Grande Buenos Aires: The Media

Map:
As is common with freighter voyages, the dates and ports of calls of call differed from the first schedule I reported. Not only was the ship late in picking me up from Zarate, but it continued to fall behind schedule as my trip progressed. Sometimes I wonder if the Grimaldi fleet of cargo ships are hands on a watch running out of time as they ever more slowly completely their revolutions.

Here's what ended up happening:
(and it's annotated! Click the link below the map to get full notes and dates)


View Grande Buenos Aires Voyage in a larger map

Videos:
Here are a couple of my favorite videos, but check out my Youtube channel to view all my uploads.

The Grande Buenos Aires: The Last Days

The Grande Buenos Aires makes it way through the North Sea.

First came Emden. That tiny blip of neatly parked white cars and wind turbines towering across the horizon. Several crew members had disembarked and new faces started appearing in the hallways and on the decks. Faces of Italians and Indians I hadn’t just shared a life-transforming month with. The Germans’ disposition shifted and a bit after midnight on September 14 they drove their RV off the ro/ro ramp and out of the Grande Buenos Aires—earlier that night at dinner I had produced a bottle of California Pinot Noir (acquired back in Tilbury) for a toast to our camaraderie as the sole passengers. Even Peter who never drank had half a glass.

One of the last meals I shared with the Germans.

The majority of cargo in the Port of Emden, Germany seemed to be Audi automobiles, all wrapped in white protective coating.

Wind energy is big in North Europe. The new passengers told me it's bad for the sealife, though.
I don't know if they're right but I agreed with them anyway.

Early the next afternoon the ship was pulling out of the port. I hadn’t touched land.

Then came Hamburg. The trip up the river was long and scenic and I passed most of the day taking pictures on the deck even though I was shitting my pants: my spirit cruise was coming to an end in two or three days and I had lost track of time, thinking I had four or five days. The big bad world daunted me; all decisions had been made for me for the past 32 days; all meals prepared and fed to me; all bedding and towels washed and replaced. What was I going to do without my ship peeps, without this floating group home that moved at 18 knots and had a dead weight of 26,169 tons, without the structure and predictability of its routine?

It appeared as though many local Germans were taking advantage
of the early September mild weather by going for a sail in the Elbe river.

Some scenery coming up the Elbe river.
Notice Chief Cook Marcelo taking some pictures from the deck on the right.

The beginning of the river banks hosted more rural developments.

The industrial area of the port looms.

The Captain and the local pilots at work.

There was much evidence of nautical tourism and passenger ships near the city center.

Yours truly, wearing the stocking cap I got from the Seafarer's Centre in Tilbury.

Colorful facades inhabited the banks of the river Elbe nearer the center of Hamburg.

Many church steeples dotted the horizon, mixed with other towers and construction cranes.

This was a modern building being constructed on the water. It was interesting to see Hamburg's prosperity illustrated in the many construction cranes and mix of old and new architecture. 

The Chief Mate in position on the other side of the bridge.

A little bit of good ol' America in Hamburg. The Louisiana Star!

 Well, if I had to disembark, we were going to go out in style. On Friday, September 14 Mikhail and I walked down the ro/ro hatch, got the port shuttle to the gates, and called a taxi. We got dropped off on St Pauli, which is basically Germany’s version of Vegas I soon realized: the streets teemed with regional Germans who had come to drink, gamble, ogle naked ladies, and hook up with prostitutes, the latter of which were neatly dressed and made up girls that lined the street corners with crisp black fanny packs strapped around their hips. (What a juxtaposition to the prostitutes of the Manila Discotee back in Vitoria, Brazil!) We had a few drinks at the 24 Carat Cocktail Bar, checked our email, walked around, ran into Marcelo and Filipo chowing down on doner kebab, and eventually became overwhelmed by the tourists looking for their weekend thrills before their looming weddings (Hamburg is the place for bachelor parties). Mikhail bought me a bouquet of roses from a street vendor, which was sweet: I love flowers and had wanted some in my cabin ever since I beheld the florist section of the Asda supermarket in Tilbury.

Checking our email and having a drink in the 24 Carat Cocktail Bar in Hamburg.

One side street comprised of adult entertainment businesses. There were so many people on the streets!

Party down, haha.

 A few short hours later, we decided to grab a cab and head back to the ship, but not without a bottle of Jameson, special request for the little lady! Our cab driver was a young Turk who spoke English well, so we told him our stories while we traversed the entire international shipping zone of Hamburg looking for a night shop that had Jameson. A few tries in, I settled for Valentine’s and we were finally deposited back at Terminal O’Swaldkai. We went to the galley, cut off the top of a water bottle, and plunged the peach roses into the warm sugar water I had concocted.

Oh dang, there goes one more day on the Grande Buenos Aires.

Our cab driver with the bottle of coveted whiskey. Disclaimer: I, a passenger of the Grande Buenos Aires, drank this whole bottle and didn't share with any crew :-P

Back on the ship, with my roses in the cut-off water bottle masquerading as a vase.

The next day the first wave of new passengers embarked: a couple of Dutch/Germans who were starting a two-year tour of South America that they had been dreaming of for 45 years. The remaining 10 passengers would board in Le Havre, long after I had disembarked. At dinner I began to pass my knowledge onto them as my previous fellow passengers had done when I embarked in Zarate all those days ago. What the meals usually consisted of, how much wine came with the meals, who ate where, how to send an email via satellite, the schedule of the steward (Mikhail)… but, I found myself losing patience with their wide-eyed sense of discovery, their lamentations they missed their dog, their disappointment the ship didn’t have wifi. This ship will change your life if you let it I almost wanted to shout at them.

Some of the cargo in the port included this public transit metro car, which looked pretty out of place among the construction equipment waiting to be loaded. 

The ship docked behind ours.

My Top Shop blouse flutters beautifully and forlornly in my cabin window while Hamburg passes outside.

Coming up the river to the Port of Antwerp on Monday, September 17 was bittersweet: it’s Belgium! It’s Antwerp! It’s the port! My two worlds collided: the first time I left the United States and my culture bubble burst was over 12 years ago and Antwerp, Belgium was the scene of the crime. That trip with my High School exchange program had transformed the way I looked at the world and had ignited my life-long obsession with travel and Europe. I remember being amazed at the smallest things, like how Diet Coke was Coca-Cola Light and how you had to pay to use a public restroom and how common fragrances like hand soap and deodorant just smelled different. Now, perhaps the one most perception-shifting travel experience since then, the Grande Buenos Aires, was going head-to-head with Belgium literally and figuratively. Who would win? I didn’t even want to take bets—I was still in denial I would be disembarking and maintained my desire to stay on the ship forever.

Back to sailing through the North Sea.

Entering into the port area of Antwerp, Belgium.

We were cruising next to this other cargo ship for a while.

Cargo cranes stand ready and at attention. 

The cadet raises the Belgian flag.

Traffic lanes in the Schelde river.

We waited in the lock next to this building for a while, and I caught the reflection of the ship's insignia in the reflective windows. Little did I know this would be the scene of immigration control when I left the port the next day. 

Waiting in the lock from the river to Grimaldi area of the port.

I ended up getting one extra night: we docked around 21:00 and I made arrangements to disembark the next morning at 10. I spent the night organizing my things, throwing away unneeded papers and brochures, consolidating toiletries, and did one last load of laundry. Slowly my little space transformed back into the generic cabin that all passengers encounter upon embarking. I kept going outside to watch a good chunk of the crew unload a truck of kitchen supplies, including crates and crates of bottled water, which were hoisted up to deck 12 and moved into the galley. Supplies I would never partake of.

I reluctantly left The Consoled by Kazuo Ishiguro, which I found in the ship's library, on the ship despite it being a beautiful hardback edition and despite the fact it was the best book I'd read in a long time. 

The ship's pantry shortly before restocking. Notice the crates of bottled water on the left.

Telltale signs of Italian and Indian fare: cans and cans of tomato sauce and bags and bags of  basmati rice.

Chief cook Marcelo and Engine Officer Filipo in the galley. Filipo liked Marcelo because he made good Sicilian dishes and Filipo was obsessed with being Sicilian. 

The sunrise on September 18 was insanely ablaze; a bold red streaked through the morning thundercaps above the cranes of the port. Meanwhile, on the other side of the ship, it started raining and a brilliant rainbow pierced the grey sky. I tried to eat breakfast but could barely muster it; I was nervous about going into Antwerp and trying to find my friend Bahar, a holdover from the Belgian Exchange period who I hadn’t seen in 8 years. I was also really sad and was trying not to think about it. Nonetheless, Mikhail brought me a stock of wrapped sandwiches the Chief Cook Marcelo had whipped up. Whatever happened, I wouldn’t immediately starve upon disembarkation.

Amazing, yet ominous, red sunrise in the Port of Antwerp.
Red sky at night, sailors' delight.
Red sky in the morning, sailors heed the warning.
My dad taught me that one when I was young.

I went back to my cabin and finished packing up my backpack, trying to account for every possible scenario. Rain? Cold? Warm? Pleasant? I wrapped my shoes in a trash bag before inserting them into the netted pocket on the side of my back pack. I put the Sellotape I had purchased in Tilbury in my bag at the last moment—never know when you’ll need to tack up a map or poster to a barren wall. Everything empty, except the peach roses in the cut-off water bottle on the dresser that continued to open to a full bloom.

My bouquet sits by its lonesome on my dresser.

Bye bye familiar corridor. 

A few minutes before 10, Mikhail arrived at my cabin, picked up my bag, and we took the elevator down to deck 3, where I walked off the ro/ro hatch one last time. Crescenzo, the Chief Mate, Shona, Miguel, and some others were down there. Trying to keep my composure, I kissed each of them good-bye then we headed to my waiting taxi. Smiling, Mikhail said, “Have fun in Amsterdam, don’t drink too much, don’t smoke too much, be good,” and slammed the door shut. My eyes watering, watering, but I told myself: hold it together, you gotta go through immigration control, you gotta go to the city center, you gotta find Bahar.

And I did, I did do all those things, and I didn’t even cry. 

The Country of the Grande Buenos Aires Meets London

Yours truly, on the ship in the Port of Tilbury

When I walked off the ship into the port of Tilbury in the UK, my first shock was being able to read the markings and labels on the bales of ply wood that were stocked in the warehouses. It was Sunday and the industrial area was eerily quiet, the sky was a hazy blue, and the temperature was comfortable—what I imagined was a classic late summer day in England.

England?!  I thought to myself.

Although I could sense something familiar in the climate that signaled to my senses that we were, indeed, in North Europe, a part of me was still in Brazil, still somewhere near the equator in the Atlantic ocean, still outside the hot waters of Dakar. Of course we had been coming towards North Europe for some time, but the ship rocking to the rhythm of the open sea was more like a state of being than a state of moving. Coming to a new port is like leaving a country you previously didn’t know existed (the ship), only to realize that geographically this country is neighbors with countries all over the world.

I spied this spider's crazy handiwork in a discarded tire on our walk to the Seamen's Club/Seafarers' Center 

Tilbury Seafarers' Centre

Panorama of our docking place: to the left is another Grimaldi ship, The Grande Africa, whose chef and crew I chatted with at the Seafarers' Centre, and to the right is my ship, The Grande Buenos Aires 

The Germans and I were making our way to the Seaman’s Club in the port to check our email. As we crossed the long driveway from the ship to the main road, which cut through a bank of warehouses, I exclaimed at the novelty of the experience. The lorries and fork-lifts were still and no souls crossed our path. We stepped on metal ties that had been discarded from the ply wood bales and kicked up a metallic chorus that echoed throughout the still space.

MV Grande Buenos Aires.
Date: 09/09/2012
Port: Tilbury
Next Port: Emden
Shore Leave
Expires

Besides briefly stepping into the port of Dakar to buy souvenirs a few meters from the ship’s cargo hatch, the Germans and I had not been on land for 17 or 18 days, and the last time we had checked our email had been 20 or 21 days ago. Around the time we docked in Dakar, I used the ship’s email account to send a message to friends and family via satellite, which was refreshing: it reminded me I had people on the outside that were still thinking about me although I felt safely insulated, surrounded by my ship family and the rhythms of sea life.

View from the ship's cargo hatch.

Some of my peeps: Chief Cook Raphael, Driver Crescenzo, Steward Mikhail, new Chief Cook Marcelo, and Engine Officer Filipo. This was Raphael's last night with us; he was disembarking the next day. Note the stocking caps acquired from the Seafarers' Centre.

We ended up staying in Tilbury for almost 4 whole days, which afforded me several trips to the Seaman’s club (picture: drinking Stella Artois with some of the crew—we were the noisy Italian contingent—and trying on hand-knit stocking caps left for cold seamen) and a couple trips to the mega-market Asda just outside of the port (where I stocked up on chocolate and booze, two things the ship lacked). That would have almost been enough civilization for me, but then I learned I could take a 40 minute train ride into London from Tilbury.

London! I hadn’t even considered this possibility!

On Monday September 10, the passenger’s steward, Mikhail, and I took a short day trip into the city. The Paralympics had wrapped up the day before, but residual athletes, donning their country’s exercise costumes, flooded the area near Parliament and Big Ben. I felt as though I was beholding the society of a booming metropolis for the first time—there were children! and women! and people from all nations! As we made our way through the crowds of tourists, I remarked to Mikhail that I could tell what countries folks were from just by looking at them—their attire, their hair style, the features of their face gave them away. Considering Mikhail was a Ukrainian that had immigrated to Italy and I was routinely mistaken for nationalities other than American, I wondered aloud, “What country do people think we’re from?” He deftly answered, “From the Grande Buenos Aires!”

Big Ben! I had only been to London once before, for a few hours in 2000 as part of the Belgian exchange student program. I have an old picture of my 17 year old self in front of Big Ben on that trip, too, and I was wearing my trademark Op Ivy hoodie.

Mikhail takes a picture - and look! Men, women, children!

These peeps were protesting outside of Parliament, some specifically regarding the Olympics and others different issues. I love seeing a city's protesters, but that's probably just the San Franciscan in me.

Mikhail.

TPOD: Tool Pic of the Day

I liked this little edifice. I read the plaque but I can't remember what it said :(

Closing of the Paralympics.

In the late afternoon, a fleet of military aircraft blazed through the sky, leaving a trail of red, white, and blue smoke (think union jack, not stars and stripes), which was the official ending of the Paralympics and London’s big summer. We returned to the ship in time for dinner, and I learned that the ship would be docked in Tilbury for another day, at least—Grimaldi seemed to have some problems coordinating with the port workers, which was causing delays to the on- and off-loading of cargo—so I could go to London again the next day, as well. For me, it was all good news, but the Germans were growing impatient. They had been traveling already for a year, and the woman’s son was scheduled to arrive in Germany for a visit in a couple weeks. The original itinerary of the ship would have had them home in Freiburg by now, and besides, they were sick of pasta, pasta, pasta. They wanted sausages and potatoes! 

The Germans and me at dinner: PASTA!

On Tuesday, September 11, I got up early, had a light breakfast, made sandwiches for myself, and headed towards the train station again, this time alone. I arrived to Fenchurch station in London a little before 9:30; the working stiffs had mostly made their way to their offices, and there was a startling crispness and quiet to the streets. My first stop was an HSBC atm, where I got a shockingly good exchange rate: £50 for $83. It was a gorgeous day, bright blue skies and large, white puffy clouds. As I made my way to Petticoat Lane, where the merchants were just setting up their stands, and up Brick Lane into the Shoreditch area, my heart kept bursting at being alive, at beholding this strange moment in which I found myself.

Whenever I came across a map, which are usefully placed all around the city, I took a picture since I had not obtained a thorough map of my own, yet. Cheers to the graphic designer! 

It seemed like all of London was under construction; this and some other signs (e.g. the abundance of independent and chain shops alike) makes me think London remains prosperous despite the economic downturn strangling the US and parts of the EU.

Scenic capture on small street near Petticoat Lane.

Reflection squared: the ideal scenario for a self-portrait

Brick Lane, where the London Overground crosses.

For one, I was surprised to find my self-agency had returned: reading and speaking English indeed made tourism easier, but I also suddenly felt re-aligned with the flow of energy I had embodied when I traveled in Europe last summer (mostly) alone. I had felt young, endlessly excited by the magic of being alive, and totally on fire for life last summer. Coming to London with Mikhail the previous day had been fun and exciting—there is something special involved in sharing your discoveries of a place with someone—but today I was reminded of how much I love wandering interesting streets alone, stopping to take artsy photographs of reflections in mirrors and windows, staying in a museum all day or only for 30 minutes, searching racks and racks of clothing for the perfect blouse. This agency and contentedness made me well up with self-pride and love, which is something I had lost in Argentina. I felt as though, perhaps, I was coming full circle.   

Street art on Brick Lane

Brick Lane is a cute little street with tons of vintage shops, clothing and jewelry boutiques, and furniture stores.

Coming from Brick Lane to Bethnal Green Road

Scenic view of an East London street.

Once I made it to the area around the Shoreditch High Street station, I stopped for a glorious café latte, made with fresh ground espresso beans and organic pasteurized milk (the ship only had high temperature processed milk, which didn’t need to be refrigerated but also tasted a bit gross to me). I dusted bits of raw sugar onto the thick foam and took little crunchy bites as I gazed out the window at young, hip Londoners meeting and departing from their friends in the late morning.

"I'm a poster. An advert." Love the social/political awareness of the graffiti on this advertisement. 

It's true: adore and endure each other.

Cool street art.

There were attractive local maps wherever there was a cycling station. London employs the easy community bike rental scheme found in many major cities, such as Paris and Barcelona.

In the early afternoon, I took the tube to the Waterloo station and walked along the Thames to the Tate Moderne, in front of which I found a nice bench and ate my sandwiches. The scene was simply stunning: the cotton ball clouds drifted calmly through the brilliantly blue sky and reflected in the waters of the river, while the City of London dazzled me from across the shore. I found it difficult to pull myself away to enter the museum, yet I did, and took in a couple of exhibits, including one on Poetry and Surrealism.

On Blackfriar's Bridge

Self portrait in reflective window

Panorama of the Thames outside of the Tate Moderne.

Click to enlarge, then read the text of "The Bigger Picture." I felt like this embodied my experience on the ship. I didn't cry in the Tate Moderne (probably because I didn't find any Van Goghs there!) but I got pretty close when I read this. It reminded me that I have a poet's spirit, as well as how influential the Surrealist have been to my work. 

The Uncertainty of the Poet, by Giorgio de Chirico (1913)

After the Tate Moderne, I crossed Millennium Bridge into the City of London  and stopped in the Tourist information center, where I got a nice map and directions to a local book store. Once I found the bookshop, called Daunt Books, I submerged myself in English literature for a good 60 or 90 minutes. Although during my travels I had become dissociated from my life back in California as a library paraprofessional and book artist, I instantly felt at home, surrounded by books I could read and understand. This led me to think there must be something inherently “bookish” about my character, that I can unequivocally be comforted by books and the information and stories they carry. Again I realized my voyage had razed qualities of my personality, and then these qualities had re-manifested themselves, naturally, reinforcing truths about myself I held to be unalienable.

From the top floor cafe of the Tate Moderne. You can see Millennium Bridge...

Crossing Millennium Bridge

Welcome to another attractive map!

St. Paul's Cathedral

I left the bookshop after limiting myself to one purchase—a book called How to think more about sex from a British series called The School of Life (the title of the book sounds much more risqué than it actually is)—and did some good old fashioned shopping. First I went to a drug store that had a Clinique counter, and stocked up on toiletries. Then, to a stationery store to buy stickers—I was going to make some Kelci-trademarked lighters for my friends on the ship. Lastly, I was on a mission to acquire at least one new piece of clothing: I had been subsisting on the monotony of 2 pairs of travel pants and 3 tank tops for what seemed like forever. I found a beautifully feminine blouse at Top Shop and felt like I had accomplished something great.

By this time night was beginning to fall—it was late summer, fall was threatening around the edges of the twilight, yet the sky stayed blue until about 8 or 9 o’clock. I strolled past St. Paul’s Cathedral, awash in orange lights that contrasted with the cobalt sky, and made my way to a restaurant/pub to partake in the British specialty of fish ‘n’ chips and a pint of London Pride beer. It was delicious, and I was amused by the Chinese business people that had flooded the place, drinking wine and champagne and partying down.

Chinese business peeps getting down in an English restaurant and pub

Fish n Chips! Yes we have good fish n chips in San Francisco, but it seemed authentic to have it in London. 

Going down into the tube.

A nice touch of stenciled street art on the ubiquitous "Mind the Gap."

After dinner I headed back on the tube to the area around Fenchurch station, and popped into a local Irish pub for one last pint of London pride. While nursing my beer alone, I watched the televisions they had installed around the perimeter: Barak and Michelle observed a moment of silence on the lawn outside the Whitehouse, their heads bowed. “Oh yeah, it’s 9/11,” I murmured to myself. My memories of the day—and more strongly, recalling memories of the day with friends and loved ones as we grew older—threatened to flood my mind; instead I reveled at being alone in a pub in London, about to catch a train back to my ship, which I considered my country, as the moment I found myself reflecting on the anniversary of 9/11. It's a strange life, but it feels really good to be me, I thought as I took the last gulp and set down my empty pint glass. I had fallen in love with London today, and had fallen back in love with myself.

Building ablaze with lights near Fenchurch Station. Good night, London!