Category: Photography

December 6, 2022

Birthplace of the Revolution: Traveling to Philadelphia
The city of Philadelphia is well-known as the place where delegates from the American colonies set forth a document declaring their independence from Great Britain and their plan to engage in treasonous revolt against King George III. The city is absolutely brimming with historic sites, world-class art, and amazing food, but for me, the moment that hit me the hardest wasn’t seeing George Washington’s copy of the U.S. Constitution or looking out over downtown from the Rocky Steps — it was when I stood in front of the house where I was born. There, in front of a modest stone colonial home in a quiet, tree-lined suburban street, personal and global history collided.

Making the trip back to Philadelphia, where it all began, has been on my list for a while. Unfortunately, it often takes a tragedy to remind us of the things we meant to do. When my uncle passed away in early October, I knew I needed to be there for his memorial. Not just to see my aunt, but to reconnect with a place that had always hung on the periphery of my life story.

When I touched down in Philadelphia for the first time in 25 years, it was with a certain weight of expectation. I was also traveling solo for the first time in years, adding to the sense of being a fish out of water or a prodigal son returning home from many years in a foreign land.

Like any self-respecting tourist arriving in the City of Brotherly Love for the first time, I knew my first order of business was to seek out a proper cheesesteak. Now, there are as many opinions as to what constitutes a true Philly cheesesteak as there are cheesesteak joints scattered throughout the city. Some claim it only counts if the sandwich includes Cheese Wiz. Others argue that you have to go to one of the original shops, Pat’s or Geno’s, to get an authentic version. I’m not a traditionalist, so I did some Googling and found a sandwich that looked good to me. From the airport, I made a beeline to Philip’s Steaks in South Philly and ordered an Old Fashioned: steak, provolone, grilled onions, and hot peppers. It was heaven on a roll.

The next day I had blocked out to see everything I could conceivably fit in around downtown Philly. I parked my rental car in an underground garage near city hall and hoofed it on foot. That day, I covered 11 miles, starting with a walk to Independence Hall, where I took the guided tour and learned a lot about the history of the founding of our nation. From there, I wandered through some of the old cobblestone streets which remain from the colonial days, passing by the Liberty Bell and the modest grave of Benjamin Franklin along the way.

After absorbing all that history, I’d worked up an appetite. Philadelphia may not be as famous as its cousin metro to the north, but let me assure you that it is every bit New York’s equal when it comes to the quality and variety of its food scene. Eating is simply part of the culture here and if you’re gonna eat, the food may as well be good. For lunch, I wandered the stalls at Reading Terminal Market, a train station turned indoor bazaar, sampling cannoli and soft pretzels until I was stuffed.

From the market, I along the wide boulevard that cuts a diagonal northwest from city center to the Schuylkill River, past fountains and monuments and bronzes to the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where a Sylvester Stallone impersonator was posing with tourists for a few dollars a photo. From there, the city lay before me like a glittering jewel. And though my feet ached, I found myself feeling homesick for a life I never lived.

I have no memories of living in Philadelphia. And yet, I choked up when I walked by our old house in Drexel Hill. In Emily St. John Mandel’s novel The Glass Hotel, one of the characters imagines a “counter-life” where he made different choices and watches his life go in a very different direction. Walking through the neighborhood, I could imagine another me going to school here, learning to drive on these winding roads, getting takeout from Pizza Odyssey. I don’t regret the choices that led our family to the West and brought me all the way across the country from the place of my birth — my life is incredible — but I could not help but wonder who this other Jonny would have become if he had charted a different course.

I had dinner with my Aunt Wendy, seeing her for the first time since my wedding. After dinner, she gave me a paper bag bursting with family photos and documents, a treasure trove of stories from my past, and entrusted them to me to care for. For the rest of the night in my hotel room, I laid out old photographs on the bed and tried to decipher who was in each one, how they were related to me, and what I could learn about them.

The next day was the memorial, where friends and family swapped stories of my Uncle Jim; about his time in the Marines, about his love of rock music, practical jokes, and Ferraris. We laid him to rest in the cemetery where generations of Eberles are buried, and I went to eat pancakes with cousins I never knew I had.

That afternoon, with dappled sunlight pouring through autumn leaves and less than an hour before I had to be at the airport, I stopped at a small park next to a creek near our old house. There, preserved in a small clearing, is a cabin. It is believed to be the oldest remaining log cabin of its kind in North America. No one knows who built it, only that they were likely Swedish settlers who arrived before the English in the 1630s. Their story is lost to history, but their rough, two-room home stands as a testament that they were here. They lived. They were a part of this place. We all have our time, and when we go, we don’t leave much behind except for boxes of photos, old passports, and maybe one or two good stories as proof that we, too, were here.

This was more than a quick trip Back East. It was a chance to catch some of those memories before they are lost. To reconnect to roots that go back three hundred years in this soil. To know a little more about my story.

So, look out, Philly, because I’ll be back for more.

Philadelphia Travel Tips

Where: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Getting There: Easily accessible by plane, train, or automobile. The airport is located just a few miles south of the city. I rented a car because I needed to get out to the ‘burbs, but there’s also 280 miles of commuter rail service throughout the Greater Philadelphia area if you’re not into heavy traffic and parking headaches.

What to See: Center City is walkable, but I’d recommend spreading your sightseeing out over a couple of days to avoid the blisters I incurred attempting to do it all in a single day. If you’re into history, be sure to check out Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell (note that reservations are required for the Independence Hall tour and you should arrive early to get through security). After that, walk over to Elphreth’s Alley, one of the oldest and best preserved streets in the city, passing the grave of Benjamin and Deborah Franklin on your way. Further south, you’ll find the historic William Still House, where the abolitionist and Underground Railroad conductor William Still helped hundreds of people escape from slavery.

What to Eat: You can’t go wrong at the historic Terminal Reading Market, a public market with stands selling everything from roast pork to sushi. I highly recommend a cannoli from Termini Bros. and an Amish-style soft pretzel from Miller’s Twist. In addition to its famous cheesesteak, Philadelphia is also teeming with incredible Italian food.

What to Drink: The cocktails at Prunella are outstanding. There’s a great view of the restaurant’s blazing pizza oven from the marble-top bar.

—30—

Jonny Eberle is a writer, podcaster, and jet-setting world traveler. He lives in Tacoma, WA with his family, a dog, and three adorable typewriters. His writing has been published in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. You can listen to his audio drama, The Adventures of Captain Radio, and his writing podcast, Dispatches with Jonny Eberle, wherever you enjoy podcasts.

If you liked this post, please consider subscribing to his monthly email newsletter for exclusive content, curated reading recommendations, and more. Thanks for reading!

Further Reading:
- Cheesesteak: The Oral History (Philadelpha Magazine)
- More travel writing by Jonny Eberle
November 28, 2022

To End of the Earth: Traveling to Punta Arenas, Chile
This is part four of my four-part travel series on Argentina and Chile. Today, we head to the city on the edge of the known world: Punta Arenas, Chile.

Standing on the hill overlooking the town of Punta Arenas, it’s easy to imagine Ferdinand Magellan sailing into the harbor, searching for a route through the archipelago of rocky islands and storm-tossed seas to the Pacific Ocean. Five hundred years ago, Magellan’s fleet entered a remote region at the bottom of the world which they dubbed “Tierra del Fuego,” or Land of Fire, so named for the many bonfires they spotted on the islands they passed. What was once home to the native Yaghan, Ona, and Alacalout peoples was later transformed into a penal colony, then a base of operations for Patagonia’s lucrative livestock industry, then a hub for oil drilling and the final port of call of ships departing to the Antarctic continent. And after two weeks and thousands of miles, this was where we found ourselves at the end of our South American excursion.

Punta Arenas is a small city at the southern tip of Chile. One of the southernmost cities on the planet, it is built on a steep hillside sloping down to the harbor and is beset with cold and wind, even on a sunny spring day. Along the esplanade, you can watch massive cargo ships steaming through the Straits of Magellan.

By the time we made it to Punta Arenas, we were weary from our travels and had made very few plans about what we wanted to see and do in town. We spent our first afternoon there holed up in a quaint bed and breakfast, reading and trying to chase the chill from our bones. Then, it was time to start exploring.

Anywhere you go in Punta Arenas, you are constantly reminded of this place’s precarious position on the edge of civilization. In the town square, a statue of Magellan stands triumphant. High on the hillside, posted signs point the way to distant metropolises — Sacramento – 11,298 km, Budapest – 14,042 km, Kazakhstan – 20,820 km — places so far away that they might as well be on another planet, while a marker on the sidewalk indicates that the icebound coast of Antarctica is a mere 800 miles away, closer than Chile’s own capital. From this vantage point, you can almost imagine ice sheets on the horizon.

History is on display throughout Punta Arenas, from a full-sized wooden replica of Magellan’s galleon, the Nao Victoria (which we only caught a glimpse of from the highway), to the opulent wool baron’s mansion turned museum which chronicles Punta Arena’s rise to prominence in the early 20th century, during which time settlers stripped the land and destroyed nearly all of the indigenous peoples.

Understanding the history of the places you visit makes each journey more than just another opportunity to snap a selfie; it connects you with the land you’re standing on and the deep roots of its people. But for all the fascinating and tragic human story that has played out in Punta Arenas over the centuries, if you’re going to come all the way to the farthest tip of South America, you’re probably interested in the region’s wild inhabitants. If so, the one thing you absolutely must do while you’re here is visit a penguin colony.

We left our hotel an hour before dawn, sprinting downhill under a starry sky because the taxi we had ordered never arrived and our tour was leaving soon. We showed up out of breath, but with plenty of time to climb aboard the bus and settle in. An overhead screen at the front of the bus played an old Pavarotti concert as the sky turned fiery red over the low hills of Tierra del Fuego.

Disembarking from the bus, we climbed aboard a small boat and charged over several miles of choppy water to Isla Magdalena. The bare island less than a mile across is home to an abandoned lighthouse and upward of 60,000 breeding pairs of Magellanic penguins. Access to the island is carefully controlled and tourists are only allowed on a short, designated path to avoid damaging the penguin’s habitat. Of course, that didn’t stop the penguins from walking wherever they pleased.

Our hour on the island seemed to be gone in an instant, with me happily photographing the birds as they went about their business waddling to and from their burrows and into the crashing sea to fish. I probably snapped more photos of the nature reserve than any other stop on our trip. On the trip back to shore in the belly of our tour boat, with rough seas preventing us from visiting a second island, I felt a little seasick but was buoyed by the rush of seeing my favorite animal up-close in the wild.

For many people, Punta Arenas is just a stop along the way to some greater adventure. And while this place has always been a gateway, it is also much more. If you take the time you can see it for what it truly is — a place where humans have not only scratched out a living, but thrived in the most inhospitable climate for thousands of years; a melting pot of prospectors, ranchers, convicts, and explorers from all over the world; a jumping off point to see some of the most remote wilderness on earth; all combined to make it one of the most unique cities in all of South America. It may not have the cosmopolitan energy of Buenos Aires or the staggering natural beauty of Puerto Natales, but it is absolutely worth the trip.

Punta Arenas Travel Tips

Where: Punta Arenas, Chile

Getting There: Punta Arenas is accessible via a 3.5-hour flight from Santiago, plus a stopover on most flights in the town of Puerto Montt. From the airport, buses take you to the city center in about 20 minutes. However, if you’ve got the time, you might consider getting there by ferry from Puerto Montt and sailing the Patagonian fjords.

Where to Stay: We made the mistake of staying far up the hill and away from the city’s compact downtown. While our spot was quiet, it was too far from the heart of Punta Arenas. I’d recommend one of the closer-in hotels.

What to See: Penguins, of course. Several companies run tours, including half-day visits to Los Pingüinos Natural Monument or full-day excursions to the main island of Tierra del Fuego to see larger king penguin colonies. Be sure to check the company’s credentials to make sure you’re not doing unnecessary harm to the ecosystem you’re visiting.

What to Eat: If you’ve just arrived in Punta Arenas from Puerto Natales or another remote outpost, you’ll be amazed at the variety of cuisine available in the city. Patagonian food is warm, hearty, and filling, with plenty of meat, fish, and potatoes. We had a fantastic meal at La Marmita, a family-owned restaurant serving regional dishes.

—30—

Jonny Eberle is a writer, podcaster, photographer, and world traveler. He lives in Tacoma, WA with his family, a dog, and three adorable typewriters. His fiction has appeared in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. You can listen to his writing podcast, Dispatches with Jonny Eberle, and his audio drama, The Adventures of Captain Radio, wherever you find podcasts, and you can get monthly updates and reading recommendations by signing up for his email newsletter. Thanks for reading!

South American travel series:
More travel writing by Jonny Eberle
October 2, 2022

Ruta del Fin del Mundo: Traveling to Chilean Patagonia
Welcome to part three of my four-part series about our 2019 adventure through South America. In this week’s blog: Puerto Natales and Torres del Paine National Park, Chile.

Twelve hours after departing hot, dry Mendoza, we stepped off the bus into the first flakes of falling snow. It was nearly midnight in the small town of Puerto Natales, strung along the rocky shores of Seno Ultima Esperanza and 150 miles from the next nearest population center. It was bitterly cold that night and as we settled into our hotel, it was obvious that I had underestimated the weather and would need to buy more layers.

Morning dawned grey over the sound. After a quick breakfast of toast and cheese, we hopped on a van for a tour of Torres del Paine National Park. In moments, we left behind the corrugated tin roofs and metal-clad buildings of town and into some of the most beautiful and rugged countryside that I have ever seen.

Much like the Puget Sound (where we live), this region of Chile was carved and shaped by ice. Retreating glaciers following the last major ice age left the west coast of Patagonia a rugged landscape of narrow fjords, isolated islands, and sharp mountain peaks. Nowhere is this more evident than in Torres del Paine.

Our tour of the national park started at the Cave of the Milodon, a touristy spot featuring a large cave where early human settlers would have taken shelter from the harsh elements and where the bones and fur of an extinct species of giant ground sloth were discovered in the 1890s.

After stretching our legs and chatting with some of our fellow tourists (including our good friend Llama Hat Guy, who made it his mission to make sure that Stephanie and I had enough photos with both of us in them), we got back into the van for the main event.

Torres del Paine is an expansive national park covering 700 square miles. Within that are windswept grasslands, shockingly blue glacier-fed lakes, milky white rivers loaded with sediment, stands of lenga trees, icebergs, and a range of striking mountains known as the Horns, which seems tall enough to scrape against the sky.

Despite the cold seeping into my bones, we had an awe-inspiring tour through the park, hiking across otherworldly landscapes of rock and ice, stopping to admire the ever-shifting view of the mountains, and spotting the local wildlife, including herds of guanacos, a wild cousin of the domesticated llama, and the elusive ñandu, a large flightless bird resembling a mini-ostrich.

After returning to Puerto Natales that evening, exhausted but in awe of the natural beauty of this place, we stopped by a local outfitter for some extra clothes and thicker socks so that I’d be better prepared for our next outing.

The next day, our expedition took us to the waters of Ultima Esperanza. We boarded a catamaran for an all-day cruise through stunning fjords. Along the way, we witnessed towering waterfalls cascading down sheer cliffs, seals and sea birds of every kind, and massive glaciers crumbling into the sea. We stopped in at a historic sheep ranch for a traditional Patagonian asado lunch of lamb and potatoes before boarding the ship again, where we enjoyed a whiskey with fresh glacier ice.

It was all over so quickly, as is often the case when trying to see a lot in the short amount of vacation time many of us in the U.S. get from our employers. I’m sure we could’ve spent many more days exploring the wild southern expanse of South America.

Patagonia was everything I hoped it would be and more — a place of untouched natural grandeur at the end of the world, a cold, unforgiving, but alluring land where a single human feels insignificant against the immensity of what lies before you. No wonder European explorers of the 19th century were drawn here, this most inaccessible of frontiers.

And yet, it’s easy to forget how much humans, and especially European immigrants, have changed Patagonia, logging its ancient forests, driving out and killing indigenous peoples by the thousands, and transforming vast swaths of the wilderness into grazing land for industrial sheep farming — an ecological disaster which has pushed many native species to the brink of extinction. Even now, a warming climate is robbing Patagonia of its ice, with glaciers retreating miles per year in some cases and erasing a critical part of this delicate ecosystem.

In my hurry to see this place before it’s gone, have I hastened its disappearance?

I can’t help but feel a little guilty for even coming here. In my hurry to see this place before it’s gone, have I hastened its disappearance? That’s the trade-off we make whenever we travel, but especially when visiting the most remote and vulnerable spots on the planet. Is it worth it? I’m not sure I can fully answer that. I’m glad we went for our once-in-a-lifetime trip and going has made me more aware of what we stand to lose if we do nothing to address climate change. And if travel can galvanize me to action and advocacy, then yes, I think it will be worth it.

Chilean Patagonia Travel Tips

Where: Puerto Natales and Torres del Paine, Chile

Getting There: From Santiago, flights to Punta Arenas take about 3.5 hours, plus time to make a stop to let folks get off in Puerto Montt. Once you arrive, Bus Sur provides comfortable transportation with multiple buses a day from the airport for the 3-hour drive. When we went, you could book your ticket in advance, but payment had to be made in person upon boarding the bus. We were also able to get onto an earlier bus when our flight arrived early.

Where to Stay: We stayed in the heart of Puerto Natales at the Hotel Vendeval. The rooms were small, but clean and modern with a fantastic view of the sea, and we were located within a five-minute walk of everything we needed. The staff was excellent and they even packed us a sack lunch for our day trip to Torres del Paine.

How to Get Around: Chilean Patagonia is huge with very few populated areas. Many of the roads are dirt or gravel and the weather can change without warning. We found it best to let a professional handle the driving (and sailing) while we enjoyed the incredible views.

What to Pack: Smartwool socks, telephoto lens

What to Drink: Whiskey on the rocks (with glacier ice) or a blended pisco sour at La Guanaca (a spot that may be a contender for the best wood-fired pizza in South America).

What to Eat: Puerto Natales has an up-and-coming foodie scene. There aren’t a lot of restaurants (and some keep limited hours outside of the busy season), but all of it is delicious. Do yourself a favor and splurge on local king crab at Santolla, a restaurant located inside a converted storage container.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, filmmaker, photographer, and explorer based out of Tacoma, WA. You can find his words in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. While you’re here, read more of his travel writing, sign up for his monthly newsletter, and follow him on Twitter.

In the final installment of my four-part travel series on South America, we reach the southern tip of the Americas. Next up: Punta Arenas.

South American travel series:
More travel writing by Jonny Eberle
September 18, 2022

More Than Malbec: Traveling to Mendoza, Argentina
Welcome to part two of my four-part series about our 2019 adventure through South America. In this week’s blog: Mendoza, Argentina.

When we started planning our trip to South America, one of the first places we wanted to go was Mendoza. This high-altitude valley nestled in the foothills of the Andes is world renowned for its incredible wines, and we knew he had to try some from the source.

We arrived on a warm day in spring, which left us scrambling to pack away our coats and dig out our sunglasses from our carry-ons. The mountains were partially obscured by a haze of dust and as our taxi drove us south from the airport, through the city of Mendoza, and into the surrounding towns, it was hard not to feel like we can somehow landed in Central California.

We were also anxious to relax a little and slow down after a whirlwind week in Buenos Aires. Arriving in late afternoon in the little town of Chacras de Coria, we enjoyed a glass of Malbec, dinner at the hotel restaurant, and a dip in the pool before turning in for the night. The next day was going to be a long one.

Our itinerary only gave us one full day in Mendoza, which was definitely not enough. But the next morning after breakfast, we hopped on a pair of rented bikes and set out to explore. The town quickly gave way to rows of grape vines just starting to put out their leaves and the sun beat down on us.

We had a rough idea of where we were going. We figured that if we could maintain a leisurely but steady pace, we could visit three or four wineries and be back at our hotel for dinner. Naturally, it didn’t go according to plan.

Our first stop was at Alta Vista, a vineyard located just twenty minutes’ ride from our hotel in the Luján de Cuyo district, one of the most prolific wine-growing regions in the entire country. At Alta Vista, we caught our breath, had our first tour and wine tasting, and chatted with a friendly group of American college students who were spending a semester in Argentina. It was everything we hoped it would be.

And then, things went off track.

Soon after departing from Alta Vista, we got lost. Our paper map wasn’t all that accurate, it turned out, and we weren’t sure if the winery where we planned to have lunch was farther down the road or if we’d already missed it.

As much as we’d like to pretend on Instagram that international travel is always glamorous and carefree, the truth is that something always goes wrong.

Hungry, tired, and more than a little flustered, we arrived at our destination late, only to discover that there had been a miscommunication with the front desk clerk at our hotel—we didn’t have a reservation and the restaurant was completely booked.

As much as we’d like to pretend on Instagram that international travel is always glamorous and carefree, the truth is that something always goes wrong. There are language barriers, missed turns, bike rides that you think will take you 25 minutes but end up taking over an hour, sore muscles, grumbling stomachs, and frayed nerves. The reality is, sometimes things don’t go your way and there’s no way to fix it. All you can do is carry on to the next thing and try not to let it ruin your day.

So that’s what we did.

We got back on our bikes and struck out for the next bodega on our list. A few miles later, we parked our bikes outside Viamonte. We were exhausted, we were starving, and we were sweaty. But the host kindly showed us to a table on the patio and handed us menus.

In my memory, that lunch was one of the finest meals we enjoyed in South America: grilled provolone cheese topped with fresh greens and tomato, followed by a seared ribeye. Once we had our strength back, we took a guided, personal tour of the small winery and finished up with a tasting.

It was late when we pedaled back into Chacras de Coria and the sun was setting over the mountains, finally giving us a break from the heat. We were covered in dust and somewhat dreading the next day when we would be traveling for twelve hours.

We could’ve used a relaxing day by the pool, or a few more days to explore the wineries to our north (one of whom, it was rumored, kept a llama on staff). But we’d have to be content with just a sip of what Mendoza had to offer before moving on.

Mendoza Travel Tips

Where: Mendoza, Argentina

Getting There: Mendoza is an easy two-hour flight from Buenos Aires or one hour from Santiago, Chile, with a stunning flight over the towering Andes Mountains.

Where to Stay: We chose to skip the city and instead stay close to where the wine is made. We ended up in the small town of Chacras de Coria. Our hotel, Lares de Chacras, had its own wine cellar and onsite restaurant. They arranged our airport transportation and even helped us rent bikes to tour the area.

How to Get Around: The wine-growing regions around Mendoza are expansive, so you’ll want some wheels. There are many companies that operate wine tours or offer cars for hire, but we chose to explore the nearby wineries by bicycle. The valley is relatively flat, but there are few bike lanes and even fewer street signs, so plan your route in advance or splurge for international cellular data for turn-by-turn directions.

What to Drink: Mendoza is world famous for Malbec, my personal favorite wine. Every winery makes it, but in recent years, they’ve expanded their repertoire to include Tempranillo, dry rosés, and Torrontés, a phenomenal white wine that’s only made in Argentina.

What to Eat: If you can snag a reservation, have lunch and a glass of wine at one of the wineries while you look over the vineyards. This is still Argentina, so you can’t go wrong with a cut of beef. To satisfy your sweet tooth, nothing beats a dulce de leche crepe.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, filmmaker, photographer, and explorer based out of Tacoma, WA. You can find his words in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. While you’re here, read more of his travel writing, sign up for his monthly newsletter, and follow him on Twitter.

In part three of my four-part series on South America, we cross the border into a whole new world. Next up: Chilean Patagonia

South American travel series:
- Buenos Aires
- Puerto Natales
- Punta Arenas
More travel writing by Jonny Eberle
September 5, 2022

La Vida Porteño: Traveling to Buenos Aires
Today, I’m kicking off a series of blogs about my travels in South America way back in 2019. One of things I miss the most about the before times is the ease of global travel. If you’re like me and wish you could hop a jet to an interesting city without a care in the world, please fasten your seatbelt, make sure your seat is in the full, upright position, and read on…

Traveling to South America is like meeting a long-lost cousin. So much is familiar and yet life circumstances have molded you into wildly different people. In the fall of 2019, long before anyone had ever heard of COVID-19, my globetrotting partner and I embarked on our biggest adventure yet — a two week sojourn across the equator to Argentina and Chile.

You have to really want to go to South America to consider making the trek. The trip from Seattle is long and arduous, requiring us to change planes in Los Angeles and again in Santiago, spending nearly 24 hours in transit and covering a total distance of over 7,000 miles. Needless to say, a weekend jaunt is out of the question. When we decided to go, we hoarded our vacation days, packed our suitcases to bursting, and filled our itinerary to make sure we didn’t waste a moment of the experience.

Buenos Aires is massive, vibrant, and a little overwhelming. Picture New York mixed with Paris: stately old buildings and wide avenues in some areas, narrow streets, nightclubs, and street vendors in another. We gave ourselves three and a half days to explore BA and while we hit a lot of the highlights, we could’ve easily spent a week or more in this amazing city.

Sprawling along the wide mouth of the Rio de la Plata as it empties into the South Atlantic, Buenos Aires was founded five hundred years ago by Spanish conquistadors who named the settlement after the fair winds that blew in off the ocean. While the official language is still Spanish, this cosmopolitan city is a melting pot, home to people with roots all over the world, including the largest Jewish community in Latin America. As a result, Buenos Aires is beautifully diverse and enjoys world-class cuisine, art, architecture, and music.

Buenos Aires is built for exploration. Around every corner and down every side street you’re likely to find a charming cafe, a cozy bookstore, a stunning mural, or a piece of Argentine history waiting to be found. The city’s famous Recoleta Cemetery is a maze of mausoleums filled with artists, revolutionaries, and historic figures — including the famous Eva Perón — stashed in the middle of a district of glitzy shopping malls and expensive apartment buildings. Street performers dance the tango and rooftop lookouts offer stunning views of the metropolis.

At the end of each day, we were exhausted from walking and from putting our incredibly broken Spanish to use navigating BA’s labyrinthine streets, even as the city woke up around us, ready to party until the sun came up.

We enjoyed wandering through the city’s famous bookstores, experiencing the incredible acoustics of Teatro Colón, and of course, eating and drinking our way from one incredible meal to another. Without a doubt, this is a city with an appetite for amazing food. To say we ate well is a understatement. We were blown away by the quality and variety of everything we tried, whether it was a crispy fried empanada, a glass or three of the country’s famous Malbec red wine, a succulent cut of steak fresh off the parilla, or the most perfect grilled artichoke that I have ever tasted, we ended each day in our hotel completely stuffed.

At the heart of Buenos Aires is its people. Porteños, or people of the port, are a warm and hospitable group, able to blend old and new. It is a hard-scrabble place built by immigrants that is constantly evolving into something new. That ability to embrace change and to never stand still for too long, seems to be part of the core identity of Buenos Aires.

As our plane turned east and the city gave way to the endless grasslands and ranches of the Pampas, our suitcases packed with souvenirs and alfajores (Argentina’s signature dulce de leche filled cookie), I knew I would be back someday. Until then, there was still so much to see and do elsewhere on the continent.

Buenos Aires Travel Tips

Where: Buenos Aires, Argentina

Where to Stay: The twin neighborhoods of Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood are jam-packed with small, boutique hotels and a wealth of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops and are just a couple of subway stops from the city center. We stayed at the Hotel Duque. It was simple, but had all the essentials, plus they coordinated our airport pickup, which was a lifesaver.

Know the Language: While many people speak a little English, it is essential that you learn some basic Spanish. The Argentine dialect is unique, so bring a phrasebook that’s specific to the region (for instance, the double L makes a “sh” sound instead of a “y” sound down here).

How to Get Around: You can experience most of BA on foot, but the city is massive, so take the Subte (subway) to an area you want to explore and then hoof it from there. The Subte doesn’t run late, so have a backup transportation plan if you find yourself far from your home base after 10 or 11 pm. We found that limiting ourselves to seeing one or two adjacent neighborhoods per day was doable.

Where to Go Dancing: Buenos Aires is the birthplace of tango, so find somewhere to go dancing at least once. We enjoyed going to La Viruta because it was casual, an easy walk from our hotel, and offered lessons before the open dance session, but you’ll find milongas scattered throughout the city.

What to Eat: Everything. Definitely fill up on steak at Don Julio (and arrive early to get a table), but know that Argentine chefs do heavenly things with vegetables, too. Make time to hit up Chori to try BA’s quintessential sandwich, the choripan.

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Jonny Eberle is a writer, filmmaker, photographer, and explorer based out of Tacoma, WA. You can find his words in Creative Colloquy, Grit City Magazine, and All Worlds Wayfarer. While you’re here, read more of his travel writing, sign up for his monthly newsletter, and follow him on Twitter.

Stay tuned for part two of my four-part series on South America. Next up: Mendoza

South America travel series:
More travel writing by Jonny Eberle
August 24, 2017

Photographing a Very Nearly Almost Total Eclipse
Even 200 miles from the path of totality, the solar eclipse was all anyone could talk about this week in Washington. In the mad scramble for special viewing glasses and the endless debates over whether it was worth it to brave the slog of traffic heading south, I found myself in my office’s parking lot at 10:00am on the auspicious date of August 21, 2017.

For the first time since 1918, a total solar eclipse would be visible across the entire lower 48. In Tacoma, it was calculated that we would see 94% of a total eclipse. The moment had arrived.

I’m not the kind of person who can not take a photo of a major celestial event, so I had my trusty Canon with me. Even with only 6% of the Sun visible behind the disk of the Moon, pointing a camera straight into the sky for any length of time is a sure way to melt your sensor. Sunlight carries a lot of energy and camera lenses are designed to focus light into a tiny area — exactly the way a magnifying glass cooks ants. I wasn’t taking any chances.

A few weeks before the event, I ordered a 4-inch-by-4-inch sheet of mylar solar viewing film and built a homemade lens adapter using the ring from a mason jar lid (my wife’s brilliant idea) and cardboard from the envelope the film came in. We were also lucky to snag a few pairs of what felt like the last remaining eclipse glasses on earth.

That morning, as I stepped outside, nothing felt abnormal, although a quick peek through my glasses showed that the Moon was already starting to cross in front of the Sun. I set up my tripod. Unfortunately but not surprisingly, autofocus doesn’t work on an object 93 million miles away, so I had to focus manually. I couldn’t look through the viewfinder at the Sun, even with the filter on the front of the lens, so instead I set my focus on some wispy clouds on the horizon — as close to infinity as I could get without burning my retinas.

I found some base exposure settings online and started from there, bracketing a bit (but not enough, in hindsight) for more exposed and less exposed shots as the eclipse progressed:

First Contact:
- ISO 100, f/4, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second
- ISO 200, f/5.6, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second
- ISO 400, f/8, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second
Thin Crescent:
- 1/500-1/2,000 second
Then, it was just a matter of aiming the camera up and clicking the shutter. At this point, my coworkers started filtering out to see the spectacle. We chatted and passed around a handful of glasses so everyone could see the Sun disappearing behind the Moon and watched the leaves cast tiny crescents onto the pavement.

As the Sun was consumed, the light changed. The sky took on an early shade of grey-blue, like the color just before dawn. The temperature dropped by at least five degrees. A steady breeze picked up, as if a storm were approaching — but without a cloud in the sky.

I looked up through my viewing glasses. At maximum, the partial eclipse was so close to totality that I almost lost the sun in the vast, inky blackness above me. In a moment, the massive star at the center of our solar system was nearly invisible. An optical illusion left nothing behind except a thin, blood-red sliver. I felt so small in that moment. For two minutes and forty seconds, I was a microscopic being on a tiny rock orbiting a small star in an unremarkable corner of an average galaxy in a sea of galaxies. Our triumphs and failures, our progress, our regress, our wars; they’re fleeting and inconsequential in that vastness. The size and scope of the universe hit me harder than I had expected and it was stupendous.

Somehow, in all of that, I managed to keep clicking the shutter button. Gradually, the sun returned. The shadows softened, the sky went back to blue, and I felt warm light on my skin again. One by one, my coworkers went back inside. I lingered. For a while, I didn’t even take any pictures. I just looked up and watched the slow, predictable movement of the Sun and Moon above and tried to grasp the intensely surreal feeling of standing under an (almost) total eclipse of the sun for as long as I could.

I’m still a little sad I didn’t pick up and head to Oregon to view totality, but I’m grateful I had the chance to view it at all (the weather in the Pacific Northwest, the cloudiest place in the United States, was perfect). A partial eclipse is amazing, but from what I’ve heard and seen online, totality is on a completely different level. Photographing the moment was a fun challenge, too, and something I’d like to try again.

So, I find myself addicted to eclipses and researching where the next ones will pop up and wondering if I might be there to experience them. July 2, 2019 in Argentina? December 4, 2021 amidst the penguins in Antarctica? April 8, 2024 in Pennsylvania? Who knows?

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker in Tacoma, WA and a bit of an eclipse junkie. He usually forgets to bracket and ends up with a whole bunch of identically exposed photos as a result. Remember to bracket, kids.

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August 11, 2017

Hell on Earth: Dachau
When I was in high school, we read Night by Elie Wiesel, a semi-autobiographical account of Wiesel’s experience in a Nazi concentration camp during World War II. In one scene, a child is hanged and someone asks where God is amid the horror. Someone else responds, “Where He is? This is where–hanging here from this gallows…” I remember putting the book down for a few minutes before continuing. In that moment, I thought I understood the Holocaust.

But I did not truly understand the scale of the genocide that was committed by the Nazis until I visited Dachau.

The first thing you notice when you arrive at the concentration camp at Dachau is how close it is to everything. Less than half an hour away from the center of Munich’s bustling metropolis by train, the infamous Nazi concentration camp sits on the edge of the small town of Dachau. I had expected a site of mass incarceration and slaughter to be somewhere remote, not in the heart of an idyllic Bavarian village. This thought — of how easy it is for atrocities to be committed when people are willing to look the other way — felt like a weight on my shoulders as the bus navigated the winding residential streets to the entrance of KZ Dachau.

Stepping through the infamous wrought iron gate emblazoned with the words Arbeit Macht Frei (Work makes you free), the crowd of tourists dispersed. In a moment, we were virtually alone on the camp’s roll call grounds, where prisoners were made to stand for hours on end each day in every kind of weather.

Dachau was built in 1933 to house 6,000 political prisoners. Over time, more and more prisoners were crammed in — including Jews, Roma and LGBTQ prisoners. By 1945, it held 31,000 people in inhuman conditions. Tens of thousands were killed here, as evidenced by accounts from survivors as well as the cold, meticulous records kept by the Nazis. Here, at Dachau, systematic dehumanization and mass murder was perfected and exported to camps across the Third Reich.

For a few years in school, it seemed that every book that was assigned in English class was about the Holocaust. I remember thinking it was excessive to keep forcing us to read about a tragedy that unfolded decades before I was born. What was the point of rehashing the past?

Years later, as I stood in a reconstructed barrack and looked at two sinks that were once shared by 2,000 malnourished, I felt, tangibly, the humanity of the people who suffered here and understood why we must never forget what happened here, why we have to keep learning about it and why we have to remain vigilant to prevent such an atrocity from happening again in our lifetime.

Near the entrance of the camp, there is a large monument affirming — along with the Christian and Jewish sites dedicated to the memory of those who died — a commitment to learn the lessons of the Holocaust and pass them on. Like a modern-day Rosetta Stone, it’s written in four languages (French, English, German, and Russian) and reads: “May the example of those who were exterminated here between 1933-1945 because they resisted Nazism help to unite the living for the defense of peace and freedom and in respect for their fellow men.” It’s a reminder that is as important today as it was the day this camp was liberated and I hope it will always serve as a potent reminder of the dangers of demonizing those who are different than us.
- Where: Dachau Concentration Camp
- How to Get There: 25 minutes by S-Bahn from Munich, then about 10 minutes by bus from the train station to the entrance of the camp.
- What To See: The museum housed in the camp’s maintenance building, the reconstructed barracks, and the Jewish and Christian memorials. Give yourself plenty of time.
— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and global traveler based in Tacoma, WA. This is the third in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Previously: Munich and the Isle of Iona.

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July 8, 2017

The Old/New City: Munich
There’s nothing like summer in Munich — somewhat due to the heat and partly to humidity, but mostly to the Bavarian charm of one of Europe’s great cities and the rest to the laid back, almost Mediterranean atmosphere that has led some to jokingly dub it Italy’s northernmost city. Personally, I think it’s the ice cream and bicycles.

We arrived in Germany for a whirlwind weekend at the beginning of June. Having just arrived from Scotland, we were not dressed for the sweltering weather. Luckily, Germans don’t mess around when it comes to ice cream. Ice cream is to Munich what Starbucks is to Seattle.

My wife had a German exchange student in high school who now lives in the city and he was able to score us a guestroom at a university dormitory located in the central Maxvorstadt district. He and his girlfriend were also kind enough to show us around the city and get us (a little bit) off the beaten path.

In many ways, Munich is two cities occupying the same place. It is a city firmly rooted in its past, first as a 12th century monastery and village and later as the capital of the Kingdom of Bavaria. It is also a city moving unrelentingly toward the future as a center of arts and industry in Europe (Munich is the home of BMW, a plethora of universities, and several world-class museums).

Indeed, Munich has a long history of reinventing itself with the times. Apud Munichen (literally “near the monks”) was originally founded by Henry the Lion as a way to take advantage of the lucrative medieval salt trade. In the early-19th century, it restyled itself as an imperial showcase and embarked on a massive construction boom. After WWI, Munich became a hotbed for communism and provided the backdrop for the growth of the nascent Nazi Party. Following heavy bombing in WWII, Munich rebuilt the historic city center and became a destination for refugees and immigrants in post-war Europe.

Today, 38% of the population is foreign-born, making Munich a cosmopolitan crossroads of cultures from around the world. We were able to find pretty good Korean food in addition to Bavarian classics like Schweinshaxe (pork knuckle) and Klos (potato dumplings). We even found an American store in Rotkreuzplatz (which, as expected, sold primarily barbecue sauce and scented candles). True to their city’s international identity, the residents of Munich are generally bilingual (or trilingual or quadrilingual), which made practicing our German difficult, as even a second’s hesitation signals to everyone that they should seamlessly switch to speaking English.

Our tour of Munich took us to Nymphenburg, one of the continent’s largest royal residences, which features both a stunning baroque palace and 490-acres of forests and lakes which are now open to the public. We also spent a warm afternoon wandering through the Englischer Garten, Munich’s version of Central Park (albeit larger), where we enjoyed the truly bizarre sight of people surfing a river in the middle of a city park.

We finished our trip to Munich with a walk around the site of the 1972 Summer Olympics, where we enjoyed part of a free outdoor concert and then watched the sun set over the Olympic Stadium. In total, we were in Munich for just two-and-a-half days. We will certainly be back for more ice cream in this wonderful city of contradictions.
- Where: Munich, Germany
- How to Get There: Easily accessible by S-Bahn from Franz Josef Strauss International Airport in about 40 minutes. Germany’s public transportation system is so good, it’s practically science fiction.
- Where to Get an Offbeat Scoop: Der Verrückte Eismacher (the Crazy Ice Maker)
- What to Drink: Skip the masses of tourists at the Hofbräuhaus and head to the Wirtshaus Görreshof for an Augustiner Helles or Hefeweizen
- Where to See Urban River Surfing: Englischer Garten
— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Tacoma, WA. This is the second in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Next up: Dachau. Previously: The Isle of Iona

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June 26, 2017

In the Footsteps of St. Columba: The Isle of Iona
You have to really want to get to the Isle of Iona. A speck of land 3 miles long by 1.5 miles wide off the western coast of Scotland, Iona is remote. To get there from Glasgow requires traveling three-hours by train, one hour by ferry, one hour by bus, and fifteen minutes by ferry (yes, two ferries). But once you’re there, you can feel that the roots of the island run deep.

Iona was settled in the 6th century by St. Columba, who sailed there from his native Ireland with his followers to found a new monastic community. For centuries, the community flourished far from the authority of Rome, where it blended Christian and Celtic belief.

Today, the island has a little over a hundred permanent inhabitants, not counting sheep and shaggy Highland cows.

But there is more here than meets the eye. On Iona, the ancientness emanates from every stone. The island has long been a magnet for pilgrims. It has a reputation as a “thin place” where the veil between the physical and the ethereal is especially thin. You can feel it in the 13th century abbey church, where ferns grow in cracks between medieval stones. You can feel it on the hike along the ancient pilgrimage route from the abbey to the rocky shores of St. Columba’s Bay. You can feel it while walking on the windswept beaches or at the foot of a cross with enigmatic carving eroded away by rain and salt.

Iona’s status as a sacred isle is well-deserved. There is something here. Like most ancient sites I’ve visited, I felt a sense of the many layers of stories that have played out on this small Hebridean isle. It’s evident when looking at the Gaelic place names, which translate into intriguing snippets of lore — places with names like Height of the Storm, Port of the False Man, and Fort of the Ruins. Each one a folk tale in miniature.

Beyond the history and the natural beauty, Iona is a place that encourages weary pilgrims to rest and re-center. Whether it’s a solitary walk down one of the island’s two roads or enjoying a local scotch with friends at Martyr’s Bay, it’s one of the few unspoiled places just beyond the reach of the world and all its turmoil.

There is peace here. There is room for reflection. And there is comfort in its stability. Iona has survived the rise and fall of empires for one-and-half thousand years. Iona reminds me that our lives are fleeting and our individual mark upon the world is small and quickly forgotten, but there are places — distant specks of land in the sea — where time moves slowly. Such places will be there long after we are gone; our triumphs and mistakes nothing more than dust. That is a good thing to remember when we get caught up in the crises of the moment.

Iona is a remarkable island, not just for its history and beauty, but also for its ability to cling to you. As the small passenger ferry steamed away from the dock and headed back to the Isle of Mull, I couldn’t help but feel as if a small voice was whispering to me, telling me that someday, I would return.
- Where: Isle of Iona, Inner Hebrides, Scotland
- How to Get There: Train from Glasgow to Oban, ferry to Craignure, bus to Fionnphort, ferry to Iona
- Where to Stay: St. Columba Hotel
- What to Drink: Jura Superstition Single Malt Scotch
- What to Beware Of: Sheep droppings, bogs, the bull
— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Tacoma, WA. This is the first in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Next up: Munich and Dachau.

Follow him on Twitter or subscribe to the monthly email newsletter to receive exclusive content and zero spam.
June 6, 2016

24 Hours in Astoria, Oregon

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spends most of its 4-mile span connecting Oregon and Washington close to the water before rising 196 feet into the sky like a roller coaster from hell. Heading up the slope, we were either going to die or end up in Astoria, Oregon.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my wife, sister-in-law, and a friend roadtripped down Highway 101 to this quaint town in northwest Oregon. Where the Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean sits the oldest permanent American settlement on the West Coast. In all that time, it hasn’t grown much, but it has developed a very quirky and endearing personality to go along with its fascinating history. This is the story of how we spent 24 hours in Astoria and didn’t even go to the Goonies house.

I firmly believe that a town’s heart and soul is in its food, so we wasted no time in heading to the highest rated spot in town: Fort George Brewery. It was everything a Northwest brewpub should be. It was in a two-story converted warehouse in downtown Astoria, most of the staff had lumberjack beards, and they had subtle twists on all the PNW staples (including tuna fish and chips and a Filthy Burger worthy of the name).

We then trekked across another bridge out to Fort Stevens State Park. Despite misting rain and a stiff onshore wind, we braved the sandy beach to behold the iron skeleton of the Peter Iredale, a ship that famously ran aground in a storm in 1906 and has been rusting away on the beach ever since.

With the tide in, we couldn’t get very close to the wreck, so we had to settle for taking a few hundred photos (Above: The only one of mine that really turned out. Thanks to Bethany for pointing out the spot where I could capture the reflection in the beach).

After wandering around in the dunes and discovering a neat lean-to made out of driftwood, we wandered inland to Fort Stevens itself. Originally constructed by the Union Army during the Civil War to defend the Columbia River from a Confederate attack from the Pacific, the fort stood guard over the Oregon coast from 1863-1947. To this day, it is the only military fort in the continental United States to be fired on by an enemy during wartime since 1812 — it was shelled in the summer of 1942 by a Japanese submarine.

The fort itself is a maze of concrete bunkers and battery placements that you can explore. It has a haunted quality about it (not counting the very irritated birds nesting in the tunnels) which made it a photographer’s dream come true. We spent a couple of hours wandering the storerooms and machine gun nests where nervous young men used to watch the sea for approaching enemy ships.

We also found some outbuildings in the woods, tangled in blackberry bushes and ferns, with some excellent light for portraits. If you’ve never had your photo taken at a decommissioned military base, you’re missing out.

We capped off our day with some of the best sushi I have had the pleasure to eat in my entire life. Who would’ve thought that such fine food was hiding in Astoria, but Tora Sushi delivered.

The next morning, we ventured out to Astoria’s Sunday farmer’s market. When it comes to markets, Astoria doesn’t pull any punches. Four city blocks were cordoned off and two large parking lots were pressed into service to accommodate the sheer number of booths. There was a mind boggling array of artisan soaps, local produce, knick-knacks, food trucks, and exactly one goat on a leash. Based on the crowd, I can only assume that every single human being in Astoria was in attendance.

Our final stop was an awe-inspiring, but supremely weird local landmark — the Astoria Column. This 125-foot tower sits on a hill overlooking the city and the surrounding countryside. It was build in 1926 (I assume on a dare) in homage to the Trajan Column in Rome and dedicated to John Jacob Astor, who never actually went to the town that bares his name, but whose fur trading business founded the settlement.

Of course, it’s not enough to just look at the column. If you’re going to pay $5 to get in, you have to take a moment to admire the rather problematic mural celebrating the history of westward expansion and climb the 164-step spiral staircase of death to get to the top. Between the bridge and this column, I was starting to think that Astorians are all adrenaline junkies with a penchant for heights. The spiral staircase made me simultaneously dizzy and claustrophobic and there were way too many people packed onto the observation deck for comfort, but the view was phenomenal. From the top, you can see the little Victorian houses of the city set against the backdrop of the bridge and the mighty Columbia to the north and the patchwork of farms along the Lewis and Clark River to the south.

Standing there, looking out over the lush land of the Pacific Northwest, it is easy to see why so many people uprooted their families and risked their lives to get here and stake out a claim in the Oregon Territory. I felt the pull of this place — despite the dreary weather, barking sea lions and the sand in my shoes — and felt the allure that has drawn adventurers to this port outpost for over two hundred years.

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Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and traveler based in Tacoma, WA. When he isn’t going to exotic locales or dreaming about exotic locales, you can find him on Twitter. For exclusive content and non-spam, you can also join the mailing list.