February 2016 – Over the course of 6 the first six months, I had learned that the move from one country to another in Latin America was quite simply a movement from one culture to another rather similar culture. It goes without saying that each nation has its signature, each people their uniqueness, and each land it’s individual beauty, but there were very clear cultural connectors that threaded most of Central and South America together in its architecture, cuisine, religion, and mentality. This is where my entry to Chile stands out among the rest.
 
Immediately upon crossing the border from Argentina, noticeable differences made themselves impressively apparent. While the northern portion of the land form one of the most desolate and arid environments in the world (the Atacama desert, which connects to Bolivia's stellar and seemingly interplanetary Uyuni salt flats), the southern sections creates one of the rare and gorgeous temperate rain forests, hearkening to my beloved woodlands of the Pacific Northwest, where giant trees and fields of ferns under canopies of green and curtains of moss spread throughout the valleys and mountain ranges. The governmental and municipal organizations of Chile were clearly more regulated and strict, the food distinctly their own, the landscape more outstanding, and, as unimportant as it may sound, wooden homes became the norm.

I was soon to find even more about Chile that would make it one of my favorite countries to visit yet. This is a land rich with folklore and mysticism, splendid foods and festivals, radical forests and mysterious terrains, ancient peoples and sophisticated systems. Strong in character and strong in heart, this is Chile.

In most of Latin America, it’s common to see most homes built in a similar concrete-over-iron-frame templates. It’s practical, it’s efficient, and it’s easy to create en masse.

I had grown so accustomed to seeing this basic form repeated so frequently over the last half-year that suddenly switching to wood-frame houses again was more delightful than I would have thought. It felt more like “home,” to my USA-centric mind. Perhaps Chile’s vast forestry industry allows for more wood products than their neighbors.

On top of that (literally) the overwhelming popular option to cover the homes' exterior in customized shingle shapes was ceaselessly entertaining.

Wood siding cut to the shape of diamonds, chevrons, scales, stars, slants, trefoils, stripes, waves, and stairs of all colors and sizes, each one expressing a different personality and artistry, made unique expression an expectation.

We entered into the bottom half of the country (just north and west of the Argentina-shared Patagonian stretch) and touched base on the quiet, mysterious island of Chiloe, at the top of the twisting fjords of Chile’s southern coast.

Chiloe is one of the most unique places I’ve ever seen. It’s a land shrouded in mists and myths, almost like it was forgotten by the mainland and the mainland was forgotten in return. Water surrounds it, threads through it, and falls upon it, making the entire island a water-dominated world. From the “palofitos” that I had never before beheld (lines of houses build over the water on stilts) to the river trading and sea fishing, water is the way of life.

We stayed first with the kind and mild Pedro, who immediately introduced us to the tiniest of small-town festivals in the nearby countryside where local goods were exchanged and enjoyed, including (mostly) deliciously unique (and some frightening) foodstuffs.

We watched women pulverize potatoes in a special mixture and slather the clay-like mixture over thick, shaved logs, which were then in entirety roasted golden and seared to a creamy, tasty slab. We tried the Chilean version of empanadas (one of the few overlaps Chile shares with its neighboring countries) and found local produce that was strange to us North Americans.

We also found Chiloens to be a mostly shy people. The children who were in the area were curious, and generally not interactive, but that made them gorgeous subjects for portraits.

Pedro also took us to one of the strangest places I’d ever been…
An odd, wide stretch of beach, wrapped in fog, more than the rest of the island, which  enhanced the feeling of mystery so much that it felt like I was in a world in-between. The visibility was so low, and the sense that we were being watched was palpable, but strangely non-threatening. I would later learn about the beings and spirits of local folklore at another festival, and it became easy to understand why sprites, goblins, witches, and trolls were written into their history: I could almost feel their mischievousness penetrating the air even before I learned of their stories.

On our first night with him, I mentioned the repetitious plate that we found in the last three Latin American countries which had stolen my heart by way of my stomach (“trancapecho” in Bolivia, “chevito” in Uruguay, and “chorillana” in Argentina). Turns out, in Chile, that same munchable mound of French fries, steak, eggs, cheese, avocado, and tomatoes is called “pichanga,” and it’s every bit as scrummy as I wanted it to be.

Later on, he would take us to the seaside, where I would try cazuela for the first time; a rich, tasty stew of fresh, local seafood that is well-known throughout Chile.

We went to another festival (apparently, these happen often) where the much larger celebration centered around hand-made crafts and goods, traditional performances and music, local eats, and most interestingly the legends and myths that to this day still play a major role in the community’s culture.

At one point, I was attempting to capture a busy kitchen’s process as they produced huge piles of food that I’d never seen for lines of people waiting to taste what was familiar to them. I was suddenly invited and swept into the production scene behind the serving counter, and the hilarious, mature women making comically immature advances were brashly flirting with me as the jovial men egged me on. It was embarrassing and lovely…

As we wandered and walked after, we encountered no shortage of stray animals, and Chiloe earned its place as my favorite town in the world for street dogs being sweet, beautiful, and plentiful. We even named several, which I normally wouldn’t have done (including Foxy, Scrappers, Honey, and Dog Marley).

And even a few characteristically prickly cats...

When we weren’t exploring the land on our own, Marco kept us like live-in brothers, sharing time, thoughts, good humor, and good food with us. We laughed and bonded and truly bridged our two different worlds.
 
We grew so close so quickly, and he was one of the more difficult friends to leave, when the time came. I have insisted that he come to visit us in the United States, so I can have him practice his English the same way he encouraged me to practice my Spanish.

When we left the island, Marco surprised us (and himself, I’d wager) and came with us north to Puerto Montt by ferry. I think none of us were willing to say farewell, and his family lived on the way, so he said he would visit them. I still wonder if maybe he didn’t even see family after we parted, and just told us that to excuse him coming (not that he needed an excuse at all, in my mind).

We waited for the bus at a mall, and Daniel and I were craving Chinese, so we tried it. Sadly, it would be almost another year before we would find Chinese food that hit the special spot in our stomachs, because this Chilean version truly did not...

Saying goodbye to Carlos was almost heart-wrenching… He waited with us at the station for hours, until we boarded, were seated, and pulled way, all the while blowing kisses and smiling while I shed a tear. I honestly think we came to love him, by the time we parted ways. I truly, deeply hope he fulfills his promise to see us.

Daniel’s friend, Dr. Florentino, lived in Angol within the Arauncania region, near a forest of special qualities: Parque Nacional Nahuelbuta (“Big Tiger”), home of the unique and beautiful Monkey Puzzle trees with their thick, flat spines and jigsaw trunks.

He was kind enough to treat Daniel to Peruvian restaurant upon our arrival, and I tried my hand at making a dessert, to repay his kindness in letting us stay with him. I was ferociously (and irrationally) frustrated, when I couldn’t find the ingredients I wanted at the store, so I just bought a boxed version of molten chocolate cakes, with also didn’t turn out like I wanted (ironically, my molten cake melted entirely). I was embarrassed and upset, but, hey, chocolate is chocolate.

We planned to visit the forest for an overnight trip, to see the tree I had never seen before with their thick, scaly trunks and strange, spiky branches. They seemed almost made-up in the imagination of Dr. Seuss.

Flortentino packed heaping bags full of cashews and cranberries, which to this day are still one of my favorite salty-sweet combos, because of that trip.

We climbed to the top of the mountain to the peak called Piedra del Aguila (“Stone of the Eagle”) and beheld the sweeping view before setting up camp for what became known as one of the worst nights of sleep on our entire two-year journey. The ground was aggressively hard, dangerously slanted, and ferociously cold. We had no padding or suitable bedclothes. We were freezing and uncomfortable, and if I remember right, neither of us successfully managed any kind of rejuvenating unconsciousness while Floro slumbered on…

We soon moved north again to Santiago, near the middle of the country’s long north-south stretch. We didn’t spend much time there, but did meander the parks and streets of the capital city. While I wasn’t impressed by it in any significant way, I do recall it with some fondness, especially in the context of the rest of the country and the memories I took from it.

We jumped on a plane eastward over the Andes, crossing the entire continent to catch the boat we would ride from Brazil to Europe across the Atlantic.
 
Our plane landed in the vibrant and rich Salvador in Bahia; our port to the vast ocean and our final American destination.

February, 2016 - Since leaving the American Hemisphere for Europe in March of 2016 (just a few weeks after my time in Patagonia), it has been 1026 days, 20 hours, and 44 minutes, and I only today finished my first round of processing, deleting, and rating the 10,675 photographs I kept from my travels between Canada and the bottom of Argentina.

Only 31,000 more to go from the rest of the world…

Who knows how many thousands I deleted along the way (I generally weed out about half the camera exposures during my catalog-grooming process). There will, of course, be future editing, sorting, labeling, and developing to do, but I’m relieved to have finished my first phase in the New World.

And it’s also the end of the Old Year and the start of a New; an ideal time to post one of these few-and-far-between photologue entries, completing the two-part chronicle for the Argentine/Chilean-shared Patagonia.

​After leaving Tierra del Fuego (and, sadly, any hopes of seeing Antarctica on this trip [lowest discovered price to sail? $5500! That’s 8.5 months of travel!]) literally the only land direction available was north.
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The charted course across Patagonia at this point is rather well-worn and uncomplicated. The wonders of this landscape are well-worth the long bus rides, meager lodging, and slightly-steep prices, but they are also scarce enough throughout the continent and sufficiently well-known throughout the world that there’s really no mystery about where to go next or question as to whether someone else will already be there.
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One such someone was on a like-minded excursion as me. 

​The first: Torres del Paine, so iconic that Patagonia as a whole is sometimes erroneously referred to as such, even though the Torres are technically only a few peaks in an entire park named after them. 

​Using the small-town hub of Puerto Natales as a base of operations, we prepared for the five-day excursion around the base of the mountains.

Puerto Natales is about 50km from the mountains themselves, adjacent to ocean water filtered through hundreds of islands, gulfs, and straits, but it’s the only decent specialized supply center for trekkers, and for someone like me who traveled two years with nothing but a carry-on sized backpack (one which did not contain anything other than daily essentials and a few peripherals), I would have a hard time navigating the Torres without the aforementioned supplies.

Daniel and I reunited there, after a few weeks apart while he took some time off in Buenos Aires. It was an exciting surprise and warming thing to find him waiting for me at where the bus deposited me [after he had spent the day hitchhiking through inclement weather from Calafate]. He had also already found us a small bed for the night, and a renter’s outfit to provide us with the tents and sleeping bags we would use while in the park (a tent which tragically and horrifically must have had some toxic mold embedded within, since my allergies leapt into high gear anytime I was inside for more than a few minutes and would then persist to torture me ALL DAY afterwards… So much snot… so much red eye).

Mandy joined us in gathering what we would use, and we prepared our food before going to sleep, knowing that our first of several extra-early mornings wasn’t far away.
Darkness still sat heavy upon the port when we woke, and we made our way to the bus which would deliver us to the 4-day, 25 km hike ahead. 

Once within eyesight of the bi-chromatic, single-striped stone, it can sometime feel like every perspective is an image worth remembering.

Many lakes dot the undulating landscape around the mountain range; all pristine, still, and brightly colored. We spent some time hiking around those lakes, and eventually crossed one whose water was blue like some fruity sports drink. 

​On the other side of the bright waters, we made camp (queue allergies), and used the last of evening’s light to hike to a glacier which fed another splendidly clean lake (one in which Daniel admitted to skinning dipping during previous adventures here).

*One piece of the story I want the reader to keep in mind: It is customary (to the point of being equal parts legendary and laughable) for passing hikers on the trail to offer each other a quick but hearty "Hola" as an exercise in solidarity. It literally happens almost every single time, and I started finding it amusing. 
Anyone who has trekked Patagonia will remember: "Hola." "Hola." "Hola." "Hola." Over and over and over again.

Torres Trek, ​Day 2:

The next morning, I deliberately rose before anyone nearby, my 4AM alarm quietly sounding beside the thin pillow protecting my head from the hard, icy earth.
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I wanted to see what the world looks like when dawn breaks at the bottom of the world. 

It was harshly cold and reverently quiet, and the lake on which we had sailed the day before was so glassy I thought it might be frozen. The evening before, I had planned where I would catch the sunrise, and positioned myself accordingly about halfway up a hill whose slope dipped directly into the lakes’ even surface.
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As the sun rose and slowly warmed the reluctant air, it also warmed the muted colors in the sky to help me capture a vibrant scene. 

I hurriedly packed up, made a breakfast, and in order to make sure we had access to a limited-space campsite down the road I broke ahead of my fellow campers and half-ran the 7.5km trail with a 20lb bag to secure our slot for shelter the next night at the roots of the mountain, only to climb part of that same mountain later the same day.

Patagonia is why my knees don’t work so well anymore.
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Not just because of knees aching and vertebrae fighting me in full revolt, but also due to amply provided opportunities to take photographs was it easy to find reason to stop and take photographs.

We tried to play word games and keep conversation lively, but we were being beaten down by fatigue and failing stamina.

That day’s 15km felt relentless, and my back hurt. My knees hurt. My feet hurt. My stomach hurt. My head hurt… I walk rather quickly, and I was unjustifiably frustrated slowing down for my more casually-paced companions.

We were tired and hungry and probably losing perspective a bit, which all contributed to short fuses all around.

At one point, we were within a mile of a cabin, and it started to rain. I was not longer willing to hold back and selfishly picked up the pace, hustling to warmth and respite. Although I had checked in with Daniel and Mandy, asking if they were okay with that and receiving an affirmative, I still knew it was selfish, and they both let me know they didn’t appreciate my independent actions.

I'm sheepish to admit that the cabin felt like more of a paradise than it probably was in reality. But just to SIT DOWN on something padded, to be in a room with still air, and feel heat blasting at you from hearth or heater was enough to slowly soothe our once spiky moods (and dry out our gear before we would put it back on).

Eventually the rain let up, and we turned upwards on the mountain for some time.

We passed by a couple of camps, before eventually and immediately before dark set up the tent for our last night amongst the trees, falling asleep easily despite resting on bare, slanting stone.

Torres Trek, ​Day 4:

The next early morning we would climb in full darkness to see the Mirador de los Torres, which translates in Spanish to "the Lookout of the Towers." It is the most sought-after and beautiful portion of the trip, and why everyone comes here: A mountain-top lake at the feet of the stunning, straight-sloped towers of Patagonia.

To explain, we can begin by stating that the stone here is granite, meaning its amalgamated composition features various elements and therefore various color fragments. During most of the day and night, when the light is neutral, the rocks respond in kind and look a neutral grey. But in the first rays of morning, when the light is so warm and horizon-tinted, the Torres glow orange against a blue sky. (See Daniel’s photograph below from years before)
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It was for this image we traveled here, and while I’ve mentioned previously my affinity for the “mystery mode” that fog and cloud can offer (partially from true pleasure and appreciation of the beauty, but also partially by default because my luck is such that I rarely score good weather) I really wanted to see that morning gold, which can only happen with a clear sky.

I woke well before dawn for the fifth day in a row, and we climbed with headlamps and flashlight in the bitter, dark night, hoping we’d witness the treasure ahead…. when it started to rain.
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It was just a sprinkle; perfectly tolerable for an ascent which was rapidly activating my sweat glands as I removed layer after layer of winter clothing. But rain means clouds, and when I beheld the Towers at the summit, they were swathed in thick mist. It was beautiful, truly, but it wasn’t why I came here.

As the sun began to fall and grew to its most powerful position, we finally found our pick-up spot, and as I rested and reveled in stillness, the reliably gregarious Dan started seemingly effortlessly making friends with others who were also waiting for transport.

We met up with Michiel and Maurice and our other new friends for dinner a la Argentina (ie, big, fat, rich slabs of meat).

We caught a bus the next day to our last, but far from least, location: El Chalten, home of Mt Fitzroy, one of the most recognizable mountain skylines on the planet.

Now, THIS was a difficult task: Attempting to not make an exposure every five steps (or five every one step) when the fantastic range is so begging for it. On just the bus ride in I could have gone through a few rolls of film, especially considering the elusive and normally cloud-shrouded Torre peak was out and viewable for all the world when we arrived.

Eventually we exhausted the trails around Mt Fitzroy, and went further north again (and while on that bus had ourselves a real rollicking couple’s fight, where we tested and failed a few “safe words” for our communication style [“sledgehammer” was the safe-word, if you want to know]), ending at the top of the Patagonian area, in Bariloche, what some call the “Switzerland of South America.”

I decided to spend most of my time in Bariloche working on photos and planning our route through Chile (and cooking more of those magical oven-bag kits).
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I did venture out once to see a famous hacienda down the road past many-a-lakeside cabins in this vacation spot. The hacienda is now a fancy hotel which is partially known for its lavender garden, but coming from Sequim in WA state and also imagining the fields of Provence, I once again found myself feeling that, with the exception of our truly fabulous hosts and other friends, second-best Bariloche was not my scene.

​Leaving Bariloche was easy, but leaving behind the splendor of Patagonia was less so. 

​I was uncertain what to expect in Chile, despite my research, but I had more so been looking forward to a new country (not “new” technically, since I have 8 passport stamps in and-out of Argentina/Chile during my Patagonia navigations).
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Only two more American countries to go! Mid/northern Chile on the Pacific coast and then back to a new region of Brasil against the Atlantic.

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 January, 2016 - Time has long passed since I boarded that dust-covered, empty bus towards the world's end. 

​​Part vast grassland and sky, part epic mountain and magic forest, the land of Patagonia makes it's geographic nest at the base of southern South America. My destination was the port of Ushuaia and its surrounding wilderness; launch site for Antarctic expeditions and exploration home base in the Tierra del Fuego (Spanish for "Land of Fire"). Ushuaia is about as far south as civilization goes before meeting the wild, icy waters connecting Frozen Continent at the bottom of our planet. Penguins swarm in the waves, and the high peaks of sheer cliffs scratch an untamable sky. 

There good reason the town is called the "City at the End of the World."

Rugged and unique, everything from the rock formations to the waterways, the weather patterns to the glacial movements, the botanical variety to the indigenous history, is one-of-a-kind and iconic. 

I traveled alone to the world's edge, and there I found beauty and wonder. 

This is The Land of Fire. 

It's difficult for me to quantify or simplify Tierra del Fuego. Aged... Harsh... Textured... Epic... Remote... It's such an amalgam of so many varied and colored components that the idea of "summarizing" anything about Patagonia becomes a challenge.

Before reaching the town of Ushuaia, I stopped for a few days on La Peninsula Valdez, in Puerto Madryn. This shoreline of grasslands and dried mud once a year becomes one of the most densely populated whale migration points in the world. National Geographic, BBC, Discovery Channel, and Animal Planet have all filmed here for the spectacular displays that happen in the winter months. Unfortunately, it was summer when I arrived. I typically enjoy quiet times, but while I biked the coastal plains, I had to work a bit to appreciate the quiet that came with this particular off-season visit, knowing that with the small number of people, so also were whale sightings minimal at best. Few things can ruin a spectacle with the efficacy of a disrespectful traveler in tourist season, but at least there would have been a spectacle to ruin. 

And further south I went, for two straight days on a bus crossing from the shoulders of Argentina to its feet. It's a long way, and none too exciting. One quickly grows weary of the eternal grasslands stretching out from the rumbling road.  Even the two boarder crossings to re-enter Argentina's Tierra del Fuego did little to break the monotony (two of the total six border crossings that were required to eventually see all of the Chilean/Argentine-shared Patagonia). 

The plains slowly relinquished their ​overbearing visual monopoly, and stands of trees rapidly made way for forests, and the yellow sloping hills for jade-colored valleys of pine and mountains with lakes cradled between them.

Ushuaia lay beyond the mountain passes, past the Strait of Magellan in a large bay along the Beagle Channel. The town's small buildings and sprawling harbor hug the coast, and the severe line of trees separating the growing population from the surrounding woodlands is as distinct as a knife's edge. 

Nearly all of these adventures I undertook on foot. With grit and time, I could access most of what I wanted by myself. For longer distances, I opted to save money and hitchhike, practicing my Spanish. Even the boat I found to see the channel came at a decent bargain.

Inconveniently, one of the trip highlights that I was looking forward to was inescapably expensive... 

Penguin Island is a colony of Magellanic penguins in the Beagle Channel. It is inconvenient because the island is privately owned, and therefore the only way to arrive is to submit to the owner's rules. I'm in favor of protecting habitats, and therefore justified the $60 expense. Although I did wince repeatedly.

I'm so glad that I went.

I never really understood the whole "penguin" thing, until I saw them for myself in their natural surroundings. 

These goofy guys bounce around, waddling and squawking and nipping and tumbling over themselves like toddlers at day care. They seem so silly and amusing, with their flippers held outwards to balance their tottering trots about their nesting grounds.

The flocks of recently hatched chicks were by now fattened and starting to molt their juvenile down feathers, which added to the humor of their appearance while they hesitantly moved further and further from their nests and ground dwellings.

When they entered the water, however, all clumsiness vanished as their sleek bodies sped through the shallows like torpedoes that turn on a dime. Their velocity and agility naturally amazed me.

I found it extremely difficult to put my camera away, even as rain began to fall from a heavy sky... What follows is no shortage of shots for our finely flippered friends!

The roadways to and from Ushuaia to the island's closest land point took me through some of the most grand and gorgeous landscapes I've yet seen. The splendidly colored Valle de los Lobos spread spectacularly between two sharp ranges ("Valley of the Wolves," a location still utilized to train the hugely fluffy malamute dogs for the winter sled runs). The water channel's edge abutted sloping pastures empty of livestock, but rich with well-fed flora from the frequent rains. 

Out last stop before boarding a boat was a stretch of historic farmland. Well-worn, rustic textures adored nearly every surface, bearing the marks of a mercilessly assaulting weather stream, from ferocious storms to billowing gales and heavy snow. The lupine flowers were in full bloom, fanning out their own vivid spectrums across the farmyard. 

Needless to say, the cawing, clambering crew of beaked buddies became a favorite of mine. Even over a year later, they earn a five-star rating for entertainment!

I found myself falling a little in love with Ushuaia. The companionship of civilization and wildlife seemed rather balanced, and the sensational uniqueness of the place could not be disputed. All the same, for all that I loved it, there was more to see on the road ahead!

The time came for me to travel northerly, and see the remaining pieces of Patagonia's wonderland. Daniel would be meeting me a 28-hour bus ride and two border crossings away, in the gateway to a trekker's paradise: Torres del Paine. ​

 January, 2016 - ​As I began writing this journal entry discussing last January 's goings on, I could hear waves breaking continuously against the desert sands of Sinai’s shore in Egypt. The grainy, windswept flats of the beach upon which I sat quickly gave way to starkly pointed, rocky peaks of the mountains behind me, creating a stripe of pale sand between the sapphire sea and the rust-colored range. ​It was here that I called a hut my home for several days before moving north to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and its famed “rose-stone city,” Petra.

The wind was forever blowing from the Red Sea in Egypt, forced and funneled between the V-shaped mountain ranges formed by the Arabian Peninsula on the other side of the sea and Sinai Peninsula where I resided. The gusts perpetually churn the deep-blue surf where beneath the surface densely inhabited, vibrantly varied reefs team with life not twenty feet from my palm leaf-walled hut’s threshold.

A large debt of gratitude is owed to the creators of the camp where I stayed. Nestled in Egypt’s Bedouin country, “Dayra Camp” functions as an eco-minded haven from the chaos of the world. Life is simple there, and the people are open, warm, caring, and less prone to become lost in the minutia of modernity. I felt so privileged to be there, and I wanted to make sure they were recognized for their generosity before I continued on to the main subject of this entry.

​It was long before Sinai and Petra (almost one year before, to be specific) that I was on the other side of the world, swapping both hemispheres from northeast to southwest. Rather than a desert in the Middle East, my time was spent in the mega-cities of South America. Last I wrote for the blog I detailed my time in Uruguay’s Montevideo before eventually crossing the dividing Rio de la Plata into Argentina’s capital: Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires is a city with so much to offer, and my shutter button wound up getting its fair share of use. The city has spawned from so many different districts, neighborhoods, and city-sectors and it was a photographic challenge to know when enough was enough. That said, I worked hard to represent the various faces of the city and hopefully didn't overdo it.

Our time in Buenos Aires began with Daniel’s reintroduction to his dear friend Pablo, who lives in a lovely, smaller city south of Buenos Aires called La Plata.

La Plata (translates to "Silver" from Spanish) is a Free Mason-designed, geometrically perfect pueblo (see the aerial view above) with one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. Giant, regal columns soar high and line the shining, polished floors crowned with masterful stained-glass windows and painstakingly carved wooden framework. It was amazing and majestic, almost a storybook kind of epic.

Pablo (accompanied by his delightful lady Miranda) guided us around the mathematically meticulous streets that concentrically center around the church in regular right-angled roadways, giving us the opportunity to see the pieces of the pueblo that make it home for so many people. Zoos, parks, outdoor stone amphitheaters, market streets, cafes, and a seemingly endless grid of one-way streets speckled with respectably artistic spray paint works in pleasant contrast to the city layouts intended grandeur. It all added color to La Plata’s character. ​

Professionally, both work as doctors. In the USA, I am accustomed to doctors generally making big money and having a certain social celebrity-ship built into their career. But things work quite differently in Argentina.

Due to higher taxes (starting around 30%, I believe), healthcare is made almost entirely available to the public for nominal on-the-spot payments that are shockingly affordable. There are a few private practices here and there, but they are expensive and surprisingly quite limited in their skill sets, often recommending their patients go elsewhere to seek the higher quality care at public centers instead. This system also means that in surrounding countries people who suffer from ailments and cannot afford service in their local nations will flock to Argentina just to receive medical attention on a budget. Because of this, there is very little glory in doctoring, which itself is all but exchanged for a substantially heavy workload attached to long, arduous doctor’s days. Queues are endless and the pay is not glamorous. Fortunately, Pablo and Miranda are not only commendably skilled at their jobs, but they also love what they do with a healthy passion. They both specialize in pediatrics, but to make ends meet they work at three different hospitals each, and sleep less than anyone I have ever met. I really admire them for that.

When he wasn’t saving children’s lives, Pablo would graciously and thoroughly make our visit so worthwhile. After seeing La Plata, he took us for a turn around the fabulous Palermo neighborhood near downtown Buenos Aires, featuring grand parks and splendid gardens near a fair share of world-class museums. However, my favorite fixture was the result of an old, strikingly gorgeous and elegantly draped classical theater-turned-bookstore: El Ateneo.

The word "Ateneo" refers to an ancient temple of Athena, a building sacred to the goddess of reason, intelligence, literature, and the arts. It serves as a gathering place for the learned and the learning.

​The entire abandoned theater was opened in 1919, and was converted in to a multi-level, lavishly indulgent bookstore after the new millennium, where private booths serve as quiet reading areas and the dark-stained wooden stage hosts a classy café.

Fresco-adorned and decadently decorated, this splendid structure only further inflamed my passion for bookstores and libraries as some of my most preferred public places. Phenomenal plaster-work on the walls and heavenly, Italianesque murals on the ceiling of El Ateneo add to a softly lit ambiance as theater bulb lights line the white balconies and the polished stage. And above, an honest-to-goodness, plushly perfect red velvet curtain is eternally poised open for the show to go on.

 Back on the streets of Palermo, truly humongous boulevards mix with colonial, contemporary, and European-inspired facades of Avenida 9 de Julio, San Martin, de Mayo, San Telmo, the waterfront, and the rest of El Centro, all of which became more and more familiar to me the more I saw. 

Our time in the South American super-city was further enhanced when we met up with another friend of Daniel’s, the adventurous and upbeat Jorge (and at the time a recently new father! Felicidades, Jorge!).

Working as a tour guide throughout South America has granted Jorge a great deal of knowledge and trivia which all lends meaning to a great stretch of streets and skyscrapers. ​

El Centro was vivified with a better historical context through Jorge's stories, citing the processions and protests that took place, the political moves that played out, the recent revolution in Plaza de Mayo (Plaza of May) in front of the Presidential Office of the Casa Rosada (the Pink House), and the response of the people all the way back before the glamorous and polarizing Evita. ​

Blockades and police fences still encircle the squares, reminding everyone that there is still a used for them.

He also introduced us to some of the oldest buildings in the city, describing the Buenos Aires of old and how it came the city we know today. ​

We briefly attended a summer-long community beach party in a manufactured multiplex for local people to sit beside the river and sun on imported sand, engage in group dances, and feel on vacation in their own neighborhood. 

Lastly, but unforgettably, he took me to the colorful and legendary La Boca, named "The Mouth" for its position at the entrance to the Rio de la Plata. With its chromatically crazy constructs and tango-inlaid backstory by the docks, it holds within its alleyways and back lanes the legends of great poets, dancers, and other artists who helped shape Argentina's culture, as well as the world's.

While we were initially trying to find Jorge before our first rendezvous, we jettisoned ourselves to the nautically-minded El Tigre (meaning, "The Tiger"), a vaguely Venetianesque part of outlying Buenos Aires with canals criss-crossing the community, where boats take the place of cars, and a fairy-tale, castle-like gallery is perched on the canal's shore, complete with outdoor chandeliers, columned walkways, and graceful arches under vaulted walkways. And, more than once, we ate the terribly delicious and tantalizingly soft medialunas, sweetly coated crescent rolls, a specialty and a highly desirable treat. 

My last days were spent preparing for and later processing the interview we shared with a family in the suburbs just across the way from the city boundary of Buenos Aires.

Agustina and Francesca (at 11 and 8 years old) were two effervescently adorable darlings who were willing to have us crash their summer splash party in their built-in, backyard pool. They and their parents graciously invited us to join them for a day of watery fun and a traditional, Argentine parrilla. 

Now, previously when I imagined the famous Argentine grill-out, I pictured thick, juicy, steaks sizzling on a backyard barbecue. Many know that the country is renowned for their superior beef products, and I naturally assumed that they would most highly prize the same cuts that I had in the US. 

Not so, I’m afraid… Paired with a green salad and expertly roasted potatoes, the chef (customarily the man of the house) was laid out a very different feast for us to enjoy. 

Young Agustina told me how, in years past, the steaks and rib-eyes that I was accustomed to consuming in the USA were sold for profit, and the remaining innards and leftovers were all that could be spared and what would be cooked and eaten by local families. Now, the fist-sized cow kidneys, small and large intestines, and other bits are the most expensive to buy in Argentina. Meaning it was a generous honor to be invited and to partake of their meal.

I had never tried most of what was there, and while some was more odd than enjoyable, I was surprised how much I indulged in some of the fattier pieces! Some slices, in all good humor, I might not sample again...

As we ate our hearts out (and the cow's) in the custom-built, outdoor grill house, I continued to ask the girls questions about what comprises their lives and what holds meaning for them. It’s almost always enlivening to hear the world’s youth talk about their passions and dreams, as we frequently do for the non-profit we support (click here for more information).

Fran is keen to roller skate on the street. She is starting to learn tricks, and to do some dancing, and has been skating for two years.  Agustina has taken to gymnastics, since she was five years old, specifically the balancing beam. She was very excited (as was I!) about the Olympics coming the following summer. She competes, and even won a second place position. They seem rather accomplished in their academic studies, and it looks like college waits for them in their future (something quite lofty and rare in must of Latin America). Huge pushes have been made in the past (as far back as the mid 1800’s) to make both a more impressive and mandatory the education system in Argentina, which is structured after European and US American school systems. There are state colleges that are entirely paid for by the government, but citizens pay a hefty tax (compared to the US, but really rather slight, in respect to some European countries) to see it happen. The education at these public universities was described to me as "not the best, but they do well enough." Private colleges are still paid predominantly by student tuition.  But the accessibility to higher education without a restrictive price tag left me remembering the enormous financial weight my US college education carried. 

As I continue to learn about other cultures and what they offer or lack, I see so much opportunity for everyone in every part of the world. In each country I visit, without exception I see places where we as a society excels, and other places where we could do better. It’s my hope that we can learn from and about each other, share, and exchange of ourselves to enable others to lift themselves up through collaboration and constructive friction. Especially now.

So many nations are in a rough patch, including my own. It just seems obvious to me that working towards compromise and cooperation is the way to go. Yes, you and I will have to give something up to gain something else. But that’s how society works. It’s called “working together” because it takes WORK. It can and likely will be difficult, dreary, draining, and even destructive, but the rewards can be rich, and none of us can do what we need to as humans on our own. We need each other. I think it might be better if we strive harder to remember that.

It was at this junction in our journey that Daniel and I had run into a few opportunities where we could learn more about cooperation and working together. For various reasons, I wanted to take the wilder road down south through the rugged Patagonian regions of southern Chile and Argentina. To partake of the culture there, I felt, would enrich my own experience as a traveling photographer as well as grant me a greater understanding of the country's character for the non-profit. Daniel, on the other hand, had his own reasons to stay in Buenos Aires until we would rejoin in further down the road.

I invested a great deal of energy in planning my routes, ever-limited finances, and activities and was finally confident with my agenda. When the time came to part ways, however, we had a very emotional time saying goodbye. I think we both were able to see things a little clearer, because of the challenges that led us to part ways.

Daniel proposed and I agreed that we shorten our separation. The month-long solo journey would be more than halved, and he would instead meet me halfway through Patagonia. Relief and anticipation replaced the sense of sadness and longing.

I boarded the bus alone with tears wetting my cheeks and turned south, looking ahead to the iconic wilderness and the adventures that awaited me in the naturalistic wonderland of Patagonia.

The ever-changing balance of these specific factors are what appeals to, attracts, satisfies, or enthuses me as I make my way around the planet. Examples might be the inspiringly serene majesty of a virgin mountain slope, or the unexpected hilarity of a right mess made while two people communicate without a common language. It might be the ridiculously delicious experience of trying ricotta and pancetta tortelloni drizzled in panna and sweet balsamic, or the awe of finally learning exactly how unrealistically blue the ocean is in the middle of a transatlantic sail. It might be meeting someone for the first time and feeling like you’ve simply re-discovered a pre-existing friendship rather than created a new one, or savoring the decadence and delight of fresh, smooth, honest-to-goodness Italian gelato with my love on a Roman road at dusk, the pavement alight in amber-colored street lamps magic magic happen in the setting sun. It’s almost always one or more of this Trinity of Travel that makes the trip for me. 

When I arrived in and navigated my way through Uruguay, I came to find that, for me, this country, although possessing beauty, is a place where the friendships and the food would be my most valuable personal take-aways. For that reason, my camera stayed away, with few exceptions. I had a little photoshoot with a baby, and then a cat, followed by a love affair for Chevito, but beyond that I was less a photographer than usual, and you’ll see a couple of Daniel’s shots supplemented to fill in some graphic blanks.

 Before we talk folks and foodstuffs, I’ll first describe how my entry to Uruguay included one of the most unpleasant border crossings to date. By no fault of the Brazilians or Uruguayans, mind you, but more due to my own reliably stubborn stinginess. Allow me (about ten minutes) to explain…

​Let the record first show that a monetary splurge could have booked me a streamlined transit experience, complete with fully-administered immigrations, likely a meal, and no necessary transfers. Let the record also show that when “Tommy Tightwad” enters the picture (as Daniel has referred to me), things usually get more difficult before they get more expensive.

The cheapest route I managed to map from Point A (Sao Paulo) to Point B (Montevideo) was via a semi-scattered network of independent bus lines dotted between the two cities. As with any cross-country commute in Brazil, the collection of bus rides was a marathon of stops and lasted for most of the day. Fortunately, it is a gorgeous and captivating country in which to be trapped in a travel vessel. Unfortunately, this route I planned landed me in the border town of Santana do Livramento at a very inconvenient 1AM, where the immigration office ten blocks away would not open for another seven hours.

My frugal planning methods would have me spending yet another night in a starkly lit, outdoor bus stop on a hard bench in the middle of an unfamiliar town.

Note: While it may pleasantly tickle my financial funny bone, this is NOT one of my favorite things in life.

Boredom aside, an unstable, filthy man talking and stalking the station in the middle of the night did little to relax me. The man would trudge about and incessantly murmur to himself, at times his volume lifting to a hair-raising level as he would nearly shout at no one or thing that I could perceive.

In an effort to feel safe, I fed and befriended a nearby stray dog, hoping I might gain loyalty and thereby protection, in the event the lone man somehow determined me to be worthy of his unwanted attention…

​At one point, the man (who’s mind, I decided, appeared quite indisputably unsettled and irrational) then mumbled and grumbled and waddled his way over to me, forgoing many meters of free space to the left and right of my spot on the wooden bench, plopping himself directly next to me. My canine bodyguard lost her sense of fealty and left, leaving me feeling quite a bit less protected. I tensed, the undesirable, eerie new intimacy with the man’s angry-sounding tirade continuing, me on the edge of my seat and nerves, not looking directly at but still focusing whatever cognizance I could spare on the frightening individual now sitting immediately beside me in the dark, abandoned bus station.

​Without warning, he suddenly released an shrill shriek, screeching an unintelligible cry that caused me to startle, jump, and maybe even stopped my heart for a moment. I can neither confirm nor deny whether I may or may not have peed just a little…

After his shout ended, he stood and walked away, leaving me shaken, fresh sweat stinging as it sprout from my skin, and still on my guard while he re-positioned himself on a nearby curb. He didn’t completely wander off for another two or three hours, most of which I spent earning cramps and bum sores while holding obsessively still on the stiff bench, backpacks clenched tight in a white-knuckle grip.

Needless to say, there was no rest that night.

By the time 6 o’clock rolled around, Daniel grew restless, and he sauntered off across town to the immigration office, leading him through no few number of strange, dodgy alleys. When he finally returned a while later, he reported that the immigration office was still closed, but the police station across the street (stashed inside an unassuming, house-like office acting in lieu of) had never closed. We had waited all night when we could have made a move right off the bus. Dangit.

After earning our respective exit stamps from Brazil’s officers on duty, we learned that Uruguay’s immigration office was another hike away on the other side of the border. 

These towns of Santana do Livramento in Brazil and Rivera in Uruguay share an unmonitored boundary. Sure, I could have waltzed across, spared myself the sleepless night with Mr. Maniac, and no one would have stopped me. But I am not only a stinge, but also a sometimes stickler. 

So we walked. It was about a mile or two, with a 35lb bag and probably some convenience store provisions in a limp, plastic sack to keep bellies appeased until the next real meal (which can often be quite infrequent). 

Entry stamp into Uruguay was eventually granted, and upon my request we were pointed in the direction of the next bus stop that would take us to the capital, Montevideo. Surprise! It was back the OTHER way towards Brazil. 

I feel like my calves and quads should be monstrously huge by now. Alas, all the walking and burden bearing has done little for my leg’s thickness (and NOTHING for my glutes…. Grrrr…).

Once we arrived in Montevideo, we had officially completely our longest intercity commute to date: From Point A to Point B in 42 hours. It was high time to put our bags down and drop.

I am so blessed, so often, by Daniel and his marvelous ability to meet new friends and nurture their relationship. He is so considerate, very charming, and so noticeably low-maintenance that he sometimes has buddies positively begging to have him visit. 

One such amiga is Julieta. His introduction to this lovely lady is still one of his favorite stories of the wonderful hospitality and warm openness attributed to South American cultures (and Couchsurfers in general). 

In 2011, when Daniel was first Couchsurfing through Montevideo, he was staying with Nati (whom I would also see while in the city). Nati was accustomed to Couchsurfing, but her at-the-time roommate, Julieta, did not have the same familiarity with inviting in and sharing your home with true strangers. Nonetheless, Daniel was sleeping on their couch when Julieta arrived home from work around 3AM. Although they had not met, Julieta took Daniel’s presence in stride, strolling up to him and initiating the standard two-cheeks kiss that you come to expect south of the American equator. She gave him her name, and her his. And that was that. 

This time around, Julieta once again demonstrated the kind of high-caliber generosity that is the stuff of stories. Her home she shares now with the sweet-natured, loving Osvaldo together with their exceptionally adorable 10-month-old daughter, Paula.

I also learned that Uruguayans are stereotypically extremely laid back. Granted, my time was short and not quite everyone fit the bill, but I found that to be majorly accurate. When problems and emergencies arise, the tensions that would normally arise in other places just never developed here. They are quite unfazed by the stressors what would light a fire under more anger-prone peoples. On one hand, it made for an almost languid atmosphere as I walked the city. On the other, there were times I would have preferred a bit more urgency (in restaurants or service counters). Nonetheless, everything carries on there in their form and function. Who am I to suggest change in a culture that isn’t my own?

While the tranquil town folk went about their not-so-busy business, I was able to see a little of what makes Montevideo the place it is. Being on the coast, there are shipyard-themed communities (with restaurants and cafes hidden inside gigantic, converted boats, featuring the famous Uruguayan grilled meats stacked on simmering, sizzling forge-like ovens), and walks up and down the concrete jetty lined with local fisherman with their lines bobbing in the water with a casually blaze demeanor not unlike their owners. All in all, the citizens were more memorable than the city, which is only a tribute to the powerfully pleasant people who live there.

My FAVORITE moment while exploring, and the reason Food is one of the strongest segments of the Trinity of Travel here, is the Uruguay national dish, chevito. Oh. My. Goodness… How did I go so long before combining the supremely savory and terribly tasty powers of French fries, bacon, steak, fried egg, avocado, lettuce, tomato, and cheese? Oh, chevito, where have you been and why have you left me again?????? It so, SO STUPID GOOD. 

I have toyed with the idea that, after returning to the states and recombobulating with everyday life, I might start a food blog where I cook my way through all the countries I have visited. I think it’s safe to say that chevito might need to be made and re-made a few times over before I’m through with it.

Before leaving Julieta’s homey house, Daniel met again with his previous hostess and friend, Nati. This spontaneous, fun-loving world-wanderer was an energetic bundle with whom it was a pleasure to spend the afternoon. We explored museums, galleries, zen gardens, made special pizza and juice, chit-chatted with her roommates Bassett hound pup (and played with a neighbor’s wee puppy (complete with a satin bow tied around her chubby, little neck)), and also orchestrated a video job interview for her.

All this took place within a neighborhood in which I don’t know if I could ever live, for reasons that you might or might not agree.

​I first took notice about twenty minutes before arriving at Nati’s house outside of downtown. A smell in the air. While it is common to repeatedly catch a whiff of sewage or a blast of exhaust while in a city, it is rather more rare to sniff something savory or sweet for such extended periods of time. The aroma that dominated this part of town was the deliciously mouth-watering scent of fresh-baked goods. Bread, doughnuts, cakes, rolls… Block after block, the smell permeated mercilessly, teasing my tummy with is phantasmal presence. It just wouldn’t go away!!! I was suddenly and continually hungry, even though in reality I didn’t need to eat. That essence of bakery kept my stomach growling. 

Nati explained there is a large bread factory a few miles away whose chimneys almost endlessly pump the ovens’ aromatic contents into the air, bathing the surrounding area with its scrumptious scent. It was awful, in the most pleasantly torturous way, until I again escaped back to Julieta’s cozy, comfy abode.

In their company, we walked the waterfront and sipped mate by the beach, watching the volleyballers throw themselves about while the local kids frolicked in the surf and sand. Ice cream is advertised EVERYWHERE, and we treated ourselves to a local delicacy of alfajores stuffed with the stuff. We meandered the parks and critiqued the public photo exhibitions. Dario and Mati knew some of the best locations for community and street art, including a contemporary gallery with international futuristic works all residing within what was once a prison. Government landmarks weren’t left out, as we passed by the spacious buildings that housed those who run the country. One night, we even chased a local drumming dance party/parade that takes place periodically where the young folk go to cut loose and get a little crazy, then headed back home to watch a few SNL reruns from the US elections before they got so insane. 

To top it all off, the boys guided us to a popular square downtown that we had passed numerous times of the course of several days. On Saturday nights, however, the courtyard is converted into an outdoor, ballroom-under-the-stars where you can publicly tango into the evening. The dancers are mostly elderly men and woman who have probably been coming to the same square for decades. As the tango music plays on through the streets, an intricate and ingrained system of courtesy and courtship carries on between dancers. Rules and guidelines about when to dance with your main partner and when to switch seem to come as basically to the seniors as the obviously intuitive movement of their feet and they cross legs and dip and turn. It was like something out of a movie.

Saying goodbye is always undesirable, but unavoidable. As I bid adios and headed towards Buenos Aires, we traveled to the small village of Colonia, where a ferry would deliver us to Argentina. The town is a well-preserved community of old-style buildings and winding lanes, really quite European-like. Cobblestoned and quaint, where the ocean glitters at the end of the tiny streets and adorable cafes are sprinkled here and there as you take in the setting sun and beauty amidst blooming vines and flowering trees. Rusted automobiles from the twenties and thirties still sit abandoned adjacent to ruined buildings smothered in green ivy whose invasive limbs reach into the vacant, broken windows. It was an enchanting place. 

Sadly, I was in a foul mood as I walked around. I cannot even recall what it was about, but I remember feeling emotionally injured, distant, uninspired, and a little vengeful. I couldn’t tell you why. It’s quite lamentable, looking back. Colonia was a gorgeous and idyllic place. I lament not having appreciated it better. But Daniel, unfailingly loyal as usual, tolerated my silent tantrum until I thawed out as we boarded the ferry, took to the sea, put “Evita” on the laptop for cultural preparation, and watched the sparkly skyline of Buenos Aires rise out of the late night horizon.

Daniel mentioned that the end of this entry concludes with sentiments containing an unapprovable degree of darkness (both emotionally and meteorologically) and asked me to instead end things on a more cheerful note, and so I will honor his optimistic request with one word, which carries within it all the happiness I need to make my day: Chevito.

What's that, Pepo? Oh, yes, of course. Kittens, too.

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