Travel Update, Part 1: Puerto Montt

I have lots of pictures to post, but they're not for the dialup connection of the beautiful ranch house I'm now typing from. So here's text through yesterday (in two posts).

I need to learn to slow down. In Puerto Montt, a pretty girl stopped and looked at me, popsicle in pose. "¿Tienes un cigarette para la chica?" I could have said a dozen things: "Not on me, can I offer you something else?" Instead, just like I would some days in English, I mumbled a "No," and moved on. But she was there: "¿No fumar?" "Not today-- want some fruit juice?" Instead, another, "No." Still, she tried, as I walked by, but too fast for me to follow. I half pretended I didn't hear. It's must have made her feel crumby.

My first afternoon in Puerto Montt, I headed out along the shore, walking well outside of the town center. Suddenly, I came apon an interminable row of tourist handicraft stores, and was surrounded by elderly, camera-toting, English speakers, like there was a great granparent relocation program. The street finally ended in an resort-looking, fish-smelling shopping center, with a big entrance and no exit. I decided to pull a Vandiver and took for the hills. I didn't get much into the wilderness, but I did get yelled at by Chilean from his window.

The next day, I went on a full-day tour of Chiloe, the first island drip off Chile's sopping nether-regions. The jolly tour guide, who kept tweaking his nipples, told our group plenty in Spanish that I couldn't follow. A dutch hosteller came too (which created a pocket of English around us), but the tour was fun for the pictures and the boat trips. The plantlife has a huge diversity there, but Chileans are not to be outdone. In the US, the Smith house is white (with picket fence). In Chile, I think it's blue, with green trim, and has an orange roof.

At a fort in Chiloe, another tourguide asked if I wanted him to take my picture for me. "No, gracias." "Oh! ¿Que pais? ¿Frances?" "Los Estados Unidos." "Ah! So who do you want for president? Osama? Edwards? Clinton? Who are you going to vote for?" "Um, probably Obama." He shook my shoulder. "Yes! I too think Obama will bethe next. He's young! Brings change."

Travel Update, Part 2: Bariloche

The following morning, I took off for Argentina. The Andes are incredible here: densely forested up to their oddly-shaped tops, licked by whispy clouds; wild flowers and fields; the occasional earth-toned home; unspoilt lakes. A gregorious Ecudorian professor with a Desperato look kept up an unbroken stream of chatter behind me, but it's a good day for it.

The customs building looked like a park service cabin. We were held up for a while at the Argentinian border while customs officers pulled out all the luggage and the drug-sniffing dogs (one of whom took his task in zest, and the other who seemed more interested in attention from his handler). The even opened the AC vent. The largest sign nearby read "Drugstore", naturally on the side going back to Chile.

By the time I got to Bariloche, the last bus to Neuquen had left, but I'm happy I stopped. Bariloche is a tourist town again, but with a totally different audience: active tourists, students on break, skiing or nature-loving (bats don't wink there at my huge bag). The whole town looks like it was built by the three bears, all lincoln logs and big stone structures. I didn't go out into the wilderness, but I didn't need to with the a beautiful lake a feather's throw away. Bariloche is very diverse, and appears to love its chocolate. There's a fair amount of English spoken or known, but I hear its epidemic. And I'm definitely getting my tan on (really my sunburn, but who's counting?).

All the hostels in Bariloche were booked, until the hostel desk worker helping me finally found one 18 km out of town. The place was fantastically laid-back: the sleeping room didn't have beds, just two shelves of mattresses, the kitched wasn't clean or organized, and the check-in process consisted of filling out a line on a register (everyone else on my page was Argentinian or Brazilian, except 1 Canadian) and paying at some point: just make do and have fun, the place shouted. Another day, I would have rode that groove, but I tried to make it an errand day. Sadly, Sunday isn't the best day for that, so I ended up mostly just busing around, but that's all the fun of the game.

For the third time in my wanderings, I've come upon two British women talking together about a mutual male friend and how "big" he was or wasn't. Are British women size queens? I've been having lots of other deep thoughts, but not for public consumption.