Waterfalls, Whiskey, and Wine

Yesterday, Sara, Dave, and I left Buenos Aires to visit Iguazu Falls – an impressive collection of 275 waterfalls running along the border between Argentina and Brazil.

Unfortunately, our flight was delayed a few hours because of rain in Iguazu.  Since it’s in a rain forest, this probably shouldn’t have been a surprise.

When we finally landed around 2:30pm, it was raining (are you starting to see a theme here?)  We discovered the park closed at 5pm, so we decided to head into the town of Iguazu and check out the local atmosphere before dinner.

Although the Falls are impressive, the city of Iguazu is not.  It felt like a cross between The Wisconsin Dells (before all the waterparks showed up) and one of those small towns you’d drive through on your way to the Black Hills.  Small and trinkety with random people selling things in the street and lots of little animals made of shiny stones.

BUT… we did find something good to eat.  We stopped in for a quick snack at a small dive called Tango, and found the best french fries we’ve had so far in Argentina.  For dinner, we ate at a place called El Quincho del Tio Querido and had a fantastic (albeit culinarily schizophrenic) meal.

We started out with empanadas (because the empanadas are fabulous in Argentina and I’ve decided I’m going to eat at least one a day), moved onto a caprese salad, had a side of papas fritas de provenzal (french fries with garlic and herbs), and then shared spaghetti and steak for the main course.  I know it doesn’t make any sense, but the food was phenomenal – and that’s all that matters.

Of course, dinner isn’t great unless the wine is too.  We had a terrific bottle of Norton Malbec (from Argentina’s Mendoza region) – and by we, I mean I drank almost all of it.  But I returned the favor later in the evening.  For the nightcap, we ordered whiskey at the hotel bar, where we were treated to the most generous pour you’ll ever get for 40 pesos.  And because I am muy pequeno, I ended up giving most of mine to Dave.

Despite the wine and whiskey, we were up bright and early to head to the Falls.  At almost 270 feet at their highest point, legend has it that Eleanor Roosevelt actually exclaimed, “Poor Niagara!” the first time she visited Iguazu.

We started our day with a double-decker jeep ride deep into the jungle.  There, we boarded a river boat and were handed heavy green “dry bags” to (logically) keep our cameras/backpacks/etc. dry.  I figured we’d float over to the Falls, and maybe get splashed a few times or hit with a little mist.

Boy was I wrong.

After idling near the Falls for photos, our driver took us in for a better look – which meant bringing us as close to the water as possible.  “You may get wet on this ride” should have been replaced with “you will definitely get soaked.”

The boat pulled up to the shore and we slogged onto land.  People were shedding their wet clothes left and right.  And frankly, I wish some of them had stayed covered up instead.  Attention middle-aged man with the protruding gut who is wearing only a button-down shirt and speedo: YOU ARE HURTING MY EYES.

We spent the rest of the morning and afternoon hiking the trails that snaked through the forest.  Even though the weather report had predicted rain and storms, we lucked out and had sun for most of the day.

We’d worked up an appetite, so it was time to eat (again).  This time, we opted for a restaurant that we’d passed the night before: Il Fratello.  Our waiter didn’t speak much English.  But over the last few days, we’d started to get a little cocky about our Spanish-speaking abilities, so it didn’t bother us.

I asked the waiter for a recommendation on a cabernet sauvignon: “Tu recomendacion por vino?”  He pointed to something called “Santa Felien.”

It looked promising, but I wanted to know more – was it deep and flavorful?

I hunted around for a descriptor, “Vino es muy grande?  Una cab sav muy grande?”

The waiter crinkled his nose in confusion.  Dave leaned across the table and said sarcastically: “I don’t think ‘big cabernet sauvignon’ translates from English to Spanish.”

Sara burst into laughter – which I completely deserved.  Apparently, I haven’t graduated to Spanish 102 yet.

Over empanadas, steak, and pasta (have you noticed that we’ve settled on some favorite foods?), we talked about a range of topics, including pedomorphic characteristics (the tendency to think things with large heads, like babies and puppies, are cute), a full run-down of what happens to your body during pregnancy, a philosophical discussion about where Dave lands on the scale of funny-ness, and the disappointing realization that we eat dinner at a really lame hour.

Argentina is a late-night kind of country, and most of the locals don’t even start thinking about appetizers until 9pm.  Since we’re more of the 7-8pm ilk, we haven’t had any problems getting a table so far.  Which was all fine and good, until I noticed a bunch of 80-year-old women sitting down to dinner – just as we were finishing our dessert.

We hopped in the cab home and for some reason, the song “Soy Un Perdedor” came up.  We even sang a few bars.

Based on this blog entry, that now seems sadly appropriate.