Jackie

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 woke early, hoping to score tickets for the 9:30 boat with Nicole to Colonia, a three-hour boat ride away over the border in neighboring Uruguay. Our luck pulled through and got us on without reservations.

Colonia was extraordinarily romantic, with colonial architecture, grand old trees, sailboat/lighthouse ambience, classic old cars, and rickety cobblestone roads.

When we read about the option of renting golf carts to tour the town we just couldn’t resist. The contrast between the quiet old-time quaint alleys and our obnoxious, modern, stupid-looking golf carts couldn’t have been more jarring. We felt guilty for our nuisance of a presence, but it was so fun zipping through town in our absurd little ride.

We selected a restaurant for lunch based on popularity. Our restaurant was nearly ocean-view and nearly full. The sea breeze made us freezing so we jockeyed for a table in the sun. Andy was severely bothered by three mangy dogs, who patrolled at knee-level. It made the long hour we waited for our food seem like eternity. We had difficulty deciphering the menu, so what we ordered turned out to be pure protein. We ordered some additional sides but gave up when it seemed to be taking another whole hour. At this rate, we would have to get back on the boat before we even got to see Colonia! Our lunch cost $25 each — by far our priciest meal so far.

We climbed back into our golf cart and drove around the city center. I wondered if they had laws here requiring citizens to maintain the rustic colonial charm because its ambience was truly a blast from the past: rusty old classic cars parked along the sidewalks, cracks on the buildings like wrinkles of old age, elderly trees hunched over, and barely much modern traffic at all.

As we merged onto the main street, a scruffy medium-sized dog began chasing after the front of our golf cart. We tried to lose him to no avail, and pretty soon his persistence made us concerned. He barked and stared at us with wild eyes. We all started freaking out over this dog that may be mad with rabies and might bite us! None of us had bothered with the rabies vaccine. For the next 20 minutes we tried every strategy we could think of: sharp turns, slower, faster, joining other traffic, turning onto quieter side streets. We finally got a bit of a lead on him, hastily parked the cart, and ran into a bookstore. The men inside were alarmed at our running in all of the sudden. We explained to them in a Spanish/Italian/French/English hybrid about our chasing dog. We pointed at the dog, who waited just for us outside the door. They laughed and said it happens to lots of tourists and never the locals. The dogs somehow know how to distinguish the two. They said we shouldn’t worry about it and to pay him no mind. It seemed like these dogs were like the town’s practical joke on visitors. Still pretty riled up I wasn’t having the easiest time at seeing the amusement in keeping these scary, bothersome dogs around.

The dog was now napping just outside. We hatched a plan to walk calmly and quietly out. Thank goodness we escaped the dog while he slumbered.

We visited a nondescript church. We were not very inspired to seek out either of the small historical museums here, so we just ventured around on foot in the cold until we couldn’t feel our fingers and toes. We warmed up over a couple of Irish coffees at a bar.

We thought it silly that this small town with generously wide streets had designated several of them as one way streets. Andy accidentally went down one of them the wrong way and then we heard a little woowoo horn — we were being pulled over. When I saw it was two full-grown men in no uniform except bright orange vests, sharing a single motorcycle, it was hard to take them seriously. We bit our tongues to keep from laughing while playing the dumb tourist card and then profusely apologizing. They could have demanded any fine they wanted from us naive tourists and pocketed it. Instead, they showed mercy and we got off with a warning.

Apparently it was our lucky day, for we escaped from Uruguay back to Buenos Aires without contracting hypothermia (despite the biting cold and lack of warm clothing) or rabies via dog bites, and scot-free from paying for Andy’s driving infraction.

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.

Enlarge photo

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.