Sweet Sweet San Juan

I've taken a little time off from this massive blog and as real life cranks up down here (work, school, routine), I feel that I need to reminisce about a night from my travels in Western Argentina.

Two friends and I had just arrived in San Juan after spending a savory few days in Mendoza, the heart of Argentine wine country. The western territory of Argentina is breathtaking, mostly because it lies in the foothills of the Andes mountain range. Almost anywhere you are you can look up and find these beautiful hills, and if you're lucky, behind them will stand the ice capped peaks of the towering Andes.

San Juan is about 3 hours north of Mendoza, and is definitely not on the standard LonelyPlanet tour. We went mostly because it was close, one of my buddies was leaving soon so we didn't want to waste a day on a bus, and because my friend Jack had spent a good weekend there a few years back.

Arriving, we were met directly off the bus by a hostel recruiter, Oscar, as normally happens in the bus stations of smaller Argentine towns ready for backpackers. We were quickly convinced that his hostel was for us, probably cause we didn't have another in mind, so we hopped in a cab and were set up with a beer in hand before we knew it.

San Juan is in desert country, so the heat was dry and impressive. It reminded me of the southwestern US. As the sun set and a cool breeze comforted us, the international troupe of patrons at the hostel began congregating on the small patio. A guitar was brought out, beer passed around, and everyone spent a little time dodging the plumes of smoke that swirled from the massive asado we were all getting ready to devour.

The dinner table was fantastic. My two buddies and I were the only native English speakers present. There were folks from all over Argentina, a Peruvian family, and numerous other friendlies representing other South American states. Everyone was happy to be there, and glad to be enjoying the company of new faces. We toasted the chef, and surprisingly a new Argentine friend decided to extend me my own personal toast, complete with my new nickname, "Dandy," that he had thought up in response to my faux ray bans and gold Casio watch.



As we sucked the bones of our once meaty ribs and sipped our glasses of wine, the young and old settled off to bed. A good contingent of about 6 of us stuck around the dinner table, sharing a few stouter drinks, songs with the guitar, and I struggled to keep up with the Spanish conversation. Before we knew it, the clock had hit 5:30am. Jack, Hugh and I were all pretty well toasted, and as I was considering hanging it up for the night, the hostel's resident retired fiesta fanatic quickly convinced us there was much to do in the city of San Juan at 6am on a Wednesday night.

We jumped into a cab and found ourselves sitting in a patio area outside of a glorified gas station surrounded by a surprising amount of locals. As we sipped our cold brewskies, a few guitars surfaced at the table next to us and an absolutely fabulous local concert began. There were two main guitarist/singers. One guy had a terrific beer belly, chin strap, jolly face, and a voice one would expect out of an opera house. The other one, who sang less but just about as well, was small, skinny, and had a classic Argentine gel blow out.


Before I knew it, one of the guys at the table was waving over to me as he began the classic "before you 'cuse me" blues riff. Hugh had mentioned, or yelled, that I could sing the blues, which is at best only moderately true. However, in San Juan, Argentina, any American who can sing even a little is a expert on blues vocalizations. After a little prodding, I went and stood at the end of this massive local table, made up some words, let go a little, and sat my keester back down so the local jam session could continue.

We soon moved inside to keep the crowd noise to a minimum, and the concert moved on deep into the night. The guy who had played the blues took a liking to me and tried to translate every word of every song that the these fellas were singing. I tried to explain to him that the music was enough and I didn't really need to know the lyrics, but after the fifth attempt I stopped and assumed he was doing it for some other reason.



At about 8am, we were all ready to get home. The shop closed up, and we found ourselves a cab. It had been one of those nights that you hope for while on the road, one of those experiences that isn't readily available outside of Sweet Sweet San Juan in the desert foothills of the Andes.

and the party don't stop till 8 in tha mornin...

At the risk of sounding like a complete lush, my second entry of this little blog must be centered on the subject which I know best at this juncture. And yep, you guessed it, that subject is ‘the good life,’ put in the words of Mr. Kanye West.

While writing an email today I was listing my agenda for this week and thinking back on the past week, when I realized that at the moment my life here is completely ludicrous. I’ve resigned myself to being unemployed until the middle of March, Spanish class is going strong, and we're in those last few beautiful weeks of summer. It’s the feeling of the middle of August in Atlanta or NYC: fall is bearing down upon you, but it isn’t depressing or annoying, it’s just a reason to stay out an extra hour every night. Although I’m in a new sultry February, let me tell you, sweatin ain’t too shabby down here in Buenos Aires.

Last weekend was headlined by a Saturday night filled with my first full blown Argentine roof-top party. It was reminiscent of parties in BK, but held together by a few key differences: the later starting time (I’ve been told you never arrive at an Argentine house party before 1:30-2am), the large amount of Spanish speakers, and once again, the stunning Argentines. The liquor and beer were flowing (not quite to American standards, however), a dope djay was spinning some type of vocal-less electronic beats gritty enough to boogie to, and good looking folks were everywhere. Things were getting beautifully hot and bothered until about 4am, when a neighbor cut the power to the pad. The lights went out, people started yelling and hugging, our host, Tigre, had candles lit all over the house within the blink of an eye, and the mayhem was controlled. Supposedly, this is a fairly normal way for an unhappy neighbor to stop a party…weird but effective.

But did that stop us? You guessed it again, NOPE. A smaller but dedicated troupe of about 15 of us strolled down the street to this amazing self-serve beer bar called Bellagamba. Jokes were cracked, raving declarations made, love confessed: diagnostic of the later stages of any good night. As the pale light of dawn began creeping in through the windows, the BA signal that it’s about time to wrap the night up, the crew began to disperse. It was the 4^th night in a row that I’d been told to go to bed by the rising sun. This ‘good life’ ain’t too shabby.

the boi begins in buenos aires

10/1/08 (argentine style)

We turn a corner into the prime square of Palermo SOHO and lo and behold, the rumors are true. I find myself standing in an isle of a Parisian style patio bar, in between tables of beautiful Argentine girls that would make Henri Toulouse-Lautrec feel like he picked the wrong city to lust himself to death. This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful adventure, I say to my boy Smiley standing next to me.

I don’t want to make it sound like all I’ve been preoccupied with since I arrived in BA 2 days ago is the women, but lets be real, it’s a substantial issue.

This city is fairly incredible. Like big cities throughout the world, it has neighborhoods of varying character. I’m starting my stay in the middle of the city in between Congreso, where the National House of Congress lies, and downtown. It’s been a great place to be initially because I can walk to almost any area of the city starting from my pad. The first day, Smiley and I walked to San Telmo, the home and birthplace of the world famous tango. San Telmo is rustic and a little dirty, but sincerely so. If it was full of granite sidewalks and apartment lobbies with marble floors, the neighborhood would be lying to itself. We spent the afternoon there, so we missed out on the dinner to late night vibe that San Telmo thrives on. We’ll be back, oh yes, we’ll be back.

That first night we went out to Belgrano to visit with some of Smiley’s friends. There were about 7 Americans there when we arrived, and about 4-5 argentines. The hostess, a middle aged woman named Annabella who Smiley’s friends live with, said it best (in a luscious Argentine accent no less), “Too many Americans tonight.” I didn’t disagree, but as it was my first night and my mind was till 40 thousand feet in the air, I didn’t mind either.

The best part of the night was her house. We entered through a rustic gate, so rustic it almost didn’t open, and walked down a brick corridor with sprawling plants on all sides of us. After turning a corner, we entered into the center of the house which was an open air brick patio. Each of the indoor rooms could be accessed through this main patio/room. It was full of live greenery, and just perfect. Annabella said that the house was built in the 1920s. It was a wonderful place.

Yesterday we explored through Recoleta and Palermo, two of the nicer, classy neighborhoods in BA. Recoleta is a little like the Upper East Side or something, the granite sidewalks and marble floors fit right in. Palermo is where we spent most of the time and it was well worth it. We skipped the shops that it’s famous for, and went for the food and drink that we knew we could appreciate with a little more vitality. We stopped in that first bar I mentioned in starting this piece, sat for an hour, listened to the Rolling Stones and Bob Marley, drank 2 litre bottles of beer, and spent 10 pesos.

We left there for a traditional steak dinner at a famous Parilla named La Dorita. It was a bustle of activity, and we knew immediately we were in the right place. Dinner was wonderful, good wine, people watching, scrumptious steak, Argentina.

These first two days have been a great jumping off point. This city has more to offer than one could hope. That night in Palermo while running through the rain back to the bars after dinner, helping Smiley from slipping with his sandals made of waxed foam, giggling through two bottles of malbec, it was apparent that this should be a superb trip.