How do you go back to real life?

After a little over 24 hours of travel, I've made it home safely. Laundry, unpacking and napping will now commence, but I did write this on the plane while still over Brazil. I'll be happy to see you all again.

"Writing this on the plane headed home. I’ve been crying on and off all day.

When I stepped off the bus two weeks ago in Buenos Aires, I was so terrified it took me a few moments before I was able to move. Overwhelmed by the feeling of isolation, of loneliness; that moment when you realize you just got what you wanted, and best of luck to you because now you actually have to do it. I went to bed hungry because I was too intimidated to go into a restaurant.

Flying over South America now with the moon shining down over the Andes, I want nothing more than to stay. Everything that took up my thoughts back home seems so distant tonight. If I could just live the rest of my years like I lived the past two weeks, I think I’d be among the happiest people who ever lived. It’s been the purest experience of my life.

I’m sorry I haven’t been good about writing these past few days. It’s been a combination of sketchy at best WiFi and that I was taking a few personal days. I will say that it rained on the one day I was in Mar del Plata, but the sun came out in the afternoon and the ten hours on a bus was totally worth it.

Among the things I’ve learned on this trip:

-       How to be really good at charades.

-       How to phase out snoring and sleep regardless.

-       Not to pack a hair dryer, you’ll never use it anyway.

-       Most people want to help.

-       Language is not as big a barrier as it may seem.

Coston told me, “You’re going to hate going back to work. Hate it. But just remember that every hour your there is another hour closer to your next trip.” And as much as I know some people reading this are going to hate that (mom and dad), it’s true. 

The drama of day-to-day life has fallen away, and a beautiful clarity has taken hold of me. The important things are crystal clear, and the rest… it’s a big world, and they don’t mean a damn thing when you get a little perspective.  I feel focused, empowered, zen.

And sad. So, so sad that this adventure has come to its’ end. As kitsch as it may sound, I just keep telling myself not to cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened. Look forward, because there is a lot more to do and see. Argentina will always hold a place in my heart, because it was the first, but it won’t be the last."

Art, food and milongas

Yesterday Coston and I rode the Train at the End of the World, which I suspect is also the coldest and slowest moving train in the world. But it was fun and my love of trains wasn't dampened. We shopped at a little craft fair down by the harbor and found some really cool, handmade local stuff. Some of you will be receiving said stuff. Some of you will not.

Afterward we went to the Prison Museum, which was a lot weirder and more interesting than I expected. It had a lot of old, nautical maps and stories of shipwrecks, prison uniforms, naked indigenous people. Being there, one can instantly understand why so many ships met their doom in those waters. Rough, cold and unpredictable, Cape Horn and the surrounding areas are death traps for ships. Even today, with all our technology, sometimes it isn't enough to save them.

The museum was part museum and part weird-as-fuck art gallery. We went up one flight of stairs where there was a screen showing a movie taking place in the same room we were standing in. There was a hole in the ceiling with a knotted rope hanging from it. In the movie, someone in a creepy, American Horror Story-style body suit was trapped in the room. A knocking began, and the hole opened and a rope dropped. He climbed up the rope. The video repeats. I rope-burned my hands trying to climb it, Coston got to the top and said there was nothing up there. Point? I think not.

There was an exhibit with test tubes filled with different colors of liquid hanging at varying lengths from the ceiling, and some naked woman thrashing around in a pool with a red piece of fabric. Again, questionable as to the point. While climbing another set of stairs I told Coston about my amazing art exhibit idea, where people walk into a room and the black, padded walls close in on them. The only way out is to fight your way out. Earn your freedom! I told him I liked interactive art, he said he liked finger paining.

Lo and behold at the top of the stairs was an art exhibit with a bunch of paper stuck to the walls of rooms and finger paints for you to play with. Seriously, what are the odds of that? Later, we ate a whole crab. It was awesome.

Today, as I checked into my new hostel for the night, the guy behind the counter asked me how long I'd been in Buenos Aires. I told him this was my last night and he asked me if I'd seen any tango. I realized tonight would be my last chance, so I asked him where I should go. He pulled out a brochure for a big, touristy show and dinner. "But," he said, "I'm going to a small milonga (a dance hall, usually used for tango) tonight. You are welcome to come."

We took the bus over at 9. It was just a small building, a house really, with a bar and tiny room with a dance floor. We sat and watched the couples gracefully weave in and out to soft tango music. Later, a man with guitar came and played mellow, acoustic music, singing along in a soft voice. He called a friend of his up, and even without speaking the language I could tell she was nervous. When she started to sing, the audience yelled  "muy bueno!" and the like. Whatever the song, it must have been a classic because when she seemed to be loosing her nerve the entire audience started singing along with her. In the next song, she lost her place and faltered, got embarrassed and stopped in the middle. Everyone clapped and cheered her on until she finished it.

It was a wonderful night, in a wonderful city filled with wonderful people. Tomorrow I take a 5 hour bus ride to Mar del Plata and hope the hostel will let me stay. I'm addicted to this travel thing, there is really nothing better.

One day. One room.

It's been a whirlwind guys, and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to update last night, but in my defense... I was drunk.

After I checked in, I came down to the front desk and asked "What is the best boat tour?"

"You could come see penguins with me tomorrow." Said a guy drinking a beer at the bar.

Thus, I met Coston. A Marine, on his off time he travels the world and his bucket list is to go to every country in the world. We ran into each other again outside of our rooms. "What are you doing right now?" He asked. "I'm going to go hike the Glacier Martial."

After some persuading, I went. My shoes are terrible hiking shoes (mostly tennis shoes attached to two inch platforms). But I was glad I went, because it was beautiful and gave you an amazing view of the city.

I did decided to see the penguins with Coston, and the next day he made us eggs for breakfast and we loaded onto a bus at 8 in the morning. The drive was a little over an hour and took us into the national forests to see the windswept trees and general stunning beauty that is Patagonia.

We drove to a farm next to a bay and loaded onto a small Zodiac covered with plastic. It was a crazy windy day, and the ocean was like a roller coaster. We slammed into wave after wave, grasping onto the handrails and trying to keep our feet out of the sea water that flooded the deck. I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of me. It was an insane amount of fun (despite the fact that it felt like the boat may fall apart at any minute).

Here's the thing you may not know about penguins: they are ridiculous animals. The kind of animal you look at and think You are so adorable, and so utterly useless. It's their nesting season right now, and they all just lay around on the beach. When they do move, it's to waddle like the fattest cat you've ever seen with their little flipper/wings thrust out behind them.

We weren't supposed to touch them, but that was hard considering they kept plopping down right on the trail we were following. The group literally had to step over penguins. More than once.

Every time we got too close, the penguins would just tilt their head curiously from one side to the other. They can't see well out of the water, so they were trying to focus their eyes to tell what we were. Like I said: adorable, and useless.

I had a second tour the same day, but when I showed up for it they said the weather was too windy and that they had closed the bay, so we wandered around town instead. After dinner, we went "bar hopping," which basically consisted of three places (including the local casino with two whole rooms of slot machines!). The hostel is really nice, and has their own bar with 24 hour service and some good, local brews. So we sat and drank, and went to bed. All I can say is thank God for earplugs. WIthout them, I wouldn't get any sleep at all. Like, ever.

I'll try to get some pictures and stories from today up tomorrow. I'm flying back to Buenos Aires for about 24 hours, then taking a bus to Mar del Plata.

It's late loves, and we only get a few hours of darkness down here, so I'm off. 

Oh, Ushuaia!

As I climbed onto the plane at 4 am local time, I could feel my heart skipping around in a really distracting way. I’m not really supposed to drink coffee, because I have some as-yet-undiagnosed heart palpitation thing that gets exponentially worse when I do. But with only a few hours of sleep under my belt, a girl does what she has to to make sure she gets where she needs to be.

New York is not the city that never sleeps. Seriously. If anywhere deserves that title it’s Buenos Aires. My alarm went off at 2 am, but I was already awake thanks to the full-on parade going on outside my window. Drums, cymbals, whistles and, of course, cheering crowds. For what? I don’t know. It was 2 in the fucking morning, is my point.

I had asked the front desk to call me a cab at 3, but when I went downstairs there was just a non-descript, grey sedan; nothing on the outside, or the inside, to indicate anything official about it. I gave the driver my voucher and got in, unsure if I was meeting my flight or a watery grave.  Luckily, it was the former.

I drank some coffee at the sketchy airport that barely screened any of us and I clambered onto a bus that took me out to a tarmac still hidden in predawn shadows. Coming down the aisle, I reached my row and realized damn, middle seat. I don’t tend to do well in the middle as I get motion sick when I can’t see well out the window.

Something about the combination of the man sitting next to me (who I’d just watched crack open and shotgun a smuggled beer before even a quarter of the people had taken their seats) using up the entire armrest, and the smell of the BO from someone sitting behind me along with perfume of someone sitting in front of me mingling in my nostrils, sent me into a full blown attack of claustrophobia.

I’ve had various times in my life where claustrophobia has edged its way into my psyche, but not like this. I thought I was going to pass out, throw up or physically assault one of the people on either side of me. My skin was crawling, I was light-headed and it felt like ocean waves of nausea were ebbing and flowing inside the whole trunk of my body. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep in perspective that these feelings were all in my head. Stupid body. Stupid head. Stop, stop, stop...

The guy next to me was on his second beer, the plane was swaying back and forth and both people still smelled no matter how high I turned on my air conditioning.  But there was a moment after takeoff, when the sun was just rising and my iPod was playing ethereal music. The plane turned and the light through the windows stretched slowly up the wall and onto the ceiling, inching toward the front of the plane. It was mesmerizing, calming.

After a 4 hour flight of fighting to keep my composure, the moment I stepped off the plane it all melted away. Ushuaia is magical. I'm not sure I can even fully express what this place feels like, but you know you are at the edge. The anticipatory giddiness that comes when you stand at the brink of a precipice; the possibility of the unknown; the power of open space.

The cab driver, who didn't speak English (and I suspect he wouldn't have even if he could), barked only a few words in Spanish to me on the trip from the airport to the hostel. He took the winding roads at ridiculous speeds, throwing me to and fro in the backseat and harrumphing when we hit a light or got stuck behind someone he thought was going too slow. Seagulls hung over the waters while snow capped mountains loomed over them, over all of us. A ship in the harbor, a big ship, had obviously run aground and been left there for nature to reclaim. Tug boats milled everywhere. 

Here I sit in the lobby of the hostel. Check-in isn't for another few hours so I have some time to kill. I want a shower and to do some laundry, but I also can't wait to get out there. The air is electric, I'm ready to explore.
And eat! Fuck, I'm hungry.

A little personal

Traveling by yourself isn't about where you go, it's about who you are.

Self discovery is always confusing for me. I delight myself with how fast I acclimate, how self reliant I can be and how interested I am in other people. But I get lonely, and it isn't the loneliness of being by yourself. A profound and intrinsic loneliness intertwined with the human experience that is usually masking by your daily life is suddenly unleashed at times like these. I have to wonder if that's the real reason most people won't take big trips on their own. It's not an easy thing to face, and it's not something you can change, no matter how hard you try.

It's there. It's part of you. You feel it peek out it's head out in those small moments of your life; standing on a busy street corner by yourself, walking into your empty room after an unsatisfying day. Usually, you're able to distract yourself (with other people, or with your computer, movies, all those lovely things we've invented for ourselves) and it recedes back to where it came from. But here, in this big, beautiful city where I know nothing and no one, there is no distraction. The loneliness is everywhere I go. And honestly, I'm not sure I would take it if I had one. Maybe it's because I'm an only child, or just because I'm a little solitary by nature, but there is a kind of beauty in the loneliness. It colors my experiences, and it feels like touching something larger than myself, larger than Argentina, larger than life. Call it spirituality (if you must).

It isn't comfortable, and it hurts, but I also don't think it's something that should be ignored. You should dive in when you get the chance to experience something new about yourself because otherwise, what's the point? The feeling of being one among many, the awareness of the edges that separate you from everything else... this is part of being alive. A very real part that I am trying to embrace. It drives me to do and see things or meet people I wouldn't otherwise. It helps me open up to the world.

Plus I get introspective. I'm going to get what sleep I can, because in a few hours I'm off to the end of the world.

Mis perro están ladrando.

I'm afraid I'm a bit too tired tonight to ramble on like I normally do. Luck you, reader. In brief, today I rode the subway, found some nature and missed a date because I got lost. Instead of any explanation, here is a list of things I have learned in my short time here alongside some visual aids.

1) Some things are universal.

A smile is one...
:)

..animals are another...

..another still is drivel.

2) People who live in Buenos Aires call themselves porteños.

3) Porteños are hilarious weirdos.

Cheese so good it will break your body!

4) Graffiti is very important in Buenos Aires.

Sometimes it's painted when it's cold outside...

...sometimes it's in English...

...and sometimes it's on bamboo.

5) Things always look prettier through the lens of a faraway land.

Today's background music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fP_GfVOShgM

The Teatro Colón, bitch. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.

It rained in Buenos Aires this morning. Amidst the constant horn honking, music blaring, and people talking, it was a nice addition to what has become my morning soundtrack. At breakfast, I met Ash. A young guy from New Zealand with bright pink hair, he's here to learn Spanish for fun. We bonded over how much we miss vegetables, as the Argentinian diet seems to mainly consist of bread, meat, cheese and pasta.

I wiled away the morning in my room, debating with myself on what to do. Obviously bike riding was out of the question, and Palarmo is too far to walk. Hunger finally drove me outside, where I tried to get into Cafe Tortoni a few blocks from the hostel. A major tourist trap, Cafe Tortoni is, nevertheless, the oldest cafe in the city. Founded in 1858, it still looks brand new. But there was a line down the sidewalk and I decided that I wasn't that desperate to see it. I went to the Cafe across the street, a more modern-looking place with a European vibe. They had a good menu and I got a coffee with cognac, chocolate and whipped cream. A table of three guys next to me were speaking pretty distinctly in English. One took a picture of the other two, and I pounced.

"Would you like a picture of all three of you?"
"Oh, yeah." Said one guy. "You speak really good English."
"I hope so, it's the only language I speak."

They were from Texas and here to hike and drive, in an extreme manner (EXTREME driving is a thing too, I guess). It was nice to speak full-on English again for a while. We chattered, and they left for their flight to the wild, blue yonder.

I meandered, just people watching. It occurred to me that one of the things I really love about this city is the juxtaposition of old and new. Everything is just a backdrop for something else from a different time, and yet it all seems to fit together. It's romantic.



I decided to spend the day indoors and walked to the Teatro Colón. A world famous opera house, the Teatro Colón is basically the entire reason they call Buenos Aires the Paris of South America. Guided tour tickets were a little pricey in my opinion, but my theatre background wouldn't let me back out so I ponied up.

Nauseatingly ornate at times, everything was made of marble and designed to mimic what was happening stylistically in France at the time (1889). Interestingly, the very famous architect in charge of the construction of the Colón was a little too busy, and his wife decided to entertain herself with their valet. Architect comes home and finds them together and, unfortunately for him, the valet was armed. Shot him dead, and the city had to find someone else, which is why it took 20 years to finish the damn thing.

See that? That's all real gold. One woman asked how much the Colón cost. His answer was no one knows. During that 20 years, Argentina went through two major financial crises where the peso fluctuated like crazy and, as a result, no one can calculate just how much money is in that building.

We couldn't take pictures inside the actual auditorium because they are opening Wagner's The Ring in a few days, which is funny because my friend Dave just gave me a Radiolab on The Ring a few weeks ago. They did, however, let us sit for a few minutes and watch the rehearsal. The set was very grey and modern, very Ayn Rand. We were lucky that just as we got up to leave, the orchestra burst into Flight of the Valkyrie. Considering our surroundings, it felt very fitting.

I'm thankful to be here, and thankful to have people back home. I probably love you all. Eat lots of food for me (specifically vegetables), and know that I miss you guys.

San Telmo

Due to my overly effective ear plugs and my complete inability to pull myself out of bed, I missed breakfast this morning. I didn't even get up until noon which, I think, is one of the nice things about traveling by yourself. You get to sleep until you wake up, no judgements.

I walked to San Telmo, Buenos Aires oldest barrio. It's where the people go for good antiques, good food and good company. The streets are all cobblestone and the balconies are wrought iron. Instantly, just through the windows of shops, I could see things I would have loved to buy. But other than food, I've been pretty good about not spending any money so far.

I did end up breaking down and getting a pair of really sparkly, lovely earrings for $120 pesos (about $25 US). They're fancy and I don't know when I'll ever wear them, but I fell in love pretty quickly and really, for $25, where's the harm?

As I walked into an antique mart shaped like a horseshoe, the overweight proprietor of the cafe out front stopped me to talk. I gave him my spiel about not speaking much Spanish, but per usual, it didn't seem to matter. He chattered for a while and I did my best to keep up and answer his questions. Finally he asked, "Un cafe?" and gestured back toward his coffee machine.
"Ah." I said, completely in English and sure he wasn't understanding. "Maybe when I get back, I'm going to walk around." I made the 'around' motion with my hand.

When I did get back around, I was headed out the door when I just happened to make eye contact with him. "Un cafe!" He yelled, and held out a cup of coffee he'd obviously just made for me. How could I refuse?
I came and sat down. "Gracias." I said. I looked up in my Spanish phrase book how to compliment his coffee. "Que ricura." What deliciousness, according to the book.
"Que?" He asked, not understanding me. Seeing I was holding a book, he whipped out his reading glasses and I pointed to the phrase I was trying to say. "Ah!" He exclaimed to the four, middle aged gentlemen at the table next to me who had obviously been eavesdropping. "Ricura! For me!" Pointing at his own chest, he strutted around in a circle.
A curly, red-haired man at the table pointed at him and said to me, "Pleasantly fat?"
Laughing, I said, "No, beautiful."

Two of the guys spoke English and two didn't, so they asked me questions and made fun of each other while translating. "He's full of it." One guy told me about curly hair.
"Yeah, I got that." I said.
He laughed. "You have a good eye."
At some point during the conversation, the man who made my coffee started calling me mi amore, and he seemed to get a kick out of it when I called him that in return. Mi amore became fascinated by my phrase book and started picking out the ones he liked and the ones he didn't. One phrase teaches you how to hit on someone while riding a train by calling them mamita or papito.
"Don't call anyone papito who is not your actual father." One of the guys told me. "That will not go well for you."

Eventually two women sat on the other side of me who also happened to speak pretty good English. They started by asking me basic questions; Where are you from? How long are you here? But the conversation eventually went to politics.
"Argentina is a beautiful country. If we could just get rid of Christina, we would be much better." One woman told me. "I'd like to trade Brazil for their president, and they can have her."
"How do you like Obama?" The other asked. I tried to explain to them about drones and my opinions on the president.
"Politics is all about war. War is all about arms and arms is all about money." The first woman told me. "It's very sad, there is a lot of troubles."

When they said goodbye, the woman leaned down to hug me and kissed me on the cheek. "Good travels."

I asked mi amore for my check, but he refused to give it to me. "No, no, no," I said. "Cuanto cuesta?" But still, he wouldn't take any money. I thanked them all and continued down the street.

A tango show was taking place in the middle of a park cafe, and I stopped to watch for a while. It made me remember that this was the birthplace of tango, and I really need to get into a show and try to take some lessons. The sexual energy of Buenos Aires is palpable at all times. I see at least three couples a day full on making out in the streets, and it's no wonder to me now that they invented the forbidden dance.

After that, I just took a lot of pictures. San Telmo in particular is extremely photographic.

Coming back to the hostel, I realized that I am covered in a fine layer of dirt and grit. Like I said, it's a dirty city. So I'm off to shower (sans towel, as they don't provide them here at the hostel and I get to dry off with my old clothes). Tomorrow I'm thinking of renting a bike and going to Palermo, I read about a place with amazing eggs benedict. Eggs benedict in South America is not the worst way I can think to spend Thanksgiving. Buenas noches.

The Christinas

So here's the thing about Buenos Aires that I'm not sure I addressed properly in the last post. It's beautiful. Like, crazy beautiful. Like, the most beautiful city I think I've ever been in. I may not have been in a state of mind to really convey that before.

I woke up this morning after a sketchy 12-ish hours of sleep feeling insanely better. My room isn't much to look at, but it does have these lovely, floor-to-ceiling bay doors that open to the street below.

I'd meant to get up much earlier and grab a shower before the free breakfast, but that didn't happen so I didn't worry about it. After snagging croissants and tea, I sat with a woman who introduced herself as Christina (a very popular name in Buenos Aires). She was born here, but now lived in Los Angeles. "Be careful outside today." She told me. "You know they're having the protests."

Much of the population is unhappy with President Christina Kirchner, and I have been reading about these protests for months in the news. Inflation is out of control and many feel like her policies and conduct are counter-productive, so they organize monthly protests where people don't show up for work, but take to the streets banging pots and pans. On these days, transportation shuts down (i.e. no buses, subways or taxis to be had).

So, naturally I took to the streets ready to document. Unfortunately, I did not come across any mobs or rioters. But they are filled with revolutionary graffiti and artwork like this:

Literally: Silence Is Not Health. Nearly everyone I talked to today told me to watch my back, and everyone had an opinion. At one point, I was in the congressional square and leaned over to read a plaque dedicated to some long-dead politician, but of course it was in Spanish so I turned away rather quickly. It was enough for the woman walking by. She came up and said something, "*^%#)*$&@)*^ (this is how unfamiliar Spanish is beginning to translate in my head)." Pointing at the plaque. 

"Lo siento." I said. "Yo habla poquito español."

"Ah." She said. "#(*@^ @($*^@*(^ $()@)!))@__!)%@& #(*!#@)@^# Christina @&^$^%@$!^ @^%$$#@*#&^%#@*&^@%#&*$((!)_#*)(#*& Christina @#%^$@!&^^@%*!@*&^@$%."

"Si." I said.

"!#%^$@#&^@!%$@ *@#&$^))(*#^%^%@#! !#*(&$%!#)$**&^$# Christina #@%&^($(#& @(*$&^%!(!*&$%." She pointed at the Congressional building (the one with the dome.)

"Ah." I said. "Muy bonita."

"Si, muy bonita. @^%$@!^%$$*# #$(@#&(_!# )(#&_!)*$^@!$^% Christina @*)@&^$#^%@^!!(*&#$@^%#$@*." She looked at me, and it was obviously my turn to say something.

"Gracias." It was the only thing I could think of. I was grateful she was even trying.

Whether that satisfied her, or she finally came to the conclusion that I lacked the ability to understand anything she was saying, I couldn't tell. But she grabbed my hand and squeezed. "Ciao." 

"Ciao." I said, and squeezed back.

From what little I could get from her body language and intonation, whatever she was trying to tell me was part history lesson and part political diatribe. I wish I could have known what she was talking about. Whatever it was, I'm sure I would have been interested and I would have had questions.

After that, I walked around and went window shopping. Every time I pulled out my map to see where I was, someone walking by stopped and tried to help me. I sat down at a street side cafe, which are very popular here, and told them I couldn't speak very good Spanish. So when I pointed to what I wanted on the menu, the waiter said it very slowly then waited for me to repeat him. When I did, he nodded in approval. I ordered a ham sandwich and that is what I got, slices of ham between bread. But I was starving and it tasted great.

I walked and looked and shopped, and really had a great time. The strange thing about Buenos Aires is that it is so beautiful, but also insanely dirty. Look down and see this:

Piles of garbage strewn the streets, but up above them is stuff like this:

 After hours of wandering, I ended up at Plaza de Mayo. This is the Time Square of Buenos Aires. One of the oldest spots in the city, it's where the presidential palace is and where many of the protests take place.

As I began walking back to the hostel, I looked to my right and realized there was a man in a suit and sunglasses about two feet away keeping pace with me and staring at me. "Hola." He said

"Hola." I said.

"^&@%$#* #*(@&%!^%?" The look on my face must have spoken faster than my mouth could because he immediately switched to English. "Where are you from?"

"The US." I said.

Alberto the civil law lawyer was his name and he wanted to know if I had anything to do, because he wasn't meeting his friend until 8. Men had been cat-calling me and staring at me on the street all day, but this was the first to try and talk to me.

"Sorry." I told him. "I have a tour." Not strictly true. Although Alberto seemed like a nice enough fellow, I didn't quite feel comfortable enough to agree to go out with him as the sun went down. I gave him my e-mail address instead.

"I will e-mail you for another meeting." He told me. "You are very nice. Muy simpatico."

"Si." Simple, I felt, was the best way to go. We shook hands and he kissed me on the cheek.

So here I sit in the common room of my hostel, feeling far less intimidated then I did 24 hours ago. I realize now that language, while important, isn't necessary. I still have a common bond with these people because we are all alive and human. I watched teenage lovers fight, children chase pigeons and people stand up for their country all without language, and I was still able to connect to those experiences. 

Tonight? I saw a bar down the street, an Irish Pub if you can believe it. More from BA tomorrow.