Where Whales Smile and Seals Strut: A Patagonian Mission to Puerto Madryn

After an epic trip to Bariloche, our thirst for patagonian adventure could not be quenched. Once again, the compass pointed south: Léa, Sofi and I would venture eight hours down the Atlantic Coast, to Puerto Madryn, Chubut. The trip would be short, (just two days), but it would surely be epic. Our objective was clear: we were after whales.

It would not be a proper blog entry without a bus fiasco to impart, and this chapter of my Argentine adventure is no exception. Our bus was running late, and anxious to embark on the journey, I asked the man at the counter how long of a delay to expect. '20 minutos,' he replied, tersely. After 30 minutes, and still no sign of the bus, I returned to the counter, and making my best effort not to be annoying, asked again. '20 minutos.' This bi-hourly, déjà vu-inducing exchange repeated for about three hours, until our bus finally arrived. Señor 20 Minutos however, turned out to be the least of our problems...

1:37 a.m.: Approximately 2.5 hours after ETD

Little did I know that I was soon to embark on what we would later dub the 'Ride of Death.' This ride however, was no Splash Mountain. About 30 minutes into the trip, the bus began to shake. Perhaps, I thought, half-asleep and delirious, this vigorous trembling is normal. Not so. Soon, the bus came to a halt. Periodical stops are not uncommon, and so again, I thought little of it. But when I peered out the window, I discovered that we were not, as I had presumed, at a gas station or a bus stop. Rather, we were inside a very dark, very sketchy garage.

The situation inside the garage did not improve. Although the bus was stationary, it continued to shake furiously, up and down, side to side. I looked behind me at the other passengers for confirmation that something was terribly amiss, and was shocked by what I saw. While Léa, Sofi and I frantically peered out the window, trying to figure out why in the world we were shaking inside a random garage, and equally perplexing, why no one was making an announcement about it on the intercom, the other passengers read quietly or dozed peacefully in their seats. Had they been tranquilized by the complementary snack we had not yet eaten? Was there some unspoken Argentine understanding that we foreigners were not in on?

Before these questions could ever be answered, we left the garage of doom. Apparently the problem had been fixed. Our peace however, was short-lived. About five minutes later the bus began to shake and jerk. To add to the excitement, we were now moving at tilt, the passengers to my left at a distressingly lower level than my own. 'No estoy tranquila,' Léa whispered, ominously. 'Nos vamos a morir?', I asked, only somewhat joking.

Five sketchy garage-stops and 14 hours later, we arrived in Puerto Madryn, 6 hours behind schedule, but happy to be alive. We'd arrived too late for any excursion, and so we headed straight to my friend and fellow Fulbrighter Melissa's apartment. She was generous enough to host the three of us and show us around Puerto Madryn.

The following day also happened to be our last day, and so we had to make it count. Martín, our excursion guide, picked us up in a truck at Melissa's place, and we set off for Punta Ninfas (Nymphs' Point), the home to an impressive colony of elephant seals. Martín had brought along mate for the trip, and I eagerly offered to 'cebar' (serve).

As it turned out, pouring near-boiling water into a small yerba-filled wooden cup (mate), and passing it around while speeding down an unpaved dirt road in not nearly as easy as Argentines make it look. Most of the water and the yerba mate ended up on my clothes and on the floor, and by the time we arrived at Punta Ninfas, I appeared to have jumped in a pool and rolled in loose-leaf tea. Luckily, I had no one I to impress but the elephant seals...

Cebadora in training

Bumpy road = major mate spillage

'Why is it called Punta Ninfas," I asked Martín, inquisitively. Our guide stared pensively ahead, scratched his chin, and launched into the grand tale of Charles Darwin and his epic travels on the Beagle. Darwin, he recounted dramatically, spotted the elephant seals from afar on his ship, and claimed to have seen beautiful nymphs, lounging lazily on the shore. I later googled this explanation, and found not a single reference to Charles Darwin in relation to Punta Ninfas. Somewhat deceptive on Martín's part, but I give him props for creativity.

Martín, el Gran Chamuyero, leading the way to the beach

Perhaps Martín had invented the Darwinian nymph tale, but I could not deny that the female elephant seals we found at Punta Ninfas (the males had not yet arrived), indeed seemed to perceive themselves as divine nymph goddesses. I felt like a photographer on 'America's Next Top Model' as I snapped pictures of these colossal creatures of the deep. Sure they smelled like rotting carp. And yes, the ground shook with the roaring force of their not-so-femenine barks. These ladies though, sure knew how to strike a pose.

Léa and I sensed our inferiority along side the elephant seal goddesses 

As we walked along the shore, Martín made a miraculous find: a whale's tooth! In reality, whales don't have teeth, but rather bristle-like baleen which filters out krill and other tasty whale morsels, and (fun fact!) is made of the same substance as human fingernails. Name aside, I had to have this cetacean treasure. 'Could I please have the whale tooth?', I asked Martín, trying not to sound too excited. (In truth, I longed deeply for the tooth, and could hardly contain my excitement.) Martín handed over the whale chomper, and I clutched it happily.

In awe of my prize

Next stop: el Doradillo. Time to spot some whales! On the drive to el Doradillo, Léa and Sofi snoozed in the back seat, and once I got bored of taking embarrassing sleeping pictures of my two compañeras, I chatted with Martín. As it turned out, Martín knew very little about Puerto Madryn's flora and fauna. On the other hand, our guide was quite knowledgeable about soccer, and discussed in great detail, and at great length, his favorite team, describing everything from their tactical strategy to the team's origin and history. Meanwhile, I practiced my mate-serving technique as Martín ranted passionately for the two hours it took to arrive at el Doradillo.

At el Doradillo we encountered winds so strong we could hardly stand upright. Nevertheless, we got out of the truck at various points along the beach, fiercely searching the waters for la ballena franca austral, or, the southern right whale. They were no where to be found. Perhaps, we considered sadly, the siesta practiced by many Argentines is a whale tradition as well.

No whales in sight... Un garronazo!

Just when we had given up hope, seemingly defeated in our whale mission, I heard a faraway call: "Ballenas!" And there they were. The southern right whales. We frolicked joyfully down the beach, chasing after the whales, which, not unlike the elephant seals, also seemed to be putting on a bit of a show. The whales swam unbelievably close to the shore, periodically raising their callus-encrusted heads, revealing their sleek, endless bodies, amiably waving their glorious tails. They were massive. They were totally awesome.

Oh hey whale-watchers!

After our spectacular whale sighting, we headed back to Puerto Madryn, very satisfied and smiling broadly. Just as we got back to Melissa's apartment however, I stopped in my tracks, horrified. I had left my beloved souvenir behind in the truck. My whale tooth. Desperate, I called the agency and explained the grave situation to Juan, the man working at the office. 'What did you leave, señorita," he asked. After a thoughtful pause, I replied, "Well, um...a whale tooth actually."

"I'm not sure what to tell you, because whale's don't have teeth," Juan replied evenly, though clearly attempting to mask the fact that he thought I was insane. Once I explained that yes, I knew that it was not actually a whale tooth, he assured me that Martín would stop by the apartment and bring me my tooth. Joya.

The only problem was that we were leaving in 2 hours. I waited, and waited. No Martín. I called back to the office. "If Martín doesn't make it before you leave, he'll meet you at the bus station," said Juan, i.e. Gran Chamuyero #2. We left for the bus station. I called the office. No answer. At the bus station, I waited hopefully for Martín to appear, imagining our guide sprinting down the terminal, a Journey song playing dramatically in the background, whale tooth in hand. I had wished in vain. Martín never came.

On the bus ride home, I was devastated, but tried to think about the situation rationally. How did I know that Martín, who knew close to nothing about wildlife in Puerto Madryn, had not also lied about the whale tooth? Maybe, I considered, my treasure was just a piece of dried bark that looked curiously like a whale tooth. Had I been fooled? Had I used up all of my cell phone credit, and made a somewhat embarrassing scene for nothing? It seemed that the tale of the whale tooth would forever remain a mystery. Perhaps in this situation, ignorance was a preferable option after all. We had made the most of our short time in Puerto Madryn, and had not only seen whales, our principle objective, but had also enjoyed the delightful, albeit stinky company of the elephant seals. Overall, a mega 'Madrynense' success. 

AFTERWORD: 

Several days later, I received wonderful news from Melissa: "THE WHALE TOOTH HAS LANDED!" Melissa had worked her magic, and had not only recovered my precious souvenir, but also verified that it was, in fact, a baby whale tooth. How cool. My prize would be waiting for me in Puerto Madryn. I guess that means that I have no choice but to return...

The Relativity of 'un Rato': Telling Time, Argentine Style

Years ago in a Spanish culture class, I was first shown this famous Salvador Dalí painting, "La Persistencia de la Memoria" ("The Persistance of Memory"), or, as it is most commonly searched for on Google, the more literally titled, 'Melting Clocks Painting.' I was always intrigued by the work, and yet, found its significance evasive. 'Melting clocks...What could it possibly mean?,' I wondered, pensively stroking my chin.

What I realize now, is that I was asking the wrong question. The issue is not 'What?' or 'Why?', but rather, 'Where?'. Where does this painting take place? Because the truth, of which perhaps even Dalí himself was not aware, is that these are not just any clocks. They are Argentine clocks. (Slowly melting, perhaps, on the shores of Puerto Madryn.) 

Puerto Madryn, Argentina, or surrealist beach setting? Qué sé yo!

During my months living in Argentina, I have learned what I could never grasp in the classroom: the meaning of 'the relativity of time.' Finally, Dalí was speaking to me...

I think she's got it!

In the United States, melting clocks do not exist. 'How can time be an idea, something relative,' I often wondered, 'when it is rigid and fixed, absolute and unchangeable?' 7 o'clock means 7 o'clock. A little after 4 o'clock means 4:05, 4:15 and you're pushing it. 1 o'clock sharp? Like a razor. 9 o'clock on the dot? We're talking the end of a needle. Two minutes late and you're toast. Extra crispy. Indeed, one must faithfully abide by the Law of Time. Arrive late to a carpool? Thou shalt apologize profusely. Delayed to a meeting? Thou shalt beg forgiveness. Punctuality is valued and expected.  'Late' is a a four letter word, the eighth deadly sin.

Don't mess with Time!

Ok, yes, I'm exaggerating a little. But that's how I feel sometimes. Perhaps this is because I am not, you could say, the most punctual of people. In the U.S. I am constantly fighting the clock. And in this epic battle, Ali vs. Time, I am always the loser. Indeed, I have spent many years recognizing my dilatory nature as a point of weakness, a flaw to correct. This past New Year's I even resolved to address my shortcoming, in a well-intentioned but ultimately fruitless gesture to be more punctual. Conveniently, I left for Argentina shortly thereafter...

Turns out that, at least for the time being, I can toss my resolution in la basura. Imagine my utter joy when I arrived in Argentina, and discovered that everyone was just like me: always late! And that not only are they are habitually delayed, but that being late is perfectly acceptable, and at times even socially necessary! I currently live in a country where 'late' is not late, but right on time! 

I thought I was being metaphorical until I saw these in a store in Buenos Aires. 

'I'll be there at 9 y pico' a friend may tell me. 'Pico,' or 'a little bit' may range from 10 minutes, to an hour and a half. Wait 'cinco minutitos.' I was surprised to learn that not only are there 'little minutes' in Argentina, but that five of them can translate to half an hour. And if start times are unclear, then end times are completely unknowable. 'I'll stop by for 'un rato,' or 'a little bit,' could mean anything from 15 minutes to two hours. 'Un ratito,' which in theory is 'little rato,' provides essentially zero temporal information, and could range from 1 minute to an entire afternoon. It's all relative.

And it's wonderful. What is perhaps my greatest shortcoming in the United States has allowed me to adapt to life in Argentina, a country where time is fluid. A place where going with the flow is necessary if you have hopes of maintaining your sanity. A land where clocks melt like chocolate alfajores left out in the sweltering South American sun.

Rewind five months. During my first week in Bahía, a friend told me a group was to meet at 6 at a spot near my house to drink mate and eat some facturas (magically delicious Argentine pastries). Not wanting to be a huge loser and show up right at 6, I had decided it would be appropriate to get there fashionably late, at 6:15. Seemed reasonable enough. When I arrived though, no one was there. My master plan had backfired; I had got there too late. Too late. Ha.

About an hour later I wandered outside to take out the trash, and saw my friend strolling in, with a bag of facturas in one hand, and mate thermos in the other. "Che, Ali! Estás lista?" Could this be real? It was 7:22, one hour and 22 minutes behind schedule, and we were just now meeting. Even by my standards, this was unthinkable. And yet, it was totally okay. As I munched on my medialuna, surrounded by dilatory Argentines, I knew that I finally belonged.

Or perhaps, not quite. For the first time in my life, the tables had turned: I often found myself the first person to arrive. I had a 9 a.m. meeting with all of the 20 international students living with me in the university housing. At 9:07 I ran out of my house, extremely flustered, and peered into the houses whether the others live. No sign of life. Oh god. I was late. The meeting had begun and everyone was there. Mild panic setting in, I sprinted to the English building several blocks away where the meeting was to be held, and burst into the room. It was 9:11 a.m. The room, aside from my director and her assistant, was empty. 

Although I am not the timeliest yanqui there ever was, I am realizing that I am nevertheless bound unconsciously to the Clock of my homeland. I have internalized the notion that I must adapt to Time, and not, alternatively, Time must adapt to me. My friend Carla captured this fundamental cultural difference when she recounted our first encounter to our soccer team: "My first memory of Ali is of her approaching the bus stop, sprinting down the street while scarfing down an apple." This is an image which is not uncommon in the United States, but which in Argentina, categorizes you as very strange, if not freakish. Indeed, there are two things wrong with this picture, as viewed in Argentina:

1) Running on the street. You could say that we take the expression 'running late' very literally. In the U.S., arriving exhausted, flushed and/or sweaty is preferable to showing up late, and it is therefore not uncommon to run to one's destination in order to avoid a major stink eye, or a dreaded tardy. During college, I could always count on seeing at least several students after the bell had rung, heavily breathing as they sprinted frantically to class.

In Argentina, no one runs on the street. Except for me, that is. Sometimes people scream when I run by, seemingly under the impression that I am going to rob them. Clearly this aberrant behavior is not conducive to my assimilation to Argentine culture, and I am therefore making a determined effort to suppress my urge to book it down the street when I notice that I'm late.

2) Eating on the move. In the United States people eat while they're walking, while they're running, while they're driving. En route is primo snack time. I was raised amidst a culture where coffee is synonymous with drive-thrus and to-go mugs, where 'food trucks' are all the rage, and where people eat yogurt called 'Go-Gurt'. It is normal to be in a hurry, and if scarfing down yogurt out of a disposable plastic tube, or devouring a hot dog on stick saves time, then great!

In Argentina however, things are not so rushed. Eating is as much about energizing the body as it is about enjoying one's comida, socializing, and spending times with friends and family. 'To-go' cups are antithetical to the notion of drinking coffee, and it is therefore no surprise that there are only a handful of Starbucks in Buenos Aires, and not a single one in Bahía Blanca. Perhaps that explains why people stare at me as if I were a gorilla escaped from the zoo when I eat a banana on my way to work.

Despite these tendencies, I am adapting to the Argentine Clock. I can now arrive to a party 40 minutes 'late' without a single pang of guilt. I can walk to a meeting in the city center without checking my watch ever 7 seconds. I am making an effort to enjoy my apples in the privacy of my home, though I will not lie, I have not yet been able to fully make this cultural transition.

Besides learning that time is in fact relative, and that I am not fatally flawed, I am finding that Time can be my amigo. That when schedules and meeting times are a little more flexible, that when I am not running down the street, I can stop and enjoy the smell of medialunas wafting lazily from a bakery. I can enjoy a mate gathering for hours on end without worrying about what comes next. Life is not to be rushed, but rather savored. And while the probable effect this will have upon my punctuality upon my return to the U.S. is quite alarming, I am enjoying this new rhythm, embracing this new perception of time which stalls and accelerates, expands and contracts; which gives true meaning to the expression 'making time,' and creates space for the joys in life that transcend the clock.

Livin' the Dream!: My Trip to San Carlos de Bariloche

Only days before a long holiday weekend, my friend Léa told me that she really wanted to go to Bariloche, but she wasn't sure if there would be... The end of the sentence faded out dramatically. A trip to Bariloche. Suddenly, I envisioned Léa and myself scaling a towering, imperious Andean peak, stopping periodically to gnaw on decadent logs made of chocolate. It was a struggle, but I had been convinced. And so, in a moment of spontaneity, it was decided: the yanqui and the francesa would head south to la Patagonia. To San Carlos de Bariloche. We bought our bus tickets, packed (in my case, overpacked), and the following day, headed off to the spectacular chocolate capital of Argentina.

Bus rides in Argentina never disappoint, and the trip to Bariloche was no exception. About 30 minutes into the 14 hour bus ride, I realized that I was not actually riding on a bus, but instead, some sort of enormous portable human freezer. Indeed, the temperature unexpectedly dropped 30 degrees, and I watched enviously as Léa whipped out a sleeping bag. She had packed half as much stuff as I had, and yet, miraculously, was twice as prepared. Thinking that I should really step up my packing game, I covered myself absurdly with a light jacket and moved into fetal position. It would be a long trip.

I was grateful for a distraction from the frostbite entering my appendages when the bus attendant put on a movie. To my great dismay, it turned out to be quite possibly the worst movie of all time. I do not remember the title or the plot, only that Adam Sandler was playing a woman, and that it was more than I could handle. I put in my headphones and shut my eyes, praying the movie would soon end, and that the temperature would rise above freezing.

Here we are pre-depature, warm and unaware of the upcoming Ice Age

I must have dozed off to Adam Sandler's atrocious attempt to speak like a woman, because I awoke the following morning to a gentle tapping on my arm. I opened my eyes with a jolt: there was a women's face, only several inches from my own, and she was opening and closing her mouth. When I realized that this was in fact human speech, and also remembered that I was currently in Argentina, I switched on the Spanish mode (or at least, so I thought), and heard a single word: 'chocolatería.' Qué lindo! Not in the mood for a hot chocolate at such an early hour though, I thanked the woman, shut my eyes, and eagerly returned to my slumber.

I woke up 10 minutes later to three very alarming realizations.

          1: We were not at a chocolatería, as I had mysteriously understood, but rather a                   bus station.
          2: This bus station was not in Bariloche.
          3: Léa and I were the only people on the bus.

Extremely flustered and very confused, I shook Léa awake. We frantically gathered our things and booked it off the bus, where we saw our ride to Bariloche preparing to drive off. With only moments to spare, and on the verge of a heart attack, we loaded the bus. By this point I was fairly certain that the woman had not, in fact, said 'chocolatería,' but more probably something along the lines of 'bus transfer.' Nevertheless, her true words, and my auditory processing in this moment, will forever remain a mystery...

The trip was mildy traumatic, so once we arrived in Bariloche and checked into our hostel, we kept it tranqui and explored the city:

View of Lake Nahuel Huapi

Awesome mural in the city center

Our first morning in Bariloche I woke bright and early, and hopped out of bed. This is far from what I would call habitual behavior, but I had a strong incentive: the woman at the front desk had told me to expect 'panqueques' at the hostel's complementary breakfast. Ever since, I had been fantasizing longingly about my favorite American breakfast delight, a fluffy cake of cooked batter served with sticky sweet maple syrup.

"Ali! Vení, vení"

'Had my pancake been run over by a truck?' I wondered as I entered the kitchen. Turns out 'panqueque' is not the same thing as pancake, but is instead more comparable to the French crepe's Latin first cousin. I would say identical twin, except that it was served with dulce de leche, Argentina's favorite caramel-esque spread/filling/frosting that is magical, and a national staple. Despite my initial disappointment as to my pancake's lack of depth, my flat panqueque breakfast was delicious, and I savored every bite.

Vertically challenged panqueque. Yum!

After breakfast, we headed to Cerro Catedral, a massive 2388m peak and the area's most important winter sports center. Having arrived in fall, skiing was not an option, and so we prepared for the all-day hike up to Refugio Frey. When we arrived at the base of the mountain looking for the path, a crowd of dirt-bikers in very tight spandex onesies cryptically directed us to the 'wooden backpacker man.' When we ultimately found this very cool dude, we knew that good things were in store.

Qué zarpadoooo!

The hike up Cerro Catedral was fantastic, and we passed the hours admiring the vibrant fall colors, chatting about life, and singing our respective national anthems. Luckily for everyone, we only crossed paths with a handful of hikers...

Léa leaves our mark on a log cabin at Cerro Cadredral. Qué tierno!

After a solid ascent, we reached Refugio Frey, i.e. Mordor. As I admired this stone 'refuge' perched alongside an incredible lagoon and staggering rocky peaks, I waited for Frodo Baggins and crew to emerge from the eerie mist, mate in hand and speaking hobbit Spanish. Before I could ever confirm whether Frodo likes his mate amargo o dulce (bitter or sweet), it began to snow...

In the end, Refugio Frey really did turn out to be a 'refuge.' We took cover inside where we watched the snow fall, and ignored the fact that we would soon have to brave the storm...

Now, I am not a superstitious person, but when I locked eyes with the demonic feline pictured below (and above, lurking ominously in the background), I was overcome by a sense of impending doom. We should leave now, I told Léa, nervously. It would give us more than enough time to hike down and catch the last bus to Bariloche, leaving at 6:35. Todo tranqui. Oh how wrong we were...

Let's just say that we nearly spent a very cold night at Cerro Catedral, with our buddy the wooden backpacker man. How, you may be wondering, did this hike go from peaceful day trip to near catastrophe, i.e. mega quilombo? In addition to being cursed by a malevolent black cat, there were several major contributing factors:

1) We got slightly lost. This is the obvious, classic downfall of any hiker, of which we must admittedly join the ranks. Luckily, we had only just started to panic when we discovered a familiar stream.

2) Léa fell into the stream. To cross, we had to hop from stone to stone, and Léa, one determined lady, selected the most difficult path possible. I watched helplessly as Léa, apparently unaware that you needed the hops of an NBA basketball player to make it across, prepared to jump to her watery doom. Just when I suggested, 'Maybe we should head down stream a little bit where the rocks aren't so....," there was a splash. Call me immature, but there is something undeniably and timelessly funny about someone unintentionally falling into the water. I first verified Léa was not injured (obvio!), and proceeded to laugh hysterically for the half hour it took Léa to dump the 2 liters of water out of her boots and attempt (unsuccessfully) to dry off.

A little damper and somewhat delayed, but feelin' good!

3) Dead trees. Yes, dead trees. Léa revealed an inexplicable affinity for photographing these charred, burnt trunks. Incidentally, there were hundreds, each apparently with its own ashy charm. It seemed a little odd, but I reminded myself that I enjoy learning about grammar, running in the rain and shucking oysters, and realized I couldn't talk. I have included a small selection from Léa's exhibition, "Deciduously Dead: Bariloche and the Burnt Tree":

After these various trials, tribulations and tree trunk stops, we arrived at the parking lot at 6:35 sharp, only to see our ride (the last bus!), driving away. Now, as Léa would later remark, had come my moment of determination. I switched into track mode and began sprinting full speed across the parking lot, yelling 'Stoooopp! Stooooooppp!' at the top of my lungs. In retrospect, I recognize that it would have been very helpful in this moment to shout in Spanish. Nevertheless, when the barilochense spandex-clad dirt bikers saw a psychotic girl (me) careening toward the bus, shouting incomprehensible gibberish, they gathered what was going on and began to yell as well. The spandex dirt-bikers had pulled through for us yet again- the bus came to a halt! I was wheezing, and Léa was laughing hysterically, but we were saved. 

Chau chau Cerro Catedral! Un besito!

Now, San Carlos de Bariloche is not just famous for it's incredible landscapes and to-die-for chocolate. Every year, thousands of young Argentines from around the country flock to Bariloche for the 'viaje de egresados,' a celebratory trip for recent high school grads. And it sounds like it is indeed, quite celebratory. As it turned out, many of our bahiense friends were quite familiar with the Bariloche nightlife, and provided a lengthy and comprehensive list of bars and boliches (clubs) 're copados'. That being said, Léa and I had no choice but to see for ourselves.

The 'vida nocturna' en Bariloche did not disappoint. We had a great time at an Irish pub called Wilkenny's, which, aside from its name and the fact that beer was served, had no apparent connection to anything even slightly Irish. We also went out dancing at the famous 'Grisu,' a multi-room boliche with a coal mine theme. It sounds pretty weird, but it was as fun as our friends had promised it would be.

We woke up very early the next morning, and I was not quite so chipper this time. It was worth it though, when we walked outside, and saw this:

We headed out in a van for our excursion to Cerro Tronador, an inactive volcano located in Nahuel Huapi National Park, along the border between Argentina and Chile. Our guide, Mapu, definitely choose the right profession, because he talked continuously and with gusto for approximately nine hours straight. Mapu's topic of choice during the morning was our zombie-like state. This clever fellow announced, over the intercom, 'to your right you can see a plant with special properties. The girls in the back should consider applying it underneath their eyes.' I swear that Argentines have a sixth sense for knowing when you are tired, and will not hesitate to inform you, and all the other 15 people who happen to be on the bus.

And, we're off!

We made a pit stop at a little restaurant nearby Cerro Tronador. There was also an ice cream shop, but the owners had apparently taken a very extended lunch break.

'Back in 10... Months': Bariloche takes 'chill' to a whole new level

Cerro Tronador is extra cool because it is covered by eight different glaciers. We were able to see one of these glaciers, found at the base of el Tronador: Ventisquero Negro ('black snowdrift'). It is dark brown because the river which feeds into the glacier picks up dirt and sediment along the way, leaving brown icebergs which break off from the glacier.

Apparently, I was not the only one who was impressed

The following day we did the famous 'Ruta de los Siete Lagos' (the Route of Seven Lakes). Not surprisingly, we saw seven different lakes, each stunningly beautiful.

 

We stopped for lunch in San Martin de los Andes, a chill little city tucked into the mountains, bordering the beautiful Lácar Lake. Léa and I enjoyed a delicious lunch, and checked out a small arts and crafts fair in the city center. A highlight was getting laughed at by a street vendor for attempting to buy an ashtray, having mistaken it for a jewelry dish.

Our final day in Bariloche, we took the bus to the swanky Hotel Llao Llao, perched majestically on a hill between Lake Moreno and Lake Nahuel Huapi.

Argentina's most famous hotel

With only a few hours before our bus left, we went on a short hike from Hotel Llao Llao down to the waterfront. Despite my serious lack of navigations skills, and a mysterious absence of helpful signs, Léa successfully led the way down to the water! 

More dead trees! Hooray! 

It was a magnificent view, and before we knew it, we found ourselves (surprise!) rushed for time to make our bus. It was a hilly hike, and we had to hustle. Considering that we could count the hours we had slept the past few nights with our fingers, we were not exactly on our hiking 'A' game.' It was a struggle, but we cheered each other on, and made it to the bus stop. I didn't even have to make a scene this time.

On the bus ride back to Bariloche, it was well past lunch time, and we were famished. When whipped out our lunch and began chowing down, the passengers stared at us as if we were savages devouring a live cow, and not, as it were, enjoying a modest spread of ham sandwiches and chips.

Bus picnic!

The time had come to head to the bus station, and we arrived to a wonderful surprise. Our cheap, partially-inclining semi-cama seats magically reclined completely like the full cama seats that we had not paid for. We were thrilled.

Our joy was short lived: several hours later we arrived at the cursed bus station/chocolatería, where, once again, we were forced to transfer buses and give up our treasured seats. As I took my new, much more uncomfortable seat, my mild frustration turned to utter horror when I looked up and saw Adam Sandler wearing a wig. I hoped it was a joke. It was not.

Not even seeing the worst movie of all time for a second time, however, could dampen our spirits. It had been an amazing trip, filled with remarkable natural beauty, singing and dancing, adventure, and wonderful company. Léa and I left five days earlier not knowing each other very well, and returned feeling like long-time friends, our stomachs aching from laughing so hard, and with a lengthy blog's worth of unforgettable memories. By the time we arrived in Bahía, we were already planning our next grand Argentine adventure...

Nos vemos Bariloche!