Vanilla Winter

“Por placer, sin duda o miedo,” she said. For pleasure, without doubt or fear. In spite of knowing little Spanish, the toast was easy to understand. We drank.

As the liquor settled in our bellies I noticed how the hue of Ana’s eyes matched the Jack Daniels now warming me. Her shoulder-length black hair flowed with a life of its own as she laughed at Ryan’s awkward Spanish. Their conversation moved haltingly, she knew little English and Ryan little Spanish. I sat, completely unaware of what they spoke, but contented with the drinks, the falling mid-August snow, and her well-arranged cleavage. Sabine returned with more drinks. She was Austrian, vacationing here in Argentina with her parents. In contrast to Ana’s brown eyes and black hair, she was blonde, with stunning blue eyes; her cleavage was just as well-arranged though. Although her English was only slightly better than Ana’s, we got on well enough with my shaky German and her English.

Sabine and I resumed our conversation, a comparison of childhoods. Hers was an upbringing in the Eastern Alps, characterized by its similarity to The Sound of Music. She grew up in Lech, where her parents owned a pension – a type of European bed and breakfast. My childhood was a typical story of suburban upbringing in America. Her parents had remained together; mine apart, for the best in both cases, I think. She had begun learning to ski only weeks after learning to walk. I had learned at the family ski condo when I was five, and hadn’t missed any of the sixteen winters since. We both shared an uncomplicated and forthright passion for the sport.

Fumbling through my pockets for a lighter, I stole a glance at the noisy crowd still filling the bar at four in the morning. It was then that she asked me how I felt about infidelity. Evidently I had let something slip about the on-again-off-again (currently off) girl I had back home. Outside, the snow continued to fall.

* * *

The Santa Rosa storm is an annual tempest which hammers the Andes at the end of the South American winter. It began right on schedule this year, Saturday, August 13th. After weeks of warm, dry weather; our fears that it would not arrive in time for us were abolished by its arrival, just as our flight from Buenos Aires touched down at the northern edge of Patagonia. We had planned the trip as a last adventure before returning for our senior years’ at University. As we arrived in the town of San Carlos de Bariloche, the cold rain was pounding so hard that trusting our safety to the mad taxi driver seemed questionable. In hindsight, we ought to have chosen a taxi which had working wiper blades. The downpour and the driver’s zeal conspired to cause a lengthy delay after the taxi hit a parked bus five blocks from our hotel. Deciding to finish the journey on foot, we elected not to pay the fare as the driver argued with the bus driver.

After dropping our bags at the hotel, and already soaking wet from our walk, we went to an internet café to e-mail our friends and family:

It’s pouring rain like nothing I’ve ever seen here, makes Portland seem like the desert. Freezing cold too, must be dumping up high. Wish you were here.

Crossing the street in the downpour, we pushed through a crowd of European tourists scurrying towards the town’s famous Chocolaterias, when it first happened.

Ryan’s glance toward me caught my eye as we scrambled to get under an awning. I saw his eyes grinning as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and knew mine were doing the same. The reality of our surroundings had dawned on us simultaneously. Uncontrollable at that point, we broke into wide grins, slapping each other on the back as we cackled like mad men. The locals call it the Santa Rosa smile. Returning to our senses we realized a man outside a restaurant was speaking to us:

“…Hola. Si, tu. Claro! Who else would I be talking to? Listen, why don’t you try this? Solomente un poco? You’ll like it, I promise. Prometo. Really, it’ll make you feel good. Yes, that’s it. Si. You liked that, no? Go ahead, otra vez. As much as you like. Yeah that’s bueno, bueno…”

Dripping wet, we accepted the man’s recommendation and sat down to an $8 feast. In spite of wearing nothing more than soaked t-shirts, jeans, and sandals, we were still grinning like lunatics when the empanadas arrived.

The next morning dawned gray, cold, and unpleasant. The ominous weather made skiing out of the question. Our countless hours flying had left our souls bobbing stupidly over Central America; souls simply cannot travel as fast as airplanes. Soullessness had transformed this foreign land into a foreboding mirror-world, where strange electrical outlets held back foreign voltages waiting to assault our gadgets. We needed to wait for our souls to be reeled in on their invisible tethers before we would feel peace. The mountain was closed due to the weather anyway.

Leaving to explore town required a rain jacket and waterproof shoes. Still waiting on the arrival of our souls the town felt ominous in the early morning hours. Few people could be seen, and nothing was open. Admitting defeat we returned to the hotel for breakfast. Letting Ryan order for me I made sure that the waitress knew to bring coffee. Lots of it. Coffee is the only thing which speeds the flight of one’s soul over such distances. The breakfast of eggs, bacon, and dulce de leche covered pastries energized us enough to begin exploring the city during a break in the storm.

After a lunch in a pizzeria we returned to our rooms, soaking wet and utterly exhausted at four in the afternoon; we agreed that naps would likely allow our souls to finish their journey. When I awoke the alarm clock said it was 21:30. My sleep addled mind took a moment to realize that this was mirror-world for 9:30 PM. Stretching, I could feel that my soul had arrived, reeled in on its invisible tether. After waking Ryan, we decided it was time to experience the storied nightlife of Argentina. It was in the third bar of the night that we met Ana and Sabine.

We had spotted the two girls the moment we walked into the bar. A blonde European sitting with a dark haired Argentinean is a striking combination in any place. After we worked up courage to approach them, they immediately invited us to sit with them. Occasionally they would chatter to each other in rapid-fire Spanish, leaving both Ryan and I bewildered, but their smiles never wavered.

* * *

My thoughts being sufficiently scrambled by my soul’s recent arrival, Jack Daniels, and some well-arranged cleavage; I took an embarrassingly long time to answer. “I suppose that depends on who you’re cheating, doesn’t it?” I replied, as another Santa Rosa smile flickered across my face.