Sorry all

Well its been over a month since my last post. And I'd like to apologize. Yes I am very far behind, and unfortunately won't start producing my travel adventures until I settle into my work routine here in Buenos Aires.  Funny enough, I've been asked to maintain the blog at The Wallstreet institute where I work as well, so now I'll be writing twice as much, but will have time to do so once my mornings clear up.

But for now let me fill you in on where I've been and what I've been doing.  After leaving La Paz, I travelled north to beautiful Lake Titticacca... thats just fun to say isn't it. Here Copacabana was beautiful but the most serenely inspiring place I've been in mylast three months of travel was most definitely Isla de Sol, which is a two hour ferry ride from Copacabana and situated on a small island in the middle of this immense, 12,000-foot-high lake, famous for being the highest navigatable lake in the world. The sunset and sunrise can both be witnessed from the top of the island, and are absolutely breathtaking when filtered through the massive peaks that stand in the distance, capped in snow. If I ever figure out how to make actual money with this writing gig, this is where I will spend some time alone with my word play.

After leaving Lake Titticacca... there it is again...hehe... I traveled to Cusco for the 5 day Salkantay trek through the glacier covered mountains to Machu Picchu. Exploring the ancient marvel, and squeezing it for every dime I could I returned to cusco where I learned upon arriving that I had gotten a teaching job in BsAs. With 3 weeks left until I started work I fled to the beach for some ocean time.

Arriving in Mancora, Peru, I spent the next 2 weeks relaxing on the beach and sipping margaritas... wait thats not right... I spent the next to weeks, learning to kitesurf with my buddy Rein Peterson... you can can find him on my facebook if your interested... and having some vodka slushies by the pool.  My team won the Loki Olympics at Loki hostel in Mancora, which was good because I got a free shirt and I've lost a lot of clothes this trip and after 2 weeks of soaking in the sun, I then flew back to BsAs for my new job via the airport in Quayaquil, Ecuador (Where a career U.S. Army Captain offered me his 3 daughters... hehe... I think they were getting on his nerves so I found it prudent to decline.)

Back here in BsAs a week now, I have already found an apartment with a family of columbians (cousins, spouses and brother-in laws mostly) from ages 22-27. I speak spanish and hear spanish everyday... enough so to overload my feeble brain, and only really speak english when I'm at work. I play soccer everyday for 2-3 hours at a park 5 blocks from my house and am looking forward to starting my first lesson at my new job. I may have my first lesson tomorrow, though officially Im not supposed to start until monday (the training went fast). Either way, I sink in to my new work schedule on monday (5-9pm, Monday - Friday) and will soon have my mornings free again to write. So until then, I'm going to horde my pictures and my travels and should start getting them out into internet land by the end of next week. Hope your still with me and all is well in your little corners of the world. Chau for now.

Plunge Down Death Road

By the grace of god my eyelids opened at 6:30am with a half hour to make it to El Solario, the company handling our hurdle down Death Road. Our alarm for some reason never went off, but the mere fact that we woke up on time, of our own accord, boded well for our upcoming adventure. Arriving just in time for the breakfast orientation, we scarf down our grilled cheese sandwiches and drown our drowsy eyes in coffee... now we are ready.

Piling into one of two the 12-person vans,  Andrew and I are delighted to find that there are only 5 in our van, and we have room to stretch out while we shake off the coffee jitters left over from one to many cups of coffee. Twisting our way up the mountains that hold La Paz like a fish bowl, we finally reach La Cumbre, our launch point at 4700 meters (15,400ft). Unloading our bikes, the guides give us instructions while i let my eyes wander to the massive, snow dotted peaks that surround us. The valley only partly-shrouded in the mist from the jungles below is lined with sheer rock cliffs colliding at their pinnacle to create the impressive 6000 meter (19,685ft.) mountain range we would ride through. Gearing up in knee pads, elbow pads,      gloves, a helmet and a wind breaker, we begin the first stage of the road.


Speeding our way down the winding, asphalt road and into the valley, I stay in full tuck making sure to stay in front... I'm not here to look at any butts. Instructed not to use our cameras while riding, I of course sneak my camera out of my pocket for video documentation of the breathtaking scene. As I film, Clouds blow over the mammoth peaks, waterfalls creep down the cliff faces like jungle vines and the valley opens below me.  Under me my bike jolts as I lean into a turn and the air whips my face.  After an hour and a half of hurdling ourselves down the twisting paved road, we stop for lunch. Filling our bellies with bananas and ham sandwiches, we pile into the van to be ferried up the hill portion of the road. It's time to start Death Road itself.

According to some estimates some 200-300 visitors are killed here each year, and just a few years ago our guide informed us of a bus that plunged off the cliff lined roadway killing 51 passengers. Unloading from the van once more, we find our selves on a two meter (6ft) wide dirt road that hangs delicately on the edge of a massive cliff. Inlaid with jagged rocks, it becomes instantly clear why this is called Death Road... one slip on the winding, bumpy, cliff-lined roadway and your dead. Now this is more like it.

As we get our instruction, a bus peels around the corner just 15 meters from us, completely unheard just seconds ago. The sheer rock walls had blocked the sound of the engine and the thick jungle had swallowed its echoes.  Our guide instructs us that unlike the rest of Bolivia which drives on the right, we must descend on the left side of the roadway, closest to the cliffs edge, the reason being that drivers sitting on the left are better able to make sure their tires do not plunge over the 90 degree embankment.

Beginning our descent, I again make sure to take the lead behind our guide so that I can enjoy the scenery with the least amount of dust in my eyes.  Smart me, I'm the only one who forgot my sunglasses. Anyway, I figure the guide knows the best tracks to take I can then get more speed. WEEEE!

Occasionally stopping for video and pictures we race down the narrow mountain pass. Jumping and bumping over rocks and skidding around tight turns, I go only slightly faster than comfortable, constantly aware of the fatality a mistake would produce. As we snake down the uneven terrain, my hands grow sore and numb from constant bumping and breaking, and I shake them out whenever I get the chance.  Eager capture some home video of my own, I dare not during the steep, rocky descent. As another bus whips around the corner ahead of me, I hug the cliff edge, which drops 600 meters into oblivion. Avoiding its massive, metal grill I manage to slide over far enough to avoid it from punting me off the roadway. Blinded by the thick cloud of dust it kicks up, I wipe at my eyes and regain my composure. Blazing around turns, jumping rocks and smashing through waterfalls we descend quickly. Adrenaline pumping, you sometimes forget the immediate danger of the roadway, but the occasional crosses lining the roadway act as solemn reminders of the threat and shake you from your complicity. After 2 hours we finally reach the flat portion of the road, where I am able to take some home video.  Oh wait....Shhhhh! It's not allowed.

Riding through a river a local family has set about washing their cars and clothes and bathing in the cool clear water. Andrew and I follow suit, hopping off our bikes and dunking our heads under the waterfall created by the small river. Hopping back on our bikes we begin or way down again. A girl's tire pops, a common occurrence on the road, so a little further down, the guide stops to wait. The place where the guide has stopped he explains, is a very dangerous part of the road. Pointing to the jungle below, he tells us that this is the spot where the bus carrying 51 passengers plunged off the cliff a few years back. Marked by three crosses, I look ever the edge and see nothing but jungle. As the guide talks, he tells us that the bus still remains at the bottom of the valley, the thick jungle swallowing it whole and preventing its recovery.  Finally reaching the bottom of the road in Yolosi which sits at 1200 meters (3937ft) we take a break, watching a local hang her laundry out to dry in the baking sun. Having descended 3,500 meters (11,482ft) in four hours down the most dangerous road in the world, I was finally able to say, "I Survived Death Road!"

After a small hill climb to the Hostel Don Lucho for lunch, I strip down and dive head first into the cool water of the swimming pool.  There in the swimming pool, set in the valley of a rich, colorful jungle and surrounded by mountains thickly blanketed in green, I relax. After a delicious, home-cooked, buffet lunch. I grab a Duff beer from the fridge and relax in the hammock, finding my own personal heaven in the sound of the breeze through the trees and the exotic bird calls echoing from the canopy.

Time is Fleeting and Bolivia Knows It

O.k. I'll admit, its a corny title. But as I sit here with just a month left to travel before I settle into a new home here in South America, it's the only thing that describes my current sentiment. With my blog seemingly months behind, I cant believe I sit here in La Paz and have only just written about Rosario which I left 20 days ago.

It saddens me to think that each city gets only a day or two recognition and I have but a few days to a week for each city, when in reality, each city seems to be worthy of a lifetime. After hiking with a stray dog for 5 hours to shower under a waterfall and bask in the sun in Cordoba, dancing the night away in a boliche for halloween in Salta, visiting dear friends in Tucuman, going to 16,250 ft to see geysers and lakes of brilliant reds, greens and blues in Uynuni and finally now, tomorrow hanging on the precipice of taking a bike down the most dangerous road in the entire world, where 6 feet of gravel are your only savior from the hundred meter plunge off a cliff, and where cars and buses can whip around the sharp mountain corners at any second... it certainly seems that time is indeed fleeting. With Lake Titticaca still on the agenda here in Bolivia, with Machu Pichu, and sand boarding in Peru, beaches, friends, the lost city and job interviews in Columbia, wine tours in Mendoza and Interviews in BsAs and potentially Panama now...  I do wonder if there is enough time to see it all. And do I have the will power to leave a city that I love every few days only to fall in love again when I arrive at some place new.

Even here in La Paz, where some might be less apt to go, the city can take your breath away. Surrounded by 22,000 ft peaks, with the city laid into the steep hillsides, domiciles take breaks from their climb up the rocky mountainsides only to make way for jagged cliffs where nothing could be built. Beautiful old churches dominate the landscape at the center of the massive city and at night they light up with a million little lights dotting the surrounding mountain range as their backdrop.  Albeit not 5 minutes ago, as I wrote this, I heard gunfire and sirens, the city itself is a beautiful place, the people are friendly, except for obviously the shooters, and culture bubbles on every corner. Bright colors adorn most locals. Seniors carry bags on their back, big enough to fit three or four people, as they make their way up the steep roads, and beautiful handwoven and handcrafted artifacts from the rich indigenous past are everywhere to be seen. You can eat a dinner for the equivalent of about 70 cents American, with salad, soup and a main course, and guards with shotguns sit outside every bank, giving you both a sense a security and danger at the same time.

As I sit here, gunshots and sirens again echo through the valley of the city, but in the security of my hostel, I sit anxiously awaiting my first night out in weeks. This is La Paz, and La Paz is Bolivia and the juxtaposition of ideals seems to adequately describe this part of the world. Where indigenous culture raves against modernization, and coca leaves are sold on every corner while cocaine is prohibited. Where a coca farmer is now the President, Evo Morales, and is well loved by the people as the first indigenous president of Bolivia and the first indigenous sovereign leader of the territory since Tupac Amaru in Incan times, some 500 years ago.  Where one taxi is safe and another is an invitation for a kidnapping. Where Flamingos rest at 15,000 feet on a red lake at the foot of a volcano, and coral reefs provide a home for cacti in the middle of an arid salt flat at 12,000 feet. La Paz and indeed Bolivia seem to thrive in this crossing of the old and the new, and the pure curiosity of it all is something special to witness. What the future will bring I cannot tell you, but as I sit here, awaiting my trip down death road and listening to gunfire, one thing is certain... Time is Fleeting and Bolivia Knows It.

Futbol, Beaches and Grand Theft Autobus

I have to begin by apologizing for skipping many of my favorite memories of the trip. I simply cannot keep up day to day on my blog, so for those of you I don't mention that are reading, know that I have everything written down and I will revisit these stories as my travels slow and I find work here in South America. On that note, I am skipping the rest of my adventures from Buenos Aires for now including: The Twelve Hour Parade, My Solo Ride on the Midnight Train, My Nights of Tango, Sunsets on the Balcony and many others, so that I can share my love of Rosario with everyone at home. (Given that I am already three cities behind I find this to be my only option.)

So without further adieu. Vamos! On to Rosario!

Given the choice of places to live, here in Argentina, Rosario may take the cake: parks, beaches, camping, architecture, history, beautiful young people, and kindness at every turn. I welcome you to read and fall in love with the city alongside me, and as always, I hope you enjoy.

The city of Rosario is located along the Parana River and the coast of the river is lined with lush, green parks giving you a vantage of the river below until the grassy bluffs descend to meet the river bank. As you stroll the parks along the bluff, there is a peacefulness to the city, that as loud Americans we try not to disrupt, a sometimes difficult task for Andrew and I.  People laze in the parks, some bathing in the sun, and some finding refuge in the shadowy protection given by the trees. As we make our way through the city we pass Che Guavera's old childhood home and are reminded of the history present in the city. Rosario, the 3rd largest city in Argentina, boasting 1.3 million people sometimes lets you forget this fact, as you enjoy the more peaceful parts of the city. It has a small town feel that reminds me of my hometown in Seattle, Washington allowing me to sink in to the feel of the city.

As we make our way to the beach, I again find myself reminded of my hometown. Boats float on the peaceful flowing river, and jet skis buzz by as they splash through the cool water in jubilation. Encountering friends, the passengers park on the beach to share Yerba Mate or a beer with their friends. Windsurfers, and Sailboats catch the cool breeze in their sales as they wisk along the surface of the water, and tanned bodies paddle their canoes along the shore. Ok... so not exactly like Seattle, people are tan here, and the swim wear is a little more to the liking of a young twenty-six-year-old. But hey, close enough.

As you survey the sandy, fresh-water beach it is dotted with the beautiful people of Rosario. (Rosario is well reputed to have the most beautiful women in all of Argentina thanks to the six universities totaling over 80,000 students... and in my opinion the beach and warm weather that accompanies the history-rich city doesn't hurt.) As I dig my feet into the warm sand and sip from my Mate, I lean back and close my eyes, soaking in the rays from the sun.

Looking south to the city center, the backdrop to my seat on the sand seems out of a painting. Tall, white buildings reach into the cloudless, blue sky providing a stark contrast to the greenery of the island that sits across the bay. A buoy floats in the distance marking off the swimming area, and as I take a dip into the cool, sediment filled river, I take in the view, not wanting to forget the moment. After a few laps along the buoy line I return to my friends on the beach. Lazing about for another hour before the sun begins to wain, we prepare to make our departure. Andrew and I pack up our belongings. Cleaning my silver, hand engraved Mate, which glistens brightly in the afternoon sun, we make our way to the bus stop.

Where's the driver?

Hopping on the bus with inappropriate change, the bus driver lets us board without paying.  Soon after, we learn that we are headed in the wrong direction and into one of the shadier parts of town. Horse drawn carts packed full of cardboard pass us, and refuse blocks off some of the streets. As passengers enter they stare at the two gringos knowing full well that we are as lost as we appear to be. Reaching the end of the line, the bus driver kicks the last passenger off the bus leaving only Andrew and I, and as he pulls into the gas station he too gets off. Andrew and I are now the only ones on the still running bus. Laughing we look at each other and wonder... do we drive ourselves home? Did we just get a free party bus? hehe. Deciding against jail time, we opt for a photo shoot instead. Five minutes later the bus driver hops back on to continue our 40 minute tour through the ghetto. Passing ice cream shops with security guards, and gun-wielding teenagers that snap my vision from the window to the front of the bus, we return to center of the city, our bellies full of adventure.

Fun at the museum. hehe.

Returning to the hostel we take a walk to the art museum with our Swiss and Swedish friends. Expecting a Salvador Dali exhibit we find ourselves a day late. Instead we wander around taking ridiculous pictures, we listen to our friend play the grand piano in the center of the museum, and we snap a quick photo of the good times at the museum. Why Dali why? Why did you forsake us? Leaving laughing, we grab some six peso steaks at the local supermercado and return to our hostel to feast... and then out come two Argentines, two Israelis and an Australian with a pelota (soccer ball for those at home). Guess I gotta go play some futbol now, dinner must wait.

Our futbol field under the lights of the monument.

Passing the ball around as we walk, we head to the park... who needs hands. Along the way, a talented 12-year-old, selling roses, shows off his skills with our pelota. As we pass through the monument of the flag, justifiably lit up like the Argentine Flag, Lucas and Lucaas, my Argentine brothers, explain that it commemerates the designing of the Argentine flag by General Manuel Belgrano, an important forefather of the country now buried in the crypt below the monument, and that Rosario is rich with history as it was the first place that the flag was raised in all of Argentina. As we make our way to the park, our youthful rose vendor joins us for a game under the lights of the 70 meter monument that we had climbed for a view just a day before.

Our professional futbol team

We played for three hours under the lights of one of the most important monuments in all of Argentina and at the end, tired, our feet hurting from playing barefoot, we take a minute to relax and take a photo of our makeshift futbol team. Two days later, we would find ourself camping, Andrew, Lucas, Lucaas and I just 50 meters from our futbol field, with a view of the monument visible from the door of our tent, and a bottle of rum to keep us warm. Returning home, we kick the ball around with local street cleaners and passers-by, having an open contest to see who can be first to chip it into the circular trash cans that are on each block of the pedestrian street that lead us home. Finally making it back, we cooked our well priced steaks and laughed and drank into the night with our newfound friends. What a city. What a life...

What an Adventure.

Craziness in the BsAs

Waking up Andrew and I said goodbye to Mauro, our Chilean brother and the first true friend of our travels. Andrew did errands while I hopped the Subte to explore the city. Hoping off at a random stop I found myself in the middle of a giant protest, something that would come to be a common site in Argentina as I traveled. However today the protests were explosive with the presidential elections just days away. Literally they were explosive, with erupting firecrackers shattering through the normal din of the busy city and echoing the boom throughout the main square of the city. A stern wall of Police lined the street armed with riot gear and behind them sat a giant metal beast of a vehicle plated in thick steel and armed with a water cannon. The presence of the police thankfully kept the protests peaceful but the sound of chanting, drums beating and voices over loud speakers reverberated throughout the populated causeways. Tents that I would see for the next several days sat in the narrow park at the middle of the sixteen lane avenue, housing the protesters and allowing them recuperation between shifts.  Returning to the hostel I slept in preparation for our first big night out on the town.

Waking up Andrew and I met Stefanie and Pilar, a Peruvian and Chilean both working in northern Chile. With plans to go out themselves, we joined forces with the beautiful, fun loving girls and dragging our Israeli friend Moti along we left for a night on the town.  For our first stop they took us to Cronika, a busy bar located in Palermo. Palermo a central hub for party-goers was alive with youth and beauty. A drunk teenager danced in the street in his boxers in front of a crowd as he chanted a song reminiscent of a Chilean chant from the previous nights futbol match. Laughing, we crossed the street and hailed a cab.

Catching a cab at 2:30am we headed to Pacha which was reputed to be the number one night club in Buenos Aires. Arriving, we piled out of the cab and after two separate pat downs and 80 pesos, we entered into the roaring club... Vegas has nothing on this place.  With massive columns surrounding the central dance floor and with techno, dub-step and raggaeton blasting from the enormous speakers, the crowded room was a sea of bodies and lights moving in unison to the booming music. Whether it was cultural or substance abuse I still don't know, but the bodies on the floor danced until 8am. As lights flickered to rythem of the music, one could witness in the brief flashes of light bodies pressed together and lips locked in every direction as the party raged.

Emerging from the club, the dim light brought on by dawn was blinding. As the sun peaked up over the horizon, thankfully shaded by the rain clouds that had begun to empty themselves above our heads, we hailed a cab. One passing us to pick up a pretty girl, the next stopped and sopping wet, but thankful for the cool shower, we piled in. Arriving home with just over two hours until checkout we went to sleep dreading our early wake-up call.

A Poem About a Woman I Once Knew

She gave a face to my dream
And when we broke I was empty
It was a dream that would not die until I found a new dream
And so I had leave
And now I dream every time I open my eyes
For what is a dream if not an adventure
An adventure too beautiful and too amazing to believe possible
And so I breathe easy with a new dream every morning
And blissful silence every night.

I started this poem 11 months ago and never knew how to finish it. It has floated on a scrap post-it note ever since, amazingly never being lost. When it fell out of my notebook a few days ago, I suddenly knew how to finish it. It represents the role that dreams have played in my life and how these have propelled me upwards to ever higher plateaus of love, life and inner peace; because none of these things can be attained without the courage to take on the adventure each represents.  And each is indeed its own adventure and a fulfillment of a different dream  And those adventures, those dreams, are what gives life meaning.

An Argentine Futbol Fanatic is Born

Waking up, I lept from my bed. I couldn't sleep knowing that I was just hours away from my first real futbol match. Not MLS, not some Champions League game on the TV, but an elimination match for the 2014 World Cup: Argentina vs. Chile.

Unprepared for the match, Tammy, Mauro, Andrew and I went to pick up the tickets we had purchased the night before on the website Ticketek. Dragging Mauro, our Chilean friend along, we went to pick up some Argentina Jerseys to help us three gringos blend in a little better in the 57,000 person stadium.

Returning to the hostel to change into our new jerseys, the excitement started to build. Mauro who is from Chile put his Chilean jersey on and quickly covered it up with a black hoody to avoid a fight. As we hopped in a taxi to take us to the game, Mauro began explaining how real the danger actually was. He explained that we would have to meet an hour after the end of the game because they don't let fans from different teams leave at the same time, and that we should meet a block away from the stadium to avoid the fights.... not to avoid A fight but to avoid THE fights. Now we were excited.

Getting in line to enter the stadium, we went through four seperate pat downs, taking our lighters and checking our pockets. Climbing three massive flights of stairs, providing us with a view of the starlit city around us, we flooded into the stadium. With no assigned seating we pushed our way to the second row and stood as we watched the excitement in the stadium build. The Argentine side of the stadium erupted in songs and chants taunting the Chilean fans who reciprocated with chants of their own, filling the night with sounds of fanatical futbol fans.

As Argentina took to the field, appearing from a whole in the grass, the stadium shook as die hard fans exploded into celebration. Streamers and confetti rained onto the field in a whirlwind and national flags were stretched out over entire sections of stadium, 30 or 40 meters in length. As Chile took the field Argentines booed and heckled them with chants and songs, but the Chilean side roared over the din to cheer on their team. Red road flares were lit in their section piercing the darkness and filling the stadium with smoke. Standing the whole game, 50,000 strong, the stadium was alive with an energy that seemed to hang in the air like a thunder cloud ready to strike. Silence was nowhere to be found in the city that night as Argentina took the game four to one over Chile.

At the end of the game Chile fans filed out in sour spirits, with Argentines showering them with spit and trash from the stands above. Luckily our good friend Mauro had a map from the hostel and used it shield himself from the onslaught. Being in the Argentina section, we remained behind locked gates waiting for the Chile fans to leave so that we could be let out... Ohhhh... Thats why no lighters... lighters, locked gates and boisterous fans are a bad combination. Adapting one of the Argentina team chants, the crowd began chanting for the gates to be opened. Finally, an hour later, the gates opened and we flooded out into the night our feet sore from standing, and the excitement causing us to forget.

Walking several blocks around the entire stadium we find a saddened Mauro walking towards us on the street by our meeting spot, his black hoody covering the red Chilean jersey. Finding a restaurant we put some beer into the dour Chilean and fill our bellies with burgers. Catching a taxi home, we drop off Tammy at her hostel and retire for the night, weary from standing and chanting for hours at the most exciting sporting event I have ever witnessed. And thus an Argentine Futbol fanatic was born.

Buenos Aires: The 25 hour city

After living in Buenos Aires for two weeks, I have decided to give you my take on a city that I have grown to love. One of the first things I noticed about Buenos Aires were the "Open 25" hour signs dawning the many markets that dot the city streets. At first I laughed when I saw the signs, knowing full well that days only contain 24 hours. However after living there I have come to understand that behind those neon signs, breathes the life of the city.

If New York is the city that never sleeps, then Buneos Aires is the city that never quiets. In my time there, I grew to love the sound of the city; as taxis and buses whizzed by, motorbikes backfired, people laughed, parades raged and clubs bumped their Raggaeton into the silence of the night, there truly seemed to be more hours in the day as a resident of BsAs.

Waking up for breakfast at 10am, I rush to the breakfast table to add some sustenance to my weary body and regain my energy. Taking care of my errands and tours for the day, I return at two or three to practice my spanish and chat with the many friends that I've made living in this amazing city. Getting lost once once or twice throughout the day, the people are among the friendliest, and the most beautiful that I've ever met. With patience and a smile they help a lost foreigner, and go out of their way to show you the spirit of beautiful city. Taxi drivers come back to return dropped cellphones of drunken Aussies, 10 minutes after they leave to find another faire; people return wallets of said Aussies as they leave them at the bar; people smile, and they allow you into their lives as they show you sides of the city that most tourists never care to see, and should eminently regret.

Going to a futbol game, fans erupt in adolation and shower players in thick clouds of confetti that rains on the field giving color to the heart racing and boisterous scene. They stand for hours, jumping and chanting, bringing their team to victory in the most exciting sporting event that I have ever witnessed. Banners wave, flares are lit and never-ending is the shouting and singing that fills the air with a reverence not seen since Roman times.

Exhausted we return home and take our siesta. Waking up to a second day at 10pm we take the subte, which wisks us to a another part of the city in minutes, to devour bloody steaks and drink perfected wines. Bellies full we return in high spirits ready for our 25th hour.

Learning some tango, and dancing with the beautiful women of the city, we hit the bar at midnight mingling and swapping stories and dancing. As the worn-out retire, and the hour approaches two, the night begins. Heading to the boliches (dance clubs) at two or three, raggaeton explodes from the unmarked steel doorways that hide the many clubs on every corner of the lit city. The boliches undistinguishable just hours ago, fill with youthful exuberance, and as people dance and couples kiss, the night turns into day. Unknown to the lively part goers emerging from the club, the sunrise has passed. Blinded by daylight, we check our watches to see the little hand resting on seven or eight. As the crowd thins, taxi cabs arrive to carry the people to after-parties, home, or to the beds of lovers.  Crashing into bed one must lay awake for awhile, listening to the sounds of the city that lives longer and fuller than anywhere I have before witnessed. As I lay my head on my pillow, I listen to the sounds and wonder what tomorrow will bring: another exhilerating sports game; another 12 hour parade alive with the colors of indigenous culture; or simply a new friend that will alter my life in ways I have yet to explore. Closing my eyes, I smile. and think... Only in Buenos Aires.

Tigre, Subtes and Raining Avocados: Part 2

Leaving the buffet, our stomachs fat and minds slow, Mauro, Andrew and I resolved to find a cheap boat to view the river from. Pedro, our Brazilian friend who had been hit hardest by the food coma, decided to explore the town of Tigre by foot instead. Borrowing a pen from the waitress and scribbling out our information on place mats, we exchanged emails and full names for later Facebook addition and finally parted ways.

Spirits high, los tres amigos set out to find the cheapest boat for the sunny afternoon. Walking across the park, we found a small room advertising boat outings.  We entered and after some spanish conversation that left andrew and I in the dust Mauro told us 45 pesos for a 40 minute ride. After hearing we could buy a few beers at the local store and bring them aboard, we agreed.

We had time to burn, so we walked around taking pictures of the beautiful surroundings and elegant buildings. Grabbing a brewski and exhausting the local sites, we walked to the park to crack a beer and exercise our jaws and bellies with comedy. (An open beer in public is a legal activity here) Swapping pranks and dirty jokes appropriate only for 20 something males, we laughed until it hurt; upper deckers, el gauncho oxidental, Lacoste y mas.

Finally boarding the the boat, beers in hand, we found it quiet and empty, us comprising three of the seven people aboard. Happy to be loud and not offensive we travelled the cool brown flow of sedimentary river. The beautiful scenery held me at gunpoint. Unable to move or speak for fear of missing something missed only once in a lifetime, workers dredged the river and abandoned boats lay wasted on the heavily jungled shore, contrasting with stark reality the amusement park situated on the other side of the river. Passing the tourist destinations, the river gave way to quaint houses, with docks laid on stilts to protect them from the ebb and flow. The boat lay quiet save the roar of laughter produced by our small corner, giving life to the boat, and fuelling it forward. Finding commonality in comedy, we laughed over inappropriate topics, never to be discussed again making it all the more priceless.

Returning on the boat and finding shore, we finished our last beers and returned to the red brick train station. Tired from a full day and never ending jokes, we hopped the 50 minute train back to the center of the city, and took the subway to the hostel where our beds laid in wait. Riding the subway Andrewś jaw fell to the ground as he witnessed the subte during rush hour, an experience wholly unique to a busy metropolis subway sweltering with the flow of its work force. Laughing all the way home, our jaws sore and stomachs aching from los chistes, we returned to the hostel for electronic communique and a siesta before the night began.

Waking up, the hostel was quiet, save the sound of rain pounding on the roof top, and the occasional clash of thunder bringing light to the darkened sky. Descending to the central courtyard we met each other once more, sharing the company of three Spaniards travelling Sur America. Practicing my Spanish until 3am, we swapped stories and dodged softball sized avocados as they were knocked loose by the billowing winds brought in by the storm. One avocado fell not five feet from me, smashing the ground with a force that drowned out the sound of the thunder clashes that echoed in the distance. Picking it off the ground, we devoured it as a late night snack, smacking our lips in victory. As I fell asleep, the sound of raining avocados reverberated through our tiny room, conjuring thoughts of good fortune, and allowing me to revel in the beautiful differences this new continent brought to light. And peacefully, I slept, dreaming of tomorrow when I could again awake and experience new adventures, known only to those brave enough to lose sight of the shore.

Tigre, Subtes and Raining Avocados: Part 1

Awaking just in time for our continental breakfast Andrew and I rushed downstairs to fill our coffee cups. As we sipped our Argentine coffee, the delicious beans breathed life back into us allowing us to turn our attention to finding a plan for the day. Thankfully Mauro, our Chilean savior, once again shared his plan with us. Vamos a Tigre!!! Andrew and I had no idea what or where this Tigre place was, and with it still being only our second full day, our lack of workable spanish caused us to leave the hostel still clueless about where we were going, how long it would take or what we should expect. Que divirtido! Mauro leading, with lost Americans in tow, he took us to the subte (which is what the subway here in Buenos Aires is called) for our first ride on the yellow, metallic beasts connect the cities most popular destinations.

The subway here is either amazingly efficient or we are extremely lucky; never having to wait more than two minutes for a train, los lineas worm their way through the subterranian maze of infrastructure, gridding the city. While the lines themselves extend out in a fashion closer to crazy straw then a checkerboard, the trains that ride them are fast and comfortable and carry thousands of people to their destinations, saving the busy streets from further congestion. As we sat on blue velvet cushions, where one might expect to see hard plastic or sleeping homeless in another city, I couldn't help but be impressed by the cleanliness of the cars. The C line, which connects the train station to the port, is like any other area of the city, another venue for vendors to sell their wares.  As I took in the scene, a pair of socks fell into my lap, as vendor passed. Looking down the train I saw other passengers laps mirrored my own. Some pulled out cash while other just sat there, socks in lap, staring straight ahead. With only a minute or two between each station, I sat amazed at the efficiency with which the vendors dropped their wares on passengers laps only to swoop them up, or the cash that replaced them, seconds later.

Already wearing socks, I handed the pretty argentine vendor los calcines back, as she passed again on her route through the car, and hopped off at Retiro: The end of the line, and home to the train station. Following Mauro, and still not sure where the hell we were going, we entered the train station and bought tickets. First the subway and then the train! Where the hell was our little Chilean friend taking us?! Asking a few locals about which platform to wait on, he dutifully guided us to the correct platform, and Andrew and I looked at each other, knowing full well how lucky we were to Mauro there to guide us through this mammoth city.

Waiting for the train, we laughed at a cat as it sat at on the platform looking down the tracks and whipping his tail as if he too was late for work and waiting for the train. Two girls next to us, witnessing the same curiosity, laughed as well. Introducing ourselves we discovered that they were also from seattle and were living in paraguay on a brief vacation in Buenos Aires. As we conversed, we noticed a dog, sitting behind the stop designed for trains with no brakes. The cat noticing it as well, grew rigid and began an intense staring contest. Going back to our conversation we didn't notice the dog as it slunk over, looking at the cat hungrily. As the distance closed, starring gave way to hissing and we jumped back, away from the animal tiff which was about to ensue not ten inches from where we stood. Finally the cat abandoned the stand off and dropped onto the tracks out of reach of the dog.

The train came and we boarded. Our brother from a Chilean mother struck up a conversation with a fellow Chilean girl, and a few minutes later he entered her digits into his phone. Andrew and I looked at each other and in a way that required no words, and agreed that there was a good reason that we got along so well with our new friend. Mauro you handsome devil you! Riding the train for some 30 minutes, the train slowly emptied as we neared the last stop. Making our way to some seats near the front, we sat a cross from gentlemen who looked as confused and lost as we did everytime we made fleeting eye contact, which happens often to strangers crammed into tight spaces.

Arriving at the end of the line 50 minutes after boarding, we exited into the train station and danced our way to the bathroom... I guess we all had to much of that delicious Argentine coffee. hehe. Relieved and ready to explore we stepped into the daylight to see a beautiful riverside community bustling with toursits. Finally... so this was Tigre... now we knew. hehe

Tigre, 17 miles north of Buenos Aires is a town still considered to be a part of Greater Buenos Aires. Originally built on an island created by the junction of multiple rivers and streams, it now extends out to cover a larger area of the delta. Upon leaving the train station, one such river extended out before us lined on both sides with well maintained parks and shops.  Flowing steadily, the brown water thick with sediment, the river was home to countless boats designed to take toursists on river tours to the nearby nature reserve.

Crossing the sandy colored bridge to the other shore and enjoying the sunshine, I looked behind us to see the gentlemen from the train looking even more lost then before. Andrew, noticing him too, looked to me saying, "He looks like he needs a friend." Chuckling, but empathetic to his situation having been lost in strange places by myself before,  I replied, "Well then lets invite him to join us." In agreement, we turned to Mauro, our trusty translator and friend who invited him to join our makeshift posse: Two lost Americans, a lost Brazilian and an exploratory Chilean. English, Portugese and Chilean spanish, what a combo. Reaching the other shore and making our way to the ticket booth for boat tours we noticed the 70 peso price and decided it was too expensive, or perhaps only that we were to hungry to think about a tour at this point. Our stomachs rumbling we went out in search of food.

Finding an inexpensive all you can eat buffet, we agreed that we love to take our run at putting them out of business. Armed with our appetites we entered sitting down for what was without a doubt the best meal of the trip thus far. Chorizo, pollo, carne, empanadas, yakisoba... yes asian food too... we feasted. Sharing stories and laughing, we learned that our new brazilian friend was a producer/writer for Globo, the largest network in Brazil. Very cool. Leaning on Mauro for translation, the food coma eventually set in. Topping the meal off with three or four bowls of ice cream, we left in search of a cheaper boat.

To be continued... i dont need to write the whole book today. ;p

Exploring La Boca y Caminito en Buenos Aires

Waking up, Andrew and I still had no idea of how to fill our day, the non-plan  plan being our preferred mode of travel. Heading down to breakfast we saw our friend Mauro from the night before. After a quick meal of bread, fruit, cereal and coffee, we decided to go with Mauro to La Boca stadium and the surrounding barrio.

As I walked, I was gripped by the feel of the city. The buildings, only 4 or 5 stories tall, seemed to tower over the narrow avenues with their European styling and gated balconies. As we walked through an open park we stopped for a brief photo shoot of the bronze statue that stood in the middle. Continuing, we reached La Boca Stadium home to one of the most popular futbol teams in South America. After being denied entrance to the stadium due to a team practice, we browsed the team stores and then entered the museum beneath the stadium chronicling the history of Argentinian futbol and displaying the copas won in heated competition.


Exiting, we explored the neighborhood and walked through Caminito. Caminito, a famous street leading from the stadium to an ocean port was alive with the culture of the city. Tango dancers danced in the street, trapping tourists in the net of excitement and drawing them into the overpriced restaurants.  The vibrant greens, yellows, oranges and pinks painted a perfect backdrop for the intricate stone-carved murals sunk into the buildings' exteriors, screaming of South America. As we walked, local artisans were busy peddling their paintings, drawings and crafts adding to the feel of the barrio. Finding a restaurant, we clinked our glasses as we watched the tango dancers display their skill.


Leaving Caminito in search of cheaper food, we followed our friend and translator, Mauro, hopping a bus to the city center. Finding some inexpensive hot dogs, topped with onions, peppers and jalepenos, we devoured them in seconds trying not to gawk at the beautiful latinas as they passed.  As we strolled the central boulevard, locals congregated and relaxed in the park running down the center of the street, some lazing in the sun on their long lunch break, and some finding refuge in the shadow of the central obelisk that marks the center of the busy city and resembles the Washington Monument in D.C.  Passing the obelisk and finding out street, Venezuela, we made our way to our hostel, Che Lagarto for a siesta of our own.

Waking from our nap at 8pm, we headed downstairs for dinner, only to discover that it would not be served for another 30 minutes. While waiting, we met Tammy, a beautiful stewardess from Chicago who would be staying in the city for the next month. We chatted while we waited for our pizza, and invited her to the Argentina vs. Chile World cup elimination match that would be held on Friday.  An hour and a half later, our pizza finally arrived. Despite having no sauce, and toppings that consisted of 1 olive cut up and divided amongst the slices, it was some of the best pizza I have ever had. The freshness of the ingredients used in the food here is    without a doubt something to be envied in my home country, Los Estados Unidos.

Walking her back to her hostel, three blocks away, we discussed our plans for Argentina, and Andrew and I borrowed some of here research to add to our own to-do-list. After walking the streets and exploring the city a little longer we returned to our hostel and retired for the night.

The Adventure Begins

After multiple flight delays, we finally boarded our plane for a nine hour flight to the Paris of South America, Buenos Aires.  Passing the time by attempting to sleep, watching corny airplane movies and pacing the aisles anxiously, we finally arrived. Upon landing we found ourselves unable to find the shuttle from the hostel to pick us up.  Not altogether annoyed at our misfortune, we found consolation in the fact the airport teemed with the most beautiful women we had ever seen.  An experience that would be repeated in every part of the city that we would visit.

After achieving a miserable failure in our attempt to use the pay phone at the airport, a taxi driver walking through the airport was kind enough to let us use his phone. We talked to the front desk who told us that the shuttle was there waiting.... LIES!  Walking around for another fifteen minutes with no luck, we approached Martina, a gorgeous Argentinian we had met the previous night at the hotel.  Luckily she was still at the airport chatting with her family, enjoying the reunion. She allowed us to use her phone, and calling the hostel once more, the concierge told us the shuttle was still there waiting... LIES AGAIN!! hehe.  After a last sweep of the exit gate, which spit out groggy and confused passengers from around the world in a steady stream, we decided to grab a cab. 

Hopping in the cab, it was immediately apparent that I had picked the right travel partner. Whether I blame A.D.D. or loud music, it became obvious that Andrew understood Spanish far better than I, and in contrast, I was able to speak in Spanish easily while his Spanish vernacular contained maybe ten words. Andrew would listen and translate and I would respond immediately became our plan. And it worked beautifully.

After agreeing upon a price, we hopped into a cab... well not just a cab but the right cab. Asking if we could smoke in the cab, the driver turns to us and handing us each a cigarette he welcomes us with a big, toothy smile and the words "Bienvenido a Buenos Aires." The kindness he showed was a welcomed introduction to the city and a kindness that we would see time and again in this beautiful country.  As he drove, he explained the city to us as best he could given our lack of a shared language. Peering out the window at the neon-lit city, it expanded out around us for miles in every direction. Tall buildings lined the main roadway, an immense sixteen lane road that ran down the center of the city like an artery pumping life into the surrounding calles. A mix of European architecture and South American culture breathed life into the city, urging me to call it home. And as I write this, I find myself enticed to oblige.

Turning off the massive roadway, our driver took us around the block and showed us the cheapest market, liquor store and pharmacy nearby. Thanking him, and paying for both the ride and the information we exited the cab and knocked anxiously on the glass door to our new home.  Checking in and climbing the stairs to our room, we locked our bags up and returned to the main room for our first meal in the amazing city of Buenos Aires. The meal was delicious, and the cook friendly. We filled ourselves on the rich meal of bell peppers, potatoes and rice.  Accompanied by a beer, the entire meal cost us 25 pesos or about $6 USD.

Our bellies full we returned upstairs to meet our first friends of the trip; Antonio a talented Peruvian artist who's paintings of Peruvian holy places, and the vivid culture that occupied them invoked amazement in the talent of the young man; And Mauricio (Mauro), a  true Chilean with a huge smile and a heart of gold with a sense of humor that mirrored that of my own. Antonio was leaving the following morning, but Mauro would come to be a critical component in our adventures in this beautiful city, and would be greatly missed when he returned home. Though we only had 4 days before he left Mauro, Andrew and I came to call ourselves los tres amigos and everyday explored the city together laughing until our jaws ached and our bellies hurt.

Travel Tips (continued)

After a drink at the airport bar Andrew went to check in at the gate while I watched our bags. Upon doing this he discovered our flight was going to be delayed until 7 a.m. the next morning. They gave him a meal voucher for $18 at the hotel they would be putting us up in, but having just ate at the airport, this did not seem to be that useful since we would have to leave before the hotel would be serving breakfast. When he returned I went to the gate to go get my voucher. Which brings me to tip #4.

4. NEVER BE AFRAID TO ASK. When I learned that we had a flight at 7am and and a meal voucher that was only good for that evening... for all intents and purposes... I decided to ask about a meal voucher for the airport for the following morning. Upon explaining my concern, I convinced a gentleman from the airline to give us a $12 meal voucher redeemable at the airport for breakfast the following morning. As far as i could tell, we were the only people on the flight to get a free breakfast, evidenced as I watched everyone line up at the airport Starbuck's the next morning and pull out their wallets for their meal.

With our four vouchers in hand we headed to the Marriot for our free nights stay in Houston. Awake and anxious with thoughts of our upcoming adventure, we showered went to the airport bar, which was now packed with around a hundred people in a bar meant for fifty... which brings me to tip #5

5.  BEFRIEND EVERYONE.  Tipping well makes friends with bartenders and smiling makes friends with everyone else. Don't get distraught over slow service if it's busy, and know that being understanding and joking with people goes a long way. After a good tip and some better conversation we ended up getting half of our drinks for free, and making friends with a beautiful Argentinian who agreed to take us out the following weekend. What more could you ask for. As I drifted off to sleep that night i couldn't help but think about the importance of MY golden rule. A good rule for travel, and an even better rule for life... #6

6.  EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. You don't always know the reason but I've found it is always there if you're patient. While for some, a flight delay of 10 hours might be obnoxious or even infuriating, for us it was a boon.  A last night in lush beds, our own room for the last time in what will likely be several months, and a new contact in a city we know nothing about. So as I said, be patient... look for the good in your situation and understand that everything does happen for a reason, optimism and faith are your biggest assets in situations that lay unknown to you.

Tips for Travel

As I dropped off my couch and bed at the dump at 5:29 yesterday I realized that making a dump run one minute before the dump closes is not the best way to spend your last day in town. And as I packed my bag for travel at 11pm last night, this realization again slapped me in the face. Finally it became very obvious that this could be an issue as I stopped by REI this morning for a last minute purchase as the store opened. This brings me to rule #1

1.  PACK EARLY. For a hardcore type B, like myself, packing last minute is great, even kind of exciting, but it seems to stress a lot of people out, even those not going on the trip.  And then all your friends, WHO WAIT UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE to hang out can procrastinate all week long, and safely come see you on your last night... SO PACK EARLY, even if it's not for yourself.

Arriving at the airport, I realized that the only thing to do at an airport while you wait for your plane is to drink, which brings me to rule #2 and #3

2.  TRAVEL WITH A FRIEND when possible. Drinking at a bar alone in the airport sucks, and when you drink with a friend, the inevitable conversation makes the drink last longer. At $13 a drink, that actually makes a difference.

3. SHOP DUTY FREE. Airplane shots  are $2.50 duty free, or $7 on the plane. While drinking on the plane is always fun and makes the flight shorter, paying $7 for a shot is considerably less fun.

More tips are sure to come as I travel and make more mistakes. Lucky you. You get to learn from my idiocy.

For the Journey

I stand upon the waters edge
I pledge my heart and soul to you
Its true a plan that's dead is born anew in lands that bleed with truth.
Some dreams will pass
Which casts new paths
Unfolding on lives strung askew
And still we stand with worth in hand
Adventurous til the sand pass through

Living Without Regret

Lakes have always had a cleansing effect on me. The sight clears my mind, the fresh breeze off the waters edge clears my senses, and the cool water refreshes my spirit, giving me a pond to reflect in. As I attempt to cleanse myself today, I reflect on the idea of regret. I would be lying if I said I never regretted anything, but as I sit here today I can humbly say that I have no regrets. Not because I have done no wrong, but because I have always been able to forgive myself and learn to be better.  For me regret is nothing more than the dirty residue of guilt built up on the gears that have turned out every decision that I have ever made. The cool breeze and the sound of the ripples on a lakes surface have always seemed to clear away this residue, allowing me to reflect on the guilt of past transgression, and more importantly, allowing me to forgive myself, resolving my guilt into a lesson learned. Regret after all, seems to be nothing more than a guilt left over from decisions with unfavorable consequences; guilt from having made mistakes. However, it has always been said that great men learn more from their mistakes and failures than their successes. So if regrets are nothing more than a guilt left over from past mistakes, why can we not turn each regret into a lesson learned and an apology to one’s self. How else can we become great? How else can we learn and grow from those mistakes we wish not to repeat? My answer is simple; live your life, own your mistakes, and be prepared to forgive yourself for making the mistakes that will inevitably help you to become the person you wish to be.  Signing off I leave your with this, regret nothing, and learn from everything. Every lesson is a strand in the tapestry that will act as your shield from the cold idea of becoming something other than yourself. Don’t be a blank tapestry. Make your own mistakes so that someday you will have your own story to tell, and so that your only regret will be not having made more mistakes.

Adventure in the Alps

I awoke to the stillness of an empty hotel room, a room that nonetheless crackled with the excitement of being on my own in such a new place. This excitement faded as I shuttled to the airport to pick up my family and was replaced by a new excitement, one characterized by the joy of a close family setting off on a new adventure.  Upon arrival, we decided to return to the hotel for a quick nap. After a two hour siesta, we went to the airport to catch a bus to Chamonix. Napping most the way, I awoke only to snap photographs of the 500 yr old castles that dotted the valley before drifting back to sleep. From Chamonix we took a taxi into the Monterosa Chain in the Italian Alps, home to the well known Matterhorn.  As we twisted our way up the zig-zags of a centuries old road that seemed to teeter on the edge of a cliff, I was held in awe by the beauty of the scene. A beauty only found in the time capsules of a landscape unmarred by modern convenience. A landscape made up of small mountain villages looked over by looming medieval castles that seemed to want to crumble under the weight of my gaze. As we passed village after village, the air chilled as we climbed. Finally reaching the end of the valley we found our hotel, Hotel Genzianella, a small structure that fit both with the ancient aire of the 12^th century village of St. Jaques and with the sparkling mountain range that dominated your view in every direction. Exhausted from our journey, we retired to our rooms, anxious for our first taste of the Italian Alps.

I awoke 2 hours early. It was 5am, but our glacier guide would not arrive until 8, and breakfast would not be ready until 7. I attempted to return to my slumber but found it an impossible mission. And so I shut my eyes and prayed for daylight to approach quickly. It did not. Slowly, and eventually the sun crept down the hillsides to flood my balcony, illuminating my room almost as brightly as it reflected off the snowkissed peaks that enclosed the small valley. As the others in my group began to wake, I rushed downstairs to a breakfast of true European fashion: croissants, cheeses, and thinly sliced meats. Not hungry, but aware of the day

ahead, I ate what I could and returned to my room
to make myself ready. The guide, Oscar, arrived at 8am as promised. Oscar, a nice young Italian who lived with his family in the valleys below, had grown up in the surrounding mountains, and after learning that he was largely in charge of coordinating the European World Cup for skiing, I

knew we were in good hands.  We bussed down the valley a short ways to the ski area; after a short visit to the rental shop to pick up our skis and skins, we began our ascent. Floating over rocks and blue ice, the gondola offered us our first glimpse of the expansive mountain range that extended out around us. Two gondolas and four chairlifts later, we were ready to begin our hike up the glacier. Attaching the skins to our skis, we began our trek. My first time on skins, I couldn’t help but feel that at any moment my skis would begin sliding backwards plunging me over a cliff.  As we reached the top of the first small hill, a helicopter, meant for carrying skiers to unreachable snowfields buzzed overhead, no more than 10 feet above us.   The pilot, a friend of our guide, decided to whip up a storm for us; the windblast from the whirring blades became an instant hurricane and knocked half of our group to the ground, annoying those stuck in the snow under the artificial weight and delighting the rest of us. Our sense of adventure affirmed we continued our climb. As the fog crept up the valley, we hurried our pace. It came slowly at first, but soon overtook us as the warm sun heated the rocks of the valley below. Finally reaching the top 2 hours later, the fog pulled back, briefly allowing us a panoramic view of the range that lifted out of the valley and floated on a pillow of clouds. After the inevitable photoshoot of a group of giddy tourists, we began making our way down the glacier into the valley that was home to our new residence, St. Jaques. Passing under massive cliffs, over ever-expanding snowfields and through the sparse trees that dotted the high elevation terrain we made our way down the massive glacier, dropping over 4000 feet in less than an hour. Skiing down to the village that was to be our new home over the next few days, we barely stopped to click off our skis before entering the singular restaurant of St. Jaques. Ravaged by hunger we devoured our 4 courses and retired to the hotel for much needed recuperation before tomorrows adventure began.

Sleeping at most 2 hours, I awoke for my last morning in St. Jaques at 6am. Part excitement and part sentiment had kept me up through the night but I felt awake nonetheless. After watching the snow fall in walnut sized flakes for most the night, I was excited to hit the slopes, unaware that skiing in the Alps holds different rules than in the U.S. After a quick breakfast our guide, Oscar, arrived to inform us that we would not be able to ski the powder. All the mountains had been closed due to winds and avalanche danger. Ski areas here were so expansive and undermanned that the risk to skiers was too great to ski through storms, an idea unheard of in the U.S.  Our plans had originally been to ski to the Refugio Gabriet, a cabin set into the mountains two valleys over, while our baggage travelled there by taxi and snowcat. Several phone calls, and an hour later we piled into the taxi meant for our luggage to be shuttled to the small town of Gressoney, set in the valley below the Refugio Gabriet. After a delicious meal, and a brief walk around the town we climbed into a snowcat, which carried both us and our bags up the mountain. Our climb was so steep at times, it caused the cat to slip on the wet snow beneath the tread conjuring up concern in some, and excitement in others. Slowly, through the snowy haze the outline of the hut began to take shape. After a last struggle up a steep 45 degree cat track, we arrived. Full of energy and ready to ski, Brian and I laboriously built a jump next to the hut, refusing to sleep without clicking on our skis. Fighting our way through the 3 foot drifts we slowly packed the run-in to the take-off point. My body boiling from the hard work, I stripped to a t-shirt and took to the jump to pop my first 360 of the season. After several jumps, we rushed inside to catch a sauna and shower before they closed at 6:30.  Sporting my French underwear in the sauna, I’d never felt so European. After a brisk shower, we feasted on rabbit and then retired to the reading room before climbing the stairs to our room for a night’s rest.

I awoke early again, something that apparently has become a habit I only seem to experience in Europe. As I closed my eyes to attempt to go back to sleep, the smell of pancakes wafted into my nostrils snapping my eyelids open once again. Climbing out of bed and descending to the kitchen area I was disappointed to find bread and Nutella as the main course. Its accompaniment? Hot chocolate and a bowl of cereal the size of a child’s fist that could be eaten in three spoonfuls. After the meager breakfast we skied down to the gondola which we were forced to ride down due to the mountain still being closed. Thankfully, the ski area across the valley was now open and so we met our guide in the valley below to begin the day. We spent the day skiing the thick, heavy powder off the beaten track, finding several cliffs, which we were able to plunge over safely. For lunch we ate at mid-mountain. It was a delicious lunch made better by the service of our beautiful Italian waitress. For the first time, I wished I was not with my family as she was making eyes at me and I would have liked nothing more than to find out her plans for the evening. But alas, our bellies full, our group left the restaurant to return to the valley below for a ride up the gondola to our temporary home. Exiting the gondola, I was excited to learn that a snowmobile with a rope trailing behind it would be towing us up the mountain to our haven. After a short, but exciting ride behind the rumbling machine, I dropped the rope, kicked off my skis and returned to the comfort of our cabin. Going straight to the sauna, I found the company of four Belgians.  Though speaking different languages, we laughed as we rubbed snow on ourselves only to watch it melt away instantly.  Secretly, to myself, I was amused by their willingness to share the snow chunks they had partially melted on their bodies with one another. I declined to share, but enjoyed the experience nonetheless. After a cold shower, I retired to the reading room for study before going to bed.

I woke up lazily, but with time counting down, we quickly packed and loaded our luggage on a snowmobile to be taken down to the gondola.  I popped one last 360 off the jump we made our first night, then skied down to the gondola. The lifts on our mountain were closed due to wind so we left the luggage at the gondola (which we couldn’t ride) and trusted it to be ferried down to the valley below. Skiing down the cat track we arrived at Hotel de Jolanda to meet our new guide. Oscar had a previous engagement for the day so we had a new guide, Albert to ski with us. It was a beautiful sunny day but the 3 feet of powder that had accumulated over the last several days was wet and heavy keeping us mostly on piste. Skiing some off piste, I attempted a 180 off a small bump. Landing backwards my right ski tip pierced the crust, plunging me into the heavy snow. Putting my right hand down to brace myself, I punched the hard ice beneath the freshly fallen snow, breaking/ straining or otherwise reinjuring my thumb at its favorite pain point, on the knuckle at the base of the thumb.  Sad… but oh well, I'm still skiing in the majesty of the Alps. After some light morning skiing, we hiked up above the original gondola to a restaurant that was owned and lived in by a family that had lived there their whole lives. The elderly woman who lived in the hut was 90 and reportedly never left the 9000ft lodge. She chose instead to avoid the valley below, counting on her sons, employees and other unknown aquaintences to bring up the necessary supplies to live in the hut and run the restaurant. The food was very good, and the elderly matriarch worked alongside what must have been her granddaughter serving food and setting the tables. Full from the customary long lunch, we skied down. After some deliberation, Eric, Spence, Brian and I decided to ski down off piste while the less adventurous of our group skied the groomed.  As we came over one of the crests of the couliour, my brother and I discovered the dilapidated roofs of several old huts that had begun to decay. Like minded in our desire to hurt ourselves skiing, we gleefully launched ourselves off of the makeshift jump, leaving deep impressions in the snow for those who followed in our path. Trecking out of the couliour, we met our families in the valley below. We jumped over to the Champoluc side for some more skiing in the sun, staying mostly off piste. We descended into a valley, through a narrow couliour maybe 2 ski lengths wide, found a path through some pillow covered rocks and made our way into the shadow of the mountain above. The snow began to harden, but Brian’s hubris caused him to try one last jumped over a rock. He instead got a core shot to his skis, and somersaulted over the boulder causing all of us to die in laughter… once we saw that he was laughing as well. Continuing down the valley, we hugged the cliff wall and followed the guide on a long traverse back to the village below. After a last run on piste, we grabbed our bags which had been dutifully looked after by the gondola operators and hopped in a taxi waiting to take us to Andrey St. Andre, near Cervina a small, but well known Italian village at the base of the Matterhorn (called Mont Cervino in Italian).  Excited for the potential to heli-ski the Matterhorn the next day Brian and I went to sleep after our ritual of reviewing the day’s ski footage on our laptops.

I awoke filled with excitement over the prospect of heliskiing in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Peaking outside, I saw that the day was sunny and clear, a good sign for our anticipated flight to shadow of the towering beast.  We returned to the Hotel de Roses, the hotel we had originally planned to stay in, and ate breakfast with the others of our group. Though the Matterhorn was all but clear, save a puff of a cloud that at its highest point covered its upper most spire, we exited the hotel after breakfast to find that clouds had begun to move in. Climbing into a large van driven by our returned guide Oscar, we crossed our fingers as we headed up to Cervina where we hoped the sky would clear allowing a helicopter to buzz us to the base of the towering mountain. Sadly, father winter had other plans and a swirling snowstorm blew in to cover the sliver of blue sky that had remained the source of our collective hope. There would be no heli-skiing today.  Nonetheless we strapped on our skis for a day at the ski area. Having only brought sunglasses in anticipation of a helicopter flight and a glacier ski, I was blinded most of the day. I found skiing with eyes closed at many times to be an equally effective and much more comfortable way to brave the storm. In an attempt to ski down to the Swiss side of the Cervino ski area for lunch we lost Ned (one of our group) in the blizzard. Skiing back to the tram, the guide found him and returned to the top with our lost member.  Feeling bad, Ned offered to buy lunch for the 8 of us, but first the storm having temporarily cleared, we took what was easily the best run of the entire trip down an untouched powder field beneath the tram.  Riding the tram back up, we took full advantage of Ned's offer; we ate like kings: 16oz Argentian steaks wrapped in bacon, grilled vegetables, teramisu and chocolate cake. At 3500 meters (11,000 ft) in the restaurant at the Refugio del Guide, we feasted on what was easily the best meal of the entire trip, with scenery to match.  The storm having returned we took a last run down the piste. Oscar left, having more clients to guide the next day, and we spent an hour touring the beautiful village of Cervina while waiting for the bus to arrive to cart us back to the hotel. Brian and I found a small quaint bar, ordered two bombardinos, a sweet yet powerfully strong Italian drink made of coffee and cognac, took some pictures, did some souvenir shopping for those at home and returned to the bus stop just in time to catch it back to the hotel. Exhausted and full we packed, nibbled on what we could at dinner, and finally retired to our rooms for our last nights sleep in the beautiful Italian Alps.

Thoughts from the waters edge

As I sit here on the waters edge of the land known for its ability to dream, I wonder how many people actually keep that dream alive after society stops telling them what their next move should be. Am I alone in that the American Dream is not my dream? In today’s downturned economy, and the rat race that ensues, how easy is it for us to forget the dreams we once held as children. As I stare at the water rippling out from the depression made by my feet, I wonder how people see themselves as they stand now. Are they as I am, looking at their reflection as they stand on the clouds reflecting in the watery ridges, or do they only see their feet half submerged in the deep, cool water as if they might sink below the surface at any minute. Sadly, I fear the latter may hold more truth for most of us. As we go about our day to day, and begin making plans for our lives, how will we choose to live our lives, and how will we decide when a dream may be pushed aside for benefit of our 9 to 5 and the security provided by the generic American Dream? Do you want 2.1 kids? Is your goal 2.2 cars? Is Gucci the answer... or do you have your own dream?  For those of you who ask why I am leaving, and and ask me, “won’t you miss us?” the answer is yes. I will miss all of you and with all my heart… but I have a dream, and it isn’t the American Dream, its bigger.