Why I Resent Being A Woman in Buenos Aires

If you’re a woman and you’re traveled through Latin America, you can already guess where this is going. If you haven’t been through Latin America or you’re a traditional-looking man, let me regale you with some tales.

I’ve now been in South America for the past two and a half months. The first month was spent in Patagonia, by myself, and the past month and half has been spent in Buenos Aires. One might imagine that while traveling solo, as a 21 year-old woman, I would have received a significant amount of catcalling or male attention, but that is not what I experienced. On the contrary, my time in Patagonia was far more comfortable in that aspect than my time in Buenos Aires.

In English we call it catcalling. In reality, what I get in BA is much more aggressive than anything I’ve received in the US that I would call catcalling. In Spanish, the men who throw these lovely words my way are called “piropos,” but for the purposes of this rant we’ll go with catcalling. Not a single day has passed since I began living in Buenos Aires that I haven’t been catcalled. Let that sink in for a second. Not one day. When I walk the one hundred feet from the door of my apartment building to the bus stop, as I do almost every weekday morning, a man will mutter something about me being “hermosa” (beautiful) as he passes me. When I wait at that bus stop for the five or ten minutes that I spend there every morning, a man will walk by and tell me how he wishes he was going where I’m going. When I get off the bus and walk to class, one will tell me he loves how short my dress is. Bus drivers blow me kisses as I cross the street in front of them. I’m aware that these sound like small things, just little words that shouldn’t matter, but I’ve had “hermosa” muttered at me so many times that the words has practically lost meaning for me. The piropos here are direct and mentally violating in a way that I haven’t experienced in the US. They lock eyes with you as you walk by and get closer to you to be sure that you hear whatever “compliment” they’re throwing at you. It’s not just uncomfortable, it’s unnerving. It pisses me off. It makes me wish I wore a longer dress, it makes me wish they wouldn’t look at me. In no way do I feel complimented.

They’re not all “hermosa” and intense stares. Let me recount three experiences I had this past weekend as I walked down the street. 1. A man told me in no uncertain terms what he’d like to do to me as I passed him on the sidewalk. 2. Two guys sitting in a doorway yelled at me as I approached, and as I passed them, one loudly told me where I should be putting my tongue. 3. As I crossed a street, a man on the corner opposite me made a long, horrible, drawn out sucking noise that was more reminiscent of a dementor than any sort of human kissing noise. These all happened within two consecutive nights. Just one weekend. The tongue comment was probably the worst one I’ve gotten so far, but in no way were these two nights outliers in terms of catcalling. No, they are the norm, just another weekend. “Not a big deal,” you may say. “They’re just talking to you, they’re not doing anything.” But when I’m walking home at night, alone, there is always that tickle in the back of my mind. Are they just going to yell at me, or are they going to get up and follow me? Now I should say that I’ve never felt truly unsafe in BA. I walk alone, at night, and have never felt afraid. There are nearly always other people on the street, the streets are lit, and police cars drive by often. But I always wonder, and the piropos always put me on edge, to the point that when I walk home alone at night I look behind my shoulder probably every other block. When I walk down the street, I don’t want to walk too close to the buildings because men lurk in the dark doorways, but I don’t want to walk too close to the street because cars full of men with their windows rolled down swerve over to the sidewalk to yell at me (both of these things have happened to me more than once). I see guys going on runs in the late evenings, with headphones in, and think about what a luxury that must be to not have to worry about not being able to hear your surroundings when it’s dark out. I imagine a man doesn’t think twice about how far away from the doorways he should walk. Sure, I’ve experienced catcalling before, but Buenos Aires has brought it to a different level for me, so much so that there are times I resent being a woman. I resent the fact that there are times I arrive to dinner or to the bar in a pissed off mood because of the piropos I’ve dealt with on the walk over. I resent the fact that I can’t fully enjoy a nice stroll through my perfectly lovely neighborhood after dark. I resent the fact that when a passing man locks eyes with me and mutters his words of choice, my mood immediately worsens. I resent the fact that when I leave the bar and walk home alone my friends make sure that I’ll let them know I arrived home safely, but when the boys leave, there’s no such concern. I resent the fact that I never say anything back to the piropos for fear that they will escalate from words to actions.

I’ve been in BA for a month a half and will be here for another two months. I’m not really a city person, but I feel comfortable here, I like being here, I love Buenos Aires. So I while I hate the comments they throw at me, really I resent the fact that the piropos are tainting my experience of being a woman in this city.

Couples, Couples Everywhere

While I was backpacking in Patagonia, one of my many notes that I wrote in my journal, typed on my iPhone, and saved in WordPress drafts said simply “couples.” There was nothing else to the note because I didn’t need to type anything else to remind me of exactly what my thoughts were on the subject.
When you travel alone you’re a lot more observant in general, but especially of other travelers. My big takeaway in terms of fellow travelers: they’re all couples. Don’t get me wrong, there are families, there are groups, there are other solo travelers, but seriously, really, they’re all couples. When I took buses, when I checked in to hostels, when I hiked, when I camped, when I backpacked, when I went on tours, it was always me and a butt load of couples. Sometimes it got a little old being the only person who was in a pair of seats by themselves or who didn’t have someone to take their picture (it’s cool, I became a selfie queen), but for the most part they were alright.
The best kind were the older couples, by far. They were always the nicest, always making a point to say hello to me and ask about my life and where I was traveling. There was an American couple from Iowa (or Ohio? or Idaho? I think Iowa…) that had been all over the world together. I met them on the ferry from mainland Chile to Tierra del Fuego, on my way to Ushuaia. People will tell you surprising things when you’ve just met them and it’s almost certain that you’ll never see them again in your life. The husband of the Iowan couple told me that Friday the 13th is a lucky day for the two of them because they met at a party, their first date was a week later, on Friday the 13th, and they were engaged three weeks later. Those kind of stories are fascinating to me, because now, when I hear that story from a cute old couple traveling the world together, my reaction is “aw, man, so cute.” But if a friend of mine told me they were engaged to someone they met three weeks ago I would drag their ass out back and tell them they were nuts. Is the difference just time, just something generational? I wonder. My favorite couple, also older, was an American man and woman that I met on my penguin trip in Ushuaia. I forget their details a little bit by now, but they were both from the US and had lived there until they moved to Peru, where one of them taught for years. When they moved back to the US, they kept their house in Peru and after they both retired in the US they said “why not?” and moved back down south, from which they were traveling around South America. They were hilarious and witty and a pleasure to talk to. Also, in a weird “the world is so small” moment, he was also born in Albuquerque, New Mexico!
What was truly remarkable was how unyieldingly unfriendly young couples were. One would think that upon seeing a person very similar in age traveling by themselves (me), they would say hi, make small talk, or at the very least shoot a warm smile my way. Ohhh no. There were even young couples that I ran in to multiple times! A young guy and girl from Canada (so no language barrier) were in the same hostel as me in El Chaltén, on the same bus as me from El Chaltén to El Calafate, hiked the W the same exact 5 days as me in Torres del Paine, and were on the same bus as me from Torres del Paine to Puerto Natales (!!! so many opportunities to interact like normal humans). We made eye contact approximately a million times and I wore the same obnoxiously bright pink shirt practically every day, so there is absolutely no way they did not notice me, but they never said a word. Now, I realize that I obviously could have been the one to speak up, but this is my blog, so I get to complain about what I want. Anyway. I was really not a big fan of young couples by the end of my time in Patagonia. Suffice it to say that the trip made me make a mental note to reach out to solo travelers if I am ever traveling as part of a (~shudder~) couple. Lesson learned.

The “I-suck-at-blogging, I-finished-backpacking-in-Patagonia” recap post

Right, well… I am not so good at blogging, clearly. I’ve been in Buenos Aires for over a month and still have many saved drafts of halfheartedly written thoughts about my month in Patagonia. So here goes one big recap/reflection/story-telling/babbling.

My month in Patagonia went like this: Santiago, Pucón, Bariloche, El Chaltén, El Calafate, Puerto Natales, Ushuaia, Punta Arenas, Puerto Varas, Santiago, Buenos Aires (criss-crossing back and forth over the border between Chile and Argentina many times). I have, for the most part, already posted about every stop I made. Check em out. Afterwards, a lot of people asked me the same few questions: where was my favorite place, and how did I manage traveling alone?

I’ll answer the second question first because it’s easier, honestly. To put it simply, my month of backpacking through Patagonia was hands down the best month of my life so far, and I think doing it by myself was a huge part of that. I am a person that enjoys spending time alone and doing things by myself. I like to think I’m not a very dependent person, which was key to the success of my month in Patagonia. There were only a couple times that I felt lonely, and in both circumstances it passed very quickly. If I wanted to talk to people and make friends, which I often did, there were almost always people around for me to do that with. Obviously, speaking Spanish made the trip much easier as I could easily figure out my transportation and lodging without a language barrier. But the best parts of the trip were the parts I spent by myself, enjoying the incredible beauty of the places I was in. You learn a lot about yourself when it’s just you and the mountains and your thoughts. I learned that I like long bus rides and spending time alone and talking out loud to myself. I think it may even be possible that I like hiking by myself more than with other people. That’s not to say that I’m not down for big group adventures, because they’re also a blast and a half, but at the end of the day it’s good to be able to do your own thing and enjoy it.

Now, the harder question: where was my favorite place? Well, the problem is, I have three favorites and they’re all favorites for different reasons. I loved El Chaltén, Argentina, because that was where I spent my most alone time fully hiking and camping, next to the impressive Fitz Roy massif. Torres del Paine, in Chile, would top anyone’s list because of it’s incredible beauty; the four other girls I spent five days backpacking through the park with made it even better. I spent my most awesome birthday yet trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier, which makes the list for its other-worldly landscape.

Here follow the random bits of thought that at some point got scribbled down and eventually were typed up and kept in some saved draft that I am now publishing so I can be free of them:

Chilean on a Bus
I took a bus from Puerto Varas to Santiago, a long ride, sure, but not compared to what I’d already done. I finished listening to the seventh Harry Potter on tape and exhausted my supply of unheard RadioLabs. Towards the end of the ride, a Chilean man who looked to be in his late 20s who was sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder and spoke to me in accented English. “Excuse me,” he said. “You speak English?” I nodded. “I was wondering why you are taking this bus in the day and not overnight? In the day is bad. The night is better.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, as he was questioning my decision to take a bus that he himself was on, hence his ability to currently be asking me questions. “I don’t mind long bus rides,” I responded. He didn’t seem to find that a very satisfying answer but continued talking to me. He asked if I spoke Spanish and when I said that I did, he said, “Oh, really? I heard you hesitate when you gave your phone number.” He was referring to when the bus attendant took down my passport info and an emergency contact number. I had been in Patagonia for a month and hadn’t thought about any kind of phone number since before I’d left, so of course I hesitated a second, come on dude, back off. First, I wondered why he had been paying attention to that, but also found myself annoyed with his surprise that I spoke Spanish. If he had apparently been listening to me during the ride, he would have also heard me ask the bus attendant, in fluid, confident Spanish, about the length of the bus ride, and heard me have a conversation with the middle-aged Chilean woman seated next to me about where I was taking the bus to and about my being by myself. He went on to ask me about my travels and such. Many Chilean people seem to be surprised when they ask me if I’ve enjoyed Chile and I say yes. I’ve also been asked many times if I’m enjoying the food. (Like, many, maaany times.) Come on, Chileans! Your country is beautiful and you are very kind people!

The Israelis
There are, to put it scientifically, a butt ton of young Israelis in South America. They come on vacation after doing their compulsory military service, and by the swarms of them, you’d never know that Israel is a tiny country. There are so many Israelis in South America that hostels and travel agencies have signs in Hebrew. Now, the next thought that I am going to articulate is immediately going to be perceived by someone as anti-Semitic or anti-Israeli. Let me assure you that it is not. I am Jewish and have family in Israel and am in no way trying to pass judgement, but, that being said, I have to make the following statement: the VAST majority of Israelis that I met while backpacking for a month were utterly obnoxious and very rude. Sorry about it, but I’m not the only one to make this observation. They travel in packs, drop cigarette butts everywhere, are perpetually loud and obnoxious, and make zero effort to socialize or meet other people. I thought maybe if I could meet an Israeli on their own, separated from the pack, they’d be more easy going, but alas, when the opportunity came, he really dropped the ball. At first I was happily surprised because he was friendly and talkative with me, but upon learning that I was American and was going to be living in Argentina for four months he turned brash and obnoxious. His immediate response was that he couldn’t possibly understand why I would leave the US to be anywhere else, even for a short amount of time, because, and I quote, “the US is so awesome, it’s the best, why would you leave?” I tried to politely say that it’s always good to go to other countries to get other perspectives but this guy had obviously never had to live with someone contradicting me and he shouted me down immediately. I tried, man, I tried. This also made me wonder about American Jews who make aliyah, who move to Israel. If the Israeli attitude is that the US is “the best,” what do they think of the Americans who leave to live in the homeland? Obviously, this was just one Israeli guy’s opinion, and I shouldn’t assume that his fellow countrymen have the same opinion. But it made me think.

Patagonia: El Calafate

(This post is sadly a little out of order because I apparently completely forgot to post about one my favorite parts of my entire Patagonia trip)

After my excellent time in El Chaltén, on a Friday I took a bus to El Calafate, also in Argentina. I spent Saturday wandering around town, buying a bus ticket (from Puerto Natales, Chile, to Ushuaia, Argentina), and meandering through a bird preserve, where I saw flamingos!

Sunday, February 8th, was my 21st birthday, and I had planned an especially awesome trip for the day – an ice trek. I woke up super early to pack up and leave for my day on the glacier. Perito Moreno is the third largest glacier in Parque Nacional los Glaciares. Viedma is the biggest, but Perito Moreno is the most well known because of it’s accessibility and the fact that it’s one of few big glaciers in the world that aren’t receding. It is massive. It’s rather unexplainable. It’s just an immense, foreboding wall of ice. It’s also incredibly beautiful. The ice forms tall, spiky peaks and dips down into deep, blue holes. Apologies for the jillion photos – it was just so fun to take pictures of, it was so incredible looking.

After looking at it from the viewpoints for a while, we bussed around to its side, received our crampons, and began our ice trek. Which was awesome. Not the most eloquent description, I know, but it was just so cool (ha ha, literally). It looked like another planet. It was unlike any landscape I’d ever seen before. We marched up and over and down peaks of pearly white ice with blue crevasses on either side. It was beautiful. I also learned that crampons are incredibly fun. We trekked for a while, peered into deep, dark blue, icy pits, had lunch on the flattest spot we could find, and then trekked some more. On the boat ride back from the glacier to the mainland they gave us whiskey on the rocks, with ice from the glacier we had just spent the day on. It wasn’t a bad way to spend my 21st birthday.

Patagonia: Ushuaia

After being thrust into social interaction with my fellow LC students in Torres del Paine, I returned to my solo traveling, taking a bus from Puerto Natales, Chile, to Ushuaia, Argentina. Getting that far down south involves taking a ferry to cross over from the mainland to Tierra del Fuego, the region home to both the Chilean and Argentine provinces of the same name. On the bus down I was seated next to an older French woman named Danielle with whom I chatted a little. I liked her for her friendliness and cheer, but her remark that she liked Chile better than Argentina because of the overall higher standard of living gave me a little pause. That seemed a rather shallow reason to prefer a country in my opinion. That being said, she was an older woman traveling by herself, which was very inspiring.

I’m a big fan of long car and bus rides. I love staring out of windows for extended periods of time, and one of the best parts of doing that traveling through Patagonia has been getting to observe the changes in landscape as I’ve criss-crossed between Chile and Argentina and gone further and further south. Going from Puerto Natales to Ushuaia, the landscape began flat and arid, a scrubby, desert-ish landscape without many trees that was reminiscent of parts of my home New Mexico. As we went further south, trees appeared, the landscape grew greener, and the earth became less flat. Multitudes of snowy peaks emerged as we got closer to Ushuaia. Ushuaia is known as the furthest south city in the world. It’s an interesting place, surrounded by beautiful wintry mountains but with an expensive touristy feel aimed at the many who go on cruises to Antarctica, Ushuaia being the launching point for the majority of those. I was only in Ushuaia for a few days, primarily to see the penguins. I booked a trip to Isla Martillo, an island about an hour and a half away from the city which, in the southern hemisphere’s summer, is home to a large penguin colony.

We first stopped at Estancia Harberton, a ranch that originally belonged to the British man who came to the area years before. The ranch maintains a marine museum and research center, in which many skeletons of penguins, whales, and seals were on display.

A short boat ride took us from Estancia Harberton to Isla Martillo, which was really unlike anything I’ve ever done. The second you get on the island, the beach is just covered in black and white little creatures tottering around. They were amazingly cute. The majority of penguins on Isla Martillo are Magellan penguins, which are the fully black and white penguins you see in my photos. There are also a lot of Papua penguins, which are black and white but have orange feet and beaks. I also got very lucky in that there were three King penguins on the island, which is rare, as they don’t usually inhabit islands near Ushuaia. King penguins are bigger than Magellan and Papua penguins and have yellow on their necks and heads, and with longer, thinner beaks that are pinkish on the sides. We walked around the island as our guide spouted a steady stream of info about the island and the traits of its penguin inhabitants. We also saw adolescent penguins, distinguishable because they are brown instead of black and appear much fuzzier than their grown counterparts, as they haven’t lost their feathers yet. They flapped their wings as they tottered around with their poor balance and made their squawking mating sounds, which sound remarkably like the braying of donkeys. They really were incredibly cute and strange. I’d never been so close to any other creature that at all resembles penguins.

Patagonia: Torres del Paine

Lindsey and I bussed from El Calafate, Argentina, to Puerto Natales, Chile on February 9th, where we would meet up with Lindsay, Marley, and Grace to go backpacking in Torres del Paine. I should note that before this trip, I knew Lindsey (with an e) only from sitting next to her in a Spanish conversation class, and Lindsay (with an a) and I only barely knew each other enough that we said hi when we crossed in the library. I knew Marley and Grace not at all. Going on a five day backpacking trip with four girls you don’t know has the potential to be utterly disastrous. Thankfully, it went exceedingly well. On the 9th, we all went out for drinks and I had my first Pisco Sour, a super classic Chilean drink. We spent the 10th buying food for the trip and packing, and on the 11th we were off on a bus to Parque Nacional Torres del Paine. We did the W in five days and four nights, hiking it from west to east, ending with the towers. They were an excellent five days. You really get to know one another when you spend every waking moment with each other for five days and spend those waking moments trudging up steep hills with massive packs. Lindsey, Lindsay, Marley, and Grace, you’re all wonderful and I’ll go backpacking with you again any time. I think I almost peed my pants from laughing so hard every night. We got amazingly lucky with the weather, notoriously tricky in Torres del Paine. Maybe one of the best parts of doing the W was the people watching. You saw the same people as you went along the trek, including our favorite family, who we deemed the Deuters. When it was over, I was sad to be leaving the park and its immeasurable beauty. Being in the park also reminded me of how incredibly lucky I was to be able to run away down south just to enjoy the beauty of the world. There were many Chileans in the park, but the majority were Europeans and North Americans, who, of course, are more likely to be able to afford to travel internationally to go backpacking. I’m a lucky girl.

Patagonia: El Chaltén

What up, world. I am waaay down south at the moment.
On Friday, January 30th, I left Bariloche on a 25-hour bus ride south to El Chaltén, Argentina. A nine hour plane ride from the U.S. to Chile seemed long. A twenty-five hour bus ride was ridiculous, but actually pretty manageable. When I was a kid I roadtripped with my family a lot and got really good at just spacing out, staring out of windows. As we went further and further south, it was land I’d never seen before, so I enjoyed just watching. I saw guanacos, a Patagonian mammal like a smaller, cuter version of the llama, running through the grass alongside the bus. They move very gracefully, looking like they’re floating over the air as they run. I also saw ñandus, which look essentially like small ostrich, pecking at things in the dirt. They are really remarkable looking creatures. I also listened to a hefty dose of Radiolab episodes. We pulled in to El Chaltén around one pm on Saturday, and I set off to my hostel, where I met a group of five British young men who kindly took me in, calling me America. I went hiking with Lewis, Adam, Jimmy, Nick, and Dan the next day. They were charming and hilarious. The hike up to Mount Fitz Roy was absolutely amazing. El Chaltén is great because beautiful hiking starts just a few hundred meters off the main road, and within a few minutes you can’t even see the town. We treated ourselves to all you can eat barbecue afterwards, having hiked for over 8 hours.
The next day, I had breakfast with the boys before heading out for a three day camping trip. First I headed up to Campamento Poincenot, where I met a lovely Canadian couple, a group of friend from Brazil, two German girls, and a Swiss family who were some of my favorite people that I’ve met yet. They were the mother, a doctor, the father, a mountain guide who moonlighted as a teacher, and their six year old son Levi, the coolest, smartest little boy I’ve ever met, who took a liking to me and hung out with me often. The next day I headed on to Campamento de Agostini, where my favorite Swiss family found me again. The other told me that they are traveling a lot with Levi before his compulsory schooling starts so that he can see many different ways of life and meet many people. I thought this was awesome. Levi was a bright boy who spoke with me at length about traveling and his family. The next morning I took a side hike to see Laguna Torre and Cerro Torre before heading back to town. Trekking around El Chaltén was wonderful. The impressive and massive Mount Fitz Roy was looming above me, there were glacial lakes everywhere, and the water was so clear and pure, it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I had a rest day full of reading Edward Abbey’s “The Monkey Wrench Gang,” and then on the 6th of February I took a bus to El Calafate, Argentina.

Being by myself has gone well so far. I’ve gotten a little lonely sometimes, but usually I can make friends when I want to and do my own thing when I want to, which is exactly what I wanted.

Patagonia: Santiago to Pucón to Bariloche

Hey there!

On the 25th I took off from the U.S. and landed in Santiago, Chile the next day. It’s summer in the Southern Hemisphere, and Santiago was hot and muggy when I arrived. I spent the day checking in to my hostel and running around buying bus tickets and
groceries. I spent the evening drinking beer with two guys from Australia and Ireland and a woman from London who I met in my hostel.

I was off the next day to Pucón, Chile, via bus. Pucón is an outdoorsy town located at the foot of the Pucón volcano, whose snowy cap is always visible from town. Unfortunately it was only a stop over town for me. I would have liked to stay longer. It felt a little like a Colorado town to me. I stayed at a hostel called Ecole which was very cozy. I was greeted by an almost overly friendly front desk man who was so impressed by how strong I was for such a little girl that he felt the urge to arm wrestle me before I went to bed and while I ate breakfast the next morning. It was funny the first time. The second time, I was just trying to eat my breakfast in peace.

I spent Wednesday getting from Pucón to San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. I first took a bus from Pucón to Osorno and then from Osorno to Bariloche. I made a friend on the second bus ride: an American massage therapist named Adam. He lives in San Francisco, where my sister lives, and his sister lives in Albuquerque, where I’m from. It’s a small world. We chatted most of the ride about our previous travels. He was in the last three weeks of a three month swing through South America and had many tales to tell. Going from Osorno to Bariloche involves crossing the border into Argentina, which was pretty straight forward and convinced me that it seems pretty easy to both sneak in to the country and smuggle something in. At the border I also met a Polish couple who were biking down South America. They started in Mexico and it had taken them 11 months to get that far. Super cool. The woman’s legs made me want to hop on a bike ASAP.

I arrived in Bariloche late Wednesday evening and Adam and I walked to my hostel, where we bid adieu. I’m still confused about the name of where I’m staying but it has the words “Hostel,” “Home,” and “Patagonia” in it in some sort of combination. It’s a cool building with a bar in the basement and everybody seems to know each other and have been here for a while, which is sort of confusing to me. There are also BUTT LOADS of Israelis. Classic South America. Young Israelis everywhere I go.

This morning, Thursday, I went out and did something illegal. That is, I exchanged US dollars for Argentine pesos on the blue rate. If you don’t know, there are two exchange rates. The official one, perpetuated by the banks and blah blah, and the blue rate, which is better for those with dollars. It’s widely used but technically illegal. Basically, you walk down the street and guys yell “Cambio!” You approach them, tell them you wanna deal, and then you go into a nearby shop and do the deed. It was uber simple, in my experience. I approached a young guy who looked about my age and told him I wanted to exchange dollars. He was perfectly nice and introduced himself as Jose. We went into a nearby shop, he showed me the calculations on a calculator, and we exchanged money (mom, don’t worry, I checked that he gave me the right amount). He told me that if I had any questions about anything in Bariloche, I should come ask him, and then I was on my way. The whole interaction took no more than five minutes.
After getting Argentine money, I walked out of town for a while to approach the foot of Cerro Otto, a nearby small mountain that is a sky resort in the winter. Approaching the base, two young Argentine guys and I were both looking for the beginning of the trail. We found it and hiked it together. One point to me for making friends. Another point to me for talking with them in Spanish the whole time and getting along pretty well. Argentine Spanish is utter ridiculousness. It’s fast and slurred and weird, so that’s nice to look forward to until mid-June. We had a lovely hike. Bariloche sits on the banks of a beautiful lake, and the views from the top were incredible. There were mountain peaks and lakes everywhere I looked, and the sky was pure blue, without a cloud in sight. Hiking through the woods reminded me of higher elevations in New Mexico or Colorado. It was interesting to be in such a foreign place but still smell that piney forest smell I’m used to.
Tonight I might go have a beer before packing up again for my bus ride to El Chalten, Argentina, tomorrow. I’ll spend almost 24 hours (blahg) going further south, where I’ll later do a trek around the famous Fitz Roy massifs.

Well, It’s Been A While…

Clearly, I am much worse at blogging once I’m back in the US. I’ll try to make up for, oh, half a year of lost time.

I spent my last week in Brazil in a tiny town on the coast of São Paulo state called Boiçucanga, where Kai’s uncle, Andre, lives. Kai began working on his documentary about Andre and his church, Bola de Neve (Snowball), which he founded and is the pastor of. I mostly just hung out (not really a big departure from the rest of my time in Brazil). I spent one morning learning to surf, which was fun, but definitely not something I’m skilled at. Kai and I spent a few days at the house of a Brazilian photographer that Kai knows. He and his family live in gorgeous house set right in the jungle, and I spent a considerable amount of time lounging in hammocks. On August 3rd, we spent a couple stressful hours trying to figure out how to get me back to São Paulo for my flight home once we realized that the bus I was planning on taking was sold out. Andre was performing a baptism at his house that day, and one of the young couples who attended lived in São Paulo and very kindly offered to leave a little early in order to drop me at the airport in time. I was pleasantly surprised at how far my Portuguese had come when I had an entire conversation with a Brazilian woman in the airport who was on my flight and had no difficulty explaining anything that I tried to say. My flight home was made easy by the abundance of free movies offered, and on the morning of August 4th my parents met me at the Albuquerque airport, where I gave them stinky hugs before having them whisk me away to the Frontier for a long-awaited green chile burrito, which I probably missed more than anyone or anything else in the states.

I was home for all of five days. I hadn’t even finished unpacking from Brazil before I started packing up to go back up to Portland. I got home on Monday and spent the week hectically running errands and running to the climbing gym. On Friday, I bought my car, a ’95 Volvo sedan, and on Sunday, my friend Djuna and I packed it to the brim and high-tailed it out of New Mexico. We got to Portland two days later.

I spent the next five months living in an awesome, funky house in southeast Portland with a bunch of girls who were a blast to live with. I completed my first semester as a History major, did a fascinating, huge research project about Jewish immigration to Argentina, made the Dean’s List, worked part-time as a nanny to two little boys, and spent any free time I could find climbing.

I hit Broughton Bluff, Portland’s most local crag, Beacon Rock in Washington, and spent a dreamy weekend in Squamish.

At the end of December, I packed what felt like my entire life into the Volvo and made the drive back to New Mexico. Now I’m packing again; on Sunday I leave for six months in South America. I fly first to Santiago, Chile, to begin what I presume will be an incredible month of backpacking through Patagonia. I go back and forth between Chile and Argentina, seeing the sights and trekking before making my way back to Santiago a month later. From there I fly to Buenos Aires, where I’ll be living until June while I study social movements and human rights in Argentina.

La Burqueña in Brazil: Back in São Paulo

Kai and I took a bus back to São Paulo from Rio and got back late Saturday night. We spent Sunday and Monday hanging out with Paula’s twin cousins Flavia and Cristina and their kids.
On Sunday we wandered around Parque Ibirapuera, an immense green area in the middle of the concrete jungle that is São Paulo. It has grass, bicycle lanes, jogging areas, and a lake with black swans swimming in it. The park also houses MAM, Museu de Arte Moderna de São Paulo (Museum of Modern Art), and the Iirapuera Auditorium, which is very visually striking. Most of the park’s buildings were designed by Oscar Niemeyer. The park was built in 1954 to honor the 400th anniversary of the city of São Paulo. There is also an immense statue that is a monument to the 17th century Portuguese Brazilian slavers and adventurers, the Monumento as Bandeiras.

Ibirapuera Auditorium

When we had last been in São Paulo, we had driven past the boundary of what was clearly an immense cemetery filled with huge stone tombs. I love wandering around cemeteries so I made a mental note to return. On Monday I had the chance, and Kai, Paula, and Sofia came along.
It’s called Cemitério da Consolação, and it’s massive. It’s the oldest burial ground in the city limits of São Paulo, built in 1858. Two former Presidents of Brazil are entombed there, along with many other politicians and prominent Brazilian figures. It’s truly a city of the dead, with stone tombs resembling miniature mansions lining tiny roads all throughout.

After perusing the cemetery for a while, we went to a large, very fancy mall that I can’t remember the name of and hung out in a big fancy book store for a while, which I usually would have loved, but it’s a little harder to browse multiple books when they’re in Portuguese.
On Tuesday, Mario drove the gang out to the chácara in Araçoiaba da Serra again for some quality hammock time. This trip was business in addition to pleasure, though, because Paula is going to be selling the chácara, so we had a lot of cleaning out to do. Andre and Bruna, Paula’s brother and his wife, and their two kids came to stay with us for a couple days and then on Thursday we all left and headed back to São Paulo.