Hostel Livin'

We arrive! Backpacker-chic.

I reached a milestone the other day. A benchmark. A highpoint. A goal, of sorts, that I didn’t know I had. I became the dude in the hostel passed out on the couch with legs and arms askew and drool running down the side of his face while people came and went and either wondered how tired a person would have to be in order to sleep through the current commotion in the present stifling heat or simply smiled the knowing smile. 

“Epic,” Jeff Bridges’s voice keeps saying in my mind. 

Not really. But it definitely was a long proverbial way from the fluffy pillows and daily hot showers that my soft feet and I enjoyed before starting this rabbit-hunt.

Joy and I had just reached Mendoza, Argentina after riding the night-bus from Santiago, Chile – to where we had gotten after riding the day-bus from Curico – and, of course, spending the requisite hours on either end sitting on floors in crowded, hot bus stations. It was five-thirty in the morning, and thanks to a two-hour 2am customs and immigration stop, we were exhausted. Fortunately, Joy had emailed ahead to Mendoza and found a friendly hostel with a friendly couch. We showed up, rang the timbre by the locked security gate, introduced ourselves to the extremely nice guy manning the night-desk, followed him to the hostel’s sala de estar, dropped our backpacks on the floor, and collapsed onto the couch – where we woke four hours later to a crowded hostel and quickly wiped the drool off of our respective faces and tried to mash down our bus/couch hair.

Not our couch, but probably just as comfy.

It’s early March, and we had been in five countries and some 15-odd hostels before this one, but this was the first time I had managed to pass out in the lobby. I’ve seen it done plenty of times, especially by surfers – who, by the way, look in real life exactly the way they do in the movies: really blond, really tan, and really barefoot as they really carry those surfboards everywhere – and I’ve often marveled at their ability to relax to couch-drooling levels. In fact, it seems like everywhere we’ve been there has been someone passed out somewhere – except maybe in Mancora, where the surfers at our hostel were from Argentina, and were very loud – All. Night. Long.

Breakfast table, sans Nescafe

Hostel-living in general has been a new experience for me. Joy is pretty familiar with it; of course, she doesn’t have to battle the same kinds of “stick-in-the-ass” issues that I do (for example: she just warned me not to lean too close to her armpits). But I’m getting more used to it. (Meaningless side-note: even though I am failing miserably at learning this new language, my currently ever-translating mind really hates the use of “getting” and “used to” in the previous sentence, and wants to change it to “…I am becoming more accustomed to…”; however, I think such an edit might run counter to the larger “stickless-ass” point I‘m trying to make, so I’m going to leave it as-is; just don’t ask me to translate it). Every hostel we’ve been to has been a little different from the others, but they’ve all served desayuno (breakfast) – some better than others, and some with that dreadfully rotten creation that is Nescafe – and the people have all been very nice, both the people running the hostels and the other guests.

Hostels aren’t like the Holiday Inns and Ho-Jo’s I had grown accustomed to, where everyone else’s stick matches the one I used to have, and we’ve met a lot of very interesting people, although I’m sure I haven’t met near as many as I should have by now. Unlike my friend, Jon (shit- I mean “my brother-in-law”. It’s like I have a whole new family!), who can walk into any room and immediately become friends with everybody in it, I can usually leave a room two hours after entering it without anyone even knowing I was there. But the ones I have managed to talk to have been great. The natural camaraderie that exists in hostels that are generally full of other travelers makes breakfast conversations easy – even when there are three or four different languages involved – and interesting, especially when you meet someone who has just come from your next destination. And staying in these places has definitely exposed us to more of the language and culture than if we were always just holed up at a Hilton.

Another advantage of hostel-living is that there is usually good advice to be had regarding places to eat, hiking trails, and other inexpensive activities – not to mention the sage and invaluable advice on how to get to or from the bus station without getting mugged, pick-pocketed, or purse-snatched, and without Joy having to break a nail from punching someone who tries any of those things in the nose. And most of the hostels we’ve stayed at have been extremely helpful about storing our backpacks before or after late or early bus rides so that we don’t have to lug them around with us while we kill time (an ever-present part of backpacking – and another good reason to leave your stick at home), which to me is one of the most valuable services they provide.

Dorm beds and lockers

Price has also been a large factor in our decision to stay in hostels. Here, too, we likely share common ground with other budget travelers. Besides being such a better traveling experience than staying in hotels, it’s so much more economically feasible. Most hostels offer dorm room beds with a shared bathroom that are probably the best way to save money, but in the interest of full-disclosure, I should reveal that at my request we have stayed in private rooms everywhere we’ve been. Joy used to argue this point more vigorously in the beach towns with dorm-rooms full of half-naked surfers than she does now.

One hostel's tattered book exchange

Something else I have learned during this hostel-living journey is the value of used book exchanges. Most of the hostels have had them, in some form or another, which is a really good thing because it is not a pretty sight when Joy runs out of books to read. She starts reading entire menus from front to back before ordering a cup of coffee. She reads the shampoo bottle, the conditioner bottle, the soap wrapper, and the toothpaste tube, all while brushing her teeth – usually leaving toothpaste foam on the bathroom mirror, the faucet, the sink, and on the back of the toilet (don’t ask me). She starts picking up old newspapers out of the gutters and old candy bar wrappers out of the trash-can just to see what they might say. All quite endearing qualities, and her voracious appetite for reading is extraordinary, and very admirable, but everything just seems to flow so much more smoothly if there are enough new books around, something that the hostels are very helpful with.

Like couches. Those temporary beds for road-weary travelers who need a place to fall while their bodies catch up to the new turn of the earth’s axis, their minds try to remember which planet they’re on, and while the drool makes its slow journey from the corners of their mouths, down their cheeks, and drips off of one earlobe or the other. Epic.

Welcome to Buenos Aires

We took the nightbus to Buenos Aires Friday night (It was 13 hours long. Zac wants credit.)

We decided to take a chance on which way was north, and were blearily making our way through a park when a man ran up to us and excitedly pointed out that Zac's backpack and pants had been splattered with grease. We were pretty sure the man had done it himself so he could grab our bags when we were cleaning up, but before I had a chance to punch him in the face, another man ran over and scared the first away. He tried to explain that he was with the police and we should watch out for tricksters trying to grab anything they could, but we didn't trust his plainclothes and chintzy, laminated ID, so we hoofed it to the hotel.

We didn't lose anything, and the grease came out, but next time I step out in Buenos Aires' I'm bringing my ganas de pelear.

Wine Tasting Tour

We were in Mendoza, Argentina. The book says it is a crime to visit Mendoza and not visit a vineyard... or three. So I put on my red lipstick and Zac took off his ballcap and we got on the bus.

It was full of loud Argentines from Buenos Aires (porteños) and two Chilean couples, one of which consisted of an elderly man with a cane and his wife. When they boarded, our bus driver proudly told the wife that after three glasses of real (read: Argentine) wine, her husband wouldn't need his cane anymore.

The wine tasting tour actually began at an olive oil factory where we learned that olives grow on trees and sampled various flavors of olive oil on bread with the purpose, our tour guide had informed us before letting us off the bus, of putting something in our bellies to soak up all the wine we were about to ingest. To hear her tell it, we were on the drunk bus of wine tours. We really didn't do that much tasting. I was disappointed. Zac was not.

To be fair, Zac tried every single glass of wine we were poured. And that's after a bumpy, loud, starting-and-stopping, initial forty-five minute bus ride. (Though he claims he should get credit for far longer.) I have before and after pictures:

We almost made a friend at the olive oil factory. One particularly loud, large porteño was eager to make us feel at home...at least, he was until he found out that Alaska isn't in Canada and we don't speak French. He stopped speaking to us after that.

Even though we're not from Canada, and not quick thinking enough to pretend to be, the wine tour was a success.

That last one is a prime example of Zac's "now go stand over there and look happy" face. Doesn't he, though??

In order to afford the wine tour, we spent a lot of time hanging out in Mendoza's (beautiful, enormous) city park and eating empanadas from the bakery. All in all, not much of a sacrifice.

Vendimia

This week in Mendoza, Zac and I went to the biggest party of the year.

Ok, it was maybe Mendoza's third biggest party. And if you know us, and our penchant for not researching a locale before picking up and moving there, you know that it certainly wasn't our intention. But when we stumbled into the hostel at 5:30am Sunday morning, we had inadvertently arrived smack dab in the middle of Vendimia, Mendoza's annual wine festival. (The still-partying revelers filling the streets around us should have been a clue.)

It's harvest time here, just like it was in Chile, and for mendocinos that means a week long party celebrating beauty and bounty. First, all the vineyards bring the first grapes of the harvest to this little chapel, to be blessed by La Virgen de la Carrodilla.

Then, they have a big parade through the streets of Mendoza, and all the pretty girls who are in the running to be elected reina, or queen, of Vendimia, throw things from the wagons like, oh, MELONS and BOTTLES OF WINE. It sounds like occasionally a spectator takes one of those to the head. Ouch.

Each one of these pretty girls represents a specific departamento of the province of Mendoza and store owners show their loyalty to one, or several, by placing their glamour shots in the front windows.

On Saturday night, in what I'm assuming really was the biggest party of the year, one of these girls was elected queen. That was the night Zac and I arrived and we sort of thought we'd missed it all. Little did we know. The election is such a big deal, and such an event, that they hold it again- not once, but twice over the following two nights. It's prefaced by a full-length concert and lasts until the wee hours of the morning.

Zac and I didn't know any of this. We just thought we'd go check out some local color in a little theater in the park. But pretty soon, as we neared the theater and noticed the HORDES of people coming along with us, as well as the multitude of (apparently legitimate) scalpers along the sides, we began to suspect that we were getting into something a little bigger than we'd expected.

So we don't know what's going on, and hadn't even realized you might need tickets to this thing. The little theater is ENORMOUS and so's the crowd. Zac and I get to the front of the line and a very friendly ticket-taker takes pity on us and explains that while you need tickets to enter the theater, you don't need them to climb the hills behind the theater and watch from on high. So we hike on up there with the rest of the broke-ass frugal people.

 

Everybody had brought their coolers and blankets and other tail-gating paraphernalia along. (We had a bottle of water and half a packet of Chilean cookies.) The city had a special screen set up just for all us hill-people so we could see what was going on and Mancha de Rolando played an entire concert before the event even started. People just kept pouring in- and this is the third night in a row! We already know who the queen will be! It was awesome.

Vendimia is officially over now. The posters are down and the fountains are running clear again. But if celebration is measured in wine consumption, then the party's still going for us me. And maybe by this time next year, we'll be ready to put our party hats on again.

Bienvenido a Mendoza

We made it to Mendoza, Argentina yesterday morning after an all-night bus ride with a 1am stop at the border for fun. We showed up at our hostel at 5:45am and asked if we could sleep on a couch in the sala de estar.  They not only said yes, but also served us coffee and bread a few hours later! God looks out for babies and fools...

Chile: Three Tips for Fitting In

One: Dress Right

Stonewash rules the streets in Chile. They make everything out of the stuff, from mini-shorts to manpris (capris worn by men). You can outfit the entire family!

This should come with a disclaimer that before I left the States, I lived in Alaska. Maybe this is the hot new thing everywhere. If it is, great! You're all one step ahead.

Two: Eat Right

Chile does sandwiches right. There's nothing fancy about them- just pick your meat (beef, pork or chicken) and add any or all of the following: tomato, avocado, or mayonnaise. The most popular way to order is "completo" or "italiano" with all three. I've yet to get confirmation from an actual Chilean, but I suspect it's called that because the toppings look like an Italian flag. Clever.

We ate them everywhere from fast food shops to fancy restaurants. No matter where we went, the sandwiches were delicious. 

Three: Drink Right

Carmenere is to Chile what Malbec is to Argentina. The grape only grows in Chile. It's been extinct in Europe for ages and they didn't realize that it survived in Chile until recently. Our winery guide was very proud when we purchased a bottle to take home. If only he knew what a help that bottle was during tax time.

Wine Country

 
We've spent the last few days in Curico, Chile, a small town way off the beaten tourist track and deep in the heart of wine country. And the only hard sell we've gotten was from the Gypsies in the town square who wanted to gift Zac with a gitana blessing.

Since we're in the middle of several Chilean vineyards, I was determined not to leave this place without seeing at least one and Zac, being the wonderful human being and husband that he is, made the trek with me (we opted out of taking the colectivo there), listened politely during the guided tour, and even manfully downed some tasters at the end. We found him some dark beer later to wash the taste out of his mouth.

When we're not wandering through town, unwittingly picking up stray dogs, we relax at the hostel. Their grassy patio is perfect for reading, writing and sunbathing. And it's convinced me that there's no better way to do your federal taxes than in Chile, in the sunshine, with half a bottle of wine at your side.