Torquato Tasso

In late June I made a stop in Ferrara Italy. This is a great town to visit. On a quiet summer afternoon you can check out the castello estense, medieval streets, renaissance palazzios, and the city wall. In the evening things picked up as stores reopen and locals emerge, stopping their bicycles for friendly chats in the square.

Not long after the university there started accepting students in 1391, a place called Hostaria del Chiuchiolino opened nearby (ciucco is italian slang for drunk). Copernicus took a law degree there in 1503 and while I'm sure he was very studious, the story is that he lived above this establishment, which is now called Al Brindisi(The Toast). I went there with a group of students from California and their italian professor. They told me the best time to jump in the moat is early morning - after the night watchman has gone home to bed. But having a flight out the next morning I was not able to enjoy a morning swim.

Back here in Buenos Aires I went to the live music venue called Torquato Tasso that's best known as a milonga. I was surprised to find out that the name does not refer to a difficult tango step, but rather to another famous patron of Al Brindisi.

Torquato Tasso's wikipedia biography is long, confusing and contradicts other sources, so here is a summary of his story compliled from the internet for those who are interested.

Torquato Tasso was a 16th century poet who received an invitation to join the brilliant court of Ferrara at 21 years of age. By this time Torq was already a famous poet and a veteran of the Italian court circuit. As poet-in-residence at the house of Este, Torquato found many pleasures. Byron later wrote of his legendary love for princess Leonora d'Este, daughter of Lucrecia Borgia and Duke Alfonso d'Este. Tasso's benefactor was princess Leonora's nephew, Duke Alfonso II.

Tasso was also in love with two renowned singers who were members of the court's illustrious concerto delle donne: Laura Peverara and Lucrezia Bendido, the future wife of Macchiavelli.

But Torquato was always in and out of crisis mode. His mental health deteriorated over the years and he became more and more paranoid and neurotic. In 1577 he knifed a servant he thought was a spy and was put in a convent. Later he disrupted the Duke's third wedding by shouting insults at people and was sent to St Anna's hospital where he stayed on and off for seven years. After his release in 1586 he wandered around Italy behaving badly. Physically and mentally he continued to decline. But Tasso was admired and loved by so many that he always managed to find new benefactors such as Pope Clement VIII. He died in 1595 at the Convent of St Onofrio.

Tasso's poems were instant classics and required reading in Europe through the 19th century. Goethe wrote a play about him called Torquato Tasso.

High School Soccer Coach

Materazzi finally confirmed that he provoked the head butt. This week Marco admitted to referencing Zinedine's sister.

United States fans will recall that Italy was actually on the delivery end of the World Cup's most violent act: the wicked De Rossi elbow that almost broke Brian McBride's face. (In this photo, just hours before US v Italy, James flashes hang ten to the amusement of young friend.)

These events had me recalling my earlier experience with Italian-style soccer.

Our high school soccer team was unfortunately a perpetual loser. We finished either 0-10 every year or close to it. One September we were told a new coach was coming in. What they didn't tell us was that he was a short, snuff-sniffing, perfumed Italian-American New Yorker who showed up for after-school games with a five o'clock shadow.

After the first contest, and our first lose, he told us to play more physically, by which he was careful to explain he meant play rough and don't get caught. Try to kick the shin or throw a knee into the lower back, he said. But his teachings had little effect on thirteen undersized boys and a girl who practiced on scratches of dirt in Central Park and played every game on the road. We carried on losing. Soon he got tired of this and surprised us with the decision to put himself in the next match. On game day he showed up in the locker room early and spent about an hour shaving his face, neck and truncated legs, while steadily inhaling tobacco powder through the nose. Our new "coach" was a kid recruited from the basketball team complete with overcoat and clipboard. As promised our real coach put himself in after halftime and proceeded to go to work on the other side. Soon the opposing coach and the referee were angry and getting suspicous when time ran out and we lost the game anyway.

For the final game he actually recruited our high school music teacher to impersonate him and this time played the entire match. I don't recall winning that game, it's possible that, like Italy, we overcame bad karma and tied one. The following year another new coach came in.

Dinosaurs and Ford Falcons

Only George Bush could love a oil town like Comodoro Rivadavia. This stretch of coast along the Gulf of San Jorge is not ideal for sightseeing. I continued on to Trelew where I stopped to check out The MEF. This is a quality paleontology museum in the heart of dinosaur country. Patagonia is to paleontologists what Vegas is to gamblers. I don't know if these guys are better at finding old bones or coming up with fun names that convey size: Megaraptor, Titanosaurs and Giganotosaurus are good examples. It's no coincidence that oil companies and dinosaur scientists are operating in close proximity here. Solyent Green is people and fossil fuel is liquid gasosaurus.

In the old welsh frontier town of Gaiman I found a $25 room in an 1867 hotel on main street. This part of town feels like an old western - patagonia style. The room, with its creeky hardwood floors, high ceilings and big antique bed, did not disappoint.

Later that day I stopped at a welsh tea house visited by Princess Diana 10 years back. There you can see the chair she sat in. (I have a picture of her in my mind from the day I saw her coming out of a hotel in New York). The tea house gardens and the nearby river are also beautiful to see.

Returning to main street I was surprised to find 15 to 20 Ford Falcons lined up in front of the hotel for a thunderous rally. The surprise was the setting, not the vehicle, since the Falcon is the classic car in Argentina.

The young Ford enthusiasts gathered in Gaiman that afternoon were writing a new chapter in the Falcon's history. Here were more than a dozen examples in very good condition and each one sounding as loud as an F15. Everyone was making good use of that dinosaur oil.

The next day I was heading west on Route 25 and moving fast when I came up on a venue of huge bald vultures feeding on a rabbit carcass. When they saw the Kia approaching they started flapping and taking off, but one made a bad low turn and the truck slammed into him at high speed. I could feel the weight of it at impact. I stopped in a state of shock. I went back and looked around but couldn't locate anything. There was blood on the bumper but he was gone. I waited nearby but obviously the rabbit was now deemed too risky by these living dinosaurs. They didn't make it this far by being stupid.

Patagonia Atlantic Coast

Driving north from Punta Arenas along the Strait of Magellan I stopped to check out the red roofed buildings of San Gregorio, a 19th century sheep estancia. Also nearby was the shell of a 1869 british ship called the Ambassador. The former was apparently still operating while the later was now a Chilean historical monument.

Crossing the border back into Argentina I soon arrived in Rio Gallegos. I'm not sure what there is to say about this town except that Kirchner was based there as governor of Santa Cruz before becoming president of Argentina. Possibly the only easier job in the world than governor of Santa Cruz is governor of Texas. I visited a bank machine and gas station and got out of there.

North on Route 3 it was close to sunset when I drove up to a inn at an empty truck stop. The owner showed me to a crispy clean room. I really enjoyed the hot shower in the polished bathroom and the good food out in the dining room after a long day of driving and sightseeing. But something was not right in the twilight. As far as I could tell I as the only guest at Posada Lemarchand. After a while I noticed the family walking around with wild looks on their faces. The inn seemed new, but who knows how long they had been out there on that windy steppe. We all glanced up when a group of very tough looking gauchos walked in. I was ready for what had to be the next scene in the movie. But these guys turned out to be regulars who looked happy to be out of the wind - no knife throwing competitions or nervous womenfolk. They simply drank and watched late night futbol replays and I did the same.The next day I was up for an early breakfast and could see the wind already blowing outside. I looked over and noticed Granny behind the counter staring out at the gravel parking lot, lost in her morning cigarettes and solitude. On the way out I waved goodbye and didn't notice a response.

I drove north to Monte Leon national park which opened just two years earlier. The only coastal national park in Argentina was once a huge estancia owned by The Southern Patagonia Sheep Farming Company. The land was recently bought and donated to the country by an American. When I arrived the place was completely deserted and that made it more special. The signature viewpoint is on a high cliff facing a towering island out in the ocean which happens to be home to thousands of comarants. Two long cables connected land and island, but anyone hoping to ride out on a gondola would be confusing Patagonia and Orlando. Further north I walked along an empty rocky beach backed by low cliffs and muddy inlets when I was suddenly joined by a solitary penguin. I approached slowly as he inspected himself and enjoyed the sunshine. Once or twice the surf came up to his webbed feet and he shifted further up the beach to avoid the cold water. This went on for a while but then as I came closer he turned and swam out into the Atlantic and I watched him swimming and fishing in the water close to shore. I took my souvenir egg-shaped rock and headed back to the 4 x 4 up on the bank. The Kia had not been lonely as it was surrounded by a large herd of Guanaco. One bold individual stood near me down on the beach level drinking from a muddy pool. The others waited nervously above until it was safe to drop in from the cliff's edges.

Continuing north on route 3 the wind was steadily slashing the truck and trying to knock it off the road. I had to hang on tight. Insect bits and dust made it difficult to see and it didn't help to smear it all around with fluid and water. At one point a suicide bird came flying in and ofted himself with a slap on the front grill. Later that afternoon I turned off for the 50K drive out to Petrified Forest National Park. The huge fallen trees trunks turned to stone millions of years ago and now lay across dry rocky hills and cliffs. Very forceful hot winds were whipping dust across the lunar landscape and its strange grey volcanic mountains. The wind was so strong I was having a hard time breathing and walking. Starting my drive back I stopped to take a leak and was left gasping when the wind flipped around and peppersprayed me in the face with urine and dust. Then, trying to get back inside the truck I had to duck down in front of it because I was getting raked by painful buckshot swirling up off the road.

Finally back off the ripio and on route 3 I arrived later in the small town of Fitz Roy with my tank on empty and planning to make another 100 kilometers. There on the side of the road was something that looked promising but as I approached I saw the shell of the old YPF station complete with wrecked vehicles scattered about the lot. This was making me nervous. I drove around until I found the local police station and the police chief. He went off to find me some gas. A while later he was back with a can and a plastic tube and sucked up a nice mouthful of the stuff. But the syphon worked and $!00 pesos later I was back on my way.

I made it up to a town I thought would be a nice place to stay. But Caleta Olivia turned out to be a smaller version of Commodoro Rivadavia. I now know why no one talks about it in the guide books. I stopped at two shabby hotels and was shown jail cells with sad carpets, stained walls and tiny cots. I kept moving. In the end I ended up at the Hotel Robert which, as far as I could tell, was the least miserable hotel in town. I had a nice milanesa with vino tinto downstairs in the busy restaurant and fell asleep early after realizing the remote control didn't work.

Perito Moreno

The Perito Moreno Glacier first ruptured in 1917. The lake slammed through the intruder a second time in 1934 and then again every 4 to 5 years over the middle of the last century. Since 1989 the big event has only happened twice and we were lucky enough to be there for the final stage the second time. Everyone with access to the media may recall that this was in March.

My friends Kitty, Red and I arrived in El Calafate on Sunday the 12th, driving against rush hour traffic. Actually we had no clue what was going on. This was the scheduled last stop for my friends who were flying back to San Francisco that Thursday. We arrived at Parque Nacional Los Glacieres 90 kilometers away from town on Monday March 13th and were soon out in the freezing rain and antartic winds viewing the glacier from the lake shore. A few days earlier fiesty Lago Argentino had blown a hole through the corner of Perito Moreno that had dammed it up, releasing the intense pressure that had built up over two years time. What was left now was a dramatic ice bridge which had held through the weekend carnival.

Those who did not have to join the traffic out on Sunday were there in their cold places under flying tents and blankets alongside wrapped television crews and new arrivals who stumbled about looking for a cup of coffee before running back to join the vigil. Each massive falling slab of ice dropped into the lake with a splash, boom and rolling wave sequence that foreshadowed the huge implosion that would end it. We heard someone say that if this was anything like 2004, the finale was still 24 hours away. Based on that convenient information we decided to retreat to our room in the park after being out there in the cold for more than 4 hours.

The next morning we found out that the bridge had fallen overnight. Like Broadway during a black out, the curtain fell when no one could see the show. There was a rumor that the moon had broken through just in time to illuminate the scene for the hardy bunch that had camped out overnight - this sounded too good to be true. But those who were there must have heard it and felt it and I can imagine what an experience that was in the darkness. With or without the natural dam or a rupture event, the wall that forms the leading edge of the glacier is a stunning sight. And to get off the beaten path, I think a real glacier trek is the right call. I'm ready to go back next year.

Truck Fire

I arrived in Buenos Aires on a flight leaving San Francisco on December 31st 2005 and landing here on the morning of January 1st 2006. I guess if you are moving to the other side of the world, January 1st is a good date to get started in your new city. It's also easier to get an upgrade on a holiday. You can spend the hours relaxing in first class and skip the New Year's Eve drill on the ground.

Actually a few years back I did witness a party on a flight to Argentina which was very entertaining. On that occasion after all of the little airline bottles were consumed, many passengers could be seen running up and down the aisles in their underwear. But this last time it was very quiet: not even a midnight toast. United employees don't have much to celebrate these days.

After one night in Buenos Aires I flew on to Uruguay to join cousin Annie and friends on Summer Vacation, already in progress. We stayed in the small town of Jose Ignacio with its beautiful beaches and very good restaurants and drove to La Barra every few nights looking for a little movimiento.

After dinner one Saturday night in La Barra we walked over to the bar Arretxe. We were a bit early but soon a procession of pretty skinny people started arriving looking like they were ready to make some drama. But the scene inside was nothing compared to what was about to unfold outside. We were seated around a table near the bar when we became aware of something going down near the entrance. I went out to find a crowd backing away from a truck engulfed in flames. Those who feared an explosion ran inside, but others were too mesmorized by the light and heat to move. Soon firemen arrived and started blasting away until the flames were gone leaving a thick cloud of fumes. Things were seemingly under control. But then the owners, a young couple who had been found in a restaurant on the other side of a nearby bridge, came running up to the smoldering metal and started frantically pulling out ruined surf boards and blackened luggage. Unfortunately their dog was inside and he was unconscious. With the help of paramedics and friends, they got him out and down on the dirt road. All surrounded the animal in a tight circle. We could see the hurried medical activity and, amazingly, CPR being performed. Crying, screaming and shouted instructions.

But in the end there was just the lifeless dog laying on the ground and the couple wandering around in shock - everybody trying to help - we could all see the pain on their faces.

They really loved that dog.

I hope that after a while someone gave them a little puppy that jumps for joy when they come home at night and follows them around the entire next day, just like their old dog did.