Bariloche

I have a new favorite word - pancho. I plan to say it whenever possible for the remainder of my time in Argentina for thus far its speaking has resulted in me eating a freshly barbecued sausage slit down the middle and served in a warm bun with salsa picante, all for four pesos or slightly more than one US dollar.

I'm in Bariloche, the principal city of Argentina's Lake District, a region I have named the Pacific Northwests alter ego as it possesses the same kind of natural beauty, racial make up, and friendly laid back feel, but who's people speak Spanish rather than English, drink mate through silver straws rather than Starbucks, and who gather to watch futbol, not football.

The city itself is gorgeous and stretches for over 20 kilometers along a turquoise lake, which though it looks it is not too cold to swim in. Along its central shopping street over a dozen stores sell the chocolates the city is famous for (after limited research, my favorite is the pistachio cream) and in its Parque Central tourists pose for pictures with message carrying St. Bernards. Outside of town, log cabins and alpine architecture line the coniferous waterfront.

I arrived Monday, and Tuesday took the ski lift to the top of Cerro Campanario to get a better look, but after only one drawing left feeling slightly homesick and confused - the drawing rather closely resembled one done near Mt. St. Helens, but in it the trees have new pine cones and the peaks have little snow through the date reads December. Don't pity me - I drown my cares in chocolate ice cream and headed for the beach.

I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early for El Calafates Parque los Glaciers - where the water is too cold to swim. The venture takes two days, and promises an unforgettable better look at the Northwests alter ego, though less chocolate and no beach time. Adios!