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 hate flying. When I was a kid, I traveled by plane often, as many children of divorced parents do. Back then, it was a fun & exciting adventure. Because I was a wee one traveling alone, I received special attention. The flight attendant would bring me a little plastic pin with wings on it. “A gift from the captain,” they’d say.

I’d read my books & listen to my Walkman. The person sitting next to me was always nice. Or, at least quiet & polite.

Over time, things changed. I got bigger. My legs grew longer. My patience, shorter.

I take more international flights now. The airlines have changed, too. Now there’s a lot more seats crammed into a single airplane in order to squeeze more money out of every flight.

Flying anywhere — even a 2 or 3-hour flight — has become a fucking ordeal that one must survive, rather than a fun & exciting adventure. It’s no longer the happy beginning of a vacation to a new & exotic place. It’s a goddamn penance that must be paid for having the audacity to leave your home.

That’s without getting into the bullshit about customs, body scans, TSA & the inquisition of foreigners in the U.S., which I won’t get into here.

Most of my flights going back & forth between France & the U.S. have been a headache. Once, a crazy lady sitting next to me on a flight to Paris instantly poured out her life story to me & Olivier. It got to the point where we started speaking French to one another as a civil way of asking her to shut the hell up.

On another flight to Paris, the woman behind me got out of her seat & started shrieking at me in irrational hillbilly-speak, causing a scene on the plane, while her husband was scolded by the flight attendant for referring to the attendants as “honey.”

There was also the little old French lady who fell asleep on me on a flight to Paris, but she was nice to me, so I let her sleep.

All of these things were quite pleasant compared to our recent Air Europa experience.

About a month ago, Olivier & I, along with a couple of his coworkers met up at Orly airport in Paris for a flight to Buenos Aires with a stop in Madrid. We knew it would be long, but we planned ahead with snacks, gadgets & books.

Like any flight, we had to bum around the airport for a few hours before boarding. Lucky us. While waiting for our boarding time, who should walk by right in front of us with a couple of police officers but former French Presidential candidate, Marine Le Pen.

She strolled by, smoking a cigarette. Yes. Smoking a cigarette. In the airport. Because of course, the law doesn’t apply to everyone.

Paris to Madrid went smoothly. It was about 10pm in Madrid when we arrived, so the place was mostly deserted. Our flight was delayed, so we ate potato chips & Oreos as we marveled at the long line of passengers waiting to board the flight. Dozens of passengers who were using fucking trolleys for their carry-on luggage. No, I’m serious. They had too much carry-on luggage to carry.

Olivier & I, each with a single backpack, were stunned.

A little after midnight, we finally boarded our flight to Buenos Aires.

We got to our seats, which unfortunately, were located in that shitty middle section of the plane on a full flight. Immediately, I discovered that the guy next to me had already been discarding trash, blankets & pillows on my seat, leaving me with a pile of shit to deal with before I could sit down. Once seated, the douchenozzle in front of me reclined his seat. Sure, sure… you’re allowed to do that during certain times of the flight — usually once the fasten seat belt light has gone off. Reclining before take off, during the meal, or not putting your seat back up before landing is dickish. If I were boss of everything, they would never recline at all.

Of course, none of the Air Europa flight attendants seemed to be too concerned with safety regarding seat back position, or people’s garbage & bullshit cluttering up the aisles.

Not to mention the fact that Air Europa has the smallest seating area of any plane I’ve even been in. I’m 5’7″. My knees were touching the back of the seat in front of me before it reclined. Once reclined, I had about 6 inches between my face & the seat in front of me.

The trash dumper next to me was encroaching. I became enraged. Claustrophobic. Olivier switched places with me, being much larger & much better at counter-encroachment. He won the turf war, but we discovered that Trash Dumper was also a nose picker who liked to chew gum with his mouth open. I don’t know him, but I hate him.

So, I’m in my new seat. In front of me, the seat reclines. I don’t want to lean back. It’s uncomfortable to me. But I have to, in order to get this greasy, bald scalp out of my face. I turn in my seat, giving the polite, “I’m gonna lean back now” look, then slowly put my seat back… & the douchenozzle behind me tells me, “no” I can’t do that.

Seriously… fuck these people.

After 2 weeks in Argentina — which I’ll get to later — it was time to fly back to France via Madrid. I began dreading it about 2 days before we left Argentina. Incredibly, the flight & cast of characters we encountered on the way home was even worse:

- A couple at the airport in Buenos Aires, pushing & shoving to the front of the check-in line. “We have a passport problem,” they said. Really? So why wasn’t an airline employee assisting them, rather than letting them piss people off at baggage check-in?

- The couple to our right on the airplane, wiping the little plastic dishes from their meal with their tiny napkins, shoving them into her purse. They cleaned all the plastic cutlery & took that, too. And she kept stretching her legs out, putting her feet on every chair they could reach.

- The lady sitting to our left who kept crying, bouncing around hysterically, opening several boxes of creams, perfumes & bullshit, rubbing them all over herself, stinking up the plane & tossing the empty boxes everywhere. Oh, yeah… then she blew her nose & collected her snotty rags on her tray table.

- Whoever shit all over the toilet seat in the airplane lavatory.

- Whoever pissed on the floor in the airplane lavatory.

- The dozen people who were having some kind of party, drinking yerba mate in the aisles, being loud, sitting on other people’s armrests while they were trying to sleep & preventing anyone from going to shit all over the toilet seat.

Yes, it’s delicious, but no excuse to be a tool.

- The chick in front of me who kept reaching back & hanging her hands behind her head so that they dangled in front of me, covering the little movie screen that was too close to my face when I was trying to watch The Words, forcing me to flick her fingers out of my face.

- The weird & very large lady sitting in front of Olivier who decided to stand next to my seat, her body oozing into my tiny bubble of personal space, hovering close enough for me to smell her weird large lady scent, leaning one hand on my headrest & the other hand on my fucking movie screen while I was trying to watch The Words.

Bradley Cooper is terribly overrated, but I prefer him to the hands of weird, rude strangers.

When we caught our sunrise Madrid-Paris flight, I thought I’d finally get an hour or two of sleep. Wrong. We were sitting right in front of the shrieking, seat-kicking kid whose parents did nothing except attempt to placate their howling larva with loud, musical toys.

And I didn’t even mention how the baggage handlers like to go through the side pockets in your luggage to steal shit.

Luckily, the two weeks we spent in Argentina were nothing like the flight there & back. Quite the opposite. But, like I said, I’ll get to that. This is enough for one day.

You have two ways to know right away if someone is an asshole; two infallible personality tests that can tell you right off what kind of a person another human being is.

The first one, as you already are aware, is how they treat the waitstaff in a restaurant.

The second is how they behave on a plane. If they respect personal space, use some common courtesy & have a modicum of common decency, they’re all right. There’s still a chance that they’re shitting on the toilet seat when no one’s looking, but, hey… at least they don’t interrupt the movie.