Waterfalls and Walking, a lot

Before I got here I thought I walked a fair amount, maybe not a TON, but I definitely walked places. Estuve equivocado. Since arriving in BsAs I have walked my way through three pairs of shoes and am making quick work of several other pairs. The first pair to go was a cute pair of black Mary Janes with white checks that I got at Bata in 10th grade. They were never quite the same after I wore them to The Hives's concert in Vienna... (note to self: being in a large crowd of excited moshers in flats = black and blue feet the next morning)

The next pair to go was my beautiful pair of purple satin Indian flats that I got on the spur of the moment in London on Adriana and I's "Senior Trip". I can't begin to count the miles I must have walked in them, and though they have required repairs once already, I just can't let go. There is nothing like the relationship between a woman and comfortable pair of cute flats. Nothing. Maybe the cute old cobbler on the corner can fix them...

The most recent casualty was this afternoon as I walked the 10 blocks between the bus stop and the apartment where I tutor. Halfway there my fake Birkenstocks broke, and I limped the remaining blocks until I could get my hands on some superglue. Though they feel pretty sturdy now, I would rather not find myself with broken shoes and a 45 min. walk home. It would appear that it is time to go shoe shopping. What a tragedy. :-D Now the only question is to get a pair of the ubiquitous Converse sneakers, some pointy metallic flats, or pretty sandals. Decisions, decisions...

One of the contributors to the death of my Birks was most likely the 4 km hike in Iguazu to the waterfall under which we spent some time swimming before hiking the 4 km back. And thus I arrive at my weekend trip to Iguazu. Though it was only the first week of October it already feels like an eon ago. And as, according to Wiki, there is no specific length of time designated by the term 'eon' I feel pretty secure in my assertion that the psychological time that has passed for me since the first week of October is equivalent to an eon, más o menos.














Iguazu was my first trip out of the city as well as my first micro ride. Though not miserable, 17 hours on a tour bus is not my idea of a good time. And apparently I have fallen into the role of the girly girl as the majority of my travel companions were ready to step off the bus and head straight for a tour. I don't know how they do it. 17 hours on a bus and all I can think about is exfoliating about 17 layers of skin and bus off of me. Blech, it gives me the shivers just thinking about wandering around like that. So, after a quick shower we were ready to head to the park, and what a park...



Everyone says that the view is more impressive from the Brazilian side, but I have a hard time believing anything could be more impressive. After a short trolley ride we arrived at the beginning of the path to La Garganta del Diablo. Everyone says that the view is more (The Devil's Throat). And this is where I find myself at a loss, because as much as I love words, the sensation of standing looking down over the edge of a waterfall so high that you can't see the bottom for the mist is something quite indescribable. The first thing you notice is the noise. You can hear the dull roar before you can see anything. Then there is the mist. You turn a corner and see this cloud of mist rising in the distance. Standing at the top of the falls is a rather damp experience as any time the wind shifts a cloud of mist comes swirling out of the depths straight for you and your digital camera. But with the mist come the rainbows, and the rainbows are pretty much completely lovely.

You know what else is lovely? Waterfalls that you can swim under. Like the kind you might imagine Tahitian goddesses bathing under, except instead of Tahitian goddesses it was 7 sticky college girls who had trekked several kilometers and climbed over several ant infested rocks (eeeewww, think Discovery Channel trails of ants.... everywhere). But the waterfall took care of that, and any illusions we might have had about the joy to be found under said waterfall. Of course it was great fun. However, falling from many many feet above one's head is not the softest thing and the slippery rocks beneath are pretty good at limiting one's ability to move gracefully, assuming one had such an ability in the first place.

Grace was definitely not a problem for the two Brazilian dancers who showed up at our hostel barbecue to run the limbo stick that night. And considering what they were wearing (or rather, what they weren't wearing) and the heels they were so precariously perched on, just standing would be a noteworthy feat for most women. So aside from learning about infantile literature, Spanish grammar, and intemperie in recent Argentine literature, I have also learned some bizarre facts, for instance: Brazilian women don't have cellulite. I'm sure that some poor soul is the exception to this rule, but in general, it seems to be a well-known and widely accepted fact. When I told Gaby that there had been Brazilian dancers her first question was how their bums were. I had barely managed to say that they were pretty impressive when she continued on to inform me of the notoriety of Brazilian bums. The funny thing is, a girl I traveled with had a nearly identical conversation with her host mom. I am sensing an inferiority complex going on here, which would perfectly explain the 100 different products available for purchase in BsAs that promise to make you as smooth as a, well, as a Brazilian's bum.

And you can all thank Mandy for asking the question, "Where is that blog post?", that got me off my bed and finishing this entry. Glad you are back in the land of internet! I missed you!

The butterflies are all for you Gramma. :)