10-11 March 2008

Our taxi got rear-ended on the way to the airport, so Brett and I wandered around with all of our luggage trying to find another ride at the time of day when every other person in Ushuaia needs a taxi. Luckily, some kindly ladies outside of the grocery store allowed us to cut in front of the line of waiting people to take the next cab. We made it to the airport at what would have been too late for our flight, but luckily, the backups seemed to be global, and we had plenty of time to wait in line with everyone else that was flying to Buenos Aires that Monday.

Back in the city, we checked into the elegant, antique Hotel Frossard in the Microcentro barrio (needless to say, a vast improvement from our first accommodation – once we got the toilet to work). We ate pasta and drank a bottle of Malbec at the delicious Italian restaurant next door.

Our goodbye was hasty and anticlimactic the next afternoon. The taxi pulled up, we piled in Brett´s luggage, gave the destination to the driver, and kissed goodbye, and I shut the door and watched them speed away into midday traffic. I had no time for nostalgia because my city tour with the other Fulbrighters was beginning in 10 minutes!

9 March 2008

For Sunday, our hostel booked us a seal tour and a hike through the tiny portion of the Tierra del Fuego National Park in Ushuaia that is open to tourists. I felt rather conspicuously young and American on the Isabella tour boat filled with Japanese and Argentine retirees. We cruised through the chilly gray water of the Beagle Canal past a picturesque red and white lighthouse to an island covered with inelegant, barking seals and sea lions.

Later, our hike consisted of a pleasant 3½ hour trek through the forest along the coastline. We saw thousands of mussels clinging to the rocks of watery inlets and several brown and black rabbits grazing in grassy clearings. Strangely, the last half an hour was a pseudo hike through a 20 foot span of pseudo forest between a barbed wire fence and a road.

We dined our last dinner at one of the many delightful tenedor libre (all-you-can-eat buffet) and parrilla (grill) restaurants along the main street. Despite the large fly that I discovered in our bread dipping sauce, the food and service were excellent. The meat is cut at your request by the parrillero (grill master) from various animal parts impaled on skewers over a roaring fire. I also decided that Ushuaia´s Beagle beer is definitely worth searching for back in the US.

8 March 2008

Bright and early Saturday morning, Brett and I found ourselves on a bus headed back to Ushuaia. We found a cheap, clean, friendly, and convenient hostel on the main street, feasted once again at the Sala de Bingo (this time, my seafood and rice was divine!), and decided to try another trek up to the glacier. We taxied to a trailhead and joined a group of four affable Argentines with the same goal. After a short, energetic climb, however, we were forced to turn back by a sudden downpour of icy cold snow and ice that occurs only near the summit. The guys kindly gave us a lift down the mountain and shared some advice with me on Argentine Spanish. (No se usa “coger!”)

7 March 2008

On Friday morning, Brett and I checked out of the Hostería Bella Vista and headed for Estancia Tepi, an historic sheep farm a few hours’ bus ride northeast of Ushuaia. Unfortunately, a serious lack of cash discovered upon our arrival at the farm forced us to shorten our stay by an entire day and forego a horseback ride. We still were able to enjoy a long, leisurely walk through a valley, see (and hear) a herd of wild guanacos (they sound like a car engine trying to turn over), and eat several scrumptious home-cooked meals. Lentil stew greeted us for our first lunch, followed by raisin tea cake for snack, and fresh killed and cooked lamb ribs for dinner.

We also received a detailed description of the history of the farm, its original owners, and its current operation as tourist lodging. Even more intriguing was the impassioned political discussion that followed, in which the lady of the house elaborated her deep-seated discontent with the inadequacy and hypocrisy of past and present Buenos Aires politicians.

6 March 2008

Our hotel was quite removed from the center of town, but the view of the sunrise was spectacular. We breakfasted with a honeymooning Kiwi couple (the husband was another Fulbrighter!), killed time hiking up toward the glacier that rises above Ushuaia, and made it back to town just in time for our excursion to visit the penguins. The bi-lingual guide spoke English with a thick Britannic twinge that reminded me that much of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego was settled by Welsh immigrants a hundred years ago.

The tourist van drove through the Tierra del Fuego National Park to reach Estancia Haberton, from which a small motor boat took us over to a protected island teeming with penguins, swimming, sleeping, waddling, nesting, molting, and braying like donkeys. Of all of the tours that cruised to see the penguins, ours was the only that allowed us to disembark and walk and sit next to them. (Need I say?) a really cool and highly recommended experience!

5 March 2008

We landed in Ushuaia, taxied to our bed and breakfast, and bused into town just at the wrong time to look for food. The only establishment we found open was the restaurant attached to a Bingo Parlor which served up a gigantic sandwich layered with milanesa (breaded filet of beef), ham, cheese, egg, and tomato. Not wanting to waste it, we took half with us on a plate covered with a plastic bag, which became problematic when we took the wrong bus home and sat smelling conspicuously of greasy food for an hour and a half until we finally arrived at our stop.

4 March 2008

For our third day, we planned an afternoon trip to an estancia outside EL Calafate and a horseback ride on Cerro (Hill) Frías. To pass the time in the morning, we decided to attempt to find the camino (walk) around the laguna (lagoon, or in this case temporarily flooded lake inlet), which the hostel staff had insistently encouraged us to locate. Because everything off the main drag of the town is relatively ad hoc (neighborhoods abruptly ending in dirt roads leading to vestiges of farms), we were frankly surprised to discover a brand new, generously ample, and scarcely traversed boardwalk circling a large cove of water. Leafy tops of trees spread out over the surface, enjoying the temporary bath and community with ducks. I can only assume that the boardwalk is more popular in high tourist season, and that if and when I ever return, it may be scattered with vendors of cheap jewelry and ice cream; however, on that day, it was a quiet, breezy retreat from the main street tourist hotbed.

Our horseback ride on Cerro Frías was a plodding but pleasant loop up and across one side of the hill. We never reached the summit, but the views of the wide, scrubby basin and the distant, snowcapped peaks were spectacular regardless. The guides warned us not to let our poky steeds get out of line, but mine was so utterly bored with the whole ordeal that I could have easily dropped the reigns and turned 180° in the saddle to chat with my companions and take pictures. My favorite part of the trip, however, was watching our gaucho guide maneuver his pitch-black stallion in flamboyant circles around us as we walked. He was quite a show-off, but completely entertaining.

I think I have never eaten so much pumpkin at one time as I did at the asado (big, grilled meal) that followed the ride. There were also plenty of chicken, lamb, and onions, but I zeroed in on that delicious orange squash, well accompanied by Quilmes Cristal. As I periodically wiped beer and pumpkin off my face, Brett and I discovered that one of our fellow riders was the personal assistant to the world’s most famous female polo player, who also happens to be the mother of two of the world’s most famous male polo players. An enlightening discussion ensued about the recent history of polo, and it felt like we were brushing knees with celebrity, albeit once removed.

3 March 2008

The next day, my “Alternative Tour” to the Perito Moreno Glacier involved an extra hour of guided bus ride on the “old road” to reach the glacier. The road was unpaved and barren except for various large birds of prey, scavengers, and English hares. Our tour guide was gifted naturalist, historian, and storyteller, and I felt like a Patagonian expert by the time we rounded the corner to catch our first glimpse of the glacier. From our distant vantage point, the famous ice field looked like a vast spread of jagged, thick, milky frosting sliding around the mountains and severed abruptly at the edge of the chalky blue-green lake. The serrated peaks of the wall grew more clearly distinguishable as we approached the face, but even on closer inspection, the enormity of the ice was unfathomable.

The bus stopped for lunch at the sole tourist look-out, and somehow Brett and I found each other in the crowd of travelers. His tour would head down from the lookout to the glacier, where their “mini-trek” would begin. My tour would follow a different track down to the lake for a mini glacier cruise. As we ate, rested, and watched the glacier, several gigantic slabs of ice cracked and tumbled into the water, releasing waves of sound like elongated thunder. I’m sure that I and every other person there wished the crowds would disperse and leave us to our private wonderment, but we had to be content that at least people tended to hush when the ice cracked.

2 March 2008

For our 6:30am flight, Brett and I arrived at Aeroparque Jorge Newberry airport before 5:00am on March 2. We made it to the burgeoning Patagonian tourist town of El Calafate fatigued and hungry for lunch after missing breakfast. The van ride to the hostel, backgrounded by Jeff Buckley and John Mayer, was a relaxing and uplifting shift from the Buenos Aires frenzy.

We settled into our room, noting thankfully that the toilet flushed reliably, and that the shower was, indeed, as clean and satisfying as the tour books promoted. No invisible mold here and no problems with the bidet! I considered this a victory. Why not celebrate by stuffing myself with an enormous salmon crepe and tomato soup? I ordered the most expensive item on the menu at the over-priced but particularly inviting crepe restaurant in town. My meal arrived piping hot, slathered with cooking oil, and bulging with aromatic pink salmon and neon green leeks. The portion probably could have fed a small family. I left some flecks of salmon for the dog.

Brett and I spent the remainder of the day planning our trip to the Perito Moreno Glacier and looking for the local charms of El Calafate (like the life-size ceramic gnomes in front of gift shops – the better your gnome, the more chocolate you sell). Unfortunately, I was discouraged from attending the mini-trekking excursion to the glacier, which Brett had been looking forward to over everything else. Darn my pathetic hip joint! I was exceptionally disappointed, but we compromised to spend the day on separate tours and compare stories afterward.

Buenos Aires is an enormous city that feels like an enormous city. If you are familiar with a European metropolis (for me, Madrid), the resemblance is comforting until you start to notice the disparities. I had no Latin American counterpart for comparison, so the emotional jolt between, “Oh, this is something I loved in Madrid,” and, “But I’m clearly not in Madrid because…” was constant and unnerving. I just kept wondering what parts of the fabric were Latin America, which were Argentina, and which were Buenos Aires.

Also, this is not to say that every comparison I made between Buenos Aires and Madrid was negative. I was ecstatically impressed by the wide availability of soap in public restrooms (even if paper was somewhat less reliable). The public parks also were more frequent, spacious, and superbly landscaped than I expected. I missed the soul-quaking 30-person drum circle that could always be found somewhere in Madrid’s Parque Retiro, but the pink-blossomed trees, dramatic bronze sculptures, and extended families of contented stray cats asserted their own charms. We also arrived during a month-long, city-wide Tango festival; dancers and music seemed to materialize, perform, and then melt back into the crowd just as quickly. If you are going to visit Buenos Aires, March is a lovely time to go for just this reason.