I’m back in Cambridge! The US always looks so funny after traveling abroad. It’s such a quaint country– a little run down, sexually uptight, rather chubby. But it’s home, and I’m glad to be back.

I really do love Cambridge (greater-Cambridge, Boston included), for a million reasons, and it’s going to kill me leaving it. But would you all disown me if my big move this June is to Rio de Janeiro?

Brazil isn’t my favorite country; Rio is far from my favorite city. But for its huge diversity, for its place in an incredible travel network, for being simultaneously prospering and in desperate need, for speaking the second-most-beautiful language in the world, I think it might be just right.

The bus I got for the 19 hours to Rio from Florianopolis was the cheapest one available. I sat next to a nice Spanish journalist, who’s totally obsessed with Brazil and Florianopolis and told me about everything I missed. The rivers on the way all run brown from the flooding, which was suggestive with all the many-buttocked hills along the way.

Rio de Janeiro is an incredible city, but I can’t decide if I love it or hate it. It’s actually several interesting cities in one: the few I saw were Ipanema, a hip beach resort/gay area; the Centro, with wide avenues, big squares, a few museums and many big businesses; and Santa Teresa, a village on a hill, with twisty streets, craft shops, and a bohemian vibe. The sudden hills, the bay, and the beaches are occasionally awe-inspiring, occasionally gross. The Favelas, the ghettos, grow up every hill, and the ubiquitous graffiti looks a lot like big hacking sign-ins. The bus system is a mess (which is to say, there are a zillion buses and no maps), and most everything was shut down for Carnaval.

Carnaval was mostly uninspiring. The parts that I had access to without expensive tickets, lead time, or connections amounted to vast drunken debauchery (which I have no trouble finding at home, though not on such a scale). Several main streets in the center became solid blocks of humanity, plus roving drum bands, and endless vendors each selling one of the same three items (meat-on-a-stick, corn, and beer).

My feet hurt from a triple assault of sleeping in wet socks, wading in (slightly) toxic water, and walking with sand in my shoes all day (I got in my beach though!). I also got in some decent clubbing with a band of Brazilians, friends of Fred, my helpful communist host.

Florianopolis has about the best vacation setup possible. It’s a little (couple hours longways across) island with a big lake in the middle, and the north is dominated by tourists, the east by young people, nightlife, and popular beaches, and the south by unspoilt nature. There’s a map in the hostel I stayed at with little cartoons of people having different kinds of fun around the island; all the women are wading or sunbathing, and the men do all other activities. For some of the beaches, the women aren’t wearing bathing suits.

Alas, this paradise is not for me to enjoy this year. I came to relax on the beaches and even out my tan (which is currently concentrated on my nose), and it didn’t stop raining the whole time I was there. The second day, it achieved torrential-downpour-levels, and the hostel started to flood: one of the room’s ceilings ceased to function (except as a kind of permeable membrane); a storm drain overflowed in the main hallway; the streets outside became rivers. I went to the south before the rain got bad looking for a nice walk. I found my isolated fishing village, but didn’t find the trail before the rain washed out my enthusiasm for the venture. *shrug*– rain happens.

An extraverted Canadian almost convinced me that the best place to experience Carnaval was right in Florianopolis. Hostels around Rio de Janeiro are essentially booked, and room rates are excessive. I went through a ton of couchsurfing profiles and sent off a pile of requests, all of which were coming back negative. Until, that is, a cool, very liberal dude in Niteroi with a tiny flat, said that if I could squeeze in, he’d let me. So I’m off to Rio!

(Well, was off to Rio– I’m now there and gone, and soon to return to the states!)

My plan in Puerto Iguazu was to see the falls for half a day, then take a bus across the border into Brazil and catch the next long-distance bus somewhere fun. I was on schedule leaving the park, caught the bus, and made sure to tell the driver that I needed to stop at Brazilian customs (otherwise, they drive through). I got off, filled out the form, and waited in line. When I got to the window, the guy kept flipping through my passport before saying something I couldn’t understand. He passed it to the other officer: “American citizens need a visa to enter Brazil. You have go back. I’m sorry.”

Oh.

I found out I could get a visa in Puerto Iguazu the next day. So with tears in my eyes, I went back out to wait for the next bus. After a little while, one of the taxi drivers came over and we talked in Spanish. Where was I headed? No, the last bus to the terminal already passed. You’d better take a taxi. Look, there’s one over here!

I got in and he drove away from the customs post, with a wink to the other taxi. He was charging me an illegally high rate, but I didn’t know it at the time. As we drove into town, it dawned on me that all of the signs were in Portuguese.

Oops.

At the bus terminal in Brazil, I confirmed that there were no more buses, and I needed to take another expensive taxi back. “Tell the driver not to stop at the border to Brazil, because you’re currently illegal.” I got a taxi and told the driver. He seemed uncomfortable about it, but said okay. A guard was watching as we approached the border post, and we slowed down. At the last second, the guard looked down at his cellphone, and we slid on by.

I got the ungodly expensive visa the next day (payable only in large unmarked bills). I think it was the last one they accepted that day for same-day issue. My next stop: Florianopolis.

The Iguazu Falls, at the northern extreme of a narrow outcropping of Argentina, is the second largest waterfall in the world, and it’s got to be the most beautiful. The further north you get, the more green and lush the vegetation is, spotted with red, yellow, white. Some of the roads on the way were just the rusty red-brown dirt and stones that are everywhere here.

I’ve never been in a jungle, but the national park near the falls *sounds* just like I always imagined one would: it’s absolutely full of noise– buzzing, tweeting, rustling, woops and maybe some growls– from every direction. Most of the time you can’t see where it’s coming from, but in my four hours I saw tribes of big-cat-sized coaties (the Ferengi of the park, walking unafraid amongst people, pulling coke cups out of the trashcans), a nest of fantastic green birds and one tall white graza (and lots of other birds), monkeys who were suddenly harvesting all around me at one point (if I were 10 meters in the air), and insects (including lots of different butterflies) galore.

The river splits into dozens of smaller falls (and one huge one), with copious greenery throughout. I’ve never seen an area so full of life. There aren’t very many “trails”, and all of them very over-engineered, but they’re good and bring you close enough to the falls to feel the spray. Half a day was not nearly enough, but it was what I had to give.

Note, the pictures below don’t show very well the biggest waterfall (which I did’t get close to, because of the trails I chose), but just imagine all of the other waterfalls combined.

The Green “Trail”	Trees on Trees	Coati on the Trail
Coaties Swarming	Looking over the Jungle	River and Cliffs
Above a Waterfall
		On San Martin Island
Looking Up	The Two Brothers	Family of Coaties
	The Kid
	Family of Birds
	Monkey over the trail	Another Monkey

Below are (most of) my pictures from Bariloche to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I put all the naked statues behind a cut, for people who think their bosses could actually dislike such things.

Bariloche, Argentina:

Bariloche Street	Centro Civico	Centro Civico
Bariloche Cathedral	Lake Nahuel Huapi

Neuquen, Argentina:

Countryside Nearby	More Countryside	More Countryside
Canyonscape in Neuquen	River bordering Neuquen	Mud-Brick Oven

Buenos Aires, Argentina:

Near Plaza de Mayo	Church of San Francisco	Rose Garden (Feb 3 Park)
Family of Ducks	Plaza Italia	Fountain in Palermo
Botanical Gardens	Cactus Section	Monument in the Gardens
A la cera perida	Another Monument	UBA Faculty of Engineering
Homenaje	Row in Rocaleta Cemetary	The Row Less Traveled
Looking Down a Tomb	Two Tombs	Zombie Problems
Parrot in the Hostel	Mural in the Mall	Reserve in Buenos Aires
More Green Birds	Buenos Aires from the Reserve

Buenos Aires’s Statues of Naked Women

Buenos Aires is an incredible city, full of action and noise and grime and beauty, colossal avenues and endless cobblestone, ornately carved churches next to ugly apartment buildings. I was never able to find the cathedral, which I think is nestled among a bunch of banks and stores.

Not often do I find a city that loves statues of naked women as much as I do (pictures pending). The northern part of the city center is dominated by large parks, filled with statues and people playing futbol. Nearby is the huge famous-people’s cemetery, a city of tomb monuments, of every style if its huge, criss-crossed with passageways so mazelike that you can take two turns and never see another non-dead being.

On the weekends, outside the cemetery is the Feria Hippie, one of Buenos Aires’s many crafts/trinkets/antiques/art fairs (this one specializing in my pot-smoking friends). This city throbs with its fairs (on weekends). On Sundays, several blocks near the hostel I stayed at (in San Telmo) are taken over by little outdoor stands and street performers and music and food and most of all, lots of people. Everyone seems to come out to the fairs.

My second night, I went out drinking with a group of Spanish-speakers from the hostel (a first for me). Before getting drunk, we stopped at a Tango Bar, mostly to watch. Tango is definitely a dance I can get into– rather than salsa’s bag-of-tricks, tango seems to be a humming duet of bodies. And after a few songs, the music changed, and suddenly, everyone got up and broke out in the SCA Maltese Branle! Bizarre.

I have more stories from Buenos Aires, like catching a parrot and late-night talk of Derrida and the kick-ass hostel I stayed at, but now I’m a full location behind (I’m about to leave Iguazu Falls for Brazil– its own odyssey), so I’ll see you there.

I write this on the 14 hour bus ride to Buenos Aires, munching on a sweet cone of dulce de leche. The last two days have been some of the best in years, filled with homecooked feasts, endless laughs, and incredible kindness. I know I can wax hyperbolic, but this has been an unforgettable, eye-opening experience to the joys of Argentina.

My beautiful couchsurfing hosts, Adriana and her daughter Maria Jose, have been more welcoming than I imagined possible. Adriana is a professor and former dean at the University in Neuquen, teaching tourism and its environmental consequences, very kind and a great cook. Maria Jose (Majo?) studies social communication (media studies) in Buenos Aires– she’s smart, talented, environmentally- and socially-conscious, and hot. They were patient with my Spanish (but good English speakers), and Majo filled papers writing words I didn’t know. They live on 7 ha, with fields and (a little) forest, a small orchard, vineyard, and garden, five dogs, and an absolutely beautiful house.

They also have an outdoor mud-brick oven (a la Crook’d Cat), where they cooked delicious homemade empanadas (pockets of meat), bread, and a big parradilla (Argentine BBQ)– they let me help make the fire. Plus, over the two days I was there, there was pickled fish and a wild rice fish dish (Majo and her father caught the fish themselves), work-of-art salad and pizza, and sweets from Argentina’s favorite. We ate it all over plenty of good discussion and wine.

The first morning, I lazed in their hammock with a book of Majo’s (El Principito) while she did crafts. After more food, Majo showed me the city. Every block, it seemed, as we walked and talked, Majo would run into friends, and they would laugh and talk for a couple minutes, with cheek-kisses to me. Majo told me about the city in her youth, where everyone in town gathered at the big market, where she would dance every night. A river borders the city, an easy walk from the center, where people chill and play in the water, and beyond which is sudden forest green. We walked in the river and had ice creams. Before heading back, we drove to the other side of the center, to a huge planned canyon landscape of trees and trails, where people run and bike and walk and sit in the stark beauty.

Maria Jose drove me back to the bus station, with a full tummy, a head of beer, and lots to think about.

Sorry for the thumbnails are so small and the (sort-of) originals are so big. I’m working on making my picture site give me an intermediate option.

Valparaiso, Chile:

Chess Mural

Statue in Valparaiso

Valparaiso from Above

Garden by Neruda’s House

Valparaiso Street

Human Tower

Puerto Montt, Chile:

Chile Countryside

Building in Puerto Montt

Puerto Montt Seacoast

Houses in the Hills

Island near PM

Looking away from PM

Chiloe, Chile:

Chiloe by Ferry	Chiloe Countryside	Entrance to Chiloe Fort	Chiloe Fort	Beach Near Chiloe Fort	Grains in Market
Island on the Island	Houses on Stilts	Castro from the Boat	Castro’s Cathedral	Castro’s Cathedral	Plazuela el Tren

Chile/Argentina Border:

Andes in Chile

Andes near pass

Andes near Border

Andes along the Border

More Andes

More Andes

The following morning, I took off for Argentina. The Andes are incredible here: densely forested up to their oddly-shaped tops, licked by whispy clouds; wild flowers and fields; the occasional earth-toned home; unspoilt lakes. A gregorious Ecudorian professor with a Desperato look kept up an unbroken stream of chatter behind me, but it’s a good day for it.

The customs building looked like a park service cabin. We were held up for a while at the Argentinian border while customs officers pulled out all the luggage and the drug-sniffing dogs (one of whom took his task in zest, and the other who seemed more interested in attention from his handler). The even opened the AC vent. The largest sign nearby read “Drugstore”, naturally on the side going back to Chile.

By the time I got to Bariloche, the last bus to Neuquen had left, but I’m happy I stopped. Bariloche is a tourist town again, but with a totally different audience: active tourists, students on break, skiing or nature-loving (bats don’t wink there at my huge bag). The whole town looks like it was built by the three bears, all lincoln logs and big stone structures. I didn’t go out into the wilderness, but I didn’t need to with the a beautiful lake a feather’s throw away. Bariloche is very diverse, and appears to love its chocolate. There’s a fair amount of English spoken or known, but I hear its epidemic. And I’m definitely getting my tan on (really my sunburn, but who’s counting?).

All the hostels in Bariloche were booked, until the hostel desk worker helping me finally found one 18 km out of town. The place was fantastically laid-back: the sleeping room didn’t have beds, just two shelves of mattresses, the kitched wasn’t clean or organized, and the check-in process consisted of filling out a line on a register (everyone else on my page was Argentinian or Brazilian, except 1 Canadian) and paying at some point: just make do and have fun, the place shouted. Another day, I would have rode that groove, but I tried to make it an errand day. Sadly, Sunday isn’t the best day for that, so I ended up mostly just busing around, but that’s all the fun of the game.

For the third time in my wanderings, I’ve come upon two British women talking together about a mutual male friend and how “big” he was or wasn’t. Are British women size queens? I’ve been having lots of other deep thoughts, but not for public consumption.