And Now For Something Different...

One Week in Argentina

If you’re going to Argentina, you might be tempted to watch the 1996 film Evita first. Let me save you some time. It doesn’t hold up. Like, not even a little. No offense to Madonna or Antonio Banderas, of course.

In a few short weeks, I’m off to Argentina with my friend KJ and clearly I’ve been busy trying to prepare. I’ve brushed up on my español (see: the strange sentences Duolingo has given me), found some anti-nausea bars since my inner ear hates boats and got a down jacket for cold-weather hiking that packs up nice and small. (A day after my coat arrived in the mail, I saw a four-year-old boy wearing a very similar version).

One week barely seems like enough time, but I’m excited nonetheless. KJ and I have split the trip in two, so we’ll be spending half the week in Argentina’s capital city and the other half in Patagonia. Rather than try to see everything, we’re going for a balance of culture and nature, noise and quiet. One pill makes you larger. And one pill makes you small.

This is our plan:

Friday night, we fly to Atlanta to catch a red-eye to Buenos Aires. I’ve never been to South America, but I’m eager to go somewhere that doesn’t require intense jet lag. (Cough, India).

From Saturday until Tuesday, we’ll be in Buenos Aires. Our plans here are loose. We’re staying in an Airbnb, which I find is a much more personal way to see a foreign city.  I want to go to El Ateneo Grand Splendid, an opulent theater-turned-bookstore, and KJ wants to watch some polo. We both love walking, so there will be plenty of exploring cool neighborhoods and parks. Maybe even a fancy cemetery or two (probably just one).

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May the Argentines never discover Amazon dot com.

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Polo: basketball for horses. I think.

After Buenos Aires, we fly to El Calafate and take a bus to El Chaltén. We’ll spend a few days in both places. We considered traveling down there by bus, but turns out that’s a 36-hour journey. We’ll use that time instead to see the glaciers, go hiking and possibly ride horses. The last time I rode a horse was when I was five and unfamiliar with fear.

Fall Colors in Patagonia Photo by Pete Stasiewicz

What’s a big international trip without at least one stupid-stressful travel day? We fly from Patagonia back to Buenos Aires and have six hours to navigate from their domestic airport to their international one. I want to squeeze something fun in this time; KJ doesn’t want to be too dumb about it. We’ll see how the day plays out.

And like that, we’ll be back. Speaking inglés like it never happened.

 

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