I’m Becoming a Soccer Fan…?

At the Argentina-Canada game!

I walked in on my host mom yesterday.

No dude, get your head out of the gutter! She’s 83. No, I’m talking about that time where I came out of the bathroom, went into the living room, and saw my host mother laughing hysterically and grinning, giggling gleefully (yay alliteration!) about something on television.

I expected to see a telenovela or worse, a tennis match (Olga loves it and will often leave me at the dinner table alone to watch “un segundito” of the match – aka all of it). But no! This is the month of the Mundial, so of course, it was none other than the World Cup game between Spain and Switzerland.

“Adán!,” she yelled to me, still laughing. “Gana Suiza! Gana Suiza! España va a perder!,” which roughly translates to “Adam! Switzerland’s winning! Spain’s gonna eat shit and lose!”

Argentina loves fútbol (that means soccer, not fútbol Americano, for us self-centered gringos). That’s not a bold statement to make, nor is it an opinion. It’s a fact, and I’m experiencing it daily this semester. Last month I went in person to watch my first-ever soccer game when the Argentine selection for the World Cup played Canada’s team, and the entire game was an explosion of people who were so happy for their team. And the World Cup semifinal games began last week. I wish I could figure out a way to post a video to show you my crazy experience watching the game with crazy, Fernet-and-Coke-guzzling hostel owners and their friends during my stay in Córdoba.

Those aforementioned crazy, Fernet-and-Coke-guzzling hostel owners. Che Salguero love.

I’m from Philadelphia, so I know what a passionate sports fan is. Hell, all I have to do is watch my brother and dad watch an Eagles or Phillies game to know what’s up. But I have never seen more passionate fans than I have here.

During the second Argentine mundial game versus South Korea, the city was absolutely dead, with the exception of the bars and the cafés where everyone was literally huddled around a TV. And if they weren’t, like me (oversleeping sucks!), they were en route, on the eerily-empty subway with a petrified look on their face that they’d miss a spectacular goal. I mean, Once, the “barrio” version of Costco where I live, was completely closed. There was no one in my subway car. And actually, the subway was free because there was no one working the ticket booth. Walking through the streets, the city was dead quiet, except for the celebrations that erupted after the one Argentine goal I didn’t see.

After the first win in Córdoba!

All three games I’ve seen so far have been incredible environments, and I think I finally understand the thrill that sports fans get out of watching a game: the passion is overwhelming and infectious.

In Argentina’s case with fútbol, I don’t quite know how to explain the crazed passion found in literally 95% of the country’s inhabitants (that’s a scientific figure, PS). But I think I have a theory; with Argentine’s incredibly battered history where the citizens were rappled over and over and over again by the government and the banks and the telecommunications businesses (still looking at you, Claro!), fútbol is their one hope. The one thing that can count on being truly competitive at.

Okay. I’m gonna go watch Olga giggle herself silly again. Vamos Argentina!

Happy Birthday, Happy Go-Get-Trampled Day!

Oh hey there Bicentennial Subte tunnel.

I’ve been a bad blogger. I really have. And I’m owning that. But in the last month, as my semester’s wound down to a close, I’ve been getting slammed with work, and I’m having a better time in the city so I’ve been busy constantly exploring…plus for 5 weeks I searched for Internet like it was my job and could only use it on Mondays and Wednesdays because it went out in my homestay (ie: WindowSill Internet is actually a worse provider than America Online).

But I’m back, my WindowSill Internet’s back, and I’m here to tell you about Argentina’s 200th birthday. Yeah, it was a big one. I know I never finished the spring break blogs, but they weren’t that interesting anyway, and all you need to know really about Bariloche is that I had a great two days, their chocolate is incredible, and my legs fell off after walking 10 miles and getting lost on a mountain called Llao-Llao.

Now. Onto the Bicentennial!

May 25 marked the bicentennial in Argentina, the 200th anniversary of the Revolución de Mayo. To celebrate, the city of Buenos Aires aimed to throw the most poppin’ party this side of the equator has ever seen. And for the most part…it was a good try. But per usual, they mostly fucked it up. After all, TIA (“This is Argentina,” the acronym my friends use to explain things like professors named Fede arriving 30 minutes late to class and not apologizing).

After stepping off the Subte. My thought: "This is definitely not as bad as Olga said it'd be."

They wanted to do something cool and symbolic, so they basically shut down the entire 10 blocks of Microcentro that line the Obelisk and had parades, food stands, and concerts galore for the entire weekend, from Friday the 21 to Tuesday the 25. Yeah. It was a 4-day national holiday where almost no one worked. This is why Argentina’s economy is so great!

It was a good idea in principle, but I feel like the government failed to think about the logistics of things as much as they should have. I mean, the crowds  certainly weren’t unbearably overwhelming on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday – I went to a concert, checked out a parade and popped into a few stands dedicated to each of the 23 provinces here in Argentina.

False. It was hellish.

But Monday and Tuesday, all hell broke loose, and you would’ve thought that the Obelisk had turned into a big money machine slash alfajor factory and that it was suddenly shooting out million peso bills and Charaaz, dulce de leche-y delights. Literally millions of people – I’ve heard estimates of more than 2million – crammed themselves into ten blocks of this enormous city, sweating profusely, holding their shit like it’d be stolen (and some probably was, in all honesty), and looking pissed.

Why, you ask, were there so many people that godforsaken day? Oh, right, because the beloved president Cristina Kirchner made all modes of transportation free. Thus, people from outside the city could afford to bring their 40 children each on the subway, could clog up the buses because they didn’t have to pay a peso, and basically the subway tunnels became a sea of people gasping for breath. Thanks a lot, Xtina! But maybe if you provided more social programs for poor Argentines in the first place, they wouldn’t jump at every little peso you throw at them. Suggestions.

My new Argentine friends. Oh wait just kidding they're just random Buenos Borrachos.

But I digress. I went twice to the Obelisk to experience this horrendous crowd of people pushing through and trying to get as fast as they could to the other side of Avenida 9 de Julio…and for what? So they could push through some more.

I found out I’m claustrophobic that day. I was also yelled at by a policeman…I think just because I’m American and wasn’t pushing people like the rest of the attendees. Oh, and in an especially TIA moment, I saw an Olga-aged woman stuck in the crowd. I was unable to discern if she was being trampled to death or trying to crowdsurf.

Some of my friends had fun that day, but honestly…not for me. I prefer being able to breath fully and not fearing death by angry mob of “celebrating” Argentines.

Happy birthday, Argentina! Hasta el Tricentinario!

Ithaca Teleports to Argentina

True beauty. The mountain, not me. I'm not that vain.

Previously on Spring Break 2010, I walked on top of a glacier and drank whiskey lightly chilled with 500-year-old glacier ice.

Cut to one day later. We spent the day in El Chaltén, about three hours north of El Calafate, and Sophia and I had an amazing day hiking in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been (you’ve seen the pics…I know you believe me). Not really much to tell about the day, except for the fact that besides seeing literally the real-life equivalent of the Grinch’s mountain (he’s called Mount Fitz-Roy, ps), checking out some sick woodpeckers, drinking from a freshwater mountain stream, getting photographed by a professional photographer, and being nearly attacked by the dozens of stray dogs that haunt the ghost town. We walked like 10 miles, had a great day, and my feet and ankles started crying by the time we got back on the bus.

The next day we headed out to Esquel, which we’d heard was this great, cool little town. Long story short…it wasn’t. It was kind of a shithole, our hostel was kind of a shithole, and the best part of both things were buying the best empanadas I’ve eaten here from an empanadería and eating said empanadas in the hostel, respectively. Nom nom.

So Sophia and I made the quickest decision of our lives, and about two hours after arriving to Esquel, decided to book a bus to El Bolsón, this other cute little hippy village that we’d heard about, two hours north and on the way to our final destination, Bariloche.

Nom Nom Welsh tea treats.

But we didn’t leave Esquel before hitting up Trevelin, an adorable Welsh village 30 minutes from Esquel where the big thing is to go get a traditional Welsh tea service. That meant a bottomless pot of tea, some superbly delicious jams with bread and scones, and a ridiculously amazing array of five tarts. One was raspberry chocolate wonder delight. If you were there you’d salivate. I’m sure of it.

So Esquel wasn’t all bad. The people were nice-ish, and the Welsh village was one of my favorite parts of the trip. But nearly as soon as we arrived in El Bolsón, we immediately forgot about those other things, because it was a fantastic, perfect town.

The village is fairly small, and it’s situated just underneath a huge mountain, which majestically looms in the background. We checked into our hostel and were greeted with a hug, kiss on the cheek, and maté from the two owners, a cordial middle-aged man and a sweet woman, who proceeded to explain in detail all of the exciting things that their town had to offer.

View from the top of the "hill" in El Bolsón

We decided on an excursion to this forest called El Bosque Tallado, which was full of 40-50 wood carvings and other sculptures. To get there, you have to hire a car – complete with a talkative driver who shit-talks Esquel with you – up this gravel, super rocky, pretty dangerously steep road to “the platform,” from which you have to walk another 45 minutes up a super steep climb littered with piles of shit from wild cows who moonlight as monsters.

The physically demanding exercise and subsequently sweat-drenched (would “perspiration-misted” be less gross?) t-shirt and sweatshirt was totally worth it. The forest was incredible, and all of the wood carvings were really really great. Especially because we were the only people there…and the fact that about ten minutes after we arrived, I peered out over the town, and to my surprise saw a huge, white storm cloud coming at us. Huge flakes of snow, bombarding at us like the little black specks of the Lost smoke monster. On the top of a mountain near the Andes. Talk about something truly beautiful.

One of the amazing wood-carved sculptures en el Bosque Tallado. Complete with amazing, impromptu snowstorm.

The rest of the town was fantastic. It reminded me of Ithaca. Except in Argentina. With everyone speaking Spanish. Both have a natural wonder right around the corner (the beautiful mountain, the gorges), both are celebrated for their artisanal beers and microbrews (“cerveza con chocolate” means chocolate beer. Yes. Savor that for a minute), and both are full of super hippies. There was a market in El Bolsón on Thursday, and it had some of the best jewelry, soaps, and other interesting things that I’ve seen (and bought) since I’ve been in Argentina.

It was really sad to leave El Bolsón, because it honestly has been my favorite place in Argentina thus far. It was so relaxed, so peaceful, and so beautiful. And it sure as hell didn’t hurt that it reminded me of home.

Am I going to have to get a shirt made up?  “El Bolsón Is Gorges”?

Lonely Planet for President!

Perrito Moreno's basically famous.

Over the course of my Patagonia Hostel Tour 2010, there’s one common denominator between almost all of the groups of travelers I’ve stayed with: They all lug around their large, 400-page guide book to the whole country of Argentina, published by Lonely Planet. Its cover, boasting the wonderous ice of Perrito Moreno glacier, is ubiquitous here, and for a restaurant or hostel to be mentioned in the little Argentina Journeyer’s Bible is a guarantee of at least a few visits a day from tourists.

The Lonely Planet has really been great, serving as my one stop resource for the best places to stay, eat, shop, adventure, explore and get information for any city imaginable in the country. It’s gotten me and my friends through Punta del Este, Iguazú Falls and most recently, Patagonia and the Lake District.

One thing though that I will never be able to get over is its stunningly glaring price inaccuracies. Like, no, Lonely Planet, a dozen empanadas is not 15 Argentine pesos. It’s $30. And no, that tenedor libre is not $25…it’s $40. And bus ticket price estimation? Forget it. Like, I realize that the book was finalized in 2008, but there hasn’t been a huge economic crisis in between then and now, and I’m willing to bet that a dozen empanadas never costed $15 ARS. Lonely Planet needs to fix itself, get its shit together and tell me some accurate prices. It won’t get me pissed at the book, it won’t get me pissed at the restaurants. It’ll just help me know for sure what I can expect to pay.

And when I’m following Jiminy Cricket’s advice and letting my Lonely Planet be my guide, I feel like that’s not too much to ask.

The Scoop on Argentine Poop.

POR FAVOR.

You walk into the bathroom, go into the stall and sit down. You have your usual suspects, of course. A roll of toilet paper at your fingertips. A flusher that may or may not function all that well. An extra roll of paper in case things get dicey.

But in most cities outside of Buenos Aires, every restroom has one additional feature: a little trash can that sits right next to the bowl.

Yeah. That’s for your doody papers.

It’s been hysterical for me throughout my travels to see how Argentine stores, restaurants and institutions remind other-worldly tourists and visitors that the regional sewage systems simply aren’t good enough to handle a ream of toilet paper every hour. You see, development is no way lamentable in Argentina, but the pipes in most cities just aren’t big enough to deal with the toilet paper, so instead of flushing it you’re supposed to fold it up, stick it in the can and hope for the best.

From Mendoza to Iguazú to Esquel to Bariloche, every place has a different way of communicating this inconvenient truth. The sign in Esquel explained in detail that failure to comply may lead to toilet floods. El Bolsón’s hostel politely adviced “Please throw all papers in trash can.” A café in El Chaltén just bluntly put it “No Papeles!” Bariloche’s hostel pulled a condescending, “Don’t flush toilet papers; use bin. That’s what it’s there for” (Really, a semicolon and sass?). Iguazú’s hostel made it about your own hygiene, claiming, “For your own comfort, please use trash bin for papers.” And some places just assume you’re bright enough to figure it out, so they just stick the can in there.

Just one more peculiar difference between home and here.

Thank God I don’t have to take out the trash.