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.