Moving past the Mundial

Like most of Buenos Aires and the rest of Argentina that day, I was pretty crushed on June 30. Seeing this team for which everyone had such high hopes lose to Germany in a penalty shootout wasn't unjust - as nothing can be in sport, at its purest - but it proved nothing. Germany certainly didn't prove itself the better team, and while Argentina did, they couldn't prove that they deserved to move on. So why not Germany then? But how agonizing. Ernesto Cambiasso, who played every ball he found firmly and accurately, struck a similarly confident ball towards the upper-right corner before a diving Lehmann intercepted it, ending the game. He and his teammates would have been worthy competitors in the semi-finals. But they won't be, so we move on.

This - in case there was any confusion - is how you get pimped out for an important game.

Ever so pimped out. How can Argentina lose?

Fortunately I had plenty to move on to: June 30 was my last day in my apartment in Recoleta, my last day in Buenos Aires before hitting the road with visiting friends Pat and Andy. The boys and I are off on three weeks in South America so loaded with travel and activity that I'm amazed that we were able to budget time for sleep. Our first stop after four days in Buenos Aires was Las Leñas, a ski resort in the Argentine Andes. Despite the presence of two snowboards to slow us down, the four of us tore it up and enjoyed the spring-like conditions. The porteños are happy to bring their famous appetite for nightlife on vacation with them, and as we cut off our evening around three to ensure that we were in a reasonable condition for the next day's skiing, the nightclub we left was just beginning to fill up. Whistler it ain't. We celebrated Canada Day as best as we were able, though the Argentines seemed oddly dispassionate about the occasion when we informed them of it. Still down about the previous day's loss, no doubt.

Andy makes it look easy.

The crew on our final day.

Back to Buenos Aires on the morning of the fourth; a flight that afternoon to Rio. After all that snow and brutal sub-10˚C temperatures, we were ready for some beach and sun, and Rio delivered. Andy had been itching for a football match since he touched down in South America, and we finally found one on Copacabana beach with a group of Brazilians, who clearly weren't playing this sport for the first time. The beach game is odd for those of us who learned on grass, and while the flat area closest to the water allowed for some dribbling (in between waves), further up the pitch the ball was usually played in the air. We foolish gringos made the mistake of trying to pass the ball through the sand a few times, before attempting the more logical indigenous style of a short flip upwards followed by a mid-air lob over one's opponents. While at least one local player possessed such phenomenal ball control skills that he would slide himself and the ball past my 6'4", 200-pound frame without so much as a brush of contact, I could defend against some of the less obviously gifted players by exploiting their adversion to passing, a trait they share with their Argentine counterparts.

So a few more days in Rio, back to Buenos Aires on Saturday for our last swig of the porteño nightlife, and then to Cusco, for something completely different. Three days hiking in Peruvian Andes to Lares, and then a fourth at Machu Picchu, perhaps South America's most famous destination. The boys pack up for Toronto afterwards, and I get some rest.

Beautiful Rio from the famous statue of Christ.

Another side of Rio.

Cariocas take an interest in the football.