The bus ride to Bariloche, Argentina was quite the opposite, although twice as long. The 22 hour micro trip started at 14hr on Saturday, March 10th. We (Nikki, Gus and myself) figured that leaving in the afternoon would fool our minds into thinking the 22 hour ride would be shorter: turns out, it worked. Our thinking was that if we had about 8 to 9 hours of conscious time, and then slept, we'd only have a little more to go in the morning, when it would seem a whole new trip. Our seats reclined quite a bit, there were blankets and pillows too. The dinner served was ten times better than airplane food: I think the chicken was real even though I didn't eat it, and I sipped on some wine as the trip went on and the sun went down. There were movies on movies on movies playing, Salt, The Adults, Mr. Popper's Penguins, and Iron Man. Needless to say, those helped pass the time.
That first bus ride, I had a dream about Salt, as if I were Evelyn Salt... pretty wild.
And the world turned so did the day and everything was okay. We arrived on Sunday, March 4th in Patagonia. A stunning place, to say the very least. But words can't really do it justice anyways. I wrote a note as we wound around the road:
The S Curves hide what's ahead,
but the oasis of gold is sure to be found.
The open expanses show nature in the raw:
naked and untouched by humans.
It's as if my eyes are the first
to see the hills and the blue water.
The town of Bariloche is quaint, with definite hints of German, Swiss, and Canadian culture. The weather was impeccable, thankfully much warmer than I thought because we actually wanted to be outside, but unfortunately I didn't pack that many shorts, so my trusty jeans because very trusty and worn jeans.
Imagine a town with stone buildings that are no more than 5 stories high (sporadically) next to a huge blue lake that has a backdrop of the Andes mountains, nestled in a hill. There you have Bariloche.
Hostels dot the streets and parilla grills tempt you every block, which is far less often than the many chocolate stores that tempt you every 5 feet. On top of that, there are men working for these chocolate stores that are out on the sidewalk offering you samples. Needless to say, in this tourist town, I ate many sweet samples.
But everyone was very friendly, you didn't feel the daily rush of BsAs or even the cares of BsAs here - no high stress of getting robbed or the sensation that you "shouldn't be in those parts". Granted, they exist in Bariloche, but where we were? No.
Keeping pretty relevant with the friendliness of people, the chamuyo, or gentleman nevertheless was the same as the city. I concede, they were not as gross as in BsAs, but they certainly were as persistent. (More "acceptable" to the US Code of Conduct for Gentlemen) So Nikki and I would be walking down the street and OOP! Chocolate Store. But we didn't stop because of the chocolate, it was because this guy stopped us in our tracks holding out coupons. "Oh ladies where are you from blah blah blah oh the US we like the US blah blah blah very nice very nice..." Typical exchange of conversation, always in Spanish, with the chocolate men.
One day though, Nikki and I, both taken ladies, were "taken" again. After a few days of walking the streets in the Center of town, we had to start thinking about from where we wanted to buy chocolate for our host families. We both, incidentally, purchased chocolate from different stores. But This Wednesday was quite the day for the chocolate men to put on their persuasion faces: game time. So we put on ours. Nikki bought chocolate from this quaint little chocolate shop that sold a variety of wines from all over Argentina, as well as some delicious jams and jellies (of which we each sampled each one, obviously because the chocolate guy made us). And this guy was RELENTLESS. He kept saying to her, "Who are you buying those chocolates for? Your lover? Here in Bariloche?" She's shaking her head contesting, "No, I don't have a lover here, they're for my family. I have a boyfriend in the US" and he's like "oh you know that's a terrible idea blah blah blah you need to get one here, those chocolates are for your lover". This went on for a good 5 minutes solid while I was checking out wine labels and hot sauce. She emerged unscathed and probably 10 times more sure about her connection with her boyfriend. When it comes to these things, I'd say she's prettyyy good at absorbing what they give her and stabbing back with her own opinion. (I mean she's really good at it.)
Here's where she and I differ: She stabs back and I deflect looking for the redirect. Seeing them beaten by their own words is easier for me to do, I think. It's something like picking up the flaws in their argument and making them chew on the bitterness. (A hyperbolic explanation, perhaps, but colorful nonetheless).
So my "boyfriend" in Bariloche is gung-ho about going out. Well, was. He probably doesn't remember me, and that's the beauty of all of this. (That was sarcasm.) These guys all praise you for your beauty and some even sing to you (like the window washer that I was walking past who stopped his work when I was 20 meters away and started belting some love-song in Spanish until I had all but disappeared from view) but then you think of how many girls they actually do that to, and it starts to mean nothing. "When everyone's super, no one is," Syndrome, The Incredibles. Anyways, he works with Del Turista chocolates, and stopped me and Nikki in our tracks. He must have been 35-43 years old, short, tan, dark brown hair but greying, and had signs of wrinkles and asked us if we wanted to try a chocolate. Good one, buddy, like I haven't been getting fat of everyone and their mother's samples of chocolates...Sure! We'll try some. But it wasn't that easy. He asked Nikki what my name was, only my name this time, and then he started talking to me. Are we in 1st grade? (Contrary to common suspicion here that we are 15 years old... what the heck...) So then he's like, "Angela do you want to go out? I can be your boyfriend we can go to dinner tonight blah blah blah how old are you?," I'm like, "listen I don't think so, thanks. I'm twenty and I have a boyfriend already." He's quick to respond, "Twenty is perfect. Can't I be your lover in Bariloche? I mean I want to take you out." (Here's the time to chew your words) "See I don't like lovers, sir, I prefer love, and I already am dating someone. Finally, I will not go out with you." He got the message, but left me with the chance to go out to dinner with him and have a boyfriend in Bariloche if I wanted. Gee, thanks a lot, chocolate man, and all I wanted was the chocolate I've already tried 2 times before.
Now I'm not trying to paint a perverted picture of the Argentine Man, although it is somewhat of a caricature. However, it is important to understand that the things I'm highlighting are the things that I notice are most different about Argentine men in comparison to United States men. They really are sweet people, it's just that part of their culture that has a huge openness and commonness about it is affection. You truly feel welcome here by most people, sometimes not by ranting drunk twenty-year olds, but most people yes. They have an attaching quality, and I admire them for that. Unfortunately, I have to be careful about how I reciprocate that friendliness because it borders flirting to them and flirting means fling. And fling to them means you-know-what.
We'll stick with these guys, that may or may not be less dangerous:
Angela
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