America del Sur: A Far Better Place than America del Norte

The Americans

Jason made an apple salad for the potluck, and Katherine, who’s initial idea it was to have such a thing, forgot all about it.

“I’m so sorry, guys!” she said in a panicky voice, noticing the table was already filled with other people’s food. She quickly ran to her room and came back with a bottle of white wine I wouldn’t even cook dead mussels with. But we drank it anyway, because after all, we were amongst backpackers and you never wasted such precious commodities as alcohol.

We all met a few days ago through a couple of Irish guys we were sharing our nightly asado with. Killian was really piling ‘em in. He was a big, meaty guy with a military cut, and chewed like he was really getting something out of his food. His cousin, Ian — tall, skinny, and at 20-something, already completely gray-haired — stared in amazement. We all did. The problem was whenever the cook came by to see if needed anything else, Killian would nod and motion with his hands to “keep ‘em coming,” and the cook would bring back plates of meat and serve it to all of us.

“Oh, no! God, no more, please!” Ian pleaded. “It’s just HIM!” He pointed at his cousin, who was bobbing his head and chewing merrily, as if his favorite song just came on on the radio.

After dinner, we nursed Malbec on coffee mugs and discussed plans for the next day. When I mentioned Kelly and I were taking the bus to El Chalten, the Irishmen said: “No way? And so are we! And them!” Ian pointed to the next table where Jason and Katherine were eating pasta served right out of the steel cooking pot with another group of budget-conscious backpackers.

And so, the core of our hiking group was formed. During the next couple of days, we would go on to hike some of the most extraordinary trails in the world, and in the process get to know each other. After our visit to El Chalten, we ended up returning to the America del Sur hostel (of course) on the same bus together. Tonight would be the last time we would all be in the same room together, and so we were celebrating with a good old fashioned potluck.

Departures, like so many special and sad things in life, always happened in bunches. Kelly and I were bound for Tierra del Fuego in the morning. Katherine was returning to Buenos Aires where she had been teaching English for the last year. The Irishmen were headed to Puerto Natales (Patricia’s desolate residency) where they would catch a cruise ship and sail to Bariloche, the ski-capital of Argentina. And Jason, well, Jason had nowhere in particular to go, but since we were all leaving, he figured on moving on as well.

“I figure I should,” he said, chomping on the spicy pasta I had made. “While you guys were doing your glacier cruise thing today, all I did was get up at noon and bum around the hostel watching Annabella make churros.”

“How were the churros?” I asked.

“They were amazing!”

At 27, Jason had grown tired of his office job (stop me if you’ve heard this one before) and after getting accepted to NYU’s environmental science masters program, he had quit and traveled to South America where he had been wandering for the last few months before his return to academia. We had been talking about Brooklyn a lot, since he was planning on moving there, discussing which neighborhoods to choose and to avoid and the ultra-importance of owning a bicycle, among other things.

While certainly one of the best parts of traveling is to meet new and interesting people from different countries and backgrounds, there is also a sense of comfort in being able to relate it all with someone you had a lot in common with. Jason was that person for Kelly and myself. During our full-day hikes in El Chalten, we discussed current events back at home, the recent trend of stories in the New Yorker magazine, which neighborhood in Buenos Aires was comparable to neighborhoods in New York City (because ultimately, at the end of the day, New York City was indeed the epicenter of the known universe).

Jason, like Katherine, had already spent some time in Buenos Aires, so they both wrote us recommendations of hostels to stay (“When you go, ask for Octavio and tell him Katie sent you! You’ll have sooooooooo much fun!”), where to find the best empanadas in the city, tango and <em>merengue</em> shows the locals go to, and so on. We were once again proud of our decision to start our trip in the south and finish in Buenos Aires.

As our meals wound down, and the drinks certain did not, we became more and more drunk. Coversations broke into smaller groups, until finally Jason confessed to me that he had perhaps fallen in love with Annabella.

“Oh, man, I thought she was with Rodrigo,” I said.

“No, Rodrigo’s been hooking up with (insert-some-random-girl’s-name-here),” he nudged to the bar where a hipster-looking girl in a polka-dotted minidress was swooning across the bar table at Rodrigo, swirling a glass of red wine. “She’s been staying over at his place for the last three nights, didn’t you know? She’s from Brooklyn too.”

“Oh, no kidding,” I said.

“I met her and her friend (insert-another-random-girl’s-name-here) in Puerto Madryn and we all took the bus here together. As soon as he sees me walking in with them two, he gives me this look,” He paused to immitate Rodrigo with a wink and a nod. “That Rodrigo — he’s a hawk, man.”

“Is she still paying here then?” That was the only thing I could think of to ask at that moment, watching the pretty girl who was now playing with Rodrigo’s hands. He appeared uncomfortable and kept looking around. In less than 24 hours she would have a broken heart. I was never more certain of anything in my life.

How could I not have noticed this before? It was so obvious. I always seem to miss these things.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said.

“Damn. What a shame.”

“Anyway, but she’s got a boyfriend.”

“Who? Her?”

“Well, yeah, her too. But I was talking about Annabella. A serious one, I think.” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Rodrigo.” How else? “And then he gives me this shrug, leans in low, and says, Who cares, maaaaan? Jussss go for it! You have my blessings.“

Good ol’ Rodrigo. There’s one like him everywhere you go. If not, there needs to be one anyway.

We laughed and finished the rest of the liter of Quilmes, Argentina’s answer to Miller High Life.

It it noteworthy to mention at this point that Jason was a pretty good looking guy. During the few days we would know him, he would have attracted the attention of several ladyfriends of a mixture of backgrounds and class. He just wasn’t interested in any of them. But by the look in his eyes, I knew for sure that he had it bad for Annabella. It was tragic.

“I know what you mean, man,” I said. “She’s cute. And sharp–”

“–she’s soooooooo sharp,” he finished before I could.

“She’s hot. She’s cute. She’s smart. She’s she’s…” He went on…

That’s when it hit me that this was really the end. It was indeed the last night of our time together in this wonderful and insane place. Being at an off-season hostel in a pavement-free town so near the south pole, drunk, in love and in a pool of your own thoughts and memories, was the closest you could come to falling off the map. And you wanted to stay hidden, at least for a little while. Not that you were running from anything or anyone was chasing you, but because you found a nook in a beautiful cave. The cave was warmly lit, adequately alcoholized, and all of your friends you didn’t know existed were there. You knew this couldn’t last — and perhaps that just enhances it, like mind-altering drugs. Just like it wouldn’t last for Jason who I was quickly starting to understand really did need to move on. There was nothing else for a man to do in a situation like his.

Checking Out

Even though our vacation wasn’t even halfway over yet we didn’t want to leave. We didn’t care what lay ahead. Sure, we wanted to see Tierra del Fuego, the rest of Buenos Aires and Argentina, but we also didn’t want to give this up. Apart from Jason perhaps, we would probably never see any of the people in this room again. That’s the fatalistic catch to backpacking. Listening to Jason trail on and on about Annabella’s beauty and poise and watching all the shining faces turn to glitter and smear, in a room scented with charcoaled meat, the fireplace burning ever-so-bright and full, I had never felt so sad and so alive at the same time.

I don’t know what makes one hostel better than another. I know it’s not just quality of the rooms, the awesome center-of-the-hub location, the amazing free breakfasts, or even the hired staff — but a combination of some of these things. But mostly, it’s just sheer luck. Hostels are notorious for having day and night turnarounds. The staff member that might’ve given you a great tip on a neighborhood parrilla or booked you impossible soccer tickets could be at another hostel, at another job, or another part of the world the next time you visited — if you ever visited again. Travelers, by nature, are even more elusive. The people you went to the supermaket to buy fresh vegetables with, and then cooked a homecooked meal (emphasis on the “home”) with, and shared a few rounds of beers with, and partied at a series of discotecas with, and exchanged e-mail and Facebook contacts with, and promised to stay in touch with, and to reunite next time they’re in Williamsburg or you’re in London with, might be — is destined to be — far, far removed, if not in physical space, then certainly in mind.

Because that is indeed the one certainly — that it will never be the same again. So, in the end it just comes down to luck. And I think a hostel like America del Sur does all the right things that’s within reason to pave way for that magic to occur. The rest… well, you know.

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