twenty one and back in chile

Today is my twenty-first birthday.

Well, it was, until about 15 minutes ago.

Julia and I woke this morning to a sunny (although significantly cooler than the 30+ we were used to in Rio) Santiago morning. Lo and behold my little bro called me bright and early to wish me a happy birthday. I was pleasantly surprised -- and just happy to talk to him.

J and I did some last minute souvenir shopping. I bought myself a lapis lazuli ring ... happy birthday to me.

The we had some monetary issues -- mainly the fact that no bank machine was willing to spit out any cash. With just enough coins in my wallet for some metro tickets (and that only because of cheaper weekend rates) and a credit card, Julia and I decided to take a little trip. It's my birthday -- forgive me for feeling a bit invincible.

So we hopped a bus to Isla Negra, a tiny town of one paved road that is neither an island nor black. On the ride over the rest of my family (sis, niece and nephew, mum and dad) called and treated me to a lovely rendition of the birthday song -- complemented by the happy shrieks of the twins. I miss my family -- it's weird to know that they are all together without me!

Back to Isla Negra. It's a small town on the beach, where Pablo Neruda had his third house, now a museum. At the ticket counter we were informed that they did not accept credit cards. And that there is no bank in the town. I must have looked disappointed, because the guy behind the counter decided to let us in on a tour for free...as "invitadas". I couldn't believe it -- I never expect that kind of treatment for formal institutions. It made my day. I told him it was my birthday and thanked him for the gift.

The house was amazing, as are most things related to Neruda. All of his houses have boat themes and are full of weird object. Neruda was a collector of collections -- hundreds of huge shells, sculptors of the prows of boats, little ships in bottles. Afterwards we hung out on the beach for a bit, then went into a restaurant (with a visa sticker on the door) for an extremely late lunch. We toasted to a successful voyage (can't believe it's over!) and to my cumpleanos. Sneaky Julia even got me a gift -- a collection of contemporary Brazillian plays (don't know how she managed it considering we were almost always together and she doesn't speak Portuguese). She's a crafty kid -- I was impressed.

I think we got back to the hostel around 10:30-ish, and spent the rest of my birthday minutes making annoying calls to banks in Canada to figure out why we couldn't get money. Turns out RBC cancelled Julia's credit card because it had been copied -- although there were no unusual charges made on it so who knows. TD got their act together on my debit card so we should have cash again tomorrow, joy.

We don't have any major plans for our last day in Santiago, just retrieve the rest of our luggage from a friend's storage room, repack, then make our way to the airport for our evening flight. We'll be back in Montreal 5 pm-ish on Monday. Then I'm off to Ottawa to celebrate my birthday with the fam (I haven't had my cake and candles yet) and to Winnipeg on Wednesday for my godfather's wedding. Definitively back in Montreal for the end of the month.

I'm going to miss a lot of stuff here, but I'm dying to go home. Sleeping in my own bed, peeing in my own bathroom, having my own internet access all seem quite luxurious to me. The blog's not dead yet though -- I intend to add photos to all these last entries so do check back in a few days for the finished product.

thoughts of a slightly smelly traveller

In my world of privileged university students, it's a right of passage. Like frosh and reading week road trips, it's part of the university experience. There's something about living out of an over-sized backpack, sharing bunks with strangers and showering in plastic flip flops -- a last rebellion against impending yuppiehood, perhaps?

This kind of traveling has its own rules, none of which are conventional. Take personal hygiene, or even cleanliness in general. Grammar says that a statement like "the clean shirt" is absolute. Backpackers know it is absolutely relative -- and at this point in my travels, frankly irrelevant. Showers occur only when several stars align: the bathroom is free, the hot water pressure is above trickle level, and you managed not to leave your soap in the last hostel. Even the most attentive preener slackens her standards. Untweezed eyebrows are less offensive; the solution for greasy hair is not shampoo but a hair-tie; the line between pajamas and street clothes begins to blur.

The magical thing about hostel life is that none of this skimping on soaping adversely affects interpersonal relations. At our hostel in Rio we'd all sit around after a day at the beach, still scantily clad and sandy, sipping Steve's happy hour caipirinhas or his even meaner mojito. Stevie's an Aussie -- been bouncing around latin america since finishing his degree in Psych 2 years ago. He's working at the hostel and learning Portuguese, thinking about heading home some time soon but no concrete plans. There were a lot of people on extended latin american adventures -- made our 8 days look pretty paltry. We made a lot of fast and good friends. Chris, our crazy danish roommate (who, despite speaking no Portuguese, boasts a vast collection of Brazilian girls' numbers scribbled on napkins and receipts) was rounding out a year exchange in Buenos Aires, where he purportedly researched for his masters' thesis. Barbara (aka Barbie) who was taking a break from her masters' internship with the German embassy in Bs As, proved that Germans are not all 'frios'. And of course, Capitanito, the Ecuadorian leader of our pack, who traveled 10 days by bus from Ecuador to spend a week in Rio. There were the Brazilians, too -- Rafa who asked me for a kiss everyday, Pedro whose mother is Portuguese, Leo who set me straight on politics, tropical fruit, and Brazilian musical genres. There were the three extremely loud Argentina brothers, with all the flirtiness, culinary talent, and boisterousness you would expect of Italian descendants. There was a cartload of Brits, a few Aussies, a few other latin americans. We were the only Canadians (there was one dude from the US but he slept all day) and I was the only Portuguese.

Life's a big question mark for me after graduation. There's a lot of the world to see and I haven't figured out which corner I'd like to start in. I don't know why I'm so addicted to picking up and starting from nothing all the time. I'm not even sure what I take from all these places I visit or the people I meet. But it was pretty cool to indulge my addiction with so many neat people these past couple weeks...

FOOD FOR THOUGHT. Pablo Neruda (Chilean poet, Nobel prize winner, diplomat, politician, traveler, etc.) writes:
"Pienso que el hombre debe vivir en su patria y creo que el desarraigo del los seres humanos es una frustración que de alguna manera u otra entorpece la claridad del alma. Yo no puedo vivir sino en mi propria tierra, no puedo vivir sin poner los pies, las manos, y el oído en ella, sin sentir la circulación de sus aguas y de sus sombras, sin sentir cómo mis raíces buscan en su légamo las sustancias maternas..."

cidade maravilhosa

The guidebook says that the view from Cristo Redentor should remove any doubt that Rio is the most beautiful place on earth. I have a lot of the earth left to visit, so I´m not about to make such absolute statements, but that view was incredible. The statue opens his arms to a sprawling metropolis, laced with long stretches of white sands. Favelas crawl their way up the oddly-shaped mountains that have sprouted in the urban landscape, islands and rocks formation lie just off the coast. It´s not called the cidade marvilhosa for nothing...

The rest of the afternoon was spent eating and wandering in the b ohemian Santa Teresa. Santa Teresa is a world away from the madness of Copacabana and Ipanema. There are beautiful turn-of-the-century houses, with sweeping views of the city, little bars and restaurants and plenty of corner shops. It was just so...quiet compared to the rest of the city.

As the sun was setting we made it to the Stairway to Heaven, a gift of a chilean artist to Rio. The stairs and decorated with tiles from all of the world (send a tile to the artist and he´ll add it): living art in an otherwise dingy part of town. There was a tile from Alfama, Lisbon which we have on a hot-plate in our house, as well as few from Canada. Represent.

We´re back at the hostel now...there´s a pizza party in the making, the usual relaxing and socializing with the grabbag of people we live with. Tomorrow we´re heading past Ipanema to a beach called Barra. I´m still frighteningly white so looking forward to a day of snoozing on white sands...

Deus é brasileiro

I wish I could explain how absolutely relaxed and content I feel at this moment. It started the moment we walked into our hostel: people lazing on hammocks and colourful couches, reading, chatting, drinking caipirinhas and listening to music. There is no reception desk or anything quite that formal, just a desk tucked under the stairs where I am currently sitting. Our door sleeps 9 in bunks 3 stories high -- there are no check-ins or locked doors. In Bs As we kept to ourselves mostly... on the first day here we made instant friends with Chris, the tall Danish dude on exchange in Buenos Aires (finishing his masters in political science), Barbara (aka Barbie), just off an internship at the German embassy in Buenos Aires and of course Dany, who spent a week on bus to get here from Ecuador. They´re a good bunch, and because of Dany, we almost always speak Spanish which is nice. When you live so close to people it´s always a good thing to get along.

So, what have we been up do again...? There was the first afternoon on Copacabana, then all of yesterday at Posto 9 of Ipanema. The weather is in the high twenties, the water is ideal, the sands are crowded but fun. Just lying on the beach listening to the sing-song of the beach vendors is entertaining. They sell EVERYTHING on the beach (like the micros in Chile!), from pareos and earings to beer and shrimp kebabs. My favourite yesterday was a guy dressed in a dish-dash selling ¨salgados arabes do mustafá¨. Like I say, you can buy anything.

In the evening there was an argentine-style asado at the hostel (it´s owned by argentines) and then out to a crazy street party type thing in Lapa. We came home early, at 4 am. It´s worth getting up for breakfast at the hostel, which includes plenty of fresh fruit, cake and ham and cheese grilled sandwiches. This afternoon we headed to a market, spent some reais, and came home for a nap. As I write this I am digesting a delicious dinner made mostly by our Equatorian friend. We´re planning to head to a little outdoor bar for a drink in a minute, but it´s only 10 so the night is still very, very young :)

So I love the hostel, I love the beach, I love naps. Also, am obsessed with the juice stands on every corner of this busy city. Fruits I´ve never ever heard of, squeezed and blended into the most amazing cocktails . My current favourite is a deep purple smoothy made of açaí. I don´t even know what it looks like, but it´s deeeeelicious.

Tomorrow the plan is to hit up Ipanema with the rest of the Sunday crowd. Apparantly they close the main waterfront avenue to traffic -- there are that many people. Monday we might head up to the Cristo, eventually we´ll take the cable car up to the sugarloaf...and more beach. Brazil is significantly more expensive than Argentina, so we´re making the most of the free entertainment. And I am so shamefully white that I need all the sand and sun I can get.

Utter contentment...I could get used to this life :)

hasta luego buenos aires

Closed out our 10 days in Bs As in style...one last cortado, one last round of the book store, one last wonderful plotless musical on Corrientes, one last empanada....

Tomorrow morning we'll be heading to the airport at about 5:30 am. We'll be in Rio until the 18th. We have no bigger plan than to read all the books we've bought in Argentina, lying on a beach. We're staying at a hostel in Botafogo (ie between Cristo Redemptor and Pao de Açucar) that was recommended to me by a fellow teacher in Santiago.

I'm so ready for my slice of summer!



By the way, thanks to the people who comment on my blog (or e-mail their comments to me). It's nice to know that people read this thing and it's not just floating around aimlessly in cyberspace :)

some countries are just sexier than others

I'm proud of being Portuguese. I think we have the most charming European capital, the best grilled fish, and enough coast for any beach lover. I have to admit, though, that Argentina -- with its pin stripe suited "chorros" and leggy ladies -- is much sexier.

Portuguese traditional dancing involves several couples, usually sweaty-looking in their frumpy skirts and long-sleeved shirts, skipping and twirling to the one-two-THREE of an accordian, various string and precussion instruments, and the somewhat whiney voices of elderly females. My parents did it, I've done it, my kids, if I ever have any, will probably be subjected to it too. It's the rhythm of our culture and we like it.

As everyone knows, the national dance of Argentina is the tango. Last week Julia and I watched a tango show in the atmospheric basement of Cafe Tortoni, the oldest coffee joints in town (over 150 years in the biz). Taken on its own, tango is sensual -- enlaced legs, curved backs, brushing lips -- but compared with other national dances, it's downright hot.

The show was fabulous -- three couples, rotating wardrobes, dancing that was acrobatic, theatrical, entertaining. The musicians were as gorgeous as the dancers. Piano, accordion, double bass, set to often nostalgic and always romantic poetry. In my Latin American Politics class we read an article that talked about Peron's charisma -- apparantly he often borrowed the images and poetry of tango in his speaches, giving him that common touch that made him so appealing to the masses. It makes a lot more sense now...

We've seen it in the street, in our hostel, in formal, choreographed shows. I can't help thinking that if I had tango in my veins instead of marchas, I'd be a little swankier.

I guess some countries are just sexier than others. ...

PS Sorry about the lack of photos, but not all internet cafes are camera friendly. I will edit these entries and add my bs as photos as soon as I can. Check back!

random smiles in buenos aires

Every once in a while, Julia and I giggle to ourselves as we walk down the street. Sometimes we stop and stare. Here are some of the things that have tickled us in Bs As.

- waitresses in theatre cafes singing arias to bemused tourists, and then promptly picking up their dishrags and returning to their spots behind the expresso machine

- baseball-style candy vendors peddling their overpriced papas fritas and manjar-filled chocolates during the intermission in high-end theatres

- in the same theatre, advertisements being lowered with the main curtain at intermission and at the end of the show (I always knew musicals were comercial, but seriously...)

- cute male waiters carrying trays of cortados (served in glass cups where you can see the coffee floating above the milk) down busy centro streets without spilling (or mixing the layers)

the benefits of beef

Honestly, I don't like red meat all that much. It's OK every once in a while, but in Argentina it's everywhere: slapped on the bbq, on my spaghetti, minced and stuffed in empanadas. And I'll admit, it's good (this is where Patrick says "I told you so").

There is, however, a happier side-effect of being in a beef-producing country. Where there are cows, there is leather. And where there is leather...there are shoes.

I'm on my second pair since arriving in Bs As. I fell in love with a pair of brown suede boots on the first day, and just yesterday, wandering down Santa Fe where every second store sells shoes or books (heaven!), bought a pair of black flats. A pair of pretty shoes (with leather soles....sigh...) makes my day. But I'm done now. Besides the fact that I don't need them, another pair would neither fit in my budget nor my backpack. I'm even rubbing off on Julia who bought some daring boots yesterday. (Jay, I'm sorry, I did my best to point out all the round-toed boots but there was nothing doing. I take no responsibility for the pointiness of her purchase. But...she does look pretty hot.)

It's not that we necessarily plan shopping days, but Bs As is a city for strolling. The combination of trendy stores and a very favorable exchange rate is what gets us. We've been taking the city a neighbourhood at a time. There was "The Producers" on Bs As's Broadway, Corrientes St (Springtime for Hitler is even more ridiculous in Spanish, if you can imagine). And huge Teatro Colon, more ornate than any of the churches we've seen. In Canitas (culinary haven) there was dinner at Las Cholas -- we showed up at 10 and weren't seated until 11, but the grilled meats and veggies were cheap and delish. In La Boca we saluted the Boca Juniors stadium for Patrick and Maradona, before dropping some cash at la feria artesenal and settling down for cafe cortado (a variation on the expresso + milk formula) and media lunas (croissants). Palermo is our favourite strolling neighbourhood. It's got a few different areas: Palermo viejo, Palermo Hollywood, Palermo SoHo. I'm not the only one feeling the NY connection here. In general it's got a pretty plateau-ish feel for you Montrealers, shops and more restaurants than we could ever stomach on this trip. Then there was San Telmo with its cobblestone streets and antique stores, and Puerto Madero (old yucky port land recycled and turned into posh business and residential area, reminiscent of our neighbourhood in Lisbon).

We also did our Evita tourism in the last few days. On Sunday we visited the aptly named Museo Evita, housed in a beautiful old mansion. The museum sets up the idea of the two myths of Evita (saint or manipulative you-know-what on a power trip). They had some cool stuff, including a lot of her clothes. Unfortunately the contextual information was pretty uneven, and I didn't feel like it quite as fair as it set out to be. Regardless of what you think of her, though, there is no doubt she captured the imagination of millions of people. We paid a visit to her final resting place yesterday (her body was variously buried in Italy and Spain before finally making it back in the 70s) at Recoleta Cemetery. She's in her family's mausoleum (no graves in this cemetery, creepy house type things with coffins on shelves inside), with commemorative plaques and flowers on the outside.

Today we're heading going to check out a photo exhibit and have plans to spend the evening sipping coffee somewhere exciting. Tomorrow is our last day in Bs As. We're getting our legs waxed in the morning in preparation for Rio and then we'll see where the city takes us. We're ending our stay here at the theatre again. We leave Thursday am for Rio. Keep your fingers crossed, we're hoping the weather stays at mid-20 range it's at now.

PS For anyone looking for reading material (or curious about Chile after reading my blog for the past months...) I recommend Mi pais inventado (or My Imagined Country) by Isabel Allende. Just finished it and can't stop talking about it.

a vacation from the vacation

There are few things I remember from the family vacations of my childhood. There was Paris (or that time we saw "Beauty and the Beast" at EuroDisney), Rome (that place with a lot of scooters), Muscat (aka a really long car ride) or Goa (the hotel with the life-size chess board).

There are some memories that don't belong to any particular vacation, rather to the idea of what it means to holiday with the Sousas.

First, and foremost, the walking. My dad is an energetic man with long strides. He is also possibly the only person to have powerwalked the Champs Elysees -- and enjoyed it. That's the lasting image of our travels: Mum, Daniel and I wondering why we couldn't just stroll like everyone else, Dad on a schedule all of his own.

Dad would probably be pretty bored with me and Julia. We sleep in, we take leisurely coffee breaks in the afternoons, we stop in at every other shop on our way anywhere. Buenos Aires is a big, busy city with plenty to see and do, and after three days we we ready for a vacation from our vacation.

And so we went to Uruguay.

On Thursday morning we hopped a ferry across the way to Colonial del Sacramento, a small town (reputadely the most pictoresque) in Uruguay. We spent two wonderful days doing nothing much -- meandering down cobblestone streets, taking in tiny museums and big lunches, napping and watching the water.

There's another thing about family vacations -- well, about my dad really. In Oman I can see him pointing out the royal coat of arms on the cannons outside the old Portuguese forts. In Goa, it's him attempting to speak Portuguese to anyone who looks like they might be old enough to remember those colonial days. Today he talks about going to Timor Leste or S. Tome e Principe off the West coast of Africa. It's a strange tendency, but a natural one -- no matter how far away he goes, he's always looking for pieces of home.

Colonia was founded by the Portuguese in the early 1700s. That's why there are narrow cobblestone streets to wander and azelujos (painted tiles) on the houses. The Portuguese weren't there that long (until about 1760 when they signed some peace treaty with the Spaniards) but they left their mark in the architecture of the old town. All of the museums are housed in well-restored manors of Portuguese governors and officials, including the Portuguese Museum (made possible by a generous grant from the Fundacao Calouste Gulbenkien interestingly enough).


That's me with my arm around a bust of Camoes, the Shakespeare of Portugal.

What can I say...

I am my father's daughter.

argentinian spanish is strange

We're here! No photos just yet, but there is internet in our hostel so hopefully I'll be able to keep you updated. I've already been charmed by Buenos Aires...

PS if anyone reading this has Diego Freytes´e-mail address, let me know!