Thank you, strangers

Greetings from Bariloche, Argentina.

Amanda, Ellen and I have been on the road now for about four days, and if I could put a theme on the last few days it would be this: Strangers are nice.

If living in a monster of a city for the past three months has made me into a jaded ice queen, simply leaving Buenos Aires for less than a week has rekindled my faith in the niceness of the human race and in my ability to open my big mouth and talk to anyone about . . . pretty much anything. Naturally it has also reinforced my previous suspicion that Barack Obama is the world´s number one universal conversation topic. George Bush´s botched presidency comes in a close second.

In the past few days, we have been on the recieving end of an almost overwhelming amount of hospitality. On the first night of the trip, before we´d even arrived at our first location, Amanda and I found ourselves in the drivers´cabin of our bus (´´El Rapido Argentino´´), sipping mate at 2 am with the two drivers and helping them thumb through the radio. They shared their mate and we translated Tracy Chapman lyrics. Apparently they really like Tracy Chapman. It was beautiful, and the rest of the bus slept, unaware that there were two yanquis at the front of El Rapido.

Yesterday we took bicycles 18 km outside of El Bolson, which is itself a city quite ´´out there.´´
(Don´t worry, Ellen brought her biking flip-flops). Just when we´d arrived out our destination, Lago Puelo, I was accosted by a grandfatherly type who kept insisting that he knew me. After I tried to think of every way to remove myself from this entirely awkard and incredibly unusual situation, I realized that I did know him. He was a passenger from El Rapido. He worked on a boat on the lake. Naturally he invited us on to the boat. Another mate. More conversation.

Today we left El Bolson for the much larger and more touristy - but still overwhelming beautiful - Bariloche (pictures later). We took a chairlift up to the top of a nearby mountain (no screaming on Ellen´s part . . . she´s come so far), but realized on our way down that we weren´t really sure how we´d get back to town. Just as we were looking glum and confused while waiting at the bus stop, the chairlift operator arrived in his chariot. Err, car. No fear, he said, he´d be happy to drive us yanquis into town. No mate this time, but let´s just say I´m getting realllly good at charming older Argentine men.