Night at the Bus Station: The Battle for Floorspace

When it comes to travel writing and blogging, the focus is almost exclusively dedicated to what you find at the destination. And rightly so – that’s sort of the point of traveling, right? Occasionally, there might be some spotlight on the method of travel itself, such as my last post highlighting some of my more memorable experiences on bussing around the country. What is usually neglected, however, are those interim periods between stops. I mentioned in my last post that I have amassed over 150 hours of bus travel. That figure does not include the countless hours of wait time spent dawdling between stops.

In a perfect world, one would arrive a comfortable 15 minutes prior to their departure time, just enough cushion to check their luggage, buy a snack, and use the bathroom one last time, but not so long that you feel you are wasting time by being early. The bus ride would be uneventful, and upon arrival at the target destination, one could immediately board the next taxi to the destination city’s center and the fantastic travel adventures would commence.  The amount of time spent at the actual bus station would be minimal, a parenthetical that is so fleeting that it doesn’t really dignify acknowledgment. Sadly, that is rarely the case. Whether it was due to mechanical problems, layovers between bus rides, union strikes, or just inexplicable delays, a good, not insignificant chunk of our trip was spent hanging out in bus stations. Although it isn’t particularly glamorous or romantic, considering how much time we have spent in bus stations, I felt it would be remiss to ignore this inevitable aspect of our travels.

You see, when travelling by bus, every small decision can affect your experience: the bus company you select, the time of year, the time of day, and even the seat number. Over the last several months, I like to think that I have become quite savvy at striking that balance between minimizing my travel time, maximizing my comfort, and keeping within my budget. The bus station itself, however, is a factor that you have relatively little control over. In my experience, bus stations have run the gamut from ramshackle benches and dirt floors to full-service centers that rival most outlet shopping malls. Interestingly, although the bus station is technically your first impression of a new location, there is rarely any correlation between the bus station and the actual city. For example, Buenos Aires, for all its glitzy, cosmopolitan glamour, has a bus station that is as skeezy and unattractive as the rest of them. The basement flower felt like the catacombs of Snape’s dungeon, the concrete walls and floors were uninviting and cold, and the open doors allowed for the occasional stray dog or beggar child to wander freely. Meanwhile, random unassuming cities tucked in the middle of nowhere like Neuquen have inexplicably clean, immaculately kept stations that provide a pleasant surprise for travelers who have the privilege of passing through to use their facilities. 

Perhaps the only features accurately represented by the station are the city’s size and popularity among travelers.  To begin, Buenos Aires’ massive tri-level station has an elaborate color-coded system of dividing gates and ticket agents by regional sectors based on the destination. For example, if you were bound for Tucumán, you would head towards the “Northwest Argentina” zone (orange, I believe), which is then subdivided according to different bus companies. This system is further complicated during off-peak hours, when you arrive at your target location, only to find a sign taped to the window directing you to a sister counter in another zone. It’s not unlike arriving at your gate at the airport, only to find that the waiting area for your flight has been moved to the terminal on the other side—the only difference being that none of the bus stations have the handy golf cart drivers, moving floors, or underground shuttle systems that can expedite the commute. About the closest thing I have encountered to that level of technological convenience is that Cordoba, Argentina’s next largest city, has escalators connecting some of its floors (but just some of them). This behemoth station is a four-story monstrosity with a labyrinthine design that does little to facilitate its high traffic. Instead, I found myself in a maddening cycle of crossing bridges, going up and down stairs, following arrows, and essentially finding myself back where I started – it felt like being in a living Escher painting. This mayhem is compounded by the fact that despite its size, there is very little diversity among the sectors. It’s an endless cycle of the exact same cafes and restaurants with the exact same signs, with waiters wearing the exact same uniforms, serving the exact same food. Needless to say, after hours of travelling and sleep deprivation, it is easy to get disoriented.

Cordoba's station is like a less Inception-y version of this 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the spectrum, you have the cities that are too small to justify a central bus terminal. Usually there are only a handful of bus companies that pass through, so they will drop you off directly at their ticketing station. There is rarely a waiting area or information desk (or bathroom!), so you’re on your own as far as finding your way into the city, getting food, finding housing, etc. Some of the routes which primarily serve locals go one step further. Rather than having an actual building which serves as a station, there is just a desultory bench or decrepit little tin structure on the side of the road. Occasionally, I have seen passengers who flag down the bus from places on the highway which are completely unmarked. I have yet to figure out what establishes these locations as actual “stops,” and fortunately, I have never been put in the situation to find out.

El Bolson bus "station" 

As hinted at before, however, due to the freak cold snap that swept through Argentina in July, I was forced to spend my first night at a bus station.  The irony of the story, however, is that we didn’t technically have to sleep there. All the buses for that night were suspended, that fact wasn’t changing. What surprised me, however, was that the bus companies and conductors were generously offering passengers the chance to sleep on the heated bus. Seeing as how the initial plan was to take an overnight bus anyway (not to mention that we were already experts at the fine art of bus-dozing), that offer did not seem like an altogether awful compromise.  It was actually much better than expected, and we had every intention of accepting this plan.

We just wanted to eat dinner first. And again, wonders never cease, the bus companies were providing hot meals for all the passengers who were stranded at the station. Most of the passengers were just eating on the bus, but having just freshly arrived from an earlier bus, we decided to stretch our legs and make ourselves comfortable in the station's restobar. July 19^th was el Día de los Amigos (seriously, any excuse for a holiday here), and we thought that our companionship was worth celebrating. Plus, we just really wanted a drink. So we thought a bottle of beer and a little dessert would be a fine accompaniment to our respectable little TV dinner of stir-fried rice.

Our Friendship Dinner

If I had the choice to pick a city in Argentina to be stuck in for the night, Esquel (population 28,000) would not have been at the top of my list. This observation is based on the fact that aside from the casino down the street, the restaurant in the bus station bar may have been one of the more happening places to be. The café was a fairly large room, complete with a projector screen, audio equipment, tacky Christmas lights, and a chalkboard that promised live music on Thursdays (alas it was a Monday). Nevertheless, the atmosphere was much upbeat than your average bus station, and infinitely better than being stuck in a bus full of sleeping babies. Initially, the plan was to strategically exhaust ourselves in order to pass out on the bus. It was working splendidly - we were laughing and enjoying eachother’s company, we were well-fed and in high-spirits, plus we had the luxury of using a normal-sized bathroom whenever we wanted. At about 2:30 AM we finally decide to turn in for the night and head to our bus. It was then that realized that we had been locked out. What we hadn’t considered was that it was only the passengers who would be sleeping on the bus-- not the drivers. Miscalculation. The other passengers couldn’t have let us in if they wanted to. With no other options, we headed back to the station, picked a spot away from the windows, spread our blanket on the floor, put on as many layers as possible, secured our backpacks to a nearby bench,  and lay down for some fitful, chilly sleep. 

We spent the night under that bench

All things considered, we made the best of a bad situation, and truth be told, it could have been much, much worse. Although neighboring cities like Bariloche and El Bolson had more going for them touristically, their open air bus stations would have forced us to find hostels for the night. That said, sleeping on the floor of a bus station (even one with a roof and doors) is just another of those romantic, rugged, thrilling backpacker fantasies that gets you some marginal street cred among other travelers. Once you cross it off your bucket list, though, you never really have a desire to repeat it. 

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: Bussing it throughout Argentina

As promised, after logging over 150 hours of bus travel (and counting!), I can comfortably say that I’ve become an expert at bussing through Argentina.  I have experienced every level of “bus,” which has become a fluid term, since it includes everything from a modest 10-seater van which took us from Rio Gallegos to El Calafate to the Marga bus which ended up boarding a ferry to cross the Strait of Magellan:

As I started writing, I quickly realized that the variety and breadth of these experiences could not be encapsulated in just one post. As such, I'm taking a page from my food post, and splitting this entry into a three-part series (sort of like a Horcrux, only not the consummation of all that is evil and unholy). Over the next few days, I hope to shed some insight on one of the most fundamental aspects of traveling in Argentina, while hopefully dropping some amusing anecdotes along the way. 

Part 1: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

When the buses are good, they’re awesome.  When they’re bad, they can be miserable. Anybody who's traveled knows that the smallest complications (delays, feeling under the weather, forgetting your camera, etc) can affect your perception of the company, and it can often difficult to separate those issues from a genuinely bad experience with the busline/airline/travel agency itself. Nevertheless, I have endeavored break it down as objectively and honestly as possible. 

Food

• Good: A standard long-distance bus ride with servicios usually provides food at the appropriate mealtime. Some bus companies have provided pretty solid offerings, including a protein entrée, a side of bread or rice, dessert, and occasionally a beverage. If the bus times don't necessarily fall during mealtime, they may still offer a snack box or drink. 
• Bad: Some cheaper companies settle for really stale vacuum-packed ham and cheese sandwiches on processed white bread which just leave you thirstier than when you left. 
• Ugly: It can often be unpredictable in what situations they will serve food. The very same company that served some of the best bus food I have eaten also left us starving on the 14 hour ride from Trelew to Rio Gallegos. Foolishly, with each passing bus stop, we refrained from purchasing a snack because we thought to ourselves, “Surely they must feed us soon.” Silly us.
  

Buses 

• Good: Interestingly, the seats are classified by angle of recline. The standard “economy” seat is a semi-cama (semi-bed), which reclines so the passenger can sleep in a semi-prone position. I have never really experienced problems sleeping in this position, but then again, I’m short enough to fit in the seat. If you are willing to spend a few extra pesos (I’m talking roughly the equivalent of $5USD), you may get a full cama which unfolds into a completely horizontal position. In this regard, an executive or first class bus is luxury when it comes to leg room, comfort, and cushiness. An advantage to the cheap seats is that they are on the top tier of the buses.  If you buy your tickets in advance, there's a good chance you can get a front seat with a little extra leg room and a fantastic view. 

Front row seats

• Bad: The complete disregard for any semblance temperature control. In the summer, the buses are almost always about 10º too cold, resulting in my wearing a laughable number of layers for a tropical climate.
  

  

  Entirely too many layers for a visit to Iguazu in May

• Ugly: During my first long distance ride to Resistencia (about 12 hours from Tucumán), it was uncharacteristically rainy throughout the entire country, and it rained the entire ride. It was as if a storm cloud was following me all the way to my next destination. Since I wasn't driving,  this would normally be a minor inconvenience at most, if not for the small problem of the leaking ceiling dripping cold rain water over my head.
  

Entertainment

• Good: Some rides are timed remarkably well, so there are very few moments of idle dead time where you’re staring blankly out the window or sleeping for lack of anything else to do. During these rides, the conductor keeps a steady cycle of meals, movies, and the occasional game of bus bingo to keep our circadian rhythms as normal as humanly possible. In particular, some of the bus rides have showed some very high quality boot-legged movies, including blockbusters like “Sherlock Holmes” and Academy Award winners like “Hurt Locker” and "Blind Side." 
• Bad: If the conductor can’t be bothered to turn on the DVD player, they will turn off the lights at 8PM and expect you to sleep until morning. 
• Ugly: Some of the awful straight-to-DVD movies that they wouldn’t even bother releasing in the US, normally starring either Rob Schneider or Michael Jai White. 

Bus Stops

• Good: Long-distance buses usually make several stops along the route. On an overnight bus, a considerate bus line might turn on the lights when they approach a major bus station, so people who will be disembarking know to wake up and start gathering their belongings. A particularly attentive conductor may even announce the stop for people too disoriented and groggy to notice their surroundings. An exceptional conductor will announce exactly how many minutes the bus will hang out in case you need to make a bathroom or snack run. 
• Bad: Not knowing which stop you are at (bus stations are often unmarked), and out of fear of missing your stop, being forced you to stay awake for several hours, straining to catch a kilometer marker or some city sign to orient yourself. 
• Ugly: Not knowing whether the bus is stopping for a break, to refuel, or to drop somebody off and being so paranoid about being left behind, that you end up holding and waiting when you really, really, need to use the bathroom.
  

Scheduling

• Good: A bus originating from your destination, so it departs on time and arrives relatively close to the ETA (approximately within 15 or 30 minutes). 
• Bad: Mechanical or electrical problems that cause you to be stuck in the Resistencia bus station for 3 hours, after only having traveled 17 kilometers. 
• Ugly: A 24-hour transportation strike on the day you were originally planning to travel from San Juan to Bariloche: the longest leg of your journey (approximately 16 hours)in which you had bought the tickets a week in advance in anticipation of high season.  

A noble fleet of buses

Rock 'n Roll Part II: How to Live Out of a Backpack for a Month

Several months ago, I described the systematic purging of my belongings in order to both meet the baggage requirements and pack for 9 months in a foreign country. It was a surgical process that took place over a series of several days. Recently, I had the opportunity to take a month to work my way down the Southern cone, bringing me all the way down to the southernmost point of the planet. Considering this journey’s extreme level of epic-ness, the packing process could not have been any more different or haphazard. I suppose all these Latin siestas are beginning to rub off on me. Confident in our abilities to speedily stuff a backpack, Selene and I put off packing and shopping for our trip until the day of our departure. Specifically, we waited until a few hours before our bus left to purchase any last minute items. Nothing important, just… you know… coats and stuff.

In March, the biggest challenge was predicting the range of climate extremes that I might face throughout the year, and trying to be prepared for every situation. This time, we knew exactly what type of weather we would be facing: cold. We were on a fool’s errand to head to Antarctica in the dead of winter. We would be facing the elements – mountains, wind, snow, and possibly elephant seals. No, we knew what we were up against. The challenge here was figuring out the most efficient way to pack bulky winter clothes in order to meet the dual goals of offsetting crippling hypothermia while also keeping everything under one backpack. Having spent the last 6 winters in Austin, the most extreme cold I had to deal with were the trips between my car and indoor central heating. As such, I have always been a big proponent of wearing several thin, removable layers, as opposed to one or two genuinely warm ones. It was my hope that this system wouldn’t fail me now.

Keeping in mind that Argentina isn’t necessarily renowned for its high-quality textile industry (every item of clothing I have purchased in this country has unraveled, faded, torn or otherwise failed me. In fact, I had to devote a day in Uruguay to sewing and mending a pile of clothing so high that it could have inspired an animated Disney princess song), and that buying actual Northface or Patagonia wintergear would literally cost me a month’s rent, I had to be strategic in selecting my clothing. I adopted a formulaic template for layers which I followed throughout the duration of the trip: a thin tank top, a thin long-sleeved undershirt, a top t-shirt, [optional additional sweater or jacket], and overcoat. The bottom half was even simpler: shorts or leggings under a thicker pair of pants. None of these items were particularly high quality – most of my shirts were purchased at outlet malls and most of the pants were purchased at either Old Navy or Wal-mart (yes, I know, the child labor unions are crying). The Argentine coats and hats were purchased at flea markets, and it was doubtful that they would last beyond the duration of the trip. In fact, it is possible that the most valuable (and probably highest quality) items were the Longhorn memorabilia I brought for the express purpose of photographing myself flashing the horns in exotic locations.

The logic was that a firm foundation of thin, tight-fitting underclothes would provide sufficient insulation to retain heat from the subsequent layers which would otherwise be completely inadequate to provide any actual warmth. It was the theory that the whole would be stronger than the sum of its parts, or some other syllogism which may or may not have any solid grounding in the laws of physics. Either way, I was banking on this strategy to protect me from the severest cold that my poor Texas soul had ever faced. To my relief, it worked out beautifully. On days we spent outdoors, we either had the good fortune of direct sunlight or just made sure to move at a fast enough clip to keep our core temperature elevated.

So now that I have established that a few discount t-shirts actually can brave the cold of Ushuaia, allow me to explain the actual packing process. This method works so easily, you have to make an active, deliberate effort to mess it up. I was lucky in that I had a solid backpack that lent itself to intuitive, no-brainer packing. Pretty much, I packed inside out: burying the most valuable items tightly and deeply, progressively expanding out with more expendable items.

1. Super-secret pocket: This goes back to knowing the anatomy of your luggage. But as with my suitcases, my backpack had an interior zipper that opened up to the skeleton of the pack. I tied the pouch with my passport, money, credit cards, and keys to the internal frame and kept them hidden away for most of the trip. The only way somebody was going to reach them would be to steal the entire backpack, which wasn't going to happen on my watch.
   
   
   
   
2. Main compartments: Again, I packed my clothing in accordance with the Rolling Method. The main difference this time was that instead of dividing them into bundles according to type (ie, a tank top pile, a t-shirt pile, etc), I made sure that each “roll” contained a couple types of each item. In accordance with my “no outfit rule,” I tried to pick articles that were essentially interchangeable. Theoretically, I could randomly peel a couple layers from the pack, throw them on, and walk out the door without looking like a complete hot mess. At most, it would’ve been an endearing level of dorky, semi-fashion forward tackiness.
   
   
   
   
   As a sidenote, I should mention that in matching (or mismatching) my clothing this way, I had stumbled upon a system which ensured a steady stream of clothing that would be recycled for the duration of the trip. In the traditional school of unwashed backpacker thought, you should stick with a single article of clothing and continue wearing it as long as your personal sense of hygiene and dignity will allow you to “rough it” so comfortably. For whatever reason, I decided to defy logic and experiment with changing my clothes on a daily basis like normal. Rather than keeping a stock of valuable fresh clothes and a few truly filthy pieces of clothing, I decided to split the difference and keep a steady supply of lightly worn, possibly slightly dirty, but generally wearable clothing at all times. Admittedly, there was a psychological motive – by constantly rotating out my clothes, I had a hard time keeping track how many times I’d worn each item, probably psyching myself out on how dirty they actually were. This stroke of Ender Wiggins-style backwards brilliance resulted in an almost foolproof method for dressing myself. As an added bonus, by constantly cycling through my clothing, I never had to deal with a bulky laundry bag of dirtied clothes taking up space in my pack.
3. Fill in the blanks:After rolling up the primary pieces of clothing, I indiscriminately filled up the empty spaces with amorphous, squishable items (socks, bras, paperback novels, etc). If possible, you want to create a snug fit to keep things from moving around, but loosely enough that things can be shuffled around if you need to add to your pack. You never want it to be so full that you’re forced to stuff, since that almost always guarantees that something will be lost or misplaced.
   
   
   
4. Outside pockets (side, front):Pretty much, these compartments were filled with trivial little items that I had no qualms parting with: toiletries, pens, postcards, dirty underwear. Although, I had no intention of leaving my bag unsupervised, if somebody were to sneak into the compartments, the insecure outside pockets would make for the easiest access. Really, coupling my level of robbery paranoia with a seemingly contradictory tendency to lose and spill things, it was just as probable that these things would have fallen out of pure carelessness, which is another reason I didn’t keep anything irreplaceable on the outside.

The end result: After just a couple days of traveling, I had nailed down the system of rolling and stuffing that I could unload and re-pack the entire thing in 5 minutes, including the souvenirs that accumulated along the way. Aside from occasionally having to handwash my panties at night, I only had to do one load of laundry in the entire 4 weeks. And besides an occasional sniffly nose from being outdoors for extended periods, I managed to make it through the whole trip with my immune system intact. To pull a Colbert, I think I can declare my mission to backpack to the end of the world a “capital V” Victory. Tierra del Fuego: owned.

The Andes: So Much More than a Chocolatey Mint Thin

It´s a popular urban legend that Eskimos have a ridiculous number of words for snow. I am pretty sure that this myth was debunked in my Intro to Linguistics class, but the general idea is that cultures craft their language around what is important to them. Living in Texas, I never had a pressing need to develop a nuanced snow vocabulary. I have, however, attached certain connotations and feelings with it. For example, I have always been infatuated with kitschy snowmen and penguins during the wintertime - the campier and higher the likelihood that it makes it onto an ugly sweater the better. These guys remind me of Christmas, which is my favorite time of the year.

Another image that appears in my mind´s eye is that of a picturesque alpine lodge nestled in the mountains. I see a European style villa where you can curl up by the fireplace on a cozy bear rug sipping a mug of hot chocolate after a day of skiing. Resort towns like Aspen, Switzerland, and even Bariloche elicit an element of luxury and bourgeois privilege.

Finally, less often, I visualize a scene of kids riding a makeshift sled or skating on a frozen pond. Usually these pictures of childhood innocence are faded and grainy, in the style of a Norman Rockwell painting or Charlie Brown.

These are my sort of happy place idyllic connections with snow. I turn to them because they are comforting and pleasant. The reality, though, is that there is an entirely different side which I recently experienced firsthand in Patagonia. It started on a busride from Bariloche to the little hidden town of El Bolson, where we wanted to spend a few hours before taking an overnight bus to our next destination. To maximize our time in El Bolson, we left Bariloche on an early bus.

We were ready. The bags were packed and the clothes laid out the night before. After whipping up a quick breakfast and downing a morning tea, we were loaded onto the bus before 8AM. The sky was pitch black, and we were hoping to catch an Argentine sunrise. As we rolled out of the station, there were just three people on the bus, and I wondered whether the company was losing money on the trip. As it turns out, there were a number of smaller stops throughout the city, and we picked up some more commuters along the way. Once we were up to 12 or so, the bus driver turned off the lights and invariably, like obedient little Pavlovian dogs, we fell immediately asleep. As I place it, it was probably around 8:30 at that point. I remember merging onto a highway before drifting off. I woke up at approximately 9:20. Wow. What a difference and hour can make. White. To my complete shock, we were now rumbling through what appeared to be a blizzard in the arctic tundra. We were surrounded by trees and mountains to both sides. Everything was covered in a blanket of stark white, including the sky which had taken upon a nondescript milky, canvas color. No sun, no clouds. It was as if this sheet of white never ended.

Folks, this was not a winter wonderland. This was Mother Nature on steroids, and she was flexing. The forest was rendered unrecognizable underneath a coat of thick snow. Branches protruding from long dead trees were crystallized in ice, forming bizarre glassy sculptures. For miles and miles, there was no trace of life or civilization - no vehicles coming or going, no birds circling, not even the occasional flora to provide a little color. We were staring complete desolation in the face. The monochromatic scene was not quite beautiful, but nevertheless awe-inspiring in a hypnotic, terrifying way.

The snow that was falling outside the windows was not soft and powdery. It did not want you to make paper cutouts of its unique star-shaped snowflakes. It was not here to provide a playground for your winter sports entertainment. This was pellet-shaped, no-nonsense, "I will wreck your shit" snow. Think "Fellowship of the Ring" and the Misty Mountains. If the bus broke down, we would have been as helpless as Merry and Pippin (I´ll let you guys guess which one of us was which). This snow meant business.

For this reason, I sat with baited breath as the driver masterfully wove us through the switchbacks of the Andes. I watched in silence, transfixed, for about 20 minutes or so when all of a sudden, the entire scene just stopped as abruptly as it started. All of a sudden, there was color again: evergreens living up to their name, there were even occasional clumps of bright red berries popping against the shrubbery. It was like a scene from "Pleasantville." The snow was still falling, but not strongly enough to stick. As we exited the mountain pass, the first signs of civilization were these quaint little wooden cabins worthy of a St. Jude Christmas card. Between the smoking chimney, the cake icing-like snow frosting their roofs, and the clothes drying out in the backyard, the scene was downright cute. It would have been easy to be lulled into a false sense of security, but I wasn´t going to be fooled so quickly. After witnessing its capabilities, I knew the snow would turn on us at any given minute.

Sure enough, I started writing this post from the cafe of Esquel bus station, where we got stuck spending the night, hobo style, on the floor. The reason? Snow blocking the roads to Trelew.

Platos Estereo-Tipicos: Top 5 Argentine Regional dishes

It is difficult to quantify Argentine food since so much of it is regional, depending on availability and freshness of ingredients. For example, at home I usually stick to staples like beef and chicken, and occasionally pork on special occasions. While we have been traveling through Patagonia, however, there has been a greater abundance of fish and lamb. There are undeniable Italian, Arabic, and Spanish influences, as demonstrated by the prevalence of pastas, pizzas, and egg dishes. Nevertheless, the food endemic to the Andean Northwest is often credited with being the most "authentic" regional cuisine that can be attributed to the Prehispanic civilizations as demonstrated by their indigenous names. Indeed, some of our visiting Fulbrighters have confessed that they have never tried some of these dishes. As luck would have it, Tucumán is smack dab in the nexus of it all, giving me the false sense of authority to pick what I feel are the 5 stereotypical plates.

5. Minutas: This item really is really more of a category than an actual dish, but it was a convenient catch-all for several variations of what I consider the same thing. Literally "minute dishes," they essentially occupy the place between fast food and "special of the day" at a casual dining restaurant. Most restaurant keep minutas on the menu for people who want something cheap, hearty, and difficult to mess-up. A rough equivalent might be the "burgers and sandwiches" section you would find at a restaurant comparable to Chili´s or Friday´s. The three basic meat options are lomo (steak), milanesa (a thin, breaded piece of beef), and a suprema (a thin, breaded piece of chicken). These meats can be eaten in sandwich form (more common in street vendors) or as an entree. Naturally, the most common sides are fries or mashed potatoes. If you´re feeling fancy, these dishes can be embellished with a few different sauces: Portuguesa (chunky tomato), Napolitana (marinara and mozzarella), or Suiza (ironically a slab of cheese that is rarely Swiss). If you don´t care about your blood pressure, you can layer it with "the works": ham, cheese, and a fried egg, which is inexplicably named the Mexican.
   
4. Tamale: Although the geographically disinclined tend to make the sweeping generalization that all food south of the Rio Grande is "Mexican," I will concede that the tamale is pretty similar in appearance and taste. It involves cornmeal and shredded meat boiled in a dried corn husk called a chala. Although the dish is fairly common, it does not seem to possess the same ritual and significance as in Mexico.
   
   


3. Humita: On the outside it resembles a tamale, but the inside is a creamy filling of sweet corn (choclo), onion, and usually goat cheese. I get the impression that humitas are much more popular than tamales, especially as comfort food or special occasions. A particularly rich variation is humita en olla (in a pot). Rather than wrapping it in a corn husk to be eaten as a dish, the filling itself is spooned out as a hearty, stick-to-your-ribs soup.
   
   

   

   Humita unwrapped



2. Locro:I tasted locro for the first time in Cafayate, when we had just started our culinary adventures. The notes of my journal read "a big bowl of love." Pretty much, it is a meat stew with a choclo base. The meat can be any combination of beef, chicken, goat, sausage, tripe, and whatever other leftovers the chef decides to throw in the pot. Nationwide, it is traditional to eat it on special holidays such as 25 de Mayo or 9 de Julio, and each region, indeed each household, prepares locro a little differently. Most versions that I´ve tried have included vegetables such as canneloni beans or squash to give the stew a thicker, chunkier consistency. Any other identifying ingredients end there, and I would probably rather not know them, since I suspect that locro also functions as a convenient dumping ground for getting rid of leftover meat. All I know is that there is nothing better on a cold day than a steaming bowl of locro and a basket of bread.
   
   


1. Empanadas: They are the epitome of street food, but they are so prevalent that even high-end restaurants serve some version of them on their menu. Eat them as a snack, appetizer, or stuff yourself silly for a satisfying meal. Reheat them in the morning to nurse a hangover. Buy them to go, and eat them on your walk to work. You would be hard-pressed to find a more versatile food. In fact, it might rival pizza for the best food to accompany beer and a day of football (both versions).
   
   These dumplings come in a variety of shapes, sizes, doughs, and a wide array of fillings. The most popular savory flavors are meat, chicken, cheese, and ham and cheese. Some of the more original ones I have tried include caprese, lamb, tuna, and a weird fake cordon bleu. Within these subcategories, I have devised my own criteria for evaluating their qualities, which I will reveal when I finally complete the Ruta.
   
   

*Author´s Note*

A big hola from chilly Patagonia!

I had a free moment on a computer with reasonably reliable internet access, so I wanted to take a moment to preface some of the upcoming posts. I am currently traveling without my laptop, and therefore without access to some of the reference materials, pictures, and videos that I wanted to include in certain posts. For this reason, I have made the executive decision to break Rule #3 of Blogger 101. Rather than posting a chronological account of my activities, I am just going to focus on submitting whatever I have ready to go. I thought long and hard about this flagrant foul, but ultimately, I decided that it did not betray my intentions for this site. After all, this blog is not meant to be Sophia's personal travel diary (I have my own anyway), but rather an homage to all the memorable people, places, and experiences that for whatever reason, I thought would be of some interest to you guys. Iguazu Falls will still be amazing, majestic, and intense whether I post it in July or October. They are meant to be read as discrete tales, like a poor man´s Hopscotch.

Without a computer, the posting may come erratically, but rest assured that the material is there. Regular 12 hour bus rides have provided a great opportunity for uninterrupted writing. The likeliest scenario is that I will come back to Tucumán with a legal pad full of drafts that need to be typed up, and then you can expect a flurry of virtual activity come August or September. Until then, please feel free to write with any comments, questions, complaints, requests, or as my students like to say, "doubts."

Hasta pronto!