Central Parque: Buenos Aires' Cheap Alternative.

Buenos Aires has become a hot-spot for tourists in recent years, and it's easy to understand why. Internationally renowned restaurants, shopping, museums, theater, and sports are all part of the fabric that make this South American mega-city a popular destination for any traveler. But in a city of roughly 14 million people, it's easy to get lost in the enormity and sprawl that is modern Buenos Aires.

It's because of this enormity that the casual traveler only gets to see a small-albeit still heavily populated- portion of the actual city. In Buenos Aires, there are always the constants: boutiques and restaurants in Palermo, shopping and discos in Recoleta, cafes and antiques in San Telmo. Few tourists, and even many Porteños get to see the real heart of the city, or as locals call them, "barrios".

Parque Chacabuco is one of Buenos Aires' up and coming barrios that has yet to hit the mainstream radar. Located roughly 6 kilometers north of Plaza de Mayo, in the geographical center of the city, the neighborhood has many of the usual downtown emenities, but at a fraction of the cost. Whether you're just visiting or living here, you can stretch your peso much further than you could in almost any of the aforementioned areas..

The neighborhood's main commercial drag Avenida Asamblea, which runs from Avenida de la Plata to the actual park, is known for its bargain clothing stores, as well as restaurants, bakeries, and other various food markets. To put things in perspective, a woman's blouse will run you about $7-$15 USD, and a kilo of bread costs around $0.80 USD.

While the restaurants here lack the variety of those downtown, you can still find some of the best pizzerias and parillas (grills) in the city. And much like the other stores, at a fraction of the cost. Your average dinner for two usually costs about $15-$25 USD including wine. For lunch, you can grab some empanadas, $0.40 USD, or a Milanesa (fried steak) sandwich, $1.25 USD, at one of the many local "sandwicherias". If you're looking for a healthier alternative, you can easily find many outdoor fruit and vegetable markets, as well as two organic organic food and vitamin stores.

The park itself is rather large by city standards. It's pretty calm during weekdays, but on weekends livens up with practicing local drum groups, soccer matches, block parties, and artisans selling hand-made trinkets and jewelry. The neighborhood is very popular with dog lovers too, so don't be surprised if you see 4 or 5 dogs, both leashed and un-leashed, on every block.

Parque Chacabuco can be reached by Subway via the Avenida de la Plata stop on Linea E, or by one of 15 or so city buses (check your "Guia T"). Taxis from downtown run anywhere between $4-$6 USD, or $12-$18 Argentine Pesos.

10 Things I Hate About...

Buenos Aires. Now don't get me wrong, I love it here. I enjoy living here. I'm enjoying my travels here. However, with any new culture, country, or city, you reach a point of frustration on certain things and just need to vent. Without further adieu, here we go...

10. City Buses. Nothing says comfortable like a 30-year-old cattle car with no shocks, brake dust, and poor ventilation. The routes are confusing, and without many street signs to tell you where you are, it's pretty much a guessing game as to when you should get off. Add 50 people and 90 degree temps, and your lovely trip downtown turns into a gropey steam bath.

9. Siesta. Most people would argue that this is a good thing. Sure, if you think sleeping for 3 hours in the middle of the afternoon is going to pull your country out of 5 year recession, knock yourself out. For the rest of us, it's an inconvenience. Why would you possibly need stores open during, I don't know, normal business hours.

8. Spices. As in, they don't use any on their food. Latin American food has long had the stereotype of being spicy, exotic, and wild. Not here. Meat is spiced with salt. Potatoes are seasoned with mayo, and get this...salt. Hot sauce is almost non-existent, and ketchup is a luxury item. Take England with better cows, and that's the standard Argentine diet.

7. Dogs. There are far too many dogs here. At times it feels like the dog to human ratio is 1:1 . It's not that I hate dogs, I love them. I do, however, hate dog shit covering every street. I hate barking wars between rival factions of stray muts. Or better yet, having those same strays follow you around coughing sickness all over you and staring you down like you're going to be its next meal.

6. Sidewalks. If you walk anywhere outside of downtown Buenos Aires you'd think that there had just been an earthquake. Crooked cobblestones make way for protruding brick and tile, leaving you constantly looking down to avoid falling. Oh, and did I mention the dog shit?

5. The Accent. People in Buenos Aires speak way too fucking fast. They speak an ancient form of Spanish called Catellano, and are basically mocked for that by the rest of the Spanish speaking world. Even a native Spanish speaker would struggle with the nasally rapid-fire dialect they speak down here.

4. Change (money). Many small stores, and some big ones, do not carry change. That's right, no change for bills. ATMs give you 100 peso notes, or if you're lucky a few 50s. Stores won't take these bills unless they're a big corporate chain. The bus sucks up any coin change you may have, and after that, what are you left with? I've actually been told I can't buy a coke ($2.70) with a $5 note because the bill was too big to change. Now that's good for business.

3. Consistency. Inflation's a bitch, I know. Apparently so is maintaining consistent prices, stock, and business hours. Many stores open and close as they please. If they tell you something will be in tomorrow, it could mean next month. Soda is more expensive than beer, and steak is cheaper than red bell peppers. Hmmmmm?

2. Technology. Sure they have modern technology. They have skyscrapers, fancy hotels, wealthy neighborhoods. But generally speaking, most machinery I've encountered either breaks, is in the process of breaking, or looks like it's about to break. We wash our clothes by hand, heat water with a tank and a pilot light that's always off, and the preferred medium for listening to music is the CD player.

1. Arrogance. Argentine people are some of the friendliest people I've ever met. That being said, they have a real problem with thinking that the world begins and ends with their country. Most people I've met here have never left the country, yet they're the first to bash other places. In reality, they're not even the most powerful country in South America (Brazil). Bragging about Argentina as a world power is kind of like saying Nebraska has the world's best sea food. Not only is it not true, but even a 4-year-old could tell you that. I hate to say it, but the women here aren't as hot as they think they are. The steak is on par with the Midwestern US. And unemployment here is hovering around 30%. But hey, the Tango shows are still cool.

The Beautiful Game (Jogo Bonito)

Sundays are for football. Any good American man can tell you that. You eat crappy food, drink shitty beer, annoy your girlfriend, wear your ratty old jersey, and scream mercilessly at the television. If you're lucky (and rich), you can actually go to a game, and do all of the aforementioned activities. For lack of a better phrase, it's the American way.

So what happens when you leave America? No more rowdy Sundays? No more shitty beer and snacks? No more merciless screaming and taunting? No way. If you have a pulse and you live anywhere outside of the United 50, you know that Sundays are still for football, their football. The football where you actually use your feet. Call it what you will; soccer, futbol, fusbol, calcio. It's the world's most popular sport, and a Sunday tradition for millions worldwide.

This Sunday, I went to my first Argentine "futbol" match. Independiente vs. Velez Sarsfield. Both teams are from the greater Buenos Aires area, which fittingly boasts the record of having the most teams, 24, in any single city in the world. Imagine if New York City had 4 teams in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, plus another 8 or so in Manhattan. That's kind of how it would break up. Each team represents a neighborhood, sometimes so close to their rivals that the stadiums are within earshot of each other. In the case of Independiente, they actually play in their rival's (Club Racing) stadium while their stadium undergoes renovations.

I was invited to the game by a friend of a friend, Brenda, who's a die-hard Independiente supporter. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to having ulterior motives for going, but if you saw Brenda you'd understand. Besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday? Watch NFL scores scrolling slowly by on espn.com as I sip a luke-warm coffee and try to decide whether I want rice or pasta for dinner? No thanks. Give me a hot girl, a national past-time, and I've got a reason for leaving the house.

I've learned from living in Europe that the passion for this sport is ravenous. It's hard to compare to any of our popular spectator sports. The passion is just different. Futbol fans have a distinct comradery with each other and the team which is very separate from the love they have for the actual game itself. This is evident long before you even reach the stadium. As soon as you're within walking distance from the stadium you can feel the fans' energy.

Sunday's match was a home game for Independiente, also known as the Red Devils, and the streets were full of red-clad supporters. Many wore red jerseys, red t-shirts, red bandannas, and even the occasional red cape with devil horns. The only people not wearing red were the swarms of riot police who lined the outside of the stadium, some on horseback, patrolling the crowd before the game.

"Put away your money." Brenda said to me as we got closer to the stadium, "Be careful with your camera, and don't draw attention to yourself". These are all fair warnings, and any good gringo can tell you that one can never be too careful when entering a 3rd world sporting event, but I knew I'd be fine. I've been in the depths of the hooligan section for Rome's SS Lazio club as well as a Nine Inch Nails show, so in comparison, this would be a cakewalk.

The game started at 7:30. Typically the fanatics sit in the curved parts of the stadium near the goals. The home supporters occupy one side, the visitors on the other. Opposing fans never sit anywhere near each other, and visiting fans are flanked by police for the entire duration of the game, and then escorted out of the stadium when the game's finished. It's also typical that the home fans must remain in the stadium for 20 minutes after the game has finished so that the opposition has time to leave the neighborhood safely. Unfortunately, fan violence is a huge part of the game, and it's not uncommon to see fights in or around the stadium.

We sat in the upper terrace of the Red Devil's section. Below us was a sea of red, swaying, singing bodies. As soon as the whistle blew for the kick-off the party began. It's hard to pay attention to the actual game when the crowd's so involved. They sing and jump in staggered unison. It's like a loud red wave that continuously smashes the sides of the concrete oval where the game's being played. If you're not used to it, it can be kind of scary. For me it's an incredible rush. The crowd ceases to be a group of individuals, but rather takes the form of one giant entity. You feel compelled to jump and sing even if you don't know the words.

The game itself was actually rather boring. The Argentines play aggressively, which is exciting, but their speed and natural talent is far less than what I'm used to seeing in Italy. Brenda looked disinterested, and explained to me that she's mad at her team for not finishing higher in the standings. I explain to her that I've never been to a match where the home team lost, and minutes later the Red Devil's were down 1-0. So much for my luck.

After a few questionable calls by the referees the crowd got a bit aggressive. The game was nearing its end and the Red Devils hadn't scored yet. You could feel the frustration in the air. Some of the fans began to throw sticks and piss-filled balloons at the opposing players, prompting the riot police to shield them at the corners of the field. To keep the fans from charging, the field is surrounded by a moat, about 6 feet wide and 10 feet deep. The player's side of the moat is lined with barbed wire, and the water is green and covered with debris.

With only a few minutes left in the game the Devils score. Bedlam ensues, and the stadium physically rocks and sways with the pounding of jumping bodies and flare cannons. I'm off the hook, Brenda's happy, and the game ends in a tie. It takes forever to get out of the stadium. Every bus heading back into the city was crammed with screaming, banner-waving supporters. The singing and dancing hadn't stopped, it just spilled onto the streets, and moved into the city's buses and cars.

After parting ways with Brenda I headed home. Football day was over, and this sleepy gringo needed a bite to eat and some rest. Though the game ended in a tie, the outing was ultimately a success. My lucky streak is intact too. I can still brag that I've never been to a losing match.

Uruguay

Pulling away into the Delta it's hard not to think, or better yet, question what I'm doing here. I'd perish the thought that I'm wasting my time, but nevertheless, the thought still lingers.

Blue skies overhead, brown, mucky water. Thinking about a ten hour bus-boat-bus-bus ride is painful. Near the shores I see half-sunken ships, rusty old cargo vessels. They exist as memories of a recent past. Memories that still exist in the present, as seen through the newer ships, docks, and cranes dangling along the shores of the Rio de la Plata Delta.

Just nine more hours. Nine hours, a nap, snacks, music, and a cocktail left to go. We'll be in Punta Del Este soon. It's the pearl of Uruguay. At least that's what everyone says. For me it's an escape. An escape from what, I don't know. I've already escaped to Argentina. Now I'm escaping from Argentina. Either way the prospect of tanned asses, salty steak, and a mid-spring jaunt on the Atlantic entices me.

Meret wants to go even more than I do. She's got less than a week before heading to her new house in LA. I think the concept of change scares and excites her. I think she takes it out on me sometimes. Oh well, what's a man to do? C'est la vie, as they say. We'll have fun while we can.

We arrive in Punta Del Este tired and ancy. The 1949 Hostel is not far from the station, but the baron streets lead me to believe that the city's still in the slow season as far as tourism. Much like Miami, the buildings are new and adventurous architecturally. Almost everything is painted white, some cleaner than others, as to reflect the sun and give the prototypical bright wash of a beach town skyline.

The hostel is not far away. Like most hostels, it's cozy, laid back, and full of mostly English speaking international tourists. The Brazilians are the best. They're probably the closest thing to a local geographically, but in their own right, they're a world apart. I've never met a Brazilian I didn't like, and this trip only reinforced that notion.

The local beaches were sparsely populated by beachgoers. There were no fashion shows (which are typical there), no swarms of hot women, no all-night beach parties. There was tranquility. There was great sun. There were fun and interesting people. At a youth hostel, everyone has a story. Everyone has a goal. Everyone is hungry for their own cultural fix.

The nightlife is adequate for the off-season. After Buenos Aires, I'd almost prefer adequate to out of control. Meret and I quickly bond with our fellow travelers. We eat cheap, we drink cheaper, and we never run out of conversation. It's obvious after 2 days that 3 days won't be enough.

After 3 days neither of us wants to go. Meret's pleading to stay. I have obligations to teach English in Buenos Aires. The return trip looms as painfully as it did coming out here. It's a hard choice but we have to leave.

Leaving was a tough one. We missed our bus in Montevideo and were stranded at the bus terminal for 10 hours. Our multi-transport journey back to Argentina is nothing less than painful. I don't sleep, Meret catches a few winks, and I can't help contemplating what I had on the way down there. Why am I here? What am I doing? Who am I doing it with?

We get back to Buenos Aires after 20 hours of travelling. Our small vacation is palpably over. More importantly, our Buenos Aires vacation is nearing to its end. Meret to LA in 3 days, and I know I have to actively find more work. It's the beginning of summer. My money's running low, but my drive's getting higher. It's time to discard the unusable and embrace the new. Much like the ships on the Delta, I've got to keep moving.

Escape to the Beach

On the same day Argentina elected a new president, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, and I got a hell of a sunburn. It was Sunday, October 29, 2007. After 3 weeks of Buenos Aires' urban hustle, my friend Meret and I headed for the beach town of Mar Del Plata for some sun and what we hoped would be a tranquil 3 days near the seaside.

The city itself is a lot bigger than we'd imagined. With a population of just over 600,000, Mar del Plata is Argentina's 6th largest city. Known mostly for a famous "Alfajor" (little cake filled with sweet caramel or fruit) brand, the city serves as a seaside getaway for those who want to escape the heat and hustle of Buenos Aires during the summer months (December-February).

As a one-time New Yorker, my first impression of MdP reminded me of the Jersey Shore. It looked a bit like Atlantic City without the hookers (that I could see) or the public drunkenness. This was, however, the beginning of spring, and in all fairness there was a presidential election going on. There were the traditional Jersey-esque things mind you: over-priced fried food, garbage on the boardwalk, overweight older men and women wearing horrifically unflattering bathing attire. Honestly, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. It's election weekend, and the Sox are a game away from sweeping the Rockies for the title.

DAY 1:

We rolled in on Saturday night via a double-decker luxury bus from Buenos Aires' Retiro station. The ride was long, 5 1/2 hours, but comfortable, and we were in MdP by early afternoon. The city is known for its nightlife, but by Argentine law, you are not permitted to sell alcohol or open an entertainment establishment for the 24 hour period surrounding the election. No one told us this, but this was considered one of the worst weekends to take a vacation in all of Argentina. Shops were boarded up, restaurants empty, bars dark and lifeless. We had to improvise. It's Saturday night.

One of the great things about travelling with a hot blond (Meret) is that everyone wants to get to know you. In this case his name was Christian and his family owned the hotel we stayed in, The Hotel Galeon. The place was modest in stature, most likely a private residence at one time, it provided the bare essentials for cheap travel and was a mere 4 blocks from the beach. Christian's family was from Reggio Calabria in Italy, historically known as one of the country's poorest provinces. Christian, his 2 brothers, and his mother made up the entire hotel staff.

Christian invited us to a party with his friends, and having nothing else to do we obliged. The evening was not much different than it would have been in the 'States. We had a couple of drinks, talked advertising, politics, language. We met up with some girls, drove around from house to house, and called it a night around 2am.

DAY 2:

Election day was pretty uneventful. I'm not sure whether it's just me, or I just see foreign elections differently because I'm not personally involved with the politics. Much like I saw in Italy, no protests, no applause, no coffee shop arguments. The people out and about actually seemed kind of indifferent. The winner, Cristina Kirtchner is the wife of the last President, and was commonly expected by most to win in a landslide. Maybe that was it. She won by 46%. We could care less, the Sox were playing in a few hours and we got the game in our room.

Much like the election, game 4 was pretty uneventful. Now before you attack me as a fair-weather Sox fan, keep this in mind. Game 1 rocked, literally. We watched it in an American bar in downtown Buenos Aires. There was free beer for ladies, cheap beer for guys, the rattle and pounding of both front-running and die-hard baseball fans on the cheap wood bar, a few "WHO'S YOUR PAPI" chants, and a blow-out victory. Game 2 was a pitching duel. We got the local pizza shop to put the game on for us as they finished their last meals of the night, and were able to watch every pitch with no interruption. Saturday's game got lost in the maze of party hopping and cultural exchanges over cigarettes and Vodka. Sunday, well, Sunday was kind of boring. So boring in fact that I missed a few key plays in lieu of ogling thong-cladden hotties on the fashion channel. That's right, I ditched about 20 minutes of the ball game to watch the fashion channel.

DAY 3:

You could be doing worse things with your life than laying out on an Argentine beach in early Spring, surrounded by barely-covered tan bodies, clear skies, and a boardwalk with open patio cafes and restaurants. Monday was exactly how I had imagined it, tranquil, warm, and beautiful. It was a nice way to end the weekend. The Argentines got what they wanted (at least half of them), the boys from the Fens took their 2nd championship in 3 years (OK, 89 years, but who's counting the first 86), and my biggest worry was deciding whether to eat steak or a more traditional Argentine Parilla (mixed grill) for dinner. I chose the Parilla, and the long weekend was over.

As the locals typically say, with more than an obvious hint of sarcasm, "Que mala vida, no?". Si si, my friends, not a bad life at all.

Buenos Dias, Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires is a seemingly endless city. It's hard to imagine that a place so big, sprawling, and congested, can go so relatively unnoticed to the rest of the world. It's not like the city's unrecognizable. Buenos Aires will always have its famous icons; Evita Peron, Maradonna, Steak, Tango. It's just that as a whole the soul of the city seems to be an enigma to most, including me.

GETTING THERE:

Getting here is the most annoying part. First you fly to Houston, or in some cases Miami, Panama City, or Mexico City. Regardless, if you're from the east coast the first part of your trip is significant enough. The flight from Houston is obnoxious. The wait in Houston is worse (unless you like good Mexican food), and the flight to Buenos Aires can only be described as what it must feel like to be married. It's 10 hours of pure hell, spread out over what feels like an eternity.

First 2 hours, great. The movie is cool, we get some wine, there's no turbulence, and you know you have a bright future ahead of you, ie: Buenos Aires. After that it slowly goes downhill. The flight gets a little bumpier, you realize you're watching "Die Hard(er) 4", the guy in front of you reclines his chair as far as it can go, and the wine is $5 a glass.

Once you make the conscious realization of your commitment, you're uncomfortably stuck in a purgatory with such limited caviats as going to the bathroom, and blankly staring at the sparce lighs you see as you cross over the g-string that is Panama. After what seems like an eternity you realize you still have 8 hours to go. But, like most trips, once you arrive you soon forget the pains of your travels. After 20 hours of traveling and 15 hours of total flight time, we arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

THE CITY:

The city is layed out on a massive urban sprawl. It's hard to get a feel for how big it is on the first day. After you explore around a little, you really get a good sense of the enormity of the whole place. Picture New York thrown into downtown LA, with the cultural amenities of Rome or Paris, and the inherent grime and pollution of any city if its size. Oh yeah, and everyone speaks Spanish (duh).

To put things in perspective, roughly a third of the population of Argentina lives in greater Buenos Aires. Therefore, the city swells with a diverse mix of the country's inhabitants. The people, Portenos as they're called, look more European that indiginously South American. More specifically they look Italian. Even the dialect, which is lamented by many other Spanish speakers, has a distinctive Neopolitan accent to it. From what I'm told, many locals are proud of their European heritage, and relish in the notion that they're city is considered "the Paris of the south".

Portenos are arguably some of the friendliest people I've met in all of my travels. On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the friendliest (Canadians) and 10 being the rudest (French), I'd put Argentines at either 2 or 3. They make a conscious effort to be polite even if you don't speak their language well. It's part of the Argentine culture to be cordial, and politeness is expected regardless of how well someone knows you.

MAKING WAVES:

So after 2 weeks of enjoying the new, the young, and the modern Buenos Aires, we're heading to the coastal town of Mar del Plata. Though it's a little early in the season for most beach-going Argentines, we've decided that we need the sun, sand, and seashore to gain some perspective. Honestly, I'm looking forward to escaping the hustle and bustle of this booming metropolis.

Until then, "ciao!", as they say here. Wish me luck with the inevitable sunburn, and I'll give you all the fun details when I return from my late spring weekend in the southern hemisphere.

En Matrimonio

As my two and a half week journey in Guatemala nears its end, I find myself overwhelmed by the whole experience. At first I went through third-world shock. It's hard to get used to being so cautious in the city, or seeing so many guns and guards. Then, in Antigua and at the various bars and chain restaurants, I went through first-world overload. I almost felt disappointed that our consumer culture has spread so deeply into the society here. Then, in Santa Cruz de la Iguana, I felt the soul of the people. I felt the sad reality of life mixed with the simple joy of just being alive. This was more overwhelming than anything else I saw here. Now that I'm back in the city with just over a day left on my trip, I feel subtly content and tranquil.

Fittingly, the heart of my journey culminated with a large-scale cultural event, a wedding. I'd been looking forward to it all week, in fact, at times I think more so than some of the family members. The groom, Cesar (Toto) is the middle brother in the Alvarado family, and the bride, Vanessa, was his 5-year girlfriend from college. The religious ceremony was held in a church in the central square in Antigua. The church itself attracts many tourists and even vendors, and naturally it's open to the public.

Built in a traditional Spanish colonial style, it wasn't as ornate or gaudy as I would have expected. That being said, it was quite beautifully decorated and had an incredibly tall altar that was draped with gold plating and white linen covers. There was a 3-piece classical ensemble playing "Raindrop Prelude", "Ave Maria", and other various romantic classical pieces. What is it about a church, a violin, and a woman's melodic voice that seems to put everyone in a gleeful trance?

There were a few minor variations on the traditional American Catholic wedding, but mostly it was the same. After about an hour of ceremony and some picture taking it was off to the party. The party was held just outside of downtown Antigua at a beautiful hacienda overlooking, of course, a volcano. Volcanoes here are like bad drivers in Boston, you see one every 5 minutes.

The party went smoothly. There was lots of dancing, eating, drinking, and social mingling. Unfortunately not a lot of single women, but that's commonplace here. You normally wouldn't go to a wedding without a date. I did get to dance a lot, however. One of my favorite things about women here is that they love to dance. In fact, more so than that, it's in their blood. The men are a bit more shy to get on the floor, which makes my job infinitely easier.

The party wound down at around 7pm. We got there at noon. Only the immediate family, myself, and one or two family friends stuck around that long. Cepi was "that guy" at the wedding. Every good party needs one. It's amazing what a few bottles of scotch will do to your equilibrium and verbal coordination. We weren't too much better, but it was funnier to watch him. It's all for the better anyways. He crashed at the hotel after the party. We went out on the town and blew money on drinks for Mucas (townie girls), who in the end, wanted nothing to do with us. Alejandro and I salvaged the whole experience with a few tacos and a laugh.

So, in the words of Jim Morrison, "this is the end, my friends". I really had a good trip, and I'd do it again any day of the week. I saw the modern culture of the capital city. I saw the slums, and the large gap between rich and poor. I felt the overwhelming power of natural beauty beset by dire poverty. I got a sunburn, ate some great food, stuck out like a sore thumb, and was usually the center of attention (which I love) wherever we went.

More importantly, however, I was with good friends and their family. I was allowed the opportunity to live with some great people who showed me nothing but warmth, kindness, and hospitality. I wouldn't have been here if it wasn't for the Alvarado family, and for sure, I wouldn't have had as much fun.

Keep your heads to the grindstone backpackers. I've got a few domestic missions up my sleeve for the summer, and in the fall, Buenos Aires. Don't slack on Mr. Jackson, and keep travelling. I recommend Guatemala to anyone who wants to explore an ancient culture mixed with modern amenities, gorgeous people, great food, San Diego-style weather, and an amazing exchange rate.

The Partly Found Lost World

Somewhere between your normal day-to-day routine and your most extravagant dreams and wishes you find a tranquil peace. Everyone experiences this in different ways yet obtains the same feeling, if they ever obtain the feeling at all. I think I felt that in Atitlan. I know I felt it a few times in Rome. I've felt it many times in my own city, Boston. The wonderful thing is that it's different every time.

It's hard to use words to describe moments that shake your perception of the world, and more importantly, how you perceive yourself. In the village of Santa Cruz de la Iguana you are forced to think differently. You need to adapt to not only your cultural surroundings but also to your physical surroundings.

The village is on Lake Atitlan, tucked away in a small inlet at the top of a steep hill which towers about 200 feet from the base of the docking area. There are many little villages on the hills surrounding the lake. The main town is Panajachel. This is where tourists, both Guatemalan and foreign, go to unwind, party, eat good food, and take in the local indigenous culture. Pana, as they call it, is the where the buses from the city drop you off. From there you can take a boat to one of the many smaller villages as described before. My choice, Santa Cruz de la Iguana. I picked it for no other reason than it's remote location and hostel pricing ($4 US per night). There are no roads which connect the village with Pana, or anywhere else for that matter. It's about a 15 minute boat ride from dock to dock, and let me tell you it's rough.

Once you dock there is a narrow cobblestone road that switchbacks up from the water to the town center. My hostel, La Iguana Perdida (The Lost Iguana), is at the base of the hill about 30 feet from the lake. The hostel itself is right out of a Hemingway novel. Almost everything is open-air including the bathrooms, with doors and roof coverings of course. The rooms are surprisingly comfortable despite the lack of electricity. The dorms are like bungalows separated by small winding paths and naturally decadent flowers and trees. Really, the whole compound is a site to see. Physical and ephemeral beauty is in abundance here, and if anything, that's being modest.

The crowd is somewhat typical for a youth hostel. Mostly Americans and Canadians, with a few Europeans peppered in for good measure. One of the tragedies of hosteling though is that you rarely encounter non-whites or non English speakers. You also get an immediate sense of community, sharing, friendliness, and cooperation. Hostel workers and guests are usually very environmentally and politically conscious. Let's put it this way, if you have a "Bush/Cheney '04" bumper sticker adorning the back of your Hummer H2, you probably won't find yourself here.

After a hectic day trying to get out of the capital (I won't explain, but if you've ever been in rush hour traffic in the third world with no AC, you can relate) and a peaceful, yet at times dangerous drive, I went to bed pretty early my first day here. Today was different. Today moved me in a way which I would assume would be different for every person. Today I walked up the switchback to the end of the village.

With the tropical sun in my face and loud noise of seemingly unfamiliar birds chirping on either side, I took the 20 minute or so walk from the hostel to the village. It's a decent incline, but when you see older women and infants climb up with ease, it inspires you to walk faster. Once I reached the beginning of the village, my immediate reaction was a bit confusing. You're instantly struck with the feeling of poverty beset by beauty. There are kids everywhere, and the women appear to be either weaving, washing clothes, or cooking inside. The men, I'd assume, are in Pana or other larger towns working. The few men you see are either doing construction work or carrying goods down the hill. The ratio of grown men to children appears to be about 1:40, and that is underestimating.

The physical surroundings are confusing, yet from what I'm told, a typical reality here. On one hand you have a view worthy of a national postcard, dark green trees, a volcano, and thatched-roof huts for gringos to stay in. On the other hand, the streets and drains are littered with trash, skinny stray dogs, chickens tied up by strings, and smashed stones and bricks. You can't escape the smell of dog shit, and if you're not careful it's easy to step in. This is the kind of poverty you read about. It's hard not to have a heavy heart. The juxtaposition of beauty and desperation is almost too much to take in all at once.

Guilt is an easy feeling to have, but once you gather yourself together a bit, something cheers you up, at least it did for me. The kids were acting like, well, kids. School had just let out for lunch, and as I began my descent into the town square all I could hear was laughter. They were running around as all kids do, screaming, pushing, making faces. They mobbed the ice cream vendor when he rang his bell, and a few of them kicked around a soccer ball while getting yelled at for being a little too rambunctious.

The school, library, and church are the centerpieces of the town square. It's obvious that the government or some sort of aid group was here. There's a covered watering station with a sign to mark how much money was spent by Guatemala to bring these people fresh drinking water. I've seen these things before, and it angers me a little that they (the government) put up a sign to tout their accomplishments when I'm told there are thousands of towns here that still don't have plumbing or clean drinking water. I understand the magnitude and difficulty of these projects, but I think the end result speaks for itself.

I'm heading back to the town square tonight to help teach some of the kids English for an hour or so. The people here are almost all indigenous, and their first language isn't even Spanish. For commercial purposes, many speak and understand the language well, but amongst themselves they speak a form of what I assume to be an ancient dialect derived originally from the Mayans. I'm not too sure what good English will do for them, but learning how to communicate commercially can surely help any impoverished people. I just can't wait to see the kids smile again.

Tomorrow It's back to the City for the 4th of July. To be honest, the holiday means less to me that I say it does. But hey, It's always fun to go drinking with some other gringas, especially if they're cute. Ciao Amigos.

Americanism at its Finest...Or How I was Punked by a Birthday Clown at a Guatemalan Burger King

I've never been scared of clowns, even when I was little. I can see how some kids can get a little bugged out by these off-duty alcoholics from time to time. That was never me, backpackers, not until this past Saturday. But you're going to have to wait a few minutes to hear that one. First I have a bone to pick with American consumer culture and its omnipresence in Central America. I know that half of my readers just went "ugggghhhh", but I promise I won't be that preachy. If you really want, just scroll down a few paragraphs.

This past Saturday I was supposed to go on a road trip to El Salvador with Alejandro and his father. Unfortunately, Alejandro had forgotten that his presence was needed at a piñata birthday party for his deceased friend's nephew. His friend, also the former bass player in his band, died in a car crash almost two years ago. He said that in his absence, Alejandro was kind of like a surrogate uncle for the soon to be 8-year-old. Obviously this was a good reason to miss our road trip. Instead, we took a trip of an entirely different nature.

When he asked me to go to the party, he described it as a typical Guatemalan piñata. "You're going to get some good food, meet some people, and see how we celebrate kids' birthdays here," he said. Bingo, another foree into the cultural web of the local people, I thought. I was excited. So, gift in hand and ready to go we drove to a newly developed area of the city. It was a commercial megaplex, similar to those you'd find in California, or any major suburban community in the US. There was a huge mall in the complex center, and on the periphery there was every big US retail and food chain. Let your mind run wild folks, I mean EVERY chain you could think of.

I've done a decent amount of travelling over the years and seeing exports of our consumer culture is not shocking to me anymore. The shocking thing is that here in Guatemala City its so present that in some parts of the city the American chains outnumber local businesses. Fast food is a luxury item here. Nike shoes, designer clothes, pop music, and video games put you in the "cool" category. Sound familiar people? Their vices are no different than ours. Unfortunately these are some of the things I hate about our own culture. It's downright depressing seeing this type of consumerism mimicked in a place so rich with their own traditions and deep cultural roots. It's criminal when you see how most of the population lives. The reality here is that you can go from hand-made tin houses to sucking down Whoppers and Cokes in less than ten minutes. But hey, that's the reality of consumerism and the nature of a relatively free capitalist economy.

Now, this wasn't the first time I'd been to this complex. Just one day earlier we went to Sears for a present, stopped at their version of Starbucks, and grabbed a pint at TGI Fridays, a place I never go even in my own country. The party was at Burger King, and I must say my initial reaction was priceless. Aside from the sullen-faced, shotgun-toting security guards, you could easily forget you were still in Guatemala. Same menu, same shitty music, same playroom, screaming kids, and yes, one shady clown. The theme of the party was some American cartoon that's popular, the name of which slips me at the moment.

As usual here, my entrance was met with curious stares. This doesn't bother me because most people here have only seen gringos on television. Plus, I'm pasty white, tall, and bald. As the customary introductions were being made I heard a whistle and a lot of kids laughing. The clown then ran up to me and presented me with a yellow card (the penalty marker in soccer when you commit a serious foul), followed by some Spanish statements that I couldn't understand, and even heavier laughter. I could tell by the laughter and finger pointing that this psycho had thought of a good one. What could be funnier that penalizing the gringo and making me blush in front of a full house. I took my lumps like a man but I gave him a stare that showed I meant business. He earned his paycheck with those zingers, and before I could take him outside and slug him it was cake time.

The actual piñata beating was fun. Much like in the states, the kids scrambled desperately after every hit. I traded glances with my new friend, ate a Whopper with some grape soda, and we were off. Alejandro told me that the clowns here don't make much, and that they're usually closet pedophiles. He also said that he'd most likely spend the day's paycheck on booze, and that in reality these guys are alcoholics and social outcasts. Moral of the story boys and girls, this part of Guatemalan culture is just like ours. We can either gripe about "The Great Satan's" stranglehold on developing nations, or we can have a burger and enjoy a sunny Saturday morning. I chose the latter, and I didn't regret it for a minute.

Antigua in a Day

Antigua is the Spanish word for antique, or old. Much like many European cities, Guatemala Antigua was the first settlement of Guatemala City. Apparently, after an earthquake, volcanic eruption, and massive flooding, the city was evacuated and most of the population moved to what now is the current Guatemala City. Today, the city has been re-built in its original style, with many of the old buildings still in tact and usable. It's also widely regarded as the most popular tourist location in the country. This is immediately apparent when you get there, and whether good or bad, it brings a decent ammount of money into the local economy.

Nestled in the neighboring valley from the capital, it's about a 40 minute drive from downtown, and boy what a drive. Like most things here, leaving the city by car can be risky business. Of course, you're recommended to drive during daylight hours, not to stop unless you have to, and pray to God you don't break down or get pulled over.

Our trip began in the early afternoon, just after switching the Range Rover for Cepi's stepmother's Hyundai station wagon. The Range needed service, but more importantly it made us less of a target on the highway. I even got my first experience with third-world driving. Let me tell you, it's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. Sure, your doors and windows must be locked at all times. Sure, you could get carjacked at a stoplight, or even worse, get stopped by the police. Honestly, it was kind of like driving in Boston.

The drive to Antigua was a mess. The winding two-lane highway was packed with cars and old red busses packed with people, spewing thick plumes of black smoke into the air. We saw at least 10 accidents, including one serious multi-lane crash. There were police and military officers everywhere, and as always, everyone seemed to be armed with either M-16s or single-barreled shot guns. It was hard to ignore the poverty alongside the road. Billboards turned into rudimentary houses, then back to billboards, and finally a lushly forrested valley. Being in the countryside was a welcome relief from the city, and the air was cool and clean. For the first time in 5 days it was safe for me to roll down the windows and let the fresh air and sun graze my arms and face. I can't even describe how good this felt.

Our first stop in Antigua was a luxury hotel called Casa Santo Domingo. According to Cepi this was a must see. He said the hotel's claim to fame was that Harrison Ford once stayed there, but for me, the interior was reason enough to go. Believe me when I tell you that after my mere 25 years on this earth, this was the most beautiful and breathtaking building I've ever been in. And that should mean a lot, considering I've been to the Sisteen Chapel. Most of the inside of the hotel had covered open-air walkways rather than the typical hotel hallway. The architecture was 18th century Spanish, and the spaces between the walkways and walls were filled with exotic plants, hand-carved stone benches, fountains, and parrots. The covered parts of the walkways were lit by candles and lined with religious statues of what I assumed were saints.

After a brief photo session and a lot of "oohs and aahhs" Cepi and I did what we do best.We found the bar, grabbed a Gallo, and tried to make eyes at a young Puerto Rican girl vacationing with her parents. Her dad cought us staring, so we thought it was a good idea to make our exit. The next few hours were pretty much the same as the first. Grab a beer, look at girls, eat some tacos, look at girls, grab another beer, and take pictures of everything that looked old and authentic.

This city was full of Gringos, tourist-themed stores, ATMs, bars, and police. For the first time on my trip to Guatemala it was safe to walk the streets. My feeling on Antigua were mixed, however. On one hand, you have the beauty of Spanish and Mayan cultures mixed together in a close-knit, well maintained community. You're surrounded by antiquity, draped with dark green trees, ominous mountains, and an enormous volcano. On the other hand, I felt like I was in the center of Rome again. English was as common to hear as Spanish. Every bar had specials geared towards Americans and Europeans. Youth hostels and hotels were on almost every street. Vendors approached you speaking your language rather than theirs.

It's not as if all this is a bad thing. I've been a part of the same culture in Europe. I love the fact that it's safe for tourists. I love the accomodation of being able to speak my native language. The problem is that it lacks reality. Antigua appears to be an elaborate production. The poverty of this country is kind of swept under the rug there. You lack the visible signs of inequity and danger that you see in the capital city. Let me clarify this. I'm not a proponent of danger, poverty, polution, and degradation. I do think, however, that in order to understand or respect a culture you need to see and feel how they really live. In Guatemala, most people's reality includes most of the aforementioned problems. They live with it, in it, or around it, and it's impossible to ignore.

Our day ended much as it started, with a Gallo and a great meal. I'm addicted to the hot sauces here, and I plan on flying back with about ten different bottles for me and my Gringo buddies back in Boston. With our bellies full and a little bit of a sunburn, we drove home. Tomorrow we're going to Lago Atitlan, and Saturday we're off to El Salvador. Remember my fellow backpackers and packerettes, always have fun when you travel, but respect the realities of your surroundings. Appreciating the life you live is tantamount to understanding the lives of others. Adios 'til next time.

Everything You Never Expected

British writer and poet Samuel Johnson once wrote, "The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are." No words could resonate more true with me when I look back at my first 24 hours in Guatemala. In a place hardly known by most Americans for anything but but small immigrants, coffee, and dense rainforrests, nothing here is quite as you had expected.

Getting here was annoying, but not particularly difficult. It took 3 planes and about 10 hours of total travel time. Thanks to frequent flyer miles I flew first class, which made the experience that much better. Descending into Guatemala City, you are immediately struck by how green it is. Once we broke through the low-lying clouds and rain, you see lush pockets of dense trees, Lago Amatitlan, a giant volcano (the name slips me at the moment), and the white and red rooftops of a massive urban sprawl.

The airport was unbareably humid, but customs and immigration took about 5 minutes at the most. By the time you hit the baggage pick-up, you know you've reached the third world. Hundreds of locals and a few gringo missionaries impatiently clustered together to wait for their bags on the rotating conveyer belt. The problem was that the conveyer belt wasn´t moving, in fact, it was never supposed to. Minute-by-minute the baggage handlers grabbed bags and threw them on (sort of) the belt. The gringos looked nervous, the Guatemalans determined, and we all hustled in an almost animalistic way to grab our stuff before it ended up on the floor or the bottom of the luggage pile. I was lucky, and after only 10 minutes, I grabbed my stuff and met up with Alejandro, one of my hosts.

As soon as we climbed into the silver Range Rover the rain came down heavily. ¨Here dude.." Alejandro said as we rolled up the windows and locked the doors, "...have a Gallo. It's our national beer." Beer in hand, in torrential rain, we spead off for some food. He took me to an outdoor bar with a thatched straw roof for some Ceviche and more Gallos. This part of downtown Guatemala City looks a lot like Los Angeles. There are political billboards and advertisements everywhere. American commercialism is omnipresent with every glance out of the window. MacDonald's, Burger King, Meineke, Shell Gas, Blockbuster, and even Taco Bell line the avenues of the commercial center of downtown. That's right, Taco Bell in Guatemala.

With a decent buzz and a stomach full of cold fish soup with cilantro, we headed through the city towards the Alvarado's house for the legal portion of Cesar's wedding. Now, let me back up a little to explain who the Alvarados are. Cepi is a friend who I met in Boston as a regular customer at the bar I worked at, the Linwood. Alejandro is his older brother, who I also met in Boston. Both were there for school. Cesar is the middle child who I didn't meet until arriving here. His official wedding was on Saturday night at his mother's house, where I'm staying, and his religious/celebratory wedding is in a week or so in a church outside of the city. Now back to the beer and the car ride.

Ok, so there's no easy way to segway into the next part of the evening, but I'll do my best, so bare with me. It's raining like crazy, we're doing about 60mph down a small avenue lined with vendors huddling under balconies to stay dry. The windows and doors are firmly locked, and I'm told not to flash my camera. I do anyway. As we approach the Plaza Mayor (main square), Cepi announces with an almost patriotic pride, "This is our version of Central Park dude. This is the capital square, the political center of the country." "Hey look", he said, "There must be a parade or something. Check out the floats." No sooner did these words come out of his mouth did we see the most unexpected site I could have ever immagined. The parade was to celebrate gay rights and freedoms for transvestites. The floats were driving slowly, packed with tall, dark, thong-clad transvestites holding signs and dancing to blaring latin club music. The expressions from my guides were priceless. The words coming out of their mouths began with "Oh no, no, nooooo" and followed by what I assume to be the Guatemalan equivalent of "faggot". Now, you have to understand that as much as I don't condone homophobia or bigotry, we are in a culture where being gay can be reason enough to kill you. I think the guys were ashamed more than anything. I explained that this is normal to a liberal east coaster like me, the mood lightened, and funny enough, they said nothing more about it after a block or so. We had business to take care of. It's time for the wedding.

The wedding was subtle and beautiful. As I had expected, I was greeted with open arms immediately, and welcomed into the Alvarado home. The word "GRINGO" was thrown around quite a bit, but not in a bad way, that's just what we're called here. And trust me my fellow Americans, in Guatemala we're a rare find. Cesar and his fiance appeared at the dinner table in front of a lawyer, to make it legal under Guatemalan law. With a room full of well-dressed family and friends, one Gringo, and a small Guatemalan flag, they took their legal vows. After that, the night for me went like this: two more Gallos, some damn good chicken, talk of going to strip clubs, more chicken, broken spanish, more talk of strip clubs, sleep. After being up for 26 hours and hopping from plane to plane in such lovely cities as Cleveland and Houston, I was out like a light.

After a good 10 hour sleep and an early rise, Cepi and I were off to the Davis Cup (Tennis). His job was to take pictures for a local tennis magazine, and mine was to stand around and look awkward as the token gringo. The locals already had a name for me too, "Casperito", or as we would know it, "Casper the friendly ghost". I could tell you more about the Davis Cup, but tennis is boring enough to watch, let alone write about. And right now backpackers, I'm exhausted. I will leave you with this, however. When you're the only gringo around, people love to talk to you, especially women. In my case, her name was Gwendolyn, and she's a waitress at Hooters. But, that'll have to wait 'til tomorrow.

Stay cool muchachos y muchachas, Casperito will explain everything tomorrow.

Guatemala Pre-Departure

It's after midnight in Boston and I'm almost packed for my trip. My flight leaves at 6:00 am, so I need to be out the door by 3:30. Sleep is not an option at the moment, in fact, even if I had time I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes closed. I'm being mildly amused by the Red Sox game quietly playing in the background, but to be honest, I'm so nervous that I can barely concentrate on anything but my upcoming trip.

What will Guatemala be like? How will I react to the culture? How will they react to me? I suppose these fears are normal, god knows I've felt them before, but I wish I could calm my mind down and focus on why I'm really going to Central America. I'm going there to explore a part of the world I know very little about. I know plenty of Central Americans. I know how to speak their language. I even know, and love, their food, drinks, and music. What I don't know much about is how they live in their own country. Sure there's the obvious assumptions to be made. Guatemala is a poor country. Guatemala is home to ancient Mayan ruins. Guatemala exports a lot of coffee worldwide. Guatemala sends thousands of immigrants into various parts of the US every month.

I guess the reason I'm going is to see Guatemala as the Guatemalans see it. I want to experience the density, danger, and hustle of the capital city. I want to feel the heat and enormity of Tikal. I also want to drink beers with my friend, talk to girls, eat some platanos con crema, and try not to get killed in El Salvador. No matter what I end up doing, I know it will be real. This is the kind of reality you miss on most vacations. This is the kind of reality that drives me in life.




Keep reading and I'll keep posting. I'll be there in 12 hours, nervous or not, and I can't wait.