I Don't Know What I'm Doing

I move out of my Buenos Aires apartment in less than 3 days. Nothing's packed. I'm not even sure if everything will fit in my luggage, despite the new duffel I bought from the arcade on Avenida Santa Fe.

Should I be worried? I don't know.

I've done this so many times it shouldn't require thought. Planning, packing, leaving. I mean, take your pick:

Confessions of a Serial Packer
The Old One-Two
The Cycle
No Regrets
Farewell, Portland
Farewell, Cocha
Another Farewell: Cuzco
Rebirth

You'd think I'd have it figured out.

But I don't. I don't know where all my stuff is. I don't even know what stuff I have. In my mind, there are tiny, dusty possessions hiding in corners, under the couch, in the back of the cabinet that reeks of mothballs. I'll never find them all. Something will be forgotten, left here in this septuagenarian-painted 10th-floor one-bedroom, stuck in some mildewed crack, becoming mildew, until they tear the whole building down and cart away the rubble.

And I'll be somewhere else, a different person living a different life, and I won't even know it's gone.

6 Images of an Urban Escape

In the late nineteenth century, the marshland sitting between the wide, muddy Río de la Plata and downtown Buenos Aires was commandeered and transformed into the city's new port. However, within a few decades cargo capacity had already been exceeded; another port was constructed to the north and the old one abandoned.

Just a decade or so ago, the inland portion of the old port was transformed again, this time into what might be Buenos Aires' swankiest barrio, Puerto Madero. Luxury apartments in renovated brick warehouse buildings line the stone walkways that parallel the old diques, where sailboats and yachts have replaced the freighters. Old cargo cranes have been preserved as monumental steel statues to the past.


But just east of here, where the land is too soft to support 50-story condominium towers, something different has been allowed to grow. The 360-hectare Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur is an unexpected expanse of green set adjacent to the ultra-modern Puerto Madero. Here and there where the grass isn't as thick, you can still see the ruts and concrete of old cargo offloading platforms, but for the most part nature has reclaimed it all.


More than 200 bird species are said to refuge in the reserve, but what's easier to see is the escape from the urban that it affords porteños. Pockets of land next to the river have been manicured with mowed grass and picnic tables for weekend asados, and couples blanket in the shade of short trees, looking out over the orange tinge of the river to the flocks of sailboats regatta-ing.



Cycling would seem to be the preferred way of getting around, though there are plenty of walkers. Loop trails range from 3.3 to 7.6km, and bikes can be rented outside both of the main entrances.

I've been impressed with the amount of green space in Buenos Aires, but the reserve is something different. Looking over the low sea of reedy marsh and scrawny trees to the line of half-finished skyscrapers and construction cranes, you can imagine inhabiting your own post-apocalyptic zombie horror flick. Only the zombies are all around you, grilling meat, pedaling bikes, and kicking soccer balls.

Cada Día

Every morning my little white pocket alarm clock wakes me up. Not the trains. Their crash has long since flattened into the soundtrack of life on the 10th floor of Palermo Soho. I hit the snooze seven times.

Every day I give the doorman a "buen día" without really looking at him, and he unbuzzes the lock just as my hand touches the door handle to pull it open and push out into the heavy balm of Fray Justo Santamaría de Oro, entre Güemes y Charcas. Sometimes it's raining.

Every day I wash the dishes after Carey makes sushi or vietnamese spring rolls or chili or pad thai or steamed vegetables or chilaquiles or tofu scram and we eat it. Twice a day usually, lunch and dinner. And coffee in the morning in the french press.

Every night I drink Malbec from the bottle. I just found a good one for 5 pesos.

Every Sunday, la familia two buildings over throws a picnic on the roof. Long tables covered with bowls and platters, probably lots of meat, pasta, papas. They play the radio, the kids kick the soccer ball. They don't seem to mind the rain.

Cementerio de la Recoleta

The cemetery in the upscale barrio of Recoleta is one of Buenos Aires' A-list tourist attractions. I'm not sure what this says about the city, since I visited a nearly identical complex in Valparaíso, Chile, that's much less hyped.

Regardless, the cemetery contains the mausoleums of many notable Argentines--the most famous being Eva Perón--including several presidents who's names I recognize from reading about how the government "dealt" with the Mapuche and other indigenous peoples towards the end of the 19th century.

The graveyard is laid out like its own mini-barrio, with tree-lined main streets and narrower connecting walkways. All this is presided over by an army of feral cats who live on the grounds and are fed by locals.

***

At this time last year, I was newly arrived in Mexico City, contemplating the differences--and increasing similarities--between Halloween and Día de los Muertos. In Argentina, neither holiday holds much sway. So I've taken it upon myself to "spooky" up my photos of the cemetery. Gotta celebrate the season somehow!

Creepy caretaker

Long shadows

Roads of the dead

Ghost, angel...or statue

Cemetery still life

Climate Change and a Bald Bolivian Mountain

Today is Blog Action Day, "an annual event that unites the world's bloggers in posting about the same issue on the same day...with the aim of sparking discussion around an issue of global importance."

The issue for 2009: Climate Change

I'm not going to spend any screen space arguing its existence. I find the "debate" tired and depressingly unconstructive. If you still harbor doubts (or inflammatory comments), I kindly direct you to the Pew Center. Instead, I'll talk about what I've seen with my two brown eyes.

The Chacaltaya glacier just outside La Paz, Bolivia, has virtually disappeared. It used to support the world's highest ski run, complete with t-bar, but now only gives up a couple turns to rich Bolivianos who feel like making the hour's drive up to 17,400 feet for a lark. I wrote about my tour of the glacier here.

Glaciers advance and glaciers retreat. Yes, it's a fact. But when it comes to tropical glaciers, there's only retreat. Smaller and less resilient than those at higher and lower latitudes, tropical glaciers serve an "early warning" function, as they're most quickly and dramatically affected by warming temperatures.

What's really scary is that millions of people in the Andes depend on glacial melt for drinking water.

What happens when the glaciers are gone? I haven't exactly done in-depth research, but I've never heard anyone even attempt to offer a solution to the problem, only acknowledge it.

Which brings me back to Chacaltaya. The 800,000 inhabitants of the valley of La Paz have other water sources trickling in. But those in El Alto--who number nearly as many if not more by now, up on the flat rim of the Altiplano, worlds apart both economically and culturally--my guide told me they have no other source. Chacaltaya's it. And by some definitions, Chacaltaya's gone.

A disused t-bar, a touch of snow, and 800,000 people in the distance

Los pobres dying of thirst. Just one consequence among countless others (for a decidedly unscientific list of potential negatives, go here) of climate change.

What can you do? These 10 solutions won't bring about salvation, but they're a start. And don't forget about 350, a different kind of day of action. Learn more here.

Also, got a blog? Write a post on the issue before the day is out. You can register with the rest of us here.

If you're in the mood to read more, the following content from Matador is definitely worth a look:

Wipe Out: World's Most Vulnerable Coastal Cities

9 Places to Experience Now Before They Literally Vanish

New Report: World Still Unprepared for Climate Change

Why the Road to Climate Catastrophe is Paved with Cheap Flights