Made my tent, now I had to sleep in it

I popped my green, one man tent in the shadow of Cerro Piltriquitron. The tent was positioned at angle which put the mountains in line with the tent´s screen door. I am intent on meeting the mountains first thing everymorning. Cerro Piltriquitron is steep. Grey and brown stone protrode from its face in aggressive angles. There is no central peak- just a scoleosis stricken backbone of stone that cuts up the horizon like the work of a small child with safety sizzors. As the sun sets, light crawls down the face and meets the skirt of trees that extend for Piltriquitron´s base to my tent. Across the valley to the west, the mountains are more subtle. They roll like the wake of an idling boat. Pockets of snow rest in the spots where the sun cannot find.

Famished from the day´s travels, I cooked up noodles on a butane flame. Proper cutlery was forgotten in the clutter of packing, so I shoveled the noodles carefully into my mouth using the buck knife I named Sheppy after my cousin. I tried to forget that Sheppy disemboweled a trout just a week before. Digesting the noodles, I sat supine and admired my camp site. The tent was set on bushy grass and a thick tree trunk with an umbrella of leaves extended overhead.

The satisfying saftey of this scene was swiftly diminished after I did a few pointless pull-ups on one of the tree´s limbs. Shaking it with my hanging weight, the tree became alive. A low hum purred overhead. Above was a swarm of bees- all kinds of bees. Small, translucent worker bees. Big queen bees with white tips on their big black behinds. Hornets armed with nasty stingers. I hate bees. I hate bees like Indiana Jones hates snakes. When I was a kid, my parents had to buy me a big net to sit under so I could be at ease amongst the bees on my back deck. I tried not to look too deep into the puzzle of leaves and bees overhead. If I spotted the nest, one which I imagined would be a huge throbbing tumor clinging percariously to a dying limb, my childish fear would force with the move the tent. So I focused on the mountains and my concern gradually faded.

The next morning I packed up my fly rod and reel and set out to find a place to camp along the river. Before making my way to the local mountaineering information center, I walked around El Bolson´s famous street market. In every guide book I thumbed through, El Bolson is described as a ¨hippy village¨. I learned from two Argentine when on the bus ride from Bariloche that El Bolson was named after one of J.R.R. Tolkein´s characters. The Argentines explained that Tolkien´s descriptions could be used to describe the scenery of El Bolson. Walking from vendor to vendor, the hippy presence became apparent. After a half hour, I was sitting crosslegged on the dirty sidewalk chatting with a Peruvian vendor. He sold beautiful handmade jewlery. I decided that the conversation would be best remember if I bought one of his necklaces. So for forty pesos I got a Peruvian shell that hung from bamboo beads.

After a quick chat at the mountaineering center, I set out for Rio Azul (Blue River). I walked for ages. Finally a car pulled up next to me in a cloud of dust. While I could not answer his question, he told me that the river was just to my right. Thinking that he meant it was literally just a bit to my right, I headed straight into the woods to find the river. It became more of a walk than I had anticipated. First I made my way through long feilds where dandilions swayed in the mountain air. Then I slithered through thorns and tripped over nests of dead limbs. Finally, I descended down a dirt and rock path that came to a clearing. From there I could see the river. The amazingly blue water snaked through bright white rocks.

Following the path down, I came to a farmer´s property. There were bulls, cows, horses, chickens, dogs, pigs- all running around. Spotting me, the famer made his way over to me. I have been continually struck by the people here. More often than not they are the character you imagine before coming. The man approached me with an extended, leather skin hand. He wore a black button down shirt and a black beret. His blue jeans hung over brown Argentine boots. He kindly led me through his farm, past his son who wore the same outfit, to the opening of the river. I thanked him a went on to behold Rio Azul.

My main purpose for being at the river was to do some scouting for a spot to pop my tent. Once my camp was set, I would do some serious fishing. There were many options to pop my tent- all which had me on sandy ground. I did set up my rod and made a few casts, but I knew I had to make the outting brief. I spent alot of time getting to the water, and I was unsure when dark would come.

Back at the campsite, I washed up, then returned to town. Randomly, I bumped into the Greek film producer that I had dinner with back in Bariloche. We bought a couple of beers at the supermarket and sat at the town´s center. The El Bolson community was throwing a party for New Years. They set up a modest sound system, and played traditional Argentine music. Soon couples streamed down from their seats, and danced the tango. All types of couples danced: old, young, fat, pretty. Even the town´s drunks wobbled to the dance floor and danced tango with themselves. It was quite the sight.

I am now in town getting some supplies together. I plan to camp on the banks of Rio Azul for the next couple of days. I hoping for fair weather and better fishing.

Christmas

Sitting on the kitchen counter Christmas morning, Tim, Claire and I sipped luke water from old preserve jars. It was six in the morning and we had just wobbled in from a long night of dancing at La Cantina. Tim and Claire are a supremely nice couple from England. We had spent the night struggling through stiff White Russians. When the vodka reached the brewing stew of wine and beer in my belly, I became defenseless in the scrum of Argentine dancers. I was quickly compelled to the exit. Looking down at my dirty feet and hearing my dehydrated heart beat hollow in my head, I knew that this was to be my last night out in Bariloche. ¨Time to make my next move¨, I silently muttered.

The early part of the day was spent mopping around town with two objectives: call my family and attend mass. I have never missed mass on Christmas, and the thought of doing so now scared me to the bone. I need all the guardian angels I can get. Additionally, had I not attended mass, I was sure my mother would telleport herself here and scold me till end of time.

The first church I went to was just closing as I arrived. Apparently this Church is more of a tourist spot than a place of worship. The meek Chaplin directed me up the hill four blocks to where a mass was just concluding. Dreadfully hungover, my shirt pasted to my back with sweat, and my hair caked in a beer soaked nest, I walked into the humble church right as the priest raised the host to the sky preparing for communion. I knelt at the back pew. The wooden step dug into my knees as I struggled to silence my racing mind. I labored over the priest´s Spanish. No matter, I knew what he was saying, having witnessed the rituals my whole life. I filed down the center aisle to the priest, and allowed him to place the host on my tongue like it was done in the times old. All sang the closing hymnal . The priest kissed each as they left. Unsure if I was suppose to let him plant one on me, I slipped out the side.

I returned to the hostel after failing to get my family on the phone. They must be at mass I thought. I imagined the scene very distinctly: My brother slumped in a puddle of exhaustion, having been plucked out of bed moments before; My father´s face still flushed from his morning bike ride; and my mom, front and center at the lectern, articulating each word of the Christmas readings with the utmost care and respect. The image comforted me.

At three, I boarded a bus with Micah, Tim, Claire and another Brit named Nick. 12 kilometers later, we reclined on a small beach along a lake. After dunking into the frigid water, I sat on the beach and absorbed the scene. Children splashed in the water entirely oblivious tothe its biting cold. Girls lay out in tiny bikinis. Old men sat beside muffled radios drinking Mate ( pronounced mat-ay, it is a traditional South American tea). A weathered guacho, led his prominent horse to the lake and freed him from the reigns for a drink. I caked on the sun screen. A big whole in the ozone layer sits like a halo over Argentina. Yesterday, I was burned three shades of red after only an hour in the sun.

Back at the hostel I made myself a delicious steak dinner. Cooked on the rare side of medium-rare, the beef was accompanied with a cheese omelet and a bean salad. Not a bad meal for Christmas I contently thought to myself.

Tomorrow I will leave the acquired comfort of Bariloche and head South to El Bolson. Described in every guide book as a ¨hippy village¨, I plan to spend a day or two camping at one of the town´s refugios. This time will be spent getting supplies. From El Bolson I am headed to Rio Azul to camp, hike and fish. Translated as the Blue River, Rio Azul is renowned for its breathtaking scenery. There are several treks around Rio Azul. I hope to meet some fellow treckers and conquer some of the Andes during this time. As could be expected of a hippy village, El Bolson is way behind the technology curve. It might be a week till I can add another blog entry. I am happy though, as my journal is sourly missing my pen.

My family away from my family on Christmas

After a week in Bariloche I have been sewn into a close knit family of travelers. It is an animated, vivacious group. Each has a unique story. Micah, pronounced the same as the biblical prophet, is from Atlanta. At 26, he owns a company that specializes in BMW upgrades. With dark features, he is of a medium build. Micah possesses an insightful honesty, and will often rescue an intesifying conversation with a lighthearted comment. During a long hike to the summit of Bariloche´s Cerro Otto, Micah and I were engrossed in a brillant conversation about life. On our descent, strong connections developed between our thoughts. It was fulfilling to have some confirmation on my chosen way of life.

Trish is 41 years old. She left a successful career to travel. Trish´s blinding white smile and petite, athletic build makes her seem more youthful than the rest of us. She is contagiously energetic. Since the Cerro Otto hike, she has ridden a mountain bike curcuit around Largo Nahuel Haupi, ventured to Largo Guiterrez with me, and today, she is kayaking.

Rebekka and Kate are two Aussies. Both are gorgeous, and have a playful way about them. They never fail to approach each interation with an air of excitement. Out with the Aussie chaps I had fished with earlier in the week, Kate and I spent a long night dancing in a reggae club called La Cantina. With platinum blond hair, I could easily find Kate in the undulating sea of grinding Argentines.

Yoko is an Australian medical student. Originally of Japanese descent, she is highly intelligent, but modest and comfortably quiet. Yesterday we bumped into eachother during a hike through a near by national park. I was hiking with an Aussie journalist who had recently left his job with the United Nations. In the end, we three met up with an Israeli student and a Greek movie producer for a delectable steak dinner. After the meal, we all sat in awe as the Israeli spoke about her former military service. She then went on to paint the Israeli-Palistinian conflict with the intimate shades of the reality she had seen. The whole affair was mind blowing.

Barbara is likely the oldest women of the group. Her lifestyle, however, does not inkeep with her age. She recently returned from Chile where she broke three ribs hiking on a volcano. Despite this injury which plagues her every movement, she continues with her travels. Lou is similarly advanced in age. A German teacher on his sabatacle, Lou face is characterized with wrinkles indicative of a long life of smiling. A very merry man, Lou also plays the obo in a German orcheastra .

Tem, Tess, Christine and Jess are four Australian birds. While now living in Melbourne, each was originally born in South Africa or Zimbabwe. They are all uniquely attractive, and speak with an Aussie accent that lingers with a touch of the proper South African accent. Jess, a tall blond with an intoxicating smile, recently won Gold in Bejing for sailing.

Each breakfast and dinner is spent at a long table discussing different travel plans. We all listen attentively as each tells stories of their past adventures. When planning this trip months ago, I intentionally did as little research as possible. I hoped that I would come to a place like this and formulate my plan from the advice of others. Its nice to see that approach work out.

Tonight we will all sit down for a Christmas feast. Each is to bring a traditional dish from their homeland. Afterwards, it is the Argentine custome to get entirely sloshed. Its a tall order, but when in Rome...

Merry Christmas to all! I will silently toast one to you tonight!

Wading into Patagonia

From the moment I walked off the bus, I knew I was where I was suppose to be. Carved into the Andes, Bariloche sits on the shores of Nahuel Haupi Lake. The lake flows like a sea. Past the caps of its wind swept waves stands the distant snow topped peaks of the Andes. After checking into my hostel, I set my gear aside and strolled down to the rocky shores of Nahuel Haupi. I felt compelled to wash away my city skin, and baptise myself in this Patagonian lake. With my shoes and camera aside, I waded in and then plunged into its frigid embrace. Water streamed down my face as I emerged. The initial shock of the piercing cold was immediately subdued by the scene I floated in. The sapphire water drew my eyes down its expanse to the solemn spectacle of the Andes.

Returning to my hostel, I opened a celebratory bottle of Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon. I sipped at the wine contently and smiled to each that entered the hostel. As the last of the wine circled the bottle´s bottom, I felt all inhibitions drift away. Just then, three gents carrying fishing rods strolled in. I followed excitedly behind them up the stairs to the room I had also be assigned. ¨Estais pescadores¨, I asked unsure of their nationality. Picking up on my American accent, they responded in English, ¨Yea, we´re trying to do some fishing.¨ They were Aussies on an extended holiday. After some banter over where I was from and my interest in fishing, they invited me to join them in hiring a car and exploring the various rivers we had all seen on the bus ride to Bariloche.

The next day, we rose on the bright and piled into a small Volkswagen. Accustomed to driving on the left side of the road (or the proper side of the road as they described it), the Aussies insisted that I drive. We set out, each with a distinct image of where to fish. Dave, the fly fisherman of the bunch, sat next to me at shotgun. He insisted on a very particular piece of water. Having seen the water myself, I was in complete agreement with Dave. We followed the lone road out of Bariloche with eyes glued to the paralleled Rio Limay. Passing pristine fisheries, we drove for two hours in search of this idyllic stretch. When coming to a bridge which we all knew marked the end of the lake district, we concluded that we must have past the spot. I pulled a U-Turn and headed back to Bariloche. Brimming with the anticipation to fish, and encouraged by the speedy traffic I witnessed on the drive out, I floored the old Volkswagen down the winding highway. Each of us day dreamed of our first cast, and let the scene before us fade into unimportance. Going 135 kmhr, a speed I only later figured into mph, we zoomed back. As I drove, my mind feverishly calculated the time it would take us to backtrack . Indulging in speed, I whipped around the bends towards my fishing dream. Then suddenly, Whaaap! Black and white feathers exploded on the windshield. In the rear view, I saw the bird spiral like a downed jet fighter to the pavement. Ripped out of their daydreams, my mates shot around to our wake and saw the poor bird transpire on the road. ¨Damn Rob, ¨Dave broke the silence in his Aussie accent. ¨More food for the vultures I guess.¨

It was not long till after that we found a fishy looking spot on the Limay and pulled the two door, bird battering machine to the side. We rigged our rods, and jumped the cattle fence to the water. The beautifully blue river flowed lazily along. On the opposite bank stood a ragged rock formation. Not use to fishing slow water like this, the early part of my day was rather frustrating. Later in the day my luck improved when I met up with Dave. He rigged with a dry fly, and me a nymphing set up, we stalked fish like a sniper team. Picking out a big rainbow that continually sipped at the surface, I made a cast out to him. My double fly set up landed and momentarily broke the tranquility of the moving surface. Watching the submerged flies drift towards the fish my eyes burned with concentration. The fish´s take was only indicated by the subtle white flash of the his opened mouth. I shot my bowed rod to the sky and felt the tiny hook of my beadheaded nymph set. Hooked, the fish ran towards the protection of underwater brush and rocks. With rod raised high, relying on the strength of my knots, I dictated the fish´s course to the shores. Reaching down into the now muddied water, I landed my first Argentine rainbow.

The next day, Dave, Greg, John and I pulled the car over along a high cliff from which we could make out a magical stretch of the Limay below. We hiked down along a rocky path, then through a long snake infested plane. I led the way around snake holes as I had the best protections against a bite having worn boots and gaiters. The three others were still in their holiday gear of sandals and bathing suits. The whole time I laughed to myself, thinking that despite living in Australia, a place infamous for its venomous snakes and spiders, these three chaps were just as scared as I was. I enjoyed the company of my new Aussie friends immensely. Each reminded me of someone I had known in my life. They were exceedingly kind to me and to one another. I felt blessed to have met them.

Cringing as we hurried through the very real threat of getting bit by a snake, we continually reminded one another that we were going to find virgin waters. We said that the risks we took would be rewarded with fish that have never seen a fly before. And that's exactly what we found. The river flowed quickly and was only accessible at certain clearings. We walked along a semi-beaded path through the brush and eventually came to high rock formation. We bouldered to the other side where the Limay flowed around massive rocks. After some time without any luck, Dave called me over to a huge boulder he was fishing from. ¨Rob, I got a huge rainbow right here. I have thrown everything I got at him, but I can´t get down to him quick enough. You want to give him a shot?¨ Of course I want a shot. I rushed over, wading stealthily over to the boulder. Looking to solve the problem of reaching the fish as soon as possible I tied on the gnarliest, heaviest fly in my box: a big black woolybugger. Second cast, Bang! The trout crunched the fly. Not expecting such quick success, I remained surprisingly silent as I paced my breathing and maintained my composure. After some agonizing moments of fighting the fish around sharp rocks that could easily snap my 5X leader, I landed the fish along the banks.

The night before, we ate dinner with four lovely Australian girls that were staying in our hostel. One of them actually turned out to be gold medalist sailor in these past Beijing Olympics. In any event, the girls took great interest in us as fisherman, and in turn, possible fish providers. After a couple bottles of wine we agreed to a hunter gatherer scheme were we would return with fish for them to cook the following day. In the back of my mind, I hoped my fellow fisherman would be the one´s to bring home the catch. I consider myself a fly fishing purist- especially as it applies to trout. Accordingly, I adhere to a strict policy of catch and release. I have never killed a trout.

It turned out that I was the only one to catch a fish that day. After a few pictures, and holding the fish at the river´s edge, I turned to my mates, ¨So are we keeping this fish?¨ Not wanting to disappoint the four Australian birds, they responded ¨I guess we have to.¨ Saddened, I laid a kiss on the trout´s forehead, ¨Sorry buddy.¨Hoping to preserve my fishing karma, I vowed to do my penance the next day out, and fish with hookless flies.

This must be the place...

A new light fell upon the city as I departed my hostel and made my way to the Retiro Bus Station to set out southwest to Bariloche. This new light was not an optimistic light. Rather, the city was cast in sad shades of reality. Managing my way down the crowded streets, swaying left and right from my systematically stuffed pack, a small boy approached me. With matted hair and sleep in his eyes, he raised his small soiled palm to me. ¨Monera¨, he pleaded. The boy´s sullen eyes told the sad story of his missing childhood. Emptying my pockets of change into the cradle of his hands, I walked away entirely numbed to the commotion around me. I had never witnessed a child, so young and so vulnerable, pleading for money. With the image tattooed on my conscience, the city brimmed with displays of this travesty. Walking along the Avenidad de Libertad towards the bus station, I saw a small boy dressed up in a Santa costume- beard and all. The boy´s brow glistened in the midday heat as he marched down the line of cars with both hands out to receive any change. His mother sat slumped amidst the exhaust, waiting for the boy to return. For the rest of the day, my mind returned to these scenes and struggled to rationalize them. In the end, there were no answers.

At 1910, I boarded the luxury coach to head to San Carlos de Bariloche. Escaping from the sweltering scene of the bus station, I entered the air conditioned bus, slid into my seat and let cool relief wash over me. I was leaving the city. Dios Mio.

14 hours later I woke to the roar of the down shifting bus. Casting my gaze past my fellow passenger Carlos, a name I only new from scanning the seat assignments when first entering, I let my eyes glaze to the passing landscape. Over the next five hours, I watched the scenery bloom. First was the vast nothingness of arid planes that reached for the horizon. Then came ranges of stripmined peaks. As the hours past, these plateaus gave way to powerful mountains and deep blue lakes. Excitement boiled in my chest with each new scene. I danced from window to window. Gripping my chest, I futilely sought to curb my elation. I must have looked like a small child moments away from wetting himself.



Finally after 21 hours, the bus turned off to the Bariloche station. Emerging from the coach, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. The air was cool, clean, and immensely satisfying. I stood there for several moments, pulling at the air with my lungs. I felt liberated. Liberated from the city. Liberated from the bus. Liberated from all the fantasies I brewed for months. Beholding the humbling landscape was like seeing my family again. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. Slipping into a cab, paralyzed in a painful smile, I rolled down my window and popped my head out. Bob Marley´s ´Is this Love played on the cabby´s radio. I was there. I was here. I was home. PATAGONIA.

Knight G8 to F6: Buenos Aires to San Carlos de Bariloche

After nearly a week, my blistered step has finally fallen into the city rhythm. I successfully reduced the labryrinth of streets into a more manageable crossword configuration. This increased familiarity has eased my previous tension and I find myself smiling more. A loose routine has emerged. After rising and showering, I head to a nearby cafe for lunch. I have decided to treat myself to a nice meal once a day. Lunch, being my favorite meal of the day, is my time to indulge. I love the service here. After ordering my meal, the waiter returns to the table and places a table setting before me. Then after setting down a glass and small tin bucket of ice on the table, he opens an old fashioned bottle of coca-cola before me, and like a fine wine pours a small amount into my glass and leaves me the bottle. Having risen up the ranks of the service industry, I appreciate these little things. The food is delightful. Sometimes, however, I wonder if my blissful satisfaction is partly due to the modest amount I eat each day.

I am still very taken by the Argentine people. Their quaint manner seems to subdue the bedlam of screaming car horns and shouting vendors. Argentines seem blessed with a benign practicality. For instance, yesterday I watched a disheveled homeless man approach the door of a posh resturant. The man was met by the resturant´s highly kempt host. Raising a ragged old water bottle, the homeless man asked ¨Agua.¨ Without a moments hesitation the host took the bottle and had the man come in and escape from the heat of the street while he filled the bottle. This is not an instance of extravagant charity, and maybe I only recognized it because of my enhanced level of observation lately, but it stood out as a highly human moment amidst the mechanical drone of the city.

On a more comical note, dogs here are given more liberties and luxories then most people in the world. Many Argentines make their livings as professional dog walkers. Each day, I come across men and women being led by a pack of up to twelve dogs! Dogs are groomed with delicate care in pet store windows. Meanwhile the dogs seem to be fully aware of their spot in the Argentine heart. Today I watched a raggedy mutt saunter into the middle of the street. Stopping traffic, he squatted and relieved himself before the horde of beeping cars. He payed them little mind as he leisurely finished up and went about pawing at the cement as if to bury his booty.

Satisfied with my days in Buenos Aires , I sense it is time for my next move. Today I purchased a ticket on a luxory bus. Tommorow night I will make the 10 hour journey southwest from Retiro Bus Station, Beunos Aires to San Carlos de Bariloche. I booked a bed in a hostel run by a group of New Zealand kiwis. Having had excellent experiences with kiwis throughout my life, I could not pass up the chance to meet some more. With strong European roots reflected in its alpine architecture and set along the beautiful Nahuel Huapi Lake, Bariloche seems an ideal place to spend my first Christmas away from home.

And so it begins... (revised)

After two planes, a bus, and two taxis, I settled into a barrio of Buenos Aires known as Palmero Soho. Tattered from travel, and still set in the quiet mode of my former life by the beach, the transition into the city was exhausting. Buenos Aires is an enormous city made up of 48 barrios, or neighborhoods. It was pure luck that I found my hostel amidst the tumult of this gigantic city. After dropping my pack, I set out to the streets to explore. As one who most readily identifies with rivers, mountains, and oceans, the city was just another city at first glance. Yet its people set it apart in my mind.

Immediately evident was the striking beauty of Argentine women. Their beauty is classic and pure. With dark featured faces gracing their comely bodies, they walk with a confidence that intesifies their allure. It is not the case that the beauty of these women is beyond anything seen before. Rather, it is the plentiful abundance of them that is so remarkable. Continually I need to force my gaze to the overweight, stubble-faced, toothless women as a means of perserving my sanity. With such an ambient display of feminine beauty, it is easy to see how some well-to-do Argentine men end up walking the streets aimlessly, muttering to themselves in unknown tounges.

The people here are emotionally uninhibited. On most street corners and park benchs, sweethearts vehemently embrace and smother eachother in kisses. Observing their intensity, I imagine their intoxicating love must silence the din of the city. Equally interesting is Argentine greetings. Regardless of age or gender, each Argentine greets the other with a kiss on the cheek. While I was unsuprised to see this done by older folks, it was striking to see a group of teenage men, standing around their motorbikes, greeting eachother in this manner.

This openness is everywhere. Along sidewalks and in parks there are statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary set behind plexiglass. Many go up to the glass, and pressing one hand to the glass and the other on their breast, they whisper prayers. This is done by old and young alike.

As far as my own state, my main difficulty has been with the language. My gringo tourist identity exudes from each of my ill conceived attempts at spanish. Most practically, this inability to properly converse has made eating a problem. I am embarrassed to admit that my first Argentine meal was a Big Mac. I am not a normally a BigMac consumer, but it was the only thing that I had the slightest degree of confidence to order. Even then, I found myself pointing to the illuminated picture of the McDonald´s meal. It was three days later, emaciated by a pathetic diet of bread, pizza and ciggerretts that I sat down and had an Argentine steak. Fortunately, with each day my ability to speak improves.

Despite wearing the scarlet letter of a tourist, I have been treated with the utmost kindness by the locals. Just today, after wandering the streets aimlessly, I was approached by an old woman. When she first addressed me, I could not hear her voice over the music in my earphones. Missing most of her teeth and carrying a flimsy plastic bag, I thought for sure she was asking for spare change. ¨¿Sabes donde vas?¨, she asked. Laboring over her accent, I responded ¨Lo siento, no entiendo¨- I´m sorry, I don´t understand. Then in broken english she asked, ¨Do you know where you are going, or...¨ She then proceeded to gesture with her hands the willynilly route she must have seen me taking. I smiled, taken by her kindness, and responded in the best spanish I could muster, ¨I am okay, just walking around.¨

Walking is how I would describe my days. Endless walking from museums to monuments. While this routine is exhausting, it is the best way to see the city. During my walks, I take in the scenes. Fruit stands on street corners add brilliant color to the cityscape. Artful graffitti covers the walls and provides me with inspiration for my next work. Old men play chess with young men- drawing crowds to watch the silent match. Teenage girls rehearse dance routines in the parks, while young boys chase eachother around. Dogs run unleashed along their masters. Norman Rockwell would have loved to paint here.

The city is vibrant with intimate energy. Yet while I am happy with Buenos Aires, my preconditions make it difficult to stay here. I am not a city person. In my mind, I hear the callings of the Patagonia rivers and mountains for which I came to Argentina. I am planning to finish the week here, then head southwest to Bariloche where I think I will feel more at home nestled in nature.