorites, who let me vent about the travel-dating (you travelers know how this business goes), about how boys seem to be magnetized to the blonde hair. And then Andy, being the great bodyguard that he is, told The Todd (so named because he is fairly reminiscent of the namesake on Scrubs) that he couldn’t hit on me. Yay Andy, my new hero! Though there are some sentamientos there, I’m sure…then there’s Andre, who spent about two hours trying to convince me (after the wine incident was forcibly pushed to the back of our minds) to kiss me. That night was definitely not a success for him. : ) Anyhew, it was an interesting few days.
P.P.S. The Argentineans are quite trendy, and dress well, though there was one fashion trend that I found to be a bit horrible…the dred-mullet. Yes, a full-on mullet, but instead of regular hair to be found behind the head, there were dreds. Dred-ful. Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahaha!
I got to the Lima airport to catch my flight at about 8:00 am. Everything was going fine, although I was tired from staying up super late the night before, having gone to yet another massive national stadium concert with Dorita. The concert started at 7:30 pm and we left around 12:30 pm—and the concert wasn’t even finished yet! Needless to say I was dragging a bit and looking forward to sleeping on the plane. Ha! Sleeping on the plane indeed…well, we all boarded the plane and it looked like we were getting off to a bit of a late start. I had settled into my seat and was quite enjoying my In-Flight magazine, when the pilot announced that the airport communications workers were going on strike. They expected it to be done in two hours, but for the comfort of the passengers, we were going to need to deplane. Hmm. I’ve never realized that the length of a strike was so predictable, but they’re used to strikes in Lima, right? I loved the part where the pilot said that it was not TACA’s fault. (TACA being the airline—I will add a little recommendation here: NEVER fly with TACA.) I followed the rest of the passengers back into the airport to await for the end of the strike. Three hours went by, and I noticed that a sizeable number of passengers were starting to crowd around the information desk. Possibility of information? Yup, let’s go check that out. I didn’t understand all of what was said, but I saw lots of angry passenger faces—that can’t be good. I finally got a translation from a fellow traveler, who told me the airline was saying that the strike still wasn’t over, they couldn’t predict when it would be over and that people should probably go home. That’s not to say that they would know when we’d be able to get a new flight, and they weren’t going to pay for any transportation/food/hotel expenses since it was not TACA’s fault. The interesting part? TACA was the only airline whose flights weren’t leaving. We, the TACA passengers, sat inside the airport watching all of the other airlines’ flights take off on time, without a single problem. Apparently they had “resources” that TACA didn’t. Oh, but the other passengers on my flight were NOT having that—throughout the rest of the day, there were mini-mob scenes at our desk. I ended up befriending a few other fellow travelers, another American guy who’d spent the last year teaching English in Buenos Aires and whose flight home was leaving in three days, and a Scottish guy who’s been traveling around for the last eight months or so. The American was freaking out since TACA was saying it might be another 10 days until we could get another flight out. But the Scottish dude and I watched the goings-on and rabble-rousing crowd with amusement. Only in South America. Besides, the other passengers were doing a great job of fighting the fight and getting all hot-blooded for us, so why not sit back and enjoy the show?
Eventually TACA sent home all of the “local” passengers that had a home to go to, which probably should have included me, but hells no, I was going to stick it out! Eventually they informed us that the strike had stopped, but they couldn’t give us any guarantees about the flight. There was another flight to BA leaving in the evening, but the seats were all full (lies) and they couldn’t guarantee us anything. After a while, they took us to one of the airport restaurants and fed us dinner—great diversionary tactic. When we came back, we found out they’d made two lists—the first list, of travelers that were “in-transit” from one country to another, with Lima having just been a stopover. This list had priority. Then there was the other list…the list that my name was on. I sat at the desk for about an hour or two, watching them call out peoples’ names and issuing that priceless boarding pass. One after another, and my heart sank a little bit each time. I must have had a pretty sad look on my face, because a fellow passenger, a Venezuelan plastic surgeon from Florida, told me to go and start asking the ladies at the desk for my boarding pass. With his encouragement, I nosed my way in behind the desk, kept on pushing and poking here and there, and finally, lo and behold, I got a hold of a boarding pass. Yay!!! I get to go to Buenos Aires! It was like winning a lottery ticket. I boarded the flight and gave the thumbs up to my fellow traveling friends (who, both having been on the “in-transit” list, were already on the plane). I settled in, yet again, while we waited for the flight to leave. After another two hours of waiting for other passengers to get on the plane, our flight left at the lovely hour of 1:00 am. One lost day in BA, but an interesting day it certainly was.
We arrived bright and early, around 7:00 am, and the sun was out, the sky was blue, and I was so happy to be in another country! As we drove into the city, I noticed the European architecture, all of the trees…what a nice change from the dreariness of Lima! I climbed up the three flights of stairs to my hostel only to discover that my reservations had been canceled. (Go figure, I showed up about 15 hours late.) I did manage to get a bed for the night, though I spent the next night in some random hostel in Recoleta, about 10 blocks away. Not bad, though, because after that I was able to stay in the same bed for the next six nights. That first day, though, I dragged myself out of the room to do some walking around to get myself oriented a bit. Then I took a much-needed nap, then headed upstairs to see what the atmosphere was like in the hostel. I ended up meeting Chris and Lizzie that night, a pair from England, and we went out to Palermo for dinner and to go out to Glam a (yay!) gay club. We got to the club around 1:30, and it wasn’t even beginning to get started. Seriously, I don’t think people in Buenos Aires sleep! The bar didn’t even start peaking until about 4:00 am, and we had to head out shortly thereafter because we were exhausted. The next day there was more wandering around the city, more relaxing.
On Saturday I went to the Argentina vs. Bolivia football game, my first real soccer game. I went with the group from my Scottish friend’s hostel, which boded well for me because there were tons of guys who could explain the rules of soccer (I think I’ve got the off-sides rule down) and show me who was who. I definitely think soccer’s my new favorite sport to watch and Argentina is currently rated as the top team in South America, so it was a really good game to watch. I even have a favorite player! Yeah, I totally know about football now…Martin, my biggest soccer-loving friend, I definitely thought of you while I was there. : ) That night, all of the traveling crowd headed out to Pacha, some big, internationally renowned club (that obviously I had never heard of!) where I was followed around by an increasingly creepy Frenchman from our hostel. I kept on wandering off to talk to the guys I’d met earlier at the football game, and he’d keep on showing up at my side. After a while of that, I thought, “Screw this!” and as soon as Frenchman went off to buy more drinks, I decided to run away into the crowd and hide, and I found the Scottish friend who helped me make an escape. (After letting my other hostel friends know that I was okay and leaving, of course.)The next day I finally got a chance to relax and spent most of the day with two other Americans, Cassidy from Hawaii (who reminds me so much of Saoirse with the way she talks and the way she holds herself) and Dave from Pennsylvania. Dave and I went to Colonia, Uruguay the next day, which I absolutely fell in love with. It’s yet another quaint, cobblestoned little town that sits right on the ginormous river that forms the border between Uruguay and Argentina, and it’s quiet, relaxed, full of trees, tourists, bikes…I could definitely live there for a while.
That night we had a tango lesson in our hostel and afterwards we sat around chit chatting, having some Argentinean wine (because that’s what you do in Argentina, you drink the wine!).Best tango couple...
From left to right: creepy French dude, Dave (think Uruguay trip), Lizzie, ChrisI decided that I was going to have an early night, so I headed downstairs to read, write, and fall asleep early. (Early being midnight.) I was quite possibly in the middle of a journal entry when one of my Brazilian roommates came in, one I hadn’t really met before, and we started talking about Carnival and Rio (where he lives). We went back upstairs where he proceeded to show me pictures from Carnaval last year, pictures of Rio, pictures of Brazil…there may have been more wine drinking going on…and then we ran out of wine and decided to go down to the corner kiosk to buy another bottle (I was definitely done at this point, but I was going to keep him company). We decided on some random red bottle of wine (how do you really pick a good bottle of wine?) and paid for it, then asked the clerk if he had a bottle opener since our kitchen was closed and locked off at this point. (This point being 2:00 am.) The clerk took out his handy little swiss-army knife gadget and tried using the corkscrew, which, when he pulled on it, started bending into a straight line. Ooh. Then Brazilian (whose name is actually not “Brazilian” but is in fact Andre, and I will henceforth call him by his given name—however, for you girls back at home, like Laura, who like nicknames, think of him as The Brazilian) decided he’d give the corkscrew another try, which turned out to be a bad idea, since the corkscrew broke off right inside the cork. Sheize. Uh…well, we decided to try the “Peter and Tina” style of wine opening, which came into play at Tina’s apartment which was always lacking a corkscrew. This method involves taking some sort of knife or hard, skinny metal object and trying to shove the cork inside the bottle. Andre and the clerk both tried the knife method, which also didn’t work. Then a few Argentineans, who were watching this whole attempted wine-opening debacle, came over to try to lend a hand. First they tried using the antenna of one of their cell phones to try to push in the cork, which obviously didn’t work. Then they tried using their keys and keychains. At this point, I was getting worried that the bottle might explode or something, and mentioned that thought aloud. Not two minutes later…KABOOM!!! The wine bottle exploded and shards of glass and wine went flying in all directions. We all looked down at our wine-splattered clothes, then down at the floor which was covered with purple…and…red. Uh-oh. Red? We looked at the Argentinean’s hands, which were covered with blood. Both of them. And not just a little bit of dripping blood, but the blood was flowing freely. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…He went into the bathroom to try to wash it off, but the blood just kept coming and coming. Eeeh! They wrapped up his hands in some towels and plastic bags from the store and his friend took him off to find a taxi to go to the hospital. We found out later that he’d gotten 12 stitches in one hand and is going to have to have surgery. All this for trying to help some people open a bottle of wine…I can never look at Argentinean wine the same way again. Andre and I went back to the hostel that night, shaken. I avoided that corner store for the rest of my time in BA.Well, the next few days were spent walking around the city, seeing gardens and the Recoleta cemetery where Evita is buried. It’s easily the most elaborate and beautiful cemetery I’ve ever been to. I wandered around with The Todd, a policeman/actor from Vancouver, Canada, looking into one building after another, wondering just how far down into the ground each little structure went.
My last day in BA was spent with Andre and two other Brazilian friends, Rodrigo and Fabrizio, touring La Boca (a part of the city that is famous for its colorful buildings—which reminded me a bit of Fremont—and their club soccer team, the Boca Juniors) and going on a city tour. That night Andre came out to dinner in Palermo with Chris, Lizzie and myself.
I got probably three hours of sleep that night, too, and the next morning I took a 6:00 am taxi to the airport. Luckily, I made it to Cusco without anymore flight issues, my bag was the first one on the conveyor belt, and my homestay mom was waiting right outside for me.Now here I am, back in Cusco, the city full of history, Inca walls and ruins, the food I love (minus the guinea pig)…and I start classes on Monday. Though speaking of Inca walls and ruins, I just got done having a conversation with my homestay brother, Nano, who was telling me that Machu Picchu, Sacsayhuaman and Cusco were not, in reality, constructed by the Incas but rather by some more ancient civilization. He told me the Incas were dwarfs and it’s impossible that they could have built those structures. He also told me that they’re part of the Lost City of Atlantis, and that the Nazca lines were made by extraterrestrials. Theories, lots and lots of theories there are…
I have a feeling that I will be spending a lot of time inside during my time here. It’s the rainy season, but luckily at the top of the house, there’s a patio-like room with glass on all sides so I can sit and watch the picturesque gray and white clouds surround the city and mountains. While I sit and study Spanish, pound away on the laptop, and read.
P.S. I’m going to try to shorten the bit about that MDA camp. Days one and two went by without any boys (other than my favorites at the club on Thursday, of course). : ) Saturday, creepy Frenchman and Scottish man. The next few days I was followed around relentlessly by an American, a very nice boy, but young and naïve so he clung to familiarity which made me want to get away! Then there was an American Andy from Ohio, one of my favorites, who let me vent about the travel-dating (you travelers know how this business goes), about how boys seem to be magnetized to the blonde hair. And then Andy, being the great bodyguard that he is, told The Todd (so named because he is fairly reminiscent of the namesake on Scrubs) that he couldn’t hit on me. Yay Andy, my new hero! Though there are some sentamientos there, I’m sure…then there’s Andre, who spent about two hours trying to convince me (after the wine incident was forcibly pushed to the back of our minds) to kiss me. That night was definitely not a success for him. : ) Anyhew, it was an interesting few days.
P.P.S. The Argentineans are quite trendy, and dress well, though there was one fashion trend that I found to be a bit horrible…the dred-mullet. Yes, a full-on mullet, but instead of regular hair to be found behind the head, there were dreds. Dred-ful. Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahaha!
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