Forget Buenos Aires, THESE are Buenos Aires

Sunday, March 4^th, 2012

19.5 hours had elapsed and I could see the specks of development approaching, meaning that our destination was coming soon. But before that had even happened, I saw something that changed my perspective on the color blue forever. Other than describing it as a pool of living sapphires and stones of turquoise intermingling at profound depths, I cannot really explain to you what the waters of Patagonia looked like. Photos can attempt to do it justice, but once again, my Eyes 20/20 were better than my Canon T2i.

After fumbling around the bus station trying to figure out how to leave (#20 for $6 pesos, in case you’re wondering) we got on an empty bus heading towards our hostel. The bus didn’t stay empty for long. In one stop, the bus filled up entirely with backpackers who must have just ended an excursion. And while I knew the address for our hostel, I didn’t exactly know where our stop was, nor did I have access to the buzzer to indicate I needed a stop. I didn’t even know if I could get off the bus…I saw where we needed to get off fly by through the window and started to panic a little bit. I motioned to Gus and Angela that we needed to get off and we “scusemepardonmescusemepardonme”’d our way to the back and got off at least 5 blocks past our stop.

I wasn’t distraught at the fact that we had missed our stop, because I had the hostel’s address and knew we were close. The only thing that bothered me was that stupid gimp wheel on my luggage, which I lugged (oh that’s where the word luggage comes from…) for the next 5 blocks as it screeched on the concrete. But that seemed futile compared to the lake just to our left and the billowing breeze that almost seemed to be whispering “relax”.

Me, Angela and my crippled luggage

We found Hostel Bariloche and were greeted by its cabinesque charm. We all claimed our beds and finally cleaned ourselves up. We looked like a haggard bunch no longer. We were on that strange fringe between exhausted and ecstatic, so we went with the latter and decided to get to exploring. We headed towards Mitre, which is the main avenue through “downtown” Bariloche (remember, it’s only 100,000 people). On our way there, we headed towards the plaza where relics of the Dirty War were still present, with the symbolic white pañuelos of the Madres, along with the names of the desaparecidos listed below. It was kind of a haunting sight despite the rest of the gorgeous scenery.

While admiring the plaza, we were approached by a Mormon missionary who asked us where we were from. None of us are Mormon, but we indulged him anyways because he didn’t seem like he was about to start in on the “have YOU accepted Jesus Christ” talk anytime soon (and he never did). He was in the last 4 months of his mission and suddenly I found this inexplicable sense of respect for him because in addition to being totally outside his comfort zone for two years away from any of his family or friends, he had to talk about Mormonism all day. And even if it’s something you believe in, it would have to be hard talking about religion with complete strangers in a foreign language after you’ve approached them about it. Do I agree with it? Absolutely not. But that still doesn’t change the reality that there are people doing it. 2 years in Argentina…I don’t know about that…

As if on cue, once we left the Plaza we passed by a Catholic church that was a block away from the shores of the lake. While Angela moseyed around, I started running for my religion: earth, sun and sky. It was an incredibly windy day and I thought maybe I’d be tossed in the lake but felt totally at peace with that idea. Bariloche is one of the most beautiful places in the world—and there was that surreal water again. Hair tossing about, I thought to myself, “pfft…Buenos Aires? No. THESE are Buenos Aires right here.” and I took maybe the biggest breath of fresh air it has ever been my lungs’ pleasure to inhale.