No Regrets!

After landing in Rapid City and getting a warm feeling inside when we saw our three bags waiting for us, we hopped over to the Hertz counter and picked up our shiny, big, white Toyota Highlander. Stepping out into the rental car parking lot, the air was fresh, with the scent of a distant wildfire. And the view was tremendous. Stef and I were excited to hit the road.

The short drive to Mount Rushmore took us through the Black Hills, so named because the dark green Ponderosa pines covering the hills makes them look almost black, especially when a cloud passes over. The landscapes were magnificent. Immediately, I knew that I’d need to resist the urge to stop the car every five minutes to take another landscape shot.

My trusty GPS took us straight to the Mount Rushmore parking lot, where Stef took extra care parking our big Highlander. After a short walk past the visitor center and café, there we were, standing right in front of George, Tom, Teddy, and Abe. After a bumpy start to the trip, it was so nice to finally be seeing something cool.

It’s bigger than I thought. And the perspective is weird. The trees below make it look like the whole thing belongs on a model train set. The sculptures are intricately carved, and striations in the rock slice through the presidents’ faces. Stef and I agree that the best thing about the sculpture is Abe Lincoln’s pouty lip.

We walked around a bit, and I took pictures like crazy. Unfortunately, the late afternoon sun is behind the memorial, so I vowed to return the next morning for some proper pictures.

When it got dark, we were happy to learn that there was a nightly performance and light show at Mount Rushmore, so we stuck around. I staked a good place for my tripod, and the crowd started to gather around us.

Having a tripod and a big camera makes me the go-to guy for “Can you take my picture?” We joked around with most of those people, but one particularly child-molester-looking guy that wandered over creeped Stef out. He had it all: the haircut that stayed unstylish no matter how many times he ran his hand through it, the engineer glasses, the mustache, the tucked in dress shirt, the Members Only jacket, the short pant legs, the awkward pauses, and the mistimed laughs. He made me take five pictures of him.

The “performance” was a park ranger coming out and giving us a melodramatic speech about the four presidents and their upbringing, followed by a short film about Mount Rushmore and its construction. The “light show” was a slowly illuminated spotlight on the presidents.

When it was time to find our campground, my GPS wasn’t so trusty. It led up into the hills on windy, pitch-black roads, and then told us to take a turn on a road that didn’t exist. Don’t trust the Garmin when you’re looking for the Mount Rushmore KOA. After stopping at three grungy motels for prices and availability, we finally bit the bullet and got a room. Probably best, since the beds were probably more comfortable than sleeping in a tent, and we badly needed a good night’s sleep.

It was a bumpy day, and moods flared, but everything worked out. We woke up this morning vowing to be in a better mood and looking forward to the first full day of our adventure.

Stef had a rough day at work and arrived at my house in bad mood. Her mood got worse when she realized I hadn’t packed yet.

True to form, I waited until the last possible minute to start packing. In fact, I didn’t even sleep last night, rummaging around my house looking for all my old Trek America paraphernalia while Stef tried desperately to sleep. Everything was finally packed at 4:11am, and the cab pulled up at 4:15am. The 5:45am flight is definitely the earliest flight I’ve ever taken.

Our first stop was Charlotte, due south from DC and annoyingly out of the way for a trip to Rapid City. But it’s a hub for US Airways, so a necessary stop.

After waiting for about an hour, we boarded our flight to Denver.

I like walking through first class and looking at all the people sitting there. Are they rich? Famous? What celebrity with a face I don’t recognize is sitting right in front of me? I’ve never actually seen a recognizable celebrity sitting in first class. Where do they sit?

We were the last few to board the plane, so all the overheard bins were full and there wasn’t any room for our carry-ons. This was exacerbated by the fact that we were sitting in 4A and 4B, the front row where there are no seats in front to put our bags under. Stef and I had a big carry-on bag, two big backpacks, and a tripod. So we had a problem.

I walked to the front and asked the flight attendant what I should do.

“You’ll need to check it,” she replied.

“What if I have stuff that needs to stay with me?” I was referring to the thousands of dollars worth of camera and computer equipment that I had in the two backpacks. I was hoping she’d be kind enough to help me look for space in the overhead bins further back in the plane.

“Then, you’ll have to take another flight,” she replied.

I didn’t like that. First of all, if they tell you at the gate before boarding that each person may take two carry-ons, and then there is no room for any of your carry-ons, they should at least make an effort to try to find room for you, not threaten you.

I ended up jamming my backpack between a couple of other bags in one of the overhead bins, and we got an offer from one of the celebrities in first class to put Stef’s backpack under her seat. Begrudgingly, we checked Stef’s big carry-on bag and hoped that it would meet up with the rest of our luggage at the end of our journey.

Annoyed, I sat down in my seat with my laptop. One of the flight attendants, an older woman with short hair dyed red so aggressively that her scalp was stained, told me that the laptop I was holding needed to be stowed in the overhead bin. She and I both knew that there was no room in the overhead bins, but she just had to say it as part of procedure.

I got up, opened up a bin, found the first available crevice, shoved my laptop into it, and slammed the bin closed with enough force to send a message.

Without missing a beat, this red-haired flight attendant asked if she could have a word with me out in the galley. The “galley,” for those who don’t know, is that little area by the door that you walk through when you first board the plane.

“This is a three and a half hour flight, and I don’t need to deal with someone who acts like that. Do you want to get off and take the next flight?”

“I’ll be cool,” I coolly replied.

“OK, then.”

For a moment, I was pretty sure she was going to throw me off the plane. I hear frequent media reports of disorderly passengers being thrown off planes, and I get the impression that they pull the trigger on that sort of thing pretty quickly. I guess I was lucky. If I looked Muslim, I would surely have been kicked off.

All of this, of course, did nothing to put Stef into a better mood. Three hours into our vacation, and she’s already fed up with me. She told me that we should have boarded earlier, when our “zone” was first called. OK, fine.

Looking out the window, checkered farmland gave way to an open, brown expanse, and finally, the Rocky Mountains in the hazy, blue distance. After landing, we booked it across the airport, only to learn that we missed our connection. Stef’s mood worsened.

We were placed on standby for the next flight out, but didn’t get on that one either. Finally, we got confirmed seats on the next flight to Rapid City. Hopefully, we’ll get to there in a couple of hours, where our bags and rental car will be waiting for us, and we’ll get out to Mt. Rushmore before the sun goes down.

I’ve never been to Denver before. It sucks.

This has been a really slow year for travel for me, probably my slowest in a decade. In 2010, I’ve been wrapped up with a lot of personal drama that hasn’t really allowed me to escape. A few weeks ago, when I saw a break in my schedule, I planned a last-minute vacation to Yellowstone National Park with my long-time friend, Stefanie.

After finagling our work schedules to get nine days off, we decided to make it a road trip that included Mount Rushmore and Glacier National Park. Seems like this is a pretty common route for tourists, although most usually take about two weeks to do it.

High last-minute fares mean that we have to take a 5:45am flight out of DC, but everything else seems to be working out perfectly. We’ll be taking the trip after Labor Day, so most of the family caravans will be home with kids back in school. The higher altitude and cooler weather means that the landscapes should be awash with fall colors, and there might even be a sprinkling of snow in Glacier National Park. And Going to the Sun Road, the main attraction of Glacier National Park, closes for the season on September 20, so we’ll just be able to get that in. And every night that the weather cooperates, we’ll be camping under the stars.

Stef and I have spent the last few days preparing. We got guidebooks and came up with a detailed road trip on Google Maps. Stef takes camping very seriously, so we took a trip to REI to get check out all the gear and get some new all-weather camping clothes. And since it’s looking to be a photographic extravaganza for me, I rented a huge telephoto lens to take with me. I hope Stef doesn’t mind carrying it.

Definitely looking forward to taking some time off, leaving my troubles behind, and breathing some fresh mountain air.

American Airlines lost my bag (and Doug’s) on our flight down to Rio de Janeiro. At the airport in Rio, a baggage service representative told me that I could spend US$25 to buy toiletries, and that it would be immediately refunded to me by American Airlines upon my return to DC.

I bought some toiletries to tide me over, and I also bought and a swimsuit and tank top, thinking American Airlines might extend themselves a bit and reimburse me for that, too. Finally, after 4 days on the phone talking to American Airlines people and Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport people, we got our bags.

When we returned to DC, I went to the American Airlines service desk. Instead of reimbursing me on the spot as the representative in Rio had promised, the disinterested lady behind the desk gave me an information card explaining what paperwork I had to mail into the AA corporate office to get the reimbursement.

Admittedly, I got tied up with a lot of things after getting home and put this on my to-do list. It took a while to get everything together, and a freak snowstorm meant that I had to wait an additional week before I could mail it. Finally, on February 15, 2010, I sent copies of my receipts and this letter to American Airlines:

American Airlines
Interim Expense Reimbursement
PO Box 619613 MD1322/HDQ
DFW Airport, TX 75261-9613

February 15, 2010

To whom it may concern,

On a trip to Rio de Janeiro in December 2009, American Airlines lost my bag for a total of 4 days.

After landing, I was told by the representative at the airport in Rio that it was “not in the computer,” but I was given a file locator number and told that they’d track it down and call me with more information when the bag turned up. He told me that I would have a US$25 credit for purchasing toiletries and essentials, to be refunded to me when I returned home on January 17, 2010.

We waited for a couple of days but heard nothing. At our expense, we called AA’s international baggage service number in the United States, but communication with the airline on this matter was ineffective. Nobody in your call center would pinpoint where the bag was or who was going to be delivering it or when. Each time they said it was on the way, it wouldn’t arrive, and we’d have to call the airline again for an update.

Since AA could not provide reliable information about when my bag was supposed to be arriving, and since no airline should expect any traveler to wear the same clothes for 4 days, especially when those clothes are jeans and a thick shirt in the oppressive humidity of Rio in the summer, I went to a local store and found myself a reasonably priced t-shirt and shorts.

In addition to the toiletries and essentials, I hope American Airlines is able to cover the costs for these basic articles of clothing as well. Receipts for both, as well as a copy of my file locator, are enclosed.

I apologize for not getting this letter out to you sooner, but the freakish snowstorms in the DC area have left me unable to leave my house for a week and without mail service.

Thank you,

Jeff Nyveen

I received this response from American Airlines on May 1, 2010. Apparently, it takes him two weeks to walk to the mailbox.

April 14, 2010

Dear Mr. Nyveen,

Thank you for your letter regarding expenses you incurred on your trip with American Airlines. Unfortunately, due to the unusual length of delay in requesting reimbursement from American Airlines, we are unable to consider your claim for your interim expenses. Our tariff specifically states that all claims for delay, loss and damage must be submitted within 45 days of travel.

For additional information regarding this policy, please visit us at AA.com.

Sincerely,

Mr. J. Blake
CENTRAL BAGGAGE SERVICES

Not only is Mr. J. Blake is wrong about the timeframe, but American Airlines is being shitty about the situation as a whole. At this point, maybe most people would shrug their shoulders and forget about it. But I can’t. I am a man of principle.

Here’s the reply I sent off today:

Mr. J. Blake
American Airlines
Interim Expense Reimbursement
PO Box 619613 MD1322/HDQ
DFW Airport, TX 75261-9613

May 3, 2010

Dear Mr. Blake,

I received your reply to my lost baggage interim expense claim on May 1, 2010. I am not satisfied with the response.

If you are suggesting that my request needed to be mailed to you within 45 days of the commencement of my travel, then you have me, as I mailed my letter 51 days after my initial departure date. But your “tariff” does not specify this. In any case, if you think customers without baggage should find extra time to draft a letter, find a printer, use copy machines, and buy foreign postage to address mistakes made by American Airlines while on vacation, then you are asking too much.

I did, however, return home on January 17, 2010. I understand that it took a while for me to send my letter, but I remind you of the freak, record-breaking snowstorm that disrupted postal service and prevented me from leaving my house for a week. This same storm grounded American Airlines planes in Washington, DC for several days, so I would have thought you’d heard about it.

I dropped my letter to you in the mail on February 15, 2010, which works out to a period of 29 days after my travel was completed, well under the 45-day limitation you are quoting. If the American Airlines mail distribution network took another two weeks to deliver my letter to your hands, that is not my problem.

Let’s be fair. I received your response on May 1, 2010. That’s 75 days later, an unreasonable delay in my mind. If you cannot honor my request for reimbursement because of the “unusual length of delay,” I find your response unacceptable for the same reason.

What about the “unusual length of delay” of my baggage in Rio de Janeiro? What about the representative in Rio de Janeiro Airport who said that American Airlines would reimburse my US$25 at the airport when I landed in DC? What about the resulting 4 days of inconvenience waiting for my baggage? What about the many incompetent American Airlines baggage representatives I spent hours with on the phone, at my expense? What about my calls to the airport in Rio de Janeiro to sort out the issue myself when American Airlines proved unable to locate my baggage?

Those are the real issues here. Does a supposed “unusual length of delay” in receiving my letter absolve American Airlines of all responsibility in this matter?

American Airlines’ obvious disregard for customer satisfaction will be a factor when purchasing my next flight. Given that other airlines price most of your routes competitively, I will be sure to consider them first. Your ridiculous excuse to save $25 on reimbursement fees comes at the potential cost of all my future travel. Silly, I think, given the current state of the airline industry.

With this letter, I enclose a copy of my original letter as well as a copy of your response, a useless waste of paper but necessary to ensure a continuous dialogue since American Airlines chooses not to communicate via e-mail with its customers on these matters. Realize that reducing paperwork would not only be environmentally friendly but would also save the airline money on materials and postage and surely reduce the “unusual length of delay” caused by snowstorms and inefficient mail distribution networks.

In addition, I am sending a copy of all paperwork to American Airlines Customer Relations. I also plan to post my letter and your response on my web site so that people around the world can read about how American Airlines uses silly excuses about postmark dates to avoid admitting mistakes and being fair to customers.

Sincerely,

Mr. J. Nyveen

And my letter to American Airlines Customer Relations:

American Airlines Customer Relations
P.O. Box 619612 MD 2400
DFW Airport, TX 75261-9612

May 3, 2010

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to express my dissatisfaction with the way American Airlines has handled my lost baggage interim expense reimbursement claim.

On a recent trip to Rio de Janeiro, American Airlines lost my baggage for 4 days. Upon my return, I submitted a claim for US$25.

Today, I received a response from American Airlines, stating that my claim could not be honored since there was an “unusual length of delay” in submitting my request.

Enclosed is my communication with a Mr. J. Blake, the American Airlines representative who has handled my issue. I would appreciate a review of these materials as well as the interim expense reimbursement I feel is still owed to me for a mistake made by American Airlines.

Sincerely,

Jeff Nyveen

We arrived at New York’s JFK airport at 6:15am. Pitch black outside. Just think, yesterday at this time, I was on Warren’s balcony in Buenos Aires, underneath a blazing sun.

A couple of hours later, we were back in DC. Including our connections, we took a total of 13 flights in 23 days. That’s a lot of flying.

We visited the American Airlines baggage desk to ask about our lost baggage credit, and the lady told us to send copies of our receipts to the corporate office. What are the chances I also get them to pay for the sweet Brazilian clothes I bought in Rio?

On the cab ride home, a few things stuck out. Mounds of dirty snow along the roads, relatively courteous drivers, and an uncomfortable familiarity with my surroundings. After three weeks of the exotic unknown, Columbia Pike is a bit of a downer.

Tomorrow, we’re back at work. Traveling somewhere amazing, and knowing that there are so many other places out there bigger and better that you have not seen yet, makes the daily grind at work seem pretty insignificant.

A friend once told me that one of the best things about traveling is that you’ll be sitting in a boring meeting at work one day and your mind will wander to some far-off place a lot more exciting. You’ll remember jumping the waves on Ipanema, being on Copacabana Beach for New Year’s, braving the streets of Salvador, being sprayed by the mist of Iguazu Falls, going into a hookeria, visiting the southernmost city in the world, or hopping around glaciers. And while everyone else is busy talking about something that really doesn’t matter, you’ll sit there and smile.

He was right.

This really was a great trip. We saw a heckuva lot in three weeks, and I think we timed everything just about perfectly. The food was amazing, truly a steakation. Doug (he’s “Doug” now that we’re back on American soil) estimates that we each put away about 30 pounds of steak.

Having completed two big trips with Doug, I’ve decided that we’re pretty compatible travel partners. While I took care of pretty much everything on our first trip, he really helped out with some of the trip planning this time around. He doesn’t annoy me, and we keep each other laughing. He took photos when I was too scared to take out my camera, and he proved to be quite the videographer. And he always let me have the window seat.

Where should we go next year? 🙂

It was just after midnight when we landed in BA. Our taxi took us to the address Warren had given us. Huge condominium. Walked into the lobby, signed in with the security guard, and headed up to the 21st floor.

Warren welcomed us with a big smile and led us to the balcony, where three attractive, dressed up young women were sitting and laughing and drinking. By the look of the empty wine bottles, it looked like they had been at it for a little while.

WTF? A moment to elaborate on our surprise. Warren is a nice guy who likes to have a good time, but he’s never been known to have women draped all over him. Now here he was, in a penthouse in Buenos Aires, with three attractive girls sitting on his balcony and getting drunk. Was this another hookeria?

Warren dragged us inside and gave us a quick tour of his enormous, ridiculous, four-bedroom penthouse. The 21st floor IS Warren’s place. Fully furnished, with giant couches, huge flat panel TVs, wood floors IN the showers, huge windows all around with a 360° view of Buenos Aires.

Warren is my hero.

Gog and I were wearing stinky Patagonia clothes and flip-flops, so we flipped a coin for bedroom choice (I won), cleaned up a bit, and joined everyone on the balcony. We sipped wine and chatted, with the red blinking lights of the Buenos Aires skyline all around us.

A couple of more people showed up. One, a local named Diego, offered to take us all out to one of his favorite clubs, Esperanto. So at 3am, we headed over.

People were pushing to get in, bouncers were screaming at people and each other. We arrived at Esperanto in two groups, and there was a bit of drama getting us all in, but we made it.

The place was raging inside. We walked upstairs to the main dance floor, which was packed. We drank, we danced. Why didn’t Gog and I discover places like this our first time through Buenos Aires? Why aren’t places like this in any of our travel guides?

And the girls… I was ready to concede that the women of Argentina were nothing special until we got here. THIS is where all the attractive women in Argentina were. Amazing. Diego told us to just grab them by the hand and start talking or dancing with them. I don’t do either very well, so I couldn’t hold any girl’s interest for more than a few seconds. You gotta speak the language.

We emerged from the club at 6:15am, with the sun blazing. The street was a mix of early risers and people stumbling out of clubs. What a night. I feel like Gog and I didn’t give BA a fair shake our first time through. We’ve only scratched the surface.

(more…)

Exhausted this morning, but the adrenaline of a glacier hike pushed me through the process of sitting up and putting pants on.

Our bus this morning took us to a small dock on Lago Argentino, where we got onto a small boat and went straight to Perito Moreno. A small spit of land sticks into the center of the glacier and separates it into a north face and a south face. Yesterday’s catamaran tour took us to the north face, but today we’d be doing a “mini-trek” along the south face.

Cooney was our English-speaking guide. He was fluent but had a pretty strong accent and had this funny habit of finishing every phrase with “Yes?” almost as if he needed to make sure we understood what he was saying. “Today we go on top of the glacier, yes? If you have health problems, you talk to me, yes? Pregnant women cannot take this excursion, yes?”

We took a short hike through the forest and were led to a shed at the base of the glacier. There, we strapped on some crampons. Very cool feeling walking around in those things. Cooney gave us a quick lesson on how to walk properly on the slippery ice, and we were off.

On the glacier, the sun was warm, the breeze was cool. The ice was crunchy beneath our crampons, almost the consistency of granola. Everything was melting, so the ice got a bit slushy in places and little streams of water flowed across the surface. Larger holes and cracks led to rushing torrents of water deeper in the glacier. The deeper the crack, the deeper the blue.

Melting, cracking ice makes some pretty amazing shapes. The rock dust is a natural occurrence, but I imagine that the scene would be really amazing if the formations were perfectly clean.

The water trickling across the glacier is pure. Although light sprinklings of rock dust make it look dirty, Cooney assured me that the water is safe to drink. So I bent down and had a sip of pure glacier water. Cold and delicious.

The hike had lots of ups and downs, but when you consider how enormous Perito Moreno is, we really didn’t cover very much ground at all. We didn’t come anywhere near the unstable and dangerous front edge, which is too bad, because that would have been cool.

In our group was an Italian couple. The guy was the ultimate douchebag, with his designer jeans, designer sunglasses, and gelled-up hair. It’s funny how Italians never dress down for anything, even hikes across glaciers.

Before packing it in, we stopped at a little table that was set up with glasses. Cooney and the other guides used their picks to chop up some ice from the glacier and served whiskey to the group. Very cool. I just wish I liked whiskey.

The box lunch packed by our hotel consisted of a vile ham and cheese pie, a mealy apple, and a bottle of water. But it was the only food around, so I did my best.

Our boat came to take us back to the bus, and then we were whisked off to the tourist-filled viewing platforms offering impressive views of the north face.

Standing in front of the glacier, you hear all kinds of sounds: cracks, pops, and rumbles. Everyone waits patiently for a chunk of ice to crack off and splash into the water, and every few minutes, it happens. It’s hard to photograph because you never know which part of the enormous glacier will rupture.

What I find interesting is that, after inspecting older photos, the front edge of the glacier seems to have been in the same basic shape for the last decade, despite the constant calving. The little archway of ice between the north face and the south face has looked the same for years.

It was when I was leaving the platform that I tripped on a step and fell on my ass, rolling awkwardly to keep my camera and tripod from hitting the ground. For a fleeting moment, everyone turned away from the glacier, looked at me, and went silent. To the best of my knowledge, there is no photographic evidence of this event.

Just as we were heading back to the bus, we heard a deep rumble and turned around to see an enormous pillar of ice topple over and crash into the water. The booming sound it made was tremendous. Pretty amazing to watch.

There is so much in this part of the country we just didn’t have time to see. I would have liked to get to picturesque Cerro Fitz Roy, I hear good things about Bariloche, and Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park looks amazing. We could have easily spent another week down here. Next time.

Before leaving El Calafate, we stopped at Borges y Alvarez and I had my first South American burger. A major disappointment. This country takes its pride in high-quality meat, and its steaks are amazing, but this burger was obviously sliced from a loaf.

A guy named Mario was our driver back to the airport. Very friendly guy. His English wasn’t so great, but we all bonded over our mutual appreciation of Boca Juniors futbol. He carried our luggage, walked us inside, joked around with his airport friends, and walked us all the way to the gate. One of the few guys who actually earned his tip.

We’re now on a flight back to Buenos Aires. Somehow, the Patagonia package that Gog purchased included Business Class seats on this flight. Sweet! I’ve never flown through the pink clouds of sunset before. Fact: they’re only pink on the outside.

Unfortunately, this vacation is winding down now, but we have a last hurrah in BA before we head home. We’ll be there tonight and then all day tomorrow. Warren has graciously offered to let us stay with him at the ridiculous luxury penthouse he has just rented for himself in the city center.

Gog and I walked up a hill near our hotel to get a nice view of the Patagonian sunset. The sky blew up with wonderful colors last night, but our view was obstructed by power lines and light poles, so we were determined to find a better spot tonight. After short hike, clouds prevented the sunset from being truly dramatic. Oh well.

At night, it’s pleasantly cool. We started with dinner next door to our hotel, a restaurant called Barricas de Enopio. Cool-looking place, but my dry salad and Patagonian lamb stew were mediocre. I really want my salad dressing and vegetables. Stopped for a quick drink at Borges & Alvarez before heading over to La Tolderia, the club where we were supposed to meet our friends from the boat.

Dead on the outside, but packed with locals on the inside. The music was loud and Spanish, kind of refreshing not to hear any American music at all. TVs all around the bar showed lots of boobs.

One of the shows, called “Naked Wild On,” featured two completely naked women sitting on stools and eating popsicles, sometimes even sharing the same popsicle. While nobody else in the bar seemed to care, Gog and I were fixated. And this was on E! Cable programming down here isn’t the same as it is back home.

We looked for our friends but couldn’t find them. At one point, Gog looked across the smoky club and thought he spotted the girl from the boat, but we couldn’t tell for sure since her head was always turned or obstructed by friends. Finally, Gog moved in, put his hand on her back, and smiled. Not her. Awesome.

Walking out of the place at 3am, we bumped into the guy from the boat. He said the rest of his friends were coming in 30 minutes or so. Wait, doesn’t he work tomorrow? Yes, at 6am. When does he sleep? He said he doesn’t really sleep, just tries to fit it in whenever he has time. Gog and I are amazed. How do they live this lifestyle? He invited us back into the club, but Gog and I were done.

Cold and tired, Gog and I walked back to the hotel. In the night sky, Orion is upside down.

My feet stink.

The flight across Patagonia was mostly flat and boring. Cloud-covered mountains near Ushuaia were replaced by brown, pockmarked desert plains as we got closer to El Calafate (el kal-ah-FAW-tay). We landed with barren desert on the left and the brilliant blue Lago Argentino on the right.

After dropping our stuff off at Sierra Nevada, our hotel, we went for a walk around town. El Calafate’s smaller than Ushuaia, and more of the people here seem to be tourists. Like everywhere else we’ve been on this trip, the tourists here seem to be mostly old people, with very few English speakers.

We went to a place called Rick’s for dinner and decided to mix things up a bit by having an all-you-can-eat meat buffet. The quality was a little disappointing compared to what we’ve been eating, but sitting at the table next to us was a young and very cute Argentinean girl. With two of her boyfriends. After dinner, we grabbed a drink at a local bar called Borges y Alvarez and ran into them again there.

We’re a bit north of Ushuaia, and the brilliant Patagonia sunset comes a bit earlier up here. We went to bed relatively early last night to rest up for our tour of Los Glaciares National Park early this morning.

At 7:30am, we picked up the box lunches prepared by our hotel. A huge coach picked us up and took us through brown scrubland and snow-capped mountains in the distance. It’s in those mountains, the Andes, where all the glaciers live, and we had scheduled an all-day catamaran tour up and down rivers and lakes to see them.

We got our VIP tickets and made our way onto the boat. Turns out that the VIP tickets entitled us to seats in the front section of the boat, free alcohol, and conversation with two teenage, Spanish-speaking hosts.

Most of the trip, though, we preferred to stand outside on the deck, with the cool wind in our hair and natural beauty all around us. The water of Lago Argentino and its tributaries is greenish-gray, colored by the minerals and dust from rocks grounded up by advancing glaciers. The little icebergs that floated by looked like they were made out of blue Styrofoam.

The icebergs and surrounding mountains got larger and larger, and eventually we found ourselves at Upsala Glacier. It’s surrounded by icebergs so large that getting close to the actual glacier was impossible. Some say the rapid break-up of the glacier is caused by global warming, but other glaciers in the area are not retreating at all, so who knows.

From there, on to the more impressive Spegazzini Glacier. We were able to get quite close to this one, circling a couple of times so that people on every side of the boat could get their photos. It’s amazing how thick these things are, even more amazing when you consider how much of them are underwater.

Finally, we visited the crown jewel of Los Glaciares National Park, Perito Moreno Glacier. The glacier is enormous and slightly bluish, with a deeper blue glow in the cracks that makes it look like it is illuminated from the inside, even in broad daylight.

It even put on a little show for us, shedding off a few chunks of ice right in front of our boat.

Tomorrow, we have a little glacier hike over and around Perito Moreno, so we hope to see more of that. Preferably not under our feet.

On the way back, our young hosts became chatty with us. The girl guessed Gog was 40-something, refusing to finish her estimate when Gog’s eyes started bugging out. She guessed I was 25. Nice. We conversed in broken Spanish for a bit, and she invited us out dancing tonight in El Calafate with her friends. She gave us the name of a club, and when we asked what time to meet, she said 1 or 2am. WTF? Gog asked her when Argentineans sleep, and she said that they don’t.

We’re back in the room now, collecting ourselves for what might be a late night on the town.

Gog and I spent the day wandering up and down San Martin, Ushuaia’s main road. DirecTV satellite dishes on the side of every building point almost horizontal, straining to reach satellites in equatorial orbits. Pig carcasses cook in every other restaurant window. I like meat, but is that really supposed to make me hungry?

I did a bit more research and discovered that Ushuaia isn’t quite as far south as I thought. It looks way down there the way it just down towards Antarctica on a map, but we’re actually at the same latitude as London. That might explain why the weather is so mild.

Ushuaia bills itself as “Fin del Mundo,” or the End of the World, and you’ll see the phrase everywhere. There’s no shortage of souvenirs with the phrase, and you can even get souvenir stamps in your passport. I didn’t know you were allowed to put unofficial stamps into a passport.

Gog and I picked up a few souvenirs, stopped by a museum, grabbed a light lunch, and said goodbye to Ushuaia.

Gog does not enjoy flying through bumpy clouds. Next stop, El Calafate!