Chapter 25

The day I got into the El Calafate I began walking around the place to see what it had to offer, then just as I was heading to the bus terminal to find a map of the town I ran into two of my friends from my former university in Buenos Aires. They freaked out since they had not heard from me in quite a while and they were blown away that we ran into each other.

I looked at the girls and thought to myself, “I don't know if you guys don't read La Nueva Provincia or what, but meeting you is nothing special.” I then proceeded to have a good time with them for the next 48 hours.

I also made it to Glacier Perrito Moreno. It was pretty.

Just as exciting, once again my Buenos Aires student ID saved me 44 pesos on the park entry fee. Saving me a grand total of 70 pesos, which using a very conservative 3-1 exchange rate, saved me 23 USD on the trip. Practically paying for the 2,200 USD I threw away on a tuition I did not use.

Then I bounced to El Chalten an even smaller town that looks like this:

I did a lot of hiking. Drank some glacier water from the glacier pictured below.

Then I had a one-man picnic in this field.

Then I took some pictures that had an even stronger yellow colors.


By some miracle of God my hostel had NBA league pass for just one of the nights I was there and the only game I was able to watch was a Charlotte Bobcats and Minnesota Timberwolves match-up, two teams which should have been relegated four years ago. But I was still happy to watch NBA basketball and to get to watch Gerald Wallace and Kevin Love from the bottom of the world.

After three days of hiking I took the long bus ride back to Puerto Madryn again just to break up my time on a bus.

I checked back in to my same hostel and then fired off some quick e-mails before I went to the bus terminal to buy a ticket to Bahía Blanca. I had a few e-mails waiting for me all letting me know my wonderland of Bahía Blanca had disappeared in the week since I had left it.

Marquitos told me he was going to be out of town for the entire weekend I planned on returning to Bahia and in the end of his e-mail he added one minor detail. Paul McPherson had already been cut from the team.

I also got an e-mail from Nene informing me of the same grim news. Then I scoured the web and confirmed for a third time that P-Mac had indeed left Bahía Blanca, as well as learning that El Nacional lost their opening game in the Super 8 Tournament I initially planned on attending.

I didn't know how to cope with all this bad news so I went to the bus terminal and bought a bus ticket back home to Buenos Aires. Then I began drowning my fake sorrows in cheap Argentine beer. I sat on the roof of the hostel and watched the sun set over the ocean. I reflected on all my travels and thought about realized that maybe one day with P-Mac was more than enough.

I walked back in to the hostel, checked my e-mail and found this gem waiting for me:

Hi, Justin.

Dropping you a line to let you know that I have awarded your BA in degree in Journalism, back dated to May 2008.

Your diploma will be ordered next Wednesday and will be mailed to you.

Congratulations!!!

OK, so I was drunk sitting on top of a roof in Puerto Madryn, Argentina and now they are throwing me a college degree. I can't be upset with that.

Then I kept drinking with my eclectic posse at the hostel. There were the odd hostel employees, a bald-headed woman and the guy who ran the desk, but always wore doctor's scrubs, some Argentines who traveled the country selling crafts in artesian markets, the token Israeli who is at every hostel, a couple from Australia, a German girl who grew up in the same town as Dirk Nowitzki and an older man who was the talent scout for Club Independiente, the third biggest football team in Argentina.

The talent scout for Independiente showed the local newspaper and revealed a huge picture of himself next to an article about him scouting players in Puerto Madryn. I then pulled out my newspaper from Bahía Blanca, displayed my article and let him know my paper was for a bigger town and therefore superior.

As we all sat in the tiny hostel kitchen one of the local Argentines began jamming on his guitar singing some classic Rolling Stones' songs. Then for no reason at all I grabbed the guitar and spat an accompanying battle rap against the Independiente coach mocking him and his team. Even though I can't play guitar nor rap in Spanish I still lyrically murdered him. The coach took the guitar from me and thought for a few seconds about his retaliation. He then froze up. I finally had my B. Rabbit moment and I had found Paul McPherson. It was a pretty successful trip.

El fin.