Tag: South America

Nature calls. Take a message.

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

As I read about Chile — the country that curls like a tongue down the Pacific coast of South America — it seems more and more to be a platonic ideal for naturists, hikers and outdoorsies. Mountains, snow, rapids, ocean, flora, fauna, all doused in a magenta sunset glow that shouts once in a lifetime experiences — that’s what I see. Alpacas! Elephant seals! Avian abundance! Maybe a merman, or a yeti! The whole thing is almost mythological in its exotic, boot-trekking glories. Binoculars mandatory.

Here’s the thing: I’m not going to Chile to hike or ski or bird watch or scale anything that’s not human-made or shaped like stairs. Or, for that matter, anything that doesn’t have numbered buttons in a metal box with sliding doors. 

More than 12 minutes of hiking reduces me to a gasping heap of implacable boredom. Snow skiing I absolutely adore, but I haven’t done it in eons and I’m afraid at this late date I’d put on my skies and immediately crash into a tree, snap untold bones and forever reside in a wheelchair, speaking with a keyboard and a pencil between my teeth. 

During my Southern California childhood, I was a fiend for the forest, creeks, lakes, waterfalls, trails and, of course, the crashing chaos of the ocean and its silken beaches. We’d roll up our Toughskins and splash in pools looking for frogs and pollywogs, snakes and lizards. We always got poison ivy, always. Beyond the Santa Barbara area, we made Yosemite and Sequoia national parks paradises of youthful plunder. It was majestic.

Today, my idea of a jaunt in the wilderness is a day trip to the countryside — like a  winery. That sounds pitifully fuddy-duddy, but I counter that impression with my love of the ricketiest rollercoasters, the loudest Metallica, a good late-night tipple, hip sneakers and an innate aversion to Adele and Hootie and the Blowfish.

What I’m saying is that I have approximately zero nature planned for my approaching trip to Chile. For one, it will be winter when I go in June and I’m not packing boots or a beanie, and I am defiantly indifferent to spotting penguins in their natural habitat. A winery or three will be the gist of my wild country safari.

That’s not to say Chile’s outdoor offerings aren’t uniquely attractive. Glossing my guide book, I note three regions that more than tempt this tent-resistant traveler: 

“Norte Chico: Beaches, Stargazing and Verdant Valleys”

“Sur Chico: Ominous Volcanoes, Pristine Waterways and Outdoor Adventures”

“Northern Patagonia: Mountains, Rivers, Glaciers and Fjords”

Wait. Maybe I …

No. 

I am an urban creature, a pavement pounder, a museum roamer, a wannabe epicure, a streetwise wiseacre — whatever. I simply don’t like rocks in my shoes, rattlesnakes or hauling a backpack the size of a Kia up craggy hills.

Take me to Tokyo for the wild nights and neon sizzle. Paris for the boulevards and bouillabaisse. New York for the noise and neurotic hustle. Istanbul, Madrid, Berlin, Montreal, San Francisco … In none of those cities do I need a walking stick or a can of Off!

I’m headed to Santiago, Chile’s capital, a metropolis of turbulent colonial and Pinochet-era histories, creative hives of Nobel poet Pablo Neruda, a patchwork of neoclassical, art deco and neo-gothic architecture, museums, grand parks and hills and the rushing Mapocho River, all backdropped by the Andes Mountains. 

I’ll take day trips to the aforementioned wineries, as well as to Valparaiso Port and Viña del Mar, which provide access to the countryside, coastline and beaches, about as nature-y as I’ll get. (No, I don’t own flip-flops or sandals.)

With a population of seven million people, making it one of the largest cities in the Americas, Santiago promises a breadth of urban sensations. Really, who needs the sanity of the great outdoors when you’ve got dinner reservations at a downtown restaurant called Dementia?

Winkless at 35,000 feet

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

Right now it’s 104 degrees at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, which seems appropriate considering the facility’s infernal namesake. I have arrived from the East Coast, where it was 74 at 10 a.m. — it will hit 94 — and I am connecting to a flight that will take me to the land of 54 degrees, for it is winter in Buenos Aires, my latest destination on my quest to see as much of the world as I can before it blows up.

Hours later, I write this in the dark on a punishing nine-hour redeye during that weird interval when the pilot douses the cabin lights so his human cargo can go sleepy time. I’m a jet-plane insomniac so that trick ain’t working. Instead I atrophy in my seat, reading a bit, maybe watching a few minutes of a movie (or eavesdropping on what others are watching — almost uniform tripe), but mostly fiddling my brain’s thumbs and sneaking the occasional mini bottle of scotch that I smuggled aboard. (Contraband. I rule.)

Of course, as always, the guy next to me is comatose, swaddled in a blue airline blankie, a rivulet of drool squiggling down his chin — paradise. And there I’ll be when we disembark, sleep-deprived, pissed-off, testy, tetchy, impatient — and singing glory hallelujah I’m in South America, my first time on the continent! Bloodshot eyeballs, bewhiskered, frowzy hair — who cares. The miracle of modern aeronautics has delivered me someplace new and far, uncharted and exciting. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

And that’s the gist of it. No matter how physically miserable I am right now — there’s six hours left on the flight and I’ll be burning untold calories fidgeting, not to mention enduring fearsome temblors of turbulence — I still have much to look forward to, lots of which I’ll probably share here. 

Meanwhile, I have a funny novel to finish, some hooch to furtively sip and a few episodes of “Rick and Morty” to watch. Things could be a hell of a lot worse.

Argentina, here we come (gulp)

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

The plane is set to depart Sunday at 2:09 p.m. local time, and by 2:49 p.m. I plan to have a scotch resting on my drop-down tray next to my trusty laptop or a scintillating paperback, my carry-on tucked overhead, seat reclined and the fat, brushing butts and sharp, errant elbows of fellow fussing passengers over and done and in their seats, preferably nowhere near me.

Grrr.

Air travel, the great triathlon, the great grumble-thon. Packing, getting to the airport — in an Uber, no less, with those ubiquitous pine trees dangling from the rearview that reek of urinal cakes — boarding the plane sheep-like, the scrum of seating, and all the fun, head-imploding minutiae in between. (Security — fuck yeah!) As a blanket complaint, it couldn’t be more cliché. Deal.

I’m soaring from the East Coast to a layover in Houston, then off to Buenos Aires for nine days, which seems a little excessive but at this point I’m kind of stuck. (Note to self: check out Montevideo in nearby Uruguay, or ride a horsey with some dusty Argentinian gauchos. Eat steak. Mounds of it. I really don’t know.)

Dress appropriately. This one’s tricky. It will be 90 degrees at my departure and 53 degrees at my arrival in South America, where it is currently winter below the equator. I’ll wear jeans and a t-shirt and carry a mid-weight jacket on the plane. When I arrive in Buenos Aires I’ll figure out what to unpack and put on. A cinch.

I’m the fourth most neurotic traveler on the globe, and so of course I’m bitten with anxiety about what’s in store in a city, a country, a continent, I’ve never been to. Will I be dazzled? Will I have fun? Will my many plans pan out? Will I get robbed and beaten in a taxi cab?

My myriad trips always work out fine or better despite my weak-kneed worries. And of course I’m already scheming the trip after this, my annual late-October journey. I was leaning toward Budapest, where I’ve never been, and Krakow, where I have been and loved. Now I’m considering Madrid, where I’ve been, and Bilbao and San Sebastián in Basque Country, which are new to me.

But first things first. I have Buenos Aires to explore and get lost in yet. Museums and mausoleums; graffiti and galleries; tango and tours; all within sweeping European influence tangled with Latin passion and grandeur. A mad melange.

And before that, the flight. Oh, god, muzzle the chatterboxes, in my row or any row. Or the bewhiskered guy next to me who plays video games for 10 hours straight. Or, heaven forfend, the shrieking infant, diapered spawn of the devil. 

I can do this. I always do. Excuse me, flight attendant, I need a tall cocktail of one part gin, two parts exasperation, and a splash of fizzy rage. Gee, thanks. And I wash it all down with one big Xanax. And from there we’ll see how things go.

My bet: swimmingly. Absolutely swimmingly.

A trip that’s up in the air

~ Chris ~ 3 Comments

This is the book I just ordered:

Big and bold it announces “Buenos Aires,” and you can gather from it that Argentina’s capital is in my sights for my next destination. The nerve, the gall, you might huff, considering I got back from Italy a mere four days ago. But see, I’m a greedy globe-trekker, scheming my next move on the plane back from my latest journey like a cheating lover. 

Buenos Aires wasn’t on my bucket list. Though I almost went years ago, I’ve never been to South America. As I was decompressing after my flight home from Rome, I was chatting with a woman, a friend of a friend, whose entire life is an unbroken blur of world travel. She asked where I was off to next and I had no answer. I really didn’t know. I just knew it would happen in the fall, my prime travel season.

I told her I never travel in the summer because of the heat and the crowds, and she, a veteran of Argentina, suggested Buenos Aires. Below the equator, our summer is their winter, of course. I could go in July and luxuriate in 59-degree temps in a jacket and jeans. And it’s the off-season, so crowds are thinner and prices cheaper. I was on my computer researching the city within minutes. 

I was taken. Infused with Spanish, Italian and French colonial influences that lend it a lusty European sheen, yet still boldly Latin, the city of 13 million people is famed for a dizzying eclecticism that runs from its architecture to cuisine, including ubiquitous beef steaks and flowing Malbec. Street art animates facades, baroque cemeteries lure the living, and, if you’re into it, clubs smolder with tango. (I’ll watch the dance, but not partake, lest I cause an international incident.)

It’s all enticing until you shop for flights, which run a stroke-inducing $1,200 to $1,300 in July. Argentina also requires you to buy travel insurance to cover any hypothetical Covid treatments. That’s in addition to a negative Covid test, proof of vaccination and some other minor paperwork. 

That’s the downside. The upside is stylish and affordable boutique hotels (I already have one picked out), 15-minute taxi rides costing $2.50 USD, dinner with a full bottle of wine for $10, free museums, jumping cafe and bar cultures and, by most accounts, loopy, lively people. I’ll tell you more when my book arrives. 

Buenos Aires is Spanish for “fair winds” or “good air,” and isn’t that nice. It’s not certain that I’m going there; I’m thick in homework and investigation. I’m vetting this city that seems magnificent on paper, and might be even more so in the flesh. I’ll see where those fair winds carry me.

P.S. If you don’t think I’m already pondering my fall voyage, you are grossly ill-informed. Scotland? Iceland? Poland? Peru?