Vacation: Pt. 3 - Bodacious Cowboys, Such as Your Friend, Will Never Be Welcome Here.

Farewell wires, silicon chips, and internal combustion. Goodbye concrete, asphalt, and liquid refreshments; onward to the pampas, onto the plains with the sound of oiled leather.

And with that, we were on the move across Argentina, to the south, past the sprawling suburbs of Buenos Aires, the edges of the great delta, and the first invasions of open grassland. I would have seen them all, but on a night bus to Santa Rosa, with only the occasional streetlight flashing though the dark of the cabin, I had to content myself to a Hollywood throw-away and fitfull sleeping.

Dawn sharpened over Santa Rosa, capital of La Pampa, and the only city of any significance for several hundred miles. The city, pleasant as it is, has little to offer besides low houses, faded paint, and cheap sandwiches; I munched on a fine pollo milanesa watching Dadok bargain for our rental car. I was doing nothing, nothing but wait for morning to turn to midday.

"I can mash potato. I can do the twist. Now tell me baby: do you like it like this?" A supermarket compilation of overplayed 50s classics is the only soundtrack to our southbound truck; the radio draws a blank. We're pushing across the continent to an isolated ridge of red rocks rusting in the chrome-bright sun. With unkicked tires rolling along, a hundred kilometers clicks by in converted units. But, every thirty minutes, do the highways love me?

We turn off the highway onto a gravel road when the sign tells us to; even in the wilderness, signs hold some power. Parque Nacional Lihue Calel, as the cheerful ranger tells us, is empty: "You can check out the museum building, but remember to close the door when you're done." Thousands of acres of Argentine land, ours to claim.
Though beautiful, the park is - at best - starkly beautiful; that is, by the time I left, I had the suspicion that the boundary fence seemed to lean inward, as if whatever desert emanated from Lihue Calel needed to be contained more than protected. Nevertheless, our campground was in the shadow of an intimidating mountain of jagged boulders, over which lay....nothing, the most beautiful nothing in the world.
We climbed about 600 meters in twenty minutes to see the sunset into the pampas, and it didn't disappoint. If only it could have lingered more, the sun melting so, until only the saffron glow lit the way down. Later, I slept in the pickup bed, under thousands of unknown stars, seen between the passing clouds for what felt like the first time.
Two days beneath the sun and the stars, two days with buzzing and creeping interlocutors, two days with iodine water. On our final afternoon, the sky filled with clouds rolling in from the north. Then from the south. Then from the west, a swirling torrent of rain, rain driven horizontal, came to wash away two days worth of footprints.
"They said you was high class; well, that was just a lie." The Toyota Hilux once again rolled through the Argentine version of Baker, Barstow, and Berdoo back to Santa Rosa. There we were met by a cheery, rambling man with a black idling truck, ready to take us two hours north to his estancia. Dadok had been insistent that we spend a night at an estancia, even if it was by far the most expensive part of the trip. Not wanting much of fight I had acquiesced. To be fair, after two days in the desert, the possibility of a fluffy bed, hot food, and showers was enough to tempt me.

The man must be in his seventies - he said he finished at Bowdoin in 1958 - and has lived a colorful life as Eastern European immigrant, ranch baron, and hotelier. He owns vast swaths of the pampas, knows the names of the grasses, and clearly loves his life. His wife, a homely chain-smoking Argentinian woman, is very warm. They have it figured out, boy howdy.

Immediately upon arrival, it's time for lunch. (To explain our subsequent hunger, I should mention that Jeff Warren and Alex White - two former FOOT leaders - led us on POW rations while camping. We ran out of food, which led us to buy disappointing breakfasts at a gas station. I made off the best on that deal: mmm, mini-muffins filled with dulce de leche.) First course was some sort of rolled dough (cornmeal, actually) filled with tuna, served cold. Very strange, even more so when the frosting on top of my portion turned out to be mayonnaise. Then it was time for veal milanesa, dozens of them. I had eight, plus mashed potatoes. Zoltan (a fine European name) kept egging us on, like he was our relative. Then dessert.

Not surprisingly, I took a nap for most of the day. Jeff and Alex White rode horses, I think, while Zoltan took the other two around in his truck. We all gathered before sundown, piled in the truck, and headed out west to the highest hill to watch the sunset over the prairie. Very romantic. A few small cows lowed in the background.
The man himself had turned on the 50s classics, perhaps more appropriately. "Blue moon, you saw me standing alone." We zipped by fence posts in the twilight. "Without a dream in my heart." Dust clouds billow as we turn a corner. "Without a love of my own." The wind resonates across the windowpane.

And then dinner, out, under the stars. This was just pure asada, with nary a vegetable in sight. Cow after cow crossed our plates; tender, juicy, steamy, flame-kissed cows. Behind me, the Platters' pleas rolled across the lawn, "I count the moments, darling, until you're here with me, at last, at twilight time."
The next morning we rushed for the bus out of Santa Rosa, back to Buenos Aires and one last day in the city. Over nine hours I saw the last hints of grasslands, the first trickles of the great delta, and slowly, certainly, the long stretches of urban eternity. An unremarkable day later, LAN takes me home to Lima. Ciao, Argentina, ciao.

Home to Lima. I've been here barely four months but Lima - hectic, sooty, divided, loud, delicious Lima - is my home. To celebrate, we sang a song of worn-in shoes in a worn-out cafe.

Vacation: Pt. 2 - Meet Me, My Love, in Uruguay

By midday on Sunday, Jeff and Dadok had left for (as we would learn later) a steamy trip into the jungle of Iguazu, leaving us with their assorted gear, no real plan, and only the vaguest of directions. Diego, Alex White, and I wanted to go to Uruguay, not for any real reason, but it was cheap, close, and promised relaxing afternoons at the beach to the East. But by midday on Sunday, we had missed the (relatively) inexpensive ferry across the river, and lacking a tenacious grip on our plan, took a tip from our innkeeper. We gathered our possessions and headed for the train station...

No one can fault us for our ever-evolving scheming: barred from catching the ferry from Buenos Aires, we then planned to take commuter rail to Tigre, an unknown suburb of the city, where we could "hire a boat" - or so the hostel owner told us. The taxi driver to the station claimed the boat would take five hours, a dubious figure but a dangerous one. The police officer we asked said it would take an hour, at maximum. Stuck between these extremes, we huddled together beneath the Victorian spans of the retiro; do we go ahead to Tigre (an hour away) and risk it, or do we wait and take the expensive boat to Montevideo? A slight pause, a small hush, and the answer was simple: Go with the one that could lead to the better story.

Three tickets to Tigre, please.

An uncomfortable hour later, we emerge from the Tigre train station to see...gingerbread pavilions? A distinctly Delft McDonalds? A tree-lined canal with punters? Where the hell are we? Belgium, more or less. We never found out why Tigre looked like the Low Countries, or why the outlying areas looked like Martha's Vineyard swallowed by the jungle, but there, in the wood-paneled ferry terminal, with the rowboats gliding by, the sun at its height, Diego found true love.
She had blue eyes, but they weren't a singular ocean; they were the afternoon sky, bright, transparent, as if you were looking through her, something vast, awesome, and terrifying. There she was: a tight white shirt, tight black slacks, a coiffure dissolving beautifully around her face. I don't remember her being particularly tall, but her posture sent her gliding across the room to a spot not two feet from us, and leaning forward slightly, quietly asked us, "How may I help you?..."

"...because this is the last ferry of the day, and I can't guarantee you a seat."

It was love at first sight.

The other ticket agent - a dark-haired girl with a seductive look but, having only brown eyes, could not be called equal - revealed our latest predicament: the ferry docked outside was the last until 8am the next day, and wasn't going to Colonia (our preferred destination) or Montevideo. It was going to Carmelo, a town we knew nothing about and, from the looks of the '70s travel photos mounted proudly around the terminal, nothing was all there was to know. Oh, and there may not be seats for us on standby. We prepared for a night in Tigre.

But then the love began. Having nothing better to do but talk to these young women, Diego slowly won their hearts. We asked about Tigre. They asked about us. We told them all we knew, and then some lies to keep them talking. Diego had a thousand dinners within those azure eyes, a thousand and one sunrises over the pitched roofs of Tigre, but - like all great and true love - it wasn't to be. There were three seats on the boat, and three of us, and we punched our ticket to Uruguay.

As we went through immigration, Diego turned and shouted, from the bottom of his heart, that he would buy both of the girls chocolates upon his return. And, as if planted by the sour saints themselves, a faceless voice opined "Shhh!" Later, I consoled Diego by saying that somewhere, out in the void, a parallel Diego misses the ferry, stays in Tigre-by-the-sea, and is happy, forever. Small consolation.
Three hours later, I'm standing in the immigration line in Carmelo. To my left, across the river, is nothing but jungle. To my right, empty cinderblock streets leading into the distance. In front of me, an old man is about to have his passport stamped. And, in a scene no doubt repeated thousands of times across America's borders, the passport control agent leans forward, warmly kisses the man on the cheek, and stamps his documents. Welcome to Uruguay! (None of us gets a kiss.)
Carmelo, at least the ten blocks from the river, is deserted. The light, though supplemented by a full moon, is fading, and we have no map, no bus schedule, and no clue where anyone - if there is anyone - is. And then....music. A few notes, reflected off the concrete, then more, then finally words..."You're beautiful.....you're beautiful, it's true....I saw your face, in a crowded place..."

Carmelo, in the four hours I was there, did its best to impress me. After weaving our way around the stage where two men armed with guitars belted out James Blunt, and finding the main square, we waited for the bus to Colonia. Carmelo's square is quite large, with a giant forest tree of some sort in the center, and everyone in town took turns relaxing in the Sunday evening air. But, like nothing on this trip, could even waiting for the bus be a simple exercise. Because then, from behind us, came the noise of drumming, and it was coming towards us.

Naturally, like most of Latin America, Carmelo decided to have an impromptu parade around the square, one featuring hundreds of drummers, flamboyant costumes, old women all in white doing the hully-gully, and pre-pubescent (and one definitely post-pubescent) girls in bikinis shimmying around a man in black face with a top hat. And that was just the first segment.

To be fair, I have no clue if the parade was planned or not. I base my opinion on the long line of cars stuck on the perpendicular streets to the route, patiently waiting for the procession to pass. In the end, our bus (now thirty minutes late) whisked us away to Colonia, where we greeted the next day.

After eating brunch in Colonia, and buying ferry tickets for the next day from the terminal, we took a bus to Montevideo in search of beaches. The plan, vague as it was, called for us to sit on a beach, soak in the sun, drink heavily, and enjoy the good life as only young, tan, drunk men can. But first, we needed to cross the entire nation of Uruguay to reach the blue water of the ocean and the white sands of the ocean's beach.

Uruguay, for as little as everyone knows about it, is quite lovely. It looks like Tuscany, with bright yellow fields of grain waving to the sky. Very beautiful, beautiful enough to make me think of real estate prices in pesos.

Montevideo, where our bus ended up, is beautiful in its own right, much like Buenos Aires but smaller, greener, and quieter. Eventually we decided that if Argentina was once the United States of South America, then Uruguay was Argentina's Canada.

Another Fiat later, we find ourselves on the Rambla de Peru, staring out on the white sands of Montevideo's closest decent beach. It must be nice, I decided, because of the Miami Vice high-rises across the street. Three beer bottles later, I've forgotten my mis-hewn lumber, Alexander has forgotten to apply his sunscreen, and Diego - well, Diego may never forget those eyes.
Twelve hours (and a dozen games of ping-pong later) we're back on the streets find of Colonia waiting for the ferry. Colonia is, and I do not kid, a smuggler's port. Or was, back when there were things to smuggle, and though I didn't fall into a Hardy Boys mystery, we did admire the well-preserved ciudad viejo, which was very postcard friendly. My personal highlight was not the church, the museum, or the bastions but the black-and-white mint condition 1958 Ford Fairlane, the last car I saw before heading out of town.

Again the last passenger on the boat, which was practically empty, we noted that of the eighty or so passengers, a vast majority held American passports. As we neared Buenos Aires, with the first skyscrapers in view, a man and his young sun pressed their faces against the big picture window on the front of the boat:

"Look at the city, do you see the big buildings, son?"
"Yes! Is that where New Jersey is?"
"No son, that's Argentina."

Somewhere a Camden tourism man's heart leapt, and somewhere in Perth Amboy smiles spread uncontrollably, and the Palisades shined in the December winter, but for us - the pampa, and nothing but new sky.

Vacation: Pt. 1 - The City Can't Ever Sleep

At three in the morning, I showered and shaved in quiet dignity, letting each razor stroke stand for the upcoming week's neglect. My razor (along with my sleeping bag, a majority of my underwear, and anything that required electricity) would be left behind in our apartment, waiting, waiting to be used. For we were going on vacation, and nothing would stop my grizzled, masculine return to Lima.

We landed in Buenos Aires around one in the afternoon and basked in the sunshine searing our skin with its tangible summer. In Peru, summer is still a distant concept, tropical though it is, with Diego's constant promises of "two weeks" starting to ring hollow. After a slow bus ride, we shifted into a taxi and hurtled towards the ocean.
The city, Buenos Aires, second city of Latin America, the Paris of South America, is everything and more. Decaying Napoleonic apartment blocks give way to modern skyscrapers (including Cesar Pelli's newest work that I think he designed on the can) and everywhere the slow creep of tango floating between the Fiats and the avenues. Or, in another way, Buenos Aires is like a middle-aged woman - born in Barcelona, living in New York - buying a second set of pearls in her second-favorite gown. You must go there.

More importantly, everything in Buenos Aires is covered in graffiti, ranging from the political "Down with Bush!" to the social "Nazis = putos" to the bizarre "Kill the monkey!" Even the obelisk on the city's triumphant axis is plastered with signs and slogans; the population of Buenos Aires, the young workers, are very very angry. But, oh, if they only knew what they have that we lack: on-time American movies, trees and seasons, pasta, subways, fashions, and a connection with the modern world. Make that Porteno a Limeno for a day, and we'll see his mettle.Everything is more cultured, more involved, more fashionable in Buenos Aires; suffice to say, I felt like I just got off the Plains Chief in Manhattan direct from Omaha. Lima is a huge city itself, but for all the wrong reasons, and is more like an overgrown provincial center, a necessary city existing for no other reason than to exist. It's not a Cleveland or a Detroit because the population filters in daily from the interior, but it lacks a cache; maybe its more of a Phoenix, a ugly, untidy city in the desert filled with people with nowhere better to go. We checked into our hostel on the edge of downtown and hit the streets.
The humidity coming off the river, and the sunshine, and the pizzerias, and the ever-present pouty glare of the billboard girls made me think, just for a second, I was back in New York. Though we knew nothing of the city (it was, after all, Diego's first trip to a South American nation other than Peru) we were lucky enough to have an amazing guide, Johanny Cruz, a 06 Yalie Alex Dadok half-knew through Davenport. She greeted us off Plaza Libertad, and we headed for the bars.

Johanny Cruz is a quarter-Dominican firebrand burning through Buenos Aires' nightlife. Nightlife may not be entirely accurate because, for a society that eats dinner at 10pm, the clubs don't fill until nearly three, a schedule that left leaves me befuddled still. Anyway, she hadn't slept in three days, and, as best I saw, may never.

That night we felt our first breeze of the good air, the swaying leafy trees, and the swaying, oh-so-good hips of the sauntering Argentine woman. Maybe it was the exhilaration of being on vacation, or the part of town we were in, or the cheap wine, or just our dumb luck, but for the first day in Buenos Aires, we saw nothing but beautiful women - ranging, long-legged, black-haired, fair-skinned women; gold-lined slingbacks outlined by the failing light of the Argentine summer.

Naturally, we fled from Buenos Aires in a day and half. We had seen the sights, the Pink House, the streets, the bars, the pizzas, the women, so we had no choice but to leave. Jeff and Alex Dadok headed to Neuberry Airport to catch their flight to Igazu Falls, leaving Diego, Alex White, and I to find our destiny. Destination: Uruguay!

Also, for my grandmother, here's a picture of the largest synagogue in South America.