Thank God the French Got Here First

There's no better reason to go shopping in the souks of Marrakesh than when you've lost your baggage and you are desperately seeking underwear. No, it wasn't my luggage that was misplaced, but that of my travel companion, Jennifer. So, here we were on our first few hours in Morocco, scouring the market for a fresh change of clothing.

It all started with an hour-long delay at JFK; we knew we'd missed our connecting flight in Casablanca, but with four hours to wait before the next one, we didn't think we'd have trouble with her bag.When it didn't appear on the baggage claim carousel, Jennifer lost her cool with the lack of help from the Royal Air Maroc staff who, after some prodding, told her to call the airport eight hours later.

On top of that, the driver waiting to collect us at the airport and take us to our accommodations, nearly left without us because he had another client to pick up somewhere else. He told me he'd wait one more minute, and finally Jennifer came out of the baggage claim area empty handed. The driver, who must have been 6 feet, 5 inches tall, raced to the car--leaving us huffing and puffing several paces behind him.

Without a word, he raced through the crowded streets, dodging slow cars, pedestrians, cylists and donkeys on the way. He dumped us at a carpark and we had to maneuver our way through the labyrinth of the old medina to our riad, an old home converted into a boutique hotel with a living room and a roof-top terrace.

Surprisingly chipper, Jennifer was ready to do some exploring before we'd have to make contact with the airline about her missing bag. We enjoyed our al fresco lunch, just off the main square, the Djemaa-el-Fna. Even with bellies full with chicken tajine, we contemplated a yummy chocolate desert at a nearby patiserie. I couldn't help thinking that I had the French to thank for that wonderfully delicious import.

"As opposed to if the Japanese would have gotten here first?" Jennifer said. "Otherwise you would be eating green tea mochi."

Perhaps we might have gotten her luggage, too, but we ignored that thought as we wandered the plaza full of snake charmers, tattoo artists, acrobats and touts, getting lost in the jumble as the sun set behind the mosque blaring its evening call to prayer.

Getting Bombed

On July 16, 1945, nuclear chemist John Balagna was perched on a mountain peak near Albuquerque, N.M., to observe the detonation of the first atomic bomb at the Trinity test site nearly 100 miles away.

After more than 40 years working for the Manhattan Project at Los Alamos National Laboratory, he starting experimenting with an entirely different form of chemistry--wine making.

"I grew up making wine with my grandfather," Balagna says. So when he retired from the laboratory, he started the Balagna Winery at his home in White Rock, N.M., on property that he bought from the Atomic Energy Commission for $25 an acre in the mid-1980s.

If you blink, you might miss the tiny sign that says "winery," at the end of a long driveway that leads back to the edge of the mesa, where Balagna and his wife, Jean, live.

On the day I visit, John is in the garage constructing a table for his daughter, who saw one in the JCPenney catalog and wanted an exact duplicate. Meanwhile, Jean, also a retiree from Los Alamos National Laboratory, is carefully shaping a piece of white marble in the front yard. She doesn't sell her work; once she sold a piece to someone ("my favorite," she says) and now wants to buy it back.

Balagna leads me to the tasting room in a casita he built alongside their home. The various wines are lined up ready to dispense upon request. I can't resist trying "La Bomba Grande" ("The Big Bomb"), which was created to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Los Alamos National Laboratory in 1993. Balagna explains the formulation is a a blend of Pinot Noir, Merlot and Zinfandel grapes.

With wine in hand, I step outside onto the back porch and am treated to spectacular desert vistas. Below me, the muddy Rio Grande snakes through the desert for miles in each direction. The setting feels just as remote as the location chosen for the atomic blast.

And you can get just as bombed, too.

Denver to Santa Fe

The first leg of my Family Tour 2007 got off to an exciting start with a visit to SkyVenture Colorado. Located in a Denver suburb, SkyVenture is an indoor skydiving experience in which you fly through the air in a vertical wind tunnel that pumps out 120 mph winds. Check out my minute-long flight here:

New Post

I just wanted to check in to let you know that I will be starting a new job on Oct. 1. I will be working for Lake Erie Living magazine—a regional consumer lifestyle and travel publication that has published three issues now.

Also, stay tuned for upcoming blog posts later this month, when I visit the Central and Southwestern United States on my whirlwind Family Tour 2007, which will take place between jobs.

And later this year, I'll be going to Morocco: Nov. 15-27, 2007.

As always, these posts will be delivered direct to your inbox via your Yahoo Groups subscription. But for complete blog posts with photos, be sure to visit the blog directly at http://farflungplaces.blogspot.com/

Blatant Self Promotion

A photo of mine from Tibet (pictured at right) has been named one of 50 finalists in a photography contest jointly sponsored by National Geographic Traveler magazine and InterContinental Hotels & Resorts.

While I'm skeptical I'll win the grand prize trip to Australia, I'm just happy that my image was selected out of a pool of a gazillion great photos, which you can see on the contest's website.

The grand prize winner will spend 16 days on a National Geographic Expedition around Australia. The second place prize is a Sony SLR digital camera and a two night stay at any InterContinental Hotels & Resorts. The third prize winner will receive a National Geographic Deluxe Atlas and a two night stay at any InterContinental Hotels & Resorts.

The winners will be announced at the end of the month.

For those of you receiving this e-mail via Yahoo Groups may not be able to see the photo. Please visit the blog at http://farflungplaces.blogspot.com.

In a Regatta Da Vida

I may not be traveling in some far-off destination, but I'm seeing Cleveland in a whole new way this summer as part of a rowing crew. I now have a unique way to explore every bend of the crooked river that winds its way through the city. Along the banks of the Cuyahoga River in downtown Cleveland are small parks, sculptures, tug boats, water birds and rock climbers, in addition to the less pleasant rotting machinery, "exotic" smells and dead, bloated rats floating downstream.
Every Wednesday evening at 5 p.m.—rain or shine—our team is preparing to get on the water, extracting oars and the 60-foot-long shell from the boathouse at the Western Reserve Rowing Association.

Most of us are novice rowers, meaning we had no experience with the sport before the Summer Rowing League started back in May. So, during practice, we've been going through basic drills, focusing on form and timing. We are also learning the catchphrases used in rowing—some times first hand; in the last few weeks, for example, I've "caught a crab" and I've used a "cox box." For the definitions, please refer to the Wikipedia page on rowing.

All of this has been preparing us for competition. During the 15-week league, we have three regattas, in which we race against other teams in the program. Our first was yesterday (Saturday, June 23). We really had no idea what to expect. When we arrived at the boathouse, the festive music was pumping, the league organizers were making announcements over the loudspeaker and rowers were picnicking on the banks of the river waiting for their team to be called.

We participated in two heats, and we smoked our competition. Our first race was completed in two minutes and 54 seconds. In the following race, we cut our previous time by two seconds. Both times, our competitors were at least four length behind us as we crossed the finish line. It felt really good to win, of course, but we still have a long way to go. Experienced rowing teams were finishing their races about 15 seconds faster.

FRONT ROW: Erin, Nancy, Lea and me; BACK ROW: Bruce (who filled in as our coxwain), Gloria, Wendy, Martha and Denny; NOT PICTURED: Sara, Heidi, Joanne, Stephanie

Dancing Around the World

I just happened across this video from a guy named Matt, who created a Web site called "Where the Hell is Matt?" for his family to chart his travels around the world. As you might expect after viewing the video below, he picked up quite a following—so, a candy manufacturer sponsored his next trip around the world.

Boats, buses and a bucolic bed & breakfast

Wednesday, we transitioned from an island resort to a rural hacienda near the border with Guatemala. We opted to take a ferry to the coastal town of La Ceiba, then take the bus from La Ceiba to Copan Ruinas.

The ferry ride was easy (Serge gave us a good tip beforehand: buy the first-class ticket on the ferry, as your luggage comes off first). The bus company was organized, even if a bit slow in processing tickets. Security was tight, and a photo was taken of each passenger as they boarded the vehicle. I wondered if the measure was for our security or just to help identify bodies if the bus is hijacked by rebels. In all seriousness, Honduras is generally safe for travelers.

We arrived at La Hacienda San Lucas just as the sun was about to disappear over the mountains beyond the valley. It was a truly magical time. The ranch hands were just beginning to light the thousands of candles and oil lamps that bask the 100-year-old property in a golden glow.

The main house of the structure houses two kitchens (one is the original, which contains a traditional oven), a sitting area and the reception desk. A door leads out to the restaurant on the front patio.

Up a step hill are the two guest houses with four bedrooms each. The beds are covered with colorful Guatemalan bedspreads, and pillows made of woven mat material (the matting was used by Mayan royalty, and is a symbol of political power). The candles were already lit for us and black soot covered the white stuccoed walls above them.

Just outside the room hang two hammocks where we've spent several hours each day napping, reading or hanging out with the resident dogs, Luco, K'inich and Popi. Photo albums in the main house show them all as puppies, when the hacienda's owner, Flavia, moved to Honduras and began to restore the property, which had belonged to her grandfather.

Flavia, originally from this region, moved to Kentucky in her teens to attend a private high school. She went on to college, married, had kids, started a catering business, and eventually divorced--all in the United States. Her grown children thought she was crazy when she said she was going to return to her homeland and live at the hacienda. They said it was "her menopause project."

She couldn't be happier, she tells me on Thursday. However, she says she's a little crazed at the moment getting ready for a large dinner party that evening. Earlier in the week, the hacienda received a reservation for a party of 60 from the Ministry of Honduran Tourism. She appears to be keeping her cool, though, as she sits in the entry way smoking a cigarette. Around her, though, is a flurry of activity among her employees. One is replacing the flower arrangements with fresh stems of tropical flowers, an older woman is grinding corn to make tortillas, 12-year-old Octulio is raking the flowerbeds.

As sun was setting, the mariachi band arrived to set up and began playing some traditional tunes. That's when we and the rest of the guests left to go into town for dinner.

West End Girls and Boys

We had some time to kill before leaving Roatan for mainland Honduras, so we left the cushy confines of the resort and wandered out to the street to catch a taxi to West End, where the budget-minded travelers tend to congregate. The taxis work two ways: you can take a regular taxi for $5, or you can take a colectivo taxi for $1.50. The latter is where the taxi will stop and pick up other passengers until its full.

The taxi we hailed already had a passenger, so we hopped in the back seat. The guy in front, Tony (from Seattle), had just arrived on Roatan from Guatemala. He had no idea where he was going to stay, but he did know he wanted some kind of dive package.

We invited him to lunch, so that he could peruse our Lonely Planet guidebook.

We had planned to eat at a place called "Galley," but when we got there, we found that it had changed hands and opened as the "Pasta Factory at the Galley." The Italian woman running it said she kept the name Galley to capitalize on the previous tenants entry in the Lonely Planet guidebook. Obviously, she´s getting traffic, because here we are.

In a it's-a-small-world way, Serge, our refresher course instructor, rolled up on his motorbike and ambled onto the porch of the restaurant. "This is my wife's place," he said. "We invested everything we had in opening it."

Serge gave Tony some advice on cheaper places with dive packages, and then showed me his "baby"--a tiny Rottweiler, only weeks old.

After lunch, we parted ways with Tony as he wandered off looking for lodging. We were just looking to look.

West End is a laid back Key West-like town with a dusty unpaved road with nautical rope stretch across it to serve as speed bumps. During the day, it is rather quiet since most everyone is out on (or under) the water. At night, the party gets underway and goes all night.

In front of one West End bar called the Buccaneer hung an Ohio State flag. I couldn't resist finding out who and why. I walked into the empty bar and up to the first person I saw in the empty establishment. Pam Wilbur told me that her husband, John, and her son, Dave, moved permanently to Roatan from Columbus in 2003. The bought 10 acres on which they are developing condominiums and a hotel that will be finished in the next six months. John Wilbur had been a developer in the States, and Pam had been a caterer, which made opening a bar pretty simple.

The only problem, she said, was finding good employees. She was willing to give me a job on the spot. "And, it's easy to get a work permit here. We thought about movng to Belize, but the work permit was taking too long. My son got one here right away."

Dave ushered us into his four-wheel drive and took us up the hill to see the units that were under construction, as well as the hotel, then drove us back to the main road and we headed back to the resort.

Field Trip

When I was in high school, the kinds of field trips we took were to the art museum or the zoo. And as you might imagine, the highlight was eating lunch at McDonalds.

For 18 students from Worthington Christian High School in Columbus, Ohio, the highlight of their field trip to the Roatan Institute of Marine Sciences, located at Anthony's Key Resort, has been to interact with the dolphins.

Yeah, you heard me. These kids get a week off of school to travel a million miles away, and study marine biology in a warm, tropical environment. Oh, but they are taking classes while they are here. And there will be a test, says Debbie Walton, their science teacher and chaperone.

All of them spent weeks leading up to their visit studying reef biology, socking their money away and getting scuba certified. That way they were ready to jump in on arrival.

Well, I got my dream-come-true field trip today, too, when I got to snorkel with the 8 dolphins at the institute. For an hour-and-a-half, I swam alongside these creatures in the lagoon at the resort, watching their natural behavior...nothing like the fins and flipper-type show I've seen in the past.

They are a little hesitant to approach at first, so we're given an introduction by a trainer who talks about their physiology, life span, behavior and anything else we could think about asking. Cebena was the dolphin that we were formally introduced to. She is 21 years old, and her child is a year-and-a-half old. After the demonstration, we did the cheesy, touristy pictures--the dolphin kissing my check, etc.

But after all of that, we attached fins, put on the mask and snorkel, and went deeper into the water. Cebena and her child found me first and slipped past in such close proximity that I was bobbing in their wake. Another pair of dolphins were demonstrating sex education. The others were goofing around, nipping at each other and teasing snorkelers. All the while, you could here them communicating to each other through their blowholes.

They truly are amazing to watch, especially beneath the surface of the water. I never need to see the silly tricks dolphins are trained to do again. And then, Cebena waves her flipper at me to say goodbye.

Ups and Downs, and a Few Bends

My day started with a trip to the medical clinic located at Anthony's Key Resort (AKR), which not only services guests, but also members of the community. Because the public health system is limited in what it can provide--plus, the hospital is subject to frequent power outages--AKR's owner, Julio Gallindo Sr., founded the clinic at the resort. Unlike the hospital in Roatan, the power is on 24/7 at AKR, which is like its own town, complete with its own water treatment facility and power plant.

Dependability is the key, especially when you're suffering from the bends and require treatment in the property's hyperbaric chamber.

Luckily, I didn't require that kind of treatment.

Instead, I was being treated for a inflamed eustachian tube. On a severity scale of 1 to 5 (with the latter indicating a perforation), I am somewhere between a 4 and 5, the doctor tells me. He gives me an anti-inflammatory and a decongestant. And now for the bad news, he says: "No diving for the rest of your stay." That means no night dive tonight.

I suppose it could have been a lot worse. After all, the hyperbaric chamber was actually in use by some unlucky fellow as I sat in the waiting room. The chamber itself is the centerpiece of the room. The man inside is displayed on a monitor that sits on top of the apparatus. The technician administering the oxygen to the patient explained that the chamber is used nearly 120 times a year, but seldom is it needed by recreational divers (which account for maybe 20 a year).

Instead, commercial fisherman--like this man--risk their lives every day in order to make a living doing nearly 15 deep dives a day to retrieve lobster from the sea floor. Many don't have any problems for years, but eventually, their practices get the better of them, and they require treatment for decompression sickness. And for some of these guys, going to the hyperbaric chamber is like going to the bar after a hard days work.

For the next 12 days, this man will have to suck pure oxygen for a couple hours a day before he will be allowed back in the water.

I, on the other hand, will still have the opportunity to snorkel with the dolphins.

On the Boat Again...

"A bad day diving is better than a good day at work."

Various stickers are plastered at the AKR dock where a boat shuttles resort guests between their island cabanas and the main resort. But this sticker stands out among them, especially today. Based on the previous day's experience, Chris couldn't disagree more.

However, he's ready to give diving another try--albeit hesitantly.

Peace has returned to Roatan after a night of heavy storms, which is unseasonable for the month of April. Waves battered the deck of our cabana all night, and the colorful hammocks bashed against the railings. Even though the sea was still churning by morning, the sun appeared over the mountain, and it looked like it would be a good day for scuba diving, which was rescheduled for the south side of the island where the waters are calmer.

"Don't worry, Chris," says Frank, the divemaster. "It'll be no problem today."

Frank kept his word.

Throughout the day, we were treated to a healthy barrier reef (the second largest in the world after the Great Barrier Reef) chocked full of pillar, tube and barrel sponges "you can fit a cow in," magestic eagle rays, lobsters, green moray eels, barracuda, parrotfish, gigantic grouper and variety of tropical fish that I can't identify--despite having gone last night to the "School of Fish," an informative fish identification class that is presented once a week by Sergio Luperto, the newest divemaster at AKR.

Part of what makes fish identification so difficult is that the fish change dramatically over the course of their lives. Take for example, the Damselfish. As a juvenile, it looks like a disco ball with it's shiny white dots on it's midnight blue scales. But as it ages, its color changes, it develop stripes, and only the tell-tale disco dots on its dorsal fin give it away.

The highlight was seeing the spotted eagle ray with its six-foot wingspan. It caught one glimpse of us and turned around and shot off deeper into the abyss, and we headed in the opposite direction--back to the surface--with a renewed fondness for underwater exploration.

Now we truly can say that we'd rather be diving than spending our afternoon at a office desk.

Dive In

Roatan is a mecca for scuba divers from around the world, and Anthony's Key Resort (AKR) is a mecca for divemasters looking for a job on the island. Serge, a divemaster, has spent two years living in Roatan, working at various dive shops, but when he had the opportunity to work full time at AKR just two weeks ago, he jumped at the chance. "This is where everyone wants to be," he says. "It's the best outfit in Roatan and in the Caribbean, in my opinion."

Serge is helping me and my husband get reacquainted with diving. It's been just over two years since we dove in Cozumel and we're feeling a little rusty. A refresher course costs $85, but it's worth it from a safety standpoint. After walking us through the steps of assembling the equipment, we dove into the shallows and went through a series of drills--regulator recovery; underwater mask clearing, buoyancy control; and air sharing with a buddy with a low air supply. With a submerged high-five, we passed with flying colors. By 10:30 we were on our assigned dive boat, Trevor, ready to take the plunge.

But that's where the fun ends. Looking out into the Caribbean Sea, boats are being tossed two and fro. It looks like a storm is brewing. I have flashbacks to a boat ride in Peru that I experienced through a Dramamine-induced haze. The boat lilts left and right, and I keep my eyes focused on the now-distant shoreline. "Just get me in the water," I say to the Scuba gods as I gag slightly. "And I'll be fine."

I jumped in and felt instantly better, but my husband wasn't as lucky. He made it under the water, but his breakfast rose to the surface. The boat's dive master, Frank, pulled him to the rocking boat(where he spent the next 50 minutes, while the rest of us were plowing calmer waters at 80-foot depths), while I bobbed at the surface wondering what was going on. Frank motioned at me to descend.

When Frank returned, I buddied up with him and drifted along a rainbow-hued coral reef on my right side. With a divemaster as a buddy, I got the best seat in the house. He knew where to look for creatures from the depths, spotting gigantic crabs tucked into crevices. But it was I who noticed the sea turtle swimming on the sandy bottom.

Returning to the surface was like the shock a child must feel when it emerges from the womb during birth. I sputtered as the deep, blue calm gave way to overwhelming surges of water. The boat made an unsuccessful bid to retrieve us and looped around again. Some of the waves obsured my view of the vessel, which made things disorienting. I imagined what it must be like for rescue divers with the Coast Guard, braving the high seas (Yes, Kevin Costner and Ashton Kutcher flashed through my mind momentarily).

Once on board, the waves of nausea made me stomach turn, and soon I was bent over the side of the boat next to my beloved spouse, who was oblivious to my predicament. I can't say that this was the way we envisioned spending our vacation.

Once we were on land again, we all compared experiences, as though we were exchanging war stories.

"That was pretty rough. It was rougher than anything I encountered in the ocean," said Charlie McCoy, a kidney specialist from Rhode Island, who experienced rougher ocean waters during a boat race last year from Rhode Island to Bermuda. His family are diving together in Roatan, and this dive was one of the first for his 14-year-old daughter, Bridget. "I was worried about her. Her gear was just as heavy as she is."

Bridget did great, though. That is, until her mother puked in her lap. "I'm taking a shower first," Bridget exclaimed.

E-mail Changes

I want to apologize for my rusty blogging skills. I haven't been on the blog since last August, and in that time my e-mail address changed. However, I didn't change it in the Yahoo Group settings until after I posted yesterday and realized my error. So, if you responded to the e-mail you received from blake54@comcast.net, you may have received a notice that the e-mail could not be delivered. The glitch has been fixed and my new e-mail address should be listed properly now. It should be the "netscape.net" account.

V!VA List Latin America Released

I've written my first book. Well, that's not exactly true.

A travel essay I wrote about the Lord of Sipan was accepted for publication in a compilation of travel stories.

V!VA List, Latin America is the first-ever armchair travel book created by an online community of travelers, writers and photographers. Packed with colorful essays and striking photographs, the 350-page book is designed to inspire readers to journey south (or north, east, or west!) and experience exotic Latin American culture and its extraordinary places.

If you're interested in more information, visit the V!VA List Web site or just click on the Amazon link at the right-hand side of the page and help me earn a little spending money for my next trip.

In other news
Speaking of trips, the next journey will begin on Saturday, Apr. 14, with an insanely early flight to the island of Roatán. I plan to post on our adventures, so stay tuned. Those of you who are signed up to receive e-mail alerts when I post to the blog (such as this one), please do not respond directly to the automated e-mail itself as it will be sent to everyone on the list. AND, if you would like to be removed the list, please let me know!

First Stop, Cleveland

When Brook Silva-Braga announced he was quitting his job to spend a year traveling around the world, his coworkers said it was a great idea; however, his boss confided that some of them were whispering, “There’s the idiot . . . the one who’s giving it up.”

But like many of those who have caught the travel bug, he was determined to make it happen by conceiving what would become “A Map for Saturday,” a documentary film about the experience of long-term solo travel.

“The idea for the film was really an excuse to take the trip without feeling like I’d thrown away a career I’d been working towards since high school,” says Silva-Braga. “I had no idea if the film would ever be seen, but I felt that if I worked hard on it, good things would happen.”

After leaving his camera bag on a bus seven months into the journey, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I took a bus from Dublin to Belfast one afternoon. I was always taking a bus,” he says. “I walked from the bus station to a hostel . . . and put my bag down at the reception desk. But my small bag was missing—the bag with my camera in it. So I went running back to the bus station. After about ten minutes a guy came walking from the garage with my camera bag in his hand, and I was very, very relieved.”

Despite a few setbacks, “A Map for Saturday” made its world premiere at the Cleveland International Film Festival last night, and had audiences reminiscing about their own travel experiences.

“The film inevitably reminds people of the good times they’ve had on the road themselves,” Silva-Braga says. “And I hope it inspires some of them to take the leap and do a long trip.”

Editor's note: Brook Silva-Braga's new film "One Day in Africa" is premiering at the Cleveland International Film Festival on Thursday, March 26, 2008.

Theater in the Round

This is my last post from across the pond. The sun has set on what was a glorious final day in London.

We started at the street markets along Portabello Road in Notting Hill. Despite just having had breakfast, I couldn't resist a cupcake at the Hummingbird Bakery.

And finally, our day ended in Shakespeare's Globe Theater where we saw The Comedy of Errors. The acting was splendid (yes, I'm adopting English phrases). The open-air theater, which opened in 1991, is a faithful replica of the original theater located not far from where it now stands.

Speaking of standing, we were groundlings--we had $10 standing-room only tickets. On one hand, we were right in front of the stage, and on the other, we had to stand the entire show. Luckily it was only an hour and a half long. Plus, it was a comedy, which I quite enjoyed. Anyone who knows me knows I dislike the tragedies tremendously--having been dragged to all of them at least once during my ten-year marriage.

So, as the evening draws to a close on our last day in jolly ol' England, I am pleased to say this has been a great anniversary trip. I just hope the security situation at the airport tomorrow morning doesn't leave a bad taste in my mouth.

And for those of you waiting for photos, I will post a few once I am home.

CHEERS!

War Room

Even if you're not into war history, you might enjoy a visit to the Cabinet War Rooms, part of the two-year-old Churchill Museum. Churchill used these underground bunkers to conduct World War II and protect himself from the bombs falling all over the city. The day the war ended, the rooms were locked up with all of their contents and forgotten until Margaret Thatcher gave the OK to open them.

We wandered through the map room, where a map of world covered a long wall. In the Atlantic Ocean are clusters of pinholes where shipping boats had been destroyed by German U-boats.

On another map, one of the cabinet members had doodled a drawing of Hitler. There must have been a lull in the bombing campaign.

The museum is located near 10 Downing Street and the House of Parliament (Big Ben).

THe visit to the museum was part of a day-long excursion in the heart of London. We walked everywhere and are completely exhausted now!

The whole world in my hands

It is possible to travel the whole world by just visiting the British Museum. I spent most of my time in Africa, especially Egypt. The museum has an astonishing quantity of statues and mummies (including Cleopatra). As much as I enjoy seeing these artifacts, they would have more meaning, or context, if they were returned to Egypt. There is an ongoing battle between the museum and Egypt over the return of some of these treasures that had been plundered by the British. And recently, I believe, Greece recovered some of its things.

Ever since I visited Actun Tunichil Maknal, I am in favor of having artifacts left where they are found. The cave in Belize had been thoroughly explored and documented by an archaeologist who left everything in situ. I was able to see the exact location where the Mayans had performed ritualistic deaths--the bones of the "chosen ones" in a pile on the ground with pottery shards laying all around.

A pot in a case in a museum doesn't tell me a story. Nontheless, I was most looking forward to the British Museum, despite my beliefs. The most famous if its treasures is the Rosetta Stone, which made the translation of certain hieroglyphics possible.

The museum offers free tours of the various exhibits and we purposely chose Africa (not including Egypt) to learn more about the continent. We
were the only ones to show up for the talk, so it was totally worth it.

In the three hours we spent in the museum, I have selected more travel destinations. So, it was quite fitting that we would stumble upon the world's largest travel bookstore while wandering through Covent Garden. Stanford's has three levels of books, travel gear and much more. I was in heaven. I didn't buy anything. The prices are double what they are stateside.

London calling

I have been indoctrinated.

As we passed deeper and deeper inside the Cadbury chocolate factory, we were told again and again by holographic 19th century figures that Cadbury was awesome in every way.

The company was one of the first to offer benefits to the factory workers, it built schools and hospitals for the town in which it built its factory and most importantly, it made sure its chocolate was of the highest quality. I wasn't going to argue--I had my mouth full of the full-size candy bars they pass out during the tour.

The highlight was being able to select some kind of treat and have it covered in thick, gooey, liquid hot chocolate. Unfortunately, we had to endure the cheesiest of the holographic presentations to reach that room.

Cheese and chocolate do not go well together.

Armed with plenty of chocolate, we made our journey to London, stopping briefly in Stratford-Upon-Avon to visit the grave of William Shakespeare.

Last night, at the stroke of 10 o'clock, we were locked up in the Tower of London. Not every tourist can say they've been locked up in the tower where Ann Boleyn lost her head. Well, only about 50 a night. Free tickets for the Ceremony of the Keys must be requested two months in advance.

It was pretty cool.

Roundabouts and chocolate

What do Duran Duran and the Cadbury bunny have in common?

They both have roots in Birmingham, England.

We actually thought we would have made it further south on Monday, but the roads, signs and roundabouts are confusing. Yesterday morning, it took hours to find the town of Roslin, which is only 12 miles south of Edinburgh, despite having a sheet of instructions given to us.

The hundreds of people that were at the Roslin Chapel when we arrived didn't seem to have any problem getting there. Our visit was worth it. The chapel has a fascinating history, not all of it related to the fame it received when Dan Brown wrote about it in the DaVinci Code. Even though scaffolding covers the entire church on the outside, it allows the visitor to climb around at roof level. It's definitely unique to get that perspective and get a closeup view of the spires with their rose carvings.

The inside is even better. The masons that built it included many fine details representing a mixture of pagan, Christian and local history.

From Roslin, we headed south into England stopping for a hike along Hadrian's wall. We had hoped to ride bikes, but the weather wasn't cooperating (and riding on the narrow, hilly and winding roads would have been scary--a couple of times I drove over a hill encountering a cyclist just over the summit).

We finally stumbled into Birmingham after dark and after taking a few wrong roads. I had some caffeine to keep me going, but I calculated its consumption based on an on-time arrival. Needless to say, I found myself on the side of the road in some bushes that left me with some kind of skin reaction--luckily only on my ankle.

When we finally made into Birmingham, we filled up the tank of our Mercedes Zero Class hatchback for $100 (not a typo) and had dinner along the canals. Besides being the home of Duran Duran and the Cadbury bunny, this city has earned the distinction of being the Venice of England.

Now, we're off to Cadbury World. When I write next, I may be in a chocolated-induced haze.

Crazy duffers

Like devout muslims performing the haj--or pilgrimage--to mecca, golf enthusiasts come to St. Andrews, Scotland, to visit the birthplace of golf.

Even though it was raining heavily on this Sunday afternoon, diehard fans of the sport, and us, were wandering the links of the Old Course behind the the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse on the 18th hole. It seems the course is closed on Sundays, so anyone can walk the fairways.

While it didn't mean that much to me, Chris would chuckle every once in a while or comment that the water hazards and sand traps looked quite difficult.

St. Andrews has more than just golf and, until recently had Prince William. Yes ladies, the future King of England lived here while attending University.

The town also features the largest cathedral in all of Scotland, although it's nothing more than a skeleton on the sea. I'm not exactly sure what happened to it, but now it serves as a cemetery.

We didn't spend much time on the labryntian streets of St. Andrew. We had rented a car and on a whim, decided to make the hour-long journey north of Edinburgh. We made it back just in time (seriously) to see our 6:30 film at the film festival.

The film, called ICEBERG was a story about a woman who gets locked in a freezer at the fast food restaurant in which she works and then starts obsessing about icebergs. The movie was all physical comedy with very little dialogue and it stars the filmmakers who made it. 

They showed up after the film for a Q+A session. I thought it was a little odd to be sitting 10 feet away from two people that had been naked on screen just a few moments before.

That's all I've got for now. I am currently writing from Chris's blackberry and it's hard to type. The good news is that we can receive email anywhere and respond from anywhere.

Feel free to email us at cswblake@hahnlaw.com. We will be on the road all day Monday and would love to hear from you.

Edinburgh

I don't know how many times I've tried to start writing this entry. I think I'm having a bout of writer's block. That isn't good since I'm sitting in the Elephant House, where J.K. Rowling scribbled the "birth" of Harry Potter on a napkin. Shouldn't I be inspired to write something? Is it possible that there is just too much creativity in this town at one time, and that it is preventing me from posting a simple blog entry?

Afterall, the Edinburgh International Festival, The Fringe Festival and the Edinburgh International Film Festival are all going one right this minute.

All sorts of street performers are just outside--being creative. At this point, I guess I'm using my creative energy to stay awake. It's the jet lag...yeah.

After a healthy nap yesterday, Chris and I managed to get to see a Fringe performance called "Confessions of a Paralyzed Porn Star." Before we arrived at the show, we got caught in a rain storm that hit. Even though I had a rain jacket and umbrella, somehow I managed to get drenched.

The rain cleared this morning and I could finally see Edinburgh's extinct volcano, Arthur's Seat, from where we are staying. We headed over to the Edinburgh Castle and walked through. At one o'clock, a cannon is fired over to city to indicate the time. The cannon was so loud that I didn't keep my hand steady as I took a photo at the momemt the cannon was fired. In the photo is smoke, but no "smoking gun." Very startling.

That's all I can muster now. CHEERS!

U.K. adventure to begin this Friday

It's perfect timing for a trip to the United Kingdom. The flights have never been safer!

Chris and I will be heading to Great Britain on Thursday night for 10 days in celebration of our 10th Anniversary. We had been considering Newfoundland and the French colonies of St. Pierre and Miquelon for the last year or so. But after I saw an article about St. Pierre in the Cleveland Plain Dealer's travel section (June 25, 2006), the magic was lost.

At the last minute, I suggested England and Chris quickly agreed.

We will fly into Edinburgh, Scotland on Friday morning. Rent a car on Monday, Aug. 21, and drive to London over two days. We'll fly home from London on the direct flight to Cleveland on Aug. 26.

I'm most looking forward to the British Museum. I can't wait to see all the things the British have pilfered from other cultures over the years.

If the weather holds out, we hope to rent bikes and cycle along Hadrian's Wall, a great wall, 73 miles long, constructed by order of the Roman Emperor Hadrian in A.D. 122.

Right now, it looks like rain will plague us everywhere we go, unfortunately. We'll make the most of our visit anyway.

Stay tuned for more posts this coming weekend!

Uberlandia, Brazil

Uberlandia, Brazil, is not much of a tourist destination. I found that out when I was looking for some information on where I would be going after Argentina.

I pulled out the Lonely Planet guidebook and scanned the index for Uberlandia, but there absolutely nothing written about the city. I don't understand how a city of 600,000 people could be overlooked.

So why am I here as opposed to Rio de Janeiro? I am here to visit my Brazilian family.

Lesley, my oldest sister, came to this city as an exchange student in the early 1970s. In addition to her three biological siblings, she suddenly had six more sisters. Later, three of them came to visit in Kansas City in 1976.

Fast forward thirty years later, and now I am in Uberlandia to visit. The Brazilian sisters haven't seen me since I was 6 years old. Actually, Leninha visited my mother for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. She is pictured at right in the photo. At left is Alicinha.

Scenes from the North West of Argentina

The day the music died

As the sun makes its steady descent behind the mountain peak on which the tiny Andean village of Iruya clings, preparations for that evening’s festival have not begun.

“I don’t know if there’s going to be a festival tonight,” says Gloria Federico, owner of Hostal del Café.” The orchestra hasn’t arrived yet.”

The townsfolk don’t seem too worried. Instead, they are more interested in watching the soccer game on the opposite bank of the dry riverbed. One woman sports a bright red cap and jacket over her traditional skirt. She must be rooting for the team in the red uniform.

Who is winning?” I ask her.

“It’s difficult to say,” she says. “It’s too far away.”

During the rainy season, the other side of the river is truly far off. In January and February, torrential rain sends water of the Iruya River rushing through the wide gorge below the town. Furthermore, frequent mudslides cut off the only connection Iruya has with the outside world—a 50-kilometer-long dirt road which curves like a serpent up and over a steep 4,000-meter pass called Abra del Cóndor.

Before it gets too dark, we start to make our return journey to Tilcara where we will spend the night. There will be no festival for us and perhaps not for the villagers either. At each hairpin turn, we look for a sign of approaching headlights in the distance, but we see nothing but the silhouetted peaks around us.

By now the sun has completely disappeared, yet the sky is still a vivid blue and it shines its shimmery reflection in the tiny streams winding through the dark valley.

Just on the other side of the mountain pass, our headlights catch the light of the reflectors of a vehicle parked on the side of the road—its hood open. Three shadowy figures are bent over the engine.

Our driver, Marcelo Cespedes, offers a ride to one of the men. The least we can do is take him to a telephone booth so he can call a mechanic.

“But how far are we from Iruya?” says the man. “We are suppose to play at a festival tonight.”

Cespedes assures him that we’re closer to Humahuaca than to Iruya, so he hops in our car.

Everyone is quiet. Occasionally, the man checks for a signal on his mobile phone without luck.

Over an hour later, we drop him off at kiosk. Perhaps he’ll find someone to take him back toward Iruya tonight, but it’s already late. I have no idea how the real story concludes.

But as we pull away, I imagine a different ending. I envision piling the entire band and their instruments into our car and heading back to Iruya. We arrive just in time for the party to start amid shrieks of joy from the crowd gathered to welcome us. Then we dance the night away under the stars to traditional Andean music by the group called Banda Joven.

San Antonio de Areco

San Antonio de Areco is a small town on La Pampa, the plains of Argentina. Along the narrow sidewalks, regional workshops sell silverware, rope and leather crafted using traditional methods originally used by the gauchos. Gauchos are cowboys who roam the plains herding cattle.

Gauchos were romanticized in Argentine literature as symbols of freedom. San Antonio de Areco became famous after resident Ricardo Guiraldes wrote "Don Segundo Sombra," a book set in the area that featured a real-life gaucho named Don Segundo Ramirez.

In reality, gauchos became more and more marginalized as Italian immigrants settled land in the area during the 18th century. The best opportunity to see how gauchos once lived is to visit the town during its November festival which features parades of show horses, creole skills, music and folkloric dances.

Here are a few images from San Antonio de Areco:


Grilling meat over an open flame is considered the gaucho way of doing things. The asado has turned into a national passtime.




The front door of one of the colonial building on the main square of San Antonio de Areco.




The Club River Plate is home to the local soccer team. It also offers camping. Over Easter weekend, I camped here.


The old bridge, El Puente Viejo, leads to the Ricardo Guiraldes museum. The Guiraldes family estancia is separate from the museum and cannot be visited because of a family dispute over the division of the property.

La Boca

La Boca is a colorful neighborhood. Partly because of the brighly painted buildings, but also because it's not a very safe area to wander around by yourself. Most visitors remain within a four block radius of El Caminito, the most famous street in the neighborhood. A carnival-like atmosphere permeates La Boca during the weekend fair. Here are a few pictures from Easter Sunday:

As you can see, I do my best to get to know the locals.

Tigre

In the 16th century, Tigre was small port at the mouth of the Parana River delta. Later, it became a summer getaway place for elite Portenos. As Buenos Aires grew, eventually Tigre was swallowed by urban sprawl. As a result, it lies just 20 miles from the center of Buenos Aires and can be reached easily by train or bus. Here are a few more images from Tigre:


Boats and water taxis are the only way to travel through the delta. Rates vary depending on the destination. For leisurely excursions, various companies offer cruises or rowing trips on the Rio Parana.



Captain Andres spent a year living on his boat after he lost his home and savings in the 2001 economic crash in Argentina. He said it was the best thing that could have happened. "There is no bad from which good doesn't come," he said. "I never felt more free." Now he brings goods down the river delta to Tigre to sell to the many tourists who flock to the town on the weekends.




The docks of Tigre were important trading centers for fruits, vegetables and goods. Now the fruit market is a popular tourist destination lined with restaurants, shops and fruit stands.

Why Buenos Aires truly never sleeps

Yerba Mate is a kind of tea served traditionally in a hollowed out gourd called a mate (see photo) and sipped through a straw-like device called a bombilla. Introduced to the world by the Guarani Indians of South America, it is now common to see people in Buenos Aires carry their mate and a thermos of water with them throughout the day.

Like coffee but without the caffeine, yerba mate contains stimulants that keep its drinkers energetic and fights fatigue. While the drink does have health benefits, it has contributed to the fact that Buenos Aires is one of the most sleep-deprived cities in the world.

Considering dinner in Buenos Aires starts at 10pm in most homes and restaurants and nightlife doesn’t get going until 1am, yerba mate is an essential staple of the Porteño diet.

Watch how to make mate at www.yerbatea.com.

Instructions for making mate:
1) Pour some yerba mate into the mate cup.

2) Pour warm water onto some of the yerba mate. Do not pour boiling water over the yerba mate because it destroys the nutrients.

3) Allow the yerba mate to steep.

4) Insert straw (bombilla) into yerba mate.

5) Pour some more warm water into the cup and drink.

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Even though I haven't had yerba mate myself, I'm suffering from sleep deprivation as a result of other people in the house drinking it and staying up to all hours of the night. In addition, we really don't eat dinner until 10pm which is my usual bed time at home. I guess I'll have to start drinking yerba mate to keep up!

Staying close to home

By air or land, traveling in Argentina this week has had its problems.

Porteños were stranded on Tuesday when subway workers failed to report to work. Forced to find alternative means of transportation, long lines formed at bus stops and 250,000 more cars crowded the city streets.

Meanwhile underground, a battle for workers’ rights raged on until this morning. Yeserday, hundreds of workers congregated in the Plaza Miserere station and erected barricades on the tracks. One worker was injured and another arrested when police blocked others from joining the protest.

According to this morning’s La Nacion, workers have agreed to go back to work today despite not having “received a favorable response” to their claims.

In related news, Aerolineas Argentinas have agreed not to strike over the Easter holiday weekend. Two union groups for technicians and pilots are the midst of a labor conflict for higher wages. It may be good news for the thousands of people traveling this weekend, but union leaders say negotiations are not progressing favorably.

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The subway strike has had little effect on my day-to-day activities this week. I live and work in the same place right now. I do plan to fly on April 20 to Salta, Argentina. Hopefully, I'll be able to do that.

Connecting on a cellular level

Have you ever wanted to use your existing mobile phone abroad without racking up all the international charges? I have figured out how to do it—at least in Argentina.

I have a contract with T-Mobile and I received my phone as part of the package. The thing is, most big cell phone companies provide their customers with a locked phone to prevent them from using another service. However, T-Mobile will let you unlock your phone if you’re planning to travel abroad. The unlock code will only work with a foreign SIM card installed.

International SIM cards can be purchased over the internet, but they are expensive. I’ve seen them for around $80. If you wait until you arrive at your destination, it will be a lot cheaper.

Just a couple doors down from the South American Explorers clubhouse in Buenos Aires, I found a mobile phone store. I bought a SIM card for less than $7. I put it in the phone, entered the unlock code that T-Mobile gave me and then waited for 24 hours while my new phone number registered to the local cell phone network called Personal. My number is temporarily 011 (54911) 6461-0640 until my return to the United States when I will reinstate my original SIM card.

The last step in the process was to buy a phone card and charge up the phone with prepaid minutes. Cards can be purchased for 10, 20 or 50 pesos.

The good news is that I can receive calls and text messages for FREE. However, it can be expensive for the caller in the States. If you want to send me a text message, it will cost you about 35 cents, depending on your service.

There is a way around that. On the Personal website, you can send and receive text messages at no cost. Visit http://sms.personal.com.ar/Mensajes/msn.htm to try it out. All instructions are in Spanish, but it’s relatively easy to figure out.

In the boxes with numbers preceding them, type 11 in the first box and 6461-0640 in the second box. Just below that box, type your name. Below that, type your message to me.
When you’re ready to send it to me, click on “ENVIAR.”

Leave the window open, and my response will appear on the left-hand side.

Competing for customers in Colonia

Colonia de Sacramento, Uruguay, is a quiet, laid back kind of town with cobblestone streets lined with sidewalk cafes. Located just across the Rio de la Plata from Buenos Aires, visiting Colonia makes for a nice escape from the hustle and bustle of the big city—whether its for the weekend or just for the day.

Founded by the Portuguese in 1680, Colonia is the oldest settlement in Uruguay. For the first 70 years of its existence, the settlement was in a constant tug of war with the Spanish who had settled across the river in what is now Buenos Aires.

These days, the only battle you’ll find is between two neighboring restaurants near the Mother Church. In the race to be known as the most-eccentric eatery in town, The Drugstore and El Viejo Barrio are neck and neck. They only differ in the execution of the goal.

The Drugstore—featured in Condé Nast Traveler magazine in 2003—is a brightly decorated restaurant with polka dot table cloths. But the most interesting features of the restaurant are parked outside. Several vintage cars line the curb and have tables inside for extra seating (see photo).

While The Drugstore attracts customers with its loud décor, El Viejo Barrio has a loud server. When people pass by, he screams, “¡Vamos!” But, this guy has a few extra tricks up his sleeve. When into the restaurant to pick up customer orders, he returns sporting either Santa’s red cap, a jester’s hat, or a large foam blonde wig. He truly wears many hats.

While Chris and I were sitting at The Drugstore, a couple sat down next to us. But when they saw the crazy antics of the server at El Viejo Barrio, they defected to his restaurant. While I can’t vouch for the food, word of mouth literally draws people there.


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Ferries depart for Colonia de Sacramento from the Buquebus Terminal in Puerto Madero. The journey across the Rio de la Plata takes one or three hours depending on the type of boat. Slow ferries cost 55 pesos for a one-way trip and fast ferries cost 94 pesos each way. Ferry schedules and rates are available at www.buquebus.com.

A bustling necropolis

La Recoleta Cemetery is a city of the dead, yet it is teeming with life. Feral four-legged felines wander the labyrinthine passages and sleep in, on or between the mausoleums—the final resting places of presidents, dictators, artists and rich merchants.

Perhaps the most-visited resident is Eva Peron. On any given day, the narrow pathway leading to the Duarte family plot is crowded with camera-carrying tourists. The mausoleum itself is relatively unassuming compared to some of the more extravagant tombs that can cost up to $5 million to construct.

Despite being dead, the people placed inside the tombs reveal their tastes and eccentricities. One mausoleum is a smaller version of the Notre Dame in Paris. One man is buried in a cement yacht. Another rich dead guy had his tomb modeled after the Lincoln Memorial, complete with a seated statue of himself.

During an unfortunate period in history, roving bands of skinheads damaged many of the statues and tombs. Through broken panes of glass, caskets are stacked on shelves just inches away. Photos and flowers sit on small altars underneath beautiful stained-glass windows.

While relatives of the deceased care for many of the mausoleums, others have fallen into disrepair. If the taxes aren’t paid, the mausoleums are reclaimed and sold to new families. There are a few currently for sale for a $250,000.

By any other name it is still a tourist trap

While Iguazu Falls may be the main event for most visitors to the area, there are other things to do and see in the town of Puerto Iguazu and along Route 12 which leads to the national park. It’s just a question of whether they are worth a visit.

Aripuca, for example, displays more than 30 species and 500 tons of fallen trees from the rainforest. While the Footprint guide to Argentina bills it as “an inspired center for appreciation of the native trees of the forest,”it seems little more than an elaborate effort to get people to buy furniture made from the roots of those trees.

It’s not like I didn’t learn something of interest, though. The two-story tall wooden structure on the property is modeled after a humane animal trap used by the Guarani, the indigenous group in the area. The Guarani call the trap an “aripuca.” When an animal wanders underneath the structure to eat the berries or nuts placed there, the contraption closes over them.

The gigantic version only traps people like me or my husband who are willing to pay 5 pesos to enter (see photo).

Aripuca does produce top-quality furniture. Carved from the roots of giant trees, each piece is unique (see below). One chair will run about $400 including the cost of shipping it home.

Splashy

If you think running full speed into a massive waterfall is crazy, then don´t try the Nautical Adventure tour offered by Jungle Explorer.

As you can imagine, we did try it and it puts the Maid of the Mist to shame. Furthermore, those blue rain coats are for sissies!

I knew it was going to be an adventure, when I saw the name of the boat on which we were traveling--Lilian LAURA.

It started out like any other tourist trap activity with an opportunity to have your photo taken in front on the waterfall for only $5. Everyone on the boat opted out of the offer and then we were off.

First we toured up the Iguazu River to the Devil`s Throat, the largest waterfall in Iguazu National Park. We stayed quite a distance away so we wouldn´t be swallowed up by the monster. After several picture-taking opportunities, the captain told us to put everything we owned in the provided water-proof bags.

At first, I thought we were headed down the Devil's Throat. Instead, the boat accidently drifted toward a smaller waterfall on the port side. We were completely drenched, but it was harmless. No big deal.

But then the boat turned completely around and headed into the inlet where the San Martin waterfall is located (see photo). From my vantage point, that waterfall didn´t look much smaller than the Devil's Throat. Full speed ahead, we were engulfed by the cloud of white mist and the spray created from the water thundering down upon us.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. As if we weren´t already wet enough, the boat turned around and rocketed toward the waterfall again.

The whole ordeal lasted 20 minutes, but it was a blast (of cold water).

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Aventura Nautica also can be done as part of the Gran Aventura which includes a 4x4 trek through the surrounding rainforest.
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NOTE We are heading back to Buenos Aires today. We will be staying in Palermo Viejo at the Casa Buenos Aires.

On the trail of the puma

The early morning hours are the best time to visit Iguazu Falls. Not only because the tour buses haven't arrive, but also because the animals haven't gone into hiding--scared by the people or the drown of the helicopters hovering over the falls (see right).

Even so, many of the noturnal critters, among them jaguars and pumas, have settled in for the day. On this day, evidence of a puma is still apparent, starting with the strong scent of the animal and possibly its doomed prey.

Like a crime-scene investigator, Pilar Marcela Lopez points to a section of the dusty Macuco Trail. "You can see here where the puma had been laying on its side," she said. "By now, he's laying on a branch above us--sleeping."

Lopez, a tour guide in the park, is never off duty. Even on her day off, she's giving a private tour to her mother, Elena, who is visiting from the provinces around Buenos Aires--and now, I might add, to my husband and I who happened down the same path at the same time.

Every few minutes we stop to listen to the forest. We hear the rustling of the bushes as an animal flees. Birds are singing and we hear a woodpecker probing a tree for bugs. The most-common animal sighting is the inch-long Tiger Ant. What a great specimen for Pest Control magazine, I think to myself.

After an hour, we arrive at the Salto Arrechea, a secluded waterfall with a calm pool where we could swim and eat lunch. The water was frigid, but that didn't stop me from taking a shower under the water dropping from a precipice 200 feet above my head.

Lopez and her mother headed back and left us on our own. After a while, we ate and headed back on the trail, stopping to assess our surroundings as Lopez showed us. Unfortunately, the only sound we could hear were the buzzing of the mosquitoes--surrounding their unassuming prey.

Wet and Wild

We have arrived at Iguazu Falls last night. When Eleanor Roosevelt visited, she declared, "Poor Niagara."

Located along the borders of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, the falls are more than a mile wide.

We are headed there today to hike. More later.

In the Halls of Congress

While tango in Argentina is a year-round event, the months of February and March are like "tango on speed" thanks to the Buenos Aires Tango Festival.

During the festival, tango and milonga music can be heard for free in the city's parks, squares, open spaces and last night, at the Congreso Nacional (see photo at right).

In the Juan Peron Salon, we listened to the Juan de Dios Filiberto Orchestra—directed by the Maestro Atilio Stampone—perform some classic Argentinian tunes along with more modern milongas and tangos.

The program also featured Cecilia Aimé, who sang songs from her latest CD, “Ciudadaña.”

The salon was packed with Porteños (the name given to those who live in Buenos Aires). The room itself was flanked on either side by two 24-foot-wide oil paintings by artist Antonio Alice.

Following the performance, I asked an older woman standing next to me if Cecilia Aimé was famous. She said, “No, she’s from television.”

Then, she also added, “You know, tango music has its origins in the bordellos. This wasn’t classical music at all.”

It seems tango is still a mystery, even to those who have lived in Buenos Aires their entire lives. But, according to the announcer of the program, it “is the perfume that gives Buenos Aires its smell.”

La llegada

I'm sitting in the lobby of Tango City, a hostel in the San Telmo barrio of Buenos Aires—just under the staircase pictured in this photo I found online (at right). The hostel lives up to its name--tango music is the soundtrack as I write.

One of the employees has just posted tonight's events on a bulletin board. It looks like it'll be a Foam Party. I don't think I have the energy for that.

Chris and I have just been taking it easy today. Although we seemed to have slept alot on the 10-hour flight, it still wasn't a fitful rest.

We wandered around the neighborhood a bit and grabbed a bite to eat.

San Telmo was one of the first areas settled in Buenos Aires. The old crumbling colonial buildings hint at the grandeur they once had. Apparently, yellow fever broke out here in 1871 and the rich folks abandoned the area. Now, you can wander the narrow cobblestone streets and browse endless stores filled with antiques. At the Mercado de San Telmo we fould some interesting things. Having endured many Spanish literature classes during undergrad, I was most taken by old copies of Martin Fierro, El Matadero and issues of "Caras y Caretas," a poetry magazine published between 1898 and 1941.

Also, Chris and I desperately wanted a massive apothecary cabinet pulled from an old pharmacy. It was 8 feet tall and probably just as long. Even if we were to get it home, we wouldn't have the space for it. It will have to live in the memory of our first day in Buenos Aires.

After the foam party tonight, we may not remember much.