It's cold here, but beautiful

Being in a culture completely submerged in a language I do not understand results in a general feeling of isolation most of the time. I am grateful I have a friend with me to talk to. Small things like ordering at restaurants are difficult; I have resigned myself to closing my eyes and pointing at the menu at times. Conversation is always around me but I have no idea what anyone is saying. For instance, I don’t realize the guy on the boat is telling me to sit down until he comes up to me and motions. Or sometimes people don’t understand when I say, ‘No enteindo Espanol’ and will continue to jabber in Spanish. Sometimes I feel stupid with my complete inability to communicate.  I have a dictionary but languages have never come easy to me and I keep getting mixed up with French.

At any rate, a couple days ago we stepped off a 23 hour bus ride into blistering wind. We are in hard core Pattagonia in a town called El Calafate. We are quite far south, and unlike in North America, South means cold because it’s closer to Antartica. It’s a beautiful town surrounded by mountains.

We are enamored with our hostel which is an adorable little cabin with a tip so steep it reminds me of a wizard’s cap. There is a set of bunk beds and a clickety heater and just as I am about to comment that I feel like I’m living in ‘Little House on the Prairie’, John laughs and says he feels like he should be out milking the cows. We are greeted by Fleur, a woman with a smile as wide as her hips, and fortunately she speaks English and welcomes us. We are completely exhausted after all the travel. We hit up a grocery store–always an adventure in a foreign land–and shiver our way to the cold kitchen where we make an odd mixture of food, from oatmeal to boiled eggs and beets.

The cabin looks more charming then it is; it is drafty and that night I freeze and shiver because the rickety heater cannot keep up. The wind is howling and anyone who knows me will understand that this sort of weather is torture to me. To add insult to injury, the next morning there is at least 6 inches of snow on the ground. And the wind! It’s unbelievable.

Flamingos

Knowing my penchant for warm weather, I am not prepared for this. Fortunately, John is. He is kind enough to lend me a coat, long johns and a pair of ‘real socks’ as he calls them (I suppose my little anklets with the stripes or polka dots are more cute then practical) and we walk around El Calafate, shivering the whole way. I comment that I haven’t felt warm since we got here.

We walk past the charming town which is reminicent of a ski resort town untainted by overt commercialism, and admire the stunning view of the Andes mountains. I see a blue lake glistening in the distance and am compelled to walk towards it, despite the wind threatening to skew our balance. We silently walk the barren land, huddled under our coat hoods, hands scrunched up our sleeves and wipe at our runny noses. We are still battling colds. I admire the contrast of the scenery- the barren terrain, crystal blue lake, stunning purple mountains- and am amazed at what I see: specks of pink light up the landscape like lights on a Christmas tree.

´Flamingos!´I squeal.

We walk closer and I pull out my camera. This spectacular sight is too much for me to bear and I let out a girlish squeal as I realize I am close enough to snap some pictures with the zoom. My squeal alerts the birds and they quickly fly away in formation. It is a stunning sight, but I am dismayed.

The Flamingos Fly Away

John sees the determined look on my face and says, ‘We’re going to follow them, aren’t we?’

‘Of course!’ I say as I realize they have just flocked to the next pond. So we chase the flamingos, creeping up on them quietly, and watch them and take photos. It was an amazing thing to see.

The walk back is cold but the ice cream shop is too much for John to resist. He lulls me in–after all, who says no to ice cream?–and we eat the most delicious ice cream we have ever tasted. We actually go back for seconds. By the time it is said and done, we have spent over $30 pacos on ice-cream, about $10 worth.

Still unable to get warm, we comment that it’s Thanksgiving and feel twinges of longing for our families and turkey and pumpkin pie. We find an Internet cafe and go crazy with Skype, taking turns calling our loved ones. John strikes out with his grandparents and mother and sister, but manages to leave various messages on their machine: from ‘I got married’ to ‘I’m in jail’. I think this sounds like a great idea and try the jail one on my own mother. Her pause is pregnant at the other end as she says, ‘What?!’ I laugh and she says knowing what she knows about John Daye, nothing would surprise her.

After that fun, we peruse the streets looking for something that might resemble a Thanksgiving dinner, and hit the jackpot when we stumble on a restaurant special that happens to be chicken and squash. 

Just another spectacular day on the journey.