Up At The Lakes
Even before we reached Bariloche, it was noticeable that we had left behind the open, barren plains of Patagonia and moved on into a land of lakes, forests and hills. The eastern foothills of the Andes are host to a great many lakes, and on the shore of one of the largest of these, Lago Nahuel Hapi, is the city of San Carlos de Bariloche, known universally just as Bariloche. The San Carlos part supposedly came about as a result of a postal error, when someone was writing to an English settler called Charles who lived in the village there, and accidentally put down "San Carlos" (St Charles) when he meant "Don Carlos" (Lord Charles). It's unsure if the individual involved was even a nobleman, but the name apparently stuck. I have no idea if this really is true, but it seems as good an explanation as any!
Being up in the foothills also means that the climate's a fair bit cooler, and, what with the breeze blowing along the lake, I decided it was time to dig my shoes out again in preference to my sandals once I reached my hostel. The accomplishment of this, I found, required the ascent of Calle Salta in town, which winds up the side of the hill from the Centro Civico where I got off the local bus from the terminal into town. On arrival there, panting and wheezing in my traditional impression of an asthmatic camel, I was greeted by Leo, one of the owners, a cheerful porteño with dreadlocks and a seemingly ever-present Boca Juniors shirt. He showed me around, pretty much all in Spanish, which, to give him credit, was pitched slow enough and clear enough that I actually understood. After handing in a big bag of laundry to be done, I went back down the hill to explore the town, first priorities being food and internet access.
The former was sorted by the Bariloche institution that is "Morfy's". This is a burger-bar with a difference, that being that you sit there and pick out whatever salads, sauces etc you want to accompany your burger, choripan, milanesa (breaded schnitzel) or lomito (steak sandwich), while the guy serving you grins and bounces along to the loud music he has playing. By the time you've added lettuce, tomato, onion, carrot, egg, hot peppers, chimichurri, chilli sauce, garlic sauce, mustard, etc etc to your sandwich, you just don't want to think about getting your grease fix anywhere else.
Once my internet needs had also been met, I made one of my infrequent trips to a supermarket, having calculated that my budget was being mauled very severely so it was probably time to cook. Also, Pudu is one of the more reasonable hostels where they let you bring your own grog in, so the supermarket also serves as your chance to fuel up for the evening. However, I did also try some of the hostel's beer, given that they have 3 beers from the local Cerveceria Manush, a rubia (blonde beer), a roja (red ale) and a negra (porter) - it would be both rude and against my personal commandments not to have done so! This also entailed conversations with Mark, the hostel's Mancunian barman and occasional receptionist, who was such a nice character I even forgave him for being a Man Utd fan.
The evening thus faded into a happy, faintly tipsy daze, during which I met various Americans (notably Alice, who was working temporarily at the hostel), Mauricio, a Chilean Canadian, and his cousin, who were paying a quick visit to Bariloche while Mauricio was down to see relatives in Chile, and James, an Irish lad whose speciality appeared to be going out and getting in so late that he didn't make it to the Spanish classes he was taking. This was all enlivened by a brief powercut, and also collective astonishment when some of the Argentine guests started cooking an Asado at around half past midnight.
Being up in the foothills also means that the climate's a fair bit cooler, and, what with the breeze blowing along the lake, I decided it was time to dig my shoes out again in preference to my sandals once I reached my hostel. The accomplishment of this, I found, required the ascent of Calle Salta in town, which winds up the side of the hill from the Centro Civico where I got off the local bus from the terminal into town. On arrival there, panting and wheezing in my traditional impression of an asthmatic camel, I was greeted by Leo, one of the owners, a cheerful porteño with dreadlocks and a seemingly ever-present Boca Juniors shirt. He showed me around, pretty much all in Spanish, which, to give him credit, was pitched slow enough and clear enough that I actually understood. After handing in a big bag of laundry to be done, I went back down the hill to explore the town, first priorities being food and internet access.
The former was sorted by the Bariloche institution that is "Morfy's". This is a burger-bar with a difference, that being that you sit there and pick out whatever salads, sauces etc you want to accompany your burger, choripan, milanesa (breaded schnitzel) or lomito (steak sandwich), while the guy serving you grins and bounces along to the loud music he has playing. By the time you've added lettuce, tomato, onion, carrot, egg, hot peppers, chimichurri, chilli sauce, garlic sauce, mustard, etc etc to your sandwich, you just don't want to think about getting your grease fix anywhere else.
Once my internet needs had also been met, I made one of my infrequent trips to a supermarket, having calculated that my budget was being mauled very severely so it was probably time to cook. Also, Pudu is one of the more reasonable hostels where they let you bring your own grog in, so the supermarket also serves as your chance to fuel up for the evening. However, I did also try some of the hostel's beer, given that they have 3 beers from the local Cerveceria Manush, a rubia (blonde beer), a roja (red ale) and a negra (porter) - it would be both rude and against my personal commandments not to have done so! This also entailed conversations with Mark, the hostel's Mancunian barman and occasional receptionist, who was such a nice character I even forgave him for being a Man Utd fan.
The evening thus faded into a happy, faintly tipsy daze, during which I met various Americans (notably Alice, who was working temporarily at the hostel), Mauricio, a Chilean Canadian, and his cousin, who were paying a quick visit to Bariloche while Mauricio was down to see relatives in Chile, and James, an Irish lad whose speciality appeared to be going out and getting in so late that he didn't make it to the Spanish classes he was taking. This was all enlivened by a brief powercut, and also collective astonishment when some of the Argentine guests started cooking an Asado at around half past midnight.
posted by Pat at 12:00 pm
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