“The last time I was in this airport it was a lot dumpier and I was drunk,” said Maikael, as we cruised, stone-cold sober, towards immigration at Mariscal Sucre International Airport in Quito. He visited the city as a 16 year-old boy on a spring break trip from Costa Rica Academy, at the invitation of a friend who lived in Quito, whose father was the head of Peace Corps operations for Ecuador. We’ve talked about Maikael’s memories of that trip over the years while thumbing through faded photos from March 1993. There was the Middle of the World monument, where Maikael was pictured happily straddling the equator. He remembers being whisked through immigration with the flash of an official black passport from his friend’s father. He remembers the country being poor, highly indigenous, and very cold and rainy.

Things have changed dramatically in 16 years. Maikael gawked at the shiny, modern airport, where our passports were stamped electronically. Quito is now a sprawling city, a sea of never-ending traffic choking the highways and thoroughfares. “There were hardly any cars back then,” Maikael recalled. One afternoon we strolled through a gigantic mall constructed in a Spanish style, a gleaming white palace stuffed with a huge supermarket, a deluxe movie theatre, and fast food restaurants. The Middle of the World complex, once a simple monument, is now a full-blown complex of tourists shops.

Interestingly, just like the last visit, we were invited to stay in Quito with friends. We were met at the airport by Dot and Rich, friends of Cecilia’s from her working days in Seattle, who I had met only a few times. They retired here eight years ago, practically sight unseen and speaking zero Spanish. Dot and Rich built a beautiful house on the outskirts of Quito, overlooking a lush green valley, and still speak very little Spanish! “Ecuador is great, except for the silly language,” Dot joked. Amazingly, they get by just fine, proving that confidence is the most important ingredient in successfully living overseas. On the way home from the airport, they regaled us with stories of trips to jails (“I was on my way home from a party and there were beautiful cream puffs and empanadas in the car, so I asked if I could bring them inside,” said Dot), lost licenses, brushes with police, home invasions, and all manner of things that would have scared me to death, but that they seem to have faced with humor and flexibility. Not only that, but they mix a mean drink!

Dot and Rich have shown us a wonderful time in sunny Ecuador, treating us to home-cooked meals, letting us soak in their spa, providing us beautiful surroundings in which to relax, and organizing day trips. On Saturday they drove us to Otavalo Indian Market, one of the few places Maikael remembered from his first trip to Quito. Known for their weaving, Maikael had bargained hard for a wool wall hanging emblazoned with indigenous symbols, which now hangs proudly in our living room. “I think I got it for $5,” Maikael said. Like the rest of Ecuador, the market has grown considerably over 16 years. Once a small affairs with few tourists, the Saturday market sprawls over several streets and is teeming with English-speakers. But the Otavalo, as well as indigenous people from neighboring communities, still man the stalls. The women wear frilly embroidered tops with long navy skirts, their necks laden with gold beads, the number and size denoting their status in the community. They are joined by the men, clad in crisps white linen, their long, shiny braids snaking down their backs.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant, admiring the vaguely familiar wall hangings that flanked the walls. “Most of those are probably knitted by Jose C.,” said Rich. “He is one of the most well-known weavers in Ecuador,” he continued, Jose Cotacachi’s father having been a renowned weaver. Maikael turned to me. “Isn’t our wall hanging signed by a Jose somebody?” he asked. “Most of the hangings at the market aren’t signed by anybody,” said Rich.

We purchased a lovely little painting, depicting a traditional village scene with a shaman; a knitted wool plant holder, which Ecuadorians hang from their ceilings; and a handmade puppet dressed as a traditional Otavalo woman. On our way out of town, Dot said she needed to stop at Jose C.’s studio to drop off a thank-you note, as he had donated a weaving for an auction she had organized. As we crouched through the doorway of the rustic studio, we gasped. The most beautiful weavings we had seen in all of Peru and Ecuador filled our field of vision, a wash of color and exquisite shapes, all executed with exceptional mastery. We rounded the bend, and there hung a weaving with nearly the same design as the one that hung on our living room wall in Albuquerque, New Mexico. “We have a Jose C. original!” we cried. Unfortunately Jose was out, but Maikael excitedly explained to his wife that he had bought one of his wall hangings 16 years ago. The wall hangings go for more than $5 these days, but an hour later we emerged from the studio with two new wall hangings for our apparent Jose C. collection: a striking crimson design with birds and a gorgeous geometric weaving depicting the Incan calendar.

Some things never change.

Setting sail from the shores of Lake Titicaca feels like passing through a veil into another world. A series of small islands, just minutes from the mainland, awaits, with their own language, culture, and traditions. Scads of tour operators from Puno run daily tours to the islands, but the best way to experience these distinct communities is by taking the local boat solo and seeing life up close and personal for oneself.

We first boarded the local boat, a tiny skiff anchored in Puno’s harbor, to Uros, the famous Islas Flotantes (Floating Islands). We were the only gringos on board, surrounded by locals apparently on vacation. After passing through a gauntlet of spring green reeds, we reached what has to be the world’s coolest Coast Guard tower, a mammoth thing constructed entirely of reeds! Soon we were floating amongst the remarkable Floating Islands, patches of woven grass – some no bigger than a few meters wide – that float gently on the lake’s glassy surface. The islands were first constructed during Inca times, when a group of villagers, tired of the warring factions between Incas and Spaniards, created a refuge on the lake.

While the islanders traditionally earned their living through fishing, tourism now provides their primary income stream, which is evident from the moment the boat reaches shouting distance of the island. A group of women, dressed in colorful skirts and blouses, ran to the reedy edge to greet us, smiling, laughing, and greeting us in Quechua, the islanders’ first language. Before we knew it we were tromping on the slightly squishy “ground,” being shepherded to a bench constructed entirely of reeds to learn more about the islands’ construction (the root systems on the undersides of the reeds are bound together and anchored to the lake’s floor). Small group of families live together on an island, sharing resources and income generated from the beautiful handicrafts they create.

After spending the morning hopping lazily from island to island, our appetite was whetted to journey farther afield, so we made arrangements to spend the following evening on Isla Amantani, one of Lake Titicaca’s least touristed islands. We considered taking an organized tour to the island, which promised ease of planning, but opted to take the risk of going it on our own and arranging a trip through the local boat system. After dodging touts at the entrance to the public dock, we managed to find our way to the office that manages trips to the islands, with each island maintaining their own ticketing system (a benefit of buying directly is that more profit passes directly to the islanders, rather than a tour company taking their cut).

We presented ourselves to the dock early the next morning, quickly realizing that we really were on the local boat. We sandwiched ourselves between clutches of dark and weathered women dressed in brightly colored, traditional garb, from hand-stitched tops to flouncy wool skirts. One of a handful of tourists on the boat, we settled in for what promised to be a long boat ride. In traveling the world, I am constantly amazed at the patience that everyday people exhibit. Some napped. The women chatted in small groups, filling their skirts with handfuls of puffed Andean grains, snacking and laughing. One man, donning an outrageously colorful hat, sat reading Cosmic Conflict. Another woman listened to an old school iPod, a set of modern earbuds attached to an ancient transistor radio. A little girl with a sweetly round face and wide set eyes, wearing a blue chenille jumpsuit, started intently at us for hours, undoubtedly spooked by the white ghosts sitting across from her.

Four hours later the boat glided into a lovely stone harbor under sunny skies, and we were greeted by a group of women dressed in traditional clothing, with large, black shawls draped over their head, embellished with stunning embroidery. Each tourist was quickly assigned to a “host family,” waiting on the shore, for our evening’s stay. Sonia shyly shook our hands and led us along the rocky shoreline, zooming up the hill ahead of us as we huffed and puffed, still struggling with any type of physical exertion at 13,000 feet. Sweeping views of green farmland stretched in every direction, and I jogged ahead to ask Sonia what the deep purple plants sporting small pearls atop, looking like broccoli, were. “Quinoa,” she replied, simply. I should have guessed. There were also leafy potato, oca, and habas (lima bean) plants, arranged in tidy rows.

We quickly settled into our room, complete with a woven straw box spring, heavy wool blankets, and candles (although wired, there is no electricity on the island). We met Elvy and Delia, Sonia’s two darling kids who were smiley but shy and, like us, spoke Spanish as their second language. Lunch was brought to our room: quinoa soup, jewel-like potatoes, a fried strip of salty local cheese, rings of ruby tomatoes, and fluffy rice. Simple but simply delicious. Muna tea was served to help with the elevation, purportedly more effective than coca.

Eager to begin exploring the island, we asked Sonia direction to the ruins that dot the island. “Take the main road,” she said, and we laughed when a simple stone path emerged out of nowhere. “This is the main road?” I asked, incredulous. We made our way towards the modest town plaza, where small groups of islanders sat chatting, and poked our heads in the public health clinic (a list of islanders still in need of vaccinations graced the windows). Villagers passed up, always pausing to smile and say “good afternoon.” We continued up the hill: rustic rock walls corralled colorful crops, like stone stitches on a green quilt. Passing under impossibly old stone arches, I felt like I was living a scene from Mama Mia.

Night falls early in Peru, and after a long walk, we returned back home in the waning light, where Sonia was busy preparing dinner. We huddled around a roaring fire in the rustic adobe structure that served as a kitchen, asking her a million questions about food preparation as she grabbed handfuls of this and pinches of that and added them to boiling clay pots. Soon we were joined by Vidal, Sonia’s gregarious husband who asked us a million questions as we dined on free-form dumplings and a steaming bowl of diced potatoes, carrots, and rice. He asked us what we thought of President Obama, how to make a website, and where Switzerland was located. Apparently, an islander had recently married a Swiss woman, who had lived on the island for a few months, and returned to Switzerland to live. Talk about a world away! Dinner ended at 8:30, and although it was still early, we fell asleep quickly, listening to the complete and utter silence that enveloped us wholly. It was one of the best nights of sleep we’ve enjoyed in weeks.

After a quick breakfast of fried egg stuffed in a delicate pillow of Peruvian bread, paid our bill: three meals and a night of accommodations ran us $15! We dashed off to the dock, which would transport us to Taquile, a neighboring island with its own set of traditions, where we reunited with the tourists from the day before, including a couple from Lima and a lovely family from British Columbia. As cattle ranchers, it was the first trip the family had taken abroad since their children, aged 10 and seven, were born. I so admired this experience they had given their kids, and couldn’t help but wonder what their memories from this very memorable overnight stay would be. It also renewed my faith in not only the ability but the joy in traveling internationally with children, who seem to be a magical talisman in connecting with locals. After a brief stop on Taquile, which was dampened by a soggy day, we spent the four-hour boat ride back talking with the Canadians and the limenas, language not posing much of a barrier. Hellen passed around photos from their ranch, and extended an invitation to stay with them in the future. I couldn’t help but think, once again, how we had met the most interesting people and had the most fun during one of our least expensive excursions. It was Big Kids’ Summer Camp all over again.

As we reach the end of this trip, my thoughts turn a great deal these days towards my life back home and how I want it to be different. I have been reminded so many times during this journey of how much I have, and how little I need to be happy. In fact, the less I have, the happier I seem to be. My greatest hope is that I can carry a piece of this feeling back with me.

Photos from our trip to Amantani and Taquile Islands are posted at the end of our Lake Titicaca album.  Enjoy!

In Patrick Symmes’ book Chasing Che, he refers to Lima, Peru, as The Scorch, a heaving South American capital city choked by people and pollution, whose oppressive heat and humidity is a constant companion to the arid landscape. It wasn’t a place we wanted to spend any time, but after our plans to fly to Bolivia were smashed to smithereens, an overnight stay was in order before we could catch a flight the next morning to Cusco. It was also where we would meet up with Maikael’s mom, Cecilia, who will spend the final month of our trip with us. We booked a cheap hotel near the airport and looked forward to catching up with Cecilia, who would arrive a few hours before us, before getting a good night’s rest. We were going to start Peru off on the right foot.

Getting to Cusco required four days of travel over three countries, involving four buses, three plane trips, three taxi rides, and hours of waiting in airports. By the time our plane touched down in Lima on day three, we were not fried but scorched. After clearing immigration, we spied my luggage spinning down the luggage carousel. “Yours will be probably be out any minute,” I said to Maikael. We watched as bags and suitcases were quickly plucked from the conveyor belt, and after thirty minutes, a small clutch of people without baggage remained. Something had obviously gone wrong with the transfer of luggage in Santiago. Maikael fought his way to the front of what appeared to be the Misplaced Luggage line, and was assured that more luggage from our flight had been located. Within minutes a heap of luggage was wheeled through a mysterious back door, which then reduced the group to three persons still awaiting luggage. Another flight from Santiago is arriving in five minutes, we were informed: not to worry.

An hour later, as the luggage from the final flight of the day whirred in lazy circles, every person’s baggage was claimed…except for Maikael’s. “Your luggage is lost,” I said with finality, believing that his bag had never made it off our final flight and was probably bound for New York, its next destination, at that moment. By the time the lost luggage form was filled out it was 1:30 am, although with the time change it felt like 3:30 am. We had arranged for a pick-up from our hotel, but since two and a half hours had passed since our flight landed, we assumed the taxi was long gone. After being shuffled through customs and deposited in the arrivals area, we were greeted by a mass of humanity holding hand-lettered name placards and touts screaming, “Taxi!” Maikael pushed through the bulging crowd, quickly confirming that our taxi had departed hours ago.

We had been warned to take an approved, pre-paid taxi from the airport, as kidnappings and violent assaults, especially at night, are not uncommon in Lima. Following the airport signs to the pre-paid taxi stand, we were informed that a 10-minute taxi ride would set us back $50 US, amounting to nearly half of our daily budget. Undoubtedly seeing the looks of appalled shock register on our faces, a cheaper option was proposed, this one, after an unsuccessful negotiation, costing $25 US. We knew a taxi should cost about $10. We knew we were being ripped off. But it was late, we were exhausted, and we were out of options.

After begrudgingly shelling over our cash, the dispatcher asked us our location. We knew the name of the hotel, but hadn’t thought to write down the address or the phone number, since we had arranged an airport pick-up. “Not a problem,” she assured us. We climbed in the taxi, and our driver immediately asked us the address, obviously having never heard of our hotel. Nevertheless, he confidently zoomed off towards what looked like a slightly dodgy area of town, the avenues lined with strip bars, fast food restaurants, casinos, and darkened buildings. Soon he slowed to a snail’s pace, straining to see the address. The he manuvered a complete U-turn, racing back towards the airport. “He has absolutely no idea where we’re going,” I whispered to Maikael across the back seat.

Numerous calls to dispatch revealed such helpful advice as, “It’s in San Martin, I think.” That’s like saying to someone in Seattle, “I think the hotel is located somewhere in the University District, but I don’t have a street address.” Maikael suggested stopping to ask a cop, a fellow taxi driver, a gas station attendant. “They never know anything,” he responded, assuredly. By now it was 2:30 am, and we had been driving around in the taxi nearly an hour. We were getting nowhere fast. Maikael had seen an Internet cafe open and suggested returning so that he could check his email and copy the address of the hotel from the confirmation we had received. By the time we returned to the cafe, it was closed.

Luckily, the Internet cafe was attached to a hotel, and the owner was kind enough to let Maikael check his email and make a phone call to the hotel, which revealed that Maikael’s mom was worried sick and had returned to the airport with the hotel’s driver to look for us. We set off towards the airport once again. Twenty-five dollars and an hour and a half later, we were exactly where we had started.

Within minutes we were reunited with Cecilia and the driver. Apparently, he had waited two and a half hours for us at the airport, and when we didn’t exit with the rest of the flight, the driver called the hotel. Everyone was convinced we had taken a gypsy taxi and been kidnapped, and Cecilia was ready to call the embassy. The driver returned to the hotel to pick up Cecilia at the same time we had exited customs. It was 4 am by the time we arrived back to the hotel, shelling out another $40 to the driver, who had spent his entire night at the airport. At a combined total of $65, our taxi rides cost more than our hotel room.

We awoke an hour and a half later, hoping to arrive at the airport to change our flight to an earlier time and check the status of Maikael’s luggage. We were shuttled back and forth between two ticketing counters and were finally issued a change moments before the flight boarded. The luggage was still MIA. By the time we arrived in Cusco, I was exceedingly tired and cranky. I wanted nothing more than to take a long nap, but we hadn’t booked a room in town. Having been warned, once again, to avoid unmarked taxis, we hired an “official” airport taxi to take us to a few places we had earmarked in our Lonely Planet guide. The result was an overpriced taxi ride and a hard sell to stay at one of the hotels he was obviously in cahoots with.

Four days after our journey began, we ended up at the very lovely Amaru Hostal in the San Blas neighborhood, offering sweeping views of the Sacred Valley. As our plane descended out of the clouds the Valley appeared below, an expansive swath of towering green hills which tumbled into even bigger valleys in the distance. It was exactly as I had always imagined, a tidy city cradled in the arms of a gentle green giant. Cusco was a terra cotta tongue that snaked through the valley floor, colored by the red tile roofs that dominate the city. Undoubtedly sensing our exhaustion, the hotel promptly produced a pot of mate tea to help revive us and ease our acclimation to the high altitude.

We set off on foot to explore the narrow warrens and cobblestone streets of Cusco, a city that was once the seat of the great Inca Empire. Although its buildings have long been stripped of the sheets of gold facades that once defined this city, grand stone walls and doorways remain. The town somersaults down the hillsides to the lovely Plaza de Armas, filled with flowers and lined by impressive churches, remnants of the Spanish invasion. Women dressed in traditional Andean garb pick their way through the streets, donning tall bowler hats and colorfully flouncy, knee-length skirts on top of thick knee socks. Even the old women’s hair is braided. Groups of mothers and daughters prop themselves on ancient stone steps, petting baby llamas and encouraging tourists to take photos (for a few nuevo soles, of course).

At the recommendation of our hotel we sought out El Granja Heidi, offering nuevo andino cuisine, a culinary style defined by a fusion of traditional Andean dishes with other cultures, or simply a modern twist. For 18 nuevo soles (about $5.50 US), we were treated to a three-course meal and a drink. I chose chica morada, a traditional Peruvian drink of fermented corn with an arresting purple color, tasting like a light mulled cider. Maikael chose a classic pisco sour, a perfectly frothy version dusted with cinnamon. The sopa de quinoa followed, an Andean grain with a cous cous-like consistency. The tender kernels floated in a delicately spiced broth with bits of Andean cheese binding the dish together. Next, a large, stone dish was presented, bearing perfectly-cooked rice, green salad, roasted beets, and cabbage curry, all fresh and expertly executed. A rustic pancake with local honey rounded out the meal. It was the healthiest lunch I’d had in months, a far cry from steaks and heaping bowls of pasta.

Dinner revealed more culinary treats, including perfectly steamed tamales and a traditional Pervian salad of diced tomatoes and gigantic corn kernels, studded with fresh fava beans and cubes of salty, local cheese. Fresh papaya and pineapple juice washed down spicy nuevo andino pizza, cooked in an outdoor clay oven. I was in heaven. It was 10 pm when we finished dinner, the final guests in the restaurant, world’s away from our midnight Argentine meals when things were just heating up at that hour. The streets were deserted as we made our way home through the chilly night air, the lights of Cusco twinkling in the distance. It was hard to believe that one of the worst days of our trip, only 24 hours earlier, was now a distant memory. That’s the thing about traveling: the worst memories are quickly wiped cleaned and replaced by something better. And there’s always something better just around the corner.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

It’s not everyday that you get to realize a long-held dream. Nearly 10 years ago, the travel section of my Sunday paper highlighted Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. The spread captivated me with stunning pictures of the larger-than-life mountainous outcrop in southern Patagonia, the article promising a wind-blown, otherworldly landscape with unique rock formations, snow-capped peaks, glaciers, and turquoise lakes. The setting, the remoteness, the harshness captured me on a deep level; I wanted to walk amongst these mountains perched on the edge of the world.

We entered the park on a charter bus, a two and a half hour ride from Puerto Natales, accompanied by an Austrian woman, Claudia, who we met at our hostel, and who would hike with us over the next three days. As we disembarked, we discovered there was another seven kilometers of service road to walk before even intercepting the “W” trail. However, when we found an enterprising company offering minibus service to the trail head for $4, we jumped at the chance. A French girl from our hostel, who can only be described as an escaped insane asylum patient cum gypsy, balked at the minibus fee, deeming it “too consumerist.” We waved enthusiastically to her as we drove off, knowing she’d spend her one day in the park hiking amongst belching diesel and rumbling engines. Ah, wilderness!

I was nervous as we neared the trail head, fearing I would be disappointed by the unrealistic expectations that 10 years of waiting had planted in my head. After dropping our bags at the refugio, we raced toward our first stop, the eponymous Torres del Paine – Towers of the Blue Sky – whose spindly spires were illuminated in the brilliant afternoon sun. We picked our way through cool forests and crystalline streams, passing throngs of hikers on the trail. The towers dipped in and out of view, teasing us with a sliver of their crowns. The crowds thinned as we neared the towers, and it was clear why: the last hour involved an exceedingly steep climb up a face of massive boulders. With unsure footing and the wind pressing at our backs, we proceeded slowly, our moods becoming increasingly sour. This better be good, seemed to be the collective thought. Suddenly, the boulders disappeared and our field of vision was crowded with the most incredible view: the towers, massive hunks of jagged rock, framed by blue skies and illuminated by the waning sun, soaring a thousand feet above us. Waterfalls crashed down to an aquamarine lake, meltoff from a snow basin. We would soon grow accustomed to this color of water, but the first encounter was shockingly novel. Claudia was right: the place had a special energy. Although the winds howled and the cold immediately settled in as the sun glided below the towers, I could only sit and take it all in. It was hard to believe that this was only the beginning.

As we worked our way up each valley of the “W” over the following days, we were rewarded with unparalleled vistas, a result of the sheer scale that characterizes this park. Everything is vast and larger-than-life, from sweeping fields of swaying grasses to mammoth glaciers, to never-ending skies, glassy blue lakes, and soaring mountains. The scenery is constantly changing, a parade of natural beauty, and we were continually struck by the park’s diversity, as rocky moonscapes gave way to verdant forests, which melted into glacial valleys.

We hiked 53 miles (88 kilometers) over five days, but 20 of those miles were logged in a single day, all in an effort to drag our aching muscles towards Valle Frances, a glacier valley of extraordinary beauty. We spent the morning hugging massive Lake Nordenskjold’s emerald shoreline, as puffy clouds cast soft shadows over the clear blue water that we still hadn’t grown accustomed to. We shrugged off our packs at a campsite, certain that a lightened load would ease the six kilometer climb. But the first ascent was brutally steep: one portion of the trail offered a fabled cable rope to assist during poor weather conditions. A powerful Patagonian wind greeted Liz and I as we reached the first viewpoint, so powerful that a gust challenged my balance and knocked me down. We took in the hugeness of Glacier Frances, an icy expanse lodged in a charcoal mountainside, and watched several avalanches over the course of minutes, as streams of snow tumbled off the hillside and bellowed through the valley.

We trudged on, escaping the fierce winds for the safety of the forest, and as the trail continued its ascent, Liz became more fatigued and eventually told me she would turn back. I can’t claim to be a good husband on that particular day; I had, after all, been waiting 10 years for this moment. I continued on without her, encouraging her to wait for me at the campsite, promising I would be quick and would meet her within minutes of her return. Now alone, I attacked the trail like an animal, grunting and sweating with effort, surely alarming the backpackers I passed like a runaway train until I reached the mirador at the end. Here I was rewarded with a 360 degree view of the valley below, surrounded by yawning rock spires, rivaling Yosemite’s. I was swept up in time, something that happens when I find myself in places of natural beauty. I lounged on my back, my arms cradling my head, and loitered some more, feeling great about life. Suddenly realizing that time had slipped by, I hurried back to Liz as fast as I could, sprinting through the deep forest. When I arrived, out of breath, I saw the sour look arranged on her face, as she pretended to read a book. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Two hours!” I knew I would be in the dog house for this. “It was totally worth it,” I said, guilt intertwined with satisfaction.

When we began our trek, we had no idea that the park contained so much glacial activity. Imagine the excitement, following the trail to reach Glacier Grey on the western-most “leg” of the “W,” as the first iceberg, a turquoise sculpture of ice bobbing in milky blue Lake Grey, glides into view. You think it’s the only iceberg you’ll see, as if you’ve made a great discovery, and proceed to take 100 pictures of it, only to find bigger and better ones as the glacier comes closer into view. Then, you reach a plateau on the trail, affording the first full view of the glacier. Your jaw drops. You gasp. Audibly. Bigger than you ever imagined, it empties into the lake in three sections, like slender, icy fingers, and the glacier stretches so far back that you can’t see where it begins, its backside shrouded in a perpetual storm. The “W” unfolds like a beautiful story, the trail slowly revealing more details. By the time we reached Refugio Grey, the distant chunks of glacial ice that had been so exciting earlier in the day were replaced by the sheer glee we felt as we stumbled upon a nearby inlet with a flotilla of icebergs that you could touch from the shore.

These were long, often windy, days of discovery, and the refugios provided a much-needed respite at the end of the day. All are situated in exceptionally beautiful locations in the park, employing simple, exposed-wood construction in an alpine style. Six to eight bunk beds in each room, with communal dining tables, promoted conversation, lending to the feeling that we were, once again, at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. Being able to peel away my “stink uniform,” take a hot shower, and enjoy a proper meal was a godsend. Our favorite was Refugio Grey, winning points for its off-the-beaten path location, cool vibe, and views of icebergs drifting by during dinner. (Other refugios, located near easily-accessible park entrances, operated and felt more like anonymous hotels, with slick decor, full bars, and a more demanding and pretentious clientèle.)

It’s impossible not to meet lots of interesting people on such an epic walk, and South America attracts a certain kind of intrepid person. We ran in to Kim and Ross on the trail, an Australian-Scottish couple we had met on the bus ride into the park, and they had just gotten engaged in the Valle Frances. Kim was sporting a ring that Ross had purchased months earlier in Peru, a true South American proposal, and being out of contact with the rest of the world, we were the first ones to hear the news! We also became fast friends with Jeff and Erin after meeting at dinner at Refugio Grey, the only other American couple we’ve met traveling around the world. And nearly every other hiker you meet on the trail is from Israel. All Israelis, men and women, serve an obligatory two years in the military and receive a stipend upon completion. Almost without fail, they use this money to take a big trip to either South America or Asia, and although we had read to expect this, it was still surprising to see groups as large as 20 Israelis pass us, spouting a plume of Hebrew in their wake.

While I love meeting interesting people, I also enjoy the solitude that comes with a long walk. It affords me valuable time to think about what’s important in my life. As Liz dashed forward and spent the day excitedly talking with newfound friends, I fell back, allowing me to get lost in my thoughts. As I’ve stripped away the many layers of my life back in the States, I’ve started to remember small things that I used to enjoy, but had somehow forgotten over the course of time as my life got the better of me. I used to play and listen to music, for example, which I rarely do now. I also enjoy the idea of architecture and building. I love the outdoors. Remembering myself has been one of the true values of taking a break from my everyday life.

As we exited the trail, stinking and sore, we were welcomed by a double rainbow over a aquamarine glacier lake. No joke. It was so simultaneously cheesy and romantic, Liz and I couldn’t help but grin at each other. Torres del Paine is known for schizophrenic weather systems, but Mother Nature had been on our side for nearly a week. It provided comfortable cloud cover when exposed to the elements or hiking up the steep valleys. It gifted us swaths of blue sky when reaching impressive natural monuments. It barely rained a drop. Call it The Thomas Luck, as we do, but in every way Torres del Paine exceeded my expectations, leaving me with only best experience and memories for years to come. We raised our hiking polls overhead and formed a perfect, celebratory “W” pattern, a fitting end to our journey.

On our fourth night in Torres del Paine National Park, as we watched hunks of iceberg drift by our refugio from the cozy dining room, we unexpectedly found ourselves in conversation with Jeff and Erin, a 30-something couple from Washington DC traveling around the world. After six months on the road, they are the first Americans we’ve met who are embarking on the same type of adventure we are, and as you can imagine, we had a ton to talk about. We spent the entire evening swapping stories, tales of woe, and travel advice in equal measure, sharing a box of El Gato red wine over rib-sticking beef stroganof (not as bad as it sounds, I promise you). The next day we walked 19 kilometers together; trudging up hills had never been so much fun, as the hours flew by deep in conversation and laughter. We took in the jaw dropping vistas of Glacier Grey in complete solitude, clapping enthusiastically as a massive chunk of sapphire ice cracked from the glacier’s face and plummeted into the lake, its firecracker crash reverberating through the valley.

“We won the day!” exclaimed Erin. Seeing a puzzled look wash across my face, she explained that she and Jeff had come up with the idea during one particularly bad day. “Even on the worst days, you have to come up with at least one thing that saves the day. And once a day is won it can’t be lost.” This was the best philosophy I’d ever heard, not just for everyday life but particularly for traveling, where bad days usually seem to grow even worse. Employing Jeff and Erin’s logic, the day has to get better. “Winning the day” is a daily reminder and practice that we should delight in life’s small moments, something that sounds easy in theory but that I struggle with constantly. I find myself beleaguered by everything that’s going wrong, the good in a situation completely obscured by the negative. That night, we celebrated finishing the “W” over calafate sours, a delicious local drink that brings to mind a grape-tinged margarita, but in my mind I toasted to winning the day.

Yesterday we learned, purely by accident, that LAN Chile delayed our flight from Peru to Bolivia by nearly thirteen hours…and never bothered to tell us. Not only would we find ourselves camping out in Lima’s airport for a full day, but all of the plans we had made for Bolivia were contingent upon our timely arrival. After trying unsuccessfully to place a call to the airlines, we finally gave up; and after four hours of sleep and an early morning flight to Puerto Montt, we spent all morning in LAN Chile’s local office attempting to fix our ticket. The end result? Bolivia will be dropped from our itinerary altogether. Of course the change requires authorization, and it being Saturday, well, the saga will continue on Monday in another office.

“We have to win the day,” I said to Maikael, as we made our way towards the bus station to catch a four-hour ride to Chiloe. After settling ourselves in our seats, two young men, toting a small band of wooden instruments, bounded on the bus. They crowded the aisle, tentatively plucking a few strings, when the conductor gave them a pointed look that said, “Don’t play those things on here.” As soon as the bus roared to life, the door between driver and passengers safely sealed, the duo began playing a boisterous tune. One guy strummed his small guitar while the other whistled on a rustic flute, and soon they were singing in harmony. Normally these spontaneous performances annoy me, but they were really good. I found myself grinning stupidly, and when they offered their CD for 500 pesos – about 75 cents – I snatched up a copy, as did most of the bus. I studied the CD cover, a crude black and white photocopy, announcing the group as Hijos del Sol: Sons of the Sun. “My day’s been won,” I announced to Maikael.

“You are crazy. Let me say this with more gusto: C-R-A-Z-Y,” wrote my friend Cybele, and I agreed completely. The last time I set off on a multi-day journey into the wilderness I was gripped with fear and doubt, and Cybele confirmed that I had lost my mind by attempting New Zealand’s Milford Track. But having survived – dare I say, even enjoyed – the experience, I was ready to do it again. Now that’s what’s really C-R-A-Z-Y.

Tomorrow we set off for Torres del Paine National Park to hike the famed “W” circuit, so named for the shape of the trail, an anticipated highlight of our trip to South America. In fact, it’s what got us dreaming about visiting the continent nearly 10 years ago. I’ll never forget the dusty pink spires splashed across the front page of the Seattle Times’ travel section one Sunday, looking like some wind-swept no man’s land. They looked like the kind of mountains that Froddo struggled up on his way to Mordor. “Where’s that?” I asked Maikael. I couldn’t believe it when he responded, “South America,” a place I had always associated with steamy jungles and crushing heat. More than any place I had ever seen, it looked like the ends of the earth, and I found it impossible to believe that, not only could you visit those ragged peaks, but you could climb amongst them. We wanted to go there. Badly. As our bus idled at the Chilean border crossing yesterday, those same craggy spires looming in the distance, it was hard to believe we were finally here.

To prepare for our big adventure, our hostel, Erratic Rock, hosts a daily information session. Run by two guys from Oregon, Rustyn, one half of the duo, gave an engaging talk about the ins and outs of hiking the W, from how to get to the park to what to pack (and more importantly, what to leave at home). He often leads guided hikes into the parks for “richies,” people looking for comfortable, short stints into the wilderness. “But they’re tourists, not trekkers, and there’s a difference. They’ll walk an hour in, stop for a beer, give themselves a high five, and walk right back out.” I wanted to be a hiker.

In Patagonia, the wind is fierce. Rustyn reported gusts that can lift a grown man off the ground and deposit him in another location; holding on to one’s tent can quickly become akin to flying a kite. That’s how crazy the wind is. Still, despite the area’s notoriously intense weather, there is no special gear required. Rustyn is a proponent of adopting “the stink uniform,” consisting of one quick-dry top and pair of pants that will be our outfit for the next six days. At nights we get to change into comfy, dry pants, shirts, and socks. That’s it: no special Goretex or super dooper shoes. “Some Australians hike it in flip flops,” he assured us.

This experience will be different from hiking the Milford Track in many ways. While we’ll be out on the trail for six days, as opposed to Milford’s four, our accommodations will be deluxe in comparison. A series of refugios, which are souped up dorms, boast equipment rentals, full meal services, hot showers, and swanky bars. This was a major selling point for me, as we will have to pack very little into the park, making the load light and the walking all the easier. Hikers have an option to camp instead of staying at the refugios, the latter being a considerably more expensive option, but did I mention the hot showers and full meals? And we won’t be following the same path as we did on the Milford Track, meaning we probably won’t share the same sense of camaraderie with our fellow hikers. But did I mention the full bar?

I haven’t gotten cold feet. In fact, I’m a lot less nervous than when I started the Milford Track. Rustyn assured us that completing the W equals a lifetime of street cred in the hiking world. Even if we do enjoy a glass of wine every evening. And did I mention the hot showers?

We’ll be back to civilization the evening of January 29th!

The one thing we really wanted to do in Uruguay was visit an estancia, essentially a large tract of open farmland where livestock roam and gauchos rule the roost. In recent years a number of tourist-oriented estancias have opened their doors, in the hopes of giving visitors an intimate understanding of rural life. Uruguay boasts over 200 government-designated estancias turisticas (Argentina offers even more), but many of them offer subpar experiences, pushing hundreds of tourists through 20-minute pony rides and bad parrilla buffets.

We were looking for the real deal. We wanted to ride alongside real gauchos, the ones with floppy berets and baggy jodhpur pants whose job was wrangling cattles, not posing for photos for Linda from Pismo Beach. We wanted to sing folk songs from the campo, cook tender cuts of meal over a roaring campfire, and recline on a nappy wool poncho while sipping mate under a canopy of stars. While we’re not plucking hay out of our hair, we found the next best thing at Estancia La Sirena, which we soon discovered was one of the three oldest estancias turisticas in the country, having shown farm life to city folk like us for nearly 20 years.

After a four-hour bus ride from Montevideo to Mercedes, a rural hamlet on Uruguay’s western border, we were collected by Juan, sporting blond curls and piercing ice-blue eyes. Much like Argentina, Uruguay was largely populated with Europeans in the 1800s, leading to people looking more Anglo than their indigenous neighbors to the north. On the bumpy ride in the pick-up truck to the estancia, another 20 kilometers down dusty lanes, Juan told us that the bus station had burned down. What he didn’t tell us was that the bus station had burned down the day before, and that trying to buy an outbound ticket would become a difficult task in the coming days.

When we finally pulled up to La Sirena in a plume of dust, we were greeted with a gorgeous sand-colored manor house that looked like something straight out of New Mexico with its Spanish colonial architecture, a jumble of adobe, wrought iron, tile, wood, sweeping portals, and chunky vigas. The guestrooms abutted the main house: there were only six rooms, and only one other guest staying the first night. A lazy windmill sat in the center of the yard, surrounded by a battalion of rustic lounge furniture. At the edge of the yard sat a crumbling stone shed, which had been converted to an outdoor parrilla. Wheat-colored farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, the only sound for miles a cacophony of birdsong.

A delicious homemade lunch was served: wedges of vegetable empanadas; rolls of tender pork stuffed with red peppers; delicately roasted baby potatoes and carrots, dotted with the ubiquitous Uruguayan mayonnaise; a fresh chopped salad of soft lettuce and ruby red tomatoes; and fruit for dessert. Always fruit for dessert. Full and happy, we took an afternoon siesta, then enjoyed afternoon tea with fluffy, fresh-baked butter cake.

As we munched, we were greeted by Lucia Bruce, the matriarch, who runs the estancia with the help of her husband, Rodney Bruce; between the two of them, speak excellent English, French, and, of course, Spanish. Lean, lithe, and tan, we weren’t surprised to learn that Lucia had been a tennis champion in a former life; in fact, the whole family seemed to be accomplished sportsmen. The evidence lain in the den, whose shelves were crammed with tarnished metal cups and fading photographs extolling countless victories.

After getting to know one another, Lucia provided us a tour of the property. The house, which once belonged to Rivadavia, the first president of Argentina, was purchased and carefully restored nearly 12 years ago. She pointed out hidden nooks and crannies, magical spiral staircases, trap doors, and decorative details, all with a history. Lucia shared information about the country’s history, too; the Rio Plata, which translates as the Silver River and connects Uruguay and Argentina, was believed to be the passageway to Inca gold in Peru and beyond.

It was time to set out for our first horseback ride, personally guided by Lucia. After hoisting ourselves onto the animals – it had been quite some time since either of us had ridden, and our legs would pay the price the next day – we began to meander through the fields. Our horses ambled up beautifully parched hills, the cotton clouds floating overhead through an impossibly blue sky. Lucia stopped frequently to identify local flora and fauna, relay anecdotes about local history, and share some of her own personal history. We eventually made our way down to the cobalt river, where lazy burnt sienna cows grazed and glanced sideways at us. After a long, hot day, the water was inviting, and after changing behind a stand of trees we plunged into the cool water and floated dreamily in the late afternoon sun.

The sun dipped low in the sky, and we began our homeward journey, the horses trotting a little faster. “They know they’re going home,” Lucia said. As we mounted that same grassy hill, the sky was perfectly clear, pale blues bleeding into soft tangerine. I have heard people talk about big sky county, hinterlands where that great canopy seems to stretch like a canvas to the ends of the earth. Until then, I never understood what a big sky felt like. I found myself memorizing this moment, something I don’t often do, but it was one of the most exquisite sunsets I’ve ever witnessed. We enjoyed a crisp beer as the sun made its final descent, nibbling on local sausage and cheese as fireflies danced through the yard. After handcut pasta and a bottle of Uruguayan wine, I went to bed with a single thought planted firmly in my mind, one that I haven’t had much these days: I can’t believe this is my life.

The next day brought more beauty. It was a scorching day, so Lucia arranged to take us to the river. She drove her battered, ancient Mercedes to the water’s edge (I completely delighted in the fact that she drove a Mercedes in the town of Mercedes), and we edged ourselves into the bracing water, fighting our way through the current to the pebble-strewn sandbar in the middle of the river. Here we began a simple but surprisingly fun routine: walk to the edge of the sandbar, let the river carry you downstream to the other end of the sandbar, and repeat until sunburned. After lunch and a siesta, we headed out on horseback back to the river, where Rodney met us with his boat. We motored to another section of the placid river, breezing past deserted beaches and reedy shores. Frolicking in the sand of a tiny strip of beach had never been such fun: these were truly life’s simple pleasures. As we trotted back towards the house at twilight, I found myself singing, “Home on the Range.” Even Lucia joined in.

Back at the ranch, we had requested a traditional Uruguayan parrilla, which our hosts happily arranged. A fire roared in the massive outdoor oven over a system of steel ramps, where slabs of meat sputtered under a tent of corrugated tin. Angel, La Sirena’s talented cook, explained the unique Uruguayan style of grilling as he flipped the meat and shoveled glowing orange embers from under the oven’s elevated fire and transferred them to just below the meat. The meat is grilled on an incline, wherein the fat runs down a plank and not on top of the simmering coals, which would create a direct flame. “This is nothing like an Argentine parrilla,” Angel assured us. “They use charcoal. It’s a totally different taste.” By 11 o’clock the extended family was assembled and we were ready to start dinner. First, grilled salchichas, fat medallions of country sausage, were presented on a wooden trencher. When those were polished off, multiple courses of meat were served, from beef tenderloin to rack of lamb. Great spoonfuls of chimichurri were dabbed on the meat, an especially popular Uruguayan condiment of chopped parsley, coarse garlic, and oil and vinegar: potent but delicious. Potato salad and green salad rounded out the meal. “A very typical Uruguayan parrilla,” confirmed Rodney. Over dinner we talked about politics and the US’s relations with Latin America. We talked about our trip. We talked about how we met 11 years ago. It was a real family meal.

People often ask us what have been our favorite countries that we’ve visited on this trip. It’s an impossible question to answer. Rather, there are certain experiences that we’ll never forget: this is one of them. As we sat waiting for our bus that would take us from Mercedes to Buenos Aires, the burnt shell of the station to our backs, we were grateful that Lucia had spent hours the day before procuring tickets on our behalf, as a ticket counter no longer existed. Sure, we didn’t see any gauchos at La Sirena, but as we waited a man in flannel shirt tucked into baggy forest green pants, an alpine-looking hat perched on his salt and pepper head, hopped onto a bus. “Look!” I cried to Maikael. “A real live gaucho!” It wasn’t what I expected. It never is. But it was good enough for me.

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 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.