This is the house pet. Named April/Abril in Spanish. Anni's dog, found on the street as a stray (one of many - I'd be interested to know the dog population of Ushuaia) - and taken in.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Part II 1/2: Abril/April
This is the house pet. Named April/Abril in Spanish. Anni's dog, found on the street as a stray (one of many - I'd be interested to know the dog population of Ushuaia) - and taken in.
Part II: Lag Esmeralda y el asado numero tres
Lagoon Esmeralda - Yesterday I went with the President of Rotoract (the young professionals/twenty-somethings arm of Rotary) and his friend and his friend's friends to a lagoon outside of Ushuaia. Gorgeous. The pictures below are from the trip. Departed at 7:30am from my house, drove 15 minutes or so outside of Ushuaia (on Route 3 if anyone is perusing a map right now), pulled over on the side of the road by a small wooden sign reading, "Lag Esmeralda", and dove into the woods. Not literally. That would hurt. It was forest, then marshland (like the peat bogs in northern Minnesota), then the lagoon - opaque aqua because of the chalky rocks (limestone?), then glacial spitup, then mountain, then glacier - the view - and back.
Returned in the afternoon after approx. 5 hours of walking and climbing and mucking through the mud. Our trekking party included zero other English speakers. All Spanish, all the time. Not only was my body exhausted but my mind as well. Both needed a little break. Nap time. As a side note: I love naps.
3 hour nap. No problem. Get up, shower, walk with my roommate (also from the US - Boston) to fetch the other student in the school (US - Washington DC) who is currently living with a Argentine family closer to the city center. We return later for the asado. (The grand evening of grilling.) It was "scheduled" for 8 or 9pm. We eat at 11pm. Things operate on a different schedule here. Again, per usual, it was meat. Chorizo (sausage), morcilla (blood sausage - black pudding in England), vaca (beef), cordero (lamb). Only four types of meat this time. Thankfully, Sergio, house papa and chef, also grilled eggplant. ¡Que rico! Food was great. The house, the yard, our clothes, everything smelled like asado. Actually, during the evening, on the weekend, if the weather is anything close to clear, the whole city smells of grill, of cut up grass-fed cow sizzling on the grates, over the charcoals, mouths water and it mixes with the red wine.
The company at our asados is always entertaining. This time, Anni, the daughter of Olga - The Olga who used to live here, who was supposed to be my family here, who is now hanging out in Buenos Aires - an endless spring of Argentine energy, and Anni's friends, a couple in their 40s, friendly/crazy/spirited - in other words, the norm - have joined. That makes seven in total. The spread includes: rice, potatoes, salad (always lettuce and tomatoes, sometimes with olive oil and vinegar), bread, wine and the meat. Talking, laughing, eating, enjoying.
Returned in the afternoon after approx. 5 hours of walking and climbing and mucking through the mud. Our trekking party included zero other English speakers. All Spanish, all the time. Not only was my body exhausted but my mind as well. Both needed a little break. Nap time. As a side note: I love naps.
3 hour nap. No problem. Get up, shower, walk with my roommate (also from the US - Boston) to fetch the other student in the school (US - Washington DC) who is currently living with a Argentine family closer to the city center. We return later for the asado. (The grand evening of grilling.) It was "scheduled" for 8 or 9pm. We eat at 11pm. Things operate on a different schedule here. Again, per usual, it was meat. Chorizo (sausage), morcilla (blood sausage - black pudding in England), vaca (beef), cordero (lamb). Only four types of meat this time. Thankfully, Sergio, house papa and chef, also grilled eggplant. ¡Que rico! Food was great. The house, the yard, our clothes, everything smelled like asado. Actually, during the evening, on the weekend, if the weather is anything close to clear, the whole city smells of grill, of cut up grass-fed cow sizzling on the grates, over the charcoals, mouths water and it mixes with the red wine.
The company at our asados is always entertaining. This time, Anni, the daughter of Olga - The Olga who used to live here, who was supposed to be my family here, who is now hanging out in Buenos Aires - an endless spring of Argentine energy, and Anni's friends, a couple in their 40s, friendly/crazy/spirited - in other words, the norm - have joined. That makes seven in total. The spread includes: rice, potatoes, salad (always lettuce and tomatoes, sometimes with olive oil and vinegar), bread, wine and the meat. Talking, laughing, eating, enjoying.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Part I: Mi Vida en Ushuaia
Well hello there. Before I recount anything about my time in Ushuaia, let me tell you a little bit about my time getting to Ushuaia. This is not a typical blog entry. It is long and it borders on a rant, but once I started writing, I thought it would be a waste to just erase it. I promise I'll write something nicer later.
Grand Forks to Minneapolis. Just fine. No problems. Smooth sailing.
Minneapolis to Chicago (O'Hare). Minor delay due to the weather in Chicago. Arrive in Chicago. enough time between flights to allow for a leisurely transfer.
While in Chicago - additional delay of unknown period of time due to weather - please stay on the plane just in case the delay is lifted. two hours. two and a half hours. cup of coffee from starbucks. the last for three months perhaps?
time to fly. great. ready to go. on our way. everyone in the plane. super.
just joking. we're not really ready to fly. another half hour.
finally, Chicago to Atlanta. only one flight a day to Buenos Aires and it's long gone.
so there I am. in Atlanta. on my way to a random hotel recommended by the phone line for stranded passengers, offering a "discount". I was pretty pumped that I had packed a change of clothing and everything I would possibly need for an overnight stay. had to be excited about something at that point.
next day, airport. atlanta to buenos aires. ready to go. on the plane.
can you guess what happens next? can you?
delay.
lights on the plane go out. something is wrong with the electrical equipment, we need a crew to take a look at it. forty-five minutes. lights back on. slightly less worried about plane crashing in transcontinental flight due to faulty electronics. deep breath. next up on the tarmac.
and what happens? yeah. at this point, it's just becoming laughable.
delay. something on the runway. garbage? dead cat? they have to remove it. it takes them 1/2 hour. we wait. again. at least we have lights. upside. always an upside.
finally. I am in the air on the way to buenos aires for the big adventure. uneventful flight. my favorite kind. even had my own row. wonderful.
next, land in buenos aires. it is hot. we made up time on the way over, so am not extremely concerned about getting to the next leg of my flight on time. until I realize I need to collect my bags and go through customs. after I was told on the plane that I did not need to fill out a customs card or recheck my bag.
freaking out going through customs. where do I go for my next flight? I understand, "the other airport".
what? the other airport? I attempt again, this time asking an attendant near the baggage claim area, in spanish. he looks at my ticket and starts explaining in spanish. obviously, we're in argentina. it is the same airport. different terminal. my bag is one of the last. literally. there are two other people standing there waiting. and me. I have approximately ten minutes until my flight leaves. forget about the gate time.
I am run-walking, with my backpack, labtop bag, and huge suitcase. sweating. i repeat. it is hot. to the other terminal. down the block, around the corner. there it is. I get in line. I wait. finally, I am told the flight is closed. the others are full.
I am laughing. I think the guy at the ticket counter thinks I am crazy. really, full? I was hoping you'd say that.
he tells me to go to a booth down the hall and around the corner. I do. to the wrong booth. farther down the hall. right one this time. go back to the ticket counter, they tell me. I do. this time, I talk, in English, to a sympathetic ear. he's typing madly. come back in fifteen minutes. no problem. what else do I have to do? I go to the bathroom. wash the flight off my face. attempt to make a phone call. twelve minutes. I return, wait patiently, ten more minutes. he flags me over. we can get you on a flight. do you want the one in twenty minutes or 1 1/2 hours? 1 1/2 hours, thank you so much for helping me. big smile, big eyes.
I buy a phone card. I make two calls. both in spanish. the first - wrong number. I hang up. I feel dismayed. my spanish is horrible. the second - my host in ushuaia from rotary. he is exceedingly patient. I realize later, the first was indeed the right number. I wonder if I've ever spoken/read/heard spanish in my life.
I return to the other terminal. I get in line. I go through "security". I wait. I make another phone call in spanish. I get in line. on the plane. seated next to a german-argentine combo couple. the woman is pleasant. I detect no disdain when I tell her my country of origin.
the snack on the plane is typical argentina fare. basically a sandwich, white bread, toasted lightly, with the crust cut off. some sort of meat, and cheese. can't remember the spanish name for it. a few hours pass. and I am starting to grow worried because our flight seems late. then later still. forty minutes late? I am worried because I have called/emailed Juan Carlos (my Rotarian host) five times in the last 24 hours with schedule changes. we land. I pile my bags on my person and desperately scan the waiting area for someone I imagine would be a Juan Carlos. someone with a sign. I am certain he has come and gone. I look for a phone. there is a sign for a telephone. but there is no phone. that's a good one. hehee. I ask three people. two point me in the direction of the sign. the third, a lady cleaning, leads me down the hall, around the corner. there are two phones. I am about to call. I am preparing my apology with the strongest words I can think of to apologize in Spanish.
someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around.
"Tessa?"
"¡Si!"
Juan Carlos.
I ask him if he was waiting long.
No, he just arrived, but you have been waiting?
No, no, I am so sorry, the plane was late, I thought you'd be waiting.
Me, no. You arrived, fifteen minutes ago?
Yes, but -- Ahh, the time difference. I forgot about the time difference. One hour between Ushuaia and Buenos Aires.
I am in Ushuaia. It is incredible. Mountains. Blue sky. I take a deep breath. Crisp, fresh Ushuaia air. I am here. I have my bags. I have a ride. So incredible. So incredibly happy. So it begins.
------------
A few photos for starters - of my home:
Grand Forks to Minneapolis. Just fine. No problems. Smooth sailing.
Minneapolis to Chicago (O'Hare). Minor delay due to the weather in Chicago. Arrive in Chicago. enough time between flights to allow for a leisurely transfer.
While in Chicago - additional delay of unknown period of time due to weather - please stay on the plane just in case the delay is lifted. two hours. two and a half hours. cup of coffee from starbucks. the last for three months perhaps?
time to fly. great. ready to go. on our way. everyone in the plane. super.
just joking. we're not really ready to fly. another half hour.
finally, Chicago to Atlanta. only one flight a day to Buenos Aires and it's long gone.
so there I am. in Atlanta. on my way to a random hotel recommended by the phone line for stranded passengers, offering a "discount". I was pretty pumped that I had packed a change of clothing and everything I would possibly need for an overnight stay. had to be excited about something at that point.
next day, airport. atlanta to buenos aires. ready to go. on the plane.
can you guess what happens next? can you?
delay.
lights on the plane go out. something is wrong with the electrical equipment, we need a crew to take a look at it. forty-five minutes. lights back on. slightly less worried about plane crashing in transcontinental flight due to faulty electronics. deep breath. next up on the tarmac.
and what happens? yeah. at this point, it's just becoming laughable.
delay. something on the runway. garbage? dead cat? they have to remove it. it takes them 1/2 hour. we wait. again. at least we have lights. upside. always an upside.
finally. I am in the air on the way to buenos aires for the big adventure. uneventful flight. my favorite kind. even had my own row. wonderful.
next, land in buenos aires. it is hot. we made up time on the way over, so am not extremely concerned about getting to the next leg of my flight on time. until I realize I need to collect my bags and go through customs. after I was told on the plane that I did not need to fill out a customs card or recheck my bag.
freaking out going through customs. where do I go for my next flight? I understand, "the other airport".
what? the other airport? I attempt again, this time asking an attendant near the baggage claim area, in spanish. he looks at my ticket and starts explaining in spanish. obviously, we're in argentina. it is the same airport. different terminal. my bag is one of the last. literally. there are two other people standing there waiting. and me. I have approximately ten minutes until my flight leaves. forget about the gate time.
I am run-walking, with my backpack, labtop bag, and huge suitcase. sweating. i repeat. it is hot. to the other terminal. down the block, around the corner. there it is. I get in line. I wait. finally, I am told the flight is closed. the others are full.
I am laughing. I think the guy at the ticket counter thinks I am crazy. really, full? I was hoping you'd say that.
he tells me to go to a booth down the hall and around the corner. I do. to the wrong booth. farther down the hall. right one this time. go back to the ticket counter, they tell me. I do. this time, I talk, in English, to a sympathetic ear. he's typing madly. come back in fifteen minutes. no problem. what else do I have to do? I go to the bathroom. wash the flight off my face. attempt to make a phone call. twelve minutes. I return, wait patiently, ten more minutes. he flags me over. we can get you on a flight. do you want the one in twenty minutes or 1 1/2 hours? 1 1/2 hours, thank you so much for helping me. big smile, big eyes.
I buy a phone card. I make two calls. both in spanish. the first - wrong number. I hang up. I feel dismayed. my spanish is horrible. the second - my host in ushuaia from rotary. he is exceedingly patient. I realize later, the first was indeed the right number. I wonder if I've ever spoken/read/heard spanish in my life.
I return to the other terminal. I get in line. I go through "security". I wait. I make another phone call in spanish. I get in line. on the plane. seated next to a german-argentine combo couple. the woman is pleasant. I detect no disdain when I tell her my country of origin.
the snack on the plane is typical argentina fare. basically a sandwich, white bread, toasted lightly, with the crust cut off. some sort of meat, and cheese. can't remember the spanish name for it. a few hours pass. and I am starting to grow worried because our flight seems late. then later still. forty minutes late? I am worried because I have called/emailed Juan Carlos (my Rotarian host) five times in the last 24 hours with schedule changes. we land. I pile my bags on my person and desperately scan the waiting area for someone I imagine would be a Juan Carlos. someone with a sign. I am certain he has come and gone. I look for a phone. there is a sign for a telephone. but there is no phone. that's a good one. hehee. I ask three people. two point me in the direction of the sign. the third, a lady cleaning, leads me down the hall, around the corner. there are two phones. I am about to call. I am preparing my apology with the strongest words I can think of to apologize in Spanish.
someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around.
"Tessa?"
"¡Si!"
Juan Carlos.
I ask him if he was waiting long.
No, he just arrived, but you have been waiting?
No, no, I am so sorry, the plane was late, I thought you'd be waiting.
Me, no. You arrived, fifteen minutes ago?
Yes, but -- Ahh, the time difference. I forgot about the time difference. One hour between Ushuaia and Buenos Aires.
I am in Ushuaia. It is incredible. Mountains. Blue sky. I take a deep breath. Crisp, fresh Ushuaia air. I am here. I have my bags. I have a ride. So incredible. So incredibly happy. So it begins.
------------
A few photos for starters - of my home:
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
...the highlands
It was certainly bound to happen. After all, I have been in Europe for almost six months.
It was mostly a weekend affair, but alas...I have fallen in love.
With Scotland. The highlands - to be specific. More details to come - but, quickly - from an internet cafe - I have just returned from a three-day bus trip in the highlands of Scotland (to the Isle of Skye if anyone wants to reference the map). Our tour guide was an entertaining, crazy, hippy man with a Scottish accent (of course - he is from Scotland), wearing a kilt. He happened to be an incredible storyteller with a wealth of knowledge about Scotland's history - of battles between the MacLeod's and MacDonald's - of William Wallace - of Rob Roy - of druids and paganism and those ruinious empire builders, the Brits...
Here are a few pictures of the highlands with more to come
The very last is Loch Ness. Sorry dad, but no sign of Nessie.
It was mostly a weekend affair, but alas...I have fallen in love.
With Scotland. The highlands - to be specific. More details to come - but, quickly - from an internet cafe - I have just returned from a three-day bus trip in the highlands of Scotland (to the Isle of Skye if anyone wants to reference the map). Our tour guide was an entertaining, crazy, hippy man with a Scottish accent (of course - he is from Scotland), wearing a kilt. He happened to be an incredible storyteller with a wealth of knowledge about Scotland's history - of battles between the MacLeod's and MacDonald's - of William Wallace - of Rob Roy - of druids and paganism and those ruinious empire builders, the Brits...
Here are a few pictures of the highlands with more to come
The very last is Loch Ness. Sorry dad, but no sign of Nessie.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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