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.