domingo 18.05 --- Salida de domingo --- Sunday's departure

We finally got up early for a change. I think that this is only because we had to. Our bus was scheduled to leave at 08:30, so an early departure from the hostel was necessary. I was up at 07:15 and by 07:45 we were both showered and ready to go. We caught a taxi that early Sunday morning to the bus station and our bus left on time. I was happy to be leaving the city. Perhaps if I had a better chance to acquaint myself with the city I would have left with a favorable impression. However, I was not presented with such an opportunity and I can see why Che’s parents left the city some seventy years ago. The bus ride was taxing and long and I managed to get a few winks of sleep in.

Argentines are not tall people. There may be the freakishly tall one now and again, but this is very rare. I say this because since there are no tall Argentines, there was no reason to design a bus seat to accommodate one. Steven and I were very limited in terms of movement and comfort on the Sierras de Córdoba bus. The seats weren’t impossibly comfortable, but they were not the Chevallier bed/seats were had grown accustomed to.

Since most of the day consisted of sitting on a bus, there is not a lot I can describe until we reach Córdoba. I can only briefly remark on the vastness of the Argentine countryside. It commands a strange respect. You stare off into it for hours and not realize what you’ve been looking at. It is different from the American Midwest because it is much greener, yet equally as flat and seemingly desolate. It is all grassland, with some scattered trees. Every once and awhile there would be a herd of at least 50 grazing cows that couldn’t be bothered with anything else. This was pretty typical of my preconceived notions of the country’s landscape.

I counted the shacks made of corrugated tin and wood. There are campesinos (field workers) who are barely surviving live off this land. This is a people I can not relate to, being of suburban New Jersey, but I still sympathize for them. I can see what they’re protesting for; they just want a better life. And from the very quick glances I was allowed from the bus, they deserve better. Our bus pulled into the station at 15:30 and we immediately purchased tickets for Mendoza. Fortunately Chevallier ran there and at a reasonable time. Tomorrow night we would be on the night bus westbound for the city before the Andes. We took a cab to the hostel and were checked in by 16:00.

View from the hostel.

Córdoba, aptly named for its Spanish predecessor, seems much larger than Rosario. It is appropriately named because it reminded me of the city in Spain that was once a Muslim stronghold of the peninsula. There were no grand mosques in this city, but the cobblestones streets and general easygoingness of the town made me yearn to return to Spain yet again. Within minutes of being in the city, I recognized it to be better than Rosario. The city is much larger, cleaner and there is more to do. We trekked down to Nuevo Córdoba and searched for an ATM. We passed Paseo del Buen Pastor, a hot spot for families and couples to hang out and enjoy the afternoon and early evening. We went through the main plaza de San Martín and there were street performers and artisans en masse. We located an ATM, withdrew some cash and got a late lunch.

While we ate we watched a national football game between River Plate and Independencia. The clientele of the restaurant grew restless over River Plate’s increasing margin over Independencia. It is quite an experience to watch football in a different country. The people are so passionate. It’s different from baseball. I love baseball, but unless I was at the game myself, I would never get up and start shouting at the television in the same manner these Argentines did. It was awe inspiring. The meal was good and with our cerveza we became very tired.

We headed back toward the hostel and encountered a Franciscan cathedral during mass. Still a little buzzed, we headed in to pray and give thanks for a safe arrival to the city. The familiarity of the church procession, even in a different language, eased my weary mind. We left the cathedral and passed by Paseo again, which since our first passing had grown very crowded. We made it back to the hostel by 20:00 and were almost ready to turn in. I spoke with the hostel workers and he said there was a 24 hour Laundromat. Steven, too tired from the day’s traveling, stayed in. I went and dropped off our laundry. I was told to pick it up in 12 hours.

Franciscan Cathedral.

I wandered by the artisan’s tables and picked up a few souvenirs. Tomorrow is our second and last day in the city. Tomorrow night’s bus ride is going to be longer than today’s. I am not sure whether I can deal with that. I returned to the hostel and crashed for the night. There is so much to see in this city and yet I am left with only one day. If only Córdoba and Rosario had been switched on the itinerary. With no time machine at my service I went to bed wishing for an alternative, knowing I would receive none.

At Paseo del Buen Pastor.

lunes 19.05 --- ¡Viva Córdoba! --- Long Live Cordóba!

A full night of rest yielded us a full day of activity. Sadly, it was our last day in the city, so we had a very condensed day. We arose early and I went to go pick up our laundry that I dropped off the night before at around 09:00. The city, starting its week this Monday morning was full of vitality, a stark contrast to the relaxed Sunday afternoon when we arrived. I returned to the hostel, packed up and we checked out by 10:30. The hostel was nice enough to let us leave our backpacks there for the remainder of the day.

The Argentines are a kind people. Every encounter I’ve had with one usually ended with a warm ciao, hasta luego or adios. There have been maybe only one or two exceptions to this. I mention this because I was, at first, very apprehensive about leaving our bags in the hostel. To those unfamiliar, hostels are generally small and make just enough money to get buy. Charity is not a profitable field. However, when I asked what to do with our bags and how long we can leave them there, the response was “of course you can leave them here…a day, a week, a month, as long as you like.” Now I know this may appear to be just one example and is insufficient to judge a people. But I am making such a claim about Argentina hospitality. It followed us wherever we went.

And not only were people kind to us for our tenure in the country, but curious to learn more about us. I was always asked where I’m from in the States. To avoid confusion, I always counter with a sharp Nueva York. And everyone has had some sort of commentary about the Big Apple, be it its size, fame or just plain greatness. This is not a lie either. I was born in New York City and much of my family continues to reside in the great city and state. The interest of the people, to me, seemed sincere and not sycophantic because we were tourists with money to spend. This is why I proudly judge the population as kind, intuitive, and generous.

We left the hostel at about 10:30 and Steven and I had the whole day in front of us (12 hours until our bus would leave for Mendoza). We made for Plaza de San Martín in the newer part of town. On the way we stopped for coffee and pastries in a café for breakfast. Afterwards we headed to the tourist information booth to see what needed to/could be seen in our last day in Córdoba. We were then kindly informed that since it was Monday, nearly all museums and historic sites were closed. We were discouraged and broken hearted. Following the in footsteps of a young and near indomitable Mr. Guevara, we chose not to let such details affect our time here. My brother and I were going to enjoy our last day in the city and see as much as we could no matter what stood in our way.

We visited the city’s first cathedral (under renovations) and it was fantastic. Several of the country’s influential idealists, religious figures and politicians were buried in the floor of the cathedral. Keeping up with the Catholic theme our day had started us with, we pressed toward an old Jesuit crypt, one of the few attractions open that day. We first mistook the entrance for a subway station. Descending the stairs under Avenida Colón (a major avenue for Córdoba) we were met with a very enthusiastic young woman named Marissa. She implored that any questions be directed to her.

We explored the minute burial chamber and twenty minutes later (and ready to leave) Marissa asked if we would like a tour. She very passionately explained the history of the crypt, its possession passing from the Jesuits to the Bedlamites, to private use and then lost in time for 60 years. It was rediscovered by Argentina’s telephone monopoly Telecom when they were drilling to install phone wires in 1989. Marissa’s English skills nearly surpassed my Spanish skills, however, she insisted on giving the tour in Spanish and leaving me to act as translator, so we wouldn’t miss any information. I was surprised by this tactic, but had no problem serving as the medium of communication between Marissa and Steven. She confirmed everything I translated which raised my confidence in my Spanish abilities. After the tour, she refused a tip and told us where else we could go on a Monday. We departed with a meaningful hasta luego, even though we both knew we’d never see each other again.

Crypt Keepin'

We proceeded to the Jesuit block that included another church, a monastery and the first university. The Jesuits, despite their expulsion in 1767, still maintain a strong influence on the city. The university is still in use and teaches a variety of humanities. We broke away form our catholic theme for the day and visited a museum that was open. It was the best preserved historic site in the city, called Sobremonte. It had many artifacts from pre-conquistador eras to the colonial time and into the late 19^th century.

Sobremonte.

We walked through the entire city to get a good look at her. For a small city, Córdoba maintains a good crowd and is very busy. We came across Parque Sarmiento and stopped for lunch. Afterwards we made it to Steven’s beloved attraction; the zoo. We spent nearly two and a half hours in the facility. There was nothing special about this zoo, except for its endemic exhibits which featured many animals for the Amazon as well. We exhausted ourselves in that zoo. Pushing forward, we went to Buen Pastor for a beer and to recharge our over worn batteries. We still had five and a half hours to kill.

Steve on a snake.

A friend at the zoo.

We made our way back to the familiar Plaza de San Martín and shopped for a long time. I finally found my long lost Che hat. I had been searching for one since I had arrived. We wandered around for a bit and due to my famous navigational skills we found ourselves on the outskirts of the city. We took a break in a small square, gathered our bearings and made our way back to the main plaza. We located a small restaurant and indulged in a much needed meal. I sampled some gnocchi, to see whether Argentina’s Italian influence had stretched this for west. It has, and the meal was delicious.

After dinner we got back to the hostel, retrieved our bags and caught a taxi to the bus station. The driver was of bad humor and was our first negative Argentine of the trip. I’m on the bus now, and while I’m writing this I can see Córdoba in the rearview mirror. I’m sad to be leaving her so soon. Now, there is only darkness and our future in Mendoza on the horizon.

Sculpture at Paseo del Buen Pastor.

martes 20.05 --- Siempre al oeste --- Ever Westward

In the way of our forefathers and their manifest destiny, Steven and I ventured west again, to Mendoza. The overnight 11 hour bus ride was soporific; however, I did not receive much sleep. I had to send several gentle nudges to my brother, whose snoring made sleep (an already difficult task to accomplish) near impossible. We were into Mendoza’s bus station around 08:30 and walked to the hostel. Unfortunately, Hostel Lao didn’t provide check in until noon. We were too tired to do anything remotely interesting like explore the city, so we lounged instead. We watched television, played with the owner’s dogs (a lively German Shepard and a lively mutt), sat in the hammock and waited. At noon we were informed that we would have to wait a little longer. The owner politely apologized by saying “bienvendos a Mendoza, dónde todo pasa lentamente” or “Welcome to Mendoza, where everything moves slowly.” We finally got into our room at half past noon and put our bags down. We were so tired we couldn’t sleep at all. Fatigue has a way of energizing you.

Steve lounging around.

So we did the next logical thing and toured the entire city. The hostel’s owner, an animated Brit named Mike gave us all the hotspots to visit. We pressed through to what we could. I paid homage to my hero, José Francisco de San Martín. He commanded the respect and adoration of the entire country (and Chile, Perú and Ecuador as well). I haven’t really explained my reasons for interest in this man. To do so at length now, would be desultory and ruin the flow of this blog. Suffice to say I, as a North American, also have a deep respect and liking for the national hero. I wrote two term papers on him in college, and would recommend any history buff to research this man. He freed the southern part of the continent, and would have finished the royalists off, had it not been for a meeting with the egotistical Bolívar. San Martín, being the nobler of the two, abdicated his power, army and funds to leave the task to Bolívar. There’s just something glorious in surrendering in the name of a cause higher than oneself. I’ll stop there.

So, for a national hero, I would have expected a large museum in Mendoza (his favorite city) and site for crossing the Andes. This proved over-presumptuous as the city’s museum to San Martín was small, no bigger than a one story house. There were relics, documents and paintings but nothing that really impressed me. Dissatisfied, we went to Plaza de la Independencia; a large park to relax and enjoy the day. The park was plentiful in places to lie down and do exactly that. The stray dogs were a bit too friendly for our liking and we had to leave in order to stop form being licked.

Plaza de la Independencia.

Our next stop was Cerro de la Gloria or Hill of Glory. Atop this large hill (practically a mountain) stands a monument dedicated to San Martín’s Army of the Andes. It was a very demanding hike! We got to the immense Parque de San Martín (the largest in South America) and could walk no longer. We are normally more ambitious, but the lack of sleep drowned out our ability to hike long uphill distances. We instead hailed a taxi, which took us through the park to the bottom of the cerro. From there we would have to walk. The dirt path at the bottom of the hill was very deceiving because it started out paved and then ten meters later changed to a rocky foot path. The dirt path was about 200 meters of complete uphill climb. Our current energy situation made the mere 200 meters seem much longer. Finally we made it to the top and got a great view of the city. Also the monument was spectacular. On two sides of the monument there were watch towers graced with condors. Standing atop the summit, I realized this was holy ground. This is the exact spot where San Martín decided to cross the Andes and thus liberate much of the continent.

Cerro de la Gloria.

Mendoza from afar.

We came back down the hill and walked a great distance through the rest of the park. It was an endless journey that we both wished we had avoided by taking a taxi again, but none were to be found. We reached the end of the park at dusk and continued on through town. It was long. I can not say this without risk of being redundant, but the combination of exhaustion and distance pained us both very much.

Long Walk Home.

We crossed through Plaza de Italia, which is dedicated to another large Italian community that the city boasts. It is for this reason that Mendoza is famed for being a hub for surrounding vineyards. This is something I take great pride in. Next was Plaza de España which made me feel like revisiting Andalusia, with its fountains and fantastic tiling. We rested there, got our bearings and moved to our hostel. The night concluded with Don Mario, a ritzy local restaurant where I had the best steak of my life. No exaggeration. The wine we were given was also out of this world. My brother—who is not a wine enthusiast by any means—could even admit he enjoyed the beverage. Though the meal was expensive, it was well worth it.

Tile painting from Plaza de España.

We took a taxi back to the hostel, got a beer and relaxed. We played some cards games into the early morning as we unwound from the day and shared our observations about the mendocinos (Mendozians) and their lifestyle. Again I would like to reiterate to the reader that this was the longest day of the trip. Tomorrow will be of a slower pace. We plan on horseback riding through the Andes Mountains, yet another way to relieve San Martín’s experience of Mendoza. Granted tomorrow we do not cross into Chile, it is still fascinating (to me anyway) to envision a similar experience.

miércoles 21.05 --- Los Andes

I awoke feeling refreshed this morning, even though I only got about six hours of sleep. Compared to the three I got on the bus the previous night from Córdoba, this seemed like sleeping in. So, out of bed by 08:30, we were reenergized, and ready for our excursion to the Andes.

Our commute was in a small van. It pulled up the hostel at 09:15 sharp, even though it was supposed to be there a bit before 09:00. Undoubtedly a result of mendocino scheduling. I was greeted by our guide Matías where we promptly paid our 170 pesos for the day and filled out liability forms. Matías, after reviewing the insurance forms, over excitedly explained that our names, though in different languages, were one in the same. After 30 minutes of semi-paved road, we cut into dirt paths and underbrush. We were on our way away from civilization. This was very reminiscent of the American Southwest for me. We arrived at our “base camp,” a picnic table covered by an over hang, a cabin, a fire ring, a bar and some extra tables. We waited for Matías to set up and prepare everything for our ride.

Base camp.

Matías, much like me, preferred speaking in his native tongue to express himself more freely. So once again I was volunteered to serve as translator for Steven. Once he finished setting up, we met with Orlando. He owned a small ranch adjacent to the base camp. He brought over the horses and dogs we’d be using for our trip.

Orlando, a weathered man, was dressed in equestrian/ranching attire. His accent was thick but understandable and while life in the Andes may have been very harsh to him, he was a very kind man. We mounted our horses and went o a short circuit around a large hill. We stopped for maté. This was the first I had had yerba maté in Argentina, even though I saw much of its populace stop to drink it during the day, all over the country. Yerba maté or maté for short is a green tea indigenous only to the south of the continent. The leaves are dumped into a bowl-like cup and hot water and sugar are added. At least once daily, Argentines, Paraguayans, Uruguayans, and Southern Brazilians and Bolivians enjoy this beverage. They sip on it using a spoon shaped straw with filters on the spoon’s face. This means that the participant carry a thermos with hot water, the yerba tea, sugar, the bombilla (cup) and straw with them everyday, all for the sake of tradition. And probably partake in such a practice because it’s good too.

We rested for a while and drank our maté and had some biscuits. I made mention of the fact that San Martín was one of my heroes, and that riding on horseback out here made me feel like him. With this confession, Orlando was filled with joy and we discussed the Argentine liberator and that I had to go to another museum, better than the one yesterday that we had visited. I made another confession that sadly we would be leaving tomorrow and that there just wasn’t enough time to do everything. He seemed more disappointed than I did.

Orlando (left) and Matías with their maté and breakfast.

With that, we picked up our and our party moved on. The party consisted of me, Steven, Matías and Orlando (on horseback) and four dogs (of mixed breeds). We took in the sights of the mountains, the vineyards of Lujón de Cuyo in the distance (where most of the national wine Malbec is made), a Respol (oil company) refinery and the vast Argentine plain. The weather, originally cloudy and windy, had changed to a straight sunshine. Matías said we were very lucky. At the day’s beginning he was apprehensive about taking us out because there had been three straight days of stinging wind out in the mountains. Steven and I did feel fortunate as we thanked whatever forces blessed us with such great weather. We were very lucky indeed.

Horseback Brothers.

We came back to the base camp and had lunch. A very hearty serving of asada (a flank steak), potatoes, and onions on the parrilla (grill). In addition to being a great guide, Matías proved to be an even better cook. We had a smooth local Malbec with the meal. I invited Matías to share the bottle which he eventually accepted after several refusals and my persistence. We ate until our stomachs were about to burst. I can’t remember the last time I ate so much food. We needed time to digest so while Matías was cleaning, we spoke. He complimented my Spanish (saying it was better than his English). I told him of our experiences in the boy scouts, and how this made me revisit a time with no distractions. Here we could fully enjoy nature and the silence that was interrupted with only with the occasional gust of wind. He responded with “it was be very different from New York City.” Again this is where I had been telling everyone where I was from, to prevent confusion and promote familiarity. I could only respond with a simple sí. I played fetch with one of the dogs I named Charley, because he reminded me of the dog from Steinbeck’s autobiographical novel which I had been reading.

Steve enjoying some local Malbec.

Charley and I.

Orlando came back, followed by a small child of no more than ten years old. I later introduced myself to him. He was Federico, Orlando’s son. The young boy rode with such confidence; surely he was being groomed to become a gaucho like his father. It was as though he and his horse were one entity.

We rode about halfway up Cerro Negro and got a great view of the countryside yet again. Matías explained that a little further on up Cerro Negro we could see the only point on the Andes where all three of its cordilleras were visible. We stopped again and had maté. Matías and Federico chatted while Steven and I stood speechless, taking everything in. It was really breathtaking to see the countryside in this light and not to be just driving through it. We turned around and headed back to the ranch, not before some heavy galloping, however. Steven and I raced through a dried up riverbed. And then it seemed as soon as the day had started, it was already over. We dismounted and watched Federico drive the horses back to the ranch. Our van was waiting for us already so, after a few snapshots, boarded out transports and bid adieu to the Andes. We were left in front of the hostel with heartfelt handshakes and goodbyes from both Matías and the driver (who we tipped heavily), our own tip of which bar to go to tonight from Matías, and a small fleeting taste of the Andes.

Saying goodbye to the Andes.

Steven and I took a break in the hostel, and prepared for the evening. We went out souvenir shopping, and got dinner at El Mesón Español. No gazpacho and a mediocre meal. Tomorrow we fly back to Buenos Aires to meet our father. ¿Dónde fue esta semana?

Los Andes

jueves 22.05 --- Retorno ---- Return

I checked last night with the hostel attendant to see what an appropriate time would be to leave for Plumerillo, Mendoza’s airport, if our flight left at 09:50. We were told a half an hour would suffice. To be on the safe side, we planned on leaving the hostel at 08:50. So we checked out exactly then and asked if they could call us a cab. Celeste, Mike’s wife and co-owner of the hostel informed us that the entire city’s bus line was inoperative (I assume due to one of Argentina’s famous strikes), and that obtaining a taxi would be near impossible. We informed Celeste of our situation and she called four different companies trying to get us a taxi. Finally, at 09:20, one came. The traffic infested roads did nothing to abate my stress, at this point beyond their normal limits. We arrived at the airport at 09:35, and bolted for the check in desk.

The Aerolíneas Argentinas’ desk was without line and for that we were very grateful. The agent made a joke about us showing up early and I left out an out of breath laugh. We passed through security with great ease, calmly walked onto the tarmac and into our plane. We were buckled in at 09:45 and in five minutes were in the air and off to the capital. The duration of our trip spanned no more than an hour and twenty minutes. I smiled, thinking how difficult it could have been to get to Buenos Aires by other means. At that point Steven and I had traveled from the capital westward to Mendoza for a combined total of 22 hours. Surveying the broad plains and the pampa, I have come to realize that this truly is a wondrous and beautiful country. A week in itself is in no way a sufficient amount of time to pass judgment or to see everything. However, I’m doing it now anyway. Argentina will command a small piece of my heart, and I will always long to revisit her.

We landed at Jorge Newberry Airport at 11:20, jumped the bus to the terminal, got our bags and left by taxi to our familiar Hilton in Puerto Madero. It was good to be back in the Big Apple because in a few minutes we would reunite with our father, the man most responsible for our exploits this past week.

Bridge in Puerto Madero that looks like a female tango dancer.

Before I describe our heartfelt meeting, I would first like to make a brief commentary regarding the nature of Argentine drivers. I should have disclosed this earlier, because nearly every experience I’ve had in a taxi fits this description. Many people are well acquainted with the European driving style. And to assume that Argentina’s style (due to its European sphere of influence) was the same would be committing a grave injustice. The lines painted on the roads in yellow and white that serve as dividers in our country are to be abided by. Our neighbor to the south, however, does not care to mimic such patterns. Often, on a road where there should be only four cars abreast at the same time there are five or six. These lines that we are so accustomed to never crossing are regarded as simple graffiti and are to only be used when making a left hand turn at a busy intersection or light. This not only applies for residential streets but also in Nuevo de Junio, the city’s (and world’s) largest avenue, which is 16 lanes wide.

This, however, is not the half of what makes the Argentine style so interesting. What makes the ordeal so fascinating (if not terrifying) is that the Argentina will not so much as blink when he is cut off by a 16 wheeler. Turn signals are completely optional. Should the driver choose to use his blinker it is a miraculous act of courtesy, or just to get pedestrians out of the vehicle’s way. There is no honking, swearing or road rage, unless the driver wishes to harass a protest that is blocking his current route. Most drivers are serene, relaxed in their seats, tranquil and calm as a human being could be. Driving in this country is not just a skill, it’s an art form. Our bus rides to Rosario, Córdoba, and Mendoza were all in a similar manner. Even with the hulking chassis if a commercial bus, the drivers are graceful and adroit in their task. This was something completely strange to me. And there was no threat of tickets for speeding, illegal turns or reckless driving. Everything was understood and moved in a systematic manner between Argentine drivers, pedestrians and police. It may seem chaotic but there was a sense of order to it all.

Our taxi ride form the airport to the hotel fit all the criteria for the ride, and was actually the impetus for this side explanation. We came upon the hotel and checked in to find out where our father was. After a slight mishap in communication regarding billing, we ascended to the fourth floor and were greeted by an ecstatic looking man, with a boyish grin and arms spread wide open for a long embrace.

We retold our adventures to our father. He was happy to hear that we had a good time, but I could tell that he was even happier just to see us back safe and sound. With great pleasure we left out little details to the man who made it possible. Afterwards, we set out to see Buenos Aires again.

The bustling commercial area of Flórida Street kept us shopping for a long time. Eventually we caught a cab to Recoleta, the barrio where Evita was laid to rest. The cemetery was an impressive sight, even for my second time. We browsed through hundreds of mausoleums, found Mrs. Perón and paid our respects. We entered the cemetery’s church which was equally as impressive.

Cemetery at Sunset

We stop for ice cream at Aroma, a high end frozen dessert shop. Back again to Flórida Street for much needed souvenirs. Finally we were back in the hotel and after freshening up, we went to the Hilton’s lounge for some wine and cheese. We met up with some of my fathers co-workers, some very familiar to me and it was good to see them. We though of visiting El Trapiche again, but instead tried a new restaurant, El Primo en the barrio Las Cañitas. This turned out to be dinner and a show.

Steve and I at the cemetery with a friend

The food was to die for. And even though I had sworn off steak for the rest of the trip after Don Mario, I indulged one last time. About halfway through the meal, a large congregation, who I mistook for a parade, unloaded from a bus and waited in front of the restaurant. Soon they started banging drums and shouting. Shouts and unified chants soon indicated that we were being surrounded by a protest. Then suddenly, without warning, a barrage of eggs came and the entire restaurant was covered in yolk, egg shells and fliers from the protesters. The waiters drew down their iron gates for the windows, but the unruly mob managed to break a window in the process. The patrons grew restless and slowly moved themselves away form the windows, thinking theirs could be the next to break.

The tourists, namely us, could only watch in amazement of the events that had unfolded before us. The crowd dispersed when the police arrived. This was after one of the protesters got herself into the building and there a fistful of fliers onto the immediate tables and floor. Something like this could not happen in the United States, at least, not anymore.

After a very fulfilling meal, Steven and I had coffee and to our father’s surprise we went out with one of the pilots to meet another pilot in a bar for some drinks. By this time it was midnight. We visited several hotspots with the pilots and had many drinks. We met many people and I got to practice my Spanish more than I had to entire trip. It was a good last night in town. Nearing 05:30, Steven could bear no more and we retired back to the hotel as the sun came up. From then, until about 13:00, we were both dead to the world.

Some late night tango dancing on Flórida Street

The next day we did our obligatory shopping, and I found myself a nice pair of leather boots. The day passed swiftly and before we knew it we were in our flight home. Watching the lights of the big city disappear in the distance, I knew that even though we were still traveling, our trip was now over. And what a trip it had been.