When my classes ended in Buenos Aires two Decembers ago, I had a month before my family would come to visit. I decided to spend it with my friend Jenny, traveling through Patagonia, a thinly-populated, mountainous region of southern Argentina and Chile. Jenny had spent a few weeks in Chile by herself while I finished my classes, so I took an overnight bus and met her in Bariloche, one of the biggest resort towns in Patagonia. Without leaving the train station, we boarded another bus which took us to El Bolsón, a smaller town two hours away. We chose to start our trip here because of El Bolsón's reputation as a hippie haven, populated by middle-aged Argentines who had moved down south looking for natural beauty and eco-friendly living. It also didn't hurt that the town was known for Belgian waffles and microbreweries. When we got off the bus, we took a cab to our hostel, and our Birkenstock-wearing driver put on Simon and Garfunkel's "I've Gone to Look for America." It seemed like an auspicious beginning to the trip.
Before we arrived at our hostel, we were disappointed that it was outside of town and (they told us) required a cab ride. But the minute we pulled into the driveway, we knew we had made the right decision. El Pueblito (the little village) was a log cabin in the middle of a meadow surrounded by snowy mountains. Patagonian peaks do not mess around. They were rocky and craggy and towering only a few hundred feet away. The hostel had both a front and a back porch, and we stood and watched the sunset on the front porch while the river meandered past us.
Inside, we found the most comfortable, homiest hostel I have ever seen. There was a beautiful kitchen, which made it easy to cook, combined with homemade meals sold every night and home-brewed beer. Only about four other people were staying in the hostel at the time - two guys about our age, one German and one American, as well as an older married couple. Every night, we all sat down to dinner together, along with the young Argentine guy who ran the hostel, the young American girl who was helping out in exchange for free room and board, and the older, eccentric German owner, who lived in a small building in the backyard. Most hostels provide breakfast in the morning, but this breakfast included homemade granola, fresh-cooked eggs, and toast with jam made from local Patagonian berries.
We spent a lot of our time in the backyard of El Pueblito, which featured a series of hammocks, chest-high Patagonian lupino flowers, and five or six friendly stray cats and dogs, who only wanted to lay on your lap and stare at the mountains with you. All of the other guests were very friendly, and we played cards and talked about our travels with them.
We soon realized we didn't really need to take a cab to the hostel, and instead opted for long walks down the dirt road connecting El Pueblito to El Bolsón. The mountains lined the road behind a series of meadows, and I finished the walk giddy every time. In town, we went to the craft market, where we feasted on pizza made before our eyes (more like bread with melted cheese and some vegetables really, but it was delicious nonetheless), beer brewed in the town, and Belgian waffles with strawberries, cream, and powdered sugar. El Bolsón has become known for these waffles, sold by a family that moved to Argentina from Belgium a generation ago.
We also went to Helados Jauja, a not-to-be-missed ice cream shop, at least twice in our two days in El Bolsón. I've written about Argentine ice cream - incredibly creamy and smooth with a boggling variety of flavors. Helados Jauja took that to the next level, selling tons of local Patagonian berry flavors, as well as things like lavender and fig, along with the typical chocolate and dulce de leche options. We spent nearly half an hour standing at the register, trying to determine the best pairing (since a small gets you two flavors) and sampling each other's picks before determining we had to come back for more. Two years later, my mouth waters remembering my bright purple, Maqui berry ice cream.
We spent the rest of our trip on short hikes near the town. The first was at Lake Puelo, a small lake that butts up against mountains about a twenty minute bus ride outside of town. We chose the difficult path, still less than an hour of walking, which brought us to the top of a hill with a view of the lake and the mountains all around it. We spent the afternoon sitting by the lake, eating lunch, talking, and reminding ourselves how lucky we were about every ten minutes.
Our second hike took us in a loop around El Bolsón itself. We spent most of it bushwacking in some woods and sitting by a different section of the same river that runs past El Pueblito. Getting lost gave us the opportunity to see a different side of town. We ended up in a poor, residential area, where a man in a pick-up truck practically begged us to let him give us a ride to the town center. These were clearly the people who, unlike the hippies, were not necessarily in middle-of-nowhere El Bolsón by choice. After two of the most beautiful days of my life, it was probably good to be reminded that the world is not all hammocks and lavender ice cream.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Berkshires
A couple days after returning from Vermont, I headed north again, this time to Sandisfield, Massachusetts. My housemate Arran's family has a wooden mansion there, a converted Gentleman's Lodge on acres and acres of property, purchased by his great-grandparents in the 1970s. After years of gradual construction, the house feels like a grown-up playground, complete with indoor and outdoor fireplaces, cross-country skis, board games, books, a hot tub, a pool table, food grown on the property, a lake, a meadow, and even a slide connecting Arran's room to his brother's upstairs. They have left some of the original decorations, including antlers and animal hides and old books and globes. There are windows everywhere, and I spent the mornings reading in a huge leather chair as the house filled with light.
Though people came and went over the course of the four days, the group included, at some point, nearly all of my best friends from Wesleyan. It was the perfect way to spend spring break. The last time I went to visit, in the early fall, we made apple pancakes with apples picked from the trees outside and ate handfuls of the last few raspberries left on the bushes. This time, we covered our pancakes in maple syrup tapped in the backyard and ate dinners of steak, chicken and vegetables grilled on the outdoor fireplace.
On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a perfect spring day, perhaps the first of the season. Ankit, Sam and I walked to a lake about two miles away, and we sat watching ice melt and teaching Ankit camp songs. The rest of the trip was rainy, and we mostly spent it inside, cooking, playing board games, drinking beer, and reading. On our last night, we stayed up until 3 in the morning talking and laughing in front of the fire.
I'm back at Wesleyan now. The dreary weather has followed me, and I miss the fresh maple syrup and the fireplace. But it's nice to be home and to sleep in my own bed for a few days before I go on my last trip of the break.
Though people came and went over the course of the four days, the group included, at some point, nearly all of my best friends from Wesleyan. It was the perfect way to spend spring break. The last time I went to visit, in the early fall, we made apple pancakes with apples picked from the trees outside and ate handfuls of the last few raspberries left on the bushes. This time, we covered our pancakes in maple syrup tapped in the backyard and ate dinners of steak, chicken and vegetables grilled on the outdoor fireplace.
On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a perfect spring day, perhaps the first of the season. Ankit, Sam and I walked to a lake about two miles away, and we sat watching ice melt and teaching Ankit camp songs. The rest of the trip was rainy, and we mostly spent it inside, cooking, playing board games, drinking beer, and reading. On our last night, we stayed up until 3 in the morning talking and laughing in front of the fire.
I'm back at Wesleyan now. The dreary weather has followed me, and I miss the fresh maple syrup and the fireplace. But it's nice to be home and to sleep in my own bed for a few days before I go on my last trip of the break.
Ludlow, Vermont
Last weekend marked the beginning of Spring Break, the last Spring Break of my college career. A friend from CSS, my major, invited a group of us to her house in Vermont for the weekend. So on Friday afternoon, three Americans, a Singaporean, a Puerto Rican and a girl from Hong Kong (a Hong Kongian?) left for a weekend of winter sports and mountain beauty.
I have to admit, at first I was a bit disappointed. Though I'm from Illinois, perhaps the flattest place on earth, the mountains I have experienced have been from places like Colorado, Patagonia and Switzerland (**pause, think about how lucky I am, squeal a little**). In comparison, the ancient, worn-down mountains of Southern Vermont seemed more like big hills. But then I paused to look more closely.
The morning after we arrived, my friends went to the mountain to try their hand at downhill skiing, many for the first time. I'd done it many times before and wanted to try something new, so I went to the nearby golf course turned Nordic Center for a three-mile snowshoe hike.** Standing on a hill in the woods behind the snow-covered golf course, I could see the ski mountain in front of me and the rolling green mountains all around it. The mountains in Vermont were smaller and less dramatic than the ones I'd seen before, but the complete quiet and peacefulness of rural Vermont, only a few miles outside of a major ski resort, was unique. Driving outside of town the following day, I figured it out: the beauty of Vermont isn't in-your-face. It requires you to slow down for a minute and just be. Between the rivers, the hills, and the winding rural roads, I'd learned to let Vermont wash over me.
We concluded our trip with a visit to Long Trail Brewery in Bridgewater Corners, about half an hour from where we were staying. Sitting on the back patio in the sun, next to a fire, sharing a pitcher with my friends, I thought, "I could get used to this."
**For your comic amusement, I should add that I also tried cross-country skiing for the first time. When I asked the man at the rental place if he had any tips, he shrugged and said, "I've never done it before." Just picture me on a trail of slicked-down snow, lurching forward, stopping suddenly, almost doing the splits in an attempt to keep myself standing. It didn't take long before I switched to snowshoes.
I have to admit, at first I was a bit disappointed. Though I'm from Illinois, perhaps the flattest place on earth, the mountains I have experienced have been from places like Colorado, Patagonia and Switzerland (**pause, think about how lucky I am, squeal a little**). In comparison, the ancient, worn-down mountains of Southern Vermont seemed more like big hills. But then I paused to look more closely.
The morning after we arrived, my friends went to the mountain to try their hand at downhill skiing, many for the first time. I'd done it many times before and wanted to try something new, so I went to the nearby golf course turned Nordic Center for a three-mile snowshoe hike.** Standing on a hill in the woods behind the snow-covered golf course, I could see the ski mountain in front of me and the rolling green mountains all around it. The mountains in Vermont were smaller and less dramatic than the ones I'd seen before, but the complete quiet and peacefulness of rural Vermont, only a few miles outside of a major ski resort, was unique. Driving outside of town the following day, I figured it out: the beauty of Vermont isn't in-your-face. It requires you to slow down for a minute and just be. Between the rivers, the hills, and the winding rural roads, I'd learned to let Vermont wash over me.
We concluded our trip with a visit to Long Trail Brewery in Bridgewater Corners, about half an hour from where we were staying. Sitting on the back patio in the sun, next to a fire, sharing a pitcher with my friends, I thought, "I could get used to this."
**For your comic amusement, I should add that I also tried cross-country skiing for the first time. When I asked the man at the rental place if he had any tips, he shrugged and said, "I've never done it before." Just picture me on a trail of slicked-down snow, lurching forward, stopping suddenly, almost doing the splits in an attempt to keep myself standing. It didn't take long before I switched to snowshoes.
New Orleans
After doing some traveling in the past few weeks, I have definitely caught the bug again. I'm sure no one's reading this, but I'm updating anyway, as a way of coping with my excitement for future overseas travels that will interest other people.
A few weeks ago, my friend Jeff and I went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was on a Tuesday in the middle of the semester, so I only went for a couple days, but it was a wonderful trip. I've never been to New Orleans before, and I absolutely loved what I saw, though I'm sure my impression was skewed by the party atmosphere all around. Everywhere we went in the city, people were celebrating. Even when we deviated from the major parades, there were small ones, as well as barbecues, street dancing, and gatherings of all sorts.
I'm particularly excited that I got to go to New Orleans this year, immediately after the Saints won the Superbowl. Everywhere we went, people were shouting "who dat!", often right in our faces. We even got to see the Superbowl trophy and one of the Saints players at a parade. The excitement permeated the city, and it made me genuinely happy for them that their team had won. Clearly, this win really mattered to people.
The day I arrived, I took a bus from the airport to the French Quarter and met up with Jeff and Eric, Jeff's friend from high school, who now lives in New Orleans and works for the local NBC affiliate. Jeff almost immediately handed me a Piña Colada in a light up cup, which I carried down to the river, along with my backpack and sleeping bag. We met up with our friend Cait from Wesleyan, who was there visiting her brother. Cait, her brother, and her brother's friend were at Lindi Gras - the pre-party for the Zulu parade, as far as I can gather. We stood next to the stage for about ten minutes, before Ludacris came on and sang a couple of songs. So there I was, less than an hour after getting off my plane, listening to Ludacris and drinking a Piña Colada out of a light up cup at 2 pm on a Monday. I knew it was going to be a good trip.
For dinner, me, Jeff and Eric walked to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant Jeff had eaten at years earlier, where we ordered plates and plates of cajun fare, and ate some of the best sausages and fried chicken I've ever had. I also discovered that I like crab, which was pretty exciting. We spent the evening at the Orpheus parade, but left early, as we were all ready for bed and planned to get up early the next morning.
The next day, which was actual Mardi Gras, Jeff and I woke up early and took a gorgeous walk through the Garden District to get to the Zulu Parade. Though it was before 10 am, we were clearly late to the party. Families and other groups of people had been there for hours and were barbecuing and drinking like it was dinner time. We met up with Cait, her brother, and her brother's friends and spent a stupid amount of time shouting at passing floats in exchange for beads, cups and a boggling array of useless plastic items.
We spent the afternoon on several-hour long walk through the entire city, following Cait's brother and his friends to a barbecue at their friends' house. Though I had no idea where I was going, or even what the end goal of the journey was, I really enjoyed getting to see so many different neighborhoods of the city. We walked, in a very roundabout way, all the way from the top of the Garden District, through downtown and the French Quarter and into another neighborhood I don't know the name of. On our way, we saw the Madri Gras Indians, a small group of people who dress up in amazing, homemade costumes every year to honor the Indian tribes that allowed escaped Louisiana slaves to live among them. Very interesting and beautiful.
It was also really interesting to see the inside of a few different homes. Clearly, the property values have sunk, because people only a couple years older than me were living in beautiful houses and apartments. On the flip side, in some neighborhoods I saw, at least a third of the houses remained destroyed, and signs honored those who had died in the Hurricane.
After resting for awhile at the barbecue, Jeff, Cait, and I decided to pay our requisite tourist dues and head to Bourbon Street, home of giant beers, 24-hour-a-day bars, and middle-aged men yelling "show me your tits." It was an all-around disgusting place, but fun to see once. We ate dinner with Eric at Port o' Call, also in the French Quarter, which supposedly has the best burgers in the city. Though I have no basis for comparison, I can say that our dinner was definitely worth the two hour plus wait. The hamburgers were huge and delicious and came with amazing baked potatoes.
After that, we walked to another neighborhood nearby to meet up with my friends Sarah and Zak, recent Wesleyan alumni who moved to New Orleans after graduation. Though we were only a few blocks away from Bourbon Street, the scene was completely different. There was no dearth of partying, but in place of trashy tourists, the neighborhood was filled with live music and hipsters decked out in crazy Mardi Gras costumes. I wish I could have stayed longer at Zak's apartment, but my friends were more than ready for bed. Still, it was great to see friends and get an idea of life after Wesleyan for people interested in places besides New York and Boston.
Jeff and I woke up at 4:30 that morning to catch our cab. We stopped at the famous beignet place on the river (open 24/7), leading to one of the messiest, greasiest, and most delicious breakfasts I've had in awhile. As I waited to board my plane, the flight attendant came on the microphone and said, "we thank you for coming to visit our city. We'd like to remind you that Mardi Gras is over and it's time to get back to the real world." Hopefully, I'll have the chance to visit New Orleans again, when it is a bit more like "the real world."
A few weeks ago, my friend Jeff and I went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was on a Tuesday in the middle of the semester, so I only went for a couple days, but it was a wonderful trip. I've never been to New Orleans before, and I absolutely loved what I saw, though I'm sure my impression was skewed by the party atmosphere all around. Everywhere we went in the city, people were celebrating. Even when we deviated from the major parades, there were small ones, as well as barbecues, street dancing, and gatherings of all sorts.
I'm particularly excited that I got to go to New Orleans this year, immediately after the Saints won the Superbowl. Everywhere we went, people were shouting "who dat!", often right in our faces. We even got to see the Superbowl trophy and one of the Saints players at a parade. The excitement permeated the city, and it made me genuinely happy for them that their team had won. Clearly, this win really mattered to people.
The day I arrived, I took a bus from the airport to the French Quarter and met up with Jeff and Eric, Jeff's friend from high school, who now lives in New Orleans and works for the local NBC affiliate. Jeff almost immediately handed me a Piña Colada in a light up cup, which I carried down to the river, along with my backpack and sleeping bag. We met up with our friend Cait from Wesleyan, who was there visiting her brother. Cait, her brother, and her brother's friend were at Lindi Gras - the pre-party for the Zulu parade, as far as I can gather. We stood next to the stage for about ten minutes, before Ludacris came on and sang a couple of songs. So there I was, less than an hour after getting off my plane, listening to Ludacris and drinking a Piña Colada out of a light up cup at 2 pm on a Monday. I knew it was going to be a good trip.
For dinner, me, Jeff and Eric walked to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant Jeff had eaten at years earlier, where we ordered plates and plates of cajun fare, and ate some of the best sausages and fried chicken I've ever had. I also discovered that I like crab, which was pretty exciting. We spent the evening at the Orpheus parade, but left early, as we were all ready for bed and planned to get up early the next morning.
The next day, which was actual Mardi Gras, Jeff and I woke up early and took a gorgeous walk through the Garden District to get to the Zulu Parade. Though it was before 10 am, we were clearly late to the party. Families and other groups of people had been there for hours and were barbecuing and drinking like it was dinner time. We met up with Cait, her brother, and her brother's friends and spent a stupid amount of time shouting at passing floats in exchange for beads, cups and a boggling array of useless plastic items.
We spent the afternoon on several-hour long walk through the entire city, following Cait's brother and his friends to a barbecue at their friends' house. Though I had no idea where I was going, or even what the end goal of the journey was, I really enjoyed getting to see so many different neighborhoods of the city. We walked, in a very roundabout way, all the way from the top of the Garden District, through downtown and the French Quarter and into another neighborhood I don't know the name of. On our way, we saw the Madri Gras Indians, a small group of people who dress up in amazing, homemade costumes every year to honor the Indian tribes that allowed escaped Louisiana slaves to live among them. Very interesting and beautiful.
It was also really interesting to see the inside of a few different homes. Clearly, the property values have sunk, because people only a couple years older than me were living in beautiful houses and apartments. On the flip side, in some neighborhoods I saw, at least a third of the houses remained destroyed, and signs honored those who had died in the Hurricane.
After resting for awhile at the barbecue, Jeff, Cait, and I decided to pay our requisite tourist dues and head to Bourbon Street, home of giant beers, 24-hour-a-day bars, and middle-aged men yelling "show me your tits." It was an all-around disgusting place, but fun to see once. We ate dinner with Eric at Port o' Call, also in the French Quarter, which supposedly has the best burgers in the city. Though I have no basis for comparison, I can say that our dinner was definitely worth the two hour plus wait. The hamburgers were huge and delicious and came with amazing baked potatoes.
After that, we walked to another neighborhood nearby to meet up with my friends Sarah and Zak, recent Wesleyan alumni who moved to New Orleans after graduation. Though we were only a few blocks away from Bourbon Street, the scene was completely different. There was no dearth of partying, but in place of trashy tourists, the neighborhood was filled with live music and hipsters decked out in crazy Mardi Gras costumes. I wish I could have stayed longer at Zak's apartment, but my friends were more than ready for bed. Still, it was great to see friends and get an idea of life after Wesleyan for people interested in places besides New York and Boston.
Jeff and I woke up at 4:30 that morning to catch our cab. We stopped at the famous beignet place on the river (open 24/7), leading to one of the messiest, greasiest, and most delicious breakfasts I've had in awhile. As I waited to board my plane, the flight attendant came on the microphone and said, "we thank you for coming to visit our city. We'd like to remind you that Mardi Gras is over and it's time to get back to the real world." Hopefully, I'll have the chance to visit New Orleans again, when it is a bit more like "the real world."
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