A Week of Independence

For the last week and a half I have been staying in a friends apartment. There has been an emptiness since the rest of the members of my program, all my new friends that had been such a huge part of my life all went home. All week I've been reading Facebook status' and tweets of friends and acquaintances as they rejoice in their homecoming, seeing family, friends and summer. And here I am.

Part of me thought that the reason I wanted to stay was because of the people I had met. If I could just freeze time it would be ideal, that my love for the city existed within the experiences and the friends I had made which may be partly true. But since everyone left, I have found myself entering a comfortable routine with the city. Walking the streets, the parks, the ferias, not as a tourist, on a mission to see anything in particular, but as a sort of resident, appreciating living somewhere. I haven't gone to any museums, landmarks or famous cafes as I expected, I haven't tried to squeeze in the 'last few things' on my list, partly because I know I could never do it all, and partly because I know I will be back. I've been content. Sitting on the balcony, reading Marquez and Borges, making crepes, taking walks. The chilly winter weather has recently given way to a more humid, week of fog, giving the city a look of mystery and complacency.

As I walk these streets, or look out the window at the buildings with straight balconies, grimy walls, the mixture of architecture, ancient, modern and dated, cohabiting the blocks. The things I once found strange are endearing, common and necessary. Looking at Buenos Aries this way it's easy to forget the government, the economic instability, the dark and revolutionary history I have been overly exposed to in university for the past semester.

A big city that was once strange and exotic, is now comfortable, I'm used to the women in weird shoes with their waist length hair, and the italian lilt of the conversations I can almost understand. I'm used to repeating myself, and the questions about my hair, or my eyes or my nationality (apparently I look French and or German?) I'm having a difficult time thinking about leaving, My heart is torn, but as I said, I know I'll be back, You don't forget a place like this.

Feria el libros en Plaza Italia

Botanical Gardens in Palermo

Como Siempre,
Besos,
Hil

Your eyes love to travel to see the places, but your heart? Your heart travels for the people. 

Thank you Traveling Travelers. I couldn't have asked for anything better.

The Real Danger

I think I have been in this city enough time to discuss danger, a topic about which my mother will no doubt be keen to hear (sorry Mom!). It must be said that danger in a city is inevitable, and in a city of this size, danger is the elephant in the room that everyone is talking about.

When I first arrived, we had the all too familiar orientations. Sometimes these orientations said helpful things like, 'get cash here' or 'only monedas on the busses,' but normally the point was to scare us careful; a phrase which here means: To make a person so fearful of robbery, mugging, rape and the like, that they will never let anything they own out of their sight." "Ojos Abiertos" meaning "Keep your eyes on the watch at all times" was a phrase used by not only my program directors, but by my host mother, friends, faculty and, more than one old bus driver.

I get it, I get it. The city is dangerous. Be careful, don't be stupid, blah blah blah. Easy. Right? Wrong. It may amaze you to discover that I quite enjoy people. Frolicking, laughing, telling stories. It only seems logical that I would surround myself with like-minded people. The words 'cautious' and 'inconspicuous' don't tend to follow us around.

I thought the city would make me more pensive, which it no doubt has, but I think it has also made me more cautious. Not in the lock your doors and shut your windows to the world kind of way, but in the way that there's always just a little nagging suspicion that there could be something awry around the corner.

There is something unsettling about the feeling of being on a dark street at night, or being alone in an unmarked taxi. And may I say from experience, there is nothing that will pump straight adrenaline into your veins like being aggressively approached by a stranger on a quiet street corner. In a city full of people, you would think I would pine for a moment of solitude, but I actually quite dislike it. I prefer busy streets, lit walkways, lots of traffic, a not so silent sentiment to the fact that when I am surrounded, I feel the safest.

Here in Buenos Aires, caution is necessary, but on the flip side, danger is everywhere. Wait you say... that's not positive, Hilary. But the old two negatives make a positive just might work in this situation; hear me out. If danger is everywhere, than it can pretty much be habitually avoided. If you're just as careful in the café as you are on the streets, and try to acclimate as best as your little darwin gene will let you, (this  coming from the albino in BA) you may not be immune to danger, but you will definitely stress less about it. Also, quick tip ladies: keep the important stuff, in your bra (guys: Jock strap?).

The key part of danger is to not let it come in the way of experiences. I'm sure this is the last thing Mom wanted to hear me say but it's true. If you're too scared to ride the colectivos-- you're going to miss the art festival, if you're to scared to walk home from school-- you're not going to discover the most delicious empanada shop on Juramento, That rad museum? Forget it unless you grow a pair and explore Chinatown.

In all reality, I don't mind it. In fact I love it. The danger makes me feel a little devil-may-care and to be honest, it's refreshing to be somewhere with this many people being so alert. There's always the dumb american girl who's yelling loudly at her friend about how lost they are, or the european tourist who left his backpack unzipped, but for the most part, the locals are cautions and conscious, which I admire. To them, eating at a restaurant with their bag on their lap isn't an inconvenience, it's natural. I like natural.

These are the things you'll learn, and the reason you'll never want to leave.

As always,
Besos,
Hil

El Cine

Last week I had the privilege of attending a film showing Elefante Blanco (White Elephant); a film set in the flavelas of Retiro, in Buenos Aires. With a spectacular script, Elefante Blanco humanized both the role of the flavelas and the catholic church in the city in a way I have never seen on screen before. The importance of Catholicism to the people here is undeniable, and this film so honestly portrayed the informal interactions of priests within these neighborhoods. It also allowed for an understanding of the interworking of an area of Buenos Aires I will never see. The film was entirely in spanish and I didn't have subtitles to bail me out, but it was well worth the brain power. Elefante Blanco was directed by Pablo Trapero and premiered at the Cannes Film festival earlier this year. The neighborhood in which this film took place is three train stops away from my station; about fifteen minuets.

Two days ago I attended the film premier of El Premio//The Prize. Part of the Festival International de Cine de los Derechos Humanos (International Film Festival of Human Rights), The film followed Cici, a 9 year old girl, through the story of a life in hiding from an Argentine regime during the Dirty War Era. The film was brilliant, and though there were subtitles (Something I did not expect) they were unnecessary. The acting was powerful, and often wordless, and the film beautifully captured the fear, confusion, longing and innocence of the protagonist. The filmography was natural and the characters honest. The most interesting element of the film was the way sound was incorporated. The sound wasn't buffered, muffled or adjusted to be the same volume the entire film. In fact, in contrast to the Hollywood norm, the sounds varied in volume so drastically that you felt the shock, pain and annoyance along with the characters; an element I believe did nothing but add to the film itself. El Premio was produced by a Mexican Film company in 2011, and ran 107 min. It was directed by Paula Markovitch and has won numerous awards including Best Picture at the Morlina Film Festival. I was also fortunate enough to meet the two actresses who stared in the movie, Paulina Galinelli Hertzog, who plays Cici, and Viviana Suraniti who plays Maestra Rosita.

Cici (left) and friend in the Cold Southern Beach Setting of El Premio

Photo Credit

It's a good time to be in Argentina. If you're a film junkie, head on down.

As always,
Besos,
Hil

The Contrast.

The city is beautiful in the fog. The mystery is alive and the imagination wide. As I sit in a cafe that is both strange and welcoming, the contrast of my location starts to sink in. Here is a city still fighting for its identity, plagued with contradiction and wide to the idea of a moment of solidity. This is a place of ongoing revolution, where people are strong in what they believe, and often even stronger in what they do not. There is a hardness that blankets the streets, but within this, hearts dictate the direction.

As my sugar dissolves slowly into my coffee, my hands shake, both from the excitement of being in a new place and lack of nourishment. This is a city where you can live off of carne and coffee, where sitting in a cafe for hours isn't a bother, it's expected, where pouring out your heart isn't revolutionary or deep, it is conversation. Here is where the language is sung rather than spoken and the phenomena of the streets are only surpassed by that of the people. The stares no longer matter, the danger, I now expect, what matters is how I feel; and here, where I least belong, I find myself feeling at home.

The Haunted Mansion

Within the Museo de Arte Español Enrique Lareta, there is a display featuring the works of famous Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik, coupled with hand drawn interpretations of her works by Santiago Caruso. Though spanish literature is often difficult, the effect was not lost on me. The haunting representations used female sexuality, coupled with the ideas of as a corporal animation. The macabre scenes pictured women as marionettes, fictional animals, and skeletal structures. Children were pictured not as sacred, but as temporal. These drawings (Acuarela sobre papel) sat side by side with poems of the same haunting nature. Below is an experpt from one of her poems El Despertar. 

The beauty of her images, riddled with dark features, were often reworked impressions of tales such as Alice in Wonderland. There is an air of despair within her writing, which may have been a clue into the depression that eventually led to her drug induced suicide in 1972. 

The museum was one of my favorites so far. The old house in which it was set, held remnants of the elite family that once owned it, and not unlike most other museums and homes here in Buenos Aires, there were many Catholic sculptures and paintings of biblical figures. 

Over all, a well spent, introspective afternoon, followed by lunch with a friend, a wonderful way to spend a Thursday afternoon. 

As Always,

Besos, 

Hil

St. Patrick's Cathedral

La Iglesia San Patricio

A Church told me a tale tonight,

As I listened in the dark, 

The pillars screamed injustices, 

The limestone whispered, "Hark!

The angels no more sing to herald,

now their songs lament, 

The five, the mighty chosen stones, 

The fallen represent,

Airplanes dropped the gift of life, 

into the mighty sea, 

But though we closed our doors, our hearts, 

The waves we could not flee."

Above the arch a bird so white, 

Nestled in the stones, 

And her companion black as night,

Builds in me a taunting fright, 

That we may never see it right, 

And shame it with a camera light, 

This church that none can own. 

“Maybe mistakes are what make our fate... without them what would shape our lives? Maybe if we had never veered off course we wouldn't fall in love, have babies, or be who we are. After all, things change, so do cities, people come into your life and they go. But it's comforting to know that the ones you love are always in your heart... and if you're very lucky, a plane ride away” 

-Carrie Bradshaw. Sex and the City. 

The thing about a city is, you are never quite sure where  you will end up. Plan it out, get a map, google it to your hearts content, but the streets have a bigger say than you do in your destination. This past week has been a week of failed plans. A circus we missed, a bar we never found, a museum that was closed. The beauty in mistakes, is what you find when you should have taken a right. 

As one prone to mistakes, misinformation, and a lot of left turns, I'm learning that in the city, it's important to understand that whether you reach your destination, or just wander around a Jewish synagogue (these things happen), the pieces of adventure we share, make the mis-adventures worthwhile.

This week, I turned 21. A monumental number to many. Spending a birthday not only away from home, but away from those people who make birthdays special for me, was difficult. All the things I would be doing in Moscow and Spokane, here, seemed unimportant. My left hand turn had taken me to Argentina and I would have to walk into my twenty first birthday surrounded by those I had known only a short while. The beautiful thing about people, is how we are wired to slip into each others lives, seamlessly filling the holes and the gaps the heart has created. The distance from my family was still there, my best friends still absent, but there was no doubt that we had, amongst ourselves, formed a family of our own. Perhaps it's a want of experiences, or perhaps it is out of necessity that friendships like these form, creating a blanket of protection from loneliness in a city of this size.

Maybe Carrie is right. Maybe mistakes do make our fate. In a jungle the size of Buenos Aires, a day without mistakes does not exist. and all those left hand turns? I think eventually they'll take you in the right direction. Following the map, can only get you so far, after that, you have to trust that what has slipped into your life, will lead you to the right road. And sometimes, wandering the streets with no destination at all, is the best way to find what you're really looking for.

As always,
Besos,
Hil

Iguazú Falls

This past weekend, we threw all our cares to the wind, hopped on a plane and went to the most northeastern province of Argentina bordering Paraguay and Brazil. Nestled in this amazonian region is one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the world, known as Iguazú Falls, and frankly, you really have to see it to understand. The beauty of this place has a way of knocking the words and the sanity right out of you. We also visited a Guarani village, the Triple frontier (a vantage point where Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil meet), a mate plantation, ancient ruins, and some beautiful jungle. I could not have asked for a better getaway, or a better group of people to take the journey with me. Enjoy!

PSA: The combination of midterms, travel, and being an inherently easy person to distract, I have, indeed skipped some travel videos, but I promise it is for your viewing pleasure that I am taking my time with both Bariloche and Mendoza.


As Always,
Besos,
Hil

"Be grateful for the home you have, knowing that
at this moment, all you have is all you need."
Sarah Ban Breathnach

Two Portraits of Home today: 

As Always,
Besos,
Hil

Give Me 5: Women

Culture Me

A week or so ago, I played the cheap card, donned my hipster shoes, and headed to the free exhibits at the  Malba. One of the best known modern art museums in Buenos Aires the Malba has hosted many famous artists in it's lifespan including Xu Solar, Diego Rivera, Antonio Berni, Frida Kahlo, and Jorge de la Vega. Chances are, you know at least one name on that list. You get it, impressive stuff. This also happened to be the weekend of the BAFICI, also known as a free film and arts festival. After taking in the wonderful, wild and wacky art (Think everything from classic muralist, to satirical feminist brail collages),   Tiff, Monae, Andrea and I headed to this mall that housed an event center and a free concert. After the free concert, we sat on the steps outside the shopping center to take in some local musical talent in the form of five wonderful street performers. Good times. Good people*.

Because we weren't allowed to take photos, I wasn't able to get the names of all the artists featured, so I'm sure there is some form of copyright discrepancy playing out in the following photos. I will also be naming the pieces of art myself. I heretofore claim 'not guilty' to owning any of these. Also, Andrea took most of them anyway. Sneaky girl. 

*I officially miss anyone that would understand this reference 

Outside of the Malba (obviously?)

I do wish you could see the line of hipsters more clearly

I call this one: Woman staring at deformed bear cub around neon fire.

Giant melty plastic pieces in abstract form

I don't have a name for this one, but one of the monster things had boobs.

This was part of the 'Bye Bye American Pie exhibit.' 

I've fondly named this one: Pretty sure this has already been done with 

Helen Bonham Carter's face in Alice and Wonderland advertisements in 2010

Finally cleaned out from under my bed, here, you can have it. 

My dad would steal this bench in a heartbeat

Anna Hein in 65 years

This was the band we saw. The lead singer strikingly resembled Edna Mode 

I don't remember their name. The bassist was a badass. Think Sloan in Raise Your Voice

Inside of the Shopping/Event Center

Of course there was an indoor ferris wheel. 

Waiting for Monae to finish taking pictures

The street band. Yes, that is a cello and our friend with the beard is singing Willie Nelson

As always, Besos, 

Hil

Los Piropos

If you´re a woman who has been in Buenos Aires longer than 10 min, you will be familiar with piropos. Los Piropos. Google translates it as compliments. Google is being generous. Piropos here are more like propisitions, cat calls, blatent staring... don´t make me spell it out-- you get it. And it happens to me all the time. This isn´t because I am particularly good looking, or because I wink at them, or wear anything provocative, it is just a habit that is engraned into their masculine culture. And it´s disgusting. I understand the need to acclamate to other cultures, but at some point, it is still my body and I would prefer it not be verbally oggeled every time I hike to class.

There are three main types of piropos

1. The public piropos- These are usually loud and spoken in a consentual group setting such as construction workers, or a group of guys walking together, even old men on a bench. As unnerving as it is to be called hermosa by multiple men at one time (especially at night), I have come to understand that these piropos are less about me and more about the men asserting their masculinity to one another. Often times they don´t address you directly, it´s almost as if they´re discussing how good lunch looks. Uncomfortable, though it is, these are not, in my opinion, the worst type of piropos.

2. The non verbal piropos- These consist on many types of noises, including horns, whistles, and the most common, what I refer to as ´the dog call.´ The dog call sounds a bit like you´re trying to keep Fido from running into a busy street. Something like tshhht tshht tshhht. This can be coupled with wistling and other verbal piropos as well, but is often deemed sufficient by it´s user.

3. The whispered piropos- The final and most unsettling piropos is the whispered piropos. This can happen at anytime, and anytime, has the capacity to render it´s victim instantly nauseous. It most often happens when passing someone on the street, when a ´gentleman´ (a term very lightly used) will lean just close enough to your ear to allow you to be the sole recipient of his affection. Que linda, Que hermosa, are mild forms of these ´compliments.´ It also happens on the train, often in crowded cars. The most unfortunate part of the man behind you whispering these things is that you must endure it for the duration of the train ride.

Argentina is world renown for it´s beautiful men. And this is not untrue. The men here are indeed beautiful. ¨They have good genes,¨ my host mother always says. Maybe there´s something in the water, maybe it is genetics, or maybe copious amounts of carbs aren´t as bad for us as nutritionists would have us believe, regardless the men (and the women but I will post about that later) are muy guapo. So what´s the problem? Why do I care if beautiful men throw their words at me? When it comes to the issue of piropos, I can´t help but feel that there is an attribute of respect missing. An understanding of gender and it´s arbitrary nature that is very much missing from the worldview. Argentina is a country with a woman president, rich in historically prominent women, and yet, they are still regarded carnally. As if becoming a prominent woman figure strips you of femininity. My main spot of bother is that the women here don´t seem to mind. They parade themselves proudly brushing off the piropos expectantly. They are objects of desire and they know it., but why do they consent. This is up to interpretation and has, I´m sure, many answers. But this post is about the men. Why has this become an accepted practice among the men. Men of all ages, social standings, and occupation (and trust me, there´s nothing more unsettling that a policeman hitting on you). Not every man does. In fact there are many men that don´t. But they fail to counter the massive number of men that do. What could motivate these men? What are they getting out of it? These women they hit on are not turning around, changing their plans and making out with them on the spot because of this. In fact they are rarely acknowledged. Neither do I acknowledge them. But just once I would like to stop in my tracks, turn around walk back and ask, ¨Why?¨

Heading to class again, wish me luck.

As always
Besos,
Hil

 

A Day in the Life

The other day, okay, last week (but really... what is on time here?) I went on what is fondly known in the Study Abroad world as a 'day excursion.' This is a quaint little misnomer usually used as an excuse to bus 200 U.S. college students to one place and try to give them a 'cultural' experience. So off we drove, in three charter busses to the 'rural' outskirts of the city to experience a "Dia Del Campo" or Day at the ranch. Now before you get any ideas of bull fights, spurs and rodeo clowns let me clear one thing up. The gaucho lifestyle (yes gaucho like the pants), is a highly romanticized yet important part of Latin American History. For hundreds of years, the gauchos had their own ways of governing, organizing, and just overall living. And they still do. But one thing that is certain about Argentina is the cyclical nature of it's economy, and with more and more tourists looking for authentic venues, (You're forgiven Anthony Bourdain) many of these larger ranches have revised their weekly gaucho duties to include hosting large groups of tourists and leading them through a true gaucho experience. Our hosts did a fine job of showing us a representative form of gaucho life. What we really did was eat, watched dancing and horses, chased peacocks, and took a carriage ride around a meadow. It was fantastic. Asado vegetables, handmade pasta,  and birds for days. So what is it like on a real gaucho ranch? To be honest, I have no idea. It was a beautiful day, and a fantastic venue, and I had a lot of fun, but I have already accepted the fact that there are many avenues of life I will never be able to fully appreciate, and this, I now know, is one of them. The gaucho lifestyle is more than a tourist trap, it is a slice of history, and an ongoing story of a people who were forced to write their own journey, fight westernization and create new lives for themselves in the aftermath of invasion. They were warriors on a battlefront of injustice on their land, and those same people, learned to capitalize on things the nation came to rely on: meat, yerba, leather, soy. The beautiful part of this story is that they are still out there. They have positioned themselves as an iconic part of Argentine identity, and it is because of this, they also must preserve it's integrity. 

I had a wonderful time anyway, and as I told my friend Preston, while trying desperately to convince him that a 10 min carriage ride was worth his time, "Sometimes you just have to be a tourist."

So long story long: here's a video and some pictures: 

This was the church we stopped to see. It was pretty. We were there for an hour. 

Those are gaucho pants, Ladies and Gentlemen 

Cayotes, they taste like cucumbers.

This gives a new meaning to the term Chicken Run.

Las Floras

Hungryyy

Quack

Bahaha

A big thank you to Andrea. Half of these pictures belong to her and her wonderful photo skills.

Back to homework, there seems to be no end to it these days. 

As always, Besos

Hil

Sometimes we study

As fascinating as my journeys no doubt are, there are many things about my life that are far less exciting. I would love to name my trip, "The Ultimate Vacation" or "Hostel to Hostel" (remind me to keep that one in mind for a book title.) Nevertheless,  I moved to Argentina under the title, "Study Abroad", and so, It is with duty I will entrust you with the little discussed aspect of being a student in the city.

I attend the University of Belgrano. Attending a college in the heart of one of the wealthiest (read: safest) neighborhood of the city may seem concheto, but tell a local you're a foreigner, and they can almost guess that you attend UB. Why? UB is a school based on international students, and their funding. This is not to say it is not a good experience, but come here expecting to be a novelty with your foreign identity, and you will be sorely disappointed. Most of the local students, attend school as a secondary supplement to working. It is not a full time job for them, and while getting out of class at 10:00 pm may seem odd to those of us used to having our evenings free, it is not uncommon for these students to leave the classroom much later.

My day at the University begins at 1:00 p.m. each day, but with the late mornings comes the complimentary late nights, my sleep schedule has simply shifted six hours or so. The classes here are an hour and a half long, but since they're only twice a week, it doesn't seem to drag. There are few books to buy however the University has taken to printing oversized stacks of scholarly articles as dictated by the professors and we are required to buy a, for lack of a better word, bundle of said copies. Therefore, much of our time is spent lugging around a plastic bound 'book' of excerpts by Sarmiento and Amerigo Vespuci.

Unlike Universities in the U.S. There is no campus. The students live either at home or in apartments, though the former is most common, and rarely 'go away' to school. Their degree, as I mentioned before, is often secondary to their life.

As for us visiting students, we are given our own few floors (more to keep the sanity of the locals I'm sure) and the halls of los pisos 9 and 10 are filled with conversations in French, Italian, Spanish, English and Portuguese.

The coursework is relatively the same, for me at least. There are many required readings, and discussions on specific texts, group presentations, and oral and written assignments.  The interesting thing about the classes, are the professors themselves. Some are PhD's from Princeton, and others are simply foreign language teachers. Their stories, observations and insight on the culture, history, language, and lifestyle of Argentines is the closest and most in depth insight I can hope to have on the people here, and I'm eating it up.

I'm studying Gender History in Latin America, Cultures and Civilizations in Latin America, Argentine Economy and Spanish Grammar and Speaking. It sounds like a handful but it is relatively manageable. Midterms will be here before we know it. I'd better get a move on. I leave you with a few (stolen) photos. For Flickr credit click here here and here)

This is the main building of UB and the only building most International students ever enter. 19 floors.

Most Classrooms are half this size, but this one is the largest. 

The view from the 10th floor. That big white house? That used to be Albert Einstein's house. It now serves as the Australian Embassy. 

As always
Besos,
Hil

“You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not...”


 F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

San Carlos Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina.

Snow. Penguins. Glaciers. Overpriced Puffy Jackets. All are expectations of Patagonia.

How about the world's largest chocolate easter egg? A toboggan? Two perfectly placed Refugios? Hippie Mecca?

Patagonia. The end of the world. It sounds so impressive. Patagonia is massive. There is both a Chilean and an Argentinean Patagonia, the latter encompassing just over one third of the country's land mass. Ecosystems from pampas to glaciers are represented. Where within this expanse did I end up? The small Swiss inspired town of Bariloche. Located on the far west side of the country, Bariloche is close to the Chilean border, nestled in a little mountain range known as the Andes. Geography lesson over.

It was with this much knowledge (probably less) that seven, underprepared students from UB, bus tickets in hand started our journey with a 24 hour bus ride. Seven days of freedom from the city, from traffic, from homework, from dog poop. We were ready. As much as I would like to sit you down and force you to look at all 1,300+ photos, I think I'll just give you the highlights.

Hostel Pudu, a hostel in the form of a hippie commune run by three brothers

The streets of Bariloche

Down by the lake

Cooking a stir fry dinner for seven is no small task

The following day we tackled the day hike Frey at Catedral Cero

Made it. 

The Refugio Frey at the top of Catedral Cero surrounded by backpackers. 

Lake beside the hostel. It was so beautiful we stayed a little too long.

As beautiful as the sunset was, it also meant we were hiking in the dark. We were able to make it back down the mountain with just enough time to light the way, we did not however make it back in time for our bus. One long (expensive) taxi ride later we were back at our hostel getting ready for the next day.

After a visit to the Fenoglio Chocolate factory, we took a chairlift to a hilltop viewpoint.

I'd say it was worth it.

The whole group left to right

Zoe, Tiffany, Me, Monae, Linette, Andrea, Preston

And this is how we got down the hill. Yep.

Being ambitious young things, the next day, we decided a leisurely bike ride around one of the nearby lakes. What we failed to realize was that we would be tackling a road, not a trail and mile long hills on steel mountain bikes.  

Luckily this view was right around the first bend, because thats as far as we got. 

Instead, we opted for a short hike to another hilltop that offered some spectacular 360 views. We enjoyed some hot chocolate and coconut cake before descending. 

The following day brought Preston, Tiffany and Me to the trailhead of Laguna Negra, a two day hike that we had decided on Midnight the night before. There was a slight drizzle, and fog, and we were quite underprepared, but the views were well worth it. 

The first third of the trail meandered along this river. 

An Argentine answer to muddy trails

A very damp Fall in the Andes

"This can not be real life" -Tiffany

Hiking in the snow in our tennis shoes and leggings

After rain, sleet, 0 degree weather and 85 mph winds we finally came across our home for the night: Refugio Italia

The sleeping situation

This is what everyone else was wearing.

Trust me when I say that I am rarely without words, but these views rendered me speechless.

Victory Beer

Back in Bariloche for the final day

While we were there, they had their annual Chocolate Festival, and built the biggest chocolate easter egg in the world. No big deal. (It says Happy Easter on it)

Arboles Arrenyas 

Overall it was not only a worthwhile but a breathtaking experience. It felt like home. The mountains, the air, the smiles. The people even stopped for you at the crosswalk (what's up Moscow!). All the vistas even made me nostalgic for all eleven of those Glacier National Park trips. I've only been back in the city a few days and I still can't encompass in words the beauty of this part of the world. 

Usually for a trip I make a video, this time, I'm making two. But because my mother keeps reminding me (thanks mom!) that I am also down here to study, I need to prioritize some much neglected reading before I can play around with the video footage. I will try to have them up by Friday. Also many (read: most) of these photos were "donated" by other members of my traveling group, so a huge thank you to Preston, Tiffany, and Andrea for their natural photography skills. Now where was I? Ah... homework. 

Nos Vemos

Besos, 

Hil