Not that this is even remotely relevant, but as I FINALLY have my computer, I figured I would also FINALLY post this story I wrote about returning to Buenos Aires from Antarctica. Yeah, it's pointless now that I am in OC and planning to scoot to Thailand, but hey, you only deserve the best.

Originally written in Buenos Aires sometime in March. Sometime before my motherboard decided to sizzle:

So I’ve been back in Buenos Aires for three days, and I’d be lying if I told you if coming here was anything other than a mistake. Although the weather has been sunny and cool (compared to when I was here last in the height of summer), the noise and pace and general lack of anything naturally beautiful other than the countless South American women has left me longing for Patagonia. Even in Ushuaia, when I was restless and frustrated with the cold and the rain, every day when I walked outside I was near overwhelmed with the beauty off the surroundings. Even the view from the airport was magical. Heh, you should have seen the view while LEAVING the airport. Wow. Despite being glorified bus drivers, pilots have great jobs if only for their view of the world.

I digress. An immediate transition from the clean, crisp mountain air of southern Patagonia to Buenos Aires, where the air is anything but despite its namesake, is too shocking to the system. Perhaps I should have made that dive into the Antarctic Ocean after all. Would have been less a surprise.

To be totally honest, on my first day back, upon walking out of my hotel, a pleasant if seedy little flop house in the charming cobblestone streets of San Telmo, I was overwhelmed with the urge to go back inside, grab my still packed bags, and take a cab right to the airport for either a flight to Punta Arenas in Chilean Patagonia or better yet, right back home.

Not that I am particularly interested in being home mind you. While I have been away so much of what I dislike about American culture (rabid consumerism, social and commercial homogenization, George Bush) has become more and more offensive, but I do miss easy conversations, good veggie tacos, the Eastern Sierra in the spring, and a certain Canadian lady in San Diego. Without the panorama of Patagonia to distract me, it’s much easier to feel a little homesick.

Still, I did see Hans for some drinks at several of trendy, yuppified establishments the other night, have walked this city left and right, and I even found Gibraltar, a little pub in San Telmo popular with ex-pats with the best Thai salad I have ever had. Even in Thailand! So I suppose I’m not having a bad time. But given the choice of cracked cobblestone or craggy granite, sparkling skyscrapers or towering mountaintops, crashing garbage trucks or crashing glaciers, I know which I would choose.

I think I’ll spend just one more day here before hopping the ferry to Montevideo and a bus to the posh beach resort town of Punta del Este. However, given my current state of mind, I suspect that within a day or so I’ll trade the resort life in for a sleepy, tiny, preferably empty beach town a little further down the coast. A place where I can look at my calendar and have to decide between laying on the beach, swimming on the beach, or running on the beach.

I’d prefer a mountaintop, but I think a little saltwater might suffice.