El Bolson. It’s kind of like the land that shampoo forgot. When people speak of the unwashed masses, I’m fairly certain they had El Bolson in mind. The place is crawling with dusty, pack-laden, hippy types. Note to self: Don’t start a Fantastic Sams franchise in El Bolson. It’s one big Phish concert, minus the band and the hacky sacks. Good Lord, I could make a killing selling those things down here. Note to self: Look into hack sack importation laws. Regardless, the fashionable elite in El Bolson aren’t concerned with where you bought your clothing, but rather where you made your clothing.

In many ways it’s a lot like Flagstaff used to be back in my GenX glory days. Back when Earth Day wasn’t something people now vaguely recall was a second rate punk band and a big ass pair of boots was an acceptable way to accessorize a pair of cut-offs. El Bolson looks like what would happen if someone got it into their head to clone the Spin Doctors and set them all free in South America. Except of course for the teenagers. They are parading around with low-slung pants, various metal barbs and hoops and such stuck randomly into their faces, studded belts and shoes reminiscent of tugboats. Teenagers, as far as I can tell, are the same here. This phenomenon, I can’t quite figure out. Must be something in the hormones that makes us all want to one day be embarrassed by our hair.

The biggest difference between El Bolson and Bariloche it seems isn’t the number of heads sporting dreadlocks, but the beer. They must sell two liter bottles of Quillnes by the truckload – at least based on the number of people I see walking around the town carrying them. Add to this a seemingly vast array of local brews and you’ve got a mini Milwaukee only with way better weather (at least for right now). This of course made a lot more sense to me once I learned that El Bolson is the hops capitol of South America.

Cerveza por favor. At least I had that Spanish memorized decades ago.

I arrived in El Bolson early on a Saturday afternoon, right as they were having their biweekly artist’s fair in the central plaza of the small, tree lined town, My bladder was bloated and desperate after I sat on a bus for two hours immediately following a breakfast solely of coffee and bottled water.

Upon arriving at El Bolson I was positively desperate for a bathroom. Any longer and I was prepared to begin devising methods of relieving myself en route, using a jacket and an empty bottle of water for privacy. I grabbed my gear and hustled (as much as a person carrying three packs can “hustle”) into the nearest parilla not for the food so much but so I could find a convenient place to relieve myself without having to explain in broken Spanish to the local policia just why I was exposing myself behind the bus station.

Just one more difference between the US and Argentina. Exposing yourself behind a bus station in America is pretty much a tolerated - if not expected - behavior.

My tortured bladder aside, all in all it was a nice trip made easier by a fresh charge on my iPod. The bus was largely full. I didn’t get much of a chance to meet anyone on the trip; even the guy next to me was sleeping. He was a weathered old man in a black wool cap whose hands folded in his lap looked like the leather of an old pair of cowboy boots.

In a not atypical stroke of genius, I managed to reserve a room at the hosteria the furthest away from town. And also not atypical of my masochistic tendencies, I decided not to spend a whole dollar on a cab or a bus but rather to walk the length of El Bolson. At 2 PM. In the sun. With roughly sixty-five pounds of gear spread between my giant, red North Face pack on my back, my computer daypack on my chest, and camera case clipped to my waist. I figured I had a full stomach and an empty bladder; I could use the exercise. I’m not sure just what time I arrived at Hosteria Steiner, but I’m pretty sure I left my right ACL and about two inches of spinal cartilage along the way there.

My room is in a corner above the main house, and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t changed much since they opened in 1933. For certain the sag in the center of my mattress would indicate that much. Not that I cared. I dropped the packs fell into bed and didn’t wake up for a good two hours. I’m all about the siesta.

Despite the prehistoric (although surprisingly comfortable) bed and the thirty minute walk (read trudge punctuated by frequent outbursts of self-directed profanity) from town, the place does appear to have hot water, the staff is just as friendly as I have come to expect of this country, and the wooded property with spectacular mountain views has at least four dogs roaming around on the grounds. I may not smell so good anymore, but I’ve been getting a ton of sloppy, wet-nosed, tongue-action. I promised her that I wouldn’t get smoochy with anyone while I was away, but there’s only so much a man can do to resist. My current crush is a young Sheppard puppy chained up just east of the house under a cherry tree. Every time I visit it’s all I can do to keep this near certifiable case of canine ADHD from leaping atop my head.

El Bolson is virtually overrun with dogs. Strays wander all the streets, and like Bariloche, there appears to be a dog in every home policy in town. One pooch in particular that managed to find me several times on Saturday was a fluffy, long-haired lapdog with a mangled left paw turned drastically askew from a past break. She would walk up to complete strangers in the park, look at them expectantly and bark for a treat. Total diva. Look how cute I am with my busted paw. Now gimme some of that churro and maybe I’ll let you pet me.

I have so dated women like that.

And I totally gave her some of my churro.

The fair was teeming with booths from countless local vendors selling all the usual hippy paraphernalia, caps and bags and scarves, woven and leather goods, stone jewelry, and lots of hand carved tourist crap that looks really cool when you are in Argentina but inevitably will look ridiculous on your coffee table later. Unless you buy one of those hand-made pipes and use it a lot. Then I’m sure most of the stuff will look, like, totally rad.

Best of all, the fair has an amazing amount of locally grown food, boxes of raspberries and blackberries and cherries, milanesa sandwiches, papas fritas, and locally brewed beers – all which could be purchased for under a dollar. I have decided to eat at the park whenever I have the chance. Inevitably the food is better and far less expensive than at any restaurant. Throw in a bottle of water from the supermercado across the street, and I could conceivably eat three meals a day for about five bucks.

The fair was overrun with the local counter culture, and bad jugglers, trapeze artists in the trees, and musicians all performed in the park. I bought a CD from a surprisingly good rock act that just played its heart out that afternoon to a small crowd of cheering locals. The CD coast me a buck and a half, I figured it was the least I could do to show my support for the arts and help replace the two strings and untold number of sticks those guys broke during their gig. I haven’t the foggiest as to what they were singing about, but I caught the words corazon a lot so I’m pretty sure they weren’t calling for the scalps of bald American backpackers or anything.

I watched the band with a couple from England, Patrick and Amy. They have been making their way around South America for several months and borrowed my Lonely Planet to get an idea of where they might find some additional hostels. After a week of camping in the rain, these two were just desperate for some pampering and the luxury of things like running water and a roof. It was the first conversation in English I have had since she left. I somehow managed to contain my delight at having someone to talk to and actually let them do most of the talking. I did collapse upon them and weep openly once I heard English, albeit a tormented English under a Patrick’s heavy Irish accent, but I’m sure that didn’t seem creepy at all.

In all honesty, the language gap wouldn’t be so wide if I didn’t have the memory of a retarded goldfish. I know I have heard the words before and know I have used them before but when suddenly required to recall them, I’m left stuttering and stammering and barely able to speak my own native tongue. I know it would do me well to take a Spanish class while I am in South America, but I’m not sure I have time at least until after I return from Antarctica, and by that point, really, does it matter? Perhaps that’s how I’ll use those final two weeks. Find me a town on a coast somewhere, someplace where shoes and socks are considered formalwear, and hire a patient local to sit with me and teach me how to do more than order another round of margaritas. Then again, after another round of margaritas, comprehension is both unnecessary and unlikely anyhow.

It’s a beautiful day here in El Bolson, and frankly I’m tired of sitting in this pizza place and typing away when I can be outside killing skin cells in the park. Until sufficiently inspired, hasta. Keep America warm for me.