the jeweled cross of st. pescado

mighty appropriate for christmas eve dinner, no?

la boca

have you heard of soccer?  it's kind of a big deal here. so we went to the match between boca juniors and independiente with a gaggle of other gringos and a guide, in order to avoid getting killed (since it was an away game) or sitting in the wrong section and getting hit with flying bags of pee or whatever. some observations:

(1) real fans keep cheering even when the other team scores a goal. the drums and chanting and hand-flapping and songs and insulting pelvic thrusts from the boca section never stopped, not even for one millisecond, and boca didn't score once.  boca's songs are hilarious, too.  some of them are generic (e.g., the song that taunts the opponents as "little children" of boca), and some are specific to the opponent.  apparently the municipality of independiente started out as a supermarket collective that seceded from buenos proper, so one of boca's favorite insults to them is "you're just a supermarket."

(2) yerba mate is to be shared cup-by-cup, not sip-by-sip.  also, one cup of mate should last about 15 minutes, or "the length of a good conversation."

(3) chicho serna is a badass.  i am informed that he is a super-famous ex-boca player from columbia; despite this mad fame, he showed up in the regular-people section and sat down (with a small entourage) in front of us, and basically every person who was physically capable of doing so went up to him, kissed him on the cheek, grasped joyfully at his shoulders, and took a picture with him.  not one person was turned away.  and he submitted cheerfully to the kissing and other manhandling.  and he sat through the rain with no jacket or umbrella or even garbage bag to keep him dry.  and he had a very muscular and well-shaped thighs-and-ass region.  (no rear-view picture available, but here he is from the front:)

we are all going to die someday, and i hope it is so beautiful

i bought a bouquet of jasmine on the way to recoleta cemetary.  i wasn't really sure what i was going to do with it; at the time, i only thought that i loved the lush scent of the flowers in the heavy summer air.  at the gates of the cemetary, the attendant asked me where i was from; when i told her, she asked who the flowers could possibly be for, and i said i would figure it out when i got there.  and so, flowers in hand, i wandered through the corridors of the cemetary, listening to the stories of the dead.  this one is a hero-pilot of the falklands war, his exploits memorialized in liquid black stone, whose plane disappeared decades later -- by curious coincidence, on argentina's national aviation day.  this one's family name is carved proudly into a granite slab, but the lock to his mausoleum dangles carelessly, rusted, his sargophagus surrounded by weeds and construction trash. this one is evita peron, who needs no introduction and whose grave is beset by throngs of camera-toting tourists who pretend to care.

my flowers went to a nameless grave of no particular beauty or grace, so featureless i might not be able to find it again in the press of spirits waiting to be heard. it might have been anyone.

my soul to the mountain

big ice, big thoughts, big love, big axe: glaciar perito moreno

what better reminder of life's fundamental impermanence than a 400 million-year-old mountain of melting ice?

and what a perfect reminder to live this impermanent life with love:  a marriage proposal on the ice.  (she said yes.)  congratulations deanna and brett from chicago!

and, you know, just to make sure that things don't get too heavy around here, look who came to party!  i hadn't seen il professore for a couple of weeks, but he stopped by to deliver a lecture on iceaxe safety procedures.

buenos aires is killing me inch by inch with gluttonous pleasure

it is now what i consider to be saturday morning.  except that it is four o'clock in the afternoon.

we arrived in buenos aires from quito last friday, checked into the circus hostel in the artsy san telmo district, and dropped off the backpacks.  the circus, although otherwise unremarkable, is home, as i would soon come to appreciate, to the most comfortable beds in my south america trip thus far.  as the sun dipped under the horizon and lit the crumbling 19th-century facades a soft gold, we wandered the streets, getting a feel for the neighborhood, and sipped a deliciously cheap bottle of malbec underneath an ornate and soot-encrusted balcony.  it was a slow start: dinner at el desnivel at 10, some bars.  

i've been a vegetarian for the past two months, but after i let the smooth flavor of el desnivel's massive bife de chorizo mariposa coat my tongue, i declared my intention to eat steak every day in buenos.

i failed.


but only barely.


saturday, the clever plan was to make sure to go to dinner as late as possible.  my thinking was: if we ate at a reasonable hour (11:00), then there would be an hour or so of dead time, during which i might frequent a bar or two, and potentially lose steam before hitting the club, which didn't open until 2:30 or thereabouts.  so we sat down at about 12:30 at manolo, a family-style italian joint, and steak just didn't seem like the right accompaniment to the soulful tango-song freestylings of annie, the local busking songstress.  and so it was a massive pile of ravioli that came along with me to the fifth anniversary of club bahrein, and we busted our collective move under the low, strobe-lit ceilings of the basement-level until about 8:00 on sunday.


sunday's steak was a bife de chorizo at an old standard: la brigada.  afterwards, the soft red lights of makena cantina club's afromama dance party project, where i learned that porteno men are very forward, yes?  i met a lovely fellow with at least four ongoing projects, 2 of which seemed successful.  the first successful project was what got us talking:  he teaches factory workers to make short films, giving the (mostly older) workers the tools to unlock creative expressions that they'd surely been dreaming of for years.  wow.  really?  wow. amazing.  just for that, i love you a little bit, guy.  the second successful project is what stopped our conversation ... only because its hard to talk to a guy whose tongue is down the throat of the pretty brunette across the room.  


his unsuccessful projects?  me, and another girl.  he waited for me outside the ladies' restroom (note that there is no line for the men's room at this time):
me:    "hey matteo, que tal?"
matteo:    "i am the man who just fell in love with you, right in front of your boyfriend."
me:    "you're such a sweetie, so charming, and i'd like to be friends with you.  but that's it, okay?"
matteo:    "i can tell that you are wanting me as a man and not as a friend."
unfortunately, because matteo speaks quite good english (legacy of some time spent in new jersey, of all places), i can't pull my favorite move of pretending not to understand anything he says.  he gets the point, though, and moves on to his second unsuccessful project of the night -- blonde, if i recall.   after which his successful project (the brunette) notices that he's hitting on girls like a ping-pong ball hits flippers, and denies his second attempt to dip his tongue into her mouth-nectar.  bless you, matteo, i hope you are better at filmmaking.


monday was meant to be a rest-day.  instead it was the day that i discovered mollejas, argentine-style sweetbreads, quite possibly the most meltingly rich thing that a human can eat, at la grand parrilla de la plata.  (sweetbreads in the usa are kind of like chicken nuggets, even the ones at fancy restaurants that are touted as being legit.)  the ojo de bife -- roughly translated, something like a ribeye? -- was delicious, but it was almost an afterthought.  at least we only had three bottles of wine here.  that was totally restful.

tuesday was another attempt at a rest day.  so it was pizza for lunch, at the famous guerrin downtown.  argentina has a pizza called a fugazza (or, if you get it with cheese, a fugazzetta), a simple caramelized-onions-and-oregano situation that i find quite delicious.  another cool thing is faina, a fried chickpea-flour dough that you can order on the side, and eat along with the pizza.  a quick note on cheese:  you've got to be careful with argentinian pizza; i never thought i'd hear myself say this, but they really over-cheese the pizzas down here.

and, since it was a rest day, only another bife de chorizo and an entrana steak at don julio.  ho, hum, yum.

o, have i mentioned provoleta yet?  it is a slab of cheese, grilled directly on the parrilla, until basically the entire thing consists of that perfect, salty crispy burnt cheese on one side, and the other side is all melty and gooey.  it looks like this:

wednesday, on andrei's recommendation, the after-office party, a club-affair that, in andrei's words, was the sort of place where you might find a "big law partner equivalents with whistles, sunglasses and 4 hot chicks around them slamming back shots."  we accidentally ended up at a club called museum instead of the recommended party at opera house -- wait, really, there are multiple after-office parties on wednesday nights where folks show up right after work and party there until 2 am? -- and andrei informed me later that the girls would have been much, much hotter had we shown up at the proper location.  fortunately, the requisite massive steak dinner (la cholita, in barrio norte) happened at lunch, and so i was able to stay awake and dance, first at museum, and later at kika, until 5:00 or so.  



thursday the call was a late las cabras, supposedly a delightful blend of party spot and excellent steak.  after such great success with mollejas, and considering my general like of offal (the trendy san francisco meat!), i went for a mixed grill of offal -- which, as far as i can tell, consisted of mollejas (of course, else there would be rioting), chorizo and blood sausages, crispy intestines with a soft + gooey center, kidneys, and liver.  i think, with the intestines, that i reached a boundary-point in my food-adventurousness. i mean, like, there were some aspects of them that were completely decent, and if i were really hungry i would eat them again.  like, lord of the flies hungry, donner pass hungry ... hey, i'm built for survival.  the steak itself was pleasant, but by this point i have passed the excited-virgin stage of parrilla-going and have become maybe a bit too critical to clutch at my heart with the joy of meat every time i have a steak. truly, the big star of thursday night was club 69 at niceto.  omg.  okay, first, the music is great.  second, there's this dance troupe of sexy post-apocalyptic space gladiators performing at random times throughout the evening.  

they are so sexy it is inspiring me to dance sexier; also, i catch myself thinking about how i can incorporate their costuming into my everyday attire.  seriously.  look for a sparkly gladiator skirt on yours truly.  third, everything pauses for like an hour, for the most ridiculous breakdancing session i have ever seen.  no joke, one of these guys got on one hand and did more than thirty  (i counted) single-hand handstand jumps in time with the music.  i am in awe.  i can barely dance, i am in so much awe.  these guys breakdance until they literally cannot do another move, they are so exhausted.  and then, after their session, they all come out and do regular-person dancing on the dance floor with the rest of us starstruck chicos.  fourth, dudes are cruising around with bottles of champagne as their regular drinks, all night long.  um, fifth ... hm ... i'm sure there was something ... did i mention the gladiatrixes?  i could barely peel myself away from this heavenly place at 7:00 or so.  

friday we decided to really get after it.  because it's friday, right?  and my work week has been really tough.  so it's back to la grand parrilla de la plata for dinner at around 11:00 or so, and we get exactly the same thing for dinner as just a few nights ago.  this is followed by the shamrock club in barrio norte, sort of an irish pub-cum-club -- well, really, the club part is downstairs, and the irish pub part is upstairs.  the strange thing about this place is that the music is really wonderful, and i'm dancing my face off, but as i look through my sweaty hair at the rest of the dance floor, no one else is dancing ... they're all standing around and talking to each other, which is ridiculous because (1) the music is just too good for that sort of thing, and (2) the music is just too loud for that sort of thing.  but yet, this is what is happening.  i keep dancing.  eventually, it is 6:00 or so and time for the after-hours club at milocas.  silly me, i have forgotten my sunglasses at home, and milocas is mostly an outdoor place -- levels and levels of terraces for cerveza-drinking and people watching -- although fortunately it is a bit cloudy at this hour.  all sorts of argentine folk are lounging here, looking for all the world like they are here for an early brunch, except the only food i can see is the lime in my neighbor's vodka.  there is a bouncer in the men's bathroom, and he enforces; one guy tries to chat with his friend at the urinal, and is asked to leave the bathroom area.  one girl is wearing white shorts, the fabric of which is wearing a bit thin in certain key places, and a young man is taking photos of her ass with his camera phone.  a fellow from the united states, clearly on study abroad and already sporting an unfortunate spanish-language tattoo on his freckled left pectoral, is regaling two new porteno friends with the sexual exploits of one of his more sexually-successful college buddies.  the dj downstairs is spinning some truly righteous stuff.  before i know it it is 10 in the morning.  hence my confusion, this morning, as to the actual time of day. 

thank goodness i am going to patagonia tomorrow.

papallacta

the bus from lago agrio passes through tropical jungle to an alpine steppe ecosystem in only five hours, and after six days in the hot sweaty mess of the jungle, papallacta is a sigh of relief. although it isn't a well-known tourist spot, papallacta is popular with quintenos for its tranquil beauty, delicious fresh trout, and natural hot springs heated by the nearby cayambe and antisana volcanoes -- and papallacta is only a 2 hour bus ride away from the city. tired of sucking on bus fumes? it feels so good to gulp great lungsfuls of pure cold air! after your morning hike to the waterfalls (trails beautifully preserved by the good folks at the reserva ecologica cayambe-coca), slip your weary body into the springs at the termas de papallacta spa and resort. oh, too hot? jump in the fresh snowmelt of the papallacta river. oh, too cold? back to the springs. repeat. repeat. repeat, until jelly.