The waiter cleared our plates at 10:30 pm, early by Argentinean standards. “Let’s check out the pub,” Stas encouraged.

Pub? Sleep? Pub? Sleep? I hadn’t had more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep since we arrived, and most of those were while on a bus or plane. After some persuasive convincing, I agreed to the pub. A few drinks later we began the 4 block walk home through the icy air. We were almost home when we heard the music.

Music! Live music! It seemed to be coming from the “Cabaret – El Gran Judas” which was right across the street from our hotel. “One more?” asked Stas. “Come on, let’s check it out.” Never one to turn down live music, I agreed.

As we walked through the door, the bouncer stopped me with a firm grip on my arm. “No Tomas.” I thought for a moment, realized I didn’t understand, so replied, “Repita, por favor. Mas despuescio.” His gaze went slowly from me, to Stas, then back to me. “No Tomas.” I shook my head. I still didn’t understand. Was there a cover charge? Was this a private club? He gave up on me and turned to Stas. “No Tomas,” he said firmly. Stas shook his head while saying, in English, “I don’t speak Spanish.”

“No wo-man,” replied the bouncer.

Aaahhh. No damas, he had been saying. How odd. There were women in the bar. Why wasn’t I allowed in? I began to protest, “Pero, alli…” Stas pulled me by the arm and ushered me outside.

“But, but, I don’t understand. Why couldn’t we go in? There were women in there.” Through hysterical gasps, Stas replied, “Did you see what they were wearing? That was a whore house – that’s why you weren’t allowed in…”

I can’t believe I’m 37 years old and sleeping in a bunk bed…

Our view from our hotel in Barriloche, Hosteria Wonderland.

During one of our many hot chocolate breaks, we shared a table with a father and his young son who were enjoying the fresh snow. Emily, the most fluent Spanish speaker of our group, spoke to them about where they were from (Buenos Aires), why they were there (family vacation, the wife had just had another baby), how long they would stay (a week) and their recent trip to Disney World. The rest of us continued our conversation, in English. The young boy, Paco, looked from the three of us speaking in English, laughing, back to Emily and his father talking, then to Emily, talking to us in English. After several minutes of this, he turned to his father. In Spanish, he asked, “How come I only understand when she (pointing to Emily) speaks?”

I walked into the bathroom to wash my face before dinner. I noticed Stas playing with the bidet. Before I could ask what he was doing, he turned to me, toothbrush in hand, spitting into the bidet. “It’s Old Faithful – here in Argentina!”

That’s exactly what it felt like. An indescribable amount of fresh powder. Slopes virtually to ourselves. Forests waiting exploration. Falling into infinite softness.

3 bottles of Argentinean wine, 2 parties (both commencing after 2 am), 1 introduction to dulce de leche (the best sweet EVER), and 0 hours of sleep later, we were on our way to the airport, bound for the Patagonian mountains to snowboard for a few days. We were greeted by the largest snowstorm the area had seen in 10 years. Which meant being rerouted to another airport and a 4 hour bus ride, but it also meant fresh powder. Oh, yeah.

Argentina is famous for many things: tango, red wine, steak. It was the latter we were most looking forward as we sat down to lunch. The smell from the grill wafted towards us. We salivated reading the menu. We all ordered the same. Bife de chorizo. The tender, slightly fatty, incredibly delicious slab of meat, grilled to perfection.

Emily and I decided to split a salad, split a steak. The others ordered their own. The waiter brought theirs first, then two plates for Emily and me. He placed the platter with the steaming steak down on the table. With a soup spoon, he began to cut the beef in half. I quizzically looked across the table at Emily, I had never seen this before. She returned my look. We supressed snickers as the waiter continued his task, not without struggle. As he left, we noticed the Argentinean couple at the table next to us also staring in disbelief at the severed-by-a-spoon steak.

Despite the salon’s name, Cool Cuts, we scheduled hair appointments. Emily raved about the stylist she had when she was here last year. I was due for a trim, I was on vacation, why not?

We entered the salon, clientele jockeying for space in the small waiting area. Air kisses from the receptionist greeted us. He sashayed Emily off to the second floor and motioned for me to sit on a trendy ottoman. “Quieres cafe?” I smiled, shook my head no and began to read People, or its equivalent, in Spanish.

“Low-ree?” I glanced up. A barrage of unintelligible words greeted me. I smiled and followed. He sat me down in the chair, the kind that reclines to allow you to have your hear washed while sitting down. He arranged me just so, wrapping towels around my sweater. The water hit my head full force. “Ay! Que frio!” He stopped the steady stream of water long enough to offer an explanation I didn’t understand. He stopped speaking, I simply smiled and nodded.

It was then it hit me.

I didn’t know the proper Spanish vocabulary to explain how I wanted my hair cut. I could ask how to get to the library, instruct a taxi driver where to turn, order delicious food in a restaurant, but give guidance to a hair stylist? Hm.

With my peripheral vision, I glanced around. Emily, my translation savior, was no where to be seen. I racked my vocabulary. I could do this.

The hairwasher escorted me to the stylist. He, too, gave me a great shower of air kisses. “Buenos tardes! Que tal?” I smiled, offered my standard, “Bien, y tu?” and that’s where communication stopped, more or less. He made several comments, asked me several questions. I smiled, nodded, then when he finished, motioned to my hair. “El largo, lo mismo.” (the length, the same) “El mejor bella possible, por favor.” (the prettiest possible, please)

He looked at me, somewhat dumbstruck. Then picked up his scissors and began snipping, yanking, shaving, shearing. It wasn’t quite what I envisioned, but I wasn’t dissatisfied.

As I was admiring his work, Emily returned from upstairs. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Our haircuts, despite our instructions, were identical. Specialty of the house.

We rented an apartment from a friend of a friend of a friend. Maria, the apartment owner, showed us which keys worked where, the extra supply of towels, and how to transform the futon from couch to bed. After she left we showered, preparing to explore the town. Stas found the cd player and popped in some upbeat tunes. As we entered the living room we realized he had also found Maria’s kaleidoscope colored disco ball. Patches of red, blue, yellow, and green light washed over us. Let the vacation begin…