We didn’t notice Valentine’s Day was upon us until yesterday, when someone reminded us it was Friday the 13th, the latter being a far more significant day when you’re traveling around the world (because I am highly superstitious, I made sure to generously tip the guy whose arduous job it is to tag my luggage and transfer it two feet onto the bus’s baggage hold). “Tomorrow must be Valentine’s Day,” I said, having completely forgotten without the help of my friends at Hallmark to give me an insistently polite tap on the shoulder every day for the last two months. (We are, ironically, in the chocolate capital of South America, and I spotted just one heart-shaped box in the store windows.) “What are you going to get me,” I purred to Maikael. “A trip across the Chilean border,” he responded.

Today won’t be filled with cloying cards, mounds of hearts, romantic dinners, or poetic declarations of love. Instead, we’ll load a crowded bus bound for Chile, our forth and final crossing between the two countries, leaving behind the steak dinners, malbec, tango, and poor service for good. Tomorrow will entail another bus ride and two flights bound for Lima, Peru. The next day will bring another flight to Cusco, bringing our days-in-a-row traveled to four. The closest we’ll come to celebrating will be the dinner we enjoyed last night with our Canadian friends, Yvonne, Nira, and Nicole, who we met on the bus from Bariloche and have enjoyed spending the last five days with. As we scooped up decadent spoonfuls of dessert just after midnight, Nira noted that it was officially Valentine’s Day, and we commemorated the moment with this photo. We’re nothing if not jaded.

So while you’re passing a lazy Valentine’s Day with your sweetie, think of us on the bus to Chile. At least we’ll spend the day together. Oh, wait, that’s every day. Just eat a chocolate for me, okay?

After the frenzied pace of Bariloche we decided to head south and chill out for a few days in El Bolson, a hippy dippy hangout set against a backdrop of sweeping mountains and dusty farmland. El Bolson translates as “The Big Bag,” so named for the towering valley walls that surround the town. But El Bolson also means big bags of artisan beer (nearly 75% of the country’s hops are produced here). Big bags of jewel-like berries, which are made into concoctions ranging from beer and conserves to pies and shakes. Big bags of the iconic and inventive Jauja ice cream, whose modest, flagship storefront boast flavors like dulce de leche with blackberry, calafate with goat’s milk, mate, local raspberry with marscapone, and rose hips. And big bags of South American backpackers. Lots and lots of bum backpackers.

My dad wrote me a brief email about El Bolson, stating that the town was a hippy hangout in the 60s. As far as I can tell, nothing’s really changed in 50 years. Gangs of backpackers maraud about the town, sporting “I Dream of Jeanie” pants, untamed dreadlocks, disheveled clothes, filthy feet, beaded jewelry, and tattoos. They set up camp in the town plaza, shanty towns of tents and drum circles. “I’ve never seen so many mullets and rat tails in my life,” observed Yvonne, one of the three Canadian women we met on the bus from Bariloche who served as our companions during our time in El Bolson.

Maikael and I spent an entire morning on a green park bench lining the plaza, making bets as to who were the real bum backpackers and who were the rich kids pretending to be bum backpackers. As we were doing so, a gangly hipster backpacker, wearing a too-tight T-shirt and a dingy hoodie, walked briskly towards us, looking slightly strung out. He said something too fast, something I couldn’t understand, and was gone as quickly as he had come. I asked Maikael to translate. “I think he asked me if we had any nuts,” responded Maikael, perplexed. “Like, as in walnuts?” I asked. “Yeah, I think so,” said Maikael. Our immediate thought was that “nuts” must be an Argentine bum backpacker code word for drugs. We watched to see if he asked anyone else for “nuts,” but he breezed by the couple with three kids and kept speed walking (no pun intended) through the plaza. Yeah, “nuts” definitely weren’t nuts.

Within minutes, a cute, petite young backpacker skipped up to us, and in her sweetest voice asked, “Hola, chicos, would you like to buy some nuts?” “No, thank you!” we responded cheerily. We exchanged a look of genuine surprise, beginning to wonder if there was a nut conspiracy in town, and watched her make her way around the plaza, heading straight for a family having a picnic in the corner. We craned our necks to see the transaction. She zipped open her backpack, producing plastic baggies of…nuts.

In order to make money, bum backpackers engage in all manner of money-making activities, from hocking handmade jewelry to, apparently, selling nuts. There is a great deal of chocolate produced in the area, requiring, I suppose, vast quantities of fresh nuts. (Later that afternoon, we noticed a sign in a chocolate shop that stated, “We buy nuts.”) It’s the perfect bum backpacker job, requiring zero overhead and 100% profit. Bum backpackers also have a penchant for earning a living as street performers. In other words, there are a lot of clowns in El Bolson, some better than others. A tightrope was constructed in the town plaza, and a garage band played on the sidewalk, all the members donning red clown noses. One guy was pretty talented, carrying out his clown act in front of Jauja and garnering a bulging crowd (I’m not sure how much money he netted, but it was enough to buy an ice cream cone when the show was over). Another bum backpacker, who was considerably older, decided to earn some pesos by contorting his body into yoga-esque shapes. Looks of horror washed across the faces of the crowd as he hitched up his soiled sweatpants, the elastic long gone, between poses.

Perhaps the greatest draw to this hippy haven is the artisan market, one of the largest and most famous in Argentina. Although the town only numbers 18,000 residents, over 320 registered vendors hock their wares, ranging from organic greens to chess sets depicting battles between the Spanish and Mapuche indians, three times a week under canopies surrounding the plaza. The only stipulation is that all products must be handmade, from the roquefort empanadas to the knitted rastafarian hats. I fawned over leather purses and hand-carved wooden journals and drooled over mammoth wheels of local cheese and the largest Easter lilies I’d ever seen. In the end we settled on homemade Belgian waffles, each square filled with shiny, just-picked berries with a smattering of cream and powdered sugar atop. We washed it down with fresh raspberry juice, the ruby seeds settled at the bottom of the giant glass, for US$1.25. Then we sampled local chocolate, creamy corn empanadas, sweet boysenberries, and a Patagonian lamb sandwich, the delicately spiced meat tucked between soft pillows of homemade bread, reveling in the bounty.

The bum backpackers were in heaven, too, making a killing on their bohemian wares and capturing legions of fans in a poor man’s Battle of the Bands. Everyone was happy in The Big Bag.

We knew we would hit Argentina at the peak of tourist season – we just didn’t consider that nearly all the tourists would be Argentine.

While the northern hemisphere is currently dodging snowflakes and bundled in layers of wool, Argentina’s cities are emptying, their residents seeking refuge in places like The Lake District, where cooler climes, verdant forests, and glittering blue lakes provide the perfect getaway for summer’s swan song. There are dozens of resort communities that dot the lakes, the season transforming sleepy hamlets into towns buzzing with activity…and bursting at the seams with masses of humanity.

We began our Lake District adventure in Bariloche, Argentina’s quintessential summer fun center. Originally settled as a German colony, Bavarian-style buildings grace a town ringed by deep woods, looking like a postcard from the Black Forest. At least, that’s how it probably used to look. What’s immediately apparent is that Bariloche has grown too big, too fast. The town’s central avenue is a mile-long strip of shops screaming for your attention, from tacky souvenir kiosks to the upscale chocolatiers that Bariloche is famous for. It’s also clear that the tourists are as diverse as the stores. Well-heeled portenos throw their pesos at decadent steak dinners, flowing heavily with velvety malbec, and cushy boat tours. Hotel Llao Llao, Argentina’s most iconic resort hotel, sits perched on the edge of a glistening lake, offering rooms and food as decadent as the views. Meanwhile, the emaciated, grungy South American backpackers, toting Doite backpacks, Quechua tents and spewing pitchouli in their wake, lounge in various states of repose in any available public space, crafting hemp bracelets, smoking heavily, and sharing vast quantities of mate.

It’s interesting that a town like Bariloche brings these two factions together, like some sort of battleground state. As an international tourist, it was a curious place to be in: we didn’t belong to either group, so we floated between both. During the days we took long, sunny hikes with the backpackers, summiting towering peaks that provided incomparable views of the jewel box lakes below, spread over the land like a collection of sparkling, sapphire rings. We spent our evenings in the midst of the portenos enjoying some of Argetina’s finest cuisine, the usual standbys of steak and pasta executed with exceptional skill, all washed down with regional red wines. Bariloche also offers Northern Patagonian specialties, including local lake trout, grapefruit-colored salmon, and tender lamb (and every shape of ravioli you can imagine stuffed with these succulent meats and fish). German dishes abound, with menus touting goulash with spatzel and buttery kuchen for dessert. After rich fondue and glasses of ruby wine, we groaned heavily as we walked home at midnight after dinner, back on Argentime.

Regardless of financial circumstances, Bariloche is one big cream puff, a South American Disneyland that offers escapism from everyday life. It’s a hard town to take too seriously. Between eating and shopping and lounging on the lake shore, every evening erupted into a flurry of activity. The Tren de Alegria, the Happiness Train, rumbled through town, a giant, cheery grin slapped on the face of the engine. People from all walks of life gathered around the impromptu bands that assembled on the sidewalks and squares, as electric tango and homegrown tunes drifted through the night. We giggled as one particularly good band, a group of men donning zany wigs, crazy clothes, and women’s dresses, captured a whole crowd’s attention with their music. A woman with purple butterfly wings weaved through the group blowing bubbles, as a band of kids danced like maniacs. A man with six improvised arms and faded pink leggings skirted the crowd, surprising people from behind. The backpackers were there. The portenos were there. Even we fit in.

We traveled thousands of miles around the world to see a block of ice.

I know, I know: it sounds crazy. But we were on our way north through Patagonia, and El Calafate, the gateway to Los Glaciares National Park, was an easy stopover on our way to Puerto Natales to begin a six-day hike through Torres del Paine National Park (more on that insanity later). And, it’s not just any block of ice. The Perito Moreno Glacier is one of the world’s largest, measuring the size of Buenos Aires. Having just visited Buenos Aires, a city akin to New York where you can walk for days and never see the other side, it was difficult to grasp the magnitude without seeing it for myself. But what really makes Perito Moreno unique amongst the world’s glaciers is its activity. Most glaciers just lie there, slabs of cold on Earth’s Barcalounger that move at, well, a glacial pace. But Perito Moreno is advancing at breakneck speed – at least by glacial standards – at one meter per day. The result? You can stand at the glacier’s edge and actually witness its movement.

Our small tour bus wound its way down the old road to the glacier, bypassing the caravans of high-season tourists on the main road. We passed through barren, wind-swept fields as clutches of sheep frolicked in amber grass and paraded through calafate bushes, a blueberry-like fruit native to this neck of the woods. The bright aquamarine waters of Lake Argentino, the country’s largest, sparkled in the early morning light, colored by glacial mineral deposits. Spires of meringue-topped mountains crowned in the distance, sharp as thumbtacks, a dramatic backdrop in this rugged landscape.

As we approached the glacier, the loudspeaker on our bus crackled. “Ten seconds to liftoff,” boomed a muffled voice. There was buzzing and whirring, as ground control continued its announcement. “What the hell is going on?” I asked Maikael. “Are we preparing for liftoff?” The music swelled, and as the opening notes to Superman soared through the speakers, the Perito Moreno Glacier filled our field of vision, a molasses river of blue-tinged ice pushing its way through ragged mountains. The bus erupted in a riot of applause: Patagonia Backpackers knew how to put on a show.

Over the next three hours, we were treated to a full sensory experience of the glacier. An excellent series of “balconies” provide multiple viewing opportunities of the glacier from a variety of angles, and boat tours lend an up-close-and-personal feel of the north and south faces. We jockeyed for position on the first balcony, and within minutes chunks of ice were falling from the glacier, causing waves of excitement to rush through the crowd.

The size of the glacier is deceptive. The smallest pieces, looking like snowballs, created a firecracker “boom” that reverberated through the valley. The glacier stands up to 60 meters, about 180 feet, above the waterline, the equivalent of an 18-story building at its highest point. (Imagine another 360 feet under the water!) What looks like a sliver often amounts to a five-story building crashing into the icy waters, creating a fierce splash that sounds like a freight train being lobbed off a cliff. We watched in rapt attention as the glacier repeatedly sloughed off tons of ice at an alarming rate: what looked like boats bobbing in the distance were actually icebergs. As we navigated through the waters of the glacier’s north face, the clear blue spires looming overhead, a mammoth block of ice cracked off, the biggest yet, creating waves that rocked the boat to and fro. It is difficult to grasp the scale of such a massive thing.

We napped on the bus ride home, exhausted. Who knew glaciers could be so exciting? Just as I drifted off to Dreamland, the blare of a thousands alarm clocks jarred me from my sleep, the opening strains of Time from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album rocketing through the bus. It was time to get up – and onto our next adventure.

What is it like at the end of the world?

I imagined Ushuaia to be a frosty outpost perched precariously on shards of ice. There would be few people, a sense of the inhabitable permeating everything. As our plane dipped out of the clouds, the craggy, snow-capped peaks of the Andes, sputtering out at the end of the world, appeared. They were taller and more rugged than I had imagined, the emerald treeline an unexpected wash of color in what I thought would be a barren landscape. I was surprised when we turned a bend and laid eyes on Ushuaia, a compact cityscape packed into a crescent of land that abutted verdant forests, giving way to jagged hills. Small cruisers and mammoth cruise ships bobbed in the harbor, reminding me of a Scandinavian port town, not the world’s southernmost city.

More than any place on our trip, we came to Ushuaia simply to say we’d been here. Most visitors end up here by necessity: it’s the ending point for their Patagonian adventures, a stopping-off place before catching a ride to South America’s major transportation hubs. Or, it’s the beginning of a trip to Antarctica, the city being the major embarking point for cruises to the final continent. We would have loved to have been in the latter group, but with tour prices soaring towards many thousands of dollars, it was impossible (last-minute deals can sometimes be had for the staggering price of $3,500). Instead, we found ourselves here by choice, curiosity-seekers hoping to get a glance at life at the ends of the earth, which, as it turns out, it’s not so different than life anywhere else.

We immediately set out for Tierra del Fuego National Park, whose transportation and admission fees cost a princely sum of $70. We hiked for hours, determined to get our money’s worth, and were rewarded with alternating stretches of breathtaking scenery and throngs of obnoxious tourists. The Antarctica-bound tour groups swarmed like bees to the World’s Southernmost Post Office at Bahia Lapataia, draping themselves over the “Bahia Lapataia” sign before scurrying off to have their passports stamped for six pesos (I still have yet to figure out why people enjoy taking photos by signs of absolutely no significance). Luckily, the crowds thinned as we delved deeper into the park, where we were greeted with lush greenery, slate-colored mountains, and unusual birdlife. We made our exit as the drizzle settled in, sniveling only slightly at the 10 peso homemade hot chocolate.

A walk through town that evening surprised us with hordes of snow-white people choking San Martin, Ushuaia’s main drag, where people clambered for all things penguin. There were stuffed animals and stone-carved figurines, and for $80 I could take a tour and actually walk with the little guys. The most clever item was the penguin-shaped box in a jewelry store window, whose tuxedo middle snapped open, perfect for an Antarctic proposal. “You think you’re the first one to think of that?” asked Maikael, sarcastically. We browsed through a boutique bookstore whose entire stock was end-of-the-world themed, from coffee table books of Ushuaia to Antarctica memoirs. But the most popular stores seemed to be the brightly-lit behemoths specializing in overpriced outdoor gear, the distinguishing factor between locals and tourists being the absence or presence of Columbia, North Face, or, yes, Patagonia outerwear. The most significant reminders that I was at the world’s end were the light pouring through my window at bedtime, and the fact that I was wearing a heavy coat at the peak of summer.

After browsing through a number of outrageously priced menus, we settled on the Lonely Planet-recommended Bodegon Fueguino for dinner, a cozy place specializing in local lamb, homemade pastas, and handcrafted ice cream. I realized during that meal that I’ve been to the ends of the earth a number of times on this trip, places like Bhutan and Easter Island that felt impossibly far from home. While I was technically at the end of the world in Ushuaia, I felt that, apart from the proliferation of penguins to remind me of my place, I could have been just about anywhere in the world. I had to come to the end of the earth to realize I’d already been to the ends of the earth.

After a bottle of Trapiche Fond de Cave malbec, our new favorite tipple, we were left feeling a little happier about our place at the end of the world. We were here to be tourists, too, right? We strolled the streets of town today, taking in the colorful alpine houses decked out in corrugated tin, reminding us of Reykjavik, Iceland, more than anything. We purchased some carefully-selected postcards, hoping for, but not receiving, a special “fin del mundo” stamp. I posed by a mural of marching penguins, trying not to look completely humiliated. And we made sure we got that end of the world stamp in our passport, proof that we were really here.

Let me begin by saying that, in general, we’ve had really good luck with accommodations on this trip. Some of these places were discovered through concerted effort, others through dumb luck. The Fairy Chimney, our cave hotel in Cappadocia, was probably the coolest place we’ve ever stayed, and we never would have never found it without hours of complicated cross-checking between Trip Advisor and Lonely Planet. Ubud Bungalows made our time in Bali truly memorable, and we ended up there because they were the only ones who responded to seven email inquiries I made just hours before we arrived in town. We were treated like family at the Jaipur Inn, which was a shot in the dark. Admittedly, we often spend entirely too much time selecting accommodations, but the end result has been that we haven’t stayed anywhere truly terrible, which I consider to be a minor miracle after six months of traveling.

But ever since we arrived in South America, our luck has hit a rough patch. Our unintended “homestay” in Easter Island was a rip-off; our reservation was mixed-up in Santiago; and things ended poorly in Mendoza. Our situation seemed to be looking up when we booked a room at Casa de los Angelitos in Buenos Aires, a graceful mansion in a residential neighborhood geared towards long-term travelers. We had air conditioning and excellent cable TV (read: I watched old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 at noon and 5 pm most days) in a quiet gable room. Our hosts were a kind, elderly couple, and we immediately formed relationships with the handful of other interesting guests, most of whom were also on extended travel and staying at the house more than a month, lending to an unhurried pace of life. It was the closest I’ve come to feeling like I was at Ubud Bungalows again, except Think Tank sessions in the pool were swapped for lazy afternoons of Argentine wine drinking on the patio. Life was sweet.

We were so happy with our situation, in fact, that within days of our arrival we decided we wanted to extend our stay from nine days to three weeks. Our room was booked by another guest for a seven-day period in the middle of that time, but we were invited to return afterwards for a second stay. We immediately snatched up the room and began planning a trip to Uruguay to fill the week, which lies only an hour from Buenos Aires by ferry. We purchased our expensive (and nonrefundable) tickets to Colonia on the Buquebus. Plans were made with our newfound friends for our jubilant return. It was the perfect idea.

As our last night approached, we were informed that a “clerical error” had been made, and that we would be shuffled out of our room a day early to another that lacked air conditioning. “No problem,” we said, “we can roll with the punches.” When the new guests arrived who were taking over “our” room, a young couple from Santa Barbara who were embarking on a three-month trip around South America, they expressed excitement at staying in Buenos Aires for the next two weeks. Maikael and I exchanged a nervous glance. We were returning to that same room in a week. Perhaps they were moving to another room? Maikael immediately approached the owner, who assured us that they were only confirmed for a week and that the room was definitely ours.

We relaxed, deciding we’d spend our last evening hanging out with our friends and finalizing our plans for Uruguay. For days we had been trying to make reservations, but no one was answering their phone. (Seriously: no one in the entire country answered their phone for two full days. Countless phone numbers also didn’t function, and most emails were returned as undeliverable.) At 8 pm the owner strolled by the table, leaned over to Maikael, and whispered, “There’s been a ‘modification’ to your reservation.” Maikael slinked off unnoticed, returning a few minutes later to pull me to our room. We had just been informed that, due to another “clerical error,” the couple had, indeed, confirmed their booking for two weeks back in August, having paid a deposit by Western Union, and therefore we were tough out of luck. Not only did we have no plans for Uruguay, a plan that had been sculpted out of necessity, but we had no idea where we’d stay when we returned to Buenos Aires. And our return to Buenos Aires was largely predicated on the fact that we wanted to keep the same pace of life we had grown to love at the Casa de los Angelitos. In short, we were screwed.

After scraping our jaws off the floor, shock turned to anger. We both love Latin America, but it was one of those moments where we looked at each other and said, “This would never happen in the US.” There tends to be a general lack of culpability in this culture, which is often a wonderful thing (frivolous law suits are nonexistent), but after something as simple as making a hotel reservation turned into a multi-day affair, we found ourselves at the end of our tether. In fact, our accommodation experiences were beginning to seem eerily reminiscent of fellow RTW traveler Jodi, who also experienced similar frustrations during her three-month stay in South America. Were we just victims of the craziness that we call Latin America? Were we being rigid North Americans, trying desperately to control our environment? Was there a lesson about enjoying an experience for what it is and letting it go when its time has expired? Was the universe conspiring against us? Or had we finally crashed and burned after so many months of endless planning?

Whatever the reason, we had just spent $300 in leather goods that day, having planned on leaving them at the Casa until our return a week later, and two heaping bags sat slumped in a corner of our room, staring at us. Panicked, we called Rene, Maikael’s mom’s friend who lives in the city and had offered his assistance if we needed it. We needed it. Not only did he volunteer to store our items for us, he insisted on helping us ship the items through the embassy mail. We hopped on the metro and made our way to Palermo, one of Buenos Aires’ swankiest neighborhoods, to Rene’s high-rise apartment. He was currently hosting friends of a friend from California and, despite the full house, offered us a place to stay for five days when we return from Uruguay on the 13th!

That night – the one night without air conditioning – was the end of the hottest day we had experienced in Buenos Aires. It was 1 am by the time we ate dinner and made it back to the Casa de los Angelitos, and the streets were still steamy. We were exhausted, but our room’s temperature soared towards 90 degrees. We tossed and turned, sweating through the sheets, still stewing about everything that had transpired. But we really couldn’t complain. We weren’t victims but recipients, once again, of the kindness of strangers.

You’ve undoubtedly heard about Argentina’s to-die-for steaks, the grass-fed ones that are so tender you can cut them with a spoon. I’m not a huge meat eater, but I like a good steak as much as the next person, and was excited to see how an expert hand could transform a slab of beef into a religious experience.

Going to an Argentine steakhouse, traditionally referred to as a parrilla, is a unique undertaking, one that I was slightly nervous about. “Don’t order too much,” I was warned by fellow travelers who had visited Buenos Aires. “It’s perfectly acceptable to split a cut of meat.” “Take it slow,” cautioned others, “pace yourself.” Who knew meat-eating was such an involved experience? We decided to take the plunge at Pena Parrilla, which was recommended to us by a lovely American couple we met in Valparaiso.

I dressed in my best outfit, which isn’t saying much these days, unsure as to what we were in for. We crawled down a dimly lit street, wondering if we had passed the restaurant, when we spotted a crowded mass huddled outside a bright doorway. “This must be the place,” I said. We pushed our way into the vestibule, where neat rows of various cuts of meat sat sizzling on a massive indoor grill. The place was packed with locals, sporting everything from workout gear to suits: it was 9 pm on a Monday evening.

I flipped open my menu, and was immediately accosted by a dizzying array of choices. Bife de lomo, bife de chorizo, mollejas, vacio, costillas, brochettes, parrillada. They were all cuts of meat, but who knew what any of them were in English, nevertheless Spanish? And choosing a cut of meat is only the first step in the process. Steak dinners are always an a la carte affair in Argentina, requiring you to choose your sides. There are typically salads, pastas, and a panoply of potatoes. What to choose? And how much? I glanced around the restaurant, wondering what I should order, but all I saw was a sea of meat.

Feeling helpless, we asked our smartly dressed waiter what he recommended. “To share?” he asked. We nodded our heads. “Okay, let’s see. Split the bife de lomo. Mixed salad. A bottle of wine.” We pointed to a bottle that sounded good. “No,” he said, “we’re out of that one. I’ll choose another for you.” Ordering had never been so simple.

First the salad was produced, an interesting mix of greens, tomatoes, onions (all Argentine salads seem to include these three ingredients, usually in equal proportion), corn, potatoes, and, my personal favorite, beets, laced with olive oil and vinegar. Simple but delicious. Twenty minutes later the massive steak was presented on a rustic wooden board. We cut the lomo, which it turned out was beef tenderloin, the best cut of meat, in half like a stick of butter. It was the juiciest and most tender steak I’d ever laid eyes on. Rosy on the inside, a touch crispy on the outside. Simple but simply delicious. Stuffed to the gills and slightly tipsy, we ordered the tiramisu, which didn’t disappoint. It was the perfect end to our first Argentine steak dinner.

* * *

A few nights later a former colleague of Maikael’s mom, who lives and works in Buenos Aires, joined us for a night on the town. After meeting for drinks in Recoleta we made our way towards San Telmo to La Brigada, which Rene told us was a local favorite. At 10 pm the line was out the door, a snake of people waiting for a table. The front door to the restaurant was locked and guarded by a man whose neck was as long as it was wide, seemingly bunched up in his mock turtleneck. That’s how popular this place was: they thought people were going to storm the place if they left the door unmanned. But relative order was maintained, and we were seated by 10:30 pm.

Rene explained the different cuts of meat that we’d puzzled over, and we were relieved that we hadn’t ordered the mollejas, which turned out to be sweetbreads (and I ain’t talking cinnamon rolls here, my friends). He ordered a super nice bottle of Malbec for the table, a gracious gesture for someone we had just met, and discussed the good, bad, and ugly of Buenos Aires (but mostly the good). He admitted that he was steak-crazy when he first moved to the city three years ago from California, but has tempered his appetite to about once a week. We, on the other hand, are still averaging a steak every two days, which is nothing compared to Aidan, an Irish guy we met in New Zealand, who reported eating 30 steaks during his 26-day stay in Argentina! If there’s anything I’ve learned about Argentine steak eating, it’s that everyone has a different threshold.

We’ve tried four different steakhouses in Buenos Aires with varying degrees of success, including the iconic and ultra-chic La Cabrera, where each steak is accompanied by a host of imaginative and diminutive side dishes (think roasted apples and caramelized garlic). But with every steak I eat, I find myself comparing it to Pena Parrilla’s, which is the best we’ve found in terms of price and quality. Itching to go back, we enjoyed an excellent second dinner there. We’ll try the much-lauded Siga La Vaca before we go – but my heart belongs to Pena Parrilla.

With its big city party culture, Buenos Aires promised to be the perfect place to ring in the new year, but our plans for an exciting, action-packed New Year’s Eve fell through at the last minute. “What do people do for New Year’s here?” we asked Betty, our hostess at the Casa de los Angelitos. As it turns out, not much. Most people spend the evening with family or friends at home, which seemed strange to me. Don’t Argentines party at any given opportunity? But that’s just the problem. They are so accustomed to late night revelry – remember, this is a country where the clubs don’t open until 2:30 am – that the idea of staying up until midnight seems a little pedestrian. Without a home to go to for New Year’s, we decided to make our own party. We considered seeing a tango show, but soon discovered that most of them were closed for the holiday, and most restaurants proved to be the same case, too. Finding ourselves still without plans at 5 pm, we decided to celebrate how we normally do: by spending a quiet evening at home over take-out and a bottle of wine.

We made a pilgrimage to the grocery store for wine and little bottle of champagne, then marched around the corner to El Espanol, which has quickly become our neighborhood joint. It’s the kind of place where you see the same people every day at lunch, and where the waiters are quickly beginning to recognize our faces. We’re usually the only foreigners there, a feat at the height of tourist season. All of their pastas, pizzas, and breads are made in-house, behind an expansive window where you can watch the bakers in little red vests feed dough into a complex series of machines like yeasty mad scientists. This was my home away from home in Buenos Aires, so I could think of no better place to order my New Year’s Eve dinner.

I needed some comfort food. I was feeling down, this holiday season having been a big disappointment from beginning to end. I placed a few New Year’s Eve phone calls to friends, which made me feel better. By the time I finished my calls it was 11:30 pm, and we made our way down to the lovely patio, which was emptied of guests who were out at parties of different varieties of crazy. We heated up our pizza and pasta (it would have felt less pathetic if we could have brought it straight home, piping hot, but the restaurant closed at 9 pm, and nobody eats dinner that early in Buenos Aires) and began to discuss the New Year. Usually we hash out some New Year’s resolutions, reflecting on how we’d like our life to be different in the coming months, but this year has been one big resolution, where a conversation like this takes place at least once a day. Instead, we discussed the things were were grateful to be throwing out from 2008, and the things we were looking forward to welcoming in 2009.

Goodbye, 2008. We’re glad that we’re done spending all of our time and money planning an epic journey. We’re glad to be rid of fear and old patterns. Hello, 2009. We’re looking forward to new dreams, new gardens, new challenges, and a new way of being in the world.  We’re looking forward to getting back to our everyday lives.

As we were talking quietly amongst ourselves, a girl from a neighboring building dashed out onto her balcony. “Woo, woo!” she yelled. Then, the crash of fireworks began. “It must be New Year’s,” Maikael said. Although my watch said 11:57, it was midnight according to the portenos. What began as a solo performance soon developed into a full-blown symphony of noise. There is no official fireworks show in Buenos Aires, but you’d never know otherwise if you craned your neck skyward. Lights showered from above, as booms and crackles roared through the city. The cacophony was doubled by the portenos throwing open their doors and blasting music from anemic stereos. The show continued until past one, a heavy cloud of spent fireworks having settled over the city. With lax controls, the New Year was ushered in by the loudest firecrackers I’ve ever heard. “Those have to be bigger than M-80s,” Maikael said at one point. The next morning, our hosts assured us this was an unusual year. “Usually the fireworks go until five. But with the economic crisis, I guess people aren’t buying as many.”

We flopped into bed as the last fireworks fizzled out, forgetting to even crack open our bottle of champagne. The next morning we discovered that someone had polished it off, which somehow seemed like a fitting end to this dismal holiday season. Who knows where we’ll ring in 2010, or how the circumstances of our lives will have changed yet again. But I hope I’m surrounded by the people I care about – and I’m banking on the fact that the fireworks won’t be nearly as loud.

You’ve heard it before: Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America. Generally I’m leery of these descriptions, the ones that overlay one culturally distinct place upon another as a way to characterize it. I once read an article that described Portugal as “the poor man’s Italy.” While I’ve never been to Italy, Portugal seemed to have an identity unto itself, and I found it difficult to imagine that I was anywhere but Portgual. But as we rolled into Buenos Aires early yesterday morning, the streets still emptied of people, I couldn’t help but think, “I feel like I’m in Europe.” We made our way to where we’ll be staying for the next week and a half, an old mansion from Buenos Aires’ golden age that’s been converted to a guesthouse. A narrow marble staircase greeted us, as stained glass windows looked down from their high perch. A small salon with exposed brick rested at the top of the stairs, which opened onto a lovely patio. I felt like I was in Paris.

During Argentina’s wave of immigration in the 1800s, nearly two thirds of Buenos Aires’ population was European, primarily of German, Russian, Polish, and Italian descent. Wealthy portenos wished desperately to be European; they emulated popular French architecture of the period, even going so far as to import building materials from France. South America’s oldest subway system lives in Buenos Aires, its original wooden cars from the early 1900s still in operation, looking like something that should be rocketing under the streets of Paris. This European influence is felt everywhere throughout the city, from grand edifices to fashion and especially food.

Argentina is known internationally for its steak, but what gets less notice is its Italian cuisine. Due to the huge influx of Italians during the last 200 years, their food has become a mainstay of the Argentine diet. A stroll through the grocery store at Christmas revealed thirty different kinds of panettone, an Italian holiday dessert bread, and well as an entire wall of fresh pasta in the refrigerated aisle. Menus scream milanesa, the tender steak pounded within an inch of its life and dredged in breadcrumbs, while daily specials often include pizza, ravioli, fideos, and pasta shapes I’ve never even heard of, like sorrentinos. Buenos Aires is a city where you can walk into a modest cafe and expect a heaping plate of homemade pasta and sauce for a few dollars. God bless Argentina!

The 29^th of each month is known as the Day of the Gnocchi when, throughout Argentina, every restaurant serves gnocchi. The story goes that, when money was tight at the end of the month, people sought out gnocchi, a potato dumpling that is both filling and quite cheap. While Argentina is now one of the wealthiest countries in Latin America, the tradition remains. Realizing it was the 29th, we marched into a restaurant today and, while it wasn’t listed on the menu, asked if they were serving gnocchi. “Of course,” responded the waiter, “it’s the 29th.” Minutes later a deep bowl of perfectly steamed dumplings were placed before us, dressed in a lovely fresh tomato and cream sauce. It was a perfect slice of Italy right here in the Southern Hemisphere. Amen!

We had a really rough Christmas. I don’t wish to delve into details in such a public forum, but suffice it to say that the holidays ended with us leaving our arranged accommodations prematurely and feeling like a train had flattened us. As we scrambled to figure out how we would spend our last night in Mendoza before departing for Buenos Aires the next day, Maikael’s genius struck. “Let’s stay in the best hotel in town for a night,” he suggested. We quickly called the Park Hyatt Mendoza, determined it was too expensive, and booked a room anyway. Our peace of mind was on the line.

As it turned out, it was the best decision we had made in days. We trudged through the air conditioned lobby, sweating profusely as we maneuvered our massive backpacks through the throngs of chic clientele. The incongruity was not lost on us. “Are you hiking Aconcagua?” asked the bellman, referring to the snow-studded mountain peak outside of Mendoza and looking for a way to explain why two grungy backpacks slumped on his pristine luggage trolley. “No,” we said, simply. “We’re just checking in for a night.” A glittering Christmas tree dripping with twinkling stars stretched towards the soaring ceiling. My dusty sandals slapped against the cool marble tile as strains of Christmas music drifted overhead. I gazed longingly at the cerulean pool as our tired Mastercard was swiped. I was in heaven.

Our room didn’t disappoint. A quarry full of marble lined the bathroom, which boasted a trench-like bathtub and a rainforest shower. There was house-made grape-scented bath products, created to reflect the area’s viticultural heritage. A flat panel monitor aired a constant stream of American movie channels, a real treat after watching Los Simpsons in Spanish (let me assure you that Nelson doesn’t translate). There were plush robes and slippers and a petite card with a personalized weather forecast for the following day (in Celsius and Fahrenheit, no conversion calculation required!). There was real, functioning air conditioning. Even the drapes fastened together with Velcro so as to let nary an errant shaft of light invade on our perfect little oasis. It was the ideal place to recuperate.

After slipping under the downy sheets and cradling my head on a perfect pile of feathers, I enjoyed one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had on this trip. I was finally starting to feel better by the time I slunk into breakfast at 10:45 am. We took a seat under a clear blue sky on the veranda overlooking the picturesque Plaza de la Independencia; a shady umbrella dipped low overhead against the backdrop of the hotel’s perfect white facade. After being served cafe con leche by a Jonathan Rhys-Meyers look-alike, we were ushered into the breakfast buffet. As a matter of course I hate buffets, as they are usually an excuse to serve large quantities of low-quality food. But the buffet at the Park Hyatt Mendoza brought tears to my eyes. Delicate plates of pastries were arranged architecturally along a well-lit granite counter. My plate was transformed to a pile of golden medialunas, a distinctly Argentine croissant; brioche; hand-crafted chocolate muffins; and pain au chocolat. Large decanters of fresh-squeezed juice beckoned, including carrot and grapefruit. Sauteed pear tomatoes and perfect wedges of potatoes, kissed with a dollop of crème fraiche, sidled up to omlettes of perfection. Chards of cinnamon swam in an apple compote, as sweet chunks of fresh fruit teased me. I had died and gone to breakfast heaven.

We listened to an entire CD full of Christmas music, and happily listened again as it repeated itself after an hour. I heard more Christmas music in 90 minutes than I had in the past month, and rather than finding the whole thing cloying, I was completely charmed. After breakfast we sought refuge in the well-appointed spa and lounged by the leafy pool. Later in the afternoon we ordered a chicken sandwich, whose simple perfection nearly made me weep.

Our trip to Mendoza was nothing like we imagined. We must be the only people on the planet who somehow managed to spend 10 days in this famous wine growing region without visiting a single winery. The closest we got was an afternoon at The Vines, “South America’s first and only tasting room,” where we enjoyed a Malbec wine flight. I enjoyed the obvious creative writing at the hands of a clever marketer, who described the wines using the most colorful language I’ve ever witnessed at a tasting:

This wine sparkles in the glass with the color of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

The aromas will take you strolling through a rose garden.

The deep color of red bricks after a rainfall.

And my personal favorite: This wine is cherry cheesecake on fire.

As we boarded our luxury bus to Buenos Aires, where we would soon be treated to full meals, on-board movies, red wine which would taste nothing like cherry cheesecake on fire, fizzy champagne, and fully-reclining seats, I couldn’t help but feel mixed emotions. Those 24 hours at the Park Hyatt Mendoza had revived me; it was money well spent, the perfect — and only — Christmas gift to ourselves. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad that Mendoza had turned out so different than I had expected, that I had turned my back on the place and sought comfort in the arms of a swanky hotel. As the city faded into the distance, I turned my gaze towards Buenos Aires, a new chapter.