Well, it’s been a while.

So much has happened I can’t even compartmentalize the weeks between my last post and now into discrete blog topics. But life isn’t supposed to be neat and tidy like a chapter book, now is it?

I hereby vow to post more often. For the sake of my grandmothers, parents, sister, friends in Ohio, New York, Buenos Aires…wherever you are, whether or not you’re sitting on the edges of your seats wondering what the heck I’m doing down here, I will make a concerted effort to stick to a regular(ish) schedule. I make this promise also for my own sanity—sadly I do not have a photographic memory, so remembering all the poetic or salient details of an experience four weeks in the past is a task to be reckoned with. I can only imagine what a toll it takes on one’s recollecting muscles to write a memoir! If middle-aged Frank McCourt can describe in detail the ice-cold outdoor showers he took as a five year-old child, I can expound the wonders of Patagonia I experienced with my friend Keren only a few weeks ago. On with it!

We, Keren and I, began at Retiro (BA’s main train and bus station; New Yorkers: think Port Authority mixed with the distinct atmosphere of Chinatown). We survived the trek through cases of sliced meats and cheese, bags of puffed corn and facturas (buns), homeless extended families occupying the sidewalk, kioscos full of gum and alfahores, shelves of stilettos and other bling for last minute purchases on your way out of the city, pick-pockets, super-panchos (ubiquitous, unusually long hot dogs commonly smothered with mini French-fries and sugary mustard [but really, does anything NOT have sugar in this country?]), men loitering against walls launching striking numbers of piropos (cat-calls) per minute at passing female bodies within spitting distance, intentionally (?) unhelpful security guards, and the tiny whispers of “eat me” emanating from tray after tray of medialunas (mini croissants served up in every café in groups of two or three) and arrived unscathed at Via Barloche’s terminal of sleeper buses that transport all aboard to a land blessed with the simple abundance of Earth’s gorgeous, mountainous creations.

Just gazing. And gazing. And Gazing. Who ever said flying was superior?

The bus was twenty-two hours, but they passed easily. I received countless alfahores (cookies paved with dulce de leche gold), crackers, milanesa de pollo (chicken Milanese), and cups of mate cocido (the traditional herbal drink condensed into a tea bag). Sleepy from a mini-bottle of malbec (a common Argentine red wine) courtesy of our overly enthusiastic bus attendant, I cozied up in my bed-esque recliner seat and dozed in and out of watching the strikingly beautiful plains and rolling hills of inland Argentina pass by as we progressed west to the Andes. A thunderstorm more visually arresting against the horizon than any I’ve ever seen formed our nighttime entertainment, and a sunny dawn ushered in four days of perfect weather for our trek through three towns along La Ruta de los Siete Lagos (The Route of the Seven Lakes).

Our first morning in Bariloche, we wandered sleepily into town to discover a stunning view of the glistening Lago Nahuel Huapi from our tenth floor penthouse apartment converted into a hostel.

Lago Nahuel Huapi, San Carlos de Bariloche.

A short colectivo (bus) ride out of town led us to Cerro Campanario, a ski mountain with a steep 40-minute pedestrian side trail to the summit. If I were to choose where to spend my afterlife for the rest of eternity, it may be that very spot. Let the picture below speak for itself. Descending the mountain, we decided to continue on the bus route to catch a glimpse of Llao Llao, one of Argentina’s most famous hotels renowned for its location overlooking Lago Nahuel Huapi. We ended the day wandering the streets of the small metropolis of Bariloche, and nearly joined a Shabbat dinner at a Chabad house (owing to Keren’s Hebrew skills recently refreshed given the surprising ubiquity of Israeli tourists in this area of Argentina….I swear they’re everywhere. Keren and other Argentines we spoke with have theories but I have no clear explanation to offer as to why, at the moment).

We hustled to catch a 1.5 hour bus out of Bariloche the following morning to Villa la Angostura, a bustling but more mellow ski and hiker destination with a mystical halo of dust suspended over the quaint lanes of this mountain town nestled in the Andes on the opposite shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi. Leaving our bags in our charming respite of a hostel a ten minute walk from town, we rented bikes and wandered down the highway to Lago Correntoso, which connects to Lago Nahuel Huapi through the “shortest river in the world,” and graces its shores with tranquil deep green slopes cascading toward the water in an almost perfect perspective composition. After stopping for a generous blackberry harvest, we returned to our hostel and were generously offered our fill of a picante feast (see photo) of common Argentine finger food, organized amongst a group of guests with whom we quickly became friendly.

hostel sustenance at it’s finest

The following morning, we saw a beautiful waterfall and more gorgeous views of the surrounding lakes at Cerro Bayo, a ski mountain we coughed our way up along its car-traversed dirt road that nonetheless offers delightful look-outs. After catching a ride down the mountain (and meeting some gracious, copados porteños in the process—Hola Morena y Martin si estén leyendo esto 😉), we scored another ride to Playa Manzano and touched its sunny shores for a hot second before scrambling back to town to meet the bus to our next destination: San Martin de los Andes. These dreamy two hours brought some of the most soul wrenching combinations of gentle, eccentric mountain shapes and rays of the setting amber sun into my vision. The bus ride conveniently passed the remaining four or five lakes of La Ruta de los Siete Lagos, leading us grandiosely into San Martin, where a new friend on the bus we had met in Villa la Angostura made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: an elegant dinner out on the town. With excellent red wine, fresh trout, complimentary champagne, and a lively conversation in Spanish ranging in topics from Ulysses to anthropology, we saluted our final night in Patagonia with incredulity at our fortune in meeting such a mensch willing to converse with two extranjeras for hours and sponsor quite the feast.

The “shortest” river in the world, connecting Lago Correntoso with Lago Nahuel Huapi. Villa La Angostura, Argentina

Lago Correntoso

Our fourth and final day in Patagonia, we took our cue from one of the couples we hitchhiked with the previous day and sought out the trail to La Mirador de Bandurrias in San Martin de los Andes. Stopping in the tourism office on the way, we learned that historically the economic and cultural ties between communities living on both sides of the Chile-Argentina border fostered an interdependent solidarity between towns in the region of San Martin de los Andes, that predated any externally imposed political tensions along the border between the countries battling for land and resources until the 1990s. (Thought I’d throw in a little history lesson). After discovering the fork in the road with a little hut where we had been told to prepare our five pesos to pay the community members who live in the area, Keren and I found the most breathtaking view yet. We had plans to visit the beach on the other side of the mountain but couldn’t tear our eyes and souls away from such a tranquil, striking vista of earth.

Mirador Bandurrias, San Martin de los Andes.

Keren proudly shadows San Martin himself

Flaura and Fauna, San Martin de los Andes

Our bellies full of leftover lentils (yum? they had begun to ferment at that point….camping on a low budget breeds odd habits), we boarded the sleepr bus back to Buenos Aires that afternoon and toughed out another 22 hours of relentless offers of carbohydrate-sugar combinations that substantiated our complimentary “meals,” dozed in and out of more shocked-silence invoking landscapes, and held on for dear life to what fresh mountain air we had left in our lungs before bracing the trek through Retiro and the subte home to Villa Crespo. (I have no pictures of Retiro for fear of having my gadget snatched out of my hand, but imaginations should serve).

Buen (saludable?) provecho. Love, Via Bariloche.

That’s all for now, folks. Lots to say about life in urban transit and in awe of all that Buenos Aires has to offer, philosophies-in-progress on life in general, Pesach with Porteños, coming “of age” with lovely friends over dulce de leche and red wine in a country where I was already “of age,” adventures on Thursday evenings during and after expresión corporal (my contact improvisation-esque dance class at the Universidad Nacional del Arte), and a glorious discovery of a lush, sustainably minded hippie haven amongst the high rises of Belgrano, but I must pause. I want to get this post up before I leave for my next weekend adventure to the province of Jujuy with my study abroad program this afternoon!

La próxima entrada será en español. Get your google translate fired up, English speakers.

Love and alfahores,

Becca