Destination: Uncategorized

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

Nicole, four British girls, Andy, and I were picked up and transported to a small dance studio for a short lesson. In a dance style with strict gender roles, it was necessary that our teacher instruct both genders once at a time.

The girl takes one step toward the guy, the guy one step back. Both take one to the side. The guy two steps forward, the girl two steps back. Another one to the side. Then the guy leads the girl from side to side as she pivots sensuously on her feet. Then the final pose, with the guy’s leg slid out and the female’s lifted up and curved around the male’s extended leg. We learned this in three sections, practicing after each new addition.

The woman never asks, but is only asked by the males. The instructor shouts “switch partners” frequently so that you’re never with the same partner for long. I wished I had a swanky tango dress and glittering stilettos to complete the transformation into a tango dancer.

The lesson only lasted an hour and then we were all shown into the dining room and served dinner. I swear, people from other countries fall more deeply in love with one another then Americans do. As I look around at couples here on a date, it is a sight I’m unaccustomed to because few Americans look into their lover’s eyes so intently and speak with such loving animation with one another.

I wish I got a picture that better captured the spirit of tango, but this is the only one I got. Enlarge photo

For dessert we were served ice cream, as well as a spellbinding tango performance. It consisted mainly of three dancing couples and a couple of male alto singers. It told the history of tango, which dates back to the late 19th century, through dance. So incredibly sexy! Andy remarked afterward that he was impressed at how all the eyes of the females in the room were absolutely glued to the dancers for the entire show. They moved their legs as fast as a tap dancer, but their movements were instead graceful cursive twirls. The dancers displayed a level of harmony as perfect as a world-renowned choir. I could watch this dance for hours and barely blink an eye, that’s how hooked I was. People say tango is mesmerizing. Now I know what they mean.

Tango seemed a bit sexist in that the man always leads and the woman always follows. On the other hand, however, it is a style of dance that truly showcases the woman. All eyes are on her — her glamorous dress, her glimmering visage, her sultry legs, and her elegant movements. The men all look alike in pinstripe suits, merely acting as pointers to the women, who look powerful in their silver heels and steely assurance.

Afterward, we hopped a cab with Nicole to Palermo, the young hot nightlife district. But it was only midnight, far too early to hit up the club. So we snuggled into a fireplace-warmed pub, the most elegant of pubs I’ve ever been to. Few were the couples. Instead, small groups of friends conversed around small round tables — all so well-dressed! No one seemed to care they were packed in like sardines.

We made friends with a couple who shared our table. “We’re just friends,” she claimed. “He does my hair.” Two minutes later we were left to our own conversation as they French kissed for an extended period of time. “What?” I thought, “They do this in such a graceful bar??” But somehow it seemed to fit. It was totally different from the trashy DFTs (“dance floor makeouts”) you witness in college — just two lovers indulging in each others’ lips.

Before we knew it, it was time to go to the club, the reason why we trekked to this neighborhood. Club 69! Thursday night was drag show night. We paid what felt like an arm and a leg for the cover and coat check compared to the pennies we were paying for other things (in this very affordable city). I watched with amusement as Andy’s eyes grew big at the sight of transvestites strutting their stuff across the stage. We danced, watched, drank, took pics with the drag queens, danced, watched, drank, got tired, and cabbed it home.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

For dinner we got in the Argentinean carnivorous spirit and joined in the barbecue our hostel served. Sausage, ribs, steak galore. And beer. After that heart attack of a meal I thought it would be appropriate for me to go start a brawl or something.

We met a USC alum, Nicole, at our hostel and signed up to go on a pub crawl together. Dozens of 20-somethings came from all kinds of backgrounds — German, Brazilian, Australian, Chilean, French, etc. — but all shared one common goal: Get drunk and flirt up a silly storm with each other.

At one point we boarded a bus to transfer between bars that were beyond walking distance. Various groups of nationalities broke out in bold, proud, national song. It seems the Brazilians and Argentineans have a passionate national rivalry.

Determined not to be fazed by a hangover the next morning, we hopped the metro out to Recoleta. Clearly we weren’t thinking intelligently when we chose to settle on Hard Rock Cafe for lunch. My family used to avoid these silly tourist destinations like the plague when we were younger, so this was probably the first time I have ever been to one. Perhaps there was a miscommunication during the translation of the menu because I could have sworn the veggie burger I ordered was made out of bird feed, not veggies. Their service was terrible too. It was so odd to observe people taking pictures of Beatles paraphernalia on the wall. Why would you do that in Buenos Aires, or any other city for that matter? So that’s why our parents never let us go to Hard Rock when we were traveling in Europe years back. You may just have an innocent craving for a good-old familiar hamburger, but I wouldn’t recommend it!

We visited a contemporary art museum. If you put modern art from, for instance, MOMA in NYC, next to modern art from Buenos Aires, I wouldn’t be able to tell much difference. I guess it’s cool that art movements have become so global they are like a rising tide that lifts almost all boats along.

We also visited Buenos Aires Design Center, which disappointed Andy for being more interior design rather than the kind he studied at uni (that’s what I’m calling college from now on because I get a kick out of the Brits I’ve met at hostels who say it).

It was time we finally tasted Freddo, a celebrated Argentinean ice cream chain here, about which we’ve heard so much. It was like creamy gelato, or rather a hybrid between Italian gelato and American ice cream. Yum! And they serve it in the most perfect little round balls.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

La Boca.

Mausoleums at Recoleta Cemetery.

Upon arrival in Buenos Aires, we learned it was a historically cold day. Great, just what I did NOT pack for.

As in Machu Picchu, we met up with a local guide arranged through Wildland Adventure. This time it was the “Four Balconies Tour,” a metaphor for “balcony” views into four major neighborhoods of Buenos Aires.

The tour began in the heart of the city, Plaza de Mayo. Bank employees marching in a protest and setting off deafening firecrackers gave us a characteristic impression of this square where most historic events happen. Around it is situated the executive government building, the city government building, the national bank, as well as the national cathedral.

We visited La Boca, a historical port neighborhood of bright candy-color houses. It used to be tenements housing families crammed into single rooms and cooking on their balconies. Now it’s commercial and touristically tacky, with dressed-up tango couples asking to take a picture with you.

We perused the famous cemetery in Recoleta, a cemetery unlike any other I’ve seen before. The deceased are not buried beneath the ground, but housed in stone and marble mausoleums, big enough to walk inside. The mausoleums are decorated with classical statues, labeled with family names from a gamut of countries representing the diverse immigration to this city. Those buried here are wealthy, important, famous, or all of the above. The corpse of Argentina’s most loved and most hated first lady, Evita Perón, calls this cemetery home.

What struck me as most impressive about this city were the green spaces and the skyscrapers. The city’s lungs are a plethora of sizeable parks with grand old trees. The city’s complex skyline is punctuated by a pleasing variety of architectural feats, from classical echoing London or Paris, to gleaming modern cubic towers.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

We took the train, then bus back to Cusco. We suffered through cold showers — the hostel had run out of hot water to rinse off our Wayna Picchu hike sweat. Then we put on our beer jackets with a couple of Cusqueñas (Peruvian beer) to warm up. We met a trio of hilarious Brazilians who whet our excitement for visiting Rio de Janeiro.

In a hostel like ours it’s a matter of minutes before you’ve made 10 friends. That’s how friendly everyone is. Introductions usually go something like this:

“Where are you from?”
“Have you been here long?”
“Where else have you been / are you going?”

Then you usually proceed to share travel itineraries, with envy on both sides. Most everyone I’ve encountered has either just been to Machu Picchu or is about to go. For lots of backpackers, Bolivia is on the itinerary. Our three-week trip is definitely on the short side. Other people are going all out with South America during a period of two months to a year. It’s also not uncommon to meet people who are doing a world-wide tour (usually from England, Australia, or New Zealand), and South America is only one continent among many they will visit. Andy and I agree that it’s definitely a different demographic here than what you encounter in European hostels.

I would love to do a sociological study of the social dynamics of hostels. It reminds me of the first week of freshman year of college. You are rewarded for being warm and outgoing. Arrogance or snobbishness is punished because you simply won’t make friends. The social dynamics are so great that many are satisfied by staying in at the hostel bar and hanging out with other travelers (although only really great, fun hostels pull this off).

Tonight, with our exhaustion at having woken up 20 hours ago, staying in at the hostel bar was just what the doctor ordered. I made friends with the bartender, who was an absolute clown. And he made me his Pisco sour (the characteristic Peruvian cocktail) of which he was very proud.

Andy was either tired or has grown too old/mature/boring to dance with me. So while he sat and observed, I took on the dance floor. Oh, how I love the dancing style of Europeans and South Americans — bopping around, totally dorky by American standards — but I can definitely dig it. So I bop around too. I alternated between French friends and Brazilian friends. Andy faded off to bed. Pretty soon I grew dizzy from dance partners twirling me around (they have a thing for twirling it seems) so I wished everyone good night as well.

The next morning we visited Koricancha, an ancient Incan temple that the Spanish built upon to convert into a convent, Convento de Santo Domingo. We viewed some Catholic paintings a few centuries old. Since these Spanish Catholic-inspired paintings were done by Incan artists, Incan spiritual symbols were incorporated to create a unique Peruvian flavor.

This museum didn’t do much for us, but that is probably a testament to the value of a guide — which we lacked. It’s like the Spaniards and the passing of time stole the spirit of the Incans by taking all their treasures and destroying some of their productions. A guide is invaluable to serve as a figurative and verbal restoration of that splendor.

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Me and my juice lady friend. Enlarge photo

We ambled through various neighborhoods and perused the San Pedro market. The conditions of the market seemed far from sanitary. The meat row stank of bloody beef. Mangy dogs patrolled the aisles. A whole grocery-store-variety of commodities was crammed into single stalls. Milk from large canisters was ladled into take-away bottles. Old women stooped sleeping, images of decay. Toddlers with dirty faces and clothes waddled about freely; some even crawled on the grimy ground. Desperate for business, vendors hassled us, urging us to consider buying their wares. In the midst of it, a Catholic shrine, sticking out like a white sheep, framed in that silver tin metal, encasing an image of the Virgin mother and the childish hearts and flowers characteristic of the sacred imagery here.

Three rows of fruit juice vendors pleaded for our attention. I decided I’d like to try one for the cultural experience. I perused the rows, seeking the one that looked the cleanest. I chose a smiling woman who had just finished serving a local. I requested pineapple and mango. She peeled and cut the fresh fruit and pushed it through her blender. Then she dumped a can of milk in — yuck. She handed me the finished orange product and I tried it. Pretty good. But as I took a few more thick, creamy sips, I couldn’t get the disgusting thought of canned milk out of my head. I felt terrible, but I handed her back the glass, with most of it remaining, and paid. I pretended I really enjoyed it and made the patting-the-full-stomach sign.

As we moseyed back to our hostel, we passed stand upon stand of the same souvenirs. The only souvenir I would like to take home is one of the local toddlers. How do Peruvians make such adorable babies? Even Andy noticed their absurd cuteness.

The fact that the world of those backpacking through Peru is small was reinforced when we ran into the American couple we met in Ollantaytambo at the restaurant where we ate dinner. This was not the first time we re-encountered people we met days before. We ran into the same Irish girls we met our first night in Cusco three days later at the restaurant where we watched the World Cup in Aguas Calientes. On our first day at Machu Picchu we met a couple of American guys whom we ran into twice in Aguas the next day and a third time the following day in Cusco! A small world, at least for travelers in Peru.

Jackie Steves is guest-hosting her Dad’s blog with 17 posts in 17 days. Follow the adventures of Andy and Jackie Steves as they — the first Steves to venture into South America — report on their experience.

Heavenly sunrise seen from Wayna Picchu. Enlarge photo

Hikers scaling Wayna Picchu. Enlarge photo

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Aguas Calientes, the town just below Machu Picchu, where we’re staying, doesn’t have much to offer, while having too much to offer for tourists. Restaurant after restaurant boasting Mexican food and “four-for-one” Happy Hours. Stall after stall of the same selection of souvenirs: comical Incan figurines, tacky silver jewelry, knitted hats and gloves, and bright traditional cloth shoulder bags and tablecloths.

Our alarm went off at 3:20 the next morning. Despite having just a few hours of sleep, I was wide-awake, the kind of wide-awake you are when a big day awaits you. We hurriedly packed our bags and left them behind the hostel’s front desk.

As we ran downhill to the bus stop, we heard music still bumping at the club — that’s how early, or late, it was. At 3:40 in the morning there was already a line for the buses that were not set to depart until 5 am. We arrived in the knick of time because in the next several minutes the line sprouted a few blocks longer. We were all desperate to be among the 400 admitted to hike up Machu Picchu’s sister mountain, Wayna Picchu.

The same precarious switchbacks our bus had navigated the day before couldn’t irk us the second time because all we could see out the window was the night’s pitch black.

As our bus (we managed to get on the first one!) rolled to a stop at Machu Picchu’s entrance, a line had already formed of those more ambitious than ourselves who had climbed the stairs up from Aguas Calientes. We won a stamp on our ticket that would admit us into Wayna Picchu at 7 am. That gave us some time to do the mini one-hour hike to the Incan bridge.

Andy remarked a few times how majestic Machu Picchu was at this hour. We were literally up in the clouds, as we could see some clouds below us. The surreal mistiness led me to exclaim, “Oh my gosh, it’s like we’re in heaven!” When Andy said he caught my exclamation on video (on his camera), I laughed, realizing how much I was under the spell of my surroundings.

We entered Wayna Picchu and slithered past a few groups of people. The sun was rising from behind the eastward mountain, casting glimmering illumination on patches of mountains. The clouds floated across the panorama, and we vacillated between making progress to reach the top and needing to stop to take it all in. The glory of it all shed me and Andy of our young-20s cool so that we became babbling brooks of awe and amazement.

The trail turned into StairMaster on steroids. We fell into a rhythm of scaling the never-ending staircase while panting from altitude and exertion. At times the path turned into a climb requiring two hands.

We finally reached the very summit, and a panoramic view made every step worthwhile. When Andy and I sat at a distance from each other, it occurred to us that the awesomeness triggered a need for personal meditation. (Are you sick of me going on about this mountainous beauty? I’m sorry, but you should know it is not exaggeration because all of this comes from a girl who is not a fan of the outdoors and is often at fault for taking natural beauty for granted.)

We didn’t want to descend the way we had come and have to navigate around the ascending hikers, so we chose the long route back, via the Gran Caverna (Great Cave).

At one point we descended a huge wall of stone by stepping down a series of little notches while being suspended above thin air by holding on to a cable for dear life. We also had to climb down a 30-foot slippery wooden ladder. To cope, I shut off my rational thinking process in order to get through it. Afterward I praised God that Andy and I survived. It would have been easy to slip off, for a foot to blunder, or for the ladder to break. It was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Doing that without a carabiner in the States would probably be illegal.

The Great Cave wasn’t much, but I suppose Machu Picchu and Wayna Picchu are hard acts to follow. I have never climbed so many stairs in my life — up, up, up, down, down, down, up, up… Both our knees began to shake with fatigue.

We made it back to Machu Picchu with wobbly exhausted legs, soaked through with sweat, but very satisfied with ourselves. Initially, waking up at 3 am for a four-hour hike was not appealing to me. I was just going along with Andy. But with hindsight I’m totally glad I did it.

We made it back down to Aguas Calientes to watch the World Cup final over lunch at a restaurant. Every building in town was blaring the game. Andy and I don’t get into spectating soccer much, but the excitement of the international crowd around us was contagious.