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.

'Catamaran-ing' the Beagle Channel

After shrugging off the overwhelming sense of ickiness leftover by our visit to the Ushuaia pen, we boarded a nifty catamaran and sailed off to cruise the Beagle Channel. We were lucky again with the weather; bright and warm which brought out all the various and sundry animals looking for a nice bask in the sun.

Penguins were dipping and diving around nice fat albatrosses as we headed for a tiny island covered with what looked like shiny fur coats in big luxurious piles. Sea lions too numerous to count. Mommies, babies and a couple Big Daddies lording over the whole scene, raising up to grunt loudly every now again. It's pretty obvious who rules the roost and we're told that the male sea lions are the original alpha males and have harems and kill the male babies to get rid of the future competition. They take their social standing pretty seriously. A little farther down the channel, we pull up to an island literally covered and roiling with black and white birds. More than just a little Hitchcockian,we have visions of Tippi Hedron stumbling around bolting over the rocks with at least seven of these big boys stuck in her beehive. At first glance the strange birds look exactly like penguins, but they're not. Cormorants. With large black chicks that follow the parents around. All day. They have a slightly bored, yet desperate look on their little bird faces. Probably saying, "But MOM!! I'm starving!!!" 

To end our little journey, the boat pulls up to a lovely little red and white brick lighthouse set against postcard scenery. You can't help but take 12,000 pictures.

Back on the ship, we join the rest of the Seabourners for a Caviar Sail Away party on the top deck. The sun is out, the atmosphere is festive and it is definitely a happy moment as we load up with caviar, grab a flute of champagne and pull away from the Ushuaia dock. Another fun day against the gorgeous, rugged scenery of South America.

Photos at the End of the World

The train at the end of the world and the post office at the end of the world. 

Probably the prettiest post office I've ever seen.

They should opt for "Prettiest Post Office At The End of the World".

Sounds much better.

A little gem called Ushuaia, Argentina

We arrived in busy little Ushuaia, Argentina and parked next to several Antarctic expedition boats and a bustling crab boat that was just a hive of activity. We watched mesmerized as the crab was methodically boxed up, crated and removed. Quite the operation. Not really knowing what to expect, we headed out for "the Train at the End of the World". By now, you should be able to tell that there's a distinct theme going on here. Everyone wants the title of '_____ at the End of the World'. There are currently three towns in the running and it's a regularly disputed claim. Ushuaia is one of them. Although remote, Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra Del Fuego ('land of fire', the island at the bottom of Argentina) has a fun, funky vibe similar to Aspen, Colorado. Even the airports are similar; scary looking and surrounded by mountains. Every plane that comes in causes entire groups to stop what they're doing and look to the sky with big eyes in anticipation of what's coming next. "Is it a go or is it a no???" Wait, wait----ahhhh--yes!!! Touchdown on solid land. Relief!!!

There is a marked alpine tone to the architecture which is charming in its slightly dilapidated shabbiness. Bold bright colors stand out against the mostly overcast skies and there are little overcrowded roads that wind up the mountainside ending in larger hotels. Ushuaia is well known for adventure tourism, but we're not really up to that now. We've been spoiled rotten so we opt for a slightly different journey.

The train at the end of the world is actually the rebuilt 'convict' train from early in the century. Ushuaia was originally built to house a prison full of the country's worst criminals, mostly murderers and it was eventually closed down because the conditions were so totally inhumane. The train carried wood that the convicts would first cut down and then load, leaving a large area in the valley deforested--'The Cemetery' as they called it. Rows and rows of gray stumps as far as the eye can see. Grim. 

The little steam train wound its way through the valley and what with the coffee, wild horses, cushy seats and good company, seemed light years away from its prior history. We hardly felt like criminals at all.

Until we actually got to the prison. If you would have told me that I would be in a jail cell by noon, I wouldn't left my cabin. Thank goodness it was only a short trip. Here we are having a lovely lunch on the back of the boat with Ushuaia and it's scary prison firmly behind us. 

At The End of the World

Here we are toasting Cape Horn and Hornos Island as we watch the little red rescue boat deliver treats to the family that lives on the Cape. Just visible on the upper lefthand corner of the photo is the Cape Horn monument to all the seafarers who lost their lives trying to round the Cape. The huge metal monument is very touching; the cutout image appears as both an albatross in flight and a rough cross.

Rounding the 'Horn'

On Monday, we set out to attempt to round Cape Horn and Hornos Island. Apparently it's a pretty amazing feat of navigation and not many boats actually get the chance to do it, owing to weather and water conditions. Cape Horn marks the southernmost point of South America and extends into Drake Passage, the Antarctic strait connecting the south Atlantic and South Pacific oceans. Storms, strong currents and icebergs make passage extremely hazardous. As it turned out for us, the weather was amazing--sunny and warm and very unique for Cape Horn. At about 5 pm, we went around the tip and it was truly special. The weather was so good, in fact, the boat anchored and some crew went ashore to deliver some treats and supplies to the lone family that lives there, manning the lighthouse and 'keeping' the little island. They took the entire boat's worth of passports in a safe box and had them stamped, giving everyone on board a truly once in a lifetime gift. It was bitterly cold up on deck but blankets were handed out along with hot toddies, gluhveine and champagne and the whole boat, employees and all were out in force, documenting the historic moment and celebrating. All in all, a very festive occasion!

Two Days at Sea

'Fun with Ice'

Here are Jeri and I caressing a nice chunk of the De Agostini glacier in the bar kitchen. Don't say we don't know how to have a good time!!! A couple of boat bound days naturally make one a little squirrelly and any novelty is welcome good entertainment!

Today finds us somewhere off the coast of Argentina socked in by heavy fog and rain headed for Puerto Madryn. We're on our second day at sea moonwalking the pitching, rolling hallways. Internet is spotty at best, infuriating at worst and sometimes there is no communication period. I fear the many sullen, swearing laptop-bearing 'natives' will rise up and pull a "Mutiny On the Bounty" if we don't grab an effective satellite soon. When the internet does work, the halls get very quiet. If you listen very carefully, you can almost make out the frenzied clicking and clacking of keyboards from behind the closed doors. 

So suffice it to say, I post when I can!

Last week; Fabulous Simpson Valley and Aisen

Here's a little typical scenery from Rio Simpson Valley. The area is also called Aisen named so because the explorer who discovered it said, "hey. here's where the ice ends." No kidding. We had a rather hair-raising coach ride through these mountains; the whole bus of passengers was leaning away from the right hand roadside so as not to weight the bus in an ominous direction. Ending up in a little town called Coyhaique which just materialized when we rounded a large mountain, we had a pleasant little stroll through the artisan market and filled up with tourist paraphernalia and ice cream. Our tour continued through the huge valley, green, windy and very deep, finishing with a stop by this waterfall and a cozy local buffet at a lodge. Fresh salmon ceviche on the half shell, empanadas by the boat load, little scrummy lamb kebabs and the ubiquitous Piscos fueled us up for the ride back to the port.

Skue Glacier

Shown here is an illustration of how cold it can get. The ice chunks are floating in the water and I am looking down at them from my balcony as the boat pushes through. Strangely enough an hour later, we are in clear water, surrounded on both sides with tree covered mountains in a very narrow passage. It is hot and sunny. This is life in the deep south. The Deep, Deep South. Go figure.

The dapper little fellows of Otway Sound

Stopping at Punta Arenas, the boys took off for a very chilly kayak journey--funny; only five brave souls from our boat made that choice--and we ladies went off for Otway Sound to see the thousands of Magellanic penguins that come to one particular beach every year from september to march. The penguin colony is carefully protected and any prospective penguin peepers have to tread lightly and quietly as not to disturb their twice daily pilgrimage to the beach. There is a little boardwalk and quite a long walk along the windswept scrubby plain to reach the water's edge and the area where they nest and reproduce. Suddenly out of nowhere pops a little funny, waddling penguin who stops short and stares at us. I tell Jeri to stop looking at him because she's offending him with her brute sexuality and we both double over laughing. He looks at us as if to say "Et Tu, Brute??" or more likely, "Come on ladies, give me a break." and he turns around and wobbles off to the beach. We begin to encounter more and more, mostly in couples making a sound that can only be described as sad mooing. Technically, we are told, it's called braying, and they are calling out to their mates. You begin to hear it all around you and the scene takes on the desperate feel of a disco after midnight. As we walk farther along, suddenly the little guys are all around us, walking in couples and in rows of 6 or 7 or so all in unison and very purpose bound. There are couples standing facing each other in either a serious staredown or rubbing their beaks in such a way as to make you divert your gaze. The funny thing is that they all look exactly the same. Exactly. Black, white, sleek with one stripe at their neck and one that delineates their ample little chest. We watch them for awhile tottering back forth in regimented lines to the beach. Every now and again, two will stop and regard each other directly:

Penguin 1: "Well, hello, Frances. How's the day? How's that leg holding up??"

Penguin 2: "Say, Hi, Martha! Good thanks. Hard to get past a sea wolf attack. Long time no see. Been down at the beach with Bob Jr. Have a good day, eh?"

Penguin 1: "Congrats on Bob Jr. still being around, what with that 40% offspring mortality rate. I didn't know you were Canadian."

And then they just leave each other and go on their driven paths to dug out burrow or sea. Down at the beach there is a virtual singles bar of hot penguin action and it is endearing. There are 'kids' around as well, all fluffy, gray and molting, but it doesn't appear to throw a wrench in the works:

Penguin A: "Hellooo Sailor. You are lookin' fine. How's about grabbing a little crustacean cocktail with me down at the shore? The sun is up and the wind is strong and that formula adds up to ...."

Penguin B: "Oh cut it out Nadine. It's me, Arthur."

Penguin A: "The offer still stands."

And on and on it goes. It's mating season and these guys are busy. They'll leave in a few months to go up north--on vacation, I guess. 

Oh my gosh!!! I have to cut it short! They just announced a new addition to the days 'program'--shiver my timbers, its a lecture entitled "Cape Horn, the Myth and the Reality" by a local guide. No doubt, "The Myth and the Mayhem" as soon as we arrive. 

In the words of the stellar Arnold Schwarzenegger, "I'll be back". 

Life on the boat

As we navigate further and further south, there are whole days when we are at sea, sometimes several in a row. During this time, we've listened to geography lectures, played team trivia, borrowed books and movies, holed up in our cabins, got sick of our cabins, gone to the constellation lounge, magellan lounge, sky bar (a personal fave), ordered inordinate amounts of room service, worked out in the gym, gone to the spa and come back to our room only to try to get out again. We have nicknamed most of our fellow passengers by this time and we're pretty sure that Bo Derek, her trusty companion, John Derek, Big Australia and Lonesome Joe will be better off not knowing their new descriptive monikers. There are a few that we don't nickname because their real names are enough if said in the same way that Jerry Seinfeld always greets his annoying next door neighbor: "NEUMAN!!", said loudly and with a condescending sneer like the smell of something slightly bad just wafted into the room.

Suffice it to say; the boat gets strangely small during these days. 

Heading for the Horn...

It is Monday morning and it is bitterly cold outside and it is a contradiction to watch the bright green mountains go sailing by. It's a little foggy and not a little bit desolate and we hear that we'll start passing shipwrecks shortly. We are weaving our way through the many islands in this part of the world, slowly working our way toward the southerly most point of land in the world. We are lucky to be able to go here today, because in past cruises, they've had to take another more protected route because the weather and rough seas make navigation impossible. We should arrive there at 5:30 this afternoon where there will be champagne and blankets on deck for the historic moment.

I guess space heaters are out of the question.

Baby, it's cold outside!!!

At this very moment, we are passing by some of the most dramatic scenery I have ever seen. Jeri and I are virtually hanging by our toes off the starboard balcony watching huge chunks of ice slide by surrounded by bright green lichen covered mountains bounded by light blue glacial ice mounds. The 'day-mares' we both have involve falling off the boat into the freezing waters of both the Atlantic and Pacific and are fearful of having to cling to a jagged ice cube for dear life. We are moving full steam ahead toward two huge glaciers with a sense of glee mixed with imminent doom. We are told by Jan (or 'Julie' as we call her, our resident cruise director) that this is one of the few places in the world that have both solid ice forms and flourishing neon green foilage. Some mountains are covered with blue ice and some appear to be covered with a lush carpet of putting green. It looks, probably wrongly, very soft and velvety. 

Apparently, a small boat will go out just shortly, with several waiters and several crew who will hack off a huge chunk of said glacier and bring it up into the bar, where it will be displayed on the grand piano. We will be given a) an ice pick and b) a Pisco Sour to put it in. 

It's cracking up to be a superlative evening.

Leslie does Chiloe Island

Chiloe Island (Chee-low-way) is a remote fishing island off the coast of Chile boasting daily rain and gray skies.  I boarded a tender and decided to take a little look see since not many visitors ever make the trip. The tourist dollars come from only four boats per year and honestly, they didn't really have a super handle on making visitors feel welcome so that's probably for the greater good. Initially Spanish, Chile moved in and after three attempts to take Chiloe by force, successfully screamed "This place is ours" and I get the feeling they islanders are still holding a grudge. Boy, were they glad to see me! I may as well have had four heads as I walked down a very quiet seaside street following a scowling fisherman dragging two of the biggest salmon I've ever seen down the street by their gills. Appetizing! The islanders apparently hate the sun as it doesn't mesh with their lives so happily geared to the cold and wet. Many of the small brightly colored homes are built on stilts right in the sea(strange as there's land on the other side of the street) welcoming the tide and the fisherman back home. Chiloe is famous for these stilt houses and they're an interesting and curiously colorful addition of which they're seriously proud. The island smells strongly of fish, pine and woodsmoke as this is the only way the people heat their homes and every house has a tiny chimney with wafting smoke. Potatoes, salmon and mussels are the way folks make a buck here; largely the people seem very poor and although scowling, generally amiable with each other and very happy to sit around discussing large dirty fish. The local church resembles something made out of matchsticks and was quaint and calm and busy with the villagers who are very Catholic and very religious. All of Chile is Catholic and shrines and statues are plentiful. The statue above was particularly interesting to me because baby Jesus was wearing an actual little baby boy knit outfit. I thought it was very touching and some mamacita probably worried that he would get cold. Many of the statues here are wearing real clothes, lending a truly surreal touch to the already faintly creepy wooden halls.

I also visited a museum of modern art in an artist's compound and modern it definitely was. Way out there for a sleepy place like Chiloe. I was treated to a 'fashion show' of local fashion which was largely comprised of giant heavy sweaters, jackets and shawls dyed with bright natural dyes. Not one to really go native myself as far as fashion is concerned, the pieces nevertheless, were vibrant and imaginative and the Chiloen teenybopper models were really cute and having a big proud Gisele Bundchen moment.

Me, I was just happy to be standing there with my empanada and you guessed it--a Pisco Sour.

I'm going to have to start keeping count.

Bovell. The Man. The Mystery.

Just a short post. 

I think I forgot to mention that James was not with us for our festive feast today because he was in the spa.

Getting a manicure.

Need I say more?

A food moment.

As we move further and further south, it's becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on the dramatic coastline views. It's more and more apparent that the kitchen staff's main job is to addle and confuse us with a dizzying array of food. It has become an all-encompassing quest to eat as often and well as possible.

There are several options that we have learned to take advantage of. First there is 'The Restaurant" which is the large formal dining room, and your every wish is granted in five minutes, delivered by chatty smiling Matt Damon look-a-likes who remember your name and use it every five minutes. The menu changes daily and almost brings one to tears to have to choose between the fabulous offerings. This boat is known for the copious amounts of long, thin, crunchy-salty melt in your mouth breadsticks always present on the table with flavored spicy, herby, silky butters. Later this week, there is actually a cooking lesson on how to make them at home. Home??? Home??? What's that?? Oh, right--that blah blah place where we get our hands wet washing dishes and make food on a stove for ourselves and the extremely young short people that hover around us while we're there.

Another choice besides 'Chocaholic's afternoon tea' in the Constellation Lounge, Barbeque on the top deck Sky Grill (where they have huge bowls of bright green guacamole, a huge pile of which I chose to have for lunch one day), and constant room service, which has included such memorable combinations as caviar, ham sandwich and 4 pots of hot chocolate.

A favorite choice of ours is '2' Restaurant which is always more casual and usually has a tasting menu of about twelve or twenty items. Also, you can sit outside and watch the mountains and mist pass by. Lovely. Here is one menu:

Crispy foie gras with port wine splash. It was served in shot glass and had little bursting hot pink pomegranate seeds. The frozen foie gras was flash fried and just exploded in your mouth.

Next course: lobster roll with caviar sauce, bacalaito fritter with avocado and tomato salad, seared panela salmon, white bean salsa, piquillo coulis.

Next course, shiraz braised oxtail presse, manchego potstickers and white asparagus vanilla cappuchino, and mushroom toast. 

Next course, drunken turbot, porcini and swiss chard, hazelnut vinaigrette paired with tuscany braised veal and mascarpone mashed potato.

Next course: limoncello tiramisu foam (can barely remember that we're actually eating by this point) and marinated oranges

dark chocolate ganache, espresso citrus panna cotta. condensed milk ice cream and kahlua frappe.

We did it. We ate all that. And then we went to a bar to congratulate ourselves for the valiant effort we put forth.

Today, we're at sea. Noon found Jeri, Jim and I down in "The Restaurant". Us ladies, and I use the term loosely, were escorted on the arm of a tux clad waiter again, which seems completely unnecessary as I am wearing a nike gym suit. Jeri had eleven glasses of iced tea and an enormous burger, cream of peach soup and strawberry ice cream, and I had an avocado spring roll, fillet of bass on a bed of spring peas and four other things I can't remember. Oh yes, now it comes to me: a diet portion of peach strudel with ice cream. I think the point is moot there, but you have to pull back at some point. Jim ordered a cheeseburger topped with a fried egg, bacon and a plethora of other items, cream of kohlrabi soup and a giant chocolate chip shake. He is mystified that his pants seem to be slightly tighter and actually had the audacity to think that they may have shrunk in the dryer from last night's laundry service. Jeri and I have assured him however, that in anticipation of his every need, Rita, our valet, has noticed how sleek and seal-like he is and had his pants taken in accordingly. We figure she's taken the liberty of doing this to his entire wardrobe.

Tonight the four of us are invited to sit with the purser and his wife. We tried to turn down the invitation as it's black tie evening and all of us are feeling a little like hiding in our rooms after last night's debacle. But they strongly suggested that we do it. They said they put together a table of 'young people' for us and that we would enjoy it. We're pretty sure there's a conspiracy underway to keep us away from our more respectable cruisemates and introduce us to someone who can keep a close eye on our loudly laughing, raucous, hard gambling, fast living quartet.

Now we'll get to the flying....

We arrived at Puerto Montt, Chile, a tourist village in the Lake District and finally got off our boat. Nice to hit solid land, however, I'm a little apprehensive as I won't be on solid ground for long, I'll be zip lining, but hey?? How bad can it be??? I've always wanted to do it and it's sort of been on my own personal 'bucket list'. Our little group numbers 14 brave souls and we're all in this together. Everyone is rather quiet on the 2 hour drive to the 'Adventure Canopy Lodge'. The coach ride winds around lakes rimmed by black volcanic sand and we stop at an alpaca farm and feed fuzzy baby alpacas who look like they just had too much collagen. They are very peaceful and friendly little guys who come right up to your face and seem to look at you quizzically. "How the hell did I get here?? Hmmm, and who are you?? What happened to my lips?" 

Several active volcanoes loom in the background quietly if ominously dominating the landscape and this is where we are headed. The zip line is on the base of the snow capped Osorno volcano and as it nears there is a palpable tension. Everyone's wondering if they signed up for the wrong tour. We keep looking to each other for support and understanding as we arrive at the lodge and get geared up in professional climbing gear and helmets by the smiling staff of non english speaking chileans. After a brief lesson, up the volcano we go past sheep, cows and horses, up, up, up in a bouncing open air farm vehicle. No one is talking and nervous laughter is the only sound as we pull up to the small wooden suspension bridge that takes us to the first platform. At the first platform, one by one, we're hooked on to the cable and told to "GO!" which basically involves holding on for dear life and keeping your legs crossed. The standing on the platform thing is not for the faint of heart and the waiting until it's your turn is just next to unbearable. We are in a leafy canyon standing on a 5 ft. square rickety wooden platform 100 ft up. Suddenly it's my turn and I'm clipped on and it's go time. AYE YI YI!!! FatCat is not looking so FatCatish any longer as he is behind me, but I jump off and there's no turning back and I fly. REALLY FAST!!! It's really fun!!! Right through the trees. Then you have to 'brake' as if that was even possible under the circumstances of terror/mach 5 body speed. The next platform appears in front of you and a guide helps you on and straps you to a tree so you don't stumble on your shaky legs and kill yourself. Soon you're buckled on to the next line and ZOOM, off again into the green tangle of trees. Wowzer!! Gets the heart pumping like nothing else. So now we all think we have this down and we're old pros as we happily zig zag down the face of the mountain laughing at what a lark it is. Until we arrive at the Big Daddy. The Grandpappy of zip lines. Our whole group stands there shocked and stoic and I seriously think, no fuckin' way man. Get me outta here. It's close to 1000 feet drop across one side of a huge open canyon to another. Did I forget to mention the unbelievable scenery around us at that point??? Probably!!! I was almost wetting my pants with terror and I may as well have been surrounded by graffiti strewn ghetto walls. Who cares about a bunch of plants and lakes when faced with imminent death? 

Anyhow, drama aside, my time came and there was no going back. I climbed up on the platform like a man on death row, got clipped on, got religious and went. Mainly because other people were watching. And you know what? 

It was totally breathtaking great and flying through that canyon was just beautiful and one of the coolest things I've ever done. 

And guess what I got handed at the bottom??

A Pisco Sour.  And this time I earned it!!

Flying through the tree tops on the base of an active volcano!

We eventually came to the Chilean fjords and the pitching and rolling immediately stopped. Bovell actually got chirpy and resumed his somewhat normal skintone. Just in time for he and his sidekick FatCat (Jim's new alias; James is now Baldy and Barney, Nipples. Don't ask.) to hit the small Casino. Hard. Late. something like 700 dollars worth of new chips on our table in the morning. I decide to take a galley tour. Now, I have seen restaurant kitchens before, but nothing like this gorgeous display of satiny stainless steel and shelves of shining silver. Tea services all lined up perfectly and the floors clean enough to eat off of themselves. We are greeted with champagne (it flows all day here in copious amounts) and caviar just in case we might get hungry for the 30 minutes of the tour. The pastry section is downright mouthwatering and the french pastry chef is hard at work on racks of bread that look like artwork. There is a sushi section, a meat section and an ice cream section. Amazing. The head chef is from Central Casting and named Pascal. He invites us to go shopping at the local market with him as he shops for special local items. He then explains he has to go. The galley is shortstaffed today as one of his employees who also works in the Casino in the evenings couldn't come in this morning. Apparently she was kept up unusually late dealing blackjack for several annoying cardsharks who just wouldn't give it up. Will Seabourn survive us????

slight correction aka 'there will be mistakes'

Reading back over my posts now that I've sent the whole thing out into the cyberstratasphere, I keep finding typos, etc.

I can't manage to edit them. Newbie bloggers should not be so quick to say "here!!! read some tripe!"

Remember too that the names have not been changed to protect the innocent and I have a tendency to embelllish as I see fit to make the story more interesting. Isn't that what writing is all about??? I won't add or subtract although I may make it fancier. However--I might subtract the entire story of James' day today. It includes a horseback ride that he never took, and ends with him sleeping in a strange woman's home. I'll leave that one to Jeri, who witnessed the debacle.

Santiago only has 6 million people. A small matter of adding 3 million people to an already crowded city. How could I???? I'm so ashamed. Several posts back.

Out to Sea...and Up to Sea...and Down to Sea...and Up to Sea...

Two days at sea. Open sea. Wide open. Jeri sees giant jellyfish 'the size of her room' and we both witness strange looking green helmet headed squid. We wonder if we're drinking too much early on. Several hours after departing the harbour, which was exciting and felt like a celebration, the boat started to move. Up and down. Side to side. To where you'd have to hold on to the walls to walk and and walking was like the funhouse up and down stairs. We all sort of holed up in our cabins and the dramamine was freely flowing. Poor James was down for the count for a good 24 hours and room service was sending up candied ginger and ginger ale and toast. Rita was skittering around looking in and knitting up her brow worriedly. A storm was causing the dramatic pitching and rolling and the captain eventually came on the intercom to say it would be over when we arrived at Puerto Montt a day later. Jeri and I got it together and went to 'Team Trivia!' and had a good laugh at our fellow travellers, who really take their trivia to a new level. The four of us managed to make it to a show with entertainers Joe Garry and David Frazier doing a campy take on Cabaret. Funny, cute and impossible not to find endearing. We hear they're doing 6 shows while we're here on board and the next one is "Forever Pablo: A musical biography of Pablo Neruda, Chile's Greatest Poet". I wouldn't miss that for the world!! How do you do a musical about Pablo Neruda??? 

I guess I will let you know...stay tuned.

Get Thee to Thine Muster Station!!!

We went up top to go through the mandatory muster drill to learn which lifeboat we'd probably never make it to in the event of a sea disaster. Clad in attractive neon orange life vests, we began to check out our fellow travellers.

Apparently the muster drill is simply an opportunity for the seasoned Seabourner's to check out the new meat. Most people here are long time Seabourn travellers, some on their 15th trip, some on their eleventh solid month. Many live aboard. They all come out to watch from above as the newbies fumble around looking clueless as they struggle with the cumbersome lifejackets. Our little group is met with a certain degree of curiousity coupled with disdain. Are we the help?? The entertainment? Well, that goes without saying. We are definitely the entertainment. We are a novelty for sure as well as an aberration. I think most of the people on the boat came here to get away from us silly youngsters who don't take anything seriously.

However, we do seem to be popular in the dining room. As one lovely man told me, "You bunch are great fun--there's a lot of old sticks in the mud out there!"

We are invited to 'dine with Mr. So and So and Mrs. What'sHerName' and you can decline or accept. We have met some really interesting people from all over the world; doctors, guest lecturers, mathematicians, experts on Chile. Serious travellers for whom world travel is a way of life.  They know all the ins and outs and love to share their knowledge. It would be nice if we could return the favor, but we can't, so we become a four sided comedy act. We each take turns as star of the show. We get told we remind everyone of their grandchildren.

The Day to Set Sail...or not????

In the morning off we went, back in the van to high tail it to Valparaiso, the port town where our ship, the Seabourn Pride sets sail. One of us genuises finally deduced that it would be apropos to have a little look see at what time our boat officially left the dock. There were several plans that had to be scrapped and a gargantuan lead foot applied to the gas pedal as we prayed our way to the coast to the tune of Barney's snoring. It was a miracle that we made it and only in the knick of time. I won't mention any names, but Bovell actually thought he could squeeze in another lunch at a vineyard and throw in a little meeting at 2:00 with Luis back in Santiago. You know, on the way.

In a serious flash of fortuituous luck mixed with major coincidence, we plowed right up to an unmarked loading dock which turned out to be the passenger terminal. We said goodbye to Barney and he went off to drive around Uruguay and Brazil as part of his yearlong worldwide driving tour in a custom fitted Land Rover. We were whisked off on a shuttle for our boat.

Luxurious. Intimate. Gorgeous. The words that came to mind upon reaching the 'Pride'. One big piece of white and gleaming heaven with a gangway!! Not as large as most ships, the boat stood at dock as a buzzing hive of action. A truly 'Kate Gets on the Titanic' moment!! Passengers were already standing on their personal balconies with glasses of champagne. We were greeted by tuxedo clad waiters bearing champagne and bodily removing any and all carry on items for delivery to the suites. We were met by our personal valet/stewardess Rita who showed us around the sumptuous rooms and told us of the many services she could provide from laundry to drawing special baths in our personal tubs at the end of the day. Room service is complementary and available wherever, whenever you want it for anything from a grilled cheese sandwich to caviar to a personal party in our room. Our room is a comfy vision in creams and blues and pale wood paneling. Quite large for a cruise ship, there is a sitting room as well as a walk in closet and marble bath. So now we're well spoiled and thinking up all sorts of things to try to get the kitchen to make for us and Rita to do for us. We're thinking of asking for truffle pasta and tableside crepes suzette (flaming of course) and having a superbowl party in our room with chili and nachos. 

Cruising to Santa Cruz...

After packing a rickety rental van with more luggage than is conceivable for five people (it would have been hard to squeeze a band aid in if we had needed to, but fortunately no one was injured during the boarding process), we left Santiago for Santa Cruz wine country and a two and a half hour drive through the vineyard region. Once again, the mountain dominated the landscape and the road winds through the valleys below. It was a lovely relaxed drive even though we technically had no idea where we were going and several small altercations were had. Typical for our lowly band of wanderers! In spite of ourselves, we arrived in Santa Cruz and found the charming town square with its spanish fountains and ice cream carts. Bright, sunny, and hot and buzzing with both tourist and local action, the Hotel Santa Cruz seems to be the hot spot in these parts. Laid with Spanish tiles, faced with dark green shutters and painted shocking yellow, the air was redolent with flowers and garlic in the interior courtyard and very inviting to a bunch of hungry, thirsty, squabbling road weary travellers. We were given a welcome glass of wine upon arrival and that was it for us. Any previous plans went out the handmade glass window as we settled in for a big long lunch on the wooden beamed veranda. The place was bustling and the food was local and plentiful. Quail simmered in cabernet and covered in chocolate sauce was my choice (I usually opt for the strange and unusual) as many sopapillas and glasses of local carmenere were passed around. Reinvigorated and ready for action, we checked out our gorgeous spanish style rooms and balconies, gave them a big thumbs up and went out exploring. A strange side note--upon looking over our third floor railing, Jeri and I about screamed as we came face to face with a life sized museum model of a mammoth. Menacing cavemen were poised around it with spears at the ready and coming in for the kill. We both agreed to not look over the railing ever again and especially at night. The local museum was, strangely enough, attached to our hotel, somewhat explaining the incorporation of museum exhibits. Fossils and dinosaur bones figured largely as the land here is dotted with prehistoric remains. Other curiosities included your basic shrunken heads, fertility statues and icons and preserved mummy babies; always a favorite among the hordes! A whole section of Hitler memorabilia and Nazi uniforms and guns having found its way to South America was a strange and beguiling entry especially to the menfolk. Boys and their big guns. The collection arrived via the Nazi war criminals who had scarpered away to this part of the world like rats leaving a sinking ship. It seems quite stupid to me to have travelled all this way to hide but still bring the 'evidence'; but bully for Santa Cruz!!!! They get a cool museum collection to fascinate and horrify the tourists they so badly need. We were directed to a vineyard called La Veta for dinner, where we had short ribs in wine sauce and accompanied by wine, wine and more wine, so that's all the information that's fit to print about that particularly wonderful but somehow nonmemorable meal.

Wonderful World, Beautiful People....

We eat a a unique restaurant "Like Water for Chocolate" based on the imagery of the book by that name. Our table for 7 looks like a 4 poster brass bed complete with pillows and bedspread and it is surprising that no one actually lies down for a rest. On the menu are lovely huge steaks, conger eel and a plethora of guacamole based dishes served on huge stone plates--the 'congrio' was a sort of buttery white fish on a bed of yams and asparagus all blanketed in a rich creamy sauce with cilantro. So conger eel turns out surprisingly enough to be one of the best things I've ever eaten. Now of course, this is after quite a few Pisco Sours, whih apparently I like a lot. A Pisco Sour is a sort of South American margarita-ish affair made with Pisco, lemon juice and sugar. Pisco seems to be one product that the Chileans are particularly proud of alongside their carmerneras and cabernets; it is after all, made from grapes too. However a lot stronger. As was explained to me, the first one makes you happy enough to dance, the second makes you dance and the third makes you dance on the table. I have a love/hate relationship with pisco sours.

We were treated to more Piscos at the lovely new home of Luis and Marie along with Dominic Barnes who had come over from the UK to meet up with our group. We were served empanadas by the gorgeous 9 year old Issa who kept busy keeping the boys in check with her snappy one liners. Luis made a mean pile of steaks on the mountain side grill and Marie made the best flan--a family specialty. Recipe to follow gals...and if I can make it like Marie did, then you're all in for a treat. It was a truly special night and an unusual opportunity to experience a home so far away from home.

Since it is summer here, the riverbeds are dry and exposed, running empty and adjacent to the freeway, which is rangy, loopy and shocking disorganized. Against a backdrop of huge mountains, cars, jalopies and fruit trucks careen by the strange architecture of the city at amazing speeds. Santiago, a city of 9 million plus, seems to be a place wanting to tear out of the ground and compete with the landscape. There is evidence of building all around as cranes and nearly completed buildings are as prevalent as the older ones. The faintly precolumbian architecture has the ambiguous modern feel of the sixties lending the multitudes of glass faced skyscrapers a certain sense of being lost in time. Hot and tropical, it's strange to see snow covered peaks in the distance, reflected off the logjam of the many mirrors. The city spans miles and miles spilling over as smaller villages climb up the sides of the mountains and perch on the terraces. Our new friends Luis and Marie tell us that the smog in the winter hangs over the city like a white cloud obscuring the entire city, towering buildings, mountains, everything--and eliciting warnings to keep children indoors. The unusual makeup of the landscape combined with the size and density of the town holds the smog tight and close. It is both beautiful and surprising an I'm glad we're only here for several days!! 

Buenos Dias my darlings!!

The South American exploration of the Bergstrom/Bovell party (a likely description) began with a faultless stress free 9 hour Lanchile flight from Miami to Santiago, Chile. The morning light came up early; quickly and with an eerie glow; illuminating the landscape and revealing the fact that there were enormous mountains directly below our feet. Zipping by rust colored mountains and bright green tropical foilage, the airport appeared out of nowhere as a quaint and calm little establishment surrounded by cypresses. The morning was bright, sunny and crisp with a fresh green smell in the air. The sun was shining and all was well with the earth!! Or at least with Chile right then and at that particular moment.

In the airport, as neat and tidy and bereft of english as I can remember an airport, we paid an entry fee of about 150 dollars and went through the intense scrutiny of no--not immigration and customs--no! Agriculture. Yes that's right; since Chile's economy rests on the security of its farms, plantations, vineyards and whatever spawns avocados, every bag, purse and pocket is checked for contraband carrots, errant eggplant and troublesome tomatoes. It seems that anyone can come, go, leave or stay indefinitely but if you so much as smuggle in a blueberry you will find your sorry self either in jail or on the first plane out back to whatever horribe fruit smuggling country it is that you hail from.

And so it begins.....