Shalom and An'nyong in El Chalten

My previous post described the strange union of two species, glaciers and flamingos.  In El-Chalten, a small hamlet in Patagonia, we observed another incongruous union.  Several years ago, El Chalten was mainly a destination for backpackers heading into the Fitzroy Range.  Nowadays, many tourists like us, take day hikes only to the base of the mountains, and enjoy the  magnificent views of rugged, white-capped  peaks.

As soon as we boarded the bus, we heard more Hebrew than we did for the previous two months in Argentina. On our arrival, we were not surprised to observe that the village was dominated by large groups of post-army Israelis.  However, we were surprised by the second-largest constituency of tourists, which were middle-aged Koreans.  Soon we learned, that even though both the Israeli and the Korean species share the same flocking instinct (Facebook?), they differ in their habits.

We left our hotel for, what we considered, an early start.  Our destination was a glacial lake-with-a-view.  We were alone on the trail for the first half of the pleasant walk, until we encountered a group of Korean ajum'mas (housewives) already on their way back.  We were astounded, they must have left the village at least three hours ahead of us.  For the next hour, every single group coming towards us was Korean.  All were dressed in the latest outdoor fashions (Not including the parasols, which the more elegant women used against the strong sun).  Eventually, the trail regained its serenity.  At the lake, we joined a small crowd of assorted nationalities in admiring the view, and playing with the floating ice.  After eating our sandwiches, we headed back.  Half way home, we had a deja-vu experience, with one difference.  This time, all the groups going towards the lake were Israeli wearing clothes that seemed too light for the weather.  Superfluous to say that they were heard well before they were seen.

One additional fact:  According to a group of Korean backpackers, "It is advised" to be at the lake during sunrise.

Based on the above observations, I will leave it to the reader to deduce national traits.

Flamingos and Glaciers

Both Flamingos and Glaciers evoke fantastic and colorful images.  One brings forth coral colors and tropical plains, the other, high mountain peaks.  In Argentina, they inhabit the same lake.  We encountered the flamingos on the way from our hotel to the center of El Calafate, a two-kilometer walk along the shores of Lake Argentino.  It was a sunny but cold day, and we had to lean forward to overcome the fifty-km/hr headwind.  Through my watering eyes, I saw birds along the waterline, which to my astonishment, were not white.  Adi, who has the better eyesight, confirmed, "These are flamingos."  Due to their short legs, she named them "Asian Flamingos" .

In town, we boarded the bus to Perito Moreno Glacier, which is the main, if not the only, reason tourists flock to this faraway place.  The road to the glacier, which is on the far side of the lake, travels through another incompatible image, a cold desert.  The land is flat and barren with windswept sand dunes adding to the surreal scene.

Perito Moreno Glacier has not been affected by global warming, and maintains its original size.  The topography of the shore allows observation platforms to be placed a few hundred meters across the lake from the glacier, and its sheer size, awed us at first sight.  From the platforms, the vertical hundred-meter high ice wall, seems within touch, and the hypnotic deep-blue light glowing from within the crevasses invite you to explore.  Perito Moreno flows slowly to the lake, and every few minutes a loud roar can be heard.  With some patience and luck, about a second before the thunder arrives, you can observe the spectacular event as a gigantic chunk of ice drops, almost in slow motion, into the water below.
(The photo's point of view is from the boat tour) 

Bye Bye Buenos Aires

I love Buenos Aires.  I love the friendly people, the energy, the cultural events, the great food, and on and on.  It is a very livable city and despite its large size, most destinations are within easy reach.  Although Porteños (as locals call themselves), love to complain (and warn foreigners) about crime in the city, we found it peaceful compared to large cities in Europe.

However, I can't conclude my last post from BA without mentioning one of its quirks. Porteños love dogs, and it seems that each resident has at least one.  Since dogs don't like to "go" inside apartments, they need to be walked, thus providing opportunity for professional dog-walkers (See photo).  Unfortunately, the many residents who like to walk their dogs themselves, have not yet internalized the plastic-bag-pickup routine.  Thus, upon emerging from your air-conditioned apartment building, you are hit with the pungent smell of dog excrement.  Avoiding the landmines on the tree-lined sidewalks, requires good vision, quick reactions, and great agility.   All is forgotten, as you reach your neighborhood parilla (grill) and enjoy a chorizo steak with Malbec wine.

Time Warp

I should have suspected that something was strange, on our first night in Buenos Aires.  It was after midnight, when we met the owner of our rental apartment. He came accompanied by a pretty red-head, and looked surprisingly fresh and energetic.
"I just stepped out of a family dinner", he said, brushing aside my apologies for the late hour.  From there, he escorted us to the crowded corner cafe, where Adi and I sat by a sidewalk table and decompressed from the long flight. When we left, patrons of all ages were still coming in.

The suspicion became stronger the next evening.  At seven PM, the Tango dance hall was closed. The caretaker (slight limp, but no candles or long white hair) seemed a bit surprised to see us at the gate.  He explained that despite what it says in the web-page, classes start at nine, and the general dance starts at eleven, or later.  True enough, at nine, people began to enter the darkened ballroom.

Only  the following morning, did we really grasp the extent of the phenomenon.  We  were downtown, ready to start our sightseeing, but the museums, as well as the shops and offices, were all shuttered.  We concluded that the city is affected by a weird time-warp.  Portenos eat dinner at  nine, start dancing at midnight, and offices don't open till  ten AM.  How they manage to start work, even at this hour, I will need to investigate.

Where is the Beef?

"If you don't like steak, don't go to Argentina!"
That was Doron's advice.   When he later modified his warning to "...steak or ice-cream...", and since I like the occasional steak, I felt free to go.

Walking in Buenos Aires at lunch (noon-3), or dinner (9-midnight), it is impossible to ignore the tempting fragrance of roasting meat.  Every city-block hosts at least one Parilla (grill restaurant), and the aroma floods the sidewalks.  Eventually, you succumb to the temptation, and walk in.  The food always lived up to the promise.  Even though at times, the menu resembled a class in cow anatomy, there was no worry;  whichever cut I ordered,  I was served with a large, thick, and juicy slab, that was as good looking as it was tasty.  The meat is usually accompanied by fried potatoes and a glass of wine, and the price is very kind.

However, after enjoying Argentina's beef for a couple of weeks, I have learned two things.

1. There is only so much meat I can take.   I need at least two days of a total salad diet before I can even think about my next carnivorous meal.
2. Debbie's family BBQ recipe, prepared by either father, brother, or son, (Poor Debbie is vegetarian.) can easily stand up to any of the cuts I tasted in Argentina.

I must admit that so far, I have only eaten in neighborhood Parillas.  I am working my way up to the more famous beef joints.  If my evaluation changes, I will post an update here.

Buenos Aires Blues

Blue does not refer to my mood.  It is the soulful sound of an Uruguayan drummer, two Argentinians on acoustic base and electric guitar, and an Italian (Paolo Russo) playing the BANDEON.  These musicians, first met on the day of the performance, under the auspices of the Buenos-Aires Jazz Festival.  In an intimate brick-lined bar, they created what I would describe as Tango Blues.

The audience loved them, and so did I.  I felt really lucky for several reasons.
1.  The combination of Cool Jazz and the emotional voice of the bandeon, was great.
2.  The music was a perfect fit for our first concert in Argentina.
3.  The tasty Chardonnay was only 10 bucks per bottle (and that was the more expensive choice).
4.  The venue was less than one block away from our apartment.

As Jaime, our Oaxaca friend likes to say on such occasions, "The satisfaction of having been born"

Where Have All The Gauchos Gone?

The bus departed with a roar, and left us standing on the deserted street.  We walked to town, our footsteps ricocheting off the peeling walls, while the midday sun blazed down from a deep blue sky.  This scene may have worked well for "High Noon", but not for us.  We were in San Antonio de Areco for the "Day of Tradition", a popular gaucho festival, and expected to see a crowd of celebrating cowboys, and camera-clicking tourists, not Gary Cooper.

At our hotel, we learned that three days prior to our arrival, rains flooded the town, and the festival was cancelled.  We reminded ourselves that nomads do not dwell on the could-have-been, and ventured to the plaza.  The water has receded, and the old pulperia (general store/pub) resumed operations.  In the back patio, slabs of meat, the size of a human torso, were staked, as if in a pagan ceremony, around a smoking fire.  We settled at a shady table overlooking the river, and ordered the sirloin which, coupled with a liter of stout, quickly soothed our disappointment.

In the evening, the town provided the handful of visitors, with a sample of the cancelled event.  We watched as Martin, an incredible horse whisperer, performed an intricate and sensual, routine with his horse (Yes, he did kiss it on the mouth).  We were also taught the Chacarera, an Argentina's rural folk dance.  After the weekend, we start our Tango lessons.