Hermes, you have some explaining to do..

Having left the comforts of American Athletics on TV, a city of neutral attractiveness and plump seals, I find myself on the mystical Island of Chiloe, Chile. While it is evident they thought long and hard about what to name the Island, it might not be so obvious that the rest of the Chilean society believes everyone on the Island is crazy.

Aside from rain 12.5 months per year, Chiloe is best know for its deep rooted mythological stories and characters. The Island, which is dotted with farms and fishing ports, is accessed only by ferries, and since Islanders typically endure many hardships (and have ample time on their hands), Chiloeans have cultivated some of the most absurd mythological creatures since that guy who stole a herd of Cows from Apollo 5 minutes after being born. Come on. How long does it take to cut the umbilical cord..?

One of the more intriguing characters allegedly roaming the Island is Trauco. This fellow is described as a gnarly, strong and mischievous Gnome, skilled enough to kill a man with just a stare, and suave enough to seduce a woman with only his irresistible repugnance, even impregnating her at times. In short, if the father isn't known, Trauco did it.

In the U.S., we don't have to fabricate mythical figures like this. Thanks NBA Players Union.

The prettiest ugly beauty pageant ever.

I have spent nearly half of my disposable income on a candy bar. Nestle Sahne Nuss' to be exact. They are a perfect slice of heaven here on earth, and I am hoping they exist in America (North). If not, I am leaving all my clothes and belongings in America (South) and filling my bags with these yellow wrappered treasures. (I shall also leave room in my bags for Olga).

On another note, I was planning on being back in Santiago today to spend a week with the Arniboldi's, my surrogate Chilean family. However, they are away on holiday, so I had to extend my nomadness for another 4 days. This is no problem. To pass the additional time, I went to a coastal city called Valdivia, described by Lonely Planet as "possibly Chile's most attractive city". I can see why the editors used the word possibly. It's like when someone says maybe, when they mean no.

Perhaps before it was completely leveled in 1960 by an Earthquake it was overly pleasing to the eye. However, now it is like any other metropolis... With 2,000 pound Sea Lions sitting on the river banks eating all of the food from the public market. It is actually pretty funny. They waddle over behind the vendors and snatch a fish and then run away and jump in the river when the vendor catches them. Kind of like me with Sahne Nuss'.

I have to admit though, Valdivia gets GREAT American television reception. I am happy to report that I watched not one, but two Sportscenters during my stay, which was like Christmas in April in a mediocre looking city.

Stranded at the Drive-In (ie: Pucon), branded a fool, what will they think, Monday at

THE VOLCANO!!! I finally hiked the 9,000 foot lava spitting hill on Monday. It was a highly anticipated event, which took four days of 6am wake ups (only to be told to go back to bed 3 of those days), three boxes of Nestle Fitness & Fruits and 5 mostly sleepless nights on a non-regulation bed.

Friday's and Saturday's hikes were cancelled due to rain. Sunday did not have a cloud in the sky, but my hike was cancelled because the guide forgot to show up. Monday more than made up for the lack of clouds on Sunday, but surprisingly (and thankfully) the hike was not cancelled.

Even with the 40 mph winds, snow and the inability to see beyond 30 feet for most of the day, the hike was great. The guide service provided all the gear to look like a professional nerd, highlighted by the bright orange and royal blue two piece suit with matching mittens and neck warmer, accented nicely with a teal helmet, ice ax and crampons. All and all, the hike was an unmitigated success. As was the next available bus from Pucon.

The night before I left Pucon however, an Austrian Couple took the Hostel Del Lago plunge (checked in) and were outwardly pissed off at the time of arrival. Their displeasure was not because Austria failed to qualify for the world cup, but rather their $4,000 camera had just been stolen on the bus ride into Pucon. The couple was 7 months into their three year traveling trip around the world. (This, like a 500-year time capsule, seems a little excessive).

They were shown to their room, and I went to the Bar with Hector (the hostel owner), Olan (a fighter pilot from Israel who waited 7 days to hike the Volcano), and two Israeli girls. A few sips into the night, the Austrian couple stormed into the bar and started berading Hector alleging that someone broke into their room [at.... the Hostel Del Lago] and stole a jacket and their travelers checks. Having just received a mug of Heinekin, Hector went back to the Hostel to deal with the situation and the police. Upon his return to the bar, he surmised that they made it all up just to get the insurance on their camera (which has a similar street value with my car.. '98 Passat Wagon* if anyone wants it).

Anyway, the fat lady has sung for the Austrians, who, after 7 months, have become fed up with the traveling life and purchased tickets home, cutting their trip short by 880 days.

*If you are pondering the typical demographic of a Passat Wagon driver, please note that I am NOT a middle-aged woman.

Thief Whisperer

Five other Israeli travelers threw caution to the wind and checked into the Hostel Del Lago the same night I did. They had rented a car, and that night they were making plans to drive to the local hot springs to swim, drink wine and talk loudly. I had soup with them and we became fast friends. One of them made the mistake of inviting me to go with them to the hot springs, partially because I would have to unleash my guns, and mostly because they had 5 people already and a car that can only be described as a glorified golfcart.

Nonetheless, four of us happily piled into the backseat ready to endure the uncomfort of a 1/2 hour drive knowing that the destination offered the natural goodness of thermal pools and slippery wood.

Unfortunately, our navigator failed to navigate, and we got lost twice. Thusly, the supposed 30 minute trip took 1 hour and 40 minutes. This was ok though, because most of the trip was spent playing the "Stump the Israeli" game which intricately involved me saying an English word, and them saying if they knew it. While pumperknickel, Culinary Atache and booty aren't in their English repetuar, I was surpised by the fact they knew what a Hush Puppy was, as I don't really know what it means.

We finally found the springs, and after getting out of the car, stretching and making those weird noises everyone makes when they get out of the car after a long trip, I noticed they had two big pots of some vegetable stew and approximately 13 loafs of french bread. I thought this was peculiar to bring to hot springs, but in the end, I ate it with them while in the water. My bread was soggy.

I pruned the hell out of my fingers after 3 hours of submersion, and passed out on the way home in one of the most uncomfortable positions ever.

The next morning we tried to hike the volcano, however, our efforts were thwarted by the weather (thwarting #1 of 4). Earlier that morning while I was eating my Nestle Fitness & Fruits Cereal (which reminds us that "a good figure IS possible all year round") one of my Israel friends saddled up to me and poured himself a bowl. A box of Fitness and Fruits costs the same as a night at Hostel Del Lago, but sharing a bowl with a new friend didn't bother me much. However, when two more of his (and my) Israeli buddies grabbed bowls and filled themselves up, also making use of my box of leche (milk), I started to get mildly agitated. I let it slide though, threw out the empty box and bought a new one that day. It was their stealing of my pen after I asked them for their email addresses that hurt the most.

The end result: I now have no pens and writing utensils are items I refuse to buy. Ahhh, the pennies pinched by pen pilfering..

Waldorf Astoria...? No. Econo-Lodge...? No.

I arrived to Pucon, a town in Chile where the typical hostel bed costs between $12-$20 per night. Since I majored in economics, I elected to book my stay at the $6.50 per night hostel. I believe it was Hugh Grant who said; "you get what you pay for."

While Hostel Del Lago does have regulation bed frames, it neglects such things as; a front door, heat, real mattresses, a back yard that isn't a swamp, an alert attendant, etc. From the moment I walked through the front entryway thingy, the worker has been playing some medieval knights video game and celebrating to himself whenever he kills dragons. Perhaps he is going for a new record, in hopes of outdoing that 28 year old South Korean guy who played "starcraft" for 50 straight hours and then dropped dead of exhaustion (True story).

To take a shower at 'Hostel of the Lake', you must first walk outside, second, turn on the hot water heater and third, pray it works. The process of making hot water spew out of the freezing cold spigot was described by the owner (not the video game nut) as "very easy." He lies.

Upon viewing his demonstration, I felt like I was just shown how to diffuse a bomb or someother thing that takes many intricate steps to accomplish but I can't think of right now. First, you must turn the valve on the gas tank on, and then, making sure all of the heater knobs are facing east, you gingerly draw the left knob in a counterclockwise direction 1/8 of one full turn and push down. This action is immediately followed by flicking the right knob back and forth to ignite the pilot light, all the while you are to be standing on your left foot with your index finger pointing to the top of your head and spinning 360 degrees per 15 seconds. This is followed by a sweeping turn of the left knob to a horizontal position, and WALAH!, a massive fire ball erupts right in front of your face* and it's shower time. Where I promptly scolded the hell out of my back.

Other items that you won't find in 'Home Magazine' include the skylights with no glass or light, but rather the metal sheeting of the roof showing, a mini fire place that emits heat at a rate commensurate with a high quality zippo, or foam camping mats for mattresses placed on wood planks 5 inches apart. (If this mattress description makes any sense, you can imagine how uncomfortable it is.. And how awesome I slept).

Anyway, I can deal with the accommodations, as my sole purpose for visiting Pucon is to Climb a Volcano, slide down a Volcano and depart Pucon. I have been here for 5 days and all three of these things have yet to occur. Apparently, you can't hike when it is raining, or when the climbing agency cancels your trip on two consecutive sunny days because the guides don't show up. All of this means more QT with dragon boy.

*This reminds me: When home during a college break several years ago, my friend Malcolm and I were grilling steaks (mostly because they're delicious and partly because we didn't know how to cook anything else). Unbenounced to me, Malcolm turned the gas on approximately one minute before I moseyed over to the grill with a matchbook in my hand and a bushy set of eyebrows. Thinking I had started the flow of gas, I extended a lit match in the general direction of the grill. The match was still about a foot away from the cooking apparatus, when the fire cloud imploded in my face, making fast work of the split ends on my bangs. When the fire puff cleared, all I could hear was Malcolm buckling in laughter. As I am sure you were all wondering; the steaks were divine.

ps. QT= quality time.

I finally shaved my beard, and to reward myself I bought a killer pair of overalls and a green ballon

San Martin de los Andes (Smandes)

I have been a lucky bastard for the last 2 months, as I have endured only 2 rainy days since I arrived to South America (It would be more, however the precipitation during my Torres Del Paines hike typically presented itself in the form of a solid). That was until yesterday, at which point the skies opened up, and have shown unrelenting dedication to emitting water in our general direction since. Therefore, I have caught up on my TV watching, as the hostel I am staying at has 800 channels of mind shrinking propaganda of which I can't get enough of. South America television broadcasts typically rely on American Television shows and Movies to occupy their daily line up, and they just throw some Spanish subtitles at the bottom of the screen and call it a day. I feel bad for the general TV viewing public as the translation team for these programs must be a collection of some of the dullest people in the world. I CAN even understand most of the subtitles, which is grounds for an internal investigation at some level. An American movie line such as "Shut your mouth or I will kill you and eat you and your family using only a pen knife and tartar sauce" will be translated into "Callate o Muere!" (ie: Be quiet or Die). They leave out the important stuff because the translation for American phrases or titles is often impossible. This, or they are just lazy or can't read fast enough. The beauty of the English language is that we can make up words. As a result, the Spanish language rarely offers a direct translation for English phrases, and instead they offer overly informative titles such as "El Secreto en el Montaña" for "Brokeback Mountain", or Entrecopas (Among Cups) for Sideways, or "Blanco y Negro" (White and Black) for the TV show "Different Strokes". As usual, I have no point. ps. I am currently in Smandes

Sons of Sam Horn

I haven't seen a paper towel in 2 months. On Notice: Dish rags, dogs. I found a quaint chocolate shop around the corner. Dead to Me: Mamushka, salami. I ran into Olga (the human blister) for the second time in two days. (I am 1,800 miles away from where I originally met her). As previously mentioned, I saw Olga for the first time on the street yesterday before purchasing chocolate. During this encounter, I noticed she was still walking with a limp, so I asked her if she was better. She insisted that she was, and after some uneasy american/israeli small talk and a lighthearted departing joke of "well, take care of your heels, and stay out of woods" we went our separate ways, presumably to never see each other again. Until the next day during a rigorous hike, when I passed her on the trail with 8 Israeli guys who were obviously unaware of her historical trekking prowess. I wished her luck, laughed enthusiastically in my head, and continued on my hike by myself. Side note: I actually didn't intend on going solo hiking this time. However, the people I was supposed to go hiking with, including a Danish girl named Auke, stood me up, so I went anyway to counterbalance the barrel of chocolate I recently disposed of with my mouth. Later that evening, I met up with Auke, who scolded me for standing her up. One of us was the pot calling the kettle black, and I assume it was either her or I. Regardless, Auke was a funny Dutch girl and through the course of conversation that night, she was jokingly trying to recite the "do I make you horny" line from the Austin Powers movie series, however (and to my utter delight), it came out as "do I give you horn". It took me approximately 13 minutes to stop laughing. Chill with Me: Olga, Shats, People mangling up the English language similar to my butchering of the Spanish language, Stray Dogs.

Return of the Mack

Bariloche, Argentina is a Ski town well known for its chocolate shops and making tourists fat. At the urging of several chocolate affectionados, I visited the most popular chocolate shop in town named "Mamushka-el chocolate muy rico" (Mamushka-the very rich chocolate). With a big smile on my face, I showed up to the front doors, which opened automatically (as if they knew I would be coming). I didn't really want much chocolate, and I had already game planned what my purchase would consist of; Three pieces with Almonds, one piece with rice crispies, one piece with some goo inside and a mint one.

If only obtaining goodies from this store was as simple as me. The Mamuska purchasing process is as annoying, difficult and time consuming as checking into a overbooked flight on Air Tran. First you must take a number from the number dispenser. This proves to be disheartening task as you see your number of 33 is nowhere near the most recent number called of 4. So, you just have to stand next to hoards of anxious women in front of a glass enclosure guarding upwards of 10 metric tons of chocolate. I don't crave many foods, but anyone would start to get a little restless when waiting for almonds fused with chocolatey goodness.

I have heard that the scene at a Bridal Gown Sale in the States is something to behold. Well, in Argentina, gowns are so B.C., as the real bickering comes when there are only three Mocca Fudge Truffles left and you have four ladies in front of you that look like MF truffles occupy real estate in all five categories of their food pyramid.

After waiting 20 minutes to give my not-so-complex order, I felt a weight gently lift off my shoulders as I was minutes away from departing this man made hell hole. However, just as the attendent was finished bagging my order, I reached for it, only to see her wisk away to another part of the store to where I assume I could pay for my damn chocolate.

Keeping an eye on my bag of chocolate I stealthily glided over to another line and waited for 5 minutes until I got to the counter to pay for my items. "I am sorry, this is the wrapping table, you need to pay over there" the lady said while pointing to a line similar in length to the toilet lines at Red Sox games. At this point I am ready to give up on my chocolate buying mission, but I rationalize that I have waited this long, what's another 5 minutes.

12 minutes later, I was back in the wrapping table line waiting to present my receipt and collect my f-ing chocolate.

I guess it was unbelievably delicious.


Ps. I ran into Olga (the blister getting Israeli from the hike) on the street right before I went to Mamushka. My smile upon entering Mamushka was predicated on this encounter. My frown upon departing Mamushka was predicated on Mamushka. However, I quickly regained happiness after laughing at my run in with Olga and inhaling the gooey piece.

What do you get when you mix John McEnroe, Courtney Love and Little Orphan Annie togther??

Since the conclusion of the Saved by The Bell television show, the understudy (and/or stunt double) for Screech Powers has been working at a Hostel in Bariloche, Argentina. While it seems the word 'zoinks' and low level scams with his blond compadre are a thing of the past, he runs a tight ship and is the human equivalent of Fort Knox (or at least a childproof bottle of Tylenol) when trying to obtain a new towel.

The hostel I am currently staying at is called La Bolsa del Deportes (The Purse of the Sports). While it is difficult to ascertain why they are named after a female carryall, I believe the sports portion of the title is derived from the presence of a foosball and pingpong table. (There is a big playground slide here too, but I believe it is intended more for leisure purposes, as I haven't seen any competitive sliding matches yet.)

There was a heated pingpong game going on when I arrived, and I soon learned that an English girl, with Raggedy Anne red hair (bandana covered), a lower lip ring and a fiery competitive spirit, had quickly become the Forest Gump of the Purse. Her record spoke for itself, as she claimed she was unbeaten. Her boasting of historical events quickly gave way to the postulation that she was would kick the ass of any future competition as well. I think I might have even heard her say she ate her most recent competitor.

I wasn't about to challenge the paddle weilding master, until she approached me to ask if I wanted to participate in a friendly game of table tennis. Trying to impress Dustin Diamond, I accepted her offer and we started a best of 5 match.

She broke only one game ball on an overhead smash, and was visibly without words at the end of the third game. I won 3-0. However, there could be no rejoicing for fear of a flying pingpong paddle to the temple. She made promises of a rematch, however when I returned to the Hostel later that night, I found her hobbling around, having suffered a terrible accident playing...








pingpong.

Acclimating to a hostel life

Assuming you aren't married or living with your significant other, most people haven't shared a bedroom with another person since the time honored slumber party as kids (or more probably college).

I guess you could consider a Hostel living situation as a slumber party gone bad. Like the one where the annoying kid gets homesick or starts puking up Peppermint Stick ice cream and keeps everyone up all night, only to be all smiles at the breakfast table while absolutely inhaling a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

In similar form, Hostels are conclusively unrestful. I have been moving around from hostel to hostel and thusly, switching from one snoring roommate to the next, with the occasional Sleep Apnea victim thrown into the mix. If you have ever heard a person with sleep apnea sleep, you often feel mounting pressure to jump in and perform CPR or the Heimlich to prevent the nasty noise maker from choking on their own tongue/cud/whatever scientific bodily part is responsible for the condition. (Perhaps the amount of body hair and/or belly size).

Speaking of CPR; the night before my friends (Tim and Ryan) left South America, we were dining at a "Libre Tenedor" (free fork. ie: all you can eat) BBQ restaurant (with lamb carcasses roasting over an open fire prominently displayed in the front window). While we were enjoying some mid-20's male banter, Tim started coughing and pointing to his throat. Thinking Tim was joking, Ryan and I started pointing at his throat too. These points were accompanied by jovial bursts of laughter.. until I heard a gurgle come from his throat and he mouthed that he wasn't joking. Having been CPR/Heimlich maneuver certified at some point in my life (mid to late '90's), I jumped up (inadvertently drawing the attention of every restaurant goer and employee) and got behind him preparing to administer the Heimlich. I had no idea what to do, and looked to Ryan for help. This proved to be of little help as Ryan was still trying to confirm whether Tim was being serious or not.. "Wait, Tim, are you joking? are you serious right now? you're such a baby.."

Tim rejected my advances to perform the heimlich, believing that he could remedy the piece of lamb stuck in his esophagus by taking several healthy gulps from his 1 liter Argentinean Beer. This didn't work either, and he ran to the bathroom to seemingly use the plunger or some other medical method vastly superior to the clench of my arms.

In the end, Tim was able to breath, but the lamb was a nuisance for the remainder of the night. As was Ryan's snoring.

Prada's new line of shade/hats. Or Shats (for marketing purposes).

ps. This photo was taken 2 weeks ago. My beard is currently far more unruly and unsightly.

1) It's all business for Tim (middle) at the bottom of the world 2) You know it. 3) Fin del hike.

6 immeasurably large quads. (L to R, Stu, Ryan and Timbo) Below that: Detroit Skyline

I painted these with only crayons and washable magic markers.

After hiking the wrong mountain.

Why buy the moose when you can get the milk for free..

Has anyone ever heard of Alcohol made from moose milk??? Earl, a Sioux Indian from Canada I went beer drinking with, swears by it, adding, "it doesn't taste like chicken".

Things I like:
1) Peanut Butter (which is as elusive as Hidden Valley RD down here).
2) Funny things written on the bathroom walls above urinals. One that isn't going to blow you away, but gave me a chuckle as I stood next to R2d2 from starwars; "this toilet will self-destruct in 10 seconds, thusly making your mission impossible".
3) Argentinian Airports. I flew to Calafate, Argentina yesterday and upon landing, I got a pretty bad bloody nose. A gusher, if you will. Darting off the plane and through the airport hallways, I searched for a bathroom, but couldn't find any. So with a well sodden tissue and my hand over my nose, i asked a security guard where they were. He took one look at me, and frantically indicated that I needed a "Medico" (doctor).

I needed a lot of things at that point (like running water, a mirror and perhaps a snickers), but a doctor was not one of them. Nevertheless, he rushed me over to the infirmary unit (which I was impressed to see existed) and two medical people ushered me right over to a doctor's table and told me to lie down. This whole time I was trying to tell them that I only needed some water and new tissues, but this didn't register. (Come to think of it, I was probably asking for some sand and spoons). After having my blood pressure and pulse taken, I assured them it wasn't my first bloody nose and I was good to go. They insisted on observing me for a few more minutes to make sure I wasn't going to collapse and to record my passport information. Probably to tell the U.S. to stop letting me out of the country.

While entirely unnessesary, I appreciated their care, seeing as though you could probably go to JFK with a hammer lodged in your head and they wouldn't notice you until you set off the metal detector. At which point, they would say hammers aren't permitted on planes.

Frommers, here I come.

Previously, I recommended that individuals should refrain from hiking in the dark by themselves. This is fantastic advice... that I forget often. While I take some of the blame, I have to lean on my former friend, Lonely Planet, to share in my missteps. At my most feeble moment (lost and traversing an unmarked and steep mountain range), LP's pearl of wisdom in their treking guide was to "descend right in tiny switchbacks via a tiny rock knob after reaching a slope of loose coarse talus on the trail" (pg. 256, Patagonia Andes, Printed in China, 2003). After reading this 3 times, I flipped to the glossary for the meaning of Talus, which was mysteriously in abstentia between Tabamo (a blood sucking horsefly) and Tarn (a quaint highland lake).

I finally located the talus (or what i assume was talus) and knob, and switchbacked my ass off down the rock face (undoubtedly weary of Tabamo's the entire time), only to find the campsite that I intended on staying at didn't exist. The next campsite was a full day away and furthermore, the landscape did not lend itself to just throwing a tent, enjoying a fire (fueled by indigenous furs) and wearing the hell out of a plaid shirt.

I decided to retreat down an alternative route to what LP described as "a pleasant campsite with good protection and views". Well protected it was. View I didn't. I obviously couldn't find this campsite, and at this point it was about 5:30pm and I had about an hour left of sunlight for a 2 hour trek to a campsite near Puerto Williams. (Mind you I had been walking along a mountain range since noon with a pack that could anchor a circus tent).

My visible aggrevation and exhausion happened to coinicide with raindrops pummeling me from the sky, so i just started walking. I made decent time walking the 2 hours through dark forests and dusk-lit fields back towards town. Besides slipping and falling on 4 well moisturized roots, things were actually looking up as I approached town, and I even contemplated setting up my tent instead of retreating all the way to the Hostel. Moments later, my decision was made for me as I fell off a well lubed log and did a spot on side flop into a shin deep puddle. After struggling mightily to lift myself and my bag out of the puddle, I walked straight into the travel office and pushed my departure from the island up a day. This departure was then repushed back a day due to 1 foot ocean swells .

Suffice it to say, Pedro enjoyed himself a hearty laugh when I walked into the hostel at 8:30, as he had previously called me "loco" for going camping at this time of year. The night was rounded out with Pedro, Miguel and a man who been in Anartica for 3 years (with two outward facing lazy eyes) watching "Hitch", another damn romantic comedy.

When 'Mid-20th century television shows' go bad..

I traveled to Puerto Williams, the town just south of the end of the world, to partake in some cultural absorption and to hike the craggy peaks of Navaro Island. Or at least this was my plan.

1.5 days into my three day stay, I tried to leave Puerto Williams (for reasons to be explained later), but was stranded on the island due to unpassable seas (This would be a good time to mention that the ferry boat was a 10 person Zodiac that might capsize if situated next to a well executed cannon ball). Puerto William is odd. Half of the 2,262 residents are there for Naval purposes, which means the other 1,131 citizens ate paint chips as kids. The average temperature during the winter is in the single digits, most houses have no insulation and they refer to beavers as the devil.

They have beautifully cemented and curbed sidewalks, but not one inch of paved road, and as a preemptive strike against the clever little beavers (and the collapse of the electrical grid) they have cement telephone poles. The beavers have destroyed entire landscapes of forest, and since their introduction to the island in the 1940's, they have become enemy numero uno (#1 for those of you who aren't fluent). As a result, every truck has fully loaded gun rack, every house has stuffed beaver or five in their front window, and the cowboys stylishly sport beaverskin chaps and play cricket with beaver tails.

I should have known something was up when I was the only person on the dingy over to the island, and there were 7 passengers waiting eagerly at the ferry landing to leave the island. I was bused to the Patagonia Hostel, which was a house with a hilarious and plump owner named Pedro Ortiz Ceballos (From the spelling of his name I believe he may be Dutch). It was friday afternoon, and i settled into my room and did final preparations for my hike the next day. That night, as I was watching TV with Pedro, Miguel (a 45 yr old electrical technician with terminally dirty hands) and three other middle aged men who stopped by for while, I took a moment to soak in the fact that I was at the bottom of the world (upside down from you). That fleeting second passed, and my attention quickly returned back to the romantic comedy "Serendipity" (in dubbed spanish).

ps. Depending on who you talk to, the part about athletic events and caudal appendages may be fallacious.

The bottom of the world boasts minimal warmth

At one point yesterday I was wearing a Marmot raincoat over a Patagonia fleece, over a Marmot windbreaker, all above LL Bean long underwear bottoms, Northface Pants, Smartwool Socks and Timberland boots*. On my head was a wool hat from Gap (a pleasant medley of blue, green, grey and white selected from the VERY athletic section of the store).

Needless to say, none of my 3 jackets could properly contain my pipes/pythons/biceps/guns/ironclad fruits of the earth/tickets to fame and fortune, etc.

As a side note; I officially have a beard and it officially looks like crap** (this is unofficially due to the bald spot on the left side of my neck).

*I think I have the preppy northeasterner gringo kid covered.
**My mom recommended I refrain from using the word crap in my blog (or at least buy a thesauraus). That's a load of manure.