Phi Phi Island Glimpse

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(view from our hotel room)

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Leaving Thailand in just a few minutes.

Gonna miss it here.

Bangkok: Megalopolis or Game Show?

Let's be honest. If you're going to do Bangkok, it might as well be in a single day. And if you're going to do Bangkok in a single day -- reality tv style -- it might as well be on that venerated of holidays, the eve and morn of His Majesty the King's birthday.

It's, like, the backpacker-tourist holy grail. Getting past the scammers to find out if things (the Grand Palace?) are open; finding the whereabouts to mix the nightlife with the daylife; and generally surviving the throngs, the heat, the stickiness, and the weirdness and grime long enough to make it back to your room and take yet another shower. Just on our block on the infamous Khao San Road, there are without a doubt over a thousand vendors. I didn't even take a lot of pictures (O rarity!) for fear of losing my camera, and anyway who needs snapshots of Chang Beer tank tops and another chicken-on-a-stick cart?

Meanwhile, we managed to get a blissfully vegetarian meal in at a spot Brita and Lonely Planet recommended (thanks B-Munny!) -- as good as the food is in Thailand, it might be served devoid of any vegetables, and often entire menu sections start with "deep fried" -- and a delicious, legit, roast duck place (seconds on the duck, please!) frequented by locals and recommended by our guide, Suwit, who travels to Bangkok often.

I have to jump around. Like I said earlier: love the blog, but don't have ten hours to catch you up on everything! Saw the reclining Buddha. Tres sweet! Impressive indeed. We loved the details, mother of pearl, outlining the stories of the 108 Buddha postures, on the soles of his feet.


Wat Arun was a favorite for both of us. The ferry ride over is exciting; the detail is incredible; the temple's steep ladders no joke; and the proximity to the water and the Grand Palace impressive. Wat Arun at sunset, meanwhile, is downright romantic.

After dark, and another gauntlet walk through Khao San -- which by now, on the eve of HM the K's birthday, was basically unapproachable by car -- we got taken by a broad-grinning tuk-tuk driver with the fume-belching, backfiring three-wheeler from hell (300 THB -- about $9 -- for a trip that cost us THB 59 returning in a wonderfully air-conditioned taxi.) But we did, eventually, get taken to our destination: the swank Sirocco bar, high atop the city -- the kind of place, in short, we could never get into in the States (if it exists at all.) We bought Ash a pair of $5 close-toed rubber shoes, a size too small, from a street vendor so she'd be allowed up.



Even in Baht, the place was mighty pricy -- but the voyage well worth it.

By this point, we felt totally toast. But we weren't too surprised when a polite game of Thai'nglish charades with the cabbie revealed that we'd be getting dropped off somewhere short of the hotel -- the King's birthday would allow nothing closer. No matter that tens of thousands of people clogged the street, and we weren't sure of our location, much less the route back. But the Thais do make for a safe, orderly mob -- snapping pictures, staying sober, leaving quietly at the end -- so we didn't mind sticking around for a rather amazing sensory display I can't really discribe, with human dragons, fireworks, music, high-wire gymnastics, colored fountains, loudspeakers echoing out propaganda, and the like.



We've met several people from the region whose only pilgrimage to the States was to Disney Land or World, if you get what I'm saying. We'd heard Ratchdamnoen Klang -- Ratchdamnoen (or, Rajdamnern) also being the name of our street in Chiang Mai -- was decorated for the King's bday, but we had no way to know it would be like this. Also, word had been that everyone wears yellow for the King on his birthday. That's not quite right -- when he's ill, as now, everyone understands to switch to pink ("happy color!")

The Grand Palace -- open, free, to the teeming pink hoards; ornate, resplendant, and reverant, and angular -- was supposed to be (a) not open yet; (b) closed entirely; or (c) um, well, discussion, closed, emphatically closed, according to, on our walk, (a) a cab driver; (b) a tuk-tuk driver; and (c) a group of policemen and women.

We asked (c) because we didn't feel we could trust (a) or (b), who had agendas and wanted to take us elsewhere. The police, however, were equally wrong; you have to be very careful how you ask certain things of Thai people, because they won't answer you in any way that might displease you. So, "I don't know" was not an option, even for the cops. (See previous post for the Maehongson stories; we learned to ask Suwit not when we would get somewhere, only how many more kilometers it was.)

Anyway, we got our "Bangkok scammers" stories. And while I realize I'm not doing justice to any of these places, and have almost completely dropped the Grand Palace, I'm actually too tired to go on, which is totally emblematic of how Bangkok makes you feel anyway.

We made it back to the airport, exactly 24 hours after we'd left it. We went a little early, just to be sure. After all, we needed a calm meal, a little space, and some air-con.

NEXT UP:

The downshift. Ko Samui -- which is raining cats and dogs at the moment, some time after midnight -- is about as far, holistically, from Bangkok as you can get...

Wrap: Chiang Mai, Maehongson, 3,000+ Curves

...................................AH!

To wake the day and find you are standing atop an elephant, in the Pai River, in Northern Thailand. Really adds pep to that morning commute.

It's funny, I can't wait to blog, and then sit here (after much faux techie dallying, always -- suffice to say, I cannot post video; and don't kick the chair or the computer crashes) and wonder how I can possibly 'splain the tip of the iceberg.

To mix metaphors.

Let's take a new tack today: What have we learned?

* That elephants may henceforth be referred to as "banana-eating machines." And enjoy dunking you every bit as much as, say, Toby.

* That the Thai are infintely friendly and polite; to a fault, even. So much so that our guide waited three days to tell us that shortly after we left, his daughter called to say his wife had been hospitalized... and he interrupted the conversation to humor a local woman who was explaining that, because their coffee maker was out, they'd like to offer us a glass of juice on the house; and by the way there's a guest house for rent on the top of the hill, next time we're in the area; you see she used to be a teacher, but retired, and...

[-Ok, well, back in the car. -But, um, about your wife?]

Note to Dad & Vic, who turned us on to Suwit, who's been wonderful: it sounds like she'll be pretty ok, at least considering after an earlier stroke (this one was apparently prevented with quick action and blood-thinners) she was semi-wheelchair bound.


It's also true they will not give you bad news: such as, This road I've selected is superduper(!) curvy (the Maehongson chamber of commerce opens early to provide visitors with a certificate notarizing the 1,864 curves you've endured on the road from Chiang Mai, though you must remove your shoes to enter); there's no food from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.; everyone here drives crazy; and we'll never (and didn't) make it before dark.



* A lot of places in Northern Thailand, it's awfully hard to take a bad picture. (Others, if you take more than, oh, say, 1,000, your girlfriend gets a little sick of it.) This photo shows that, although it's a shortcut to burn your rice field for fertilizer, the result not only smells pretty cool, it makes for some awesome valley settings.



Conversely, it's hard to take a good one in a cave; even a really great cave. But we already know this. It's just that sometimes you need something to do, in a cave.



* Rich likes food pictures.



(Why yes, that is my awesome girlfriend, about to devour one delicious! red herring that arrived head, tail, and skin.)

* Um. At a certain roadside stand in the mountains yesterday... I might have eaten a cat.

Might.

Have eaten.

A cat.

(That's what I get for passing up the bag of grasshoppers in Chiang Mai.)

* Ashley is very, very patient. Sensitive soul, yes, but she travels well and can put up with a lot! Plus, very practical. She tells me this is from the seven years in New Yawk: "We get things done." And of course, still lovely. (And a big fan of elephants -- even more than tigers!)

* There's a great place for grilled duck in Bangkok. (Thanks to Suwit for that tip.) Ah, but the king -- longest-running king anywhere in the world, over 60 years -- is not healthy enough to deliver his birthday speech... again... this year.

Also learned: the Thais love the king literally as a God here on Earth. The crown prince, though: kind of a shmuck.

* Thailand may seem like a smallish country, but it's got a ton to offer. We've canvassed just a tiny corner (Google maps the Chiang Mai and Maehongson provinces) and I've told you just a small fraction, but imagine the change when we hit Bangkok, for instance, or the ocean abutted by limestone cliffs.

* For once, I'm finally about out of words.

Busiest relaxing day ever

Hey all,

So, I'm still trying to sort out getting photos and video off of my gizmos, and onto these internets. Meanwhile, let me tell you about today.



Today: Wake, eat breakfast. Ride in big van North of Chiang Mai. Arrive; look at elephants; feed baby elephants; get up on top of baby elephants. (Yah!) Feed banana-eating machines (technically: elephants) from atop them. Baby elephants kneel; Ashleys / Jesses climb down. Watch elephants bathe, play, get washed in the dirty brown river. Elephants love this.

Watch elephant show, in which elephants raise the flag, play soccer, even paint. Yes, a four-year-old female elephant actually painted an elephant, then clearly signed her name. Get hitched up to gigantic elephant, via this seat strapped to his back. Ride elephant several km, including crossing the river, and up and down extremely steep ledges. Feed bananas and sugarcane to elephant in prayerful self-defense. Watch as elephant is whacked hard on top of head with a stick by Thai guide, riding with feet behind elephant's ears, for reaching up for bananas when he's not supposed to. (Don't worry, everyone else's guide was nice; ours seriously had something wrong with him.)

I'd better shorten this up.

Get off elephant.
Get on oxen cart.
Ride oxen cart to other part of river.
Get off oxen cart.
Get on bamboo rafts.
Ride bamboo raft down river (4 km). Very peaceful.
Get out, get back in van, go to Tiger Kingdom.
Play with young tigers - patting them, etc.
Play with giant adult tiger/s. take picture "sleeping" on one.
Leave tigers.
Go to butterfly & orchid farm.
Check out weak-ass butterflies.
Get out of there.
Check out super awesome orchids everywhere.
Stick around a while.
Buy some stuff.
Head back to Chiang Mai.
Get settled. Get showered.
Get one hour super relaxation de-stress sports and aromatherapy massage.
Mmm. Slink around for a bit.
Catch "tuk tuk" cab outside old city to river view restaurant.
Eat one of those whole fish, red snapper, with head and tail and the whole nine.
Enjoy fish immensely.
Also lovely spicty cilantro-mint duck and soft shell crab curry.
Get made fun of for drinking fruity drink again.
Take too many pictures of girlfriend.
Look at table of German men cavorting slyly with young, willing Thai boys.
Come back.
Write this.

Tomorrow:
Wake up 6 am.
Watch monks outside our hotel room door, walking to famous temple around the corner at sunup.
Get picked up by famed guide Suwit, 8 am.
Go to Maehongson province.
New adventure begins...

Touchdown, Thailand!

This blog entry sponsored by Unisom. Don't take a 14-hour flight without it!

That said, Ashley and I have made it safely to Chiang Mai. (SFO to Taiwan = 14 hours; two hours layover, three-and-a-half to Bangkok; go through customs, and a decent hour's flight to this northern town.) If Bangkok is New York, Chiang Mai is maybe -- I've been trying to finish the sentence, but can't. I don't know enough about it yet... But -- well, it's not coastal, it's a pretty big trade center, a lot of temples and history, but also a great University town, with a lot of coffee houses and travelers. Maybe an amalgam of Boston and Seattle.

That said, it feels more... like... Thailand. Don't know much yet. Ash is napping at the hotel, though the travel (15 hours ahead, by the way -- we left Thanksgiving Thursday, 5 past midnight, and arrived early Saturday afternoon) has been kind.



Since I didn't bring the laptop -- in fact, for the price of a capuccino the cafe around the corner lets me use theirs; I'm feeling pretty guilty about turning down the apple pie (95 THB, or Thai baht, that's $3) since even the cap comes with fresh damp towell, a glass of water I'm not supposed to drink, and a tasty little cookie.

Without the immediate ability to upload photos -- I've got an awesome new camera I'm still learning my way around, but still feeling out the hardware to make a regular go of it -- I just wanted to check in and say we made it.

We're good! We're psyched. Tell your friends.

I'll add, briefly, our itinerary. If you want details, Google is available, or stay tuned...

Tonight, tomorrow: Kick it in Chiang Mai. Nothing specific. Night bazaar; monks walking past us to school/temple early am; street food.

Next 3 days -- Maehongson, a province northwest of here, toward Myanmar. Things cool down (it's low 80's farenheit here, light-moderate humidity, very comfortable) with Suwit ("sue-wheat"), the guide who took my dad and Victoria around up here. Ride elephants, bamboo boats, pretty much anything Suwit tells us with a straight face can be safely ridden.

Dec. 4 -- Early flight to Bangkok. A day-and-a-sliver in the big city. Ash doesn't know yet, but I'm set on drinks at one of the world's awesomest rooftop bars; we post up right near the Grand Palace.

Dec 5, 6 -- Ko Samui. Ko means beach, or island anyway. It's the "James Bond" island (some movie was shot there, I dunno, and helped popularize the beachy tourist and backpacker trends among westerners) and it should be kinda hot shit. You know?

Dec 7 - 11 -- Ko Phi Phi and region. (The "pee pee" islands.) Another movie, "The Beach" with Leo DeCaprio, shot and inspired here. To the west (Phuket), east (Krabi) and north, all limestone cliffed islands and outlets, super beautiful. Long tail boat the only transport to many of them.

Dec 12 - 16 -- Cross the border to Cambodia. You stay in Siem Reap (See-em Ree-ep) and bike, most likely, or cab it, to the famous and gigantic temples of Angkor Wat. I'm reading about a Frenchman captured by the Khmer Rouge, the sort of wannabe Rwandan massacre-purifiers of the late 1970s. In all ways a very historic country...

Dec 17 - 18 -- Phnom Penh, the Cambodian captial.

Dec 19 -- home. PICK UP NEW PUPPY! See Ash's facebook page for photos.

Comments accepted HERE for names. Hint: he's reddish, large, and smart...

PEACE OUT! See you after some elephants.

When my baby smiles at me, I go to RIO

RIO!!!

What a spectacular piece of Earth. The people make it shake: samba, soccer, and plenty of bronze skin. But it would be a helluva sight, completely unpopulated. Here's a little flyover I took with a German guy named Christian. At four inches instead of the full 360, it does give you some idea of the topography.

Rich, upon seeing the vid, mumbled, "Jesus." You said it! Don't fuck with the Jesus...



Wow, all that mountain! Is there coastline?

Some...



The rest of Rio I won't even bother with.

Seriously. I could try blogging it. But there was too much doing it.

Briefly: The vid was a copter ride, from the smaller mountain below Pão de Açucar (Sugarloaf.) My favorite, since people ask, was Corcovado, where the statue of Cristo Redentor looks down over all. My hostel (Casa6Ipanema) was awesome, I recommend it; can't beat the location. I couldn't quite fit in a salsa fest in Lapa, nor a game at Maracaná -- but if there's one thing you soon see about Rio, it's that you can't drink it all in in a single gulp.

Awesome. Truly.

And there's no Trevi fountain. But I've promised: I'll be back.

Big City In; Big City Out

How big is Sao Paulo? Weelll...

If you took Chicago, and crammed it on top of L.A.... you could jam the three million residents of Buenos Aires in there... and still have fewer people than S.P.


It's just a never-ending flood of people -- more than a little off-putting, if you're not comfortable with it (or a New Yorker, meaning you'll at least say you don't even notice.)

I'm not here so much here to see the sights, anyway; I'm just detouring to meet a baseball guy. (Did you know Brazilian baseball has been nurtured not by the U.S., but by Japan? The president of the baseball "confederation," whom I'll meet tomorrow, is named Jorge Otsuka, and, I'm told, doesn't even speak English.)

Oh - and to have dinner with my aunt Miriam. We both happened to be in the neighborhood... Weird, huh? We hit up one of those straight-up, flip-the-card-green-for-meat Brazilian churrascarias. Oh, daddy! (Actually, I just googled "Brazilian meat restaurant" to get the spelling of the word, and the two that came up first were the one we ate at last night, and the one in S.F. on Market Street.)


Getting back to the megalopolis. I can't say I like it -- Sao Paulo has zero discernible street plan, doesn't speak any English or Spanish except in the service industry, people don't make the effort to be friendly or look decent like in Buenos, and... it smells like pee. Lots of pee.

One thing that interests me: seeing people -- young couples, that is -- escaping to the most public places to get their private time.

In cities like this, I like to take photos in the metro, since I'm there anyway, and there are these rushing hordes of diverse people, frequently with interesting backdrops. (Check out this photo, one of my very favorites ever.)

Here's another one I snapped yesterday, not even realizing myself this couple was just chillin' there.



I'll let you know how it goes with the maestro do béisbol. Although I don't plan to have much time for blogging: it's on to a Rio hostel.

Rio, baby. Rio.

Hero nearly screws pooch, finds paradise

So, I'll let you guess. Which flyover is Buenos Aires...














...and which is Iguazú, home of the big water?

I'm gonna back up a minute.

Editor's note, to those pressed for time: don't miss the video toward the bottom. Apologies if I fall rather short of Eastwood...

So: I'm now five plane flights into an eight-flight trip. You've heard the part where I get a ticket north to the big water getaway. (Turns out, planning or no, I'd likely have to fly back through Buenos no matter what: flights out of Iguazú's "international" airport have just one destination.)

So, thanks to my friendly, slow-witted travel agent guy, I've got an extra day to kill up north, with only morning flights in (the whole transaction was befuddling) but arriving too late Friday for the Argentine-side tour, and me lacking the yellow fever vaccination for the Brazilian frontera. So, I did what I frequently do on my last day in town (astute readers will have seen this coming): I dutifully packed my bag, laid out my passport with the next morning's clothes, went out and got stinking drunk.


It's not that I was being irresponsible. (Stumbling in at 4-something a.m. en route to a 5:30 taxi? No...) It's just that, confronted with a suddenly last day in B.A., and having planned to have Friday and Saturday night under the big top, I felt obligated to have one great cow-based meal -- this I did at a fancy harbor restaurant, over a bottle of Malbec (I guessed 300 bottles of wine on the menu, with not one by the glass) -- and drift down to a Tango dive in San Telmo, where the ridiculously pricey cover "covers" for there being only two other paying guests present, but also as many whiskeys as you can whisper for with only the requisite porteño slurring...

The Tango was classic -- a super-suave looking fellow, gesticulating grandiosely, crooning tremolo profundo to unnamed, unfaithful females, backed by a photo of Bogie himself, complete with shit-eating grin and fedora.

Here's a video -- not of that singer, but of another. This one, an older fella, started my night curled into a corner with a lady his age, and a sharply dressed younger couple who finally emerged for one or two highly disciplined, impassioned tango steps. My favorite number was, according to the older singer, an old Mexican yarn: Por Una Cabeza. It was way too Godfather in there to be toting out a camera much, but I managed a sampling of one number:



Says I, you've got to love the gentle disdain with which they treat the microphone as the piece wears on.

As the whiskey kept flowing, the singers gesturing suggestively, I couldn't help but think of my man Rich, as I lifted my glass and...

Long story short: Flight was at eight. I woke up at noon.

Panic!!! Self-immolation! Have I suddenly dropped hundreds of dollars to not go to Iguazú and the legendary falls?!

Do I go back to the travel agent, tail between legs, for another marathon dehydration session? Do I mutter fuck it, and jump a cab to the airport just to see? (I'll never know why my Blackberry alarm didn't go off -- I checked it again later, everything was set right; and I don't think I slept through it. But I also don't know why I didn't think they'd have wake up calls...)

In the end, I chose fuck it, and the cab to the airport. And was rewarded: Sure there's an afternoon flight. You're welcome to it -- tchau.

I bought a phone card, scared up the number in Iguazú (hey, with no internet, no cell line, in Spanish, gimme some credit) so the guide service still met me at the airport -- and in the end, with a day and two nights still to go, I got to quit Buenos precisely the way I would have chosen in the first place.

Give or take some decidedly head-against-wall moments, and a rather stringy hangover...

So: Iguazú. I'll try to keep it short!


The cataratas (waterfalls) were awesome. What's remarkable is how many of them there are. It's not what you'd call overwhelming all at once; more like the place keeps showing off.


I did go for the boat ride, where they zip you once around the island (Argentina on one side, Brazil the other), dunk you in a few of the falls for effect (and because it's upwards of 100 degrees out, though with the modest humidity it never felt it) and before you know it, you're drying off in an open-air truck through a jungle path to the souvenir shop.


Okay! Waterfalls... Check.

Sadly, no monkeys. (Sorry, Ashley. Didn't I mention the horsey I fed later? PONIES!!)

Oh: And those weird, raccoony things that hang around the snack bar? You're not supposed to feed them. And don't eat around them (?). And they bite(?!!). Niema Quiet, your thoughts?

(I can hear your I would flip, the fuck, out from here.)

What I want to get to, actually, is the restaurant last night. (Really? From Sao Paolo, it seems weeks ago.) I had decided to walk the 2 or 3 km (i.e., a mile or two) down the road into town, where I'd jogged the evening before. What I loved about Iguazú -- population about 50k, a native told me -- is that it feels like itself. Not overly touristy, except with other Argentines and Brazilians, who blend. Not much money going around amongst the locals; yet despite the sparse lifestyle, they look well-enough fed and, generally, contented. I never felt threatened in the least, and thought an outdoor grill might be worth the stroll.

I wasn't disappointed. I ordered my customary bottle of Malbec (hey, I'm on vacation) and agua con gas (finally acquiring the taste); enjoyed some delicious pieces of cow, always cow, with wonderful spices and juices, but very much like a backyard barbeque, with some hundred-plus people sitting out, enjoying the night. The band leader, a kindly type with specs and a gaucho hat, who loved nothing more than to gyrate one leg in front of the other while scraping one of those rhythm-scraper things, would turn around from time to time to include a passerby on the street behind him.

Finding no extra tables, two youngish guys were seated at mine. After an hour of keeping to ourselves, we got to talking in Spanish. These were the natives; the more talkative one was relieved that an American found his home such a paradise.

Here is perhaps the band's best number: the lead is the fiddler's son, all of four years old. Tell me he doesn't kill. (Yes, the house drummer's like, ten.)



I'd love to stay and complain about Sao Paolo. But I think I'll leave it at that.

As they say here: Tchau...

Traveler Purgatory, the Big Bailout, and some Big Water

Wow, so today I decided to be beaver-eager, and got up with the dawn, despite my very reasonable rationalization that you can't have an oceanside sunrise (remember, east coast) without ocean access or... the sun. It's interesting, porteños (Buenos residents) are rather the opposite of San Franciscans: weather-wise, they prepare for nothing, since in the heat, it can't really hurt you, and it won't last anyway. Thus, almost no one wears sunglasses, though it will be glaring for a few minutes a day; and no one carries an umbrella, though it's constantly on the verge of spilling a few drops, and usually does.

Deal with it. My kinda people...

Anyway, after some nicely productive time blogging away, prepping the sports show you see beautifully linked at right, and otherwise catching up with the northern hemisphere, I was ready for my big date with the Brazilian consulate... check. Passport, complete with visa, back in hand. (Don't ask me about vacunas -- no, not the speedy alpaca substitute, but rather, yellow fever shots; they're preventing me from seeing the Brazilian side of the falls. But I'm getting ahead.)












{That's vicuña, buddy.}

Where were we?

Anyway, long story short, ("Too late!") I spent a solid couple hours in the AmEx office (yes, there is one -- very nice, actually, though in my case it's just a connection to an un-helpful, overly secure American system via the magic of telephone) and a backwoodsy telecentro, where I was trying to get my cash money to come when called.

Finally, I paused in front of a travel agency poster of Iguazú Falls -- I'm not gonna post photos until I have my own, so look it up yourself, but suffice to say they're apparently much bigger and more impressive than Niagara -- and ended up spending a solid three dehydrated hours in there, with a friendly, helpful ultra-rookie. (Better than AmEx? Ugh, I guess.) At this point, I'm almost too tired to tango... but when you've given yourself a lone night left in a town like this, you do your best to throw down.

So: what am I doing here in the hotel lobby, typing at you? It's once more down into Boca and San Telmo, where I hope to do better than last night (ask me about why I found myself back at the cemetery at 2 a.m., and why I had to walk home from a Recoleta juicy-girl club -- not my idea, as I tersely told the hotel desk jockey who set me up with it...) Anyway, did I say tango?

Tango.

And one last steak wouldn't hurt.

Travel tip of the week: Booking.com will take your credit info and hold your reservation, but they never run the card. So I was able to bail on the last two days of my well-located (if slightly cramped) hotel two days early, guilt free. Of course, next week's tip will be advanced planning, wherein you save time and money by flying north out of Buenos Aires once, not twice...

What do you mean, you don't eat beef?! You're in Argentina!

So, picture this, then. A wooden table, separated from the street by what appears to be a thick cellophane. A dark beer in a glass and my Mac in front of me. A woman walking by with a stroller, politely asking if I have a novia, and whether I might like to buy some kind of little pink stuffed dog…

It’s dusk in Palermo, perhaps the most famous of Buenos Aires districts, which I really haven’t seen yet. (I ran out of photocard memory entering the underground subte on the way here, and had to perform a photo dump.)

It’s typical travel: I’ve taken some very good photos, many of which I find entirely fantastic, and probably aren’t. (For more, see my Facebook album.) I love this city, though, and could easily, seamlessly live here. My Castellano, while confusing to the natives, is more than good enough to get by on, and I find the slurry accent comforting: it reminds me, as I said, of southern Spain; plus, you can mispronounce half the word and play it off, letting the end fall untouched off the table.

Why do I find Buenos so romantic? Part of it is the time. Of year, of years: it’s summer, muggy and gray like New York, but with an ocean breeze that forgives all. And it stays effortlessly light until well after 8 p.m., permitting guiltless sleep ‘til any hour. Economically, it’s neither the hard times hotel of 2001-2, nor the ritzy glory years of decades past. The vibe is cosmopolitan but grounded, with a lot of construction, and equal parts abandoned buildings, bustling streets, beggars, and tasty streetside parillas.

The life is unmistakably European, thanks to history, and despite the distance. Many smoke, and even in summer, long pants are the norm. The women are beautiful – spoiled, perhaps a little, but in the good way – and people are not nearly so standoffish and insistent as they are in Paris or Rome. It’s a confident, humble metropolis. People are living the way they live.

A word about my life back in la patria. I stumbled across a few photos of the Juma crew, embarking on the retreat this past fall. My reaction: how can you beat it? True, I had basically no opportunity for time off between February and October – though when my sister’s health was in serious jeopardy in April and I rushed together my Master’s Project in May, the clouds managed to part just enough. But, like any place or group, it’s the people that make it stand out. In the year-plus since joining Juma, I’ve worked as hard as at any point in my life – but I see my time there as stretching out, not truncating, as we move quickly into Year Two.

......................................What you got on my COFFEE?

Buenos Aires: the rubber hits the road

Touched down just after sunrise, and after a little passport roulette, caught a taxi into town. I was surprised to find out it would be $40 American -- but then, I hadn't realized it was close to an hour into town. It was worth it to get to know the cabbie a bit, refresh my Spanish (it's Castellano here, and rightfully so, given the slurry accent I was exposed to in Andalucia, and according to Lonely Planet, Italy) and learn a few tidbits.

For instance, the baseball federation's not far from the airport -- frustrating, given that I've successfully arranged a full day's tour of the greater Sao Paolo hardball scene from the VP of the Brazilian "Confederation," but had no return contact from the porteños here -- and there's a rock concert going on this weekend outside of town. Also, that cab fare is arranged on an estimated $1 ($3 pesos) per km outside the city limits, but by meter in B.A. districto federal (much like Mexico D.F. or Washington, DC).

The Brazilian visa crisis is nearly averted; I wait here in one of B.A.'s thousands of internet - coffee - alcohol - lite meal cafes, having successfully given over my passport to the Brazilian consulate (I knew I should have brought the old one as backup!) and, once the bank down the street opens, I'll be free to pay the rather hefty tourist tariff, and hit the streets with my oh-so-American-abroad backpack (I ditched the "vacation" straw hat, but was clever enough to bring non-short, non-jean pants -- they pack a European's erudition, here) to finally grab the hotel.


Yes, I decided to pass on the hostel scene -- although my fantastic $19, four-star hotel got yoinked with an email saying "sorry, it should have been $109;" can you just reneg like that? And, how do you spell 'reneg?' Even Word only has 'reneged,' I suppose because if you knew someone was going to do it, present or future, you wouldn't have agreed...

Anyway, the hotel I wound up with is perfect (unseen, anyway): just off the Rio Plata, more of a bay/harbor that extends inland from the Atlantic, separating Argentina from Uruguay. It's a bit north of the tango-themed San Telmo, and from La Boca, an up-n-coming urban arts hub whose descriptions remind me of East Atlanta; and a little south of the famously cosmopolitan streets of Palermo, not to mention the legendary Consulado Braziliano.

At present I sit a few feet off the widest city street in the world, la Avenida 9 de Julio, pictured above. My precious Lonely guide tells me I'm right in line with the locals, sitting forever over an espresso and desayuno crudo, a generous and deliciously prepared bruscetta de jamon crudo (not nearly so dry as its Spanish counterpart.) However, the bank is open by now, and I've got some settlin' in to do.

It's a fine start, and I haven't even seen what I came to see -- which is lots of chic neighborhoods, otherwise I-don't-know-what.

I've got five days to learn Portugese.

P.S. -- For those curious about my itinerary, it's Buenos and environs through Sunday the first; Sao Paolo for two days and nights, mostly for the baseball thing; and Rio Wednesday through Friday. I'm back about midday Saturday.

Any travel tips more than welcome! Not only am I traveling solo, I have zero contacts here, save the business-y piece in Sao Paolo.

J.