Rasmenia

For our last full day in Salta & our final free day in Argentina, we’d planned another tour. This one, however, was a bit different. This time, our guide & driver were two separate people. We rode in a little bus rather than a pickup truck, would be making fewer stops & wouldn’t be hanging out in any strange, tiny outposts with mummies or singing gauchos.

Instead, we’d sit in our comfy seats while our guide pointed out all the cool shit on the side of the road, the cool shit we’d see later & various stories about the area. Then we’d go check out a winery before being set loose to run amok in the town of Cafayate.

Like our previous tour, we made a few stops to check out the scenery & take photos. The only problem with making these stops is that Olivier is part monkey & cannot resist the urge to climb on rocks & things, so he’d wander off, then a little bit later, I’d have to wave him back down from wherever he’d perched himself.

The guy playing & selling his little flutes was in no way concerned with the monkey man scurrying behind him.

Along the road to Cafayate, there are various rock formations that appear to look like something else. We cruised past them in a vehicle, so it was difficult to get decent photos, not to mention the fact that imagination also plays a big part in being able to see that this rock formation really does look like a solemn monk, or that this other one looks like giant toes.

The most impressive was “The Titanic.” Well, because it looked like the Titanic sinking.

It really did. I swear. If you squint & play that shitty Céline Dion song while looking at this photo, you will be able to see it, too.

We continued on until we arrived at a winery, where we were given brief tour & then anyone who wanted to could attend a tasting. There were about a dozen of us in the bus, but only four of us were at the tasting because most people are weirdos. So, Olivier & I tried out a few of the wines with an unfriendly German & a painfully shy Australian.

Everyone else scurried back to the bus while Olivier stopped to buy some wine & I shot the shit with our guide.

“So, you live in France, but you come from where in the United States?”

“Colorado. You just follow the mountains up a while & there it is.”

“Ah! You’re from Colorado? It’s not so different than here, then?”

I looked at his sandy brown hair, his sunglasses propped up on his head… T-shirt, fleece jacket, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t a care in the world. The way he looked, he could’ve been from Colorado himself.

“Nah,” I said. “Not so different at all.”

A few blocks away, we stopped for a couple of hours so that all of us tourists could explore, get some lunch, or loiter in the park.

Olivier & I went to a restaurant with a big, shady patio so we could eat outside. Since I’d gone overboard with the empanadas, we decided to get a big, hot grill full of meat. Going to Argentina & not trying out the beef is a shame (sorry, herbivores) & I didn’t feel like I’d made my red meat quota, so I was pretty excited about it.

Maybe a little too excited. This grill had a variety of meat sizzling on it & it all looked great. I grabbed a piece of liver. It was good. Then I had a some steak. I was on a roll & there was no stopping me. That, combined with me being a somewhat adventurous eater was not good.

Olivier tried to talk me out of putting that piece of kidney meat in my mouth, but I just wouldn’t fucking listen… & I paid a terrible price: a mouth full of urine-soaked meat sponge.

I don’t care how good you think your reasons are, I caution you all to NEVER, EVER PUT A MEATY URINE SPONGE IN YOUR MOUTH.

Avoid any weird meat that looks like this lumpy piece of shit. Unless you like to drink pee.

Once we’d all been gathered up in the bus again, we stopped at a few more natural attractions, the most interesting one being the natural amphitheater. Of course, there were more monkey shenanigans when Olivier decided to climb all over the place, this time inspiring a couple of fellow travelers to engage in the hijinks.

Then, our guide informed us that it was time for the “surprise.” I wasn’t too excited, assuming that “surprise” meant some quaint roadside bullshit, or another wacky rock formation. But, it turned out that the quaint roadside bullshit was super-cute & fun, as they took us to a little place with llamas.

Even though I was bursting with giddiness, I patiently waited for all the other passengers to exit the bus safely & assisted the elderly down the steps.

Nah… I’m just kidding. It took all my self-control not to shove people out of the bus in all my excitement to pet the llamas.

He nibbled corn out of my hand & OMG IT WAS THE BEST DAY.

After we’d finished with all that, it was time to head back toward the hotel. Being in a group, this means our little bus dropped each person off at their lodgings, rather than dumping us all off at one place. One by one, we waved goodbye. “Au revoir, ciao, bye, adios.” Whatever.

Even our guide was dropped off before Olivier & I were, our hotel being farther out of town than anyone else. So, we moved up to the front of the bus. We hadn’t really spoken to the driver all day, so Olivier started chatting with him in Spanish, as the driver spoke no English. Me, I don’t speak much Spanish, aside from a few useful or ridiculous phrases, but I understood all right, so I just did a lot of smiling & nodding.

By the time we reached our hotel, the two of them were high-fiving, engaged in some big discussion about rugby, talking about the driver’s kids, fist-bumping & being best friends.

This is pretty much how it was with most of the people we talked with during our time in Argentina. Talking to a new person is as comfortable & fun as talking to someone you’ve known for a long time. I felt no sense of stiffness & formality… a person doesn’t have to know you well enough to joke with you – they’re willing to kid around & laugh with you right off.

It’s a place that makes you friendly… even when you’re not a friendly person. Which I’m not.

Then there’s the feeling of being closer to home, even though Paris is actually about a thousand miles closer to Colorado than Buenos Aires is, it is culturally a world away. People in Argentina don’t find it strange to smile at a stranger. I talked to some of them about it. They told me that it’s normal; it’s friendly & nice. As many people know, this is not the case in many parts of Europe, especially in & around Paris.

While talking to some of my new Argentinian friends, we had a laugh over the chaotic streets of Paris.

“City plans should be in a grid.”

“Indeed they should. I got lost over & over again in Paris. Four lefts should make a circle, not a zigzag that takes you to the next quarter.”

“And it’s so dark in Paris in the winter. 8am. Nothing but darkness.”

“Yeah. Even the faces of the Parisians. Dark all winter long.”

“It’s too bad they don’t smile more. It’d brighten things up.”

“It sure would. Let’s have another beer. And smile!”

The endless fashion show that is part of the daily life in France was a world away. In Argentina, everyone was relaxed, casual. Strolling around the city sidewalks in a pair of shorts & sandals on a hot day was normal & not a colossal offense answered with silent sneers & derisive frowns.

I mentioned this to one of the locals I talked to; that I felt so relaxed & comfortable.

“Well, we’re not without our problems. Just like any place, I think,” she said.

“True enough,” I said. “But the human thing. You guys seem to have that figured out.”

She shrugged. “If you have that, everything else works out, I suppose.”

Truth. As long as you avoid the pee meat.

The reason we went to Buenos Aires had nothing at all to do with fun. It was all about work. Specifically, Olivier’s job. Occasionally, the company he works for sends people to Argentina, or puts some Argentinians on a plane for France. They’d sent Olivier to Buenos Aires for a week a couple of years ago, but I stayed home. It wasn’t a sad thing, since I had a BFF from back home visiting me.

About 6 months ago, Olivier was informed they’d be sending him again. But, this time I’d get to tag along & we decided to take an extra week just to spend time appreciating Argentina.

After our insanely shitty flight from Madrid, we arrived on a Sunday morning to find Buenos Aires calm & still half-asleep. After showers & a Burger King fix (give us a break – there’s no Burger King here, so we jump on it whenever we get the chance) we had a quick stroll, then drinks on the rooftop of our hotel with Olivier’s two coworkers, who we’d been traveling with.

We had a great view of the other rooftops from there.

We’d all noticed down on the street, in front of the hotel, these big yellow tourist buses that came & went every few minutes. You know the kind of buses I’m talking about — those big bastards you see in major cities that are always packed full of gawking, camera-wielding tourists on the roof.

Except, you know… when they’re completely empty.

All of us were so jet-lagged & so exhausted with a Sunday afternoon to burn. It was too hot outside to do much of anything — especially since the four of us had all just been in the midst of a cold, damp winter less than 24 hours ago. The 85° F temperature was a shock to our systems. The only sane thing to do was to drink on the rooftop of the hotel while we waited for the temperature to drop a little bit so that we could migrate from the hotel rooftop to a big bastard bus rooftop.

The 3-hour tour took us all around Buenos Aires. We put on the headphones & listened to the audio guide as we marveled at buildings with fancy facades, poor neighborhoods with cracked walls; murals, sculptures, monuments & parks. We saw crazy soccer fans hanging out of bus windows, shirtless & screaming. We saw people who reminded us of ourselves.

Uncanny.

The real excitement came from all of the tree branches hanging down low enough to smack us in the face as we gawked & pointed. I admit, we laughed hysterically & without mercy when the poor old man sitting in front of us (yep, that’s the back of his head in the photo) got the shit smacked out of him by a palm tree branch. Don’t worry — he was okay & the rest of us managed to hit the deck before it slapped us.

A 3-hour tour is long, even when there’s plenty to see, so around the 2 & a half hour mark, the four of us were getting a little bonkers. We started to lose our shit & became the loud, obnoxious laughing people on the tour.

“When is this ride ever going to end?”

“Where’s your headphones?”

“Fuck those headphones. I threw those off half an hour ago. Where are WE?”

“It’s getting cold. I’m going downstairs into the bus.”

“OH MY GAWD IT’S FREEZING DOWN THERE.”

“We’re trapped on the roof of this bus. HOLY FUCK BALLS WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE BRANCH.”

We were cooped up & crazy. The wind picked up, blowing dust all over us. I licked my lips & they were coated with a layer of dust. My hair was blown into dreadlocks. My eyes, gritty with tiny rocks.

The next day, Olivier & his coworkers had to begin their work week. So how did I spend my days in Buenos Aires during their working hours? I spent them here.

Indeed, I locked myself up in this hotel room all day long with the “do not disturb” sign hanging from the door. Every morning I had my continental breakfast in the international business hotel with the three international business travelers I was with, then I put my ass on that little green stool & hunched over my iPad to write without the distractions of home. It was fucking excellent. That hotel room got a new story out of me, along with some progress on my novella.

Sometimes, Olivier would come pull me out of there for lunch, if he could get away & when he finished work in the evenings, we hit the street to meet up with the Argentinian coworkers. This is all a big blur of English, French & Spanish chatter sprinkled with techno music, laughter & generous quantities of Argentinian cerveza.

DAMN YOU! WHY MUST YOU BE SO DELICIOUS?

We did find some time to get together with our Argentinian friends & escape our working, writing mode for a while at el Museo del Bicentenario.

This is an excellent museum just next to the famous pink presidential palace in Buenos Aires & has only been open since May, 2011. First of all, museums are just cool… but this one is in a freaking archeological site. Specifically, an old fortress.

Before we knew it, the week had come & gone. Saturday morning, Olivier & I were on our own, back at the airport to catch a flight to Salta.

I was told there would be wine in Salta… & snow-capped mountains that would make a surly woman from Colorado feel whole again, so I couldn’t wait to get there. Also, I was promised there would be empanadas & I really, really wanted to eat a pile of empanadas. Even better if I could eat a pile of empanadas with a decent view of the Andes.

And that’s all I have to tell you for now. Later, I’ll tell you how amazing Salta is. I’ll tell you about the llamas & how my rigid forcefield of misanthropy was so easily penetrated by the many warm, smiling Argentinians I encountered who are somehow so… human.

We climbed aboard the bus to Delphi & took a gander at the other passengers. A few elderly couples, a few 40 or 50-somethings. A woman with her nose in a book & one couple with a little boy. All together, there was only about 20 of us in the group.

“We lucked out,” Olivier said. “The bus isn’t even half-full & there’s only one little kid, who doesn’t seem annoying.”

Me & my husband, we’re just not kid people. I watched the little boy, who leaned across the aisle toward his father & said, “Excuse me, Dad, but why are there no buses that fly?”

I nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

The door closed. The tour guide introduced herself. It would be a 3-hour trip to Delphi, where we would see the archeological site, then the museum, then lunch.

Our guide spent the 3 hours recounting various tales from Greek history; several Greek myths relating to Apollo & to the various sites & cities that we passed on our way to Delphi.

“… then Apollo killed the dragon Python, who lived at the center of the Earth and guarded the stone – the navel of the Earth…”

“… Apollo had many lovers, one of the most famous of his lovers was the prophetess Cassandra…”

“… the Greek messenger, Pheidippides, ran for 240km to announce the victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon, but it was far… he was wearing all of his armor, so he got really hot and tired, then he dropped dead. That’s why we call this big race a ‘marathon,’ for this messenger who dropped dead.”

“I see some of you falling asleep. I will stop talking. After I tell you one more story…”

“Ok… just one more story, then I let you sleep.”

“… and that’s why I do not really like this movie, ’300′.”

Of course, during these kind of touristy excursions, there is always that one big nerd, leaning forward in their seat, listening intently to every word, nodding along & commenting to the person next to them.

I should tell you that this big nerd was me. When people were falling asleep during the stories, I was offended. When someone began chatting, disrupting my listening enjoyment, I did the half-turn in my seat, with the disapproving look.

It went like this until we arrived at Delphi. Our guide showed us around the various points of interest at the site, one of which was the restored Athenian Treasury:

She took us to Omphalos – the stone that marks the “navel of the Earth”.

You can imagine how relieved we were to see that Python's stone is still there.

While continuing to entertain us with stories of Greek mythology, our guide led us to the ruins of the Temple of Apollo before leaving us to run amok on our own for an hour, at which time we would meet back up for a quick trip through the little museum.

Our guide zoomed us through the Delphi Museum. It’s now a rapidly spinning blur of ancient statues, myths & camera clicks.

The bus then took us to a nearby hotel where lunch was waiting for us. Seating was limited to just a few tables in the corner of the dining room, so everyone had lunch with single-serving friends. Luckily, we ended up with a cool couple from Santa Barbara. Like the trip through the museum, food arrived quickly – a little too quickly. We were still eating when the waiters brought each of us an orange. Our guide announced, “Ok! Have your dessert, visit the bathroom & back on the bus in 10 minutes.”

All around us, tourists were peeling fruit & running off to the bathroom; shoving orange wedges into their face & entire oranges into their pockets & bags.

Before we knew it, we were on our way back to Athens. Everyone fell victim to that after-lunch sleepiness, which was only made worse by the hum of the bus. Even our guide, who had been so talkative, began to quiet down. For most of the 3-hour return trip, it was nap time.

The passengers stirred as we approached Athens. As we all came back to life, our guide began to speak once again. We rode past the Athens Olympic Stadium, which was built for the 2004 Summer Olympic games.

“… and we built many, many things for these games… things that cost so much money to our country…”

“… these games had nothing to do with the Olympic tradition, when all countries at war would stop fighting, making peace during the games. Now the fighting continues and no one remembers these glorious games of the past…”

“… so much money was spent, now we are very disappointed, in a terrible debt… in a terrible crisis…”

The tone had taken a somber turn. All the passengers were silent. No more noses in books, no more chatting with neighbors. Just a mostly empty bus of American tourists, sitting motionless.

Our bus slowed down as we approached a toll area, where several people were assembled, holding up picket signs. Since Olivier & I don’t speak or read Greek, we had no idea why these people were striking.

“… there is often people on strike because they are disappointed with the government right now. I don’t blame them.”

“Our Prime Minister George Papandreou has raised our retirement age so many of us are very angry about this…”

“… so that is why we sometimes have problems with our neighbors in Turkey, though it is calm now…”

“… and we have spent money for weapons… we have been good clients when it comes to buying some weapons…”

Olivier & I looked at one another. “Wow,” he said, “these people are angry.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “They have every right to be.” I looked around at the other Americans, looking awkward & uncomfortable. We’re just not used to this kind of thing. If some tour guide at Disneyland, or one of our national parks started going off on a tirade about the government, or spouting opinions on international conflicts, there would likely be a complaint & that tour guide would probably lose their job.

As I looked around, I did laugh a little bit. Not at the tour guide, but at all of the uncomfortable tourists, squirming in their seats. A (literally) captive audience, getting first-hand information on what it’s really like for other people in far away places.

It’s a pity that more guided tours aren’t like this.