La Boca

Here is the colorful, lively barrio of La Boca, Buenos Aires.

Hot, steamy, busy and bright, it's a quirky, possibly dangerous place to have a beer and watch a little tango at an outdoor cafe.

Funny photos from earlier....

Looking through all of the trip photos, I came across a bunch that weren't downloaded and decided to share a few highlights. Here I am in yet another great photo getting ready to throw myself down the zip line on Isornos volcano. That little white screaming speck in the trees is me  about 2 minutes later.

The next confusing photo is the view from our Santa Cruz hotel balcony. A woolly mammoth bloodbath is not something you'd really expect as you casually take a look over an otherwise pleasant, innocent looking railing. 

Don't Cry for Me ARGENTINAAAAA!!!

Alright. I'm sorry, but it had to be said somewhere. I was singing it as we pulled up to the dock at the Port of Buenos Aires and right into the middle of a big shining modern city of skyscrapers and tall palms. It took me about 15 minutes to fall in love and decide to start googling Recoleta real estate. We took a city tour to get our bearings and it quickly became apparent what was important in this grand old lady of a city. Diego Maradona, Soccer, SOCCER and when they're not thinking about that, antiques and Eva Peron. Smoking and emotional outbursts are socially acceptable and most responses to simple questions are unusually out of proportion. Porteans, as the citizens are called, speak loudly and with their hands and even the black and white question, "where can I find a bathroom" will get you a good loud bout of shouting and smacking the forehead before they finally actually take you to the door themselves. They are very friendly, go out of their way and like to share information even if they don't have a clue about what they're talking about or even speak any english for that matter. 

Recoleta is the Beverly Hills of Buenos Aires, home of the movie stars, politicans and industry giants. The curving tree-lined streets shelter the mostly spanish colonial style homes and embassies that are sandwiched together sharing walls on both sides. French, Italianate and even a little Swedish modern/Scan influence (go figure) are scattered throughout, sometimes on the same house.  The architectural detail is quite beautiful--most homes have tall thin wooden shutters behind the curving flowery iron balconies. Huge hand carved wooden doors with large brass doorknockers and ivy grace almost every house. Cats quietly sneak around the interesting nooks and crannies as the housekeepers and gardeners stand outside gossiping and smoking. It's a very peaceful cozy neighborhood; betrayed only by the fact that there are manned security guard posts on every corner indicating a little something more sinister behind the scenes. On the flip side of the coin, we drive past a sizeable shanty town under a huge bridge by the port and it is grim. Dirty, barefoot kids run between the tin and cardboard huts, all of which have modern satellite dishes on top. The next neighborhood over is called La Boca. Built close to the port by seafarers who had little money, the homes are largely made of corrugated metal painted in bold bright color combinations and possibly on the brink of falling apart right before your eyes. Apparently in the 20's, the men went down to the docks where the cargo boats were being painted and they were given the leftover paints and as much free tin as they could haul. They would build their rickety homes on top or next to each other. 'Boca' is a vibrant, slightly menacing patchwork hub of action all pink, yellow, purple and bright blue, with hustlers, beggars and tango dancers on tiny stages wearing next to nothing and really gettin' down all at 11:30 am. Psychedelic colors, barbecue, smoke, beer and the cacaphony of banging piano and violin music all combine to create a very confusing backdrop. Men hang out of windows smoking and doing running commentaries on the action below with the fellows across the allies. Shouting, laughing, singing, dancing.

No wonder this is where the famous soccer stadium is located.

A Surprise Visitor

Ah, yes. Sarah Palin made a surprise midnight visit to the ever popular Constellation Lounge and gave a little talk on what could be done about the Antarctic animal situation. She had a lot to say about Polar bears, hunting and snowmobiles.

Needless to say, she was very popular with the boys.

Tango Argentina!

When we reached the port town of Ushuaia a while back, two professional dancers from Buenos Aires tangoed up the gangplank and boarded our ship to teach all of us walking two-by-fours the art of the Tango. We've had enough classes now to know the mechanics of the dance and can actually do a tricky sashay called an 'ocho' both backwards and forwards as well as other fairly impressive moves. However, being armed with knowledge doth not a dancer make. I would love to have a movie of our classes. The same steadfast little group showed up day after day and grabbed onto each other and got the hang of it. Now, it wasn't pretty--and some of us looked remarkably similar to tree trunks--but; we were dancing. And sweating and swearing under our breath. When the gorgeous professional couple, Cecilia and Mattias would dance, it was mesmerizing. We all had visions of ourselves in a sleazy backstreet bar dressed in black sequins and getting whipped around and lead by a gaucho. And the men all had a distinctly macho attitude at class end. Hysterical. Apparently gauchos wore chaps that had hardened from the foam and sweat of the horses they worked with. Hence they walked with their knees flexed. They would take off to the local clubs and ask the poor girls to dance. Since the gauchos hadn't showered, the ladies would dance in the crook of the man's right arm holding her head back. How tempting! Her right hand would be held low on his left hip, close to his pocket, looking for payment for dancing with him. The nasty couple would then dance around the barroom in tight little circles in between the round tables trying not to spill the drinks, thus avoiding a major brawl. 

No wonder the tango gets a bad rap. Sleazy, sexy, fraught with crime and very enticing indeed!! My kind of dance!! So now that we just arrived in Buenos Aires, we're off to a big Tango show in an hour to watch the major leaguers go for it. I'll spare everyone and stay off the dance floor. 

For now.

Food, Glorious Food!!!

Now having travelled 3800 miles from Valpariaso to somewhere between Buenos Aires and Uruguay, we were treated to a truly sumptuous meal served in the galley kitchen. More theatrical than I knew food could be, melons and radishes masqueraded as flowers and entire displays of pastry and pasta were true works of art. A band played in the dining room and at one time we had 6 dishes on the table with a dizzying array of foods that really shouldn't exist on the same plane, let alone the same table. Thai shrimp curry cuddled up to weiner schnitzel and spaetzle and baked alaska was neighbors with summer fruit pudding and profiteroles. This 'galley lunch' is a regular event on each leg of the Seabourn journey and I have to say; it was one of the more memorable meals of our entire trip. How fun is it to stand in the kitchen with the chefs, dipping soft hunks of french bread into a huge pot of bubbling fondue that smells like a dream?

REAL FUN!!! 

Off to have some caviar now...can't get enough!!!

Who Knew???

On february 6th, our floating little slice of heaven pulled into Puerto Madryn, a largish town in the province of Chubut in Argentine Patagonia. Founded in 1865 by 150 Welsh immigrants who came by clipper ship looking to preserve their roots, Puerto Madryn and the neigboring village Gaiman are a testament to risking life and limb for a love of country and culture. We hear stories of the treacherous sea journey and of the many heroes and losses, commemorated all along the seaside tourist beaches by a plethora of monuments and statues. The original settlers 150 names are carved into granite at the point of their landing next to a little shrine and the caves they originally used for shelter. Our guide is a fourth generation Welshman with dry humor, a great sense of nationalism and the unique ability to slip a few slightly off-color anecdotes in without offending even the most prudish of our group. He was entirely charming as he told proudly of how his great-grandfather came to Madryn on the original clipper Mimosa. You can bet he has stories to tell. We weave our way past the seafront homes, a strange amalgamation of architectural styles, running the gamut from quaint brick homes with lacy curtains to Miami deco to princess castle. There is a certain dollhouse feel as well; most buildings are only two, maybe three stories and of a quite small scale. Adding to the surreal is that the place seems like a ghost town. Where are all the people??? It's friday afternoon (or maybe thursday, who knows anymore...) but there is a sense that everybody got in their cars and ran for the hills. Maybe they did. It's summer here and it could be that it's vacation time. Our coach takes us out of town and on a drive that could very well be through Arizona, if it weren't for the strange red flagged shrines to the gauchos that punctuate the desert highway. Mesas and scrubby greenery run for miles all around us. The hills are striated with green, rust, brown and pink--Bruce Chatwin described it in 'In Patagonia' as neopolitan ice cream made by God. It is exactly what it looks like. We eventually come to a tiny village tucked in and hidden by mountains--Gaiman. For the original settlers, there was no clean water source, so they went walkabout looking for one and found the site. I can't even imagine the journey walking across this desert and we're told there were more losses along the way. Understandable. Makes me thirsty just thinking about it, but thankfully for anyone silly enough to want to walk across this massive expanse today, there are water bottles at every roadside shrine. Water, a hot commodity around here, is thought to be lucky. I'll say. It makes me grip my evian bottle a little tighter. Gaiman is a quiet and most peaceful oasis of tidy low slung buildings--not a soul in sight except for one lone girl with wet hair who skips across the street and ducks in a miniature house. There are flowers and willow trees everywhere and a feeling of having travelled back in time. To where or when, I couldn't say, but South America in 2009 sure wouldn't come to mind. We stop at a tea house next to a river for Welsh tea and cake and are serenaded by a local choir in both Welsh and Spanish/Argentinian style. One gal has such a mellifluous voice it stops everyone, tea cup poised halfway between table and lips, to listen intently. All manner of cake eating and spoon-hitting-plate stops abruptly as she magically transports a bunch of slightly grumpy, hot travellers to a mystic place far away, exotic, graceful and maybe just a little bit sad.