Editor’s Note: La Gaviota left you, dear reader, on the Argentina-Brazil border. I did continue for six amazing weeks through Colombia and Brazil and maybe someday I will share those experiences in this blog. Since then, I returned to the United States, reunited with friends and family, moved out of my apartment, and put my belongings into a storage unit off Route 1 in Malden, Massachusetts. Shortly thereafter, I left for an extended road trip and I thought I would share a bit with you here.

On June 17, 2026, around 7:00 AM, I departed Phippsburg, Maine in a silver 2016 Honda CR-V with Massachusetts license plates. The CR-V has a child’s handprint on the rear passenger-side door (barely perceptible but there and impossible to wash off) and a dented Raleigh road bike mounted and swaying disconcertingly off the back.

June 17, 2026 was a different time: Graham Platner was an oysterman freshly shucked as the Democratic candidate for the United States Senate, popular among Maine primary voters but already tainted by disputed working-class credentials, a redacted Nazi tattoo on his chest, a set of ill-advised Reddit posts, and murmurs of unspecified bad behavior. The Tartan Army had drunk all the booze in Boston and were leading impromptu bagpipe parades through Providence, heady from their victory over Haiti and not yet defeated by Morocco. The UFC had never performed on the South Lawn of the White House. My grandmother Madeleine was only 99 years old and the country itself a mere 249.

I drove West to look for America. Here is what happened:

In Ithaca, I hiked to a waterfall with my niece, who studies physics and is taking electives I don’t understand. I watched about 700,000 gallons of water per second crash over Niagara Falls while eating a California roll on the terrace of the Ontario-side food court. I talked with a security guard in the nearly vacant mezzanine-level shopping mall at Detroit’s Renaissance Center about looming plans to demolish Towers 300 and 400, and the gentrification she fears because of Ford’s redevelopment of the Michigan Central Station across the street from her house in Corktown. I listened to recordings of Barack and Michelle while I drove north up the Dan Ryan Expressway through the West Side of Chicago and passed a SUV that had just exploded in a massive fireball, backing up southbound traffic for miles. I cycled around Lake Monona and ate cheese curds and a buttery rhubarb bar at the Madison Farmers Market, then hunted for stone carvings of badgers in the Wisconsin State Capitol.

In Minneapolis, Max held 15-month old Lulu (or was it Arlo, her twin sister?), who was cheerily clutching a Pride flag to welcome me to town. I listened to Minnesotan parents talk about the horrors of masked, armed paramilitary forces deployed by the government terrorizing and abducting neighbors at their kids’ daycares, on residential streets, at local restaurants, and then murdering two residents in their city. I completed the Twin Cities Karaoke Bar Holy Trinity (the Otter, the Moose, and the Las Vegas Lounge), where a middle-aged man added the chorus “Fuck ICE!” to his karaoke and the packed room roared with cathartic approval. I lurked outside my grandfather Bob’s childhood home in St. Paul, from which he used to run toward Summit Avenue to catch the streetcar. I rolled a couple hours north and bicycled on the pristine shores of Lake Superior and waited in traffic for the Aerial Lift Bridge to go down in Duluth while listening to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

I gabbed with a fireman and a barmaid at a dive in Minot about Netflix shows and dating. I stood on a windswept train station platform and looked westward in Stanley, North Dakota (population 2,321), where my grandmother Cris boarded a westbound train in 1943, at age 18, to become a welder at the Kaiser Shipyard in Vanport, Oregon. I saw the house that my great-grandfather Leroy built and the soda fountain counter where he listened to baseball games on the radio. I washed my clothes at a reservation laundromat and listened to two elderly women toting big bundles reminisce and laugh about the time a tornado blew the church away and the police officers who tried to outrun the funnel cloud. I grimaced at the metallic grinding sound that a 2016 Honda CR-V makes when the lug nuts are loosening rapidly at 80 mph and the driver’s side wheel is about to fly off, and I prayed in the waiting room of the Billings, Montana Midas auto repair shop.

I ate vegetarian lasagna at the original Moosewood Restaurant in Ithaca and a sardine sandwich at a rest stop on I-90 and James Beard Award-winning Hmong Beef Laab Carpaccio at Diane’s Place in Minneapolis and grilled cheese wrapped in tinfoil and “cooked” on the dashboard and dripping-wet rib tips at Cozy Corner in Memphis and red pork tamales at a Mexican corner store in Cortez, Colorado and dumplings in San Francisco and in-season Palisades Peaches in Durango and fresh cherries sold by an evangelical Jeffrey Epstein truther in Wallace, Idaho and a bison burger with huckleberry jam in Billings and pork shoulder slow-cooked with peanut butter and scallions in foil over a campfire on the Oregon coast and a Double-Double Animal-Style at the In N Out in Auburn, California and an Oklahoma onion burger with a side of onion rings in the West Village neighborhood of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. I ate four boxes of Annie’s Mac and Cheese mixed with packets of tuna and wilted spinach and I never opened the bag of baby carrots I bought in Salt Lake City.

I crossed Montana, which is enormous and gorgeous, and saw a moose crossing the Yellowstone River in mid-afternoon.

I read that JESUS SAVES and ABORTION KILLS and WHAT WILL YOU CHOOSE? THE AFTERLIFE IS FOREVER on billboards in North Dakota, Michigan, Washington, Colorado, Oregon, Montana, Tennessee, Indiana, Illinois, California, Nevada, Utah, and Wisconsin. I raced a Union Pacific train down the Columbia River and watched airplanes scoop water from the same river to drop on a wildfire raging on the Washington side. I celebrated the Fourth of July at a clothing-optional queer island beach party in the Columbia River with Camila and Greg and Portland hipsters and I soaked in a wildflower-lined clothing-optional hot springs in Ridgway, Colorado, where I eavesdropped on conversations about crystals and how Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is doing a great job and only the President can save us from the Democrats.

I interviewed for a job in the community room of the North Bend, Oregon Public Library and the librarian wished me luck and asked how it went (I didn’t get the job). I wandered through Oregon dunes and coastal forest and wave-smashed cliffs and wind-whipped Pacific Ocean beaches and I didn’t see a soul.

I slept in Ithaca, Detroit, Madison, Minneapolis, Duluth, Minot, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Billings, Pray (MT), Spokane, Portland, Sunset Bay State Park (OR), North Bend (OR), Beachside State Park (OR), Ainsworth State Park (OR), White Salmon (WA), Oakland (OR), San Francisco, Santa Clara, Mountain View, Oakland (CA), on the banks of the Truckee River in Tahoe National Forest, Tahoe City, Salt Lake City, Moab, Cortez (CO), Ouray (CO), Boulder, Denver, Wichita, Oklahoma City, Little Rock, and Asheville.

I read books and watched Frozen and played Legos and chess and cards and pushed trucks and kicked balls and jumped in the pool and ran around and learned a ton and laughed a lot with Roman, Arlo, Lulu, Emmett, Frankie, Ody, Evan, Owen, Auggie, Willow, Sloan, Hart, Wells, Zeke, Will, Calder, Theo, Baxter, and Neve (not to mention Emma, Sam, Jack, and Lucas).

In San Francisco, I biked with Carl and Carmen along Ocean Beach up the big hill by Cliff House to Land’s End, nostalgic as ever for this good life on the edge of the Pacific. I met my family in Mountain View and we celebrated my grandmother’s 100th birthday, cheering wildly as she arrived at her own birthday party four hours late, directly from a terribly-timed trip to the emergency room, grinning and waving like a champion in a tickertape parade as we toasted champagne in exhausted, slap-happy wonder and joy, reveling in the epic milestone that had nearly slipped away. I held my grandmother’s hand and laughed as she joked and teared up while we played a trivia game about her childhood in France, her immigration to the United States, her career as a small businesswoman, her century as a mother, sister, daughter, and friend.

I waved at my nephew Sam surfing north of Half Moon Bay, with big sea lions nosing his board and pelicans swooping above his head. I sipped a cocktail at a hip bar near Lake Merritt, in Oakland, and chatted with a nice guy who worked at an auction house and who was unaware that each state had two senators. I wandered the farm that my friend Lucie’s parents cultivated in Sebastapol and I gleaned peaches and I saw how much bigger the olive grove has grown since 2016.

I stood alone in a meadow in Tahoe National Forest, on the very site where the surviving members of the Donner Party were rescued in 1847 and where Tamsen Donner elected to stay with her sick husband, sending her children ahead with rescuers and never to be seen again. I drove the path of the California Trail in reverse, through the Bonneville Salt Flats and past the Morton Salt factory into Salt Lake City, where Anna threw a Giddy-Up Gala.

I filed away my expired 2025 America the Beautiful National Park Annual Pass (with a photo of a hummingbird on it) and purchased a 2026 America the Beautiful National Park Annual Pass (with photos of a scowling Donald Trump and a perturbed George Washington on it). I refilled my jug of water at a National Park campground restroom and read a sign that instructed campers to “to report any signs that cast Americans in a “negative” light.” In Richmond, California, at the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historic Park, I read about the women who hammered together the fleet that saved democracy and the internment of the Japanese American Californians who lived in Richmond’s Flower District in the 1940s.

I climbed down a steep set of stone steps to a cliffside dwelling of the Pueblo people, from which they migrated south around 1200. In Cody, Kansas, I opened the door to a sod house built from bricks of prairie earth and thought about my great-grandmother Winnie, who lived in a sod house in North Dakota and who used to make hot cross buns and honey-baked ham when I visited her in Northern Virginia in the early 1990s. I met Winnie’s son, my great uncle Rick, a scholar who now lives in Denver, and he shared family stories and his incredible work to strengthen rural economies, conserve the Great Plains, and advance economic justice.

In Oklahoma City, I stood alone under a very hot sun on the exact spot where on April 19, 1995, a bomb inside a Ryder truck detonated in front of the downtown federal building, killing 167 people, because the bomber believed that federal government employees were anti-American villains who needed to be purged. I stood alone in frosty air conditioning and looked up at the rotunda of the Oklahoma State Capitol and read the words etched in marble around the dome: Halliburton Company, Phillips Petroleum Company, Hobby Lobby, General Motors, The Reynolds Foundation, Conoco Inc., The People of Oklahoma. I drank wine at a lesbian-owned bar in the same city, where a bumper sticker with Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s face peered down from over the taps.

I was greeted by a line of elderly women wearing matching white volunteer coats in the lobby of the William J. Clinton Presidential Library, where I stood on a glass terrace overlooking the Arkansas River and looked at displays about the dawn of the internet. I watched kids horsing around on the lawn outside Little Rock Central High School and sat on a bench with the name “Elizabeth Eckford” engraved on it, next to eight other benches with names memorializing the unfathomable bravery and patriotism of the Little Rock Nine. I stared up at the balcony at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis and in the museum next door, marveled at the pantheon of ordinary people who faced off against government and vigilante violence to pursue equality for themselves, their families, their neighbors, and their fellow citizens. I talked with a protestor named Jacqueline, who was the last resident of the Lorraine Motel and who has protested on that site for more than 38 years and who once convinced Amy and Jimmy Carter not to visit the motel (a decision that Jimmy later reversed) and who dislikes gentrification and believes that learning civil rights history leads to violence and that Donald Trump needed to send the National Guard to Memphis.

I passed a road sign for a “Catfish Roundup!” at an RV park in Tennessee and stopped 35 miles later for gas and snacks at Buccee’s, where the only way to describe the hordes of Americans crawling over each other to buy soda and BBQ sandwiches and bulk jerky by the pound is to acknowledge that Buccees is actually a colossal human Catfish Roundup.

I came through a rain shower during rush hour in Nashville to see an enormous white cross with a rainbow streaming out of the top and arcing across the sky and I said out loud, “OKAY.” Somewhere past Dollywood, I took a wrong turn in the pitch-black Pisgah National Forest and added 22 minutes to a 9+ -hour driving day and I finally pulled into the driveway of my friend Sarah, ending my road trip across the United States of America in her semiquincentennial year with an additional 9,621 miles on the odometer of the CR-V and the dented Raleigh bicycle somehow still mounted on the rear.

• Overview (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (highlights)
• I quit my job for this?! (lowlights)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)
• Food for eating (what I ate and drank)

Overview

One more express post in my rush to catch up! At the end of my time in Argentina, I flew to the jungle on the border(s) of Brazil and Paraguay to see Iguazú Falls (in Spanish: las Cataratas de Iguazú, in Portugese: Foz do Iguaçu). I stayed in the Argentine town of Puerto de Iguazú but crossed over my first afternoon to the Brazilian side of the falls, then spent the second day on the Argentine side. My third day was spent in Foz do Iguaçu doing laundry in the pouring rain before flying out to Rio de Janeiro.

Highlights

• The star(s) of the show here are the astonishing waterfalls of Iguazú. I still haven’t been to Niagara Falls (that changes this June!), so I’ve never seen falls at this scale and predictably, they are jaw-dropping. There are actually many falls (more than 250), as the Iguazu River just drops away unevenly across many kilometers of a broad jungle plateau. Both sides of the falls and border have tourist infrastructure, but the Brazilian park is smaller. On my first day there, I went for a short hike and then walked along the Brazilian catwalks to see the falls briefly. On the second day, I spent the entire day in the Argentine national park, which has many more trails, a train that takes you to key trailheads and visitor centers, and an extensive system of catwalks and boardwalks to visit different falls at different levels. Needless to say, the cataratas are breathtaking and the system of catwalks give you a range of viewpoints from above, below, and alongside. I spent about 30 minutes gazing down into the Garganta del Diablo (Mouth of the Devil), the most dramatic and largest of the falls, getting drenched from the sea spray and (allegedly) soaking up ions that refreshed my energy. Despite being a site of mega-tourism, the falls delivered in a big way.

• Flora and fauna: you are deep in the jungle, so bright-colored butterflies are everywhere. The drive from the airport to the (relatively small) town of Puerto Iguazú was like driving through a butterfly aviary lined with high walls of riotously green foliage. The forest is teeming with life, and in the first twenty minutes of my first short solo hike in Brazil, I found myself head down, tightly staring at the trail, simultaneously terrified to look at what might be making noise in the canopy above and frightened of accidentally stepping on a snake. Coati scurry everywhere and pretty eagerly and aggressively go for any forgotten crumbs of sandwich. On another hike, I also walked into a large group of black capuchin monkeys, who frolicked, munched, and unabashedly stared right back at we slack-jawed tourists.

• I had two delightfully friendly taxi drivers, who happily ferried me across the border and (yet again) provided hours of free Spanish classes. I have a real soft spot for anyone who is proud of their hometown, particularly in rural places, and one taxi driver was an 18-year old from Puero Iguazú, who proudly informed me — immediately — that the falls are one of the new seven wonders of the world. As we sat in line at border control on the holiday weekend, he told me about his family, school, local food, the differences between both sides of Iguazú, and more. His absolute euphoria when I shared my rechargeable battery for his dead cell phone and his relentless hometown boosterism made my day.

• On the morning train into the national park, I was squeezed into a car with a group of 70-something visored female retirees from Mendoza, who were chatty, curious, bossy, and thrilled to be on vacation. For the rest of the day, I passed their gaggle multiples times and got a number of cheery “HOLA PETER!”s in unison.

Lowlights

When I am asked for help in another country, there is an immediate rush of adrenaline: flattered that they think I know the answer and worried that I might give incorrect information, but above all else a raging desire to know the answer. In Puerto Iguazú, when I was taking cash out of an ATM, a mother juggling three kids asked me a question about the bank. In responding to her, I forgot my card in the machine and didn’t realize it for about an hour, at which point the bank was closed. Long story short: I didn’t get my debit card back and have been relying on sending myself Western Union transfers for cash. Watch this “Lowlights” section for future ramifications!

Food for Thought

Iguazú provided one of many examples on this trip of the depressing impact on travel of social media. I’ll try to write this without sounding sanctimonious, but I won’t try that hard because I actually feel extremely sanctimonious about this.

The human impulse to catalogue and share experiences is universal and timeless. And in our increasingly content-obsessed, narcissistic social media culture, this impulse is realized on a spectrum. Clearly, I take photos and videos and tell stories in order to mark the moment and to share with loved ones (see also: platinum selfie stache content above, Gaviota Caprichosa writ large). What saddens (and alarms) me is to be in an environment where many people seem to miss the moment in order to live a digital life on a handheld computer. At the overlooks in Iguazú, I noticed many tourists with their backs to the view, carefully and robotically moving down the railing to pout for selfie after selfie, but failing to turn around and marvel at what was behind them. I saw numerous people using their precious time in front of the waterfalls to FaceTime others and show the view on a tiny phone a great distance away. After presumably spending hundreds (or thousands) of dollars and traveling hundreds (or thousands) of miles to stand in front of a vast natural wonder to which they may never return, individuals have sacrificed the experience of being there to stare into their phone. They are so tethered to living in their eight-inch glowing panel of glass, in service of an immediate and short-lived dopamine hit, that they profoundly neglect the in-person moment that is occurring around them. Every photo and video taken in Iguazú that day could be found online, at a higher quality. Every selfie could be immediately generated with AI.

I have seen this dynamic (the automated urge to record) play out at concerts, when something beautiful or unique happens on the street, in museums, in restaurants, and at other nature destinations. As an individual within our current technological and social systems, I participate in this dynamic (ahem, restaurants) as well, but I do aim to contain it. I feel angry when this dynamic interferes with my own experiences (blocked views and elbowing to take a photo or film a video — by the way, who the hell is going to watch your video of a duck eating birdseed?) and saddened at the loss of what might be a communal experience in a special place in the physical world. I find it hard to believe that on our deathbeds, anyone will wish they had spent more time on their phone. I also obviously despair at how it impacts our collective mental health, political system, and culture.

I am curious about how the rise of AI impacts this dynamic. We have existed in an environment where there is social currency in cataloguing and sharing one’s proximity to something special, beautiful, exclusive, or expensive. Now that the representation of that proximity can be fabricated with a keystroke, the quasi-reality of social media may be revealed further for what it actually is: an artificial world comprised of 1s and 0s that separates you from reality and the limited time we have in this physical world. I suspect a bifurcation is coming, between those who choose to immerse themselves more deeply into a digital reality and those who choose to withdraw.

One last observed benefit of no social media while traveling: I have been genuinely surprised at the beauty of places I have visited! I really have not known what many beaches, waterfalls, mountains, or villages will look like until I arrive, and there has been a special delight in that.

In closing: (1) get off my goddamn lawn, (2) snap a few good pics for the record book after absorbing where you are, (3) put your phone away and live the glorious privilege of travel. And a suggestion: in my experience, the antidote is journaling, drawing, or painting, which keeps you where you are and invites a fresh examination of what you’re enjoying.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Food for Eating

• I started to realize I was approaching Brazil when my nightly beef overconsumption started to look and feel a little different. Something…was happening.

• Overview (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (highlights) + Food for thought (what I ate and drank)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)

Overview

The gaviota needs to flap a little harder to catch up on the blog with all of my travel, so this is an express post. In the midst of my Buenos Aires stay, Renzo and I flew to Mendoza, Argentina, at the base of the Andes, for a decadent weekend in wine country. We spent a night in the city of Mendoza and then traveled about 90 minutes south to El Valle de Uco, which is a bit more rural wine country.

Highlights + Food for Eating

• I thought I’d successfully outmaneuvered Renzo with a flight from BA that landed after 11 PM in Mendoza, which couldn’t possibly leave time to go out. Instead, that sadistic empanada of an Argentine was ready with a nightlife itinerary when we touched down. After dropping our bags at the hotel, we walked down the main nightlife strip and had a nice cocktail, then went to a small gay bar with a drag performance. While Mendoza is a large/medium-sized city, it’s located in a more rural and conservative region, so it was particularly gratifying to see a lively gay bar packed with an enthusiastic audience. After a couple fernets, we still made it to bed by an early 3 AM.
• Mendoza is beautifully organized with a large central plaza and four other plazas that form a larger square in the street grid. We just had a couple hours in town, but I was particularly entranced by the Plaza de España and the Plaza de Chile, which was lined with benches decorated with the names of different Chilean towns.

Renzo and I went big on gastronomy — the weekend was a worthwhile budget-buster that would make Anthony Bourdain blush. Three days = three over-the-top meals punctuated with pool time, walks, and lighter meals before and after at our luxury cabaña resort. The wines included Malbec, Cabernet Franc, Torrontes, Chardonnay (but crisp and perfect Chardonnay), and others.

• At Siete Fuegos, a restaurant by renowned Argentine chef Francis Mallman, seven different types of fire prepare meats, vegetables, and cheese in unique ways at a luxury setting. The lovely staff gave us tours of the kitchen, grounds, and wine cave. Although we weren’t guests at the hotel, we stayed after our lunch long enough to explore and to basically be pushed (rolled) out the door with a free glass of champagne.

• Our second day, after a late morning winery tour, we had an extraordinary afternoon at Michelini i Mufatto Trinchera, a small family-owned vineyard where a few months earlier, the retired empty-nesting owners had decided to start a lunch service preparing home-style dishes with local ingredients and showcasing their wines. On a wooden platform in a grove of alamos trees, Renzo and I joined two other tables for what felt like an invitation into their (outdoor) home. After being greeted warmly at the gate, the wife cooked and presented each dish for us, the delightful and sweet sommelier walked us through each wine, and the husband floated around sharing more about each glass, the terroir, and the family’s story. It was magical.

• Our third day, we stopped at one of Richetelli wines’ locations for another gorgeous afternoon. After a thorough and passionate explanation of the history and process of Richitelli wine-making, including interesting commentary on current and past market conditions, we sat down for an incredibly creative prix-fixe meal.

• Our lovely resort.

Food for thought

Que rica la vida (how rich is life)…

• Overview (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (highlights)
• I quit my job for this?! (lowlights)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)
• Food for eating (what I ate and drank)

Overview

In March and April, I spent a total of 18 nights in Buenos Aires. I’ve had the enormous privilege of visiting Buenos Aires before, and I’ve long fantasized about living in the city. This extended visit was a wonderful version of that dream and leaving and returning multiple times for visits to and from Montevideo, Bariloche, Mendoza, and Brazil made the whole experience feel even longer and more substantive. Buenos Aires is a huge global city and I mostly stayed and played in the neighborhoods of Palermo, Retiro, and Recoleta. [Gaviota’s note: this blog post is the tip of the iceberg about my experience in Buenos Aires and I am necessarily leaving out so much about what I treasure about the city and Argentina!]

Highlights

First and foremost, if you go to Buenos Aires, find yourself a Renzo! My intelligent, big-hearted, relentlessly curious, and well-informed buddy is the cheat code to fall in love with Argentina and to have a fabulous time in Buenos Aires — I am profoundly grateful to him, and not just because I got to stay at his beautiful apartment for a week. Some of the wonderful experiences attributable to Renzo as host include:

• Attending La omisión de la familia Coleman, a fast-paced, long-running dark comedy play at a hip independent theater. I understood about 50% of the dialogue but it was a reminder that dialogue is only one part of the theater experience, and I was able to follow the play [and visit a great space].
• Renzo’s birthday party, which meant meeting a wonderful and interesting mix of guests who were welcoming and kind [and patient enough to talk with me in Spanish about culture, politics, work, life, etc]. When I left around 1:45 AM, several people asked if something was wrong and why I was leaving so early. [Gaviota’s note: this is a good place to note a key dynamic of life in Argentina: the MF-ers never sleep. They eat dinner after 9 PM and in most observable cases, they party til dawn. For a gringo-yanqui, every day feels like some hellish version of New Years’ Eve, where you know you’re committing social suicide by eating dinner at 8 PM and you feel like a dripping wet blanket for going home at 2 AM].
• Spending time with Renzo’s Argentine friends was an absolute gift for many reasons, including a wonderful way to learn about Argentine pop culture. One example: la Mirtha Legrand, an iconic 99-year old celebrity actress and talk show host with a famous program, “Almorzando con Mirtha Legrand”, where Mirtha held lunches and asked questions of her guests. She hosted the show from 1968–2020 and someone on this trip described her as “more than Oprah”, which seems to hold up [sorry Mom, we can discuss when I’m back!]. Despite possessing a traditionalist, conservative-ish persona, she recently made news when she was asked what she would say if someone invited (proto-Trump) President Javier Milei to her birthday party. Mirtha responded “¿A mi cumpleaños, a la fiesta? Le diría, ¿quién lo invitó? [To my birthday? To my party? I would ask them, who invited him?]. Slaaaayyyyyy. I mention Mirtha as an illustrative example of learning the nooks and crannies of another culture: I might have been fine living my whole life without ever seeing memes of Mirtha or knowing the context for them, but the fun of learning about someone/something/somewhere that is widely-known in a different culture and why is such a highlight of travel.

I have no photos to go with this section because we were doing the things, not taking the photos!

—

Another major highlight, also attributable to Renzo-as-Host, was attending a massive march on the national holiday, Día Nacional de la Memoria por la Verdad y la Justicia (National Day of Memory for Truth and Justice).

Some context: from 1976–1983, a military junta ruled Argentina, following a military coup against the administration of Isabel Perón. The junta suspended the Congress and civil rights, unilaterally introduced right-wing reforms, and ruled criminally with brutal tactics against real and perceived opposition figures. The “Guerra Sucia,” or “Dirty War” that the junta waged against its own people, as perceived enemies, included such atrocities as mass abductions and executions, including the abduction of pregnant women who were kept alive only until they delivered the babies. These babies were then given to members of the regime to raise as their own and the work of reuniting these children with their birth families has been ongoing since the end of the junta’s rule. Many of the desaparecidos (disappeared) were abducted and then thrown from planes flying above the Río de la Plata.

The upper estimate is that approximately 30,000 people were disappeared by the junta (although the term disappeared is used, it represents the kidnapping, torture, and murder — without acknowledgment or accountability) of citizens by a state. The number of victims is still disputed by the right, which also argues that more of an emphasis should be placed on leftist violence against the state prior to the coup. An infrastructure of NGOs and governmental organizations have documented the cases of the desaparecidos and that work is still ongoing.

One powerful and globally-known group that emerged from the period of the military junta were the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, the mothers of disappeared children (desaparecidos) who wore distinctive white scarves and marched weekly in the Plaza de Mayo, demanding justice and information in the face of state silence and ongoing oppression [these were the white headscarves stenciled on the plaza in Bariloche — see last post].

The march was a huge annual demonstration to commemorate the disappeared, with the remaining Madres de la Plaza de Mayo [now quite elderly] as key leaders who are still marching. I have never been in a crowd that massive, comprised of a broad coalition of groups and regular people pouring down the avenues and streets toward the packed Plaza de Mayo, in front of the Casa Rosada, the presidential offices. Under a beautiful sunny sky, music blasted, choripan and bondiolas were grilled, and people sang along and danced in place. I was impressed by the range of ages, including children and elderly people, who were navigating an (at times overwhelmingly) enormous group of people to be a part of this commemoration. There was a palpable passion in the crowd and I felt a wave of emotion when the family members of desaparecidos marched by under a banner showing photographs of their lost family members’ faces. A middle-aged woman carrying a sign that said “where are my brothers?” particularly stirred me.

One important dynamic is the fact that this march was about history. The crowd was not monolithic, as there is a range of beliefs in the opposition to the junta and the desire for memory, truth, and justice. But eembedded in the march were plenty of groups in opposition to the current right-leaning Milei administration and its social and economic policy agenda.

—

A summary highlight: generally speaking, like New York City, Paris, Rome, Portland, Maine, and other large global cities, Buenos Aires is simply a wonderful place to roam or cycle the parks and plazas; enjoy stylish cafes, bars, and restaurants; visit world-class museums; and people-watch (often really hot people tbh) on streets lined with enormous trees and interesting architecture. Of course, my perspective is derived from spending lots of time in some of the most affluent areas of Buenos Aires (think: Upper West Site, Park Slope, Cambridge, Duboce Triangle, etc.), but I’ve seen enough of Buenos Aires to see some of the scrappier parts and still to fall in love.

So many daily joys of visiting this place — in fact, too many to fully summarize here. However, a cool park worth mentioning: the former Zoo has been transformed into an ecoparque. I remember going to the zoo in 2006 and finding it to be quite distressing — large animals in small cages and paddocks, not shocking for the Victorian era in which it was built. Apparently porteños felt the same way, and all the animals that could be returned to the wild (or sanctuaries) were released. The park today includes beautifully landscaped gardens and restored architecture, some animals that roam freely arond the grounds, and a handful of animals that would have died in other settings (the hippos and giraffes). It’s an amazing model for other parks — a woke zoo (earmuffs, JD Vance)!

Lowlights:

Pretty much falling asleep at a really freaky drag cabaret, which felt super late to me but was really early for every single other person in all of Buenos Aires.

Food for thought

One element of Argentine society that fascinates me is the nation’s relationship with Las Islas Malvinas (the Malvinas Islands, known to the British and others as the Falkland Islands). These islands, off the coast of Argentina, are controlled by the British as a British Overseas Territory, and many US residents may recall that there was a war in the 1982 between Argentina and Great Britain. Interestingly, the war accelerated (and quashed what seemed like long-term progress toward peaceful devolution to Argentina) because both the Argentine military junta and British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher believed it served their political interests (the junta was wrong about this — the defeat by the British and death of Argentine soldiers accelerated the downfall of the regime).

To be in Argentina with your eyes open is to be reminded constantly that Argentines believe that the Islas Malvinas are unjustly possessed by the British. There are monuments, signs, and museums everywhere. I have been struck that this belief is apparently very widespread and a source of national unity, even as Argentina wrestles with divisive political dynamics across most other issues (like most countries today). A couple of the museums I have visited make historical, political, and even geological explanations for why the islands are Argentine. I would recommend digging into the history but I mention the islands because the unity around them is such a unique phenomenon for a visiting stranger.

—

I don’t know where else to put this, but in Buenos Aires (and now other places), I’ve had many conversations with people who are concerned about the direction of the United States and how the Trump administration’s actions are destabilizing global politics and the global economy. Multiple people have directly said, “you know, your politics really affects us.” Just a reminder.

Café culture in Buenos Aires is just excellent. The ability to pop into a café or restaurant, sit down with a server, enjoy a coffee or beer with little pretension at a reasonable price at almost any hour, is a fabulous way to live. The United States would be better with more of this.

Argentines seem to applaud more than people in the United States. Subway buskers almost universally received a round of enthusiastic applause, even if people weren’t ponying up the pesos to pay them. The plane has applauded upon landing for every flight that I’ve taken in Argentina, including what seem to be routine landings (but flight is a miracle, you know?!). This may be South America-wide, I will continue my research.

Speaking of the subway, there are vendors/panhandlers on the subway who go around and give everyone an item (unless the person is a broken American, like me, who physically recoils and resists accepting the item), then return and take back the item unless the person pays for it. I’ve had this experience with little written prayers in New York, but in Buenos Aires the items seemed more quotidian and useful for non-spiritual purposes: little rolls of garbage bags, bundles of pens and pencils, etc. I like to think this would be my primary source of garbage bags if I were a porteño.

Food for eating

On the taxi into the city on the first day, I mentioned to my driver that I was eager to eat sorrentinos, a large stuffed pasta (bigger than a ravioli) that I remembered from a previous visit (specifically, an osso bucco Sorrentino in el Chalten, Patagonia, following a very long hike, that still *preheats my oven* when I think about it, if you catch my drift…). He reminded me to buy the sorrestinos at a fabrica de pasta (pasta manufactory) and THAT made me look for fabricas de pasta and THAT leads me to share with you that Buenos Aires has HOMEMADE PASTA STORES all over the place. Which is predictable because it’s Fucking Paradise (did I mention there are very stylish and attractive people holding nice bottles of Malbec walking by these pasta manufactories? This will be a key section of my asylum application). Along with these marvelous places, delightful cheese and charcuterie shops, and extremely affordable fresh vegetable and fruit stalls abound.

Otherwise, outstanding parrillada (grilled meats!), Italian food, coffee, empanadas, and desserts. Cheap, expensive, on the street and in fancy restaurants — all oustanding. I’ll let the photos do the talking:

What I’m listening to

For whaever reason, I kept hearing (or really noticed) Mr. Brightside by the Killers, On Top of the World by Imagine Dragons, and BAILE INoLVIDABLE by Bad Bunny out and about in Buenos Aires. Not mad about it.

Table of Contents

• Overview (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (highlights)
• I quit my job for this?! (lowlights)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)
• Food for eating (what I ate and drank)

Overview

After returning from Uruguay, I spent one night in Buenos Aires and hopped a plane to Bariloche, a city in northern Argentine Patagonia. Bariloche is surrounded by towering Andean peaks and massive lakes and is a world-class hiking, skiing, rafting, and outdoor sports destination.

Bariloche is close to the Chilean border in the cordillera, and there has historically been flow of people between both countries. German immigrants to both countries played a role in the development of the region, which helps to explain the architectural features of the city center: the town is actually designed to look like a Swiss mountain village. Bariloche has some international notoriety because apparently some German Nazis fled to live there after WWII and were apprehended in the 1990s, but I didn’t meet any Nazis on this trip.

Bariloche is also well-known for outstanding chocolate and great beer, and there’s nothing Nazi about that!

Gaviota’s note: upon further consideration, of all the sweets and beverages most associated with German Nazism, chocolate and beer would actually probably be high on the list.

I quit my job for this! (highlights)

Spreading Maine propaganda. Bariloche is a land of stunning lakes, green forests, and towering peaks, just like MAINE. At every opportunity, I enthusiastically asked Argentines if they had ever heard of Maine and explained that it’s very similar, except the mountains are smaller, the lakes are smaller, and the empanadas aren’t quite as ricas. When a random Patagonian stumbles into Bar Harbor next year, I expect a finder’s fee.

Trekking! I came to Bariloche to hike. While the weather was stormy and unpredictable as summer turned to autumn in the Andes, it was mission accomplished. The trekking infrastructure is outstanding and there are an enormous number of trails spread across multiple national parks, with options ranging from short day hikes to extensive trails linking refugios (refuges/huts) that enable multi-day backcountry. Since I am traveling light for 2.5 months, I did not bring gear for backpacking (including no hiking boots) and opted for some day-long adventures, that included two lovely days exploring el Circuíto Chico, a long drive with lots of short hikes along lakes and up small mountains. On-and-off drizzling meant an abundance of arcoiris (rainbows!).

One big hike. I was hankering for an ambitious but attainable day hike and I found it in the 12-mile (round-trip) hike to Refugio Frey, up Cerro Catedral, an ascent of about 2,700 feet (from a high elevation start). Before departing, you have to register with Argentine authorities and pay a small fee, which also entails signing multiple waivers confirming you are (1) able-bodied, (2) have appropriate gear, (3) possess a UHF radio (that can’t be right?!) and (4) aware of the weather report. I smashed the “confirm” button, confident in my abilities as a thickening middle-aged office worker with (1) some worn-out running shoes, (2) a quick glance out the hostel window (sunshine on the lake, 15 km from the trailhead!), (3) a cheese sandwich and a banana, and most of all: (4) A POSITIVE ATTITUDE!

The hike started well, in glorious sunshine, on a well-maintained trail along hillsides overlooking stunning turquoise lakes and crisscrossing Andean streams. I did glance up and noticed the summit seemed to be snow-capped, but figured Refugio Frey must be below the mountain’s cap of white frosting. This hope was deflated when I passed a descending hiker and asked “disculpe, seńor está la cumbre el la nieva?” (excuse me sir, is the summit in the snow?) He looked at me and coolly replied, “sí” (yes).

The trail turned inward to the forest and started sloping upward, which prevented me from seeing just how many clouds were suddently rolling in. A gentle mist started to fall and although I was already soaked in sweat, I slipped on my raincoat. The trail became steeper as streaks of snow and ice started to coat the rocks, mud, and plants.

A pair of blond twenty-something women came bounding down the trail and I asked them the same question, about whether there was much snow cover ahead. In a cheery British accent, the first woman chirped “yes but you can do it! It’s only snowy about the last 2 km, just be careful!” Her dour and probably clinically depressed New Zealand companion looked me up and down and skeptically noted “those trainers are really inappropriate. Is that all you have?” I looked down at my smooth-bottomed, already-soaked Mizuna running shoes. “YES, actually, I recently quit my job and I am traveling with a relatively small backpack so I didn’t bring my hiking boots but I thought a LOT about it before I left and of course I know it’s far better to wear boots” but she was already prancing down the trail away from me.

Patagonia started slapping me around about 2 km from the summit. Bands of freezing rain made short work of my (15-year old, kind of leaky) raincoat and more direly, the snow-covered trail turned into a sheet of ice, with patches of mud and rocks that I gingerly tested as I ascended. The reality of going down as a 41-year old with a broken hip and hypothermia suddenly seemed real and I wished I had thought ahead to bring a UHF radio.

By the time I reached Refugio Frey at the summit, I was nervous enough to scarf my sandwich in the small shelter, making a little chit-chat with a national park guide who told me it was going to start raining and snowing much harder immediately, and I quickly started my descent. After a few falls in the muddy slush, then about 2.5 more hours of drenching sleet and freezing rain, I can sincerely say I have never been wetter. A moment of saturated liberation occurred in the last kilometer, where I embraced the wet and stomped through a few streams, soaking up the glory of the storm-soaked flora. I’ve never felt more deserving of a cortado, a cookie, a hot shower in my cozy hostel cabin, and then a crisp beer and some lamb empanadas.

I quit my job for this?! (lowlights)

Hostel reservation snafu: As soon as I took my phone off Airplane Mode after the descent from Refugio Frey, I saw 6 missed WhatsApp messages and calls from the hostel where I was staying, beginning about 4 hours earlier. I had mistakenly believed I had one more night in the hostel, and they were frantically trying to find me and my key to clean the cabin for the next guests, who had booked my cabin and already arrived for check-in. I gunned the rental car and left multiple hysterical and apologetic messages as I raced back to the hostel through sheets of pouring rain. As I pushed open the iron gate, the (very hip and nice) hostel hostess ran across the yard with an armful of sheets and screamed (in English), “PETER, I AM GOING TO KILLLL YOUUUU.” I hadn’t known she knew my name!

I raced into the hostel lobby and perched on the couch, sipping warm mugs of tea, were the women from the hiking trail that morning. The Kiwi’s jaw dropped and she gasped, “you! With the shitty trainers! You’re PETER? You’re in really BIG TROUBLE!”

As they say in Bariloche, LO SIENTO MUCHÍSIMO. Many apologies and the very happy coincidence of another available vacant cabin later, all was well.

Rental car reservation snafu: I booked a rental car through booking.com with a company that may or may not actually exist and spent a couple hours stranded at the airport in AI chatbot customer service hell before leaving the airport in a taxi. I mention this to catalogue that some parts of international travel adventures really do suck.

Food for thought

In my community development job, I worked with towns and places in Maine aiming to improve their local outdoor recreation economies. Visiting a place like Bariloche is a wonderful case study of a place that has such a (booming) economy in place, and I was on the lookout for the amenities and assets that help a beautiful place with lots of natural resources become accessible to visitors, still conserved, and profitable to the people who live there.

Many outstanding restaurants, breweries, and ice cream shops are an obvious ingredient to a thriving outdoor recreation region. One nice option at a popular trailhead was a mobile coffee cart serving delicious espresso and fresh pastry. A range of bars and restaurants catered to high-rolling skiers and budget backpackers alike. Lodging options in Bariloche are also diverse: you can rent a luxury chalet, find expensive and budget hotel rooms, or enjoy private or shared accommodations in high-quality hostels that focus on community-building and affordable programming.

A wide range of trail types also helps Bariloche bring in the outdoor adventurers. There is a trail for the person who wants a quick walk and a selfie with a view, the day-hiker looking for a 4-hour or an 8-hour adventure, and the intense backpacker who wants a multi-day overnight trek.

Another key ingredient in Bariloche, which is an urban-suburban-rural mix, is a reliable bus system that enables a visiting hiker without a car to reliably hop a bus running every ~20 minutes to pretty much every major trailhead and attraction. Obviously, locals used and benefitted from this transport system as well, and the buses were packed with tourists, hotel and restaurant workers, school kids, and other locals. There are some economies of scale that need to be in place to run even a subsidized bus network like this, but I did start to wonder what it might look like to have transport linking breweries, lodging, farm-to-table restaurants, and an expanded trail networks in a place like Western Maine.

Food for eating

Bariloche is known for chocolate and beer and I did my duty with both, particularly given the convenient excuse of much hiking and rainy afternoons and evenings. There is a strong culture of late afternoon tea and pastry and I accidentally had torta (cake) for lunch two days in a row.

Choripan is an Argentine staple of grilled chorizo and bread and a staple of Argentine asados (barbeques). Provoleta is another common item, a griddled round of Provolone cheese that becomes melty on the interior and crispy on the edges. Chimichurri is an omnipresent herby salsa served with grilled meats at asados and parrillas (barbeque restaurants). This unholy trinity merged at Chimi Hendrix, a roadside stand in Bariloche, where I ate a spectacular choripan topped by a provoleta and smothered in chimichurri. QUE RICOOOO.

Table of Contents:

• Overview: (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (those YASQUEEN moments that make it all worthwhile)
• I quit my job for this?! (those WTF moments that make me remember I no longer have a salary OR dental coverage)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)
• Food for eating (what I ate and drank)
• Música (what I listened to in this chapter)

Overview

Editor’s note (part 1): The gaviota has been finding it difficult to forgo moments of time in an amazing new place to sit down and tap away on my laptop! This is a very overdue, quick-and-dirty catch-up post to get back on track…more to come soon!

After leaving Chile, I touched down in Buenos Aires for a few days (which I will roll into a longer post about Argentina). I then boarded a high-speed ferry (the Francisco, named after Argentine Pope Francis, the fastest passenger ferry in operation) at a modern dock in downtown Buenos Aires and rocketed across the Rio de la Plata to Montevideo, Uruguay’s capital city of about 2 million people. I spent two full days in Montevideo and hopped the ferry back to Buenos Aires.

Heading across the Rio de la Plata for my first time in this new country, I basically only knew that Uruguay had a lot in common with Argentina, had a strong social safety net dating back to the early 1900s, and has a reputation as one of the wealthiest and most stable countries in Latin America, which earned it the nickname of “Switzerland of South America.” I was mostly in the historic center of Montevideo and this post represents the hottest of takes from a brief visit!

I quit my job for this!! (those YASQUEEN moments that make it all worthwhile)

Montevideo was lovely and chill. Like Argentina, there is a massive Italian influence and the city felt to me like an Italian city in the 1980s, a little unpolished and antiquated, with lovely plazas and plenty of espresso. My hotel perfectly captured the vibe: a high-ceilinged room with crisp, lace-edged pillowcases, a fading marble-topped desk and side table, a bathroom with a stained glass window and toilet with a pull-handle flush, and a screeching brass elevator that clunked up the center of the building’s stairwell.

A promenade of over 20 kilometers starts near the port of Montevideo and sweeps past multiple beaches, parks, more affluent seaside suburbs, and continues up the coast. I befriended a Colombian guy who just quit his job at a bank to travel (hello affinity group!). We spent a lovely morning roaming the center and afternoon cycling the promenade, stopping to swim in the coffee-colored Rio de la Plata (a massive estuary where the Paraná River and Uruguay Rivers meet and enter the Atlantic) and to lay on the sand beaches. After a while traveling alone, with briefer conversations along the way, it was wonderful to spend the day in (crystal-clear Colombian) Spanish with someone adjusting to full-time travel and asking existential questions about life.

I was on high alert for similarities and differences between Argentina and Uruguay. At the national museum about gauchos, a version of cowboy that is a cultural touchpoint in both countries, I asked the very friendly guide about the difference in gaucho culture in Argentina and Uruguay, accustomed to the way that places split even the narrowest hairs to carve out a unique identity (see also: rivalries between Millinocket and East Millinocket, Maine; New Hampshire and Vermont; NorCal versus SoCal…). The guide cheerily replied: “nothing. Exactly the same culture.” Me: “But what makes it Uruguayan?” The guide: “Nothing. If you know Argentine gauchos, you know Uruguay gauchos. Completely the same.” OK! There was ABUNDANT steak, espresso, pastry, and mate tea consumption, as there is in Argentina, including these cute leather bags designed to carry both the mate gourd and thermos, which were all over the place.

One great stop was a relatively new museum about the 1972 airplane crash in the Andes of an Uruguayan rugby team, popularized in the US through the book Alive and the recent Netflix program Society of the Snow. The story is both gruesome and inspiring: of 45 people on the plane, only 12 survived the overall ordeal. Many were killed following the initial impact, due to dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, and injuries, while a group of 13 survivors were killed later when an avalanche roared through the wreckage site. The search was called off by Chilean authorities after only eight days. The 12 remaining survivors were rescued after 72 days in total on the mountainside, after two of the survivors walked down from the Andes crash site and encountered a Chilean mule driver on the other side of a roaring river. He threw them a piece of paper, on which they wrote a plea for help and threw it back across the river.

The story is insane and the details are worth learning. Notoriously, the survivors had to eat the bodies of their teammates for nourishment, a wrenching decision. The museum represented to me an example of meticulous commemoration of something that looms large in a national psyche: every detail of the victims, survivors, geography of the crash, technical details of the crash and rescue, and the social and political context of 1972 is catalogued in the exhibits. The museum is on a much smaller scale, but it reminded me of the National 9/11 Museum in New York City for its careful depiction of a national trauma that attracted international attention. The story is also incredibly inspiring for the resilience, faith, and fortitude of the survivors, and a number of exhibits highlighted how the incident remains an inspiration to Uruguayan schoolchildren and people in general.

I also toured Palácio Salvo, a landmark building on the main plaza in Montevideo, an elaborate building that was once the heart of luxury in its hotel and offices and that over time, has been somewhat preserved, somewhat neglected, and is now full of small, relatively affordable apartments and offices. The architect, Mario Palanti, built a similarly styled landmark in Buenos Aires, with a vision of lighthouse beacons atop each tower meeting over the Rio de la Plata (the arc of light never fully came to pass). In a ground-floor tango bar at the Palacio Salvo, one of the most famous tango songs, La Cumparsita, was composed and performed by Gerardo Matos Rodríguez in 1917. I also learned that in this era of early tango in Montevideo, society women were not permitted to dance the tango, as it was viewed to be lower-class. This means that in the tango bar a the Palacio Salvo, only men met to have drinks and practice tango moves together (they also danced with prostitutes in other venues) — sounds like some good gay history to me! (Secondary benefit: I have since come to appreciate that a cheap tour in Spanish is the perfect language tutorial — guides necessarily speak loudly, semi-formally with correct vocabulary and grammar, and you can ask clarifying questions.)

The Graf Zeppelin soared over Montevideo on one of her many trips to Latin America in the heyday of zeppelin travel that ended with the explosion of the Hindenburg in 1937. IYKYK — the many historic zeppelin photos around town were terrific.

I quit my job for this?! (those WTF moments that make me remember I no longer have a salary OR dental coverage)

Bidetjustment. Montevideo is a culture of bidets. Upon testing the surprisingly strong bidet in my hotel room, I squirted myself in the face. This was the third such incident in four days, but it hasn’t happened since, and now the upsides of a bidet-based society are clear: my undercarriage has been squeaky clean!

Economy class on the ferry from Buenos Aires to Montevideo was very…economy class. As I surged with the steerage crowd to claim a seat in the windowless section near the roaring motors, I peered up the grand staircase (capped with a glass dome!) to the tourist-class section, where everyone seemed to laughing, bathed in sunshine, and sipping espresso. Around me, passengers snoozed, sipped mate, and ate alfajores (so still pretty good. “So you want to go to a real party, Rose?”).

Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)

The stories in our national identities: what makes a place a place and what makes a people a people? I think travel forces a reevaluation of received truths and assumptions. On this trip, I have been ruminating about when and how and why people draw dividing lines and develop identities around nationhood when borders are often accidents of history and war (of relevance in the USA’s 250th year and in an era of surging nationalism). Uruguay could easily be part of a different country, just as Maine could easily be part of Canada, California could easily be part of Mexico, and Texas could easily be an independent nation.

In Latin America, perceived by many as quite different from the United States, one encounters countries that broke colonial ties, venerate heroes from the 18th and 19th century and plop statues of them in public plazas, expanded geographies westward, wrote constitutions with checks and balances, displaced native peoples, and incorporated waves of immigrants from Europe. One encounters founding myths that feel arbitrary or fanciful in the way that our own do not, only because we learn them in childhood and they are embedded in our culture, but which are no less arbitrarily elevated or fanciful (I did learn that the face of the great liberator in a key square in Montevideo likely looks nothing like him. The statue-maker relied on an image sent from a library in Buenos Aires, and a disinterested Argentine curator sent the wrong one. By the time the error was discovered, the statue was built and the coins had been minted…)

Food for eating (what I ate and drank)

More steak. More pastry. More coffee. More wine. Overall, some really creative and cosmopolitan restaurants in Montevideo.

Música (what I listened to in this chapter)

La Cumparsita! Tango touchtone, as mentioned, composed in Montevideo, at the basement bar of the Palácio Silva by Gerardo Matos Rodríguez.

Oh hey Maine:

Table of Contents:

• Overview: (where did I go?)
• I quit my job for this!! (those YASQUEEN moments that make it all worthwhile)
• I quit my job for this?! (those WTF moments that make me remember I no longer have a salary OR dental coverage)
• Food for thought (perspectives and takeaways)
• Food for eating (what I ate and drank)
• Música (what I listened to in this chapter)

Overview

My Chilean chapter began in Santiago, a cosmopolitan capital of over 7 million, nestled in the mountains. The neighborhoods I explored included the historic center, the gleaming financial district, and residential neighborhoods comprised of tree-lined boulevards and neighborhood plazas packed with canoodlers, pop-up soccer games, sculptures and fountains, and plenty of dog-walkers. I next headed 90 minutes west on a TurBus motor coach ($7 ticket) to Valparaíso, la joya del Pacífico, an historic city draped over cerros (hills) of multicolored houses that plunge down to a broad flat port area. The entire city is frescoed with graffiti that ranges from quick political tags to intricate murals. Just north of Valparaíso is Viña del Mar, a more affluent and less gritty seaside vacation destination for Santiago weekenders, where I lived while studying abroad at the Pontífica Universidad Catolica de Valparaíso in 2006.

After Valparaíso and Viña, I rented a car and drove 5 hours north to La Serena, yet another historic oceanfront city, which I used as home base to visit Parque Nacional Fray Jorge, hyped online as the home to ecosystems ranging from desert to coastal rainforest (see: “Lowpoints” section below), and Valle del Elqui, a region that stretches from the sea to the cordillera (Andes mountain range), where farmers cultivate grapes, peaches, tomatoes, and avocados, and distill those grapes into pisco, Chile’s liquor of choice. With some of the clearest skies in the world, observatories dot the hills of the Valle del Elqui, and astrology and mysticism are a big part of the culture. Gabriela Mistral, a poet who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1945, grew up in the Elqui Valley and wrote beautiful verses about the natural wonder of her home. Mistral’s presence and that of Chile’s other Novel laureate, Pablo Neruda, loom large across the country, including in Vicuña, a village where I spent a day and night. I finished my time in the valley near the end of the (long and winding) mountain road in the tiny town of Pisco Elqui. I then returned to Viña del Mar and hopped the TurBus to Santiago (a 10-hour travel day) for my last 36 hours in Chile in the big city.

An image to inform the overall picture: the Cotopaxi backpack I ordered for this trip arrived at 8 PM the night before my departure (too late to change anything!) and is both somehow too small AND too big. I am currently moving though South America — amidst very stylishly dressed Chileans and Argentines with normal rolling carry-ons — teetering under the beast on my back and a bursting backpack strapped to my front like an engorged Baby Bjorn. The overall lewk is that of a sweaty gringo alpaca on the verge of a major coronary event.

I quit my job for THIS!! (Highlights)

First day euphoria skyrocketed in Santiago when I took a gondola cable car ride at sunset (muy romántico), swooping up to the top of Cerro San Cristobal, a mountainous park in the middle of the city. I remembered Santiago as a smoggy and intimidating place, but it proved to be just the opposite. The park is one of its many delights: vast, beautifully maintained, packed with amenities and teeming with cyclists, joggers, and hikers (called “the lungs of the city”). Summer in Santiago seems to fill the plazas and greenways with groups of friends, families, and couples, plus sidewalk cafes packed with people grabbing a quick cortado, pastry, or pisco sour. Blasted by the sun during the day, with cool desert temperatures rolling in at midnight, life felt good…

A nostalgia bomb exploded upon arrival in Valparaiso and Viña, both of which seem to have changed less than I’d expected and felt smaller than I remembered (doesn’t everything?). I’d been warned that Valparaíso was now unsafe and seedy, but (like San Francisco) rumors of its demise seem greatly exaggerated.

• In Valparaíso, I stayed in a stunning Victorian inn, lovingly restored by a Belgian expat and his artist wife, perched atop one of the cerros, accessible by either a steep staircase or a creaky turn-of-the-century funicular. I roamed the hills, sipped pisco sours, lay on the beach, soaked up the street art, and enjoyed the view from the rooftop terraza. The spectacular new Museum of Immigration in Valparaiso showcased the waves of German, Italian, French, Turkish, Lebanese, Syrian, Jewish, and French immigrants that contributed the city’s boom in the 19th and early 20th centuries, through a truly immersive multi-media experience. The museum included role-playing a passenger on a turn-of-the century steamship — as you can imagine, this was an emotional climax for me.

• In Viña, I hit all the old spots: the beaches, Avenida Libertad, the McDonalds that was the last-call party spot in 2006, and I creeped down my old block to peek at my host family’s house. Memories of carretes (parties), piscolas, and cigarettes surged. The micros, chaotic mini-buses that rollercoaster through the streets and (still) cost about $0.70 to ride, blasting red-hot jams, are exactly the same. I asked someone if — like the Santiago Metro — they now accepted credit card tap payment and was almost laughed out of town.

Language. The ongoing highlight of this trip is the opportunity to practice Spanish, even heavily-accented and sometimes impenetrable Chilean Spanish. The adventure of speaking Spanish makes every little interaction a little stressful, a little exhilarating, and an opportunity to feel either (a) pretty assimilated or (b) completely gringo-y. Highlights speaking Spanish include a couple extended conversations about politics, one of them a long talk with a gay Venezuelan barber in Viña, in which he asked me about Trump, U.S. intervention in Venezuela, and the war in Iran. We ended up disagreeing quite a bit — he had an overall (but in my opinion, overly simplified) view that Maduro and the Iranian leadership were bad people and that therefore Trump was heroic for abducting Maduro and killing the Ayatollah and Iranian leadership. Despite some shouting and mutual frustration, it was exciting to speak in Spanish about meaningful issues, as well as to crack jokes and argue. We ended on an upbeat note and now the world is peaceful and secure.

In the Valle del Elqui, I hiked up a short hill to an overlook and bumped into a visiting Chilean history teacher. We talked for a long time about the importance of learning history and why kids need to visit literary and historical sites to understand their nations. I saw her a few more times in town and was greeted with a robust Hola Peter! Which made me feel great. I also visited a small organic winery up in the Andean foothills, on my way up the jaw-dropping road to Pisco Elqui, where I got a lovely free 1:1 tour and tasted some excellent dry Moscatos and Carmeneres. Plopping poolside in Pisco Elqui at my gorgeous hotel under some of the clearest skies in the world at the base of massive walls of Andean mountains slowly turning rose-colored in the sunset…que rico.

• The museums have been absolutely outstanding. The Gabriela Mistral birthplace museum had a poetry garden lined with hedges of lavender and archways of rosemary bushes that were intoxicating. The National Museum of Precolombian Art was gorgeously presented architecturally and in terms of thoughtful content, including art from across the Americas. The Mapuche tombstones were particularly impressive. The National Museum of Memory and Human Rights is mentioned in “Perspectives and Observations”.

Graffiti and wall art. Speak for themselves.

I quit my job for THIS?! (Lowlights)

After driving a total of 7 hours to Parque Nacional Fray Jorge, I arrived to learn that every trail in the park was closed, except for one stretch of 1-kilometer boardwalk. I was also told that despite having seen only 4 cars over 3 hours, walking on the dirt roads was strictly prohibited for safety reasons. So I drove to the mountain top and marched back and forth on that M-Fing boardwalk, muttering for a while but then happily meditating in the cloud forest as the fog rolled around me and the massive aloe plants.

There is a budget for this trip, and I am toggling between “treat yourself” and “at least somewhat deprive yourself”, a pleasantly stabilizing way to move through the world. In Vicuña, I seized the opportunity for a budget hotel room and discovered that sometimes the cheapest hotel in the village is the cheapest hotel in the village for a reason. My dimly-lit murder shed had clean linens, but the walls buckled with moisture in the wallpaper and the windows were carefully sealed with clingwrap to prevent any natural air from entering. Luckily, the only door opened directly into the lobby, where the elderly dueña rocked slowly in her rocking chair under a hissing bare bulb. The town shut down around 7 PM and as I lay on my back staring at the watermarked ceiling with no WiFi, sweating profusely, I was a little homesick.

My first night at a hostel as a 41-year old (in La Serena), the lodging was more threadbare than fabulous. I kicked in the door rocking both my backpacks, ready to shout “DÓNDE ESTÁ LA CARRETE, HUEVONES?!” (loosely translated: ‘WHERE THE PARTY AT, ASSHOLES?!”) to my fellow guests, but instead of the carrete-happy 20-something German and Brazilian backpackers I expected, I met a small group of exhausted Chilean electricians who were looking for a cheap place to overnight. No carrete ensued. My faded $20 /night bedroom was completely adequate, so maybe not such a lowlight after all.

Food for thought (Perspectives & Observations)

I arrived in Chile looking and listening for lessons to refresh my understanding of its military dictatorship and how Chile moved out of authoritarianism that began in 1973 to return to democracy in 1990 (a topic of my college thesis and somewhat relevant to the United States today).

A refresher/background (necessary but insufficient!):

On September 11, 1973, the first democratically elected Socialist president in Latin America, Salvador Allende, was assassinated in a golpe de estado (military coup). This was a shock at the time, as Chile had a long history of democratic government: as the Chicago Tribune put it in its front-page story that day, “Chile is no banana republic.” In the final moments of the Allende administration, La Moneda, the presidential palace, was bombed by the Chilean Air Force and the president died in his office (NOTE: I have updated this section. My first draft said Allende was killed, reflecting what I believed was true but is outdated history. Apparently in recent years, evidence emerged that he committed suicide in the final moments before the military got him.) The golpe had strong support among key actors, including elements of the Catholic church, United States government and business interests — including explicit support by Henry Kissinger and the Nixon administration — and Chilean and multinational corporations. Leading up to the coup, nationalization of key industries and land reforms provoked strong reactions. What was initially presented as temporary leadership by a military junta devolved almost immediately into a violent authoritarian government led by General Augusto Pinochet, in which the military systematically abducted, imprisoned, tortured, and murdered former allies of Allende, advocates for workers’ rights, sympathetic artists and intellectuals, and others. The National Stadium in Santiago became one such notorious venue, where a prominent folk singer of the era had his fingers broken one by one before he was shot.

Beyond the vast network of detention and torture centers that led to the disappearance and murders of thousands, tens of thousands more were forced into exile (deported) and having their passports canceled. The Pinochet regime systematically overhauled major newspapers and television stations, the university system, and other pillars of society to support its aims and purge left-leaning thinking. The regime also kept up a climate of ongoing crisis, staging executions to look as though the victims had been attacking police. Sound familiar?

Over time, in another historic first, with the help of growing pressure from civil society groups and foreign governments through the 1980s, the regime ultimately toppled when the Chilean people voted in a plebiscite in 1988 to restore democracy. A furious Pinochet, who allowed the plebiscite to enhance his international reputation, had miscalculated that he could win or rig the election results. He was outmaneuvered on election night by other military leaders and the well-organized “No” campaign (No to continuing with Pinochet) and was forced to accept the plebiscite results. Patricio Alywin won the subsequent presidential election and was inaugurated in 1990.

There is far too much to share here, but some observations and images from the outstanding Museo de Memoria y Derechos Humanos (Museum of Memory and Human Rights), a visit to the home of (Chile’s other) Nobel Prize-winning poet Pablo Neruda (La Chascona), and the Gabriela Mistral Cultural Center:

• In the torture and detention centers, many prisoners were blindfolded around the clock, aside from showering or when using the toilet. A common pattern from the era on bathroom drain plates was the sea horse, which became a visual symbol of the struggle and prompted lots of resistance art featuring sea horses. Other symbols of solidarity in domestic and international resistance included the clenched fist (fight), a dove (hope), and barbed wire (prison).

• Although repression of dissent in society was brutal, Chileans found opportunities in community groups and social clubs, professional organizations, and other venues to incubate dissent and connection, which paid off when the window of opportunity emerged: in the 1988 plebiscite. The campaign for democracy was permitted a short period every night to air their campaign on television, and they pursued a universalist campaign rooted in joy, hope, and the future (versus focused on the atrocities of the past they hoped to surmount). My favorite political ad of all time, La Alegría Ya Viene, was one such example (and on display at the museum). During the presidential campaign that followed, presidential candidate Patricio Alywin continued the same themes of hope and building, looking forward brightly. One of his presidential campaign ads got me all choked up in the museum — I couldn’t find the video but I did find the jingle, “Gana La Gente” (the people win) so if you speak Spanish, have a listen and picture many happy Chileans frolicking through a field, then barn-raising a new house together, then sitting down to a huge meal together as an extended family.
• The extraordinary home of Pablo Neruda (“La Chascona”) is a mid-century masterpiece, a fanciful house designed like a ship and decorated with artifacts and art from around the world. Neruda, an ally of Allende and ambassador to France under his government, was in the hospital with cancer when the coup occurred. The night of the coup, soldiers sacked La Chascona and clogged a stream designed to flow through the courtyard so it flooded out the house. Neruda died 12 days later and his wife insisted on holding his wake in the trashed La Chascona, knowing that the diplomatic and international press corps would attend and see the destruction inflicted there. She also insisted on a funeral parade through militarized Santiago, the first public protest against the dictatorship, only 14 days after the coup.
• The Chilean government led a truth and reconciliation commission to provide facts and social closure on this brutal era, which included figuring out a way for victims and perpetrators to continue to co-exist in society. More than 30 other countries have done the same. The United States of America has not yet had an official government truth and reconciliation commission about slavery or the genocide of Native Americans.

Chile has incredible art and institutions documenting the dictatorship. Still, the country recently voted to replace its Socialist president with a far-right candidate, José Antonio Kast, whose father was a Nazi in Germany and whose brother served in the administration of Augusto Pinochet. Kast ran against a Communist candidate and Gabriel Boric’s approval rating had tumbled due to inflation and incidents of corruption in his administration.

I would love to talk more about this with everyone, but I depart Chile with these lessons for combating authoritarianism in the United States:

• More human connection (in-person, offline) builds solidarity and power, strengthening the ability to pursue democracy.
• Joy and a forward-looking vision inspire the public to seize their rights from a strongman.
• Broad-based, universal appeal is essential to advance a movement for democracy.

I think I need a separate post to talk about the experience of being in Chile, Argentina, and Uruguay during our war with Israel against Iran. But this set of posters caught my eye:

Non-political observations:

Kids sit on the floor of the subway and they’re not supposed to and there is a major campaign by the Santiago Metro to stop them. I have never seen anyone sitting on the floor of the T or subway, and here in Chile kids are plopping down left and right to eat ice cream, text, or just rest. This cracked me up.

One realization of this journey is that while I’m trying to maintain a budget (money as a constrained resource), the resource of time is available in a way I’ve never experienced. The “loss” of a day for my national park misadventure was actually…fine. I have many more days to bask in the outdoors on this trip and I was able to drive through beautiful country and take the speedbump in stride.

Food for eating

QUE RICO. Lots of potatoes, lots of meat (especially ham), lots of avocado, seafood, bread everywhere. Chile is heavily influenced by its British, French, Italian, Spanish, and other gastronomic heritage. Pisco is the liquor of choice, but wine flows everywhere too, particularly Carmenere, the varietal imported from France and now unique to Chile. I’ve really been enjoying (1) ensalada chilena, which is fresh summer tomatoes with onions, oil, salt and pepper; (2) empanadas; (3) completos, which are hot dogs smothered al italiano with mayonnaise, avocado, and tomatoes; (4) chorrillana, which is French fries piled with caramelized onions, chopped grilled meats, and eggs.

Two highlight: (1) stopping for lunch at the equivalent of a Chilean truck stop in the coastal desert north, off Ruta 5. Almost all men, almost all truck drivers with big rigs parked out front, all greeting each other (including me) while we dug into huge portions of delicious, full home-cooked meals served by the family running the kitchen. I didn’t understand the waitress but ended up with some juicy home-cooked ribs over rice and a vegetable salad. (2) A sophisticated and delicious beef tartare and shrimp swimming in garlic-butter-cilantro broth at a cliffside restaurant overlooking Valparaiso.

Here are some pics for loyal readers. LFG.

Música

· Had to blast Los Jaivas while driving through the Andes. This iconic folk group blends indigenous and other music folk styles and I was incredibly lucky to see some of them still playing in concert in 2006. This album (Alturas de Machu Pichu) was performed as a musical rendition to a famous Pablo Neruda poem and was recorded in Paris, while the band was in exile from the regime in the 1980s.

· I learned that in 1987, Sting released a protest song in tribute to the women who “dance alone” because their husbands, boyfriends, and sons have been murdered and disappeared. Called “They Dance Alone”, it refers to the Chilean national dance of the cueca which was reportedly important to raise visibility internationally. Thank you Sting!! It’s a poignant and literal song.

· Julieta Venegas and her signature “Andar Conmigo” reminds me so much of my study abroad and still echos all over Chile.

· Luis Miguel’s “Ahora Te Puedes Marchar” is similarly still everwhere! So is Bad Bunny (heard of him?).

· “Heads Carolina, Tails California”, which I put on while agonizing about whether to stay on the coast or head inland for the night and had to flip a 100 peso coin.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you’d like to hear more or less about.

Coming next: Argentina/Uruguay, che.

With the luxury of two months abroad comes the ability to make wrong turns, waste time, and choose the least optimized meal or cafe, which sometimes result in the most serendipitous emergent experiences [and sometimes results in wasted time, money, public embarrassment, and acute gastrointestinal distress]. Further, one of the greatest benefits of quitting Instagram in 2022 has been a greatly diminished reflex [mostly] to reach for my camera when I spot something beautiful, interesting, or exciting.

Holding all of that, I present this non-social media platform as a travelogue to:

• Share my experiences and some photos!
• Organize and capture my thoughts and have some synthesis of these days and weeks.

SO WE BLOGGING! Subscribe and unsubscribe freely. This will be updated on a chaotic and unpredictable schedule, with a healthy dollop of navel-gazing and sweeping conclusions made with partial or incomplete data! Despite my best intentions, I’m still snapping selfies and texting freely, so some may be redundant by the time you read it but with all that in mind, please fly along with la gaviota caprichosa (wayward seagull).

Coming next: Chile, po.