It's 7:30am on Christmas morning in El Chalten, Argentina. Tara and I had been up late chatting, drinking beer and wine and singing Christmas carols with citizens from various countries of the former British Empire. A festive evening which continued long after Tara and I went to bed. Needless to say, I now seem to be the only one awake. Reading Cryponomicon, taking in the view of Mt. Fitz Roy, and drinking coffee in the sunny living room of the hostel, I yawn. Loudly.
There seems to be a house-fly infestation at the hostel. I've grown used to having several of them on me at any given moment and casually waving them off the rim of my mug. The hostel owner, who doesn't not share my "it's-all-good" view, unholsters his can of RAID and fogs the room. It's early and I've only gotten a few hours of sleep and it takes me a moment to realize whats going on.
Yes, now I see, he's using an aerosol insecticide to kill the flies. I begin thinking that perhaps I shouldn't be breathing this stuff in. It certainly smells and tastes hazardous, but the hostel owner doesn't seem to notice so I figure I'm fine. Glancing up from my book, I hone in on a buzzing fly which happens to land on my coffee cup. I lift my arm to brush it away but before I can swing it dies and falls on the floor.
Staring at the dead fly, I stand, gather my things and move to the front yard. Ahhh, now this is Christmas. Listening to the flowing Rio Blanco, feeling the sun, and seeing the mountains, with book and coffee. I look over the yard and see that I'm not the only one awake. A quiet mountaineer, whom I know to be recovering from a strenuous rock/ice climb, is sitting in the grass and leaning against the hostel. He's got a 19-inch laptop on his lap, headphones, $150 weather-proof pants and a tattoo on his foot that says, "SIMPLICITY." Smiling a little, I recall what Cormack McCarthy said about "the wonderful invention of folly in all its guises and forms." But as always, with thoughts on folly, immediately after projecting them on someone else, they turn and stare you in the face. I self-reflect a bit. Folly morphs into vanity. Parts of Ecclesiastes stream by. Flashes of Evan Wilson using the term "futilitarian." I blink a few times, shiver, and return to my interrupted toil.
After a bit, Tara and I have a big breakfast, exchange gifts and wander around the mostly abandoned town. We notice a bar with outside seating happens to be open. We stop, glance lazily at the menu and, BAM! There it is. A word we haven't seen for what seems like years. It's just a word, but it seems to glisten on the ragged, oft-soaked paper menu: "Ale." We stare at each other and slump onto a bench. An actual pale ale is brought. Then an IPA. In the overwhelmingly lager-loving Patagonia we know exactly what this is: A Christmas Miracle.
Over the next few days of constant bus travel and finding last minute lodging (or not and just pitching the tent) we scour the markets of various one-horse towns and find several more ales. Believe it, people, hops do exist down here! And everything continues to come up Oar.
We managed to get out of Southern Patagonia. It was breathtaking and soul-rending at every turn, but it had some typical hyper-tourism drawbacks. Now being in the central region, things are very much to our liking. The Austral Highway is the main attraction here. It takes weeks to see and effectively weeds out the short-time tourists. Roads are bad, internet is basically nil, travelers have the thousand-yard stare... but we've got Ale! Oh and there's the still-breathtaking, still-hike-able Andes Mountains, loaded with hot springs, flyfishing, fjords, volcanoes, glaciers... all that vanity.
Well, citizens, it's been a month and of course, we've been having a phenomenal time. We began the trip with about a week in Buenos Aires, Argentina. That city is absolutely frenetic. It was a bit overwhelming, really. We're still unsure about when exactly they work. Things seem to open up around 10 or 11 am. Everything closes for 3 or 4 hours from anywhere between noon to 6pm. Even the grocery stores just shut the doors. Restaurants start opening up around 8pm, but nobody is really eating until 10 or 11 pm. Then everything is open all night. All the while, the streets, parks, public spaces are all absolutely packed with people. Packed.
From Buenos Aires we got on a boat to Colonia, Uruguay, spent a few hours in this beach town, then headed down the coast to Montevideo. It was a wonderful, slower change of pace from Buenos Aires. A large city with beautiful architecture, boulevards, and lovely people. Everyone is incredibly friendly, speaks nice, slow Spanish, and is generally quite relaxed. They are obsessed with drinking yerba mate, making gigantic sandwiches and putting strange and delicious condiments / pickled veggies on everything. You should look up pictures of chivitos... their "national sandwich." One easily stuffed both Tara and me.
After 5 days in Montevideo, we headed back to Buenos Aires and were surprisingly happy to be back. We were swept back up in the constant-action and it was great to see some old familiar faces of people still lounging at our hostel. People would seem to get stuck there for weeks. This very thing happened to us...
We were planning on a couple more days, then heading south, but we kept finding ourselves adding more time to our stay. We took some Spanish lessons, which really helped. The local dialect is pretty gnarly, but just as we were starting to learn the tricks, we flew to Ushuaia, Argentina.
This town was absolutely gorgeous. Claiming to be the southern-most city in the world, it's actually just north of a Chilean naval town... but who wants to see that, right? Sunrise is at 3:30AM and sunset is 11PM. It's surrounded by the snowy and rocky Andes Mountains and the Beagle Channel. Stunning to say the least. We managed to avoid getting ripped off by the National Park down there and instead just hiked out of town and up to the base of a glacier. All in all it was about 10 miles a day and very picturesque. We sprang for a b&b with our very own room here, too! After a couple weeks of dorm life, we relished every moment of staying in this little chalet. We also met an old gentleman from Salem, OR, there. Of course we did.
From there we took a 16 hour bus-ride to Puerto Natales, Chile. This town is sort of the jumping-off-point for hiking in Torres del Paine National Park. At our hostel we made quick friends with a young couple from New York City, Eaman and Archana. They're also traveling for a year or so, and it turned out they were planning the very same route on a 5-day hike as Tara and I. It was nice having some buddies on the trail.
The hike out there was all kinds of majestic. The first day we took a bus to the park, got on a ferry across an ultra-marine blue lake , which then dropped us at the trail head. We hiked up a valley and camped at the terminus of a massive glacier. This thing flowed out of the of the mountains and ended on a minty green lake. It appeared to taper from about 1000ft thick to the 30 ft vertical wall that would drop large chunks of ice into the lake (though we never saw this). We sat watching and listening to it rumble and crack for several hours until sunset. Being from states which have glaciers all over the mountains, we'd never had much interest on the subject. But we'd never seen or heard anything like this. We are glacier people now. Deal with it.
The next day we hiked all day to the base of a valley and camped. The following morning, we left our stuff, took some water and went up the valley 4 miles to this humongous three-sided bowl. One side was covered with snow and glacier-plastered mountains and the two other sides with glacially-carved granite towers (torres). On the one side, snow and glaciers were breaking up and shifting sending avalanches of varying size down the banks of the mountain every 15 minutes. It was a thunderous and again, ethereal experience.
We returned to camp, packed up and hiked down to yet another camp, one which had showers, beer, wine and snacks... roughing it! The next day we hiked to, and camped at, the base of the Torres del Paine themselves. That evening, climbing higher and higher, the 50mph wind gusts began to contain hail and ice. Freezing, we reached the Torres and were again blown away (pun intended). Such strange beauty... check out the photos, which of course don't do anything justice, but will give you an impression.
We hiked out the following day and then caught a bus to El Calafate. Now sitting in our comfy hostel's living room and looking over the town, we're taking a down-day. Tomorrow we head to El Chalten and begin a 3-day hike around Mt. Fitz Roy. Another strange spire-like granite peak surrounded by beautiful tooth paste-green lakes. Or so they say. We'll hike out on Christmas Eve and enjoy Christmas at a hostel in El Chalten. Being beef country, they'll undoubtedly slaughter a beast for the occasion.
Needless to say, after a month, all is well here.
Yo, Camera! Great to see you again! It's been ages... man, it's like you've been avoiding me. Haha!
Yeah, man, I've been totally great! Thanks for asking.
Oh, you meant them, of course, yeah, Tara and Patrick are doing great, thanks for asking? Man, the three of us totally slayed Torres del Paine. Seven nights, 90 miles, it was epic brosef!
What? You were there? What the heck, chief, I didn't see you at all! Was it just 5 days and 53 miles? Yeah, I guess you're right. I must have gotten mixed up. Heh... stupid.
Come on man, give me a break...
Fine. Yes. I exaggerated, but it's all good brother!
Yeah man, I did great out there man. Man, it poured one night and I just got all flexed all night and they were just cold chillin' driz-eye, you know?
No bro, come on man, they weren't cold... they was cold chillin'. Man, its like we're not even speaking the same language. Anyway, they couldn't have done it without me.
Dude, you don't gotta be like that, come on! I mean, yeah, they could have rented a tent. But it ain't the same, you know? We've got a rapport going here and we're a pretty tight unit. G-Unit!
Yeah, it was sick man, Grey glacier, flowing from the mountain and ending on the lake with a 30ft wall, dropping big icebergs into it. Not to mention the snow breaking up on the glaciers in the mountains. They must have seen like a dozen avalanches! Just boom boom BOOM! Snow and ice crashing, just all nutty. Oh, and don't even get me started on the Torres themselves. Those things is sick! Man, you seen 'em didn't you, bro?
Hay-ull yes brother! Bump it. Hey, come on, bump it chief. Bump it. What heck, you can't be leaving my knuck's in the wind like this... hit me... bump it chief! Cheesy. That's just a cheesy way to treat... Hah! There you go! You like that don't you? You leaving? Bump and run, I see how you is!
Maté, pronounced "mah-tay," is an herbal tea service. I'm not surprised if you've heard of it, or even drank it, as I'm sure Tom Cruise or Sean Penn or Brangelina popularized it at some point in their never-ending quests for happiness and their general affection for introducing something into American culture whereupon it immediately becomes "hippie crap." Like slack-lining. Or self-worship.
However, here in Uruguay, maté is actually something. Something great. I don't want to say its "a way of life," but more of a "life-support system" without which the citizens would certainly shrivel up and cease to exist. Though it's also traditionally enjoyed all over Argentina, Paraguay and southern Brazil, here in Uruguay it's a ubiquitous, all-day affair. And rightly so, considering they pride themselves in enhancing the system with the use of a thermos. Which, of course, "liberated the maté from the home." That's right, here in Uruguay, its all about equality.
So, you have your maté (a hollow, cured gourd) usually a small pumpkin roughly the size of a coffee cup. You fill it about 3/4 full with yerba (an herbal tea mixture pronounced "shaer-ba.") You've got a bombilla (a metal straw with a filter on the end) which you stick in the dry yerba. Add some cold water and the yerba will expand so the gourd is mostly filled with yerba and your bombilla is stable and secured... think fence post. Now, you add hot water from your thermos and drink. Usually you can only get about a 1/5 cup of water in there, so just a few sips and you're adding more water. This must be drunk all day in every circumstance so one must pack a thermos of hot water everywhere.
The most common way of thermos-transport is under the drinker's non-dominant arm with the maté in the non-dominant hand. I'd say about 50% of the people are walking around with a chicken arm, thermos tucked in the wing and their lips wrapped around the bombilla. Having the dominant arm free allows them to do just about anything else whilst enjoying yerba maté. Standing on the bus? No problem. Breast feeding? No problem. Riding your motorcycle with your dog on the gas tank? Again, no problem... dominant arm operating the vehicle, thighs clutching perrito, mouth suckin' away and the thermos at the elbow you've got yourself a typical Uruguayan. This person even waves leisurely to friends at 40mph with the dominant hand. Go ahead Sean Penn, give it a try. Please.
However, the real beauty comes in the social aspect of it. It's meant to be shared and there are some serious customs when it comes to this. I won't go into them here but basically if you're talking with a Uruguayan, you're gonna be getting some yerba maté... and it'll keep coming so long as you don't say, "gracias."
We LOVED Buenos Aires, oil spills and malignant capitalism (?) aside. This huge, beer-drinking, pizza-eating, classic-rock-loving, political, frenetic, dancing, hyper-colorful, art-centric, GORGEOUS city really suited us! There is beauty everywhere you look: architecture is stunning, the parks make you want to linger for hours (and you do!), even people's clothing is just... pretty! The city buzzes with energy all day and night. It has the grace of any European metropolitan center juxtaposed with the incongruous helter-skelter spirit of any place where two or more South Americans are gathered.
For instance, you've just had delicious espresso served to you in demure demitasse cups by a bow-tied waiter at a sidewalk cafe, you toss a few pesos onto the immaculate white table cloth and step out across the plaza, and around the corner... THE CACOPHONY OF A PARADE DRUMS BANGING FLAGS WAVING PEOPLE CHEERING AND BOOING AND THE HONK HONK HONNNNNK OF TRAFFIC STOPPED FOR BLOCKS AND BLOCKS IN THE SWELTERING MIDDAY HEAT OF RUSH HOUR!
We're on a giant boat to Uruguay. Crossing mouth of the Rio de la Plata. It is said to take about 3 hours. Thankfully I have my newly purchased pipa antigua. The water is brown and looks pretty silty. Out of the wind, at the back of the ferry, we're discussing Buenos Aires. As we watch the boat's oil leak and burble to the surface about 50 feet behind the boat, we notice that the water is not as brown as we thought. With the pudding-brown oil bubbles, the water actually seems a little more green in color. These basketball-sized orbs are bursting through the water's surface along the right wake at a rate of 4 per second. They expand to about 10ft in diameter before they join into the continual oil slick which looks to be about 50 feet in width and will no doubt span the river.
Why do I tell you this? For the countless metaphors of course!
Diego, the owner of our hostel in Buenos Aires is a very generous and helpful man. He would no doubt say these oil balls are a clear depiction of the American government and the water would be the American people. Or perhaps even the world. How do I know he would say this? Well, as he was showing us a map and drawing on it a good little walking tour of museums, green spaces, and cafes, he let slip, "I've lived in America and I've found the people to be the nicest folks in the world. That is not a lie, they are kindest and sweetest people I've ever met. However, they are incredibly uninformed and I believe brain-washed by the government. You see, the American government is the cancer of the world... no offense." We gave him the wide-eyed, head-tilted, open-mouthed smile and said, "Oh of course, none taken." We're much too uninformed and kind and sweet to agree with or contradict this statement so we just kept up with the smiling until he pointed out another museum on the map.
As we were leaving the hostel a few days later, we were trying to cut weight in our bags and I came across my copy of Allan Bloom's The Closing of the American Mind. I was hoping to re-read it on this trip, but thought it would better serve as a gift for Diego. He was very grateful and excited to read it. Perhaps it will give him a more robust argument against America... one which will span our parasitic education system and art culture as well. And he'll need that ammo, because we all know that once Herman Cain gets elected our government will become the envy of the world.
So, after this, we'd been in B.A. a few days and we know the ropes. Ropes like calling Buenos Aires, "B.A." And ropes like if your on a city bus and an old lady comes on in a wheelchair, you by no means give up your standing-room-only spot. Anyway, we'd been roaming some of the "rougher," less-touristy neighborhoods and we came across a poster for a Led Zeppelin cover band at a place called The Cavern. Images of the bar in From Dusk Till Dawn sprang to mind and being that we're hopped up on blood sausage we decide we must go. It turned out to be on the same night as this all-night block party celebrating reading and authors. They'd closed down one of the main streets for about a mile and there were literally thousands of people out. The concert was scheduled to start at midnight so we hung out at the reading party until it began. It was interesting to be there, however we still don't understand why it was so insanely packed with people. Nobody seemed to listen to the readings or buy any books... I suppose it was just another good excuse to go drink in public.
Anyway, at 12:30 we start making our way to The Cavern. We see a massive crowd milling around of a small door in between two run-down buildings. We pass through multiple steel gates with police and security everywhere. All of this was building our expectations to unattainable heights and we were getting very nervously excited. We posed questions to each other like, "what's the moshing protocol in Argentina?" And, "will they catch us when we stage dive?"
Well, we got through security and saw a strange sight. A lush, well lit courtyard with high-end shops. It was though this entire block in the ghetto was hollowed out and surrounded with fake, rough-looking projects and behind them was this huge, gringo tourist trap equipped with German pubs, Irish pubs, designer clothing stores. Amidst this nonsense we find The Cavern, which on normal nights is actually a Beatles-themed dinner theater. What?? Yeah.
We should have been tipped off that it was a theme park for people in their 60's (no offense Mom) with the bar's name being in English... or the massive security presence... but we just couldn't imagine we weren't throwing caution to the wind. We went in anyway and of course it was awful. As a rule, English-as-a-second-language Led Zeppelin must suck, but these guys weren't even trying. They were dressed like members of Metallica and the lead singer had hair like Keith Urban. The drummer was incredibly drunk and at one point they had to stop mid-song so he could offer water to the crowd? We were all nicely seated and politely listening, with all the water and beer we could ever want.
Needless to say, Tara and I spent an hour laughing hysterically and making fun of everything. We were about to leave early, when they announced it was their last song. One hour. Whoa Nelly! We know rock-n-roll is dead, but in Argentina I doubt it had ever lived. But don't judge them by this. After all, these people invented Tango and silicone butt-implants.
Anyway, in theme with the leaking-oil metaphor, you've got this tourist mall breaking it's whitehead through the working class (and/or non-working class) neighborhood's skin. One hopes the acne will not burst open and spread and join the flow of the others... but alas, there's a McDonald's... and there's a T.G.I. Friday's... and soon it will be one conjoined oil slick stretching from Alaska to Ushuaia.
I awoke to find Tara and Patrick sweating and huddled over their Vietnamese soup. As usual, they'd added too much chili oil and jalapenos making coherent conversation nearly impossible. Their vigorous slurping would vaporize the fiery broth. In aerated form, they inhaled the spice, thus, restricting their airways and resulting in a bizarre spasmodic combination of choking and coughing. Much to the dismay of the other patrons, this did not stop their conversation which had morphed into a loud, wheezing mess. It was their last night in Seattle and the flow of nostalgia would not be contained.
The past two weeks had been spent between Salem, OR and Moscow, ID. Logging as much time as possible with family and friends, they'd somewhat grown accustomed to the familiar way of hometown life. Now, back in Seattle, they felt sort of strange to be leaving for so long. Exaggerating this feeling was the party of 15 at the next table over. It consisted of a large family with several generations present. Their conversations were an echo of Patrick and Tara's time spent at home. The aunts and uncles were eagerly catching up with the nieces and nephews, while the in-laws grouped together at the end of the table as a sort of strength-in-numbers survival tactic.
With chapped and seared lips Patrick and Tara discussed the many family events they would not be present for. It was a reckoning of the familial costs for this trip. They both had known they would miss their families once they were in South America, but they hadn't anticipated this strange, sober feeling prior to leaving.
Though their conversation was earnest, the soup's constant demand for attention won them over. Now silenced, they spent the remainder of the meal happily eavesdropping on the large family gathering. When the hell-fire in their mouths was under control, and their bowels beginning to rumble, the bill arrived and their mirth was returned anew.
Yo, bro, sup?
Yeah brother, they're good people.
Oh you know, shoot, they snagged me used from REI. The lame-o's that returned me claimed I wasn't "breathable." What's that about? You see lungs here? A diaphragm? Seriously bro, I'm a tent... with vents. It seems obvious to me they were just some gear-junkies and cheesing on REI's return policy. They probably re-upped on some overpriced MSR monstrosity or something. But, you know, Tara and Patrick, they saw how fresh I was.
Well no, I haven't got the experience that Quest has. My goodness, that chick is a stud. But someday I hope to be there. Heck, even better! But, they've used me a handful of times... Yellowstone... the Oregon coast... I held out that Northwest rain no problem. I know, it's pretty basic stuff really, but man, I'm am stoked for Patagonia! I'm gonna rock that thing! I'm hungry and I'll prove my worth. I've heard rumors that I might "lack interior space," but big things come in small packages, baby! Ain't that right? Yeah!
Hey, where you going? Yeah, OK, I'll talk to you later!
Well, Camera, as you know, it's been hard lately. But as for my life? Well, I can't imagine any other. I earned my stripes as a rental at the University of Idaho Outdoor Program. Most tents don't survive one season in that sort of environment. You get newbies. You get pets. You get campstoves being used inside of you. I had often stared into the abyss unflinching while being pitched at all sorts of angles on all sorts of substrates. I survived those two years no problem. Had a few dings and leaks, but those were patched and I was put on the open market.
Patrick spotted me at the U of I scratch-n-dent sale. I was marked down to $15. He opened me up, stretched me out, and crawled inside. It was absolutely wonderful. He was in me for several minutes and he even took a little nap. Someone that exhausted was in the need of a little shelter and I knew if he picked me I would never let him down. As he meticulously rolled me up he pointed out some of my scars to the sales lady. I thought he was complimenting me since these are sure signs of my survive-ability and repair-ability. But then he offered $10 for me. I was stunned. The gal said she thought it was fair but she would have to ask her boss. Betrayed! As she wandered off, I recounted my brief relationship with Patrick and yes. Yes. We had hit it off... but still, he didn't see these marks as good thing at all. He'd completely misunderstood me.
Yet, still I was inexplicably drawn to him. I needed his acceptance, his affection. I wished I could tell him the price wasn't my fault and that it shouldn't come between us. I wished I could tell that though I had been hurt in the past, it shouldn't be seen as a problem with me but a sign of the cruelty of this world. He knew I'd been used by and passed around the frat houses... men with seemingly no feeling who would let their friends use me like some sort of object for their amusement. One of these disgusting bastards even used me as a pillow one night... deemed me unneeded because of the "favorable" weather. Now I could see Patrick felt the same way. Damaged merchandise was all he saw.
But something was happening. He was clutching me to his chest and muttering something. The sales lady had returned and said her manager wont let her sell it at that price. She was reaching for me and at that moment I didn't know who I wanted to be with less. Patrick was shaking his head; his heart was racing. Trembling he opened his wallet and seemed to intentionally show me it's contents: $11. All he had in the world. He was willing to give up 89% of his net worth for me!
He clutched me tightly with one hand and with the other held out the full $11. She gave him a dubious look. But in looking at me, she see realized my happiness, my sense of purpose, my life was in her hands. She begrudgingly took the $11 and waved us on. There's no doubt in my mind she was fired on the spot. Such generosity rarely goes unpunished.
Regardless, it was the happiest day of my life. And as you know, there were many fantastic times with Patrick. And when he married Tara the three of us were inseparable. You were there for many of them... -20 degrees at Stanely Hot Springs, Olympic National Park, the North Cascades, the Bitterroots, the Floodwoods... more than I can count. We even spotted Bigfoot one time. Sun, snow, rain, they were all wonderful and I was glad to have shared some them with you. Feel free to share.
...Those good times seem so far away now. I can barely recognize the Patrick of old. He recently paid $100 for a used REI 4-season. $100? I won't even try to comprehend what that means about him... or me, for that matter. Recently, I overheard them offer me to a friend who's never camped before. Kind of symbolic isn't it? It's like I'm back to where I had started. I'm being thrust into this situation now but I fear my days of slaying dragons are behind me. It's becoming very clear to me the end is near. The day is close at hand. The day when the all too-honest price tag is placed upon my lapel. I'd like to be alone for a while, if that's alright.
Huh?
Hang on, let me pull my ear buds... what's up?
Yeah, Tara and Patrick, what about 'em?
Yeah, they're OK.
Expand? Yeah... sure, I guess, you know... they pay the rent on time and they're easy on my floor. They tend to give me plenty of free time, which I like. I've certainly had better, but they'll do for now.
OK, I'll give you that. "Technically" they sound like model inhabitants but I can see right off you've never allowed them to live in you. I mean, yeah, they pay the rent on time and what not, but it's the little things, you know? Say, for instance, their music library seems to consist almost entirely of Paul Simon. Don't get me wrong, I dig Duncan as much as the next one-bedroom apartment but do I need the original AND several alternate versions every day? It wouldn't kill them to play some Pearl Jam. Or Hendrix? This is Seattle, right? Oh! And why all the squash soup? I know Tara is said to be a phenom in the kitchen... but can squash soup really be all that sustains them? They make that stuff, like, every week, they bake up the seeds and practically feed them to each other. The whole display is just... preposterous.
And actually, what I'd said about them giving me free time, I made that up. They're gone maybe half the weekends but the rest of the time consists of them moping around... Patrick waxing hysterical about whatever Russian novel he's currently reading. Tara will sometimes discuss these ravings with him but typically she's more focused on trying to diagnose the characters with rare and un-heard of diseases. Heh. Yeah. These two.
But yeah, that being said, they aren't awful, just... forgettable. Speaking of which, and I hate to get my hopes up, but lately I've been getting the impression that they're short-timing it here. And shoot, you know I'm dying to be back on the market. I've got a lot to offer, I mean take a look:
http://maps.google.com/maps?q=328+Bellevue+Ave+E+seattle,+wa&ll=47.621988,-122.326241&spn=0.000029,0.02105&hnear=328+Bellevue+Ave+E,+Seattle,+Washington+98102&gl=us&t=m&z=16&vpsrc=0&layer=c&cbll=47.621984,-122.326382&panoid=7_8_H8uB41riTcaqBSoa3A&cbp=12,135,,0,0
They don't put just anything on Street View. I'm middle-aged, middle-classed, sexually un-oriented. Cynical, skeptical, and sarcastic. And when I'm in public, I don't care how strange you look, I'll pretend not to notice you. I'm everything your typical Seattle soul needs. Come and get you some.
It's 7:30am on Christmas morning in El Chalten, Argentina. Tara and I had been up late chatting, drinking beer and wine and singing Christmas carols with citizens from various countries of the former British Empire. A festive evening which continued long after Tara and I went to bed. Needless to say, I now seem to be the only one awake. Reading Cryponomicon, taking in the view of Mt. Fitz Roy, and drinking coffee in the sunny living room of the hostel, I yawn. Loudly.
