Navimag and the San Rafeal Glacier

I think it was the awful karaoke on the first night that brought us together. None of us dared to sing of course, but we all joked that the determined showman--who continued the painful spectale despite various requests to play ´regular´ music --was a cross-cultural phenomenon.

The six of us were an odd group. An exchange student from Austria, the owner of a bakery, a violinist, student from Valparaiso, and well, god only knows what Jorge did for a living, we became fast friends in the close quarters of the Navimag ship on our three-day journey from Puerto Montt, Chile to Puerto Chacabuco and through the narrow San Rafeal Laguna.

The trip was a natural wonder. The laguna, protected by tall mountains and inhabited by birds that seemed to float rather than fly, genuinely made you feel like you were at the end of the earth. The electric blue ice chunks floating all around grew larger until the glacier itself appeared around the bend, shining gloriously in the morning sunlight in the same comfortable position it had occupied for millions of years.

Later that day, as we toasted our Johnnie Walker over the thousand year old ice, I looked around at our eclectic group of friends that I was unlikely to meet again, and thought, experiences like these are what make the headaches of traveling worth it.

For more photos from the San Rafeal Laguna and Navimag trip, click here.

Biking the ´Little Circuit´ in Bariloche

As I breezed down one of the many hills of the Circuito Chico (meaning small circuit) of Argentina´s Nahuel Huapi National Park, I wondered why I didn´t ride bikes more often. Blue metallic lakes--almost the color of an Orbit gum package--glittered through the trees on both sides of me. My cheeks were rosy and my stray hairs blew back in the breeze. I felt like a kid at her birthday; I couldn´t help smiling. I was descending from the park´s most renowned panoramic view that overlooked deep blue lakes tucked into Andean valleys. The mountains themselves rising high until their snowy peaks disappeared into the cloudy horizon.

Two hours later, my attitude could not have been more altered. As I struggled up the rocky dirt portion of the path, I sweated, panted, and repeated ´I love cycling´and ´this is so much fun´ to myself in sarcastic encouragement. Finally, slightly delirious, I opted for the (embarassing) option of walking my bike up the hill.

I did not make it far. A few meters ahead, a large cow munching on the roadside brush was blocking my path. Hardly in the mood for herding cows (and as I said, slightly delirious), I said to the cow, ´Ok Mr. cow, I don´t have the energy to turn back, so I´m going to walk my bike behind you and go on my merry way.´ The disinterested cow looked at me and returned to his munching. I slipped quickly behind him, too tired to be fearful of his horns or hooves.

Without a doubt, cycling, like most everything, has its ups and downs and sometimes the effort of going up makes you wonder whether the ride down is worth it. But I have found--as in my trip around the Circuito Chico--that in the end the memory of the thrill overshadows that of the difficulty, and that´s what keeps us at it again.

For more pictures from the Circuito Chico (Short Circuit) and others from the Cruce de Lagos boat ride from Chile to Argentina, click here.

Climbing Villarica Volcano

I hardly realized the danger as I slid uncontrollably down the slippery side of Villarica Volcano on my stomach. I was unsuccessfully trying to slip into the long ice slide designated for unexperienced climbers to descend the 2,800 meters we had spent 5 hours climbing up in the morning. I hardly realized the danger as I Fortunately, I came to a jolting stop after about six feet as one of the guides grabbed me and wedged his ski poles under my feet to keep me from continuing on a potentially bone-fracturing journey down the side of the mountain. Inching over on my stomach (jabbing the ice pick firmly into the side of the mountain this time), I reached the etched ice canal, and whoosh, I was sliding down the side of the volcano on a ride that beat every water slide or slip-and-slide I had ever attempted as a girl.

About two hours later when we had reached the volcano base, Carly and I sighed with burning blisters covering our feet and exhaustion making our eyes droop. They said this hike was for beginners, we mused. Whether the 1 1/2 hours we enjoyed on the summit was worth it, we were not sure. We had trudged up the steep volcano side through rock, snow, and ice with our eccentric guide Carlos and five other daring climbers. ¨Don´t look up¨was the only policy that kept us going. Atop, a spectacular view of Chile´s Lake District and a huge volcano crater spewing sulfuric gas only feet away awaited us. However, it wasn´t the phenomenal view that made the hike worth it. It was the feeling of peace and sense of satisfaction that comes with facing fears and physical exertion. As Twain famously said, ¨I´m glad I did it, partly because it was well worth it, but chiefly because I must never do it again.¨ In terms of climbing the Villarica Volcano, I agree with Twain.

For more photos from the hike, click here.

Un escudo y un completo italiano

One of the best parts of visting a new place is trying new and different local food. After an exhausting day of touring vineyards and dead poets houses in and around Santiago, I was dying to kick back with an Escudo (one of Chile´s national brews, ironically enough meaning ¨funnel¨in English) and the over-stuffed Chilean version of a hotdog that I had seen loads of people chowing down on.

Carly and I sat down at one of the few open plastic tables that were lined up and down the sidewalks of Pio Nono, the main street in Santiago´s Bellavista neighboorhood. Had we realized the name of the restaurant corresponding to our table was TuTu Tanga and had a bright purple facade, we might have opted for an establishment further down. However, we had little time to contemplate, as, in record time for Latin America, an elderly but fit waiter--an apt description of most waiters in the region--approached our table asked our order.

Still set on my Escudo and hotdog dinner, I first attempted to order a pancho, that is, a hotdog as it is known in Uruguay and Argentina. When all I got from the waiter was a blank stare, I tried ¨hot dog¨ with a Spanish accent (basically, change the o´s short u´s). When there was no change from the waiter, I finally resorted to pointing to the table beside me and saying, I want what she´s having.

¨Ahhhh,¨ all of a sudden it became clear to the waiter, ¨you want an italiano.¨ As he headed back to the kitchen, I thought, well that is not at all obvious, why call a hotdog an italiano? My confusion did not last long. Fifteen minutes later, the waiter plopped down the hotdog in front of me, loaded with chopped tomato, avacado and mayonnise. It then became clear to me, ´
Chileans call hotdogs italianos because their condiments are the colors of the Italian flag.

For pictures from other Santiago activities, such as touring Pablo Nerudas house La Chascona, going up Valparaisos ancient elevators to the colored houses, and touring the Concha y Toro vineyard, click here.