Hello there! 

I know, it’s been a while since my last post. Between being busy with work and interviews, the chaos of travel, and the rapidly approaching end of my trip, I’ve found it difficult to sit down and write a long blog entry. But I would be remiss if I didn’t get to tell you about my second stop in Argentina.

Patagonia was everything I hoped it would be, and more. Upon arriving at the Esquel airport, which is a one-room wooden building with probably five total employees, I was immediately confronted with some of the logistical troubles I knew I might find in a more remote area. There is no Uber, for example, and I almost got stuck in the airport because I didn’t have enough cash for a taxi. The town I was staying in, Trevelin, is about 45 minutes from the airport, and as small as Esquel may have seemed as I drove through, Trevelin is even smaller. It consists of one long road lined with supermarkets and the occasional restaurants, one roundabout, a school, a soccer field, and a tennis court. And that’s pretty much it. The houses are dramatically framed by the cragged peaks of the Andes no matter which direction you look; it’s so close to Chile you can probably see the border, which runs through the mountain range. Trevelin is known for its beautiful setting, of course, its distinct Welsh history (pretty rare in Latin America), and its stunning tulip fields that bloom every October. In August, however, it’s bitingly cold — it snowed the morning my plane landed — and quiet. I was probably the only tourist the week I was there, and definitely the only foreigner. For me, it was perfect. 

The view of the Andes from just outside Trevelin.

You might be able to tell from some of my last blog posts, but I have been craving time away from a fast-paced city for some a while now. I’ll admit, it isn’t always easy to get around without the infrastructure of public transportation. And almost nothing has information online — if you want to know how to get around, you have to ask. During my first few days, I felt a little stuck. But spending time in a small town where you speak the language lends the wonderful gift of building relationships with strangers: my taxi driver, the cashier at the grocery store, the waitress at the Welsh tea shop, the mother and daughter who run the travel agency. By the time I left, I was actually waving to people on the street and chatting with acquaintances on the bus. All these generous strangers helped me find my way around and gave me the confidence to approach these logistical challenges with curiosity and grace.

The view of Cerro Calfu Mahuida from the hills above Esquel.

My first excursion out of Trevelin happened almost by accident. I was trying to catch the bus to the nearby Los Alerces National Park, which suffered wildfires earlier this year, but slept in and missed it (in my defense, the bus left at 6:45 AM). Slightly deflated, I decided to take the bus to Esquel instead and figure out my day as I went. As I looked out my window at the mountains towering in the distance, I was inspired to open AllTrails on my phone and found that some beautiful hikes started not too far from town. I hiked almost 17 miles — from the bus station, up the hill to Laguna La Zeta, and back through the parks of Esquel to Laguna Willmanco. I truly don’t have words to describe how awe-inspiring the views were. Since I hadn’t expected to be hiking at all that day, I had worn boots (not my walking shoes) and my last clean pair of pants, which happened to be the slacks I usually reserve for formal interviews. However, the scenery made me pulse with adrenaline to the point that my feet didn’t even ache until I got home that night. Stunning mountains, lakes as clear as mirrors, and green-blue-grey shrubs that remind me of the textured greenery of Northern California. I’m including some pictures here, but trust me, they don’t do it justice. 

Laguna La Zeta. Look at those clouds!

Another view of Calfu Mahuida, this time from Laguna Willmanco.

The next day, I actually did make it to Los Alerces. Part of my dilemma was how best to see and learn more about the park: while there is a bus, it runs only twice a week and will only take you to one stop, and renting a taxi for the day is very expensive. I ultimately decided to take part in a group tour. Not only did it allow me to see much more of Los Alerces and learn about its history, but I was able to talk with the other Argentinians on the tour about how wildfires impact their lives. I might have been the youngest of our group by at least 40 years, but it was a joy to hike, drive, and test my Spanish nature/science vocabulary throughout the 8-hour journey through the park. We saw wild flamingos, glaciers, ancient cave paintings, waterfalls, and an emerald-green lake.

The views driving into Los Alerces NP (flamingos are hiding, but there, I promise).

Even better, my guide gave me tips on how to catch the bus the next morning to explore Cerro El Dedal, the highest peak you can climb during the winter. It’s about 7 miles round trip with over 3000ft of elevation in the first 3 miles, but oh boy, the views of the park in the morning light made it far worth the effort. My only regret was not bringing snow shoes: above the tree line, I had to dig my sneakers into the snow to make my way up the peak!

On the way up El Dedal….

…and near the summit! This panorama made my soggy shoes worth it.

I will be forever grateful for the peace this beautiful little town gave me. Not only did it surpass my already high expectations for Patagonia’s scenery, but it grew my travel confidence and helped me prove to myself that I’m more than capable of getting myself from point A to point B. These lessons have already been invaluable in Brazil, a similarly untouristy city where I don’t speak the language at all. Seeing all the natural beauty — including the miles of burnt trees — was a powerful reminder of my admiration for the people and places threatened by climate disaster. It was the ultimate adventure, and I loved every minute of it. 

Calfu Mahuida again. Can you tell I was a fan of this mountain?

Thank you, Trevelin!

Saludos desde Buenos Aires!

I have to admit, arriving in my second-to-last country was pretty surreal. After one of my longest travel day(s), I was so relieved to arrive safely in Argentina that I could barely process how close I was to the end of this journey. As excited as I have been over the last few months, I’ve been anxious, too: worried that I’ll lose my bag, miss my flight, or otherwise shoot myself in the foot and somehow ruin this trip. The trek across the Atlantic was one I had been extra apprehensive about. Completing this milestone felt like a weight lifted from my shoulders; and yet, settling into my apartment in Argentina still felt bittersweet. I’m trying to keep living in the moment — no use mourning something before it’s gone! And this city has given me many ways to make the most of my time here. 

Although I did not study abroad in college, the program I most seriously considered was based in Buenos Aires. I remember deciding against it in part because I didn’t think I would like this city that much — I could not have been more wrong. The first thing I noticed was how quiet it is, so quiet you can hear people talking from the other side of the street. Maybe it’s the season, but sometimes the streets feel almost jarringly empty. I have to admit, I liked it — it’s nice to be in a city without the chaotic hustle that usually accompanies one. The other observation that surprised me is how closely the architecture resembles a traditional European city: cream-colored buildings with dark accented balconies, decorative domed roofs, curved windows that felt straight out of an Art Nouveau poster. The neighborhood I am staying in, Recoleta, is particularly Parisian in character, a stylistic choice punctuated by the traditional French cemetery at its center. I spent my first day exploring the cafes and pastelerías around my apartment. I was overjoyed to find alfajores (one of my favorite cookies) in nearly every cafe and made a game of trying as many as I can before I leave Argentina. I also discovered that Argentinians have managed to one-up the French with medialunas, a pastry that resembles a croissant but with more brioche-like dough — this may be a hot take, but I couldn’t get enough of them! That afternoon, I wandered around the famous cemetery and the artist market outside, where I chatted with vendors while grabbing gifts for my family. I was a bit worried my language abilities would fail me, but it’s actually been a relief to speak in Spanish, even if I know I’m occasionally fumbling my words. I already regret not being able to stay longer in a Spanish-speaking country to keep working on my language skills. A goal for the future, I hope!

The Cementerio de la Recoleta gave me some serious déjà vu for the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France.

Choripan in San Telmo. Sorry for the blurry picture, I was hungry!

On Sunday, I made my way across town to San Telmo, another neighborhood known for its weekend market and food hall. This market was several blocks long; vendor tents were broken up by tango dancers and street musicians at nearly every other. After a long morning of walking, getting a little lost on the subway, and buying some last-minute gifts, I stopped for an Argentinian street food classic: choripan! The juicy, crave-able grilled sausage is cut in half and served over French bread with a drizzle of chimichurri. Just as with Portugal, Argentinian food is rich and meat-heavy. And, like the architecture, it’s hard not to see European influences: the fan-favorite milanesa napolitana, for example, is like a chicken parm with beef. Most popular asado toppings scream French or German to me, and you can’t walk three blocks without coming across a pizza restaurant. However, I found that choripan, empanadas and the rest of the street food here have been some of my favorite meals of the trip. I’ve also been enjoying yerba mate, a bitter, highly caffeinated tea sipped leisurely from a calabash gourd and bombilla straw. On the weekends, you can see locals walking around with mate in one hand and huge Stanley mugs of hot water to refill their cups. I’ll admit, it’s an acquired taste, but the ritual of filling your calabash with loose leaves, digging a hole for the water, and carefully mixing in more tea to strengthen your drink is incredibly calming. On my walk home that afternoon, I stumbled upon a band playing “Chan Chan” by the Buena Vista Social Club (a favorite of mine); onlookers danced and sang along in the street. It was genuinely one of the best pieces of live music I’ve seen in a long time, and to me, dancing so freely with strangers is one of the purest forms of human joy. It almost brought me to tears.

After an interview and working on Monday, I decided to do a free walking tour of the famous Avenida de Mayo on Tuesday. This road runs between the main Congress building, which looks eerily like the one in D.C., to the president’s offices in the Casa Rosada (yes, like the White House, but pink). The guide was incredibly knowledgeable about the street’s famous architecture, tango bars, and political history. The walk culminated at the Plaza de Mayo, which was chock-full of important sites: across from the Casa Rosada is El Cabildo, the birthplace of the Argentinian independence movement, and the plaza itself is dotted with small paintings of white headscarves, a tribute to the Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo. During the military dictatorship that plagued this country in the 1970s-80s, tens of thousands of people were “disappeared” due to supposedly-revolutionary political activity. Most of the disappeared were students in their 20s or 30s. Las Madres protested for the safe return of their children, even though it was strictly illegal during the dictatorship, and still come to the plaza every Thursday to demand justice for their loved ones.

 According to my tour guide, the Casa Rosada was originally painted pink by mixing white paint with pig’s blood! Don’t worry, she assured us it’s just paint nowadays.

On Wednesday, I decided to continue my learning experiences from the day before with a museum day. My first stop was the Buenos Aires Museum of Latin American Art, or MALBA for short. It was smaller than I was expecting, but I had the chance to see a Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera exhibit and some famous pieces of contemporary Brazilian art. Learning about the Manifesto Antropófago and Brazilian modernist movement, especially their connection to indigeneity, was an exciting sneak peek at my next destination. I then took the bus to ESMA, an old military school transformed into a series of museums and memorials about the military dictatorship (or Dirty War). One lesson I’ve learned from traveling around the world is how little my past education has taught me about world history — I almost always have to search the internet for more context about how recent events have shaped the contemporary cultures I find myself in. But my Spanish classes have given me a surprisingly holistic understanding of the Dirty War. I remember a Northwestern professor describing the kidnappings of students from their classrooms, “just like the classroom we’re standing in,” because of their political activism. However, learning about such horrific acts of violence is infinitely more memorable when you visit the sites where they took place. As you might imagine, the “disappeared” prisoners were tortured for information about their peers and subsequently killed in ways that ensured their bodies could never be found. At ESMA, you walk through the halls where prisoners slept, were tortured, and were ultimately led to their deaths. The hardest document to read was a letter from a young pregnant woman, kept alive just long enough to give birth to her baby. As with all the young mothers that came through the facility, she was told her mother would raise her child, and wrote her instructions words of comfort; alas, all of the babies born at ESMA were secretly adopted by military officials, and most never found their way back home. Although the campus is home to several different museums, I didn’t have the stomach to visit more than one.

I’ve honestly been surprised by how openly Argentina shares this dark history. Even though these atrocities happened relatively recently, I’ve seen dozens of plaques recognizing the sites of kidnappings around Buenos Aires, and several statues dedicated to “Memoria, Verdad, y Justicia.” It seems as though the trauma of the Dirty War — and therefore, the disavowal of the state that enacted them — has been written into Argentina’s national narrative for some time. I realize that the government has changed wildly since the 1980s, as have state politics and the economy. All of those factors have surely played a role in Argentina’s reckoning with its own history. And yet, I’ve had a hard time grasping how this plays a role in contemporary national identity. It’s something I hope my interviews next week might give me a bit more insight on. 

La Boca! The most colorful street I’ve seen by far.

On Thursday, I took another bus to La Boca, a neighborhood about 40 minutes from Recoleta. La Boca is known for being home to many of the working class (mostly European) immigrants that poured into Argentina in the early 20th century — the dockworkers painted their homes with leftover paint used for fishing boats, giving the area the bright colors it is known for today. It’s also home to La Bombonera, one of the biggest futbol stadiums in the city. I hadn’t realized it, but the Boca Juniors were playing later that evening, and the streets were swarmed with fans buying blue and yellow jerseys. La Boca was by far the most touristy part of Buenos Aires that I visited. The main road was lined with kitschy souvenir shops, tango dancers, and overpriced menus in mostly English — nonetheless, I had to admit the area had a certain amount of charm. As I was walking down El Caminito, the most famous road in the neighborhood, I ran into a group of volunteer firefighters standing beneath a statue honoring the first brigade in the country, founded in La Boca in 1884. One of my favorite parts about Argentina has been the opportunity to strike up informal conversations: they always soothe my curiosity, of course, but often inform my research, too. It was a lucky coincidence to be able to chat with the firefighters about their work in the city and forest fires in other provinces. Most of my interviews will be next week, including with some first responders, so I’m grateful for the chance to compare their experiences! 

From La Reserva, you can see the BA skyline peak above native trees, grasses, swamps, and wildlife.

On Friday, I walked around La Reserva Ecologica, a large park on the banks of the Río de la Plata. And on Saturday, my last day, I did my best to soak up my favorite parts of the city, wandering around Recoleta for one final time. I have to admit, I don’t seem to have the energy for nonstop exploring like I did in Australia and Greece. I’m also trying to conserve energy for Patagonia next week — the destination I’ve probably been looking forward to the most! Nonetheless, I feel incredibly grateful to have seen as many parts of Buenos Aires as I did. The city was surprisingly tranquil and utterly endearing. I’m sad to leave and yet incredibly excited for what’s to come. It’s a feeling I’m getting quite accustomed to. 

Next time you hear from me, I’ll be in a tiny town in the Chubut Province, a little colder and with more stories to tell. ¡Hasta luego!