Nevermind that the lady from the panaderìa this morning suffers from a rampant case of bitchiness–so much so that I almost think to forego breakfast pastries to teach the cranky wench a lesson but decide instead to brave the tempest and guffaw my way with broken Spanish, very much to her displeasure and scorn–our town for the evening is the cutest thing we stumble upon, and ain’t no body gonna rain on our parade this evening as we walk its manicured shops and lawns.
San Martin de los Andes is our stop for the evening, the halfway point between El Bolson and Pucon, a frontier farewell to Argentina before we forever cross into Chile, and compared to our noontime layover in Bariloche, the so-called Breckenridge of the Andes, this joint is a dream.
We depart mid-morning from El Bolson, feeling the squeeze on planning the latter half of our trip to be sure to secure a spot on our grand finale, Macchu Pichu, sadly only weeks away, and two bus rides later, we arrive happy to see the forecast per our ticket lady and server dude correct–San Martin is beautiful.
San Martin is the Estes Park of the Andes, quaint town at the foot of mountain lake, hiking, biking, kayaking, discovery-galore, and we lament having, again, only one night in a more-than-adequate cabaña at Rukalhue.
Oh well, guess all there is to do is take advantage of our evening here–a little lakeside walk, some window shopping, a homemade stew of chicken sausage and corn and tomato and squash and pepper and onion washed down with a bottle of youngish vino, all for the ridiculous price of 58 pesos–$11 for us both.
And, some cable TV, an unfortunate tease on this night of nights, for regardless the channel, our elated hosts have only one bit of news to broadcast–the election of an Argentinian pope.