On the Road: Of Trekking and Chocolates

Bariloche

Maybe I overacted. Maybe I didn't need to take things so literally, so personally. But for a year, everyone and their abuelita told me about the food in Argentina.

If I liked a Chilean asado, I would just love Argentina's. Carmenere is nice, but isn't malbec simply divine? Savor the meat, cherish the chocolate, and douse everything in dulce de leche. And isn't that Messi player is a fine bit of eye candy too?

This weekend, Argentina had its chance to step up to the plate and put my money where my mouth is.

I'm still unsure what is essential to milanesa short of it being a sandwich. Regardless, I loved the stuff in all of its manifestations, whether it was chicken, steak, with a fried egg or a full salad on top. The steak was melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and the beers were wonderfully affordable during happy hours. The bartender even complimented my Spanish and gave me a free plate of fries as a welcoming gift.




For about $10, a chocolate factory let me take my pick of its sweetest treasures on a box of luxurious Barilochean chocolates. If I had bought a fur coat and a bottle of champagne, I couldn't have felt more fancy, especially when it was all washed down with a foamy cappuccino.

Bus Ride

Jurassic World starts playing again on a blurry, six-inch screen. In a semi-conscious state, I glaze over the Spanish subtitles, and Chris Pratt tells another joke that doesn't seem to translate well. A man comes over and asks if I would like water or juice. The juice looks a pale yellow, so I go for the warm cup of bus water. He gives me my third alfajor of the day. It's 1:00 p.m., and I still have another full twenty-four hours ahead of me. I pull an orange lever that lowers my seat, pull the blinds against a blinding sun, and pretend to sleep.



El Chalten

The air smells like nature and freedom and being outside in the rain. The ground feels soft, perfect for stretching legs and cracking joints. I reach up and out, arms spanning the horizon above the national park. My toes flex in my running shoes, ready to walk, to run, to climb, to move.

Patagonia spreads out in front of me. Tiny chunks of ice bobble on the lake's surface and drift into the shore. Jagged mountains are jet-black silhouettes against a beautiful blue day. The wind ripples endless fields of green grasses and golden yellow fields of barley. Every guidebook tells me that the rain comes in March and the winter should be settling damp into my clothes, my skin, my bones. But as I breathe in a bit more mountain air, I can only taste the crisp, clear Fall.

This is my warm-up for Los Torres, a trial run to test my tent, put some miles on my running shoes, and wipe the rust off my Cub Scouts skills. I still have a few more weeks to refine my camping skills, and by April, if I'm not half-clad in spare scraps of leather, eating wild berries, and surfing on tree branches, I missed the opportunity of a lifetime.

On the Road: Of Bees and Beers

Pucón

Silence like this is fragile. Already, my footsteps sound too heavy, too intrusive, too threatening to the stillness of the place. I stop, wanting to truly experience this solitude, this unbroken, unshared quiet. And in that moment, the world seems to come to life.

The wind stirs, buzzing with the vibrations of bees' wings. Dragonflies flicker in lightning blue flashes, hovering into focus just long enough to lose sight of them again. Lizards scurry across the dirt path, a dark dragonfly blue until a ray of sunshine catches them and they transform into a shimmering sea green. I look out over the unbroken surface of the lake, watching as the crystal catches the reflection of an insect, the ripple of the wind. The world is brought to life in an orchestra of tiny, innumerable players, and I am only one more among the chaos.

Puón is a natural oasis carved out by lakes and rivers, and governed by an active, indomitable volcano. Here is a haven for kayakers, rock climbers, trekkers, and travelers who don't mind breaking a sweat for a good view. Like most adventure-driven towns, Pucón thrives on tourism, and every block is full of hostels and expedition offices vying for the tourists' attention. I can't blame them. Right outside of the hustle of the town's center is a natural wonderland.

Valdivia

"The rivers make the city look like Venice," they said.
"The architecture and aura of the city will make you feel like you're in Germany," they said.
"The beer is the best you'll find in this hemisphere," they said.

Unlike the winding river network of Venice, Valdivia's wide rivers split the city into distinct, large islands. Lie #1.

Unlike the dark panels, Grimm-spired architecture of Germany, Valdivia gave off a riverside-suburb vibe. Lie #2.

But much to my pleasure, the beer--oh, the beer--tasted like the flavors of Belgium and Germany poured into the purest of Patagonian waters. The Golden Truth.

After months of vineyard tours and tastings, it was refreshing to trade in my cabernet sauvignon for a stout. The beer (or at least the ones I ordered) were dark in color and flavor, and its flavors were bitter, toasted, and unafraid to linger long after the first sip.

I wish I could say more about the city, but it's highlights were spent in the wooden restaurant of the Kuntsmann brewery or the dimly lit haze of a bar. Strangely, after two days of bar peanuts and cheap beer, there are few to no regrets.

Puerto Varas


I'm hungry, and the world begins to take on the form of food. An hour ago, the volcano gave off an ominous, imposing vibe. Looking at all of the ash and oxidized red rock, it was impossible to not think of Mordor. And the fact that only last year, the neighboring volcano erupted only reinforces the mental image of hellfire, brimstone, and an all-seeing eye.

But I'm hungry, and the growl in my stomach calls to me much more than the grating of any tectonic plates. Suddenly, the intermingling of rock face and snow aren't so reminiscent of Frodo's climactic struggle but more like the gentle swirl of chocolate and vanilla soft serve ice cream. The lake that had been so majestic spanning the horizon now has a tinge of blue that looks artificial enough to be a 7-11 slushy. God, I love traveling and adventure and the like. But right now, I'd trade it all in for a Snickers.

The tour guide stops us at the top of the trail and says that we can't go further without ice picks and spikes in our shoes. My stomach rumbles again, maybe too loudly, and I realize that stopping is totally fine with me. I take a picture, smile for the camera, and start making my way down the volcano, past the lake, and back to town, where a warm dinner is waiting for me.

For being so close to the much larger and largely unremarkable city of Puerto Montt, Puerto Varas is charming. Neighbors lean in each other's doorways and stand on lawns, laughing and touching hands and arms in a friendly sense of familiarity. The man working at the microbrewery smiles with those drop-dead dimples. The owner of a sushi stand gives us some free rolls as a welcoming gift, and the woman working at the convenience store apologizes with a small blush and her hand to her cheek when she doesn't have any empanadas. Street dogs have nothing better to do than follow you for hours, and a gentle rain casts a little rainbow over the idyllic town.

On the Road: Of Cities and Stars

Since I've left, there has been a lingering notion that every second of every day must be filled with a memory ready to make, capture, and put on Instagram. The caption usually reads:

Look, world, I'm having an adventure! And the proof is in the pictures.

This week, I decided to put that pressure to be an all-star adventurer on hold. As a result, the last seven days have rolled by in a lazy succession of starry nights, beers on the beach, and glasses of the finest cheap-Chilean wine. My time in the north is coming to a close, and in a few days, I start my way towards the south. I've been through the mental checklist of things to do and places to meet, so for the few days I have left, I want to simply be.

Let sloth be my sin, my laundry be done, and my groceries be bought. Sometimes, just functioning is enough for a day or two.

La Serena

Van a mirarme los cerros
como padrinos tremendos,
volviéndose en animales
con ijares soñolientos,
dando el vagido profundo
que les oigo hasta durmiendo,
porque doce me ahuecaron
cuna de piedra y de leño.

-Gabriela Mistral, "Valle de Elqui"

Looking out over the valley, I brought the Poet's words to mind, and the world around me brought them to life. This is where she was born and buried, and throughout her long life, she drew her inspiration from the ground I'm standing on. The mountains, the stones, the rivers, the sun. I am only a visitor here, and the museum's No Touch signs remind me of my place. But still, I want this valley to fill me as it did her, if only for a day.

La Serena and Valle del Elqui are known not only as the homeland of Gabriela Mistral, Nobel prize poet, but also to the orchards that give most of the country pisco. During the day, the fields of the valley are kept under a hot, dry sun. But at night, the cosmos is put on display.

The Milky Way stretches across sky as if God had taken to finger painting with starlight. Planets shine bright in their orbits around an absent sun, and constellations remind us of their legends. Here I stand, an unnoticed witness to this valley and the spiraling universe that governs it.

Santiago

Before I arrived, I had the grand idea of traveling through Santiago as if I was a tourist. I planned on going to the top of Costanera, eating sopapillas off the street, and seeing all of the shiny bells and whistles of the city that fill guidebooks and travel blogs. An old city from a new perspective. Or at least, that was the idea. But as soon as I was on the metro again, my feet took me where my heart wanted to go- and it wasn't Cerro San Cristobal.

I knock on the apartment door, and Jordan answers with that Hey, J smile that makes the world just a little bit lighter. It's Sunday Funday, and the room is full of friends, red wine, and the sounds of Netflix playing in the background. My spot on the couch is empty, and I plop right back into my old life. Everything is exactly as it was.

My life in Santiago was a good one, and being back here reminded me just how good it was. At home, Angie, José, and I lounged in moon chairs in a haze of sandalwood and cigarette smoke. That night, I slept in my old bed, and the next morning, I thought about staying for an extra day, maybe two.

But my time to travel is too short and only getting shorter, and half of the country is still on the horizon. Starting tomorrow, I'm southbound.