Category: South America

The Devil’s Throat.

That’s a pretty commanding name for a bunch of water.

Joe and I were in magnificent spirits the whole ride to Iguazú. Joking all through the day and laughing at the ridiculous movies on the screen above us in our posh-tastic bus. We weren’t the only ones. One specific laugh pealed out from behind us throughout the ride, and that just made us laugh more.

The land changed around us, from mostly flat terrain with a few trees, into something that might have come from the mountains of North Carolina; doused in pine trees and greenery.

The next morning as the bus was nearing our final destination, Joe and I reviewed our plans; still laughing in synch with our echo from a few seats back. We thought we would need to get a taxi from the bus station in Puerto Iguazú, the nearby city, to our hostel a couple kilometers from town. We got lucky and the bus stopped right at our hostel, The Hostel Inn, and dropped us off along with several other tourists.

The place was hopping. It truly looked like a resort; a giant pool outside complete with lounge chairs holding various bodies and a sound system pumping out some indecipherable garble. Check in took a small eternity because of the press of bodies, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it but eventually we made it down to our room and met a new sort of traffic jam.

Our little room was home to a Kiwi girl who seemed permanently ensconced in her bed. She made mention of the fact that her iPhone battery was dead, so I offered to let her use my charger. About 47 minutes and a throbbing earache later, we were able to ascertain why her iPhone was dead; the girl’s mouth had no off setting. Somewhere in the onslaught I completely lost track of her name.

Ok bye.

“And then…”

Ok bye.

“Oh you are leaving.”

Ya, bye.

“Ok, so we’ll catch up later.”

Ya bye.

“Sweet, what are you doing tonight?”

Gotta go to the store. Bye.

“All right. Are you going to the barbeque?”

Um, I gotta go catch up to Joe.

“Ok, so are you going to the falls tomorrow?”

On and on it went, until I simply closed the door and chased after a vanishing Joe. We were outside the normal lunch hours for the cafeteria in the hostel and walked off to find some form of a market nearby where we could procure enough food to feed our empty bellies and restart our brains. We found the market something akin to Old Mother Hubbard’s kitchen and were barely able to scrape together enough supplies to make our now famous Danica Patrick Salsa Golf tuna sandwiches with some red peppers on lovely bread con pan.

Back in the kitchen at the hostel, we found a magnificent surprise: Johnny Walker powered Israelis.

They called us out immediately.

“You were the laughing guys.”

Zizi and Dana, busy with making backpacker spaghetti extraordinaire, swirled around us in the kitchen. Zizi carried most of the conversation with Dana simply smiling and injecting a word infrequently. I wrangled up my standby bribery bottle of Johnny Walker, since at this point we had no more border crossings to manage, and we unloaded it on some Coca-cola light and the four of us shared a magnificent repast; knocking down our dranks and staring in horror at the meat con carne being prepared on some dirty wood tables covered with god knows what out the window.

Zizi immediately began laughing. She almost didn’t stop for the next two days.

Joe and I decided to invoke the optional shower and actually get cleaned up for the first time in a couple disreputable days. We each took turns listening to the incessant Gatling chatter from our young Kiwi while the other hid out in the shower.

When we made it back up to the immense lobby, we again met D and Z and decided we should abandon the rapidly filling common area in search of food that wasn’t prepared by a madman with a machete out back.

There ARE options for food nearby the resort, but there isn’t much English so be prepared. If you are going kosher, be a lot prepared.

Halfway through the ordering process, our waiter exclaimed he would be bringing Dana a half a chicken. She nodded in agreement, and I asked her if she knew what she had just agreed to. She did not.

The waiter and I went a few rounds, our conversational waters further muddied by the occasional interruption from Dana while Joe and Zizi simply sat back and laughed.

When the food did finally arrive, the salad was somehow un-kosher (something to do with cheese, I think) and the waiter was 2 pesos shy of hostile when we asked him to make it right. By meals end, we had all fed well and managed to knock off two bottles of fantastic, affordable Argentine Red.

Yes; only two.

The mild shenanigans of the hostel’s barbeque had turned into full scale Brazilian madness by the time we returned from dinner. There were two girls dancing around the lobby who appeared to have come straight out of Carnival. Feather, tiny bikinis, impossible bottoms; the works. They were pulling young men out of the crowd and dancing around with them, dragging the excited lads over to a chair and sandwiching the guy between the two of them.

The best part came when one the dancers grabbed an Israeli guy from the crowd, then pushed him towards the chair where he happily sat and gyrated on what he thought was the other dancer girl. It was in fact, another man that had slipped in behind him. It was hilarious to watch; you just have to imagine it.

When the squawking died down, we four sat down and jibberjabbered on the couches for a while, until I realized it was the 5^th of May. Cinco de Mayo.

Cinco de Mustache!

Finally, spent from laughing, we all turned in to get some sleep and prepare for our trip to the Devil’s Throat the following day.

Joe and I awoke looking at another 20+ hour bus ride that night, so we repacked our bags and locked them up in the left luggage room of the hostel before rolling out to town to get more magical paper from the ATM machine that was hidden behind a line of dozens of people waiting for what appeared to be the only working bank-o-mat in town.

You must understand that Iguazú Falls is not just cool in Argentina. It is world renowned. If you haven’t heard of it, then you are obviously a social pariah and should be ashamed of yourself. I had been hearing about this place for months from everyone who had traveled through South America. I had also been hearing that you had better just consign yourself to the fact that you are going to get absolutely soaking wet. Completely disregarding this bit of the story, I decided to buy a couple of ponchos for Joe and I before he informed me that he already had one.

In the 36 seconds since I had paid for the ponchos, the shopkeeper seemed to have completely forgotten who I was and that I had purchased it from him and denied me a refund. I was so frustrated I simply fell completely out of any ability to speak Spanish and started speaking English at her. She suddenly remembered me and I was able to get back my diez pesos.

As luck would have it, once our dynamic duo had passed into the park and was looking for directions, we met the other dynamic duo of D n Z, and we joined up to become something of a dynamic Voltron of wonderment and brought laughter and greatness to the park for the rest of the day. The whole park was a wonderland.

La Garganta del Diablo is simply staggering. These falls are so huge, even with a telephoto lens everything looks far away. Standing in the warmth of the sun and the spray from the falls, it is difficult to count the passage of minutes. We sat and stared for quite a while, until finally Joe reminded me only had so much time. I hope the pictures can speak for themselves.

We walked many kilometers that day accompanied often by butterflies and always by laughter.

After a hike or three, we finally got to play in the water. We had to climb over some caution tape to do it, but hey, we came to play.

At the end of a long, wet day, some of us were pretty tired.

Still, D n Z introduced us to some of their friends who had enough energy left over to serenade me with an Israeli lullaby about San Francisco.

Our bus ride, turned into a relative mad dash for the station in town, though we arrived in plenty of time to get some food before the bus left, and even saw D n Z one more time in the terminal as they had come down to sort out some transportation questions of their own. We couldn’t get away from them!

Tickets in hand, in honor of Pato, Joe and I enjoyed a lomito before we hopped our next all-nighter bus with full stomachs and slightly heavy hearts for Buenos Aires and the evacuation.

Labor Day. Meaning that no one is actually doing any labor. Non-labor-doing is something that Argentines take very seriously.

The town looked dead. We had booked some days at a place called Córdoba Backpackers. After much walking, and very little signage, we arrived at our chosen crashpad only to be met with some confused resistance. As it was labor day, the attendant did not want to check us in early, and informed us that we would have to come back later. No Problem, we decided, but wanted to use the wi-fi in the meantime. it was then we were informed just how non-labor-doing this particular hostel was.

No internet. No Breakfast. No coffee. Not dealbreakers, but for the price the hostel was asking these sort of things are generally included. In fact, the website said all these were included; still not a dealbreaker.

Up Next: Dealbreaker.

Initially, we were shown one price sheet containing the price we agreed to when we pre-paid for the first night in Córdoba
through the hostel in Mendoza. Then after a few moments, our attendant put that price sheet away and pulled out a new sheet with higher prices and informed us this was the “new pricing” effective that morning. Dealbreaker.

Joe and I grabbed our bags from the luggage storage where we had placed them upon arrival and went to take on the city. After much walking and growling of stomachs, we found a cafe with open doors. The owner, who lived there with his family, happily obliged our aching stomachs and weary legs with chairs, coffee, and the saltiest omelets the planet has ever seen; it was a King’s breakfast. We left renewed and refreshed in our quest.

We found another hostel soon, as recommended in the Lonely Planet book, but it was dirty, smokey, and smelled so bad, we didn’t even consider it despite the tempting price tag. Some time later we happened upon our lovely new home away from home, the Córdoba Hostel. This place was ready with a decent bed at night and coffee every morning. Wi-fi was dependable and it had a great courtyard out back with a completely unusable foosball table.

We immediately met a girl from Sweden upstairs in the computer lounge outside our door. I can’t recall her name, but she was perhaps the chattiest thing I have ever met, and in need of company. She was constantly inviting us to come travel with her or go to a certain place to see a certain thing during our stay. She had been in South America learning Spanish for some time; looking for acceptance more than a language.

There was another dark chocolate haired Israeli girl staying there that neither Joe or I ever dared to talk to. She was all thick curves, ink, and piercings; daunting to say the least.

It was around this time that I decided to go for a hike back to our initial hosteling attempt because I, in my post-all-nighter funk had left both bottles of Russian Death in the luggage locker room. Irresponsible of me, to say the least. I managed to recover them, and Joe and I successfully unlocked his phone and were now able to communicate with the outside world.

Now, on to the real reason we wound up in Córdoba: Pato.

Patricia and I first met in Cusco at the Loki hostel. We established contact again upon the arrival of Team Awesome in Córdoba and immediately started making plans. True to her word to show us the city, Pato was at our side almost every evening after she had finished with work and studies. We never would have made it without her.

Truly, Argentina was a journey of discovery for everyone involved. There were some rough spots for sure. And then there were the highlights. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you… the Lomito.

The Lomito is a conglomeration of foods that Joe almost never eats. Pork, Steak, Fried Eggs, Bacon, and a few other accessories. This sandwich was GREAT!  Joe and I vowed to recreate this back in the USA, but we never really got it right. Woe unto us. We first stopped at a Lomito place a few blocks from our hostel one night when we asked Pato to introduce us to some local cuisine. It was a hit.

Pato was our guide for all manner of adventures in Córdoba. Dinner was always an adventure. Like the “All you can eat Meat” restaurant; including cow throat (not that bad, and blood sausage. Joe didn’t really like that one.

Neither did Pato.

The Lomito was just the first of many successful forays into food. Pato was kind enough to bring us Mate. Mate, a special cup filled with Yerba and hot water, is something of an Argentine staple. On nearly every bench or patch of grass, one can observe locals sipping away on fantastic bombillas, straws, placed in all manner of cups, generally a special kind of wood sometimes wrapped in leather or metal. This stuff is pretty great. It goes well with breakfast, lunch, dinner, or late night snacking. Mate is a sort of fuel for the masses.

“Red Death” is rocket fuel for the Brave.

As Pato introduced us to mate, we thought it only fair to introduce her to the Russian Death. This stuff is spicy. Spicy like a time bomb. When it first hits the mouth, it is quite a lot to deal with. Most people equate it with jalapeños. Then in about 10 seconds, ones entire mouth simply explodes. I’m not sure what it is, but it reduced many people to tears and elicited a curse from more than one hapless experimental subject.

It was more than Pato could take. so, we decided to cut it with copious amounts of Red Bull. This is when things got interesting. The ensuing drink was dubbed, “Red Death.”

Results on test subjects are still pending, but the Red Death appears to be a total crazymaker; like batshit-hooliganism-helmetwearing-bonkers crazymaker.

We didn’t know this when we set off to dinner. Neither did the restaurant that allowed us in. We tried to find acceptable food in numerous locations.

We managed to find the only salad bar in Argentina. Then, we managed to turn it into a freakshow.

Argentine Spanish is unique in the world. They have words no other Spanish speaking country does and they have unique pronunciations for ‘y’ and ‘ll’ that them sound something like a cross between ‘j’ and ‘sh.’ This creates some interesting sounds, especially when pronouncing words like yo, meaning I. At this point Joe had been subjected to simply torrents of Spanish with only osmosis to really assist in interpreting. In the middle of a discussion between Pato and I over dinner, Joe sticks his hand out over the table and says, “Disculpe. Joe?”

We all laughed so loud and hard it was difficult to breathe for minutes. You really had to be there, but it may have been the funniest joke ever spoken aloud in multiple languages ever attempted by a human. I still laugh everytime I think about it.

Joe asks in retrospect, “How were we not kicked out? Or better yet, how did we not start an international incident?”

As previously noted several times, Joe had rarely a moment’s peace. he had been barraged by Spanish and ceaseless activity almost every waking minute of his trip; around two weeks. Patricia took us out to meet some of her friends and see the square where all the important speeches and New Years parties go down. We were all set to go out to the club when Joe finally lost his momentum and simply had to be put to bed.

Luckily for me, I found some Speed!

Patricia and her fantaaaastic friends took me out to a great, crowded club and we danced and joked all night. It was exactly what I needed. I was rolling in around 7 a.m. and was awoken a few hours later by light and noise to find Joe refreshed and ready.

After we had been in town for a couple of days and not gotten ourselves killed, Pato decided we should come hang out in her home town and kick it with her family. She gave us pretty explicit directions and we set off on the collectivo bus between Córdoba and her home town, “Onion River.”

A couple of stops before we were supposed to get off the bus, a somewhat soaked Patricia jumped onto the bus out of the rain that had just started up outside. Our aim for the day was to go see a cool lake near the Onion river. Unfortunately, inclement weather had added fog and enough rain to really dampen the experience. After we had climbed up to the dam, the rain bailed out and we actually got some cool views.

We spent the rest of the day playing with Pato’s sister, neice, and nephew. As soon as we showed the kids some photos from the racetrack Joe and I were instant heroes. We walked all around their town, sampled membrillo jam, took some great pictures, and saw two trees that had actually grown and fused into a single unit in the branches. I loved it!

Unfortunately, Pato couldn’t be with us every day, so we took the Fono Bus off to a city called Carlos Paz in the mountains. Neither of us really were struck by the city, but it was nice to get out and about, chill by the lake, go shopping at the Disco Supermarket and hang out with an old fighter jet they plunked next to main street for some reason. It was a lazy day and we both needed it.

The magic that Patricia brought to everything was evident, as we constantly had strange people from the hostel trying to follow us around and hang out. Sometimes it was welcomed; sometimes not. There was some awkward British kid hanging around us for a couple days looking for attention. I think Joe eventually scared him off.

It was with a heavy heart that we three convened on the morning of our last day together in Córdoba. We all took off for a walk to the nearby park and drank mate and goofed off.

We decided to have lomitos for a last meal of our Córdoba trio. The waitress really disliked Joe and after we explained that onions would kill him, she brought him a lomito filled with onion, so he and I had to switch. In honor of the homicidal waitress, we made a sauce with Danica Patrick mustard, salsa golf, and every other terrible ingredient we could find and dared one another to try it until a dog walked up begging for food. We got the dog to try it and he was instantly terrified of us and we were all quite glad none of us had tried it first.

On the trip back to the bus station, we all thought we would be late for the bus, but ultimately it was the bus that was super late, and we even had enough time to go buy some mate cups, bombillas, and Yerba to take with us. Patricia was simply fantastic, seeing us off on the bus and keeping in contact with us for the duration of the trip to make sure we didn’t gringo ourselves into any trouble.

One more super freaking long bus ride and we were bound for Iguazú and la garganta del Diablo!

We knew things had reached a peak when Pablo offered us his ex girlfriend saying, “Two guys, no problem for her.”

Luckily for us, she was back in Buenos Aires and we were in Mendoza. I skipped a few steps there, so let me backtrack.

Mendoza is an easy night bus ride from Buenos Aires. It is an entire world away from what I would have considered my life even at the first of the year.

Retiro is the main bus station in Buenos Aires. It is also connected to both underground and overground train stations. This place is a transport hub. From here, you can link up with numerous bus companies to get you to just about anywhere. If you are fortunate enough to have time to ask around, you may run into the company San Juan Mar del Plata. This bus has waiters, unending hot and cold drinks, movies, wi-fi, wine, whiskey, and even serves damn good meals. This bus was the bomb, and was cheaper than any of the other top tier service providers that offered the same trip. 20 hours on a bus is no joke; ride in style.

The next morning as we shifted restlessly in our seats, wondering how to work the onboard coffee machine, a pair of large almond shaped eyes capped by brown hair and surrounded by a Native American tan peeked over the seat in front of us. She asked us in perfect English if we were from the USA. I could feel Joe tense up in the seat next to me; he was enthralled. Later, Joe would refer to her as “the hottest girl ever.” She had perfect straight teeth, and an infectious smile and laugh. Soon, she and Joe were talking about everything under the sun, in the way that people with nothing to lose can talk. We learned the word for grape, “uva.” We learned that the grapes from this area are dependent on the irrigation that runs down from the nearby mountatins. She told us that the best beef is always exported from Argentina, and that the recent push for soy was ruining the land it was planted on and causing a huge outcry from the farming community. She gave her name as Mirabelle and exited the bus at Villa Mercedes before we ever made it to Mendoza. Joe was nearly in shock afterward with the realization that he had spent nearly the last 20 hours next to this girl and only had an hour of conversation with her. Mirabelle, if you are reading this, Joe would like to propose.

We finally got off the bus in the warm light of morning and went to find ‘Shark’ to get a ride to the hostel. Shark was sadly nowhere to be found, as we were very far from the ocean, but we did find a phone and a taxi. When we arrived at our hostel,  the front desk paid the cab, true to their world, and saved us about $2.

If you ever want to go hang out with a bunch of misplaced Rastafarians, try the Hostel Internacional Mendoza. You’ll love it. They have free parties twice a week and the music is matched in its awfulness by its volume.

Mendoza has its own rhythm. It is something to adjust to after leaving B.A. We spent the entire day walking around the city, bought some groceries that were to provide us several meals for the price of what we usually spend on one meal out, and layed around in the central park occasionally climbing trees. Towards the end of the day we found the peatonal, a caminito of sorts, a walking mall directly south of the main plaza and above the main street of San Martin. Everyone in town walks through this place for some reason during the day.

In one of our trips to the Carrefour, a store that simply does not exist within the USA despite being the second largest chain in the world after Walk-Mart, Joe and I managed to come up with the makings of some great guacamole. Part of this particular dish being onions, it may actually kill Joe if he ever ate it as such. So the plan was to make up the guacamole up, including tomatoes, garlic, lime, etc, without the inclusion of the onions so we could separate out a portion for Joe and then add onions to the rest. This wasn’t exactly how things panned out. About halfway through tossing a handful of onions into the mix, I remembered that I may be handing out a death sentence to my companion and panicked. We managed to scrape the onions off to one side and salvage the dish, but it reminded me of how much people with severe food allergies really have to be on the lookout while traveling. This was a constant battle while were were abroad, leading to one of Joe’s first Spanish phrases, “sin cibolla” meaning “without onions.” This didn’t stop several waiters and chefs from making similar attempts on his life, but Joe is still alive today despite all our best efforts and a distinct daily overdose of motorcycles.

The next day we booked a trip to go hiking and rappelling (abseilling) in the Andes and visit some natural hot springs. My friend Joe had never gone rappelling, so I figured this would be a cool thing to do. It was quite fun, though no gloves were provided. When I asked the guide, Leo, why this was, he said it was because you couldn’t feel the rope with gloves on. I replied, “Isn’t that the point?” I don’t think he got it.

We did, though. Rappelling in the Andes was a great opener for my teammate Joe who had never tried it before. By the time we were done, we were very ready for the ensuing hot pools at the base of the cliffs. And what a surprise was in store for me. Yet again, I ran into this magnificently friendly French Canadian girl I met in Chile and en route to Machu Pichu. (Chica, if you are reading this, I apologize profusely for forgetting your name yet again! I tried to find you to get your email, but you were gone before I could find you again. If you email me, I promise to come meet up with you when I am in Canada so I can buy you a beer.)

The spa was lovely, hot, and quite picturesque. It was a full day of adventure and we rolled back into Mendoza with greatness in our minds. Instead, we simply went for a walk. Mendoza seems to center any activity around certain areas. there is a tourist part in the morth west, then 4 quadratic parks surround the main park downtown which connects to the peatonal. Again we found ourselves in the peatonal and went to the same restaraunt for lack of any grand ideas to drink a grape beer they had there. Our same waitress waas there and we actually got her name this time and had some fun chatting about the city and her life. Yoha, short for Johanna, was a gem! Despite the fact that Joe could understand almost nothing of what she said, she made the city really come alive for both of us; such was her charm.

Some nights of the week, the Mendoza Hostel International hosts a pizza party. If you are ever there and thinking of attending, I warn you it is a terrible idea, and for the sake of yoru health and sanity, you should avoid this cacophony of pain and horror. The hostel even offers all-you-can-drink tequila. Now, this is the first time in my life, I have ever heard of all-you-can-drink aaanything, let alone something as disaster filled as a bottle of tequila. Now that I have experienced this, and a couple other instances of all-you-can-drink, I can accurately tell you this is a horrible idea also. Just don’t do it. If you choose to drink, do it with quality, not quantity. This tequila was something reminiscent of cheap vanilla liqueur marinated in a radiator, then watered down runoff from a urinal. I mean it: don’t do it.

Obviously, to be able to say this so adamantly, I, solely for the sake of research, did do it. For any of you who have ever seen me drink tequila before, or have seen me on a neighbors lawn with no pants on after having drunk tequila, you know that this probably didn’t end well. Only my traveling partner knows just how wrong this went. And I hope he is not telling.

The following morning following the level of distaste, and perhaps disgrace, Joe and I had with this particular hostel had reached a breaking point. So we picked up and wheeled across town to check into another roughly equivalent hostel. It was here that we made the amazing and brilliant plan to get some bikes and go ride around to many of the wineries in the area. For the Mormons reading this, Mendoza is known for great wines and perhaps the best Malbecs in the world. Thanks to the worlds cutest couple, Max and Tasha, we knew that the place to get bikes was Mr. Hugo. We did not know that it would give us soooo much more.

We set off in the morning to the main train station, something of a crash site in itself with all the 4 a.m. arrivals lazing about until the hostels allow check-in. The directions to get to Mr. Hugo’s bike rentals are simple. Get on Bus 10, tell the bus driver you are going to Mr. Hugo’s, then get off when he tells you to or when everyone else does. With my newly acquired spanish skills this was less of a problem than it would have been several months ago. I’m glad we followed the directions.

Jumpin on bus 10, I informed our bus driver of our needs.

“My good man, we need to go to Mr. Hugo’s. Will you tell us when to get off?”

Yes, of course, get off right now.

“But we need to go to Mr. Hugo’s. We are taking bus 10, this bus, we just need to know when to get off.”

Yes, I know. Get off right now. You need bus 10, but not this bus 10. get the next one. I’m not stopping there.

I am Jose’s false start.

Eventually we manage to find the correct bus 10 along with several other travelers. As it turns out, we didn’t really have to worry about when to get off, as an emissary from Mr. Hugo’s climbed onto the bus a couple stops before we needed to get off so he could give we new pilgrims the directions to our Promised Land.

Mr. Hugo’s is a mildly orchestrated zoo on the surface; bikes are wheeling in and out of the front gate, a dozen languages are flying around, and for some reason, the owner was pouring out wine to all the renters, even though we were going to be riding around to wine tastings all day. When one of his kids (or grandkids) makes a grab for the wine vase I heard his wife tell them not to because it is the “Gringo Wine.” I’m not sure what that meant, but I downed a glass to take the edge off the hangover.

The bikes were everything I would expect from a bike rental place that caters mostly to low rent alcoholics; basic, bent parts, few gears, durable. I ask for one with a basket on the front because I could never get away with that crap in the USA. It was easier than wearing a backpack all day.

We immediately set out for sustenance. Which we didn’t know was about 7 km away… and we would have to wait for about 30 mintues after arrival for food to arrive. This particular winery, nameless as it shall remain, served us the usual meat con carne and some rather underwhelming wine derivates. This sets the pace for the day with the exception of two places.

Bodega Tempus Alba. If I had to pick one building in all my Latin American travels that I would most love to return to, it would be this winery; Italian man kissing aside. I’ll get to that in a minute.

After a day of muuuch bicycling, average wine and narrow misses with the traffic we were nearly ready to turn in. We knew there was something out there awaiting us, or neither Mendoza nor Mr. Hugo would be so popular. We found it. Tempus Alba is amazing. It lacks all of the rustic backwater feel that I had been surrounded by for months in Latin America. It is pure European svelte awesomeness. The music was fantastic lounge electronica, the fields were beautiful, the breeze was perfect, and the sun was just right. Then came the wine. If you could drink a mixture of silk and ambrosia it would taste very much like the wine we had at Tempus Alba. The only reason we left is that they asked us to leave because they had closed some time before.

On the way out of the winery, the owner came out to see us, as we had been there for much of the afternoon entertaining the employees and guests alike. I’m not sure what the hell he said, but he walked up to both myself and Joe and embraced us and gave us a heartfelt kiss on the cheek before asking us to return when we could. Joe and I walked out in a combined state of tipsy acceptance of our first mankiss, and set off for the only place we knew to still be open on the list of top sites; A La Antigua.

Antigua is unlike the other wineries in Mendoza in that it is not really a winery. Antigua makes all manner of things from chocolates to liqueurs including spreads, james, olive oil, etc. This is where Joe found Absinthe. This is where I found the Russian Death.

Yes, I said Russian Death.

The limiting factor of enjoyment at A La Antigua is that there are so many different things to try, that they cannot let you try everything, there are only so many items you can taste with your roughly $5 entrance fee, that you really must choose wisely. Joe went straight for the Absinthe. May I suggest… the Muerte Rusa.

Muerte Rusa. Russian Death. This overlong bottle of green liquid with questionable bits of hot chili pepper at the bottom, is a source of energy and mirth the like of which the world has never before seen. I didn’t know how powerful this stuff was when I bought two bottles of it. Had I know, I would have ordered a case to be shipped to the USA. More on this later.

Leaving A La Antigua, Joe and I were in a rather disheveled state. We had been up most of the night before drinking something awful. We started the morning with Bread con pan and Gringo Wine, then proceeded to Meat con Carne and about another 2 dozen glasses of wine over the day to finish with absinthe and Russian Death. This was the effing Olympics of drunken bicycle riding.

Joe and I have plenty of exprience riding things on two wheels; we race motorcycles. We have plenty of experience crashing things on two wheels; we race motorcycles. That being said, there was surprisingly little crashing on this particular day; more like a sloth race meandering back and forth across a lane of traffic powered by laughter and Spanglish. It wasn’t long before we were seen for the world class maniacs that we were.

By the Policia.

The Argentine paddy wagon appeared behind us rather suddenly and crept along at our snails pace for a block or two. We eventually noticed it and then decided to continue on our way and see what happened.

Then the lights came on.

Blue lights sprayed the walls and pavement around us like a K-Mart firestorm. Joe turned to ask me if they were pulling us over. I assured him with the certainty of the Righteous that if they were, then they would use the sirens; we were cool to keep going. For once, I was right. The police followed us for what seemed like miles with their lights on until we could get back the relative safety of Mr. Hugo’s courtyard where Mr. Hugo and his family had a full blown party going.

Among this fiesta were a few very cool cats from New Zealand and some local boys. Gringo Wine was flowing like water and madness tinged the conversation everywhere. The Kiwis talked tirelessly about their home country and the greatness there. Black sand, white sand, red sand, jade forests, double rainbow fish, the list went on and on. As all of us steadily marched our sodden parade toward drunkenness Mr. Hugo and the family made the rounds telling all the extranjeros that the last bus 10, the correct bus 10, was pulling up in a few minutes. Winding everything up, tipping the cups, I noticed that the local boys weren’t faring too well, stumbling a bit more than the rest and talking at loud volumes with our Kiwi friends. The locals revealed that there truck was parked outside and recommended everyone pile in and go party in town. Even Joe and I knew this was a matter of taking your life in your hands, but the Kiwi bunch, undaunted, jumped into the back of the truck and it ripped off into the night and what could well have been it’s final voyage.

Tango being one of the large motivating factors for my stay in Argentina, I wanted to keep up the practicing while in Mendoza. While lessons were a little harder to come by, there is a tourist information bureau near the southern end of the peatonal that has fliers and information for lessons and milongue. One of them takes place in the lower level of a bank. This was the first one I attended. It was wonderful. Gone were the silly tourists, absent were the aging experts; the room was filled with 20 and 30 something women and men who seemed to be having a great time. It was time well spent. I was constantly being reminded of what a bad dance partner I was, but I made definite improvement towards the end of the class, and with renewed vigor I made plans to attend two more classes that week at other locations. This didn’t work out so well, since at both the other occasions, the mix of attendees was never as favorable, including mostly old expert couples and first time tourist males. This just meant Joe and I spent more time with our favorite waitress, Yoha.

It was at this restaraunt that I met my all time favorite beggar of all time. Joe and I were deep in conversation over grape beer when a young man rocked up and asked us for money… for an operation for one of his sick family members. We politely declined. He then looked at the table, pointed, and asked, “Then, can I finish your beer?”

Instant Classic.

Eventually, our time in Mendoza was drawing to a close. The first Argentine I had ever met, Pato, lived in Córdoba which was almost en route to our intended destination of Puerto Iguazú and the Iguazú Falls that join Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina in an otherworldly wet mess at the Devil’s Throat. Joe and I decided to reward ourselves with a night out and some good food. In the often-wrong Lonely Planet guide there was a recommendation for a pasta restaurant that had amazing sauces; 390 Pasta.

This is where we met Pablo. This is where things went mad.

Things started out innocently enough with a bottle of wine. For some reason, the outside seating area was unpopulated despite the majesty of the late summer evening. Joe and I were free to talk loud and long with Pablo, our host at 390 Pasta. Initially, this went smoothly, Pablo made magnificent recommendations for sauce and wine pairings, he managed to keep the onions out of Joe’s food, and even made sure our dipping sauce for the bread was constantly refreshed. Somehow, we felt a fast friendship with Pablo, as he felt one for us. Pablo started bringing us free glasses of other wines to try out, then gave us the name of a friend across town who would hook us up with similar treatment if we mentioned his name, writing the information on a brown paper bag for us. Then he brought out some desserts we hadn’t ordered simply because he thought we would like them. And we DID! Then new wine, then champagne, then coffee, all of which simply appeared, unbidden and gratis. Soon we were discussing travel plans with Pablo, he was giving us recommendations and directions on what to avoid and what we must not miss. When he found out we were planning to return to Buenos Aires before leaving for the USA, his eyes lit up. He said we must call his ex gf when we arrived. She would show us around. “Great,” we agreed. This seemed harmless enough and was quite welcome. Then he hit us with a bombshell.

“She take good care of you. Two guys at once, no problem for her. You will see. You must call her.”

Joe and I both decided it was time to take our leave of Pablo before things reached any more new and uncharted territories.  Soon we were off to the Bus station to hop yet another 20 hour bus ride to Córdoba and our new friends.

We awoke in a new city, famished and blearily tired, on the morning of a national holiday that, for we foreigners, simply meant no one was working: no one was serving food, or coffee, or driving a taxi. All of this took a back seat to the one burning question in our minds: Where was our hostel?

Buenos Aires was HUGE for me. This place was a constant wonderland filled with amazing characters. Despite getting my camera stolen just a few days into the adventure, we managed to get a ton of pictures of everything we ran into. Here are some of the highlights that are just too good to keep to myself.

It is hard for me to actually put into words just how excited I am about this one.

After over three months of traveling solo, I am about to be reunited with one of my closest mates.  Traveling from the USA to Belize, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and now entering Argentina, I am looking forward to actually having a full fledged traveling partner!

Back in the USA, my team mate, Joe is winding down an extensive career with a rather sizable software company. Not sure what to do with himself he decided to come down to South America and relax for a while to burn off some vacation days in between trips to the race track. Team Awesome Racing (often referred to as Team F@#$%*^ Awesome, or Certified Awesome) started up last year rather unexpectedly, as most good things do. We had a great run last year and are moving forward this year with the addition of another rider in my absence.

Joe was the reason that my schedule over the previous few weeks was something of a concern. I needed to get out of Peru, through Bolivia, Chile and Argentina to make it to Buenos Aires in time to catch him at the airport. I made it, but just barely. The Manuel Tienda Leon bus leaves from across the park from the main bus terminal downtown. It is 45 Pesos per person, so if you are rolling solo, this is a pretty decent deal. If you are two or more people, flat rate taxi to or from the airport should be 110 pesos. Don’t pay more than that. One soon-to-be-poor british kid got charged 330 pesos

America to America may not seem like such a big jump, but it can be taxing. So I decided to take it easy on Joe for his first day. After reaching the old Milhouse, we dumped our bags and set off on a walking tour of Recoleta for the rest of the day. Brilliant!

We discovered markets, parks, weird facts about the city, gigantic space flowers, confusing menus, and the fact that 5 years in country gets you a shot at citizenship with Argentina. Lunch was a lesson in typical customer service in Buenos Aires. Everything took inordinate amounts of time, the waitress simply seemed to forget our table and the fact that she was at work a number of times, and nothing really came out quite as we ordered it. It is just something you need to get used to in B.A.

Finally, we came to the Recoleta Cemetary. This is on every “must see” list for Buenos Aires, and I was guardedly excited to see what the buzz was all about. It is quite remarkable.

Recoleta is an eyeful. Ghosts walk the ways, accompanied by gangs of cats that feed on the rats that feed on the leftovers of the ghosts. Names of the rich and famous adorn every crypt in the cemetery. Eva Peron, better known as Evita, is buried here under her maiden name. As it happens when the last member of a rich family dies and no one can continue to pay for the crypts, the bodies are exhumed, buried elsewhere, and the crypt and space is sold to the highest bidder. Often this results in renovations to the existing marble; construction supplies and chunks of demolished marble are not uncommon. This is certainly a place to see.

I mentioned the name Milhouse earlier. Milhouse is the name of Buenos Aires’ “premier party hostel.’ There are two buildings a short ways away from one another and there are things to do every day and night. It also holds free tango lessons a few nights a week, organizes transport to Tango shows and is a short walking distance from La Ideal; an awesome Tango hall that holds classes and milongas almost every day of the week. As learning the Tango was the main reason for my trip to Argentina, this makes Milhouse the place for me. Here are some highlights.

I can’t say enough good things about the staff at the “old” Milhouse. They were endlessly engaging, entertaining, helpful, and all around awesome. They helped us with walking tours, bike tours, tango lessons, directions, reservations at restaraunts, tickets to the Ministry of Sound party at Pacha and answered our every retarded extranjero question. If you get the chance, go there!

This is not to take anything away from the staff at the “new” Milhouse. They were great, too. One of them actually ran several city blocks to return a camera part I had forgotten in their hostel, catching us just before we got on the subte (subway). I just felt that the experience at the “old” Milhouse was a little more personal. I attribute this to the fact that the older building is smaller, housing less people, and allows the staff a few extra moments to help you out.

It is almost impossible for me to sum up how weird, welcoming, and wonderful my experiences in Buenos Aires were. There was so much to see and do and touch and smell and taste that it was an endless playground/disaster area for the senses. After being so enamored with Colombia, I was a little shocked to find that I fell in love with Buenos Aires so fast. After pickpockets, thieves, cocaine addled taxi drivers, and parties that didn’t start until 2 a.m., I guess you could call the city just that: Shocking.