Rewind: El Bolsón

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.

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.