A Week in Bariloche...
I have no concept of time here. It’s 8PM but the sky reminds me of the way the sunrise comes over the hills of San Diego on an autumn morning. Maybe it’s because I’m on the Atlantic now, where the sun rises over the ocean and sets over the mountains. Or maybe it’s the much more plausible reason, that I’m sleep deprived after spending 26 hours on a bus and waiting for another bus in some small Argentine town no one back home has probably heard of.
So I ended up spending a week in Bariloche. I seem to be doing that a lot in Argentina. Staying some where longer than I initially intended. I hope it doesn’t become a trend. I checked into the 41 Below Hostel and was never gladder for having made a reservation in advance as I saw backpacker after backpacker turned away, often in the rain, because it seemed that every hostel in town was full. The Argentinians describe Bariloche as their very own Switzerland, and at first glance, it's easy to see how they can make the claim. During the winter, this small town become a bustling ski resort. But now it's summer, which means it's overrun by high school students roming the streets in bands of twenty or more, and of course, backpackers.
It is becoming a familiar pattern: check in, find the people I naturally gravitate to, and strike up a conversation. First the basics – Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been traveling for? It’s almost a rote; a dance travelers do over and over again. It’s easy, and expected, and I begin to hate it. But I feel guilty about this view because I fall into it so easily. I guess that’s the appeal.
So I found my New Years Eve festivities in Bariloche, though even before leaving the hostel, I had my reservations. The thing about New Years Eve is it is almost always, at least for me, anticlimactic. It can never live up to the hype. But despite this, I still chose to venture forth in to the drizzling night in search of some vague description of a party we may or may not receive admission to. It was on what supposedly a military base where they were turning people away in droves. Our chances looked bleak but in cases like these, it always helps to have a connected local, someone one in the know.
So Miguel spoke to the gate attendant for a few minutes and just like that, we were in. The party itself was like so many parties I’d been to. The music was loud and non-distinct. The venue was crowded almost to bursting the confines of the small building which enclosed it. And the alcohol was overpriced. We arrive around 4AM and had had enough by 6:30. By the time we made it back to the hostel, the sun was up and it was raining. Not the best New Years, but not the worse one by a long shot.
The rest of my time in Bariloche was spent mainly in the company of four British guys, on holiday before they entered the workforce, and a Californian named Tony. One day, purely on a whim, the British guys decided that they’d bike the 60 km route around the lake and in the briefest moment of insanity I decided that I’d tag along. By kilometer 8, I was dying. I don’t know how I managed to make it the whole way around, but I was rewarded with some spectacular views and a sense of accomplishment for my efforts.
That’s one thing Patagonia has no shortage of, spectacular views. Over every mountain is some crystal clear lake. Around each bend is some snow-capped, jagged peak jutting skyward toward heaven. And each sunset is an explosion of color no artist has been genius or insane enough to paint. If that were all there was here, it still might be enough to venture this far away from home.
So I ended up spending a week in Bariloche. I seem to be doing that a lot in Argentina. Staying some where longer than I initially intended. I hope it doesn’t become a trend. I checked into the 41 Below Hostel and was never gladder for having made a reservation in advance as I saw backpacker after backpacker turned away, often in the rain, because it seemed that every hostel in town was full. The Argentinians describe Bariloche as their very own Switzerland, and at first glance, it's easy to see how they can make the claim. During the winter, this small town become a bustling ski resort. But now it's summer, which means it's overrun by high school students roming the streets in bands of twenty or more, and of course, backpackers.
It is becoming a familiar pattern: check in, find the people I naturally gravitate to, and strike up a conversation. First the basics – Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been traveling for? It’s almost a rote; a dance travelers do over and over again. It’s easy, and expected, and I begin to hate it. But I feel guilty about this view because I fall into it so easily. I guess that’s the appeal.
So I found my New Years Eve festivities in Bariloche, though even before leaving the hostel, I had my reservations. The thing about New Years Eve is it is almost always, at least for me, anticlimactic. It can never live up to the hype. But despite this, I still chose to venture forth in to the drizzling night in search of some vague description of a party we may or may not receive admission to. It was on what supposedly a military base where they were turning people away in droves. Our chances looked bleak but in cases like these, it always helps to have a connected local, someone one in the know.
So Miguel spoke to the gate attendant for a few minutes and just like that, we were in. The party itself was like so many parties I’d been to. The music was loud and non-distinct. The venue was crowded almost to bursting the confines of the small building which enclosed it. And the alcohol was overpriced. We arrive around 4AM and had had enough by 6:30. By the time we made it back to the hostel, the sun was up and it was raining. Not the best New Years, but not the worse one by a long shot.
The rest of my time in Bariloche was spent mainly in the company of four British guys, on holiday before they entered the workforce, and a Californian named Tony. One day, purely on a whim, the British guys decided that they’d bike the 60 km route around the lake and in the briefest moment of insanity I decided that I’d tag along. By kilometer 8, I was dying. I don’t know how I managed to make it the whole way around, but I was rewarded with some spectacular views and a sense of accomplishment for my efforts.
That’s one thing Patagonia has no shortage of, spectacular views. Over every mountain is some crystal clear lake. Around each bend is some snow-capped, jagged peak jutting skyward toward heaven. And each sunset is an explosion of color no artist has been genius or insane enough to paint. If that were all there was here, it still might be enough to venture this far away from home.
posted by Z at
10:17 AM
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