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.