If you do...I KNOW! George Michael doesn't get less awkward after puberty and a couple glasses of wine.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Bluth Family Reunion in Mendoza?
If you don't watch Arrested Development, you should.
If you do...I KNOW! George Michael doesn't get less awkward after puberty and a couple glasses of wine.
If you do...I KNOW! George Michael doesn't get less awkward after puberty and a couple glasses of wine.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Bienbebidos a Mendoza
Our stay in Mendoza would have been as tortuous as the roads we took to get there if the views and vinos didn't compensate for the potential calamities.
The drive through Los Liberadores, the gateway between Chile and Argentina, was a long and winding road. With purple mountains on every side, the view left nothing to be desired—until we saw the line for customs. Colorful buses teetered on the dirt cliffs while hundreds of passengers stretched and yawned.
After two hours of lines and a few furrowed brows when examining our "temporary" visas, we were back on the bus and headed for Mendoza, but not without photographing our first steps (since Buenos Aires) on Argentine soil.
The rest of the ten-hour drive flew by thanks to increasingly beautiful scenery. We savored views of Mt. Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere, expansive vineyards, and indigo lakes misplaced in the middle of the desert.
All that was lovely, but trouble started when we reached our hostel. Somehow, the hostel booking was impaired after the last minute addition of Scott's Chilean polola (girlfriend) and the subtraction of John. Somewhere in the equation our beds failed to add up.
Tired, aggravated, and unamused by the over-animated clerk, I pulled a turbo-assertive Laurel and scared the clerk into finding us beds; hammocks; lawn chairs; whatever. It was a holiday weekend in South America, so hostels were full of like-minded travelers. With nowhere else to sleep, I pardon my aggression.
Meanwhile, our next problem was congealing as we continued our pursuit to change our bus tickets back to Santiago. Schools in Rancagua were going on strike, so we had an extra day to spend in Mendoza. Since we had bought our bus tickets online, we tried calling, e-mailing, and of course, stalking the Andesmar bus offices to change our tickets. Ignored and practically derided ("Silly gringas, don't you know that the company's main office is in no way affiliated with the online branch?"), our attempts failed to solve our transportation troubles and we instead bought new tickets.
After one last e-mail of condemnation, the company replied five days later, promising to reimburse us for the unused tickets. Still awaiting that transaction.
While our living and leaving issues permeated the weekend, the charms of Mendoza were overpowering. No one could stay in a foul mood and as we road bikes through wine country Saturday morning, we were even singing a little Mungo Jerry. "In the summer time when the weather's fine, you can reach right up and touch the sky, when the—"
Right in the midst of the chorus, Cami's camera was snatched by another biker...with a motor. Outmatched by his horsepower, we drowned Cami's sorrows in dulce de leche liquor and olive tapanads. Feeling courageous after a couple wine samples, Cami started wearing her wallet on her wrist. Just consider stealing from her again.
On the ride back to Mr. Hugo's bike rental service, we tried to stay to the right of the white line, heed pedestrians, and manage our questionable breaks, but the task proved difficult. A local police car decided it was in our best interest to follow us slowly and toot his siren every time we veered off the bike path. Judging by his patience as he crawled at 5 kph for 3 kilometers, it seemed like a typical part of his job description.
With our wine-fix fixed, we spent the rest of the weekend strolling through Mendoza's broad, tree-lined avenues, enjoying the sunny cafés and saucy nightlife.
Palm heart pizza: an absolute rarity. As this pizza should be.
Sushi for four, or, the three of us. One of our better decisions.
The Central plaza of Mendoza, where artisans shops line the sidewalks and verdant trees shade romantic benches.
Too soon, the weekend was over and Mendoza drifted away like the snow off the purple backs of the Andes. We were back on the road again. Back to work. Back to school. Back home.
The drive through Los Liberadores, the gateway between Chile and Argentina, was a long and winding road. With purple mountains on every side, the view left nothing to be desired—until we saw the line for customs. Colorful buses teetered on the dirt cliffs while hundreds of passengers stretched and yawned.
After two hours of lines and a few furrowed brows when examining our "temporary" visas, we were back on the bus and headed for Mendoza, but not without photographing our first steps (since Buenos Aires) on Argentine soil.
The rest of the ten-hour drive flew by thanks to increasingly beautiful scenery. We savored views of Mt. Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere, expansive vineyards, and indigo lakes misplaced in the middle of the desert.
All that was lovely, but trouble started when we reached our hostel. Somehow, the hostel booking was impaired after the last minute addition of Scott's Chilean polola (girlfriend) and the subtraction of John. Somewhere in the equation our beds failed to add up.
Tired, aggravated, and unamused by the over-animated clerk, I pulled a turbo-assertive Laurel and scared the clerk into finding us beds; hammocks; lawn chairs; whatever. It was a holiday weekend in South America, so hostels were full of like-minded travelers. With nowhere else to sleep, I pardon my aggression.
Meanwhile, our next problem was congealing as we continued our pursuit to change our bus tickets back to Santiago. Schools in Rancagua were going on strike, so we had an extra day to spend in Mendoza. Since we had bought our bus tickets online, we tried calling, e-mailing, and of course, stalking the Andesmar bus offices to change our tickets. Ignored and practically derided ("Silly gringas, don't you know that the company's main office is in no way affiliated with the online branch?"), our attempts failed to solve our transportation troubles and we instead bought new tickets.
After one last e-mail of condemnation, the company replied five days later, promising to reimburse us for the unused tickets. Still awaiting that transaction.
While our living and leaving issues permeated the weekend, the charms of Mendoza were overpowering. No one could stay in a foul mood and as we road bikes through wine country Saturday morning, we were even singing a little Mungo Jerry. "In the summer time when the weather's fine, you can reach right up and touch the sky, when the—"
Right in the midst of the chorus, Cami's camera was snatched by another biker...with a motor. Outmatched by his horsepower, we drowned Cami's sorrows in dulce de leche liquor and olive tapanads. Feeling courageous after a couple wine samples, Cami started wearing her wallet on her wrist. Just consider stealing from her again.
On the ride back to Mr. Hugo's bike rental service, we tried to stay to the right of the white line, heed pedestrians, and manage our questionable breaks, but the task proved difficult. A local police car decided it was in our best interest to follow us slowly and toot his siren every time we veered off the bike path. Judging by his patience as he crawled at 5 kph for 3 kilometers, it seemed like a typical part of his job description.
With our wine-fix fixed, we spent the rest of the weekend strolling through Mendoza's broad, tree-lined avenues, enjoying the sunny cafés and saucy nightlife.
Palm heart pizza: an absolute rarity. As this pizza should be.
Sushi for four, or, the three of us. One of our better decisions.
The Central plaza of Mendoza, where artisans shops line the sidewalks and verdant trees shade romantic benches.
Too soon, the weekend was over and Mendoza drifted away like the snow off the purple backs of the Andes. We were back on the road again. Back to work. Back to school. Back home.
Cami's Chilean Cumpleaños
Cami's host grandmother: Cami, how did you get to be so perfect? Your parents must have taken their tiiiiime making you! Wink.
Disturbing imagery? Yes. Lost in translation? Absolutely not.
Cami Nakano clearly has perfect hair and teeth (the x-rays of which are probably framed on her dentist's desk), but she's more well-rounded than her effortlessly styled bob. Clever, graceful, and compassionate, Cami is that heart of gold Neil Young has been searching for.
She may be overzealous about Christmas carols and slow to make "hard" decisions (Where's Cami? Oh, she's still staring into the closet), but I guess we all have our flaws.
To celebrate the life and times of Miss Cami Nakano, we partook in three nights of intercultural celebrations.
Night One: Carrot omelets, manjar cake, and Episode 4 of Glee. Special appearance by my little host mom.
Night Two: Family party at Cami's where we belted our off-key hearts out while Cami made thirty seconds worth of wishes. One was likely: Never again let me eat manjar.
Twenty three trick candles mean wishes don't come true.
Night Three: "Ethnic food" in Bella Vista. Our love affair with choripan having officially been denounced after Sept 18th gluttony, we ran off to gringoland and spent a night in the boho-hip Barrio Bellavista searching for the perfect birthday dinner.
Our goal was ethnic food. Isn't Chilean food ethnic? I won't dignify that question with a response. Instead of the typical potatoes and meat kabobs, we pursued "Mexifoods,"as advertised on the fajita lids. If nothing else, it almost had spices; the "hot" pico de gallo even bordered on mild. We were impressed.
Sunday afternoon we strolled in wanderlust through the shaded cobblestone streets of Bellavista. Amidst the electric houses, bohemian boutiques, and art dealers, we found a way to be our classy selves at the always popular...Emapanatodos! Per usual, Laurel food-models the most recent empanada creation straight out of the avant garde street vendor's fryer: an apple pie empanada.
The weekend's only disappointment was saying good bye to Emma, our witty Welsh friend who we all but kidnapped from Buenos Aires. Though she is quick to patronize our banal vocabularies and horrid accents, we all know Emma is like, a super hardcore fan of the US.
Caught: A red, white, and blue-handed Emma, amidst efforts to forge an alliance with Team America.
With or without the most up-and-coming empanadas, giant manjar cakes, or ethnic mexifoods, Cami's Chilean cumpleaños was a success. It doesn't take a special occasion to see how much Cami is loved in Chile, but we did need an excuse to use that overpriced gem-studded tiara. Maybe those trick candles didn't fail us after all.
Disturbing imagery? Yes. Lost in translation? Absolutely not.
Cami Nakano clearly has perfect hair and teeth (the x-rays of which are probably framed on her dentist's desk), but she's more well-rounded than her effortlessly styled bob. Clever, graceful, and compassionate, Cami is that heart of gold Neil Young has been searching for.
She may be overzealous about Christmas carols and slow to make "hard" decisions (Where's Cami? Oh, she's still staring into the closet), but I guess we all have our flaws.
To celebrate the life and times of Miss Cami Nakano, we partook in three nights of intercultural celebrations.
Night One: Carrot omelets, manjar cake, and Episode 4 of Glee. Special appearance by my little host mom.
Night Two: Family party at Cami's where we belted our off-key hearts out while Cami made thirty seconds worth of wishes. One was likely: Never again let me eat manjar.
Twenty three trick candles mean wishes don't come true.
Night Three: "Ethnic food" in Bella Vista. Our love affair with choripan having officially been denounced after Sept 18th gluttony, we ran off to gringoland and spent a night in the boho-hip Barrio Bellavista searching for the perfect birthday dinner.
Our goal was ethnic food. Isn't Chilean food ethnic? I won't dignify that question with a response. Instead of the typical potatoes and meat kabobs, we pursued "Mexifoods,"as advertised on the fajita lids. If nothing else, it almost had spices; the "hot" pico de gallo even bordered on mild. We were impressed.
Sunday afternoon we strolled in wanderlust through the shaded cobblestone streets of Bellavista. Amidst the electric houses, bohemian boutiques, and art dealers, we found a way to be our classy selves at the always popular...Emapanatodos! Per usual, Laurel food-models the most recent empanada creation straight out of the avant garde street vendor's fryer: an apple pie empanada.
The weekend's only disappointment was saying good bye to Emma, our witty Welsh friend who we all but kidnapped from Buenos Aires. Though she is quick to patronize our banal vocabularies and horrid accents, we all know Emma is like, a super hardcore fan of the US.
Caught: A red, white, and blue-handed Emma, amidst efforts to forge an alliance with Team America.
With or without the most up-and-coming empanadas, giant manjar cakes, or ethnic mexifoods, Cami's Chilean cumpleaños was a success. It doesn't take a special occasion to see how much Cami is loved in Chile, but we did need an excuse to use that overpriced gem-studded tiara. Maybe those trick candles didn't fail us after all.
Chi Chi Chi — Le Le Le — Viva Chile!
The long-awaited Chilean Independence week was served on a heaping plate of meat, wine, and cueca. Every day passed about the same: asado (barbeque) for lunch, singing and dancing, asado for dinner, dancing and singing. The only variations were the asado menus. Will there be choripan (sausage hotdog) or antecucho (meat scewers), or both?!
Above, antecuchos. Below, a myriad of meats; choripanes are on the left.
Note: Laurel, Cami, and I have already claimed intellectual property rights to a Chori Stand enterprise in the US. Genius, I know.
During the celebrations, many Chileans travel with their families to the coast, namely Pichilemu, but my family stayed in Rancagua to have a quiet holiday. Quiet, I learned, is a relative term. While in Rancagua, my school turned into a dance hall and my family formed a traveling band. In both instances, meat was plentiful.
The kids performed cueca after cueca, but also some indigenous dances. There were bare-bellied gypsies from the sixth grade following an exotic Isla de Pascua rhythm and some hooded and caped third graders zooming around the dance floor like superheroes (above).
At night, I attended a few family celebrations where tíos gathered around a table of meat madness and took bites between sing-a-longs. I don't know how it's possible, but everyone in my host family is artistically endowed, except me.
They hoped I could carry a tune as well, but singing is not one of my redeeming qualities. Laurel and I belted out a few lines of "Quiero Ser Libre," by La Noche , a famous Cumbia band in Chile (below), but were surprisingly not begged for an encore.
After much family fun, Laurel, Cami, and I decided to infiltrate John's host family's cabin (below) in the popular beach town, Pichilemu.
There, the environment was just as patriotic with streamers falling in the streets, barbecues on the beaches, and Chilean flags bordering every driveway, but the vibe was more youthful. Folk music was traded for reggaeton and wine for piscolas.
We were in Pichilemu for less than 12 hours, but danced for 5 of those at una fonda. The Fondas are local, tented areas that sell inexpensive drinks and typical foods (you guessed it: choripanes, empanadas, and antecuchos) where the crowd expands to the horizon and pisco is the elixir of life. We didn't leave the cabin until 2:30, we are on Chilean time mind you, so dawn broke our fall from the dance floor.
After a very late night in the name of patriotism, I thought——no prayed——Sunday would be a day of rest. Instead of calling it quits after a hard week of parties, I came home to yet another asado just kicking off on my back porch. How do they do it? Chilean stamina may evade me, but at least I can now verify the unparalleled reputation of el dieciocho de Septiembre.
Above, antecuchos. Below, a myriad of meats; choripanes are on the left.
Note: Laurel, Cami, and I have already claimed intellectual property rights to a Chori Stand enterprise in the US. Genius, I know.
During the celebrations, many Chileans travel with their families to the coast, namely Pichilemu, but my family stayed in Rancagua to have a quiet holiday. Quiet, I learned, is a relative term. While in Rancagua, my school turned into a dance hall and my family formed a traveling band. In both instances, meat was plentiful.
The kids performed cueca after cueca, but also some indigenous dances. There were bare-bellied gypsies from the sixth grade following an exotic Isla de Pascua rhythm and some hooded and caped third graders zooming around the dance floor like superheroes (above).
At night, I attended a few family celebrations where tíos gathered around a table of meat madness and took bites between sing-a-longs. I don't know how it's possible, but everyone in my host family is artistically endowed, except me.
They hoped I could carry a tune as well, but singing is not one of my redeeming qualities. Laurel and I belted out a few lines of "Quiero Ser Libre," by La Noche , a famous Cumbia band in Chile (below), but were surprisingly not begged for an encore.
After much family fun, Laurel, Cami, and I decided to infiltrate John's host family's cabin (below) in the popular beach town, Pichilemu.
There, the environment was just as patriotic with streamers falling in the streets, barbecues on the beaches, and Chilean flags bordering every driveway, but the vibe was more youthful. Folk music was traded for reggaeton and wine for piscolas.
We were in Pichilemu for less than 12 hours, but danced for 5 of those at una fonda. The Fondas are local, tented areas that sell inexpensive drinks and typical foods (you guessed it: choripanes, empanadas, and antecuchos) where the crowd expands to the horizon and pisco is the elixir of life. We didn't leave the cabin until 2:30, we are on Chilean time mind you, so dawn broke our fall from the dance floor.
After a very late night in the name of patriotism, I thought——no prayed——Sunday would be a day of rest. Instead of calling it quits after a hard week of parties, I came home to yet another asado just kicking off on my back porch. How do they do it? Chilean stamina may evade me, but at least I can now verify the unparalleled reputation of el dieciocho de Septiembre.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)