Escape from B.A.

Buenos Aires is an uncompromising city. It doesn’t offer many of the escapes from pure urbanity that other cities do. It has some parks, sure, but they’re a far cry from Central Park or anything in London or Paris. It has a big body of water right next to it, but the city is built away from it, as if the water were something to be avoided. There aren’t many trees in Buenos Aires either. In short, it’s nearly devoid of anything that might come under the broad umbrella of nature.

B.A.’s all-encompassing urbanity had me looking at my trip down to the Patagonian Andes with an extra dose of excitement. My eager anticipation proved well placed.

From the moment I arrived in Bariloche, merely a stopover between plane and bus on my way to El Bolsón, I was full of energy and delight. I’ve heard Bariloche described as crass and touristy, but the little I saw of it was a marvel. The mountains are formidable, rising to snow-capped heights, but also stretching across the horizon. It was their girth that impressed me most.

The lake near Bariloche was equally impressive, dark blue with white caps slashing through the surface.

I viewed all this from a place that in most cities is the second only to the sewer system in terms of smell, vista, and ambience—the bus terminal. In Bariloche, however, the bus terminal sits next to overgrown train tracks on which a few old cars lie forever fallow. While I sat there, a few gaucho-looking types rode by on horseback. El Sur, here I come.

After a spectacular bus ride through the Andes, I arrived in El Bolsón, which I’ve heard described as the Woodstock of Argentina. It’s not quite that hippie, but it has a stout bohemian spirit and more natural beauty than it knows what to do with.

I was in El Bolsón for the El Bolsón Jazz Festival, an event I heard about through my friend, jazz guitarist Ale Dimogli, who was scheduled to play with his trio. I’d paved the way for my arrival by getting on the press list and talking with a travel company about the prospect of doing some trekking and/or rafting. Yet, I didn’t know quite what I’d find. My agreement with the jazz festival was that I would get press credentials but nothing else—no free meals, no hotel discount, etc. The travel company sent me back a decidedly ambiguous response when I asked if I might be able to do some activities for free as a journalist working on an article.

So when, on Wednesday night, my first in El Bolsón, I was essentially adopted by the jazz festival administration, it was a surprise. Now that I’m back in Buenos Aires, I see my trip as the tale of three adoptions: first, by the jazz festival administration; then by the touring company; and last by Ale and his band, of which I became the de-facto fourth member.

The jazz festival administration adopted me because I was the first person to arrive and I was alone. Viviana, a violinist who ran the festival with her guitarist husband Alejandro, picked me up from the center of town and brought me to her house, which had been transformed into the festival’s office, brain trust, and war room. For six hours, I hung out, drinking mate, listening to a series of discussions about everything from who was picking up which musician to the possible liability implications of having a touring company as sponsor (if someone where to get hurt, could the festival be sued? In the States, I’m pretty sure the answer is no, but someone could try. In Argentina, I can’t imagine anyone ever wins a lawsuit or even that anyone ever bothers with one).

The people running the festival were musicians, artists, and teachers, and were all kind, casual, and bright. The festival didn’t have a lot of money, but thanks to them it more than made up for that in spunk.

The festival organizers had a great communal vibe. A bunch of friends dropping by, cooking homemade pizza, drinking much better beer than we have in Buenos Aires, and welcoming, with open arms, a castellano-mangling, reporter-wannabee, twenty-two year-old gringo stranger. Not only that, but as the festival progressed, my deal (remember, pre-arranged as just press credentials) improved dramatically. The festival paid for my lunch and dinner every day, and I discovered that my hotel room (in a pretty Bed & Breakfast near the center of town) had been steeply discounted by virtue of my reporter status. It was almost as if the festival organizers wanted to check me out first, make sure I was okay, and then upon discovering that I was (I think they thought that at least) they rolled out the red carpet. I owe them tremendous thanks.