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.

I didn’t know much about Salta. I was told there would be wine & mountains — not wee fucking hills, but proper mountains. That’s all I need to know. I don’t require much more than wine & mountains to be happy. I’m kind of low-maintenance like that.

After  a short flight from Buenos Aires & a 20-minute cab ride, we arrived at our hotel, El Castillo de San Lorenzo.

No, it is not a haunted house. It really is a hotel.

Our first couple of days & nights at the hotel, we were exhausted, so we didn’t do much. We strolled around the area of San Lorenzo, the tiny little town where our hotel was located. We passed a couple of horses, several dogs & a smiley hobo who decided to chat with a tree after he realized we weren’t going to be very good conversation. Neither one of us could understand the poor guy. Not because we couldn’t understand any Spanish, but because we do not speak tree.

We stayed in & had dinner in the restaurant of our hotel, stuffing ourselves with carne & queso empanadas, humitas, tamales & some of the local beer.

And water, because… well, you know.

In the mornings, I stayed in bed, drooling & snoring while Olivier went for his run. We’d already noticed all the dogs. Everywhere you look, there’s a dog or two walking around, hanging out, or just having a nap. When Olivier emerged from the hotel early in the morning, he found his pack waiting for him.

Yes, they did all go for a run together. I imagine they all barked at things together, too.

One afternoon, we took the bus to downtown Salta to have a look around, eat more empanadas & sit on benches in the park while watching birds flutter & people chatter.

After a couple of days spent bumming around Salta & San Lorenzo, it was time to get to a higher elevation. We had a day trip planned with a guide who would take us through the mountains, to the salt flats & through various towns.

Early on a Tuesday morning & our guide came to fetch us at the hotel. He shook our hands, told us his name was Gonzalo. He already had a German-speaking couple from Switzerland in the truck who were friendly enough.

The five of us chatted as we went entered the foothills. None of us were fully awake, the sky still an early-morning gray, the air still damp & cold each time we hopped out of the truck to take a few pictures & let our guide have a smoke.

Our first real stop was at Santa Rosa de Tastil, which is more of an outpost than a town. Other than some of the best coffee ever, there is also a little museum, which is wonderfully weird. This place has everything: a mummy, tiny dead animal carcasses preserved in jars of formaldehyde, a detailed guided tour given by a fabulously kooky museum lady & some very cool stones that play music if you whack them with a little mallet like a xylophone.

Kooky museum lady even rocked out some Beethoven on these bad boys. I shit you not.

As we went up in elevation, we stuffed our cheeks with coca leaves & gawked at llamas & cacti. After a bit of stuffing & gawking, we made another stop at San Antonio de los Cobres. This is a little copper mining town up in the mountains that kind of has a strange vibe to it. But it feels like a real place as opposed to a shining stop to charm the tourists.

Olivier & I, along with our Swiss travelers sat down in a tiny restaurant for lunch where I sucked down yet another pile of empanadas, which turned out to be one pile too many, leaving me unable to even glance at another empanada for the rest of the trip. While we ate, some of the locals & a couple of the other guides pulled out guitars & started singing.

After our little surprise concert, the four of us wandered around the town until our trusty Gonzalo fetched us & drove us out of the Salta province & into the Jujuy province to Salinas Grandes or the big-ass, blinding white salt flats.

We drove on a little more, until we reached the highest point, then we began our descent in elevation. After driving & stopping a few more times, we arrived in Purmamarca. By this time, we were nearing the end of our big day out. It was time for us to part ways with our single-serving Swiss friends. Gonzalo left Olivier & I on our own in the town while he took them to their hotel.

Purmamarca isn’t a big town. It’s quite small, but is remarkable to look upon. The most prominent feature is Cerro de los Siete Colores, the Hill of Seven Colors. It’s no bullshit. This thing is colorful. Everywhere you look, there is a rainbow of color: the stones in the sidewalk, on the buildings & on the graves in the cemetery with their cactus-wood crosses.

By the time we left Purmamarca, my pockets were stuffed with blue, purple & green stones.

It was just the three of us on the road back to Salta. No more stops for photos & strange museums. Just highway & conversation while our guide’s music from the 80′s played in the background.

I can’t even tell you how many times I heard this during our time in Salta.

As we rolled along the highway, chatting about Argentina, France & the U.S., we were abruptly yanked out of our conversation & soothing melodies of Air Supply by the horrible sound of a popping tire. We all jumped out of the truck, but Gonzalo, he didn’t need our help. He had the spare tire on in just a few minutes.

Around 8pm, we pulled up in front of our hotel. We hopped out of the truck to say our goodbyes & silly as it may sound, Olivier & I felt a little sad. Here we’d spent the entire day with our new friend, talking about serious things, joking & sharing stories, but this was a single-serving friend & now it was time to say goodbye.

He gave each of us a big hug & we all wished one another well. As we started across the road to the hotel, we heard his voice once more.

“Hey.”

We turned around.

“I’ll see you in another life, guys.”

I wonder what he meant by that…

“I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons. Let them never be Stupid Girls.” ― J.K. Rowling

“By choosing healthy over skinny you are choosing self-love over self-judgment. You are beautiful!” ― Steve Maraboli

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” ― Kate Moss

***

Let me start off by saying that Kate Moss is a fucking idiot. I’ve been there. I’ve worn her size 2. I’ve been skinny. I’ve also tasted many different things & I’m here to tell you that she’s flat-out WRONG. Tasting things feels good. Tasting things is good for you. Sometimes, you taste bad things & it might not feel so good, but it’s still good for you. You’ve done something adventurous. You’ve learned something about yourself. You now know you do not like that thing. Tasting things with people you like to be around can be a lot of fun. Tasting things with the right person can be sexy fun.

Being skinny isn’t as much fun. Skinny isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Too much skinny doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t look good. There’s several goals to work toward that will be more rewarding than skinny.

I’m going to be honest with you about all this: I’m 5’7″ tall. If you speak metric, I’m 170cm. Not too tall. Not too short. Just sitting on the line of average height. I like the view from here, so it suits me fine. As of right now, I’m hovering somewhere around 140lbs. (64 kilos). Right now, I’m 36-28-39. Sometimes I’m a size 8. Other times, I’m a size 10 or maybe even a 12, depending on where I’m shopping.

I don’t feel like a large woman. Because I’m not a large woman. In the U.S., I’m average. Here in France, I’m a goddamn Amazon warrior & need to look at plus sizes if I want to find clothes that will actually allow me to inhale. Plus. Sizes.

I wasn’t always like this. I smoked a pack & a half a day. More on drunk days. I didn’t eat a lot & absorbed most of my nutrients from Guinness & fistfuls of Cheez-Its. I weighed 115 lbs. (52 kilos). My cholesterol wasn’t extremely high, but it was higher than it should have been. I felt cold when it was nice outside. I had no boobs, no ass. I had crappy skin on a bony face & brittle hair. My bones were visible. I didn’t have a lot of energy. I wasn’t a sickly waif, but I wasn’t as healthy as I could’ve been. I was damn skinny.

Don't believe me? Here. Proof.

I’d always been skinny. I knew I was underweight, but I didn’t know how to be anything but skinny. People kept telling me, “you are SO skinny” as though it was something I hadn’t noticed. They told me this my whole life in the same way one person informs another that they have a bit of parsley on their tooth. Of course, not everyone was so kind & informative. Some made colorful comments about me spending time in Auschwitz. They asked if I had a tapeworm. If I had anorexia or bulimia. A few of the single-digit I.Q. crowd would inquire, “do you eat?” as though I were somehow staying alive without the traditional means of pushing food into my mouth.

This was my life. From as far back as I can remember, until I stopped smoking over 5 years ago.

The weight gain has been gradual, but over the past 5 & 1/2 years, I’ve gained 25 lbs. I went from size 3 jeans to a size 10. I started getting my cholesterol checked once a year. It’s nice & low like it should be. Just like my blood pressure. I don’t get cold on nice days. My face & body filled out. I got some curves. My skin changed. My hair got thicker, stopped breaking & grew long. I started working out. Cardio. Strength training. Yoga. I was looking for anyone who made a tacky Auschwitz joke so that I could crack their fucking eye socket. I looked better. I felt stronger. I morphed like a character in a superhero origin story.

I was healthier.

Now that I have an ass, I can sit comfortably just about anywhere.

To be sure, part of this was due to the fact that I’d ditched my nasty cigarette habit. But that wasn’t all. I learned to eat, too. I’ve mentioned before that my appreciation for food really started after moving to France, but I’ve also made a great effort over the past few years to educate myself on nutrition. It’s been paying off, so far.

Growing up, I didn’t know how to eat well. A salad was a bowl of iceberg lettuce, drowning in Thousand Island dressing, topped with Bacos & croutons. I hated spinach & green beans. They were nasty, stinking, horribly colored slimy shits that tasted like vomit in a can. I had no clue their fresh & frozen counterparts were delicious. The first time I had salmon, I was an adult. I thought that Velveeta was real cheese. Fried or fast food were just fine.

Meal times were not a ritual of pleasant conversation, family bonding & coming together. Dinner time was a dreaded event, full of screaming & tears. It was me sitting in front of things I didn’t want to eat, protesting as a bowl of cauliflower swimming in Velveeta was thrust at me. “Just fucking eat it! IT’S GOOD FOR YOU!”

Food was mostly a necessity. Sometimes very delicious, but mostly just fuel to keep on living. I didn’t value its importance, or the value of enjoying it.

Now that I do appreciate & enjoy it more, now that I am more educated about what I’m putting into my body, am I a health freak? Absolutely not. Pizza? Bring it. Cheese, chocolate & döner kebab? Yes, please. I eat what I want, just not all at once. Then I exercise. I’m not about to deny myself the pleasure of tasting good food & of sharing that with other people who enjoy tasting good food.

Being skinny just isn’t worth missing out on that. So many things taste better than skinny feels.

Being healthy & looking like a woman feel better than skinny ever did.

Okay, so after the holidays, I'm usually a few more pounds of woman. Still better than skinny.

Maybe being skinny works for you. It could be that you’re thin as a rail & are in perfect health. Good on you. If you’re healthy & you feel good, then stick with it. My opinion shouldn’t matter. For me & for many women, skinny does not equal healthy. If you want to drop a few pounds, drop the doughnut & go for a walk. Do it. But, do it for a better quality of life. Do it to feel good, not to look like someone else. Women should have jiggly bits. Jiggle with pride. It’s the sexiest thing you can do.

***

"I was told to lose weight... but I kept my curves" -Sofia Vergara

"...the first time I went to Italy I was having cappuccinos every day, and I gained 15 pounds. And I felt gorgeous! I would take my clothes off in front of the mirror and be like, 'Oh, I look like a woman.' And I felt beautiful, and I never tried to lose it, ’cause I loved it." -Christina Hendricks

"It's never been an issue for me - I don't want to go on a diet, I don't want to eat a Caesar salad with no dressing, why would I do that? I ain't got time for this, just be happy and don't be stupid." -Adele