Last Supper

Tommy, Annemarie, Meg, Damian, Gillea, Conrad, & Jenny at Olsen

Plaza Vicente Lopez

I’m starting to feel sad. It’s like it hit me that all of this will be gone soon. I decided I wanted to go back to Recoleta, so I’m back at Plaza Vicente Lopez where it all began. It’s colder now than it was back in November, with my swollen ant-bite feet and sweat clinging to my green and white Banana Republic blouse. I am glad to not be working that job – I’ve accomplished so much more in my life without it. The girls and I ate a late lunch at this bistro called Florencio in a tiny neighborhood of Recoleta called La Isla.


Mom would’ve loved it for its blue and white plates piled high with cakes and pastries and sandwiches. Only enough room inside to seat ten. And an awesome nose hit of fresh baked breads when you walk inside. We lingered over coffee and dessert, then headed over to Recoleta Cemetery, map in hand. I had missed some of the highlights, and I wanted to see them all before I left. Then Annemarie had to head back home and Jenny had to study.


But rather than sit in my room alone I’m here to reflect. I feel the tears start to well up. But there’s nothing left for me to do here. And it will be nice to have warm weather after nine months of falls and winter. I know it will all be okay, but I don’t want my life to snap into place like Ben’s in Tulsa. Everyone says “Oh it will,” but what if I don’t want it to? I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’ve let this place change me and I don’t want to go back.

Tierra Santa Cerrada y Rumi

Tierra Santa yesterday was closed. I met Andres at the Palermo stop by Juan B. Justo, and then Kristin and her friend Stephen met up with us at Wherever Bar on Oro. I had often passed by that place and thought it looked cool; turns out Con’s girlfriend works there and Andres is a regular. I just ordered coffee; everyone else had a Caesar salad. Andres insisted on paying and no one argued. It’s fun having work friends from a bar. “See you at the bar tomorrow,” it’s almost like having a clubhouse. I should stop by tomorrow, after Olsen and Kim y Novak. Work my way in from Palermo. Anyway, we stopped by Andres’ apartment yesterday to determine our route, and he decided he’d rather pay for our cab instead of deal with the busses. Again, no one argued. I made awkward eye contact with a man selling stalks of wheat on the highway. He put one in the windshield wipers and when Andres gave the man a peso he gave us another one, because Kristin and I are “hermosas.” She thought he thought we were making fun of him. (“Have you guys ever been to La Boca?” “Only to volunteer.” “Why, because you feel bad coming from a First World Country?”)

Visit Jerusalem in BsAs all year round -- except in winter when we're closed on weekdays

When we got there it was closed with a sign saying its new hours, which did not match up with the hours posted on its website. But we paid for the cab - well Andres did – and took some pictures outside and I tried to convince Kristin to sneak through the fence because she’s so skinny but then what would she do? There was a dude who looked like Lito White smoking a cigarette on the park grounds; he confirmed that it was closed. Admission is $20 pesos, and there are no roller coasters, but it still looks kind of cool in a kitschy way. Imagine a Disneyland Jerusalem.

Meg, Kristin & Mary Magdalene with our wheat stalks and a camel

Stephen took these pictures of Kristin, Andres & me standing at the gates

So after our photoshoot we walked along the river side of Costanera Norte (always wise to walk along the water when it’s freezing) and ate choripan and drank pomelo. Finally we were able to catch a cab, and decided to head to Andres’ studio to drink mate. Take mate. Tomar mate. “He’s got good wave.” Buena onda. But his animation partner was preoccupied and we decided what we really wanted was merienda. So we ordered coffee and submarinos and medialunas at the Kentucky nearby. His studio is cool though: it’s an old house and he showed us some the comics he made. The studio would’ve been cool to photograph with a better camera. Washed out colors and cracking fading walls. Cement cold dripping water, remnants of a summer fiesta in June winter.
From Kentucky we departed.
Jenny and I went to dinner in Las Canitas. Took the subte there and decided on Jackie O’s. The food was sub-par but cheap – I’m trying not to go to the ATM before I leave. It was freezing inside. By the time I finished my veggie half of the pizza, the zucchini slices were cold to the touch. Maybe we should’ve gone to Soul Café but Jenny doesn’t eat sushi and I didn’t want to split pasta with her. So to warm up we drank lagrimas at this bar called Mute. We had an hour or so to kill before we’d hear from Leandro. Mute is a gorgeous bar: white seats, teal velvet curtains, sleek lines. Jenny and I had a good chat over dinner and coffee and our hour long walk to Rumi. (Apparently it looked shorter on the map.)

Leandro & Meg

We met Leandro outside Rumi around 2 am. I gave him a big hug when I saw him round the corner in his red-and-white Rollinga scarf and hoodie. I had thought perhaps I wouldn’t see him again. His throat was sore but, “Don’t worry. It’s winter,” he told me. And how last year it snowed and Buenos Aires was covered in white as if it were part of Europe. We danced to this female DJ called Celestia. She was good. She normally only plays private parties. We danced until 4 am, when Leandro had to leave. He says he’ll call me today for coffee. It’s easier to pretend I’ll see him again than to say a proper goodbye.

Dancing at Rumi for one last time

Things I Will Miss

People seem to always ask me if I am happy or sad to leave. I'm both, I guess. I'm excited to see my family and friends, and I'm looking forward to summer and the conveniences I took for granted; but then I'm sad to leave all I've come to love behind: the people, the lifestyle, even the food. A part of me has changed: I thrive in Big City Living. I dread driving my car. The coffee here at Voulez Bar is very frothy. More milk than coffee I'd say. I've learned that whole milk holds the bubbles longer. Something about the fats. I wonder how soy milk will do with my new whisk. And coffee here is always served hot. Really hot. Maybe you're supposed to sit and linger over it longer than most Americans would allow. And business deals are done over lunch. It's weird that I'm going home; it hasn't hit me. I only had two weeks to plan my arrival; I've had three months to work on my departure. And while I can't stay, I'm not one for making a huge show of leaving. I'd rather sneak out, that's more my style. "But people here like you," Andres told me. I'd like to think people back home like me too, but I'm more likely to see them again.
I will miss the nightlife: staying out until 7 in the morning, the coffee, the cheek kisses, the subte, walking everywhere, sidewalk cafes, kiokos with alfajores and phone cards, speaking Spanish, daily nun sightings, Argentine fashion and creative ensembles, the people who try to sell me a pen when they already see that I have one in my hand, leisure time, opulent buildings juztaposed with modern architecture, passion and cacerolazos, how unguarded the presidential palace is as opposed to the doors of private schools, patios and balconies, green parks, family outings, urban skylines, avoiding dog poop, sunny days when everyone sits around drinking mate, when people confuse me for a portena, gaggles of colegio students chattering in opaque maroon tights, honking cars after a futbol victory, urban noises, the buzz of electric life, a culture that runs on caffeine and sweets, active little old ladies hobbling about, scoring a subte seat, meeting interesting people from all over the world... now this is just making me sad.

"Lost Tribe" Encounter, Part 2

Apparently that "lost tribe" is not so lost as it sounds. Click here to read more.

Colonia

Buquebus + Sunday

The Buquebus is not exactly what I expected: you walk on and it looks like a cruise ship shopping mall. And the seats for clase turistica are 30-across and red leather facing a snack shop and 4 flat screens. (Actually two of them might be old school set into the wall.) And I’m sitting next to a nun, which is funny considering my last entry was about transvestite prostitutes. Maybe I thought it’d be a smaller boat. Open air, wind in my face… like the ferry from Vancouver to Victoria or across the Mississippi in New Orleans. But I chose the fast boat across Rio de Plata to the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Colonia. So many rivers lately: Rio Iguazu, Rio Parana, Rio de Plata… We’re moving now. But there are so many passengers I’m forced to watch an ad for Colonia Shopping instead of peering out the window. But if I sit up straight I can see the pier than juts out of the Ecological Reserve to my right and endless waves to the left. Good thing I’m sitting next to a nun; I feel perfectly safe abandoning my seat and stuff for a couple of quick photos. Here's one:
Last night I was so exhausted from my week that I was in bed at 9 pm. Three missed calls: no, I don’t want to grab drinks with Ramiro; no, I can’t go to the movies with Andres today because I’ll be in Uruguay; and I don’t know what Leandro said because I still don’t know how to check my Movistar voicemail. But I texted him back and he said obvio we will see each other before we leave. I hope so. Such a great guy; I will miss him a lot. I missed Kristin’s going away party on Saturday. We thought about going there once we realized how packed and miserable Crobar was on Cachengue Night, but after photographs with the transvestites it was near 4 am, and when they mentioned Sonoman I thought it was fitting in a full-circle kind of way. But that place was packed too and we walked across to Bar Unico where we ran into a very drunk Pancho and friends. He wants to get a group together and go to Museum on Wednesday, but I just can’t do that for my last night. It’s not my scene, my crowd. Any club is only as fun as the people you came with and/or meet; but even so, the men at Museum are too old and too aggressive. I’m more of a Rumi girl.

So yesterday I woke up around 9 am (after 4 hours of sleep) to run over to the Plaza Dorrego antiques fair. I skipped Calle Defensa and took the C-Line as close as I could get to Humberto Primo so as to hit up the art and antiques as opposed to the tourist trap that is Calle Defensa on a Sunday morning. I bought an oval address placard at the first place I saw them. $25 pesos. I don’t know if that was a good deal or not and after purchasing it I didn’t want to find out. But then I saw some others that were framed in brass, and I began to realize that a white painted oval would fade into white rental walls. So I looked for a frame. I asked the man “¿Cuánto sale?” “¿cómo se dice ochenta en ingles?” he asked his partner. Before he could bother to get the translation, I told him eighty pesos was too much and walked away hoping he was trying to rip me off. Paying four times as much for the frame seemed ridiculous. There’s a lot of cool stuff: carved wooden saints, old glass soda bottles, silver and crystal. The problem is how to get it all home. But I eventually found a lady who sold brass knockers made of little hands wearing heart shaped rings and doorknobs and drawer pulls; and in her collection was one small address placard frame in a swirly design. I pulled out my number 834 to check the size. They laughed. I told them I didn’t know there’d be so many. I could’ve told them I was looking for a specific number, but really I just picked the one that looked oldest and had the city crest. They had 1985, my birth year, but it looked cheesy and new. The holes on my purchase and discovery didn’t match up, but they told me just to screw them into the wall individually. I suppose it would’ve been difficlt to make them line up, and near impossible to find one in The States. And my mind was set: I needed a frame to complete the look. So for $30 pesos, I bought one. I’ll admit not much thought went into my purchase, but it will do. Hopefully I’ll find a house in Austin where I can put it by the front door (inside of course) above my Belizean wood bowl as a key tray. (Next I want to see the Salt Flats of Jujuy.) But if I hurried my way through San Telmo and made it to Plaza Italia by 1 pm I could go to the country for lunch and meet Damian’s mom, Graciela. I remembered what Diana the Australian lady told me about taking my time: “Remember the Londoner!’ she chided me about racing through life, checklist in hand. She knew it was his mentality; she didn’t know me well enough. But I hurried through the market, blinders on and found what I wanted. I wanted my numbers. And I wanted to see this house and meet this family that I’ve heard so much about.

So we took a bus up the Pan-American high way to the country, where Graciela picked us up in her Volkswagen for the rest of the journey. She has deep red hair and her stereo was playing The Smiths. She lives in a gated community north of Capital Federal called, of all things, Highland Park.
It is comprised of 800 houses: some old, some new. Hers is on the older side: red brick with tile roof, fabulous fireplace in the middle of the living area and a sunken space with a white couch. It felt nice to be in a home, but then it also felt so different from any homes I know. With green backyard ad two barking German Shepherds. Live in servicio named Ramona served us pollo a la mostaza and papas espanoles. Roquefort con pimiento, devilled eggs with salmon, thin sliced beef with cream sauce, and a tuna casserole in the shape of a Bundt pan. I tried it all. Ate half of the chicken. I don’t think I missed much without it for the past five years, but the mustard sauce was good. Graciela seemed preoccupied. There’s a lot going on in her life right now.

Saturday Night

After buying my Buquebus ticket I decided to get a manicure/pedicure. I'm on my way home to summer so I might as well prepare my cold feet for sandal weather. I decided to bring my own bottle of OPI nail polish so I could touch up any chips before I left. And as I presented the bottle from my purse: “Tengo mi propio –” Splat. The bottle rolled off the footrest and shattered on the floor, leaving my Bernardo-clad winter feet buried under a blob of red paint. So after waiting about twenty minutes for the manicurist to be available, I had to wait another ten minutes for three employees to scrub down the floor with rubbing alcohol as I stood there dumbfounded wiping the paint off of my hands, jeans, feet and shoes. I offered to help but they were worried about broken glass and my sandals. Oh well, I guess it's one less thing to pack. The pedicure was good, but they don’t use water. They do, however, use razors to shave off dead skin. So I had pretty feet and pretty hands for Damian and Annemarie’s previa that night.

Mark, Meg, Damian, Juan Jo, Sil & Annemarie

They hosted Jenny, Mark, Silvana, Juan Jo and me in their apartment. We ate chips and cookies and pizza with wine and vodka while playing games and listening to music until 2:30 am. Then we (all seven of us) crammed into Silvana’s subcompact Peugeot and she drove us to Crobar.

Meg & Annemarie crammed in the back of Sil's car

It was Cachengue Night, and I had called Leandro and Chasco to see if we could get in free. Leandro didn’t answer, and Chasco told us to get there before 3 am because after that we’d have to pay. And of course we arrive at 3:15 (after Juan Jo yelled River Plate fight songs out the window) and the seven of us rolled out of the car like clowns outside a circus tent. Damian says he’ll take care of it, but had figured the male bouncer would rather talk to a girl. So I told him we were on Chasco’s list. He said we were supposed to be there before 3 to get in free. “No sabia,” I lie. Maybe half can pay? “Pero es mi cumple,” Jenny tells him. “Pasen.” Yay teamwork!

But you have to wonder how many others got in for free, because the place was packed. Usually boliches are crowded, but you can at least make a path. People were shoving. I got pushed down the stairs. “No apoyes en la escalera.” Actually I wasn’t waiting in the stairs, or trying to block them, I was trying to walk. Maybe you should address your comment to the couple sitting on the stairs to make out.

So basically we checked our coats (at $5 pesos a piece) to decide the crowd was ridiculous. But we did get a couple pictures with transvestites, so mission accomplished:

Last Night on the Job

Just went over to Puerto Madero to buy my Buquebus ticket to Uruguay. Wanted to sample “the best medialunas in the world” from Alimentari, but like everything else in Microcentro, it is closed on weekends. There were three boys inside eating what looked like Wonderbread from the bag, and the front door was gated shut. So I am at Il Gran Caffe on Calle Florida, rejuvenating myself with café con leche. This place is chockfull of tourists. Another Frommer’s recommendations. Probably because it’s pretty inside. It serves Illy coffee alongside filigree and gold leaf details. My last night at work was a good Last Hurrah. I poured myself a drink and was able to chat with Conrad a bit as he stopped by with a friend.

Conrad & Meg

Meg & Kristin

Meg & Malcom

When some old man ordered a Fernet and Coke, I decided not only would I make it for him (as a waitress I’m not supposed to make drinks,) but that I’d make one for myself as well. Since most drinks we serve are half alcohol, half mixer (about a six second pour,) I made the Fernet that way. Well, as it turns out, Fernet is only supposed to be 1/3 Branca and the rest Coca-cola. Oops. I thought mine was strong but the man didn’t complain as he toasted my last night with me. There was a publishers’ party in The Russian Room, and eventually Con kicked some of the drunk girls off of the bar so Jamie and I could dance. We danced to some Mika song that I hate, and Con told us to get back to work. But since I don’t even like that song I stayed on for Aretha Franklin’s “Think.” Then later they played “It’s Raining Men” – after last week’s performance to The Weather Girls’ hit, I’m pretty much expected to dance to that one. (Hey, we won the 8th Grade Talent Show with that number.) Then later I got up again to dance to “Brown Girl in the Ring,” which is way longer than I remembered. Then there was a group dance to “YMCA,” and eventually I was up there alone dancing to Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love.” I was being very flirty and we later had to kick one of the guys out who kept following me when I was trying to clean up. He was grabbing me and blocking my path, and when I refused him he called me names. I could handle “boluda,” but when he called me “puta” and “bitch,” I motioned for him to come over and then introduced him to Santi, who escorted him out. I suppose I am a bit to blame for acting like a shameless flirt, but everyone knows when you’re dancing it doesn’t count. There was also a Brazilian dude who seemed pretty aggressive, but he was one of Santiago’s capoeira friends so I let him slide. He only speaks Portuguese and every now and then I’d ask Santiago to translate, but I knew what besiño meant.

Brazilian Dude & Meg

Santiago & Meg

Dancing on the bar with Jamie

When Jamie and I were dancing on the bar, some guy took his shoe off to compare foot sizes. She in Birkenstocks, I in my Lucchesse’s. We’re tall. We have big feet. Size 40 like my new tan ballet flats with the messy bow. The pair I had wanted in Palermo Soho was available in my size, right under my nose in Alto Palermo. I bought them after I went to this brunch spot with Andres Friday afternoon. He claimed they served pancakes and milkshakes, but really it was panqueques and licuados, which are different. It’s okay; I can have the real thing in a week. He insisted on paying, and I didn’t feel like arguing. I just tell myself he knows how little money I’m making.

Goodbye Kiss from Matt

After work on Friday I went to Kentucky Pizzeria with Kristin and her Chilean boyfriend Pedro. We discussed how it’s annoying to get in bed when it’s bright outside. The sun was rising as I walked home from Plaza Italia. I don’t think I’ll miss that part of work, even though I’ve made friends with the porteros along my route.

Chau, Sugar!

Amerika

Amerika might be one of those places that Frommer's ruined: a spaceship-themed haven for gays and transvestites alike. Electronica pulses from the DJ's tower. Balconies make for great people watching, but straight boys prey on unsuspecting girls. For example: Hernan who works in Galerias Pacificos and claims he has never met a girl from north of the equator and can't he get just one little kiss? The place looks like it might've been cool when it first opened, but time is not on its side. So maybe I don't blame Frommer's. Blame gimmicks and trends. And transvestites who haven't fully transformed (perhaps they are waiting three more years for their insurance-covered elective cosmetic surgery.) They still look rough around the edges. Too much jaw; big noses. The crowd was a little shabby, but consider the location. We danced inside a hollow glass spaceship, and Jenny laughed as I imitated Argentine dance moves.
Keep your arms low but your feet always moving. Bounce around, now kind of let your head flop with the beat. Good. There you go, you've got it. And then sometimes you kind of walk in place. Very nice... I looked like a spazz, but I'm pretty sure everyone else upstairs was drugged out. Every now and then we'd see a girl and play the "Transvestite or Not" game. I always felt bad for the ones who looked like transvestites but were probably natural-born girls. the visit to the bathroom was a trip: washing my hands between two primping transvestites. Maybe if they were prettier they wouldn't have scowled at me as much. But I think they were jealous. I paid less for my hair. And boobs.

Happy Birthday Jenny!

Jenny's birthday was today, Juneteenth. She had never heard of that "holiday," being from New Mexico (which didn't join The Union until 1912.) But we celebrated her 22nd birthday at a parilla called Soberbia 22 at 2200 hours. She hadn't planned for all the numbers to be 22. Annemarie realized it before Jenny did and thought it was part of the plan. The group included the birthday girl, Annemarie & Damian, Mark, Jenny's Irish dance friend Hugo, and me. We sang the birthday song in both languages and got (what I assumed to be) free champagne and tiramisu. Jenny's response? "I don't like tiramisu, but I like champagne." Since it was still pouring down rain at 1:15 am when we left the restaurant, it was decided not to go to Hotel Bobo for drinks. (I think the hour also played into effect.) But Jenny and I are determined to check Amerika off our lists. If only for a couple hours. I think we're leaving in a few minutes so we can get there a little before 3 am. T.G.I.Th. Thursday nights start and end a bit earlier than weekends.

Lunch with Leitch

So today I woke up, began to pack because I was awake and getting antsy (read: overwhelmed) in my “there’s to much to do and not enough time to do it in” panic, so I decided to start packing and then get my legs waxed. I figured if I can’t be slim for summer I might as well be smooth. Andres and I had made plans to grab brunch at some place that serves pancakes and milkshakes, but he slept in and I also had plans with Leitch for lunch, so brunch is postponed, perhaps tomorrow as a post-Jenny's birthday hangover cure. I was supposed to work the Expat Connection/Help Argentina Happy Hour last night. And I did, but only from 7:30 pm – 10:30 pm. They decided they were overstaffed for the event, and when they offered to let me go I bowed out gracefully in favor of sleep in my warm bed.

While I was there I chatted with two former UN members and a current one. Just sat right down and chatted with them to explain why we didn’t have a kitchen yet. “But you’re in Palermo; you should know your neighborhood,” the portly man told me. I didn’t bat an eye the first time I heard them say “Naciones Unidas,” but when they complimented my Spanish and said they interacted with a lot of foreigners (“Oh, through COPA?” – one of them is a host mother to a girl named Rachel from Wisconsin. COPA is a popular study abroad program because you can choose from multiple universities.) “No, through the United Nations.” Oh. Wow. That’s kind of a big deal, and I just made myself comfortable and sat down at your table to chat. The man offered me his business card and said he’d take me and five friends on a tour to some Estancia where literatura gauchesca originated. I bet that would cost me a pretty penny, and I only have one week left.

Then of course when I get home I get a phone call from Kristin. Oh great what did I forget? Only it’s not Kristin, it’s Greg Hayslett from high school. He just happens to be in Buenos Aires, traveling South America, and popped into the very bar where I work. Then Conrad called me from Cici William’s old phone because he and his cousin and Gillea stopped by the bar. I had tried to text him as I was walking home – he had emailed me earlier in the evening about dropping in – but I forgot he had lost his phone, so I guess that message is floating in dead space. I think they ended up having a good time; it seemed the night picked back up (even with the Argentina-Brazil soccer match, which ended 0-0.) Hopefully I’ll see those two before I leave. I invited them to the previa Annemarie says she and Damian are planning for me on Saturday: previa in Belgrano, then Crobar so we can (finally) take pictures with the transvestites. If I get everyone drunk enough maybe even Jenny will join…

Then on my last night in town, it's dinner at Olsen and drinks at Kim y Novak. Done and done.

So after packing, waxing, and coffee drinking, it started to rain. And I met Leitch at Sarkis, which is the top ranked restaurant in Palermo as per Guia Oleo. I love Guia Oleo, every city should have one. It lists restaurants by neighborhood and type. Sarkis is classified as Arabic/Armenian food, and was given 26 points. That’s 3 points above places like Osaka, which is pretty swanky. So I told Leitch to meet me at Sarkis on Thames (pronounced like we would say "Thomas") at 1:30 pm, after calling his hotel room twice and finally confirming with him. I took the subte and walked the rest of the way in the rain, with my scarf covering my hair like an old lady. Leitch took a cab and was dressed “business casual” to fit in with the crowd who’s staying at the Sheraton. I liked my food, but thought it was overrated. I don’t think Leitch cared much for it, but he really wanted ice cream and coffee, and since he had never ridden a subway anyway, we went over to my neighborhood to eat dessert at Munchi’s. But since it was raining, we took a cab to Plaza Italia, then rode the subte to Bulnes and walked a few blocks. Leitch kept saying the coffee here is so strong. I guess it is. But when he made the comment that the cups are so small, I asked him if he had been ordering espresso. “No, I order Café Americano.” Sorry to break it to you, but that’s espresso. I bet they look at you funny when you ask for it with milk, huh? I made sure to help him order his coffee and ice cream. And in the process we met a girl from D.C. visiting family down here for the summer. Winter.

Back from Iguazu

Yesterday when I got back there were more protests, and Cristina set up some sort of response at Plaza de Mayo. Once I showered I met up with Annemarie downtown to see all the hoopla, but we didn’t stick around for the speech.

comparing Cristina to Evita

pro-Cristina signs hung up by the government

the penguin is symbolic of Cristina and her husband; they're from Patagonia

guards were out 2 hours early (so were the choripan vendors)

Then we took the subte to Palermo to check out Prana Cocinca Vegetariana, the top-ranked “natural” restaurant in Guia Oleo. We both ordered guiso de lentaje, which was like a lentil stew, perfect for a cold day like yesterday, and Chai tea. On the way there we saw lots of graffiti:

Elton John on Godoy Cruz

Cloud Monsters

Green Car Spaghetti Hair

When I was in Iguazu I met a family from Berkeley, California who took six months off so the kids could learn Spanish. The girl was between 5th and 6th grades. When she returns to California in the fall she’ll do 6th grade again. As her mother said, “It’s what she missed that’s important.” That seemed like such a negative way to put it, although I understand you build off of math concepts. I told the daughter I thought what she was learning here was invaluable.

And there was a 6-month-old baby at my hostel. His name is Oscar and he’s been traveling with his parents for the past three months. They hope to broaden his horizons. Can you imagine buying a passport for your 3-month-old? And doesn’t it take like a month to process it all? When did they book it – in utero? And will it last ten years? That’s one photo ID that will get a lot of second looks over the next ten years… Oh, and I forgot to mention earlier that before catching El Practico to the bus station in Iguazu, I walked down a dirt trail to La Casa de las Botellas: El Unico del Mundo.
It’s probably best not to throw stones if you live in a house entirely made of glass bottles. I didn’t tour it, because I only had seven minutes before catching the 12:30 bus. But I did take a picture of it. And of another house I passed along the way.
They were drying laundry and I liked all the bright colors. Reminded me of the mountains in Jamaica. One of the owners walked out right after I snapped the shutter. People were so friendly to the blonde girl in the backpack. I had to ask a lot of directions on my walk to Av. Tres Fronteras, and one boy even helped me without my asking. I suppose I looked a bit lost at the six-street intersection with my map open wide. I felt very safe in Iguazu. Only when back on the bus did I feel nervous: the border patrol walked up to my seat after I had been napping and woke up to an officer asking for my documentation. I was afraid I might be deported to Paraguay as he rifled through my passport. I was one of the only ones on the bus. He took a caramelo and walked off in his heavy boots, other officers in tow. Very disorienting.

Tres Fronteras

Tres Fronteras, or "The Triple Frontier," is where the Iguazu and Parana Rivers meet, forming the borders between Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. Since I'm American and didn't want to pay for Paraguayan and Brazilian visas, I stuck to the Argentine side.

This obelisk marks the Argentine side so it is seen from the Brazilian and Paraguayan borders

The three flags

Self portrait with the three flags

Las Tres Fronteras:
Argentina is in the foreground, Paraguay is to the left across the Parana River, and Brazil is to the right across Rio Iguazu