Final Thoughts

The final portion of my journey involved the esteemed Thomas J, esquire, and his spouse, Anita, who joined us in Bariloche and Buenos Aires. As one might imagine, the food we ate with our parents, as well as our lodging, were dismal. Actually, we discovered that food in Latin America can be excellent, if one is willing to pay more than seven pesos for it. We convinced the padres to head into the National Park to this lovely hotel looking across a turquoise lake and up to the snow covered Mount Tronador, even offering to rent the car to transport us. Now, I don't know if you are familiar with the Ford Fiesta, but it's a party of a car. With a ground clearance of 0.5 mm, driving over lengthy national park dirt roads is a breeze. It sounded like we were dragging the tin man away from Oz.

From the land of chocolate and ice cream (most heladerias serve approximately twelve varieties of chocolate ice cream), we chose our mode of transport (some taking an overnight bus and others, for some unknown reason, flying) and met in BA. Here, we planned our grand celebration for a certain event which took place on January 20. While we had planned a embassy gala crashing, we ended up watching and cheersing in the hotel room. I had an old Vote Obama temporary tattoo, which naturally I pasted to my face. Upon leaving our hostel, a man grabbed hold of me, asking if I was ok and why my abusive novio (boyfriend) was punching me in the face. This seemed to be the general consensus of most passerbys, although some thought it was simply a permanent tattoo of a black man on my face.

For my final week, Maggie and I sadly separated ways, as she headed to Cordoba and I traveled towards Santiago via Mendoza. It was a rough departure, and I acted like an irritating couple by continuing to respond to everyone in the we-nosotros form. They thought I was a crazy. As soon as I arrived in the wine capital of Argentina, I signed up for some sort of wine-bicycling tour. Around 10:30 am, we met someone who would drive us out into the country, where we would find our bikes and the bodegas. This person let us know that an extremely drunk drunkard was in the car, just a warning, so hop in! We assumed that this character was passed out on the street or some such thing and they were taking him back to his hostel. But he journeyed to the bike shop with us and before we knew it, was swerving on a bike and pouring large glasses of free wine for us all day. Everyone assumed that this character asking obnoxious and unclear questions (to pretty wine tour lady: now if we were to go on a date, which varietal of wine would be ideal?), was our friend from forever. It was fairly embarrassing. Now my main question is: How is it possible to be extremely drunk, but not passed out at 10:30 am?

My final project in Latin America was to learn Spanish. So I decided to brush up by attended a few last days of language school in Santiago. On my first day, I was fairly evenly paired with a German, although I was a bit more advanced than he on certain grammatical structures. My teacher asked if I wanted to switch up to the next level with this adorable Korean, who had already lived in Chile for ten months, and would be studying here in University for the next five years. I always like a challenge, so I quickly agreed. Within a few minutes of my next class, my teacher was asking me to politely fill in the blank. If I had had more money, I __________????? Right. The correct answer in this case was the past pluperfect of the subjunctive. I had studied the subjunctive for one day, past subjunctive for five minutes and compound forms for ten minutes, of course never placing all of these together at once. It was a bit rough, but I am so ready to have hypothetical conversations about my illustrious past with the DC latinos. As a side note, walking home from school everyday, I passed my favorite location in Santiago. The JFK beauty school. Thank goodness that Kennedy made that commitment to improve beauty programs in developing countries. His legacy will live forever.

My journey is over. I am writing this from an Apple computer in Greenwich, CT. I have moved to DC and experienced culture shock in a few forms. First of all, whenever I hear an American accent (these days, fairly regularly), I immediately want to turn and ask 'Oh wow, are you from the states? Whereabouts?' Also, I can read whatever new articles and books and listen to any new music that I want to. It's my choice. No exchanges involved. Finally, I hear Spanish everywhere. When I returned from Italy and while I studied French, I never heard anyone speak these fictional languages. I certainly appreciate that this is truly something I can use. I've seen so many amazing places and met fantastic people all in such a short time. It may be a rough transition to the working world (and by working, I mean unemployed).

Pataguccionia

Well, we have accomplished all of our goals already. No problem. We made it to Pataguccionia, that fabled land. I have, in fact, stood in Patagonia, while reading the classic Bruce Chatwin book, In Patagonia, dressed entirely in Patagonia. I have come to following conclusions:

1) Patagonia is difficult to reach


2) It is indeed the most beautiful place on earth


3) The brand is appropriate for the climate conditions present, and


4) Bruce Chatwin is a maliciously dull writer.



It is very difficult to travel by bus through Patagonia, and it was recommended that we move over to the Argentinian side to make our lives just a touch easier. Of course, we ignored this advice, choosing instead to move as far south as we could through the Chilean waterways. We wanted to journey forward from the gorgeous island of Chiloé (according to my airline magazine, recently named the top travel destination of 2009 by Lonely Planet). On the map, there is a dotted line indicating a ferry that travels about four hours to the mainland. When we asked about this trip, they informed us that the port town on the other side was unfortunately recently destroyed by a volcanic eruption, but that we could instead go to Puerto Chacabuco, which is more fun to say than the Pompeiiesque Quellón. ¨Sounds great. How long is the trip?,¨ we asked and they responded, ¨36 hours!¨. Fantastic. So we found ourselves spending two nights aboard a boat with no beds, only chairs bolted to the floor and stray fishermen. From the next transportation center that we tried to leave, I literally had to chase down the only van departing to take us to a boat crossing into Argentina. The port town that we were dropped off in was so windy that it knocked over a small child. While on board, we were practicing our spanish with an incomprehensible Argentinian who discussed the deliciousness of local cherries, September 11 and that fine representation of American music, The Final Countdown, seemingly all within one stream of consciousness. All of a sudden, he turned and yelled ¨Goat Overboard!¨ Indeed, there was a small goat who decided that the glacial waters offered him a better chance of life than the grills of Argentina. The very large ferry turned around to rescue him. How do you rescue a goat from the water? Lasso, obvi. We thought he was perhaps in recovery when we saw his entrails fly past us and into the water.


We moved south down the famous ruta 40. I believe it is famous solely because Che repeatedly crashed his bike there. When we saw the sign for the one town along the way of El Siberia, we knew we had to get out quickly. Luckily, the bus took us to El Chalten, where the gorgeous spires of Mt. Fitzroy loomed overhead. Continuing along, we found ourselves in El Calafate for Christmas. We were rejected by every single restaurant in town for Christmas Eve dinner and ended up eating a delightful homecooked meal around 11:30 pm. The next day, we celebrated the holiday in a rather unusual way, by watching huge ice chunks calve off of the Perito Moreno glacier. I also found a secret stash of Christmas music on my ipod, and spent the day happily reciting the words of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.



We returned back to Chile to embark on the seven day Torres del Paine grand Circuit with our California cousin, Kirsten. As expected, the mountains and lakes were completely perfect, and unexpectedly, the weather cooperated with our ability to see them. If you haven't been backpacking recently, we highly recommend that you go, in order to reexperience the delight that is kraft mac ´n´cheese (it's The Cheesiest) after hiking all day, as well as the competitive spirit that fills those engaging in hot cocoa consumption contests. We also recommend that you bring along goretex shoes, rather than old trail runners that have taken you from Guatemala to Patagonia and contain at least one large hole per shoe.









Most recently, I fulfilled all childhoold dreams. In first grade, as a result of a diaroma project, I decided that penguins were my favorite animal. I did my best to dress like a penguin at any opportunity and was even offered a role as a penguin for the famous Stamford theatrical performance of Mr. Popper's Penguins. This may have been the highlight of my life, as I was instructed to put on a penguin suit, and my only task was to slide down a slide, over and over again. Anyways, I saw my first wild penguins the other day and it was awesome.

Son of a Nutcracker!

After Cusco, we headed for that part of Perú I had always assumed was fictional, perhaps from a Dr. Seuss story, Lake Titicaca. Do you know that there are people who live on an island made entirely out of reeds? In the middle of a lake. They decided, enough with the land. We will cut down some floating plants, stick them in the water and live. They were so poor that the Incan taxation system required from each family one reed filled with lice. I can only assume that this lice was then used as a military strategy to wreck havoc on the hairstyles of European conquistadors. We spent the night at a homestay on the Isla Taquila. It was a perfect pre-Christmas activity, as all of the men dress like Christmas elves. Close observation revealed their hat related mating rituals. Men wearing all red hats, with small, dully colored pompoms, are unavailable. However, a half red and white capped fellow, with large and brilliant pompoms can be pursued by women wearing four or more skirts, with two pompoms on their front and two on their back. Three pompoms to the side is a definitely no-no, obviously. It was just a relief to find an island filled with people who share my affinity for elfish culture.

We then made our way to Arequipa, rich in delicious food and elaborately planned nunneries, with wall colors set to inspire my new apartment. There, Maggie and I sadly said goodbye to Jack and Perú.

Now I ask you: What is the most extreme thing you have ever done? Swam with sharks? Bounced through a sea of jellyfish? Rode the South Australian current with righteous turtles? Well, I have recently done the most extreme thing I can think of. I rode a bus straight for thirty six hours. I am prepared to write a manual on the most effective bus sleeping positions, as well as a brief paper on the importance of Chinese Kung Fu movies on gender roles in Latin America (my favorite is definitely the one about the dog kung fu martial artist). On the bus with me were two girls, who journeyed seven hours longer than I. They were on a pilgrimage to see Madonna´s concert in Santiago. Which leads me to the question: How far would you travel by bus to witness the Sticky ´n Sweet tour? We had to rush down to meet Lyz in Santiago, halfway down the longest country ever. Upon arriving in Chile, Lyz was promptly arrested for possession of...raisins. $200 Fine. I'm not joking. It is not recommended that you carry GORP into this region; it is very hazardous.

I love Chile. They have figured out the followed extremely useful things: potable water, toilets that flush toilet paper, the marketing concept that bread with the brand name Ideal sells better than Bimbo bread, a metro system, daylight savings time, and how to grow the most delicious cherries. It is all very exciting. As Christmas arrives, so does the summer produce. We are spending our time at markets, shopping for strawberries, cherries, avocados and extremely inexpensive Cabernet Savignon. We are currently in Puerto Varas, playing in a sparkling lake that overlooks three snow capped volcanoes in a town that focuses on gourmet food and chocolate shops.

¿Lady?

After repeatedly seeing photographs in National Geographic of the Cordillera Blanca Mountains in Perú, I was determined to find my way there. It is not close to anything. Particularly, Ecuador. After approximately twenty four hours of bus travel, we finally found ourselves on the brief seven hour bus ride to Huaraz. Of course, after an hour the bus driver pulled into a non-town and declared lunch. This has been an irritatingly frequent theme on our journey. The entire bus was asleep and the driver started shouting - get up! Lunchtime! Leave the bus! We finally did as we were commanded to do and sat down for our first Peruvian meal in what appeared to be someone´s living room. A tiny woman came out and asked us if we wanted el menú. This seemed like a logical thing to ask for, so we said yes. Apparently menú in Peru doesn´t mean menu, but the daily meal. Of chicken foot soup. For the record, menú means menu in all of the other countries we have been to.

Jack flew into Lima and we demanded that he immediately find an overnight bus to meet us in Huaraz, the base town for trekking in the area. He brought with him the following things: the inability to speak Spanish, one headlamp with dead batteries, several requested clif bars, which he consumed on the plane, a sleeping bag, which he left at our hostel during our trekking expedition, and the inability to instantly adjust to high altitude. He was, overall, a real drain on all parties.

The year 23 got off to a rough start. I spent the day waiting for Jack´s recovery, while basking in high altitude sunshine, reading the New Yorker food issue he provided, watching a birthday slash human rights parade and gazing up at the mountains we would soon be wandering through. The next day, we embarked on the Santa Cruz trek, which is four days through the Cordillera Blancas. We had a guide, Abel and a dutch companion, Thea, who was referred to as Lady for the entire trek. ´Lady? Do you want bread with avocado?´The Coridllera Blancas are rather hideous. At one point Abel asked us if we wanted to do a side excursion, where we could see a turquoise lake fed by an enormous glacier, framed to
the left




by the Paramount Pictures logo and to the right by a mountain voted the most beautiful in the world, by some guys in Munich.



We have moved along through Lima and embarrassingly enough, flew to Cusco. We decided that it was the best bus to flight time ratio of all. One hour and 20 minutes of flying versus twenty seven hours ofbusing . What do you think? Here, we narrowly avoid being hit my miniature cars as we wander through old alleys past original Inca stonework housing hipster cafes. Jack has purchased at least seventeen winter hats. Our Thanksgiving dinner involved Alpaca, potatoes and delicious lamb. We were extremely thankful.

State Department Warning

While the state department and our parents warned us not to, we decided to go to Colombia. Of course, we were kidnapped by FARC. Luckily, they allowed us to travel onward to Ecuador on the condition that I would act as a drug mule, being the least likely person in the history of time to be in possession of several kilos of cocaine.

Actually, the above character is our new friend, Lucho! He is a Colombian character, and a friend of a friend of Maggie's. I would estimate that Lucho has approximately six girlfriends, although we only met two. The second was allegedly a university professor of juggling. And his "business partner". For several weeks now, we have been working on not wasting any good luck, so that it could saved up for November 4. We prayed for rain, delayed buses and embarrassing grammatical errors. It worked out quite well. On November 4, we arrived at Lucho's new pad in Bogota. The first thing that greeted us was a golden retriever puppy. Next, Lucho told us that his neighborhood is nicknamed the "G zone". That is gourmet zone. Then, he showed us his Lesbaru Outback parked downstairs. After a weekend where everything was mysteriously closed, every museum, crepe shop and ONLY English bookstore was open (they had a room full of cookbooks, as well as most of the recent World Bank publications). As we all know, the day only proceeded to get better until reaching the designation of The Best Night Ever. We found ourselves in a British pub with a huge flatscreen projecting CNN before a small crowd of French Obama supporters. They even had pins. Where do French Barack supporters find Change pins in Bogota? This is my question. There were also a few disgruntled American businessmen who left early in the night in a huff. We couldn´t watch the acceptance speech, so we woke up early the next morning, crowded around youtube at an Internet cafe and triumphantly cried to the puzzlement of the staff.

Colombia was a fantastic country to visit. The people were improbably friendly. We met one group, who asked us if we needed help, and then guided us to the museum, which was closed. They then quickly called up their friend, the travel agent, to find out which museums were open and which were good. They then sent us to this eerie salt mine slash cathedral outside of the city and even gave us their cell phone number in case we had any trouble. How would we call them you might ask? In Colombia, there are kids perched on stools along every block with about 7 cell phones chained to their jackets. It is very entertaining to watch a boy on a stool in the street attached to a businessman, a frazzled mother clinging to her children and a 13 year old girl. We also came to the following conclusion: the person who wrote the Lonely Planet was too afraid to go to Colombia. Every restaurant they suggested was invisible and all advice was completely incorrect.

During the dark days before Bogota, we spent our days honeymooning with our cousin and her newly betrothed in Costa Rica, retirement home shopping in beautiful Boquete, Panama and watching improbably large boats pass through the Canal in the capital.

During the glorious days since, we´ve been in Ecuador. We met up with one of Maggie´s colleagues who is teaching at an international school in Quito. We watched some futbol, saw the town and did some awesome hiking on Cotopaxi. We then journeyed to the Quilatoa loop, notorious for its impossible bus time tables (the milk truck leaves at 8:07, but only sometimes) and gorgeous hills. We hiked from one hostel to the next and spent some time at the wonderfully sustainable Black Sheep Inn. So far, they are winning in the category for the best views from a composting toilet. My triumphant return to Peru looms near.

You say goodbye and I say hello

Monday, October 13. Maggie's birthday. Of course, it needed to be celebrated in style. While she didn't surf on the actual day, she had attended her first two classes on the prior days at the coast. We returned to Granada where we discovered the true ultimate birthday present. A gym. With yoga. Maggie attended a class, and I elevated my heart rate beyond the rate it usually achieves during my typical daily exercise of gently swaying in the hammock. It was intense.

From Granada, we journeyed to Ometepe, a magical island in Lake Nicaragua. Life is very slow on the island. We were promised that people rode bulls instead of horses. This was a lie. They rode horses, holding onto their bulls by leashes. They also said Adios when you saw someone in the road, rather than hola or buenas. Which seemed rude. Another cultural note about Nicaragua. We frequently had the following conversation with 18 year old girls. I am not exaggerating that they are 18. We asked.
Nica: Hi. How old are you?
Me: 22.
Nica: Do you have children?
Me: Uh, no.
Me: Silence.
Me: Do you have children?
Nica: Yes of course! I only have one. She is three.

On Ometepe we met up with one of Maggie's Seattle acquaintances, who is working in the small town of Altagracia for a year via the association of sister islands, an organization that connects the islands of Ometepe and Bainbridge. While I have heard of sister cities before, I believe that the extent of the association is that each town paints the name of the other town on their welcome sign. Instead, this association is legitimate, sustainable and so cool! There are numerous ways that the two communities connect. Bainbridge sends down high schoolers on spring break to live in homestays, practice their spanish and do service projects. The Bainbridge school system does fundraisers throughout the year to send school supplies and other necessities down to the community. English language teachers from Altagracia spend a few weeks in Washington state, brushing up on their tenses and pronunciation. Bainbridge hires one volunteer to work side by side with a community organizer to put fundraising projects to effective use in town. Bainbridge only buys coffee from an organic co-op called Finca Magdalena at better than fair trade prices, adding an economic benefit to the association. The extra profit goes into funding social projects around the island. Here is an article about the connection: http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=20040921&slug=econcoffee21. Maggie's friend, who is also named Maggie, told us of how the local community was so grateful for the presence of this NGO and were unsure of where to direct their gratitude, aiming in the meantime, at her. People keep showing up at her door, hopping off their bikes with a squawking parcel in hand- Here is a rooster for you. Thank you.

Inspired by Maggie and Let's Go, we headed to the coffee farm, which had delicious coffee and gorgeous views, until the unstoppable rain set in. When we finally returned to civilization, we saw a clip on CNN titled Nicaragua: Under Water, about the hurricane striking our area. It all made sense. You know that it is a bad sign when the locals a) stand outside their door and cheer for the bus to make it and b) whip out their cell phones to take pictures of the road conditions.

We are now in Costa Rica, which is very different. After we waited for approximately five hours to cross the boarder, at least two additional boarder patrol police officers boarded our bus full of Nicaraguan workers. Both asked to see our papers, as I clearly am an illegal Nicaraguan trying to steal the jobs of the Ticos. Public transportation here is lacking. We are used to bus assistants pulling you onto a bus heading indirectly, but eventually to any location you desire. They just want another body on the bus. Here, you have to work hard to get on a bus. Most of our rooms in Nicaragua cost between $4 to $5 per night. Here, it is $14. What is this? Dubai? We spent our first night in a hostel that contained both cockroaches and whores, so we promptly left for the more magical land of Monteverde. Again, you know that it is a bad sign when the road posting says that you are 40 kms from your location, and the book notes that it takes three hours. Both statements are in fact true. The ride was so rough that we took three different buses (all driven by the same driver), and I broke my seat from bouncing up and down too hard. The locals were all making fun of me for being a fatty. Since successfully arriving, we have very much been enjoying the cloud forest, with its remarkable biodiversity, quakers and cheese factory. It's a winning combination.

On hearing

Since leaving the land of the scuba divers, Maggie and I have happily found ourselves reemerged in Latin American culture, and the Spanish language. For several days, it was impossible to find anyone to speak with us. English, Hebrew and French dominated our boat rides on the island of Utila. Fearing that we would lose our ability to conjugate correctly, we wandered to the most out of the way language school we could find in Nicaragua- at the biological station on the shores of the Lago de Apoyo. The woman working at the station seemed to be startled when we arrived. How did you find us? She ended up being my very interesting teacher, with many stories of the poor morals found in Nicaraguan men. Maggie´s teacher is indescribable. He had bug eyes, strong convictions and wildly flailing arms.

The lago was gorgeous, but very damp. There was mold covering the pages of my book, and the insides of my ears. Again, I feel that I have attained a certain level of competency, as I navigated my way through an interview with a doctor who spoke without s´s, (the lovely Nicaraguan accent that is incomprehensible) in spite of my inability to hear much at all. Over the week, I have become far more sympathetic towards my grandparents, as I was forced to read the lips of my teacher and attempt to decipher her words.

My hearing has steadily improved, and one day as I was walking down to the lake, one of my ears opened up. It was miraculous! I turned, as it sounded like an enormous waterfall was gushing directly behind me, but it was only my water bottle sloshing in my bag. I thought the lake was a very quiet place, but on the final day discovered it was not. The decibel level of the Howler Monkeys, frogs, and rain was insane, and Maggie had to convince me that they really had been present all week long. The station was a great spot, with impressive diversity. They even had a pet wild boar, who thought it was a dog. My teacher would pet the creature, and it would turn over and thump its foot. My room also contained a variety of creatures. The first night, I was accompanied by a lizard, who promised to stick to the wall. The next, it was a spider in my bed, who returned to his spot out of sight. However, on the third night, a scorpion sat on the wall just above my bed. I called in another guest who had just returned from Peace Corp in Kenya and promised to be a proficient scorpion killer. He was, and I moved into Maggie´s room.

From the lago, we traveled to the liberal University town of Leon. It´s wonderful! It has been the first city we have encountered that seems to truly care about art. Poets are the heroes of this town- even the streets are named after them. The city is also conveniently located next to several volcanoes. We hiked up one, Cerro Negro, which is famous for its volcano boarding. The two of us narrowly missed starring in a French TV documentary about this activity. One of our friends from the language school at Apoyo was assigned to film, but his camera ceased functioning, again due to the incredibly humid conditions at the lago. Without the pressure of the camera, we simply ran down the face of the fuming volcano, rather than riding a plank of wood. I think that we made the correct choice. Leon is also very close to the Pacific Ocean, so we have spent the last few days involved in the following activities: swimming, hammocking and drinking milkshakes. My life is so hard.