Almost exactly one year ago I decided to change my life (with no small assist from Sarah). The Traveling Savage anniversary is December 13, and I can’t think of a greater barometer for success than the fact that I’m writing this from Salta, Argentina.
I’ve created a travel site dedicated to innovative ideas and quality writing, quit my job, and followed through on my plans to travel for one month at a time. Though I spent the better part of a year blogging before my travels began, these few weeks abroad have been a massive change agent filling me with new logistical thoughts and strategic ideas. Nothing substitutes for travel, and I’m thankful to be testing my principles. You can bet I’ll come through my journey to Argentina with a clearer vision for Traveling Savage (and perhaps a rekindled love of 80s power ballads).
Stick with me – it’s been a crazy month! Read more...
It begins with a triangle. You fold in the dough at the corner toward the pocket of savory goodness. And repeat, and repeat again. All the way around the curvature of the pocket until a pastry braid comes into being.
This is the spine of the empanada, the keystone that holds in the flavor of the ubiquitous hand-sized snack as it’s baked or fried. By my third empanada I had the hang of it, and Ana (my mentor) congratulated me on my execution. I look at the the succulent pile of goodies manufactured by the other empanaderos at the party and realize making empanadas, like chess or foreign policy, is one of those seemingly easy-to-pick-up-but-hard-to-master skills. Read more...
“Oh, you’re young. She thought you were going to be 50″ said Yvette, the woman in the front seat, pointing to our guide and driver, Ana.
“What, 50? Why would I be 50?”
Another woman, Yvette’s older sister Jillian, turns to me in the back of the small, red van. “Well, you’re married and traveling alone. Who does that?”
Who does that? I’ve been answering that question a lot since I left my job, and it’s pretty difficult to explain in broken Spanish to the Argentines I meet. Luckily, I’m riding with two 30-something American women. I cover the usual bases (a dissatisfaction with my job, a desire to follow my passions, a severe dislike of regret) as we weave through traffic on the way south of Salta. The women nod their heads in understanding.
Or was it feigned interest? You see, I don’t know if they expected me to be a part of their sojourn to Cafayate. Read more...
“I’m going to Tucumán,” says Martín, the man sitting next to me in the double-decker bus’ top row. He is slight of frame with inky black hair, a touch of the Andean blood, so prevalent in Argentina’s northwest provinces, graces his features. We slouch in our comfy cama suite chairs and watch the throng of passengers swirling among the row of buses at Buenos Aires’ Retiro bus terminal. All the seats behind us are empty, but rather than being annoyed that we are forced to sit next to each other I am grateful for his company.
I’d just parted ways with a good friend and been swindled for 30 pesos by a taxi driver who tried to strip me of 45. To say I was not looking forward to an 18-hour bus ride would be perfectly accurate. I was truly on my own and heading to Salta, the destination I chose for my first trip. There comes a time for everyone when the world reveals its other, darker faces. It’s a darkness that can only be perceived by the eyes, not through books or documentaries. I don’t know what could have prepared me for what I saw along the way (and I’m not talking about the two hours of Bon Jovi videos). Read more...
The plane descended with surprising alacrity and the wheels finally touched down at Buenos Aires’ Ezeiza airport. From inside the cabin, thousands of feet above the earth, the countryside of Buenos Aires province looked a lot like my home state of Wisconsin. Farm fields quilted the land in regular and irregular shapes. As we taxied to the gate, I inhaled a deep breath. After 24 hours of travel, from Sarah driving me to the bus stop in Madison to riding to Chicago’s O’Hare airport to the flight to Houston to the long flight to Buenos Aires, a new leg of the journey was about to begin.
Marcello, of Wandering Trader, had kindly agreed to host me for the couple of days I’d be in Buenos Aires. We chatted before I left and he had arranged for a cab driver to meet me in arrivals with a sign that said “Keith Traveling Savage.” Secretly, I was really looking forward to taking a picture of that. After spending an hour in line for immigration and the $140USD reciprocity fee, I quickly managed to weave my way through baggage claim and customs… Read more...
A hunter, oft-stubbled and bleary-eyed, driven by an insatiable hunger for exploration and experience - and perhaps a chance to thin the herd of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages. From the highlands and islands to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and the Borders, I explore Scotland with a pen in hand and a fire in the belly (which could be partly from the whisky). 
