Puerto Varas, Chile: Our amigos at the hostel were still there when we got back from Chilòe, with everyone headed somewhere else in the morning, a party was in order. I learned that a typical hostel required a big kettle of spaghetti with some kind of sauce, bread and lots of wine. They sent me to the mercado for bread and I came back with some cheese as well; we were set. Since I left Santiago my guitar hadn’t been out of its case but Paulo played as well and wanted to see it. So we took turns, Paulo with his rumba rhythms and my version of the blues. At the end of the evening you would have thought all of us had been best friends for life. First light and a new day, Rafaela, one of the lawyers from Rio was going our way and we would have her good company another day.
We took a bus east, through Puyehue Nat’l Park and into the mountains. Our destination, San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. It has trappings of Breckenridge, Colorado but with a Latin flair. Mountains all around with a big lake in the valley, it is a summer and winter resort. The fall season there is laid back, summer vacationers gone home and not enough snow on the slopes to have skiers. There was plenty of snow at high altitude but the lakes around Bariloche were dotted with sails and people were out in short sleeves.
Tango Inn Bariloche was a 4 story hostel at the north end of town, across from the train and bus station. Esra and Rafaela shared a room in the women’s wing while I took a bunk in a 3rd floor, 4 bed dorm. Our walk into the city took us up a long steep hill and once over the top the town spread out along the lake shore below. Looking down toward the lake, the city gleams with fresh paint and red or black tile roofs. Look the other way, the scene shifts to concrete blocks and flat rooftops. Beyond that you see unpainted wood and galvanized metal. The barrio stretches back over the hilltop, out of sight. People come from all over to vacation in Bariloche, but they keep their eyes and their money focused on the fresh paint.
We headed for the business district with its tile roofs and 5 story buildings. Sidewalks and gutters were clean, store fronts were inviting with sale specials and the ladies had money to spend. Chocolate from Bariloche is prized all over South America. Like anything wonderful and expensive, they will ship it anywhere. I had to set myself a limit, three pieces per day. We split up, I went to the beach even though they had stored the umbrellas and stacked the beach chairs. I walked along the shore, looking rocks and leaves. After the bus ride, walking was its own reward.
Back at Tango Inn, I had bought eggs, cheese, an onion, a bell pepper and two avocados. I promised both of the girls an American omelet before they headed north the next day. Several pilgrims shared the kitchen with me, fixing rice & beans or mac & cheese. They had never seen an omelet in the making. I got excellent grades on dinner; we wouldn’t see each other in the morning so we exchanged email addresses and drained a bottle of pinot noir. By the end of my stay, I taught all of the hostel staff and several guests how to make omelets. I started thinking of myself as the Emeril Lagasse of Bariloche.
Talking to vendadores is a great way to practice the language. They want to make a sale and once they see you are trying to learn their customs and language, they want to help. The fact that I commanded an expanding vocabulary didn’t help with the rapid fire speed of those same words coming at me. I got very good at saying, “Por favor, yo solo escucho despacio. Puedes repiter?” Please, I only listen slowly, can you repeat? People liked that little humor and it served me well. I told a clerk in a chocolate shop that when she spoke it sounded like a one word sentence, fifty syllables long. She thought that was very funny and did put a break in between words just for me, every time after that, and I bought chocolate from her every day. Bariloche’s chocolate is as famous there as Mackinaw Island in Michigan for its fudge. There were more confectionery shops than any other business in town.
The next morning I thought I would get some cash from the ATM at the bank down town. After several failed attempts, I realized that it wasn’t just me; something was wrong. Waiting in line to see a teller it occurred to me, I couldn’t do this in Spanish. I tried at first but the teller just looked at me with a blank gaze. A hand tapped me on the shoulder. The man behind me asked, “Do you need some help?” He looked like a native but his English was perfect. I accepted, he explained my problem and we were directed to a waiting area, outside a closed door office. I thanked him sincerely, in both English and Spanish and he went back to his spot in line.
A middle age lady whose English was heavily accented sat me down and I asked if we could use her telephone and my international calling card to call my credit union in Michigan. Dialing all the codes and prefixes, it involved more wait time and redirection than one would think but after all, that’s a lot of switching. The problem was quickly identified. A computer hack in California had compromised all of my credit and debit card’s security. They had mailed new cards the week before. I told her where I was but it didn’t register. “I’m sure it will be in your mail box in a day or two.” Once she got the geography straight the only feasible way for me to access my accounts was for her to wire money to me from my savings account. The two bankers talked for a few minutes and she handed the telephone back to me. The process would require routing the draft from Grand Rapids to Detroit, Detroit to New York, New York to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Toronto, then to Buenos Aires and from there to the bank in San Carlos de Bariloche. It would take at least 5 days. We did the details on the telephone and all I could think of was the classic default, “The check is in the mail.” I thanked the lady, was told to check back on the 5th day, beginning the next day. I wold have more time in Bariloche than I had planned for but then, when in Rome . . . I just had to stretch my cash to last five days.
Checking adds on the big bulletin board at the bus station I choose Escuela De Montaña, a language school on a side street just into the barrio. I stopped there to see if I could be a day to day student. The old, German Head Master was happy to let me have things my way. I paid for 2 hours of instruction in advance and he agreed to wait the 5 days for lessons after that. As in Santiago, some instructors are on call. They work when there is work. He made a call while I was in his office and asked me if 4:00 that afternoon would be too soon. I let him know it would be just right.
Arianna was late 20’s I think, tall with long, straight, black hair down to her waist. Those 6 or 7 classes were the best investment I made in Patagonia. I asked questions, she offered corrections and I repeated myself correctly. Then we added words to the vocabulary, conjugated verbs in several forms and I used them, correctly. Slipping back into English as need be and right back to Spanish: we had a good time. In the time we spent, I came to confirm my suspicions about South American culture. After her little boy was born, her husband left her for a relationship where he could be his lover’s only distraction. He did pay child support but without the closure of divorce, they were still caught up in the legality. He could play the field which was accepted but she could not remarry. Two of the other teachers were in the same scenario. I asked how much she got paid and the answer was depressing. She had a good education and teaching English part time, for peanuts, was the best she could manage. I slipped her a tip at the end of each lesson that doubled her pay. The old German would have fired her had he known but he never asked and we didn’t tell.
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