My very own Dakar (Final Thoughts)

After The Boss and I returned from our second visit to the Andes in as many days, it was finally time to move on. That same night we hopped on yet another bus from hell, this one on its way to Cordoba. Actually, let me get it straight: the bus itself wasn't bad at all, boarding the damn thing that was a nightmare. I had never seen so many people gathered right in front of the door of a bus they weren't even taking.

However, once we finally pushed through that impromptu moshpit, we found ourselves in one of the most comfortable buses I have ever seen, with more leg room and entertainment options than our hotel room in Mendoza. I just thought they overdid it a little when the bus attendant served, as dinner, two trays chock full of food, including half a roasted chicken for each person. Unfortunately I couldn't muster the nerve to try a bus chicken (or anything on either tray, for that matter), but, still, that was an A for effort if I ever saw one.

Despite being a reasonably large city and the capital of the province with the same name, Cordoba is not a very touristy place at all and we were there only for a day, really just to catch a plane. But that's not saying the city has nothing to offer. For example, they do have a Krusty Burger restaurant, probably the only one south of Tijuana. Their historical monuments look incredibly neat and well-kept (although we later discovered that they just had them restored for New Year's, so you have to deduct some points there). And The Boss even dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see a freaking rotating house that wasn't even rotating, so it's not like you can't find things to do in Cordoba. However, the temperature there was 47 degrees celsius and I just don't do tourism when it's that fucking hot. I was done, it was time to go home.

So the trip was finally over and, while I sat there on the plane and dealt with a bad case of sunburn, I mulled over the little things I had seen in Chile and Argentina. And here are my final random thoughts:

1) There's a staggering amount of Brazilians in Santiago. I don't know if it's the exchange rate, a newfound love for tourism or just a huge coincidence, but they (we) were everywhere. Still, what impressed me the most wasn't even their vast number, but rather how they don't even try to speak Spanish anymore.

Back in the day, Brazilians would resort to Portuñol in order to communicate with our hermanos. Granted, Portuñol is not really a language. In fact, it isn't much more than Portuguese with a thick Spanish accent and a few easy words thrown in for good measure. But we, Brazilians, were all born fluent in it and, when we speak it, we show we care. Spanish-speakers actually think we bothered to learn their language, we pretend we are more knowledgeable than we really are and everybody goes home happy.

Moreover, even though it's crap (and we know it), Portuñol goes a long way in helping them to understand us. It's odd and I never really understood why, but it is easier for us to understand them than the other way around (I do have a few theories on the subject, but that's for another day). So, with Portuñol, we can balance it out, making it a phony language that nevertheless serves a practical purpose.

But that's all in the past. Swarms of Brazilian tourists now invade South America, speaking Portuguese, loud and clear, and God help the poor waiter who can't understand them. Now that Brazil has finally established itself as a regional leader, they think they own the place and no longer reach for a middle ground. They actually reminded me of that stereotypical North American tourist who travel to Paris or wherever and doesn't even make an effort. And that's never a good thing.

2) Other than Brazilians, there was another overrepresented group roaming freely on the streets of both Chile and Argentina: the stray dogs. Dozens of canines, in each and every corner, of each and every city, just walking around, mingling with the crowd. And I'm not talking about your average urban fleabag either: most of them were not even dogs, they were freaking wolves (and yet, extremely well-behaved ones).

3) There were a lot of cars in Santiago that were missing that traditional front piece with the manufacturer's logo. After conducting further empirical studies, the Flip Flop University Research Center determined that roughly 10% of the cars in Santiago (that's uno in every diez) had said piece removed. The research also showed no correlation between the phenomenon and the price, maker or category of the vehicle, indicating it is in fact a widespread occurrence. Moreover, it seems that the Toyota piece (shown - or better yet, not shown - in the picture) is the trickiest one to remove, as there were more than a few Toyotas with broken pieces still attached to them.

What could not be established by the researchers was why the hell this happens. The most accepted theories are that either a) the pieces actually pass as currency in the Santiago underworld (and that Toyota one is worth a fortune); b) some of the Chilean car owners strenuously object advertising the automakers' brands without proper compensation and, when negotiations fail, they remove the pieces themselves; or c) the latest teenager prank fad in Santiago got way out of hand.

4) Speaking of automobiles, Argentina has the oldest, crappiest cars on the planet. They probably bought their latest batch from the USSR. Here's an example. Oh, and even though the photo is a little blurred and you can't see it, that piece of paper on the window actually read "For Sale". I'm not making this up, I swear.

5) Last but not least, the brave few ones who actually read this entire saga and clicked on every link might have noticed that a few of the pictures are blurred, especially the ones taken from the inside of a moving vehicle (e.g. that last one). I thought that was weird, considering that the camera we used has that image stabilization mode designed precisely to prevent that sort of thing. So I asked The Boss, owner of the camera, why she didn't use the tool and she said the camera actually had two stabilization modes and she wasn't sure which one would be more appropriate, the one where the little man was running or the one where he was skiing. I dare you: try and find the man skiing.

My very own Dakar (Part 2)

When planning the trip, The Boss had decided that we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Argentina because a) it was cheaper and b) we would have already seen the mountains from above on our flight to Santiago anyway. As far as that second part goes, we didn't really get to see anything from our aisle seats, but I wasn't fretting. In fact, I was much more interested in seeing the Andes from up close, so I was excited (that is, as excited as I can get after being dragged to a bus station at 7am).

Our plan really started to unravel when the fine piece of machinery, 1940's state-of-the-art engineering marvel that passed as our bus pulled in. Suddenly, I was missing the safety provided by Chile's modern funiculars. And then it got worse. We weren't expecting a tour bus, but we imagined than a vessel traveling for 9 hours on such a scenic road would at the very least make a few stops, even if only to let the passengers buy some food, use the toilet and stretch their legs. However, upon inquiry, we were informed by the gentle man who was assisting the driver (a drive attendant, perhaps?) that there were no stops scheduled. None. They would, however, provide tea, crackers and on-board entertainment: Warner Bros. latest blockbuster Troy, featuring Brad Pitt, followed by a showing of a low-quality pirate copy of Ice Age 3.

It didn't take long before The Boss started cursing at me as if it had been my idea to take that damn bus. Fully aware of the futility of using reason against angry women, I decided to focus on the other impending battle, the one between Brad Pitt and Eric Bana, and just wait for the storm to clear. Luckily, she soon became entertained by the mountains and proceeded to take 900 pictures of any hill that still had some leftover snow on it (that's just a sample. She really did take a shitload of those). God bless the Andes.

So this wasn't exactly what I expected when I decided to sign up on this bus idea, but at least it would be over soon. According to our (her) calculations, we would be arriving in our destination at around 3pm, just in time for lunch and a siesta, and could still salvage the day with a nice evening walk around beautiful Mendoza. And we got to see the Andes, which are really impressive, so everything was just dandy.

Still, the funny thing about the mountains is that, after the fifth or sixth one, they start to look the same. By then, Manny had had his baby, Diego and Sid had already escaped the T-Rex and the funny-looking squirrel had lost his nut for the umpteenth time, so I was bored to death and decided to sleep the rest of the way, hoping I would wake up to a juicy Argentine steak. Instead, I woke up when the bus stopped in front of what seemed to be a large warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

After a few minutes of confusion, we established that we were at the border and waiting for our turn to go through. Our friendly bus attendant even opened the door and authorized people to step outside, as there were a couple of buses in front of us and it would be a few minutes before we were called up. Hurray, a stop! It was 1pm or so and we were getting quite hungry, so this seemed like a good opportunity to spend our remaining Chilean pesos in some snacks at a dirty little shop right outside the police checkpoint. However, after thoroughly inspecting the facilities, we classified the jamón sandwich as potentially lethal and the rest of the food there as a type 1 vacation-ender threat, so The Boss, who had been pushing down Alfajores since the trip started, decided to just stock up on water instead. As for me, I blew my last few bucks on a chocolate bar that had been expired for so long it was turning white. Nice.

Moreover, in retrospect, I should have noticed something fishy when the bus dude just let everybody out without a care in the world. Or perhaps when nothing moved for 40 solid minutes. As it turns out, despite building a massive structure in the middle of the Andes and starting a whole joint immigration operation to simplify the process, neither Chile nor Argentina thought of actually sending their officers to the border, so we had to wait for nearly 3 hours while this one lonely dude checked the passports of every single person crossing the border at that moment (in all fairness, there was a second officer at the booth, but for some reason he was just watching the first one).

So by the time we finally entered Argentina, it was almost 4pm and I was freakin' starving. The Boss, who thanks to a steady diet of Alfajores had been showing admirable restraint so far, finally lost it when the bus attendant sort of laughed at her when she asked if we would still be in Mendoza before 5 o'clock. Apparently there were still two and a half hours left in our journey, which once again torpedoed her plans beyond repair, and all the candy in Argentina could not calm her down after that.

According to the original plan, we were supposed to use the rest of the day to see what Mendoza had to offer, as the next two days were (again) meant to be spent on two day-long tours, one to Mount Aconcágua and surrounding areas and the other to some winery, where we (I) would try some of Mendoza's wine, supposedly the world's best Malbec. However, with our arrival now scheduled to 7pm, our walk around Mendoza would have to be postponed and one of tours would have to be dropped.

It pains me to say, folks, that once again the booze drew the short stick. That's right, I spent eight days in the wine countries of Chile and Argentina and never set foot in a winery. Even The Boss, who doesn't even like wine, was deeply ashamed and, always the evil genius, quickly concocted a plan. While making me swear never to tell anyone, she snapped some pictures of a random faux-vineyard they had in our hotel and bought half a dozen of bottles of wine from a local supermarket, creating evidence of a trip that never happened. But I cannot live with this lie burning into my very soul, which is why I now confess: we never saw a single genuine grape while there.

Evil touristic plots aside, Mendoza turned out to be a lovely city. We were staying at the heart of the old center, which has one big square, la Plaza Independencia surrounded by four smaller squares: Plaza Italia, Plaza España, Plaza Chile and... Plaza San Martín. How very eclectic. I never really understood why Christopher Columbus and Simon Bolivar both got countries named after them (and Amerigo Vespucci got an entire continent!) while San Martin, who worked just as hard as those other guys, was never anything more than a street. I mean, there's Martinique, but I'm pretty sure that's in honor of a different Martin, so it doesn't count. And it's not like there was no room for him: Brazil is a tree, Ecuador is an imaginary line, Paraguay and Uruguay are rivers, Chile is now a sauce and Argentina refers to a freaking metal that has become a synonym for second place, so the current names are not that unique and clever to begin with. Thus, I was pleased to see that historical injustice mended in Mendoza and that, at least there, San Martin is getting the respect he deserves and is hanging out with the right crowd.

But I suppose you can't get everything right, so the same people who finally put San Martin back on the map also thought it would be a good idea to have open ditches all over the city, running next to nearly every street (think of it as Argentina's answer to the Amsterdam canals). Not only they are a pain in the ass whenever you are jaywalking, but they also stink up the place when it is hot (and it was pretty f-ing hot). Definitely not the best of ideas.

Another curious element of Mendoza was the amount of signs that read Playa and had a little arrow pointing the way. Now, playa means beach in Spanish, I know that for a fact. And I think it is extremely unlikely they had beaches anywhere near, considering we were on the wrong side of the Andes and everything. Not even The Boss, who speaks much better Spanish than I, could solve that one and I still don't know what on Earth they were talking about. And I swear, those playas were everywhere, even in the most bizarre of places.

My favorite place in Mendoza was Av. Villanueva Aristides, just outside the historic center. It is long street with bars and clubs on both sides that would require weeks - if not months - of dedication to be properly studied and cataloged. It was also there that I found the one gym I know for a fact I would never quit, as well as a restaurant that finally embraced the one truth my grandma has been telling me my entire life: that pizza is not food. A truly marvelous place.

We went west on Av. Villanueva for several blocks, gauging its apparently limitless potential for fun, before it ended abruptly at the Parque General San Martín (who else?). I'm not much of a park type of guy, but that one was pretty awesome. We went there on a beautiful Sunday morning and I think I could have stayed for two days, maybe three. Unfortunately, the place was so inviting that every single mosquito and gnat in Mendoza was there as well, which forced us to retreat back to the city for lunch. And what a lunch it was.

See, I like to eat as much as anyone and I do enjoy a good meal, but I'm not really into gastronomic tourism like, for instance, The Boss. Nevertheless, lunch in Argentina was something special, only matched, maybe, by dinner. I am a proud carnivore and lifelong fan of the Brazilian beef, which I always considered perfect. But man, can those Argentine barbecue a steak or what? And even if you say that our meat is just as good, you can't top a country where you can eat half of a perfectly cooked cow for 2 US dollars. You just can't. I tip my hat to our hermanos: you won that round, keep up the good work.

So, once again, I would have been happy to just pick a restaurant and keep ordering Bifes de Chorizo until it was time to go to Cordoba, but there was another tour to be made. I wasn't terribly excited about spending another day on a bus going up and down the Andes, but I was hoping we would at least take different road this time. Well, we didn't. In fact, we went basically up the same road all the way to the border (and to that despised checkpoint) and back. Even worse, I couldn't even take that silly picture with one foot in each country, as the actual dividing line was either up a gigantic hill or inside a freaking tunnel. What a waste.

However, on this second try, at least we got to stop at some cool places for pictures, such as the Puente del Inca, which is either a natural bridge carved in the rock by the water or a passage made of the petrified bodies of Inca warriors who sacrificed themselves to allow the ailing son of their Chief to cross the river (pick your theory). We also stopped at a smaller, more modest bridge used by our friend San Martin on his way to kick some Spanish butt back in the day; and even at little lake with turquoise water straight from the mountains that looks stunning reflecting the sun.

And I suppose I should also register, without any hint of irony, that I was humbled and amazed - in the truest sense of the word - by the Andes. The pictures we took unfortunately don't make justice to the sheer size of those things and don't translate how minuscule they make you feel. Just seeing the "ceiling of the Americas", Mount Aconcágua and its 6,962 meters, even if from a distance, was enough to make that second journey worthwhile. I actually want to climb it now. It was quite a sight, although The Boss quickly killed my buzz by pointing out that, from where we were standing, the one to its left looked a lot higher.

My very own Dakar (Part 1)

I went to Chile and Argentina for New Year's, which seemed like a good way to close out the 00's. My girlfriend (hereinafter referred to as The Boss because, well, that's pretty much what she is) had been bugging me to take a trip somewhere for a while. Unfortunately, when she says trip, she doesn't mean a romantic weekend away on the beach, unless that beach is in the Caribbean or in some remote island in the Pacific. And that was a bit of a problem, since I've been broke for the past twenty-something years and everything. Thus, the idea of going to nearby countries seemed particularly good, not only due to the cheaper tickets, but also because South America is one of the few places on Earth where Brazilians can find favorable exchange rates. So Chile and Argentina it was (and later I even found out that the people from the Dakar Rally had the same idea. Never felt so trendy in my life).

Because we were flying on The Boss' miles and she was pretty much banking the entire operation, I decided to decline from any participation on the planning or scheduling of our activities. Her trip, her money, her rules. I must say, never in my life I traveled knowing so little about my destination. In fact, on the eve of our departure all I knew was that we would fly to Santiago on the 29th, where we would celebrate the New Year. Then, on the morning of January 2nd we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Mendoza, Argentina, where we would stay for a few days before heading to Rosario, the only place where they still had mileage seats available for our return, which was supposed to happen either on January 7th, 8th or 9th (I wasn't really sure). As it turns out, even that little bit of information I had was wrong, since we were in fact scheduled to return from Cordoba on the 6th. So, really, all I knew for sure was that I could not let The Boss out of my sight, as it would probably mean I was stranded on a strange land.

Apart from a last minute scramble to finish packing (I was out drinking with friends, our flight was at 5am and, of course, I left it all to the last minute), the flight to Santiago wasn't very newsworthy. When we finally landed, though happy with the start of the trip, I was running on 90 minutes of sleep and coping with the early stages of a hangover, so my mind wasn't exactly at its best and I felt and looked like crap. Plus, I immediately noticed that the air in Santiago was extremely dry and my nose was itching like crazy. Which means I was, at the same time, happy, sleepy, grumpy, dopey, bashful and sneezy. That's six of the seven dwarfs right there, probably a world record. And if you consider The Boss' height (1.54m) and title, a case could be made for Doc's presence as well.

After checking into our hotel and getting some much-needed shuteye, we finally went out to explore our surroundings. We were staying at a neighborhood called Vitacura and within walking distance of a highly-praised shopping center called Parque Arauco, so we figured we could kick things off by going there for lunch/dinner.

I had heard great things about Santiago, considered by many one of the finest cities in South America, so I wasn't really surprised by how nice it looked. Our hotel was located in a really pleasant avenue, with lots of trees and a really nice paseo that had a constant flow of runners and cyclists. I was especially amused by an orange sign in front of the hotel that read Pavimento en Mal Estado (something like Asphalt in Poor Conditions), which meant that they actually sent workers over to install the sign instead of just fixing the road. Great comedy. In any case, it was a truly enjoyable neighborhood, which even had a killer view of the mountains.

After 15 minutes walking we finally arrived at the Parque Arauco and it was love at first sight. That was hands down my favorite place in all of Chile. Unlike your average mall, the Parque has an outdoor plaza surrounded by restaurants and cafes that instills an irresistible urge to just sit down, order a drink and just enjoy the atmosphere. If that doesn't convince you, there's also a giant slingshot that tosses people 30 meters up in the air for the modest price of 30,000 pesos (something like 60 USD). Entertainment for everyone, guaranteed.

While I would have been happy to set camp there for the next few days and just eat and drink the trip away, The Boss was adamant about seeing the rest of the city. See, she practices a type of fascist tourism in which people must wake up early and march all day, taking as many pictures as possible before collapsing from fatigue. It was, in sum, pretty much the opposite of what I was hoping for, but, again, her money, her trip, her rules.

So early the next day, December 30th, the trip was afoot. The plan was basically to take the subway downtown and walk around, and so we did. Now, downtown Santiago wasn't nearly as nice as our little neighborhood and there are only so many churches and cathedrals one can take, but eventually we arrived at a place I actually wanted to visit: the Palacio de la Moneda, seat of the Chilean government. Being a bit of a History aficionado, I had always wanted to see the palace Pinochet bombed nearly to the ground during the coup in 1973, which, according to legend, even after its complete reconstruction in the 1980s still carried some of the bullet holes from those dark days.

Unfortunately, we could not get close enough to inspect the walls and the building seemed entirely too modern to match the images I had in my mind, so I could feel the idea I had of the palace fading away. Apart from the mandatory statues of military figures all around it, the whole thing just did not fit the stereotype. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I was seeing was way too normal for a place that had such a powerful history.

I barely had five seconds to be bummed out about it when I noticed a little ruckus nearby. There were people walking into that little moat, shouting things like A lucha Chile! and Abajo el gobierno! Soon enough, two dozens carabineros showed up, surrounded the trespassers and, after a moment of hesitation (it looked like some of the brave policemen did not want to get wet), proceeded to escort them out of the moat, using gentle persuasion whenever necessary. Much to my dismay, that was the end of it: no teargas bombs, no rubber bullets, no bloodshed, just half a dozen people being taken into custody. But still, I felt that was more like it. My first Latin American protest, and just in front of the Palacio de la Moneda. Hell yeah! They even had a second manifestation happening on the other side of the palace, but that one was part of some world march for peace and non-violence and just lacked that Latin American revolutionary vibe. Still, all in all, a very productive visit protest-wise.

Before leaving the premises and resuming our march across Santiago, we decided to check out the Cultural Center they have below the palace, hoping it would have some sort of museum of Chilean history. Fat chance. Instead, they had yet another exposition with those Chinese terracotta warriors that seem to be everywhere nowadays. My guess is that the Chinese found so many of those dudes buried that they just don't know what to do with them, so decided to hand them out like chocolate on Halloween.

Next on our list was the Cerro de San Cristóbal, a hill located in the middle of the Parque Metropolitano de Santiago, from where we could ride a cable ferry that was supposed to provide an amazing view of the city. The park is quite nice, but the hill is as steep as they come. So, to ascend to its top, we had to take the funicular, which was just bumpy and old enough to give us a little adrenaline rush. I was surprised to learn, while there, that the City Zoo is also on that hill. How on Earth they managed to build an entire Zoo on a hill that steep really stirred my curiosity, but at that point I was too hungry, the sun was too hot and my feet were too sore. I just wanted to get the damn cable ferry thing done so I could retreat to a room with air conditioning, soft cushioning and food. So, after I was done bitching about everything, we decided against the Zoo, only to discover, a week later, that five rare white tiger cubs had just been born there (apparently we wouldn't have been able to see them, which is the only thing that prevented me from kicking myself. Hard).

Once on the summit, we found out that the ferry was out of order, which, I must confess, didn't make me too upset. And at least we could enjoy a nice view of the city, albeit with a very thick smog. At first I refused to believe a city with so much green everywhere and without any visible industries and with no apparent traffic problems could be so polluted, but, as it turns out, Santiago has considerable environmental issues and much of what I had been attributing to the dry air had been in fact caused by pollution. I suppose that, deep inside a valley, the pollution released in the city can't really escape anywhere. So, on that note, we decided to go back to the Parque Arauco to eat and do some light shopping before calling it a day.

The next day was New Year's eve and The Boss had decided she wanted to go on a tour to the nearby cities of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar. The original idea was to make two day-long trips in Chile: one to the wine country and the other to those two cities. However, though usually a masterful travel planner, she had forgotten to take some things into account this time around. For instance, that the New Year's is big in Chile. Big as in the-entire-freakin'-country-stops-on-January-1st-and-you-would-be-hard-pressed-to-find-a-place-to-eat big. So we could only go on one tour and, since she doesn't drink at all and we would already see enough wine in Mendoza anyway, the famous Concha y Toro wineries took the hit. No Casillero del Diablo for me.

The other thing we failed to notice is that Viña del Mar is the foremost touristic destination on the coast of Chile and, as such, the place to be for New Year's. The city was expecting to more than 1 million visitors from Santiago that day, which meant that a) our tour would be shorter than usual and b) traffic would be hell.

So we hopped on the bus and began our journey to the Pacific, while the tour guide talked about Santiago, about Chile, about the wineries, tunnels, rivers, mountains... about pretty much anything that crossed our path. Because we had to get up at 6am I was half asleep most of the way, listening without paying much attention. But then she said something about Chile being a tri-continental country (as in it was part of 3 different continents) and that was news for me, so I decided to listen closely. Apparently, aside from continental Chile, they also claim sovereignty over the Easter Island (which is internationally recognized) and part of Antarctica (not so much). Thus, Chile was simultaneously in South America, Oceania and Antarctica. The chutzpa on those people!

Immediately the latent regional rivalry kicked in and my first instinct was to yell that they were barely part of South America, squeezed between the Andes and the Pacific, let alone of three continents. Never mind that the bit of Antarctica they claim is also "part" of Argentina and of the UK and that they exercise no effective jurisdiction over that territory. Or that the rest of the world actually signed a treaty saying Antarctica could not be claimed by any country and scoffs at their pretense. But the guide seemed to be a really nice lady and I like the country, so I decided to let it go. Nevertheless, I'm always amazed by this facet of South Americans, full of bravado even though they can't back it up. It was the same thing with the Argentine, who still put the Falklands on their maps even after getting their asses handed to them in the 1980's. But I digress...

When we finally made it to Valparaiso, I was less than impressed. Valparaiso is one of Chile's most important seaports and was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 2003. In addition, it houses the National Congress and Pablo Neruda's former home (now a museum). But, even though it looks pretty from above, the city is actually quite ugly and chaotic, crammed somewhat precariously between the mountain and the ocean. It looks a lot like one of Rio's favelas, only with more colorful walls. But hey, the Greeks went all-white on similar conditions and have been making some serious money ever since, so who am I to judge?

In any case, from the entire city, I only truly liked three things: the mandatory city square filled with statues of soldiers who died horrible deaths on some random battlefield, which looked quite nice; a random monument resembling a copper wire celebrating Chile's status as the world's leading copper producer or something; and the building of the old Stock Exchange, which could not have its exterior changed because of the UNESCO thing and thus forced the Chileans to improvise during its expansion. Pretty cool.

As for the vaunted Valparaiso seaport, it looked a lot like, well, a seaport. Hectic, noisy, dirty and filled with rickety boats overcrowded with tourists. Nothing truly memorable. And, just like that, our time in Valparaiso was up and we had to move on to Vinã del Mar, as the traffic became increasingly worse. Meanwhile, this British dude on the bus was really disappointed he wouldn't get to ride any of the famous funiculars of the city, what, according to the guide he read, was like going to Venice and not going on the Gondolas. Mmm, right. Maybe he was onto something, but I definitely wasn't too eager to board one of those things.

Viña del Mar was literally down the street, on the northern part of a large bay shaped like a "3". The city was definitely prettier than Valparaiso, but still a long way from being the ultimate beach destination described by the tour guides. Cold water, dark sand... it might be the Pacific, but it is no Zihuantanejo, that's for sure. We did get to see, however, an original Easter Island head, one of the few ever to be removed from the island, so there was that.

We started our drive back at about 5pm and, by then, the traffic towards Viña del Mar was backed up all way to Santiago - and I do mean all the way. It's only a 130km trip, but I bet some of those people only got there in 2010. As for The Boss and I, we didn't have any special plans, so we thought about having a quiet night; perhaps having dinner at the Parque Arauco and then watch the fireworks on TV or something.

Again, that was a gross underestimation of the impact of el año nuevo in Chile. By the time we got back, there wasn't a single restaurant in Santiago willing to seat us. The waiters on the few places still open were so anxious to leave that even the people already on the tables didn't dare to order anything else. Our plan B, to buy some goodies at a nearby supermarket, also didn't pan out due to premature closing. And that's how my last supper of the decade was a combo of shady room service and crap bought from a convenience store. It tasted every bit as good as it looks, even if The Boss, always the gourmet, refused to try the "piece of knee" I accidentally ordered, claiming her dad would disown her if she ever ate such a thing. At least we got to watch the fireworks of two different time zones (Copacabana and Viña del Mar) on TV, so, again, there was that.

And if we thought December 31st was bad, it was only because we were yet to see what January 1st had to offer, which was nothing. Not a soul anywhere. We did find restaurants open for lunch, but even our waitress was struggling badly with a hangover. But that general slumber saved me from a trip to an artsy market in the outskirts of Santiago that The Boss really wanted to see, so no complaints, not from me. Plus, we would be leaving to Argentina early the next day and had a full day going up and down the Andes coming up, so I rather welcomed the lazy day.

Awesome Quote of the Week (Part 2)

Since the last topic revolved around religion, it seems appropriate that the Awesome Quote this week follow suit.

Pray: To ask that the laws of the universe be annulled on behalf of a single petitioner confessedly unworthy.

- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Trouble in Paradise

I'm halfway through a book called The God Delusion, by Richard Dawkins. It can accurately be described as an Atheist manifesto, you know, since the author spontaneously admits that his ultimate goal is to convince his readers that there is no God and urges closet atheists to come out. I know, the nerve some people have! What's next? Telling children there is no Santa Claus? It is, in any case, a good read: although his arguments are not as airtight as he assumes, he makes some interesting points and somehow manages to be humorous while relentlessly attacking all forms of religion - or, at least, as humorous as one can be while assuming very unpopular stances on issues which people usually don't take very lightly. So I would recommend it to anyone, pious or pagan, who is not afraid of some pretty incise questions that, given the impact most creeds still have outside of their respective temples, are undeniably relevant and yet simply sidestepped by most of their followers.

I have no intention of discussing the merits of Dawkins' arguments here; after all, there's a reason why people write books, not blog posts, about this sort of stuff. Still, when you read a book that casts a doubt over nearly every single aspect of religion, you can't help but do some questioning of your own. And the one thing that really bothers me is the concept of paradise, which is central to almost every faith and, objectively speaking, just cannot exist as they sell it to us.

The general idea behind the religious afterlife is that, if you are good enough while alive (or if you die a martyr or maybe in a violent battle, depending on whose word you take), you get to go to Heaven or Shangri-la or Valhalla (all of which, for practical purposes, hereinafter shall be called Paradise). Now, Paradise is like the ultimate vacation spot: it has nice weather, great food and, again depending on who you pick as your travel agent, you may or may not receive a shitload of virgins upon arrival. Still, contractual details aside, it is, by definition, a perfect place where the worthy ones get to kick back and relax for all eternity.

Perfect, huh? That's a bold goal. Firstly, a perfect place should account for the different needs of each and every person living there. For instance, I guess most women would want a package that includes endless supplies of shoes, no-calories chocolate and a 24/7 spa, whereas I would probably ask for daily games of football, an open bar and no shoe-shopping whatsoever. I suppose that part is easy to arrange - in fact, most resorts on Earth already have it covered, with a vast array of activities from which their guests may choose, so it should be no biggie for the All-Mighty to get this one right. I'm sure that Paradise can be every bit as awesome as we imagine.

But then it gets tricky. It's a safe bet that most people would like their loved ones to be there as well. I mean, a perfect place would not be perfect if you didn't have your friends and family around to share it with you, would it? So what if your friends, your spouse, your children or your parents are denied entrance on the grounds of unworthiness? Wouldn't it spoil the whole Paradise experience for you, to know that your best friend or your wife or husband are fighting Hitler over bread crumbs in Hell while you're sipping Piña Coladas on a cloud?

It gets worse: even if they lower the standards and let everybody in (or if you lived a really boring life and everybody you know actually made it to Paradise), there's the issue of conflicting expectations. See, when your mom gets there, she probably won't choose to be the lovely 40-something lady who kissed your booboos and made those delicious pancakes for breakfast. I mean, as happy as she could have been doing that, chances are that it is not her idea of a perfect afterlife. Most likely she'll prefer her younger days - you know, her Woodstock, pot-smoking, free-for-all-sex phase - and witnessing that will probably ruin your week. Another example: imagine Rose Dawson, from James Cameron's Titanic, dying an old lady. As soon as she gets to Paradise, she'll instantly revert to her Kate Winslet form and look for Jack, her one true love, who is probably there waiting for her ever since taking that last dip in the Northern Atlantic. So what happens to Rose's husband? You know, the dude who built a life with her for over 50 years and probably saw her as the love of his life? Assuming they all make it to Paradise, someone will get the short end of that stick and then... well, so much for perfection.

This paradox can happen in any number of scenarios: ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands and ex-wives, sons, daughters, siblings, parents, friends - they can all wish to return to a situation which they deem perfect, but the other parties involved do not. So how can you have Perfect, or even close to that, when it doesn't mean the same thing (and in fact can mean opposite things) to everybody?

I can imagine only one way around this apparently unassailable inconsistency: the contact you have with your loved ones is not an actual interaction, but rather a Matrix-like simulation that allows everybody to have things exactly like they want them. That way, while you still get a grandma that will bake fresh cookies whenever you visit her, your real grandma can be somewhere else getting her freak on.

Albeit logically efficient, that solution is not good enough. Neo, Trinity and Morpheus nearly died trying to put an end to that kind of shit (technically, Neo and Trinity did die, but I like to pretend that the second and third movies never happened), so I refuse to believe that Paradise will be nothing more than a simulation. Furthermore, I remember Captain Kirk facing a similar situation in Star Trek: Generations after being sent to the Nexus, a place that exists beyond the flow of time and where reality is shaped according one's to personal desire. Even though living in the Nexus was described as "being wrapped inside joy", he rejects that notion of Paradise after realizing it was not real. I mean, you have both Captain Kirk and Morpheus saying that this simulation thing is not a good idea after all and those are guys whose opinions you should respect, so I say ixnay on the Matrix.

And even if the concept of a perfect afterlife were not intrinsically paradoxical, you still have to deal with the eternity factor - i.e. if it lasts forever, even perfection would eventually wear on and therefore cease to be perfect. Really, I just don't see how it could work.

What I can imagine, though, is how I would want the afterlife to be - assuming there is one, of course. I picture a big theater, where you get to watch a film of your life; every second of your time on Earth and every thought or dream you ever had would be there for you to review it (unless you want to fast-forward through the boring/bad parts, it's up to you). All those funny moments that made you almost pee in your pants, the cool conversations with your friends, that amazing dream that slipped your mind as soon as you woke up and you could not remember, the butterflies in your stomach in that microsecond when you realized you were about to kiss that cute girl... You would get to watch and relive all those moments again, and as many times as you wanted.

Also, much like a DVD, there would be a couple of special features is this film. The first one would be the Additional Info feature, meaning you would get to peek into other people's heads and know what they were thinking. It wouldn't be always pleasant, but you would finally know if those girls in high school were talking about you as you passed by, if your boss ever really thought about giving you that raise, if that crush you had was mutual, if Oswald really killed Kennedy, and if Bush really thought there were Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. Basically, any unsolved question you ever had in your life could at last be answered.

The second feature would allow you to watch alternative endings. What would have happened if you had the testicular fortitude to approach that girl in that party? Or if you decided to accept that offer to move to another continent, or took that trip, or went to a different college, or picked a different major? Any time you second-guessed a choice you made in life, you would get to see how that would have played out if you had gone the other way.

Then, when you are finally done exploring everything your life was and could have been, you just walk outside and ask to be sent back to Earth to start over. As simple as that - no paradox, no ennui. I don't know if there is an afterlife - and if Dawkins got it right, there isn't - but if I somehow wake up in a bright, ethereal place after I drop dead, I sure hope to find comfortable seats, a big bucket of popcorn and a still-frame of my mom screaming at a nurse for an epidural on a massive screen.

The case for Obama's Nobel

It's safe to say that, when Barack Obama was announced as the winner of the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize, it was a bit of a surprise. I don't think anybody, not even Obama himself, saw that one coming. Actually, I'm pretty sure that, when that member of the White House staff walked into the Oval Office and said 'Hey, Mr. President, guess what? Those folks from Norway decided to give you the Nobel this year', Obama's first reaction was to look for Ashton Kutcher and his hidden cameras: Get out of here... Really? Why?

The reaction around the world was similar: people with their mouths agape in disbelief, checking their calendars to see if it could be an April's fool joke. Not surprisingly, the strongest reaction came from the US, where some people (especially Republicans) were downright outraged with the selection. Among other things, the critics were saying that he didn't do anything yet (quite the opposite, that he's all talk and no action); that we should at least wait until the end of his term before passing judgment on his accomplishments; and that a man that is continuing to wage two wars could never win a peace prize.

There's a fair point behind much of the criticism. In fact, many people satirically suggested that he should split the money with George W. Bush, for it was his historically bad presidency that set the bar at an all-time low, meaning that anything other than invading Paris and setting Rome on fire would be seen as an improvement. It's because of Bush, they said, that people are so excited over so little work.

Be that as it may, just because the failures of his predecessor made Obama look good by default, it doesn't mean that this particular set of circumstances ceases to be relevant. By the same token, it is not because his victory was unexpected that it automatically becomes undeserved. The question is whether or not Obama was a valid choice.

When approaching the issue, it is important to realize that the Nobel Peace Prize is a political distinction and, as such, has the potential to be extremely controversial. People often bring up the fact that Henry Kissinger won it, whereas Gandhi never did, as an example of how skewed the selection can be. Nevertheless, in any given year there are over a hundred nominations for the Peace Prize (in 2009 alone there were a record 205 different individuals and organizations on the final list) and, unless there's a clear-cut front-runner, it is obvious that any consensus might be pretty difficult to reach. Unlike the other Nobel fields, it can be quite hard to assess breakthroughs in something as abstract as peace. Clinton lied (again!), there's no road map for that. It involves publicity; it involves charisma; it involves politics. In that sense, to second-guess the decision made by those five nice gentlemen in Oslo is, in most cases, to split hairs - someone has to come up with a name and their choice is as good as any. Unless there's a clear oversight by the committee or it becomes clear that the winner does not fill the criteria, it's a matter of picking favorites: you might have yours and I might have mine, but the Norwegian Storting is also entitled to theirs.

Analyzing what has been said against Obama's Nobel, I noticed nobody bothered to - or perhaps couldn't - come up with a different name, one that clearly should have won the Prize this year, which voids the hypothesis of an obvious overlook. If anything - as mentioned above - the race in 2009 was more diluted than ever, with a record number of nominees and an absolute lack of favorites. Instead, it was Obama's accomplishments (or lack thereof) that came into question and became the target.

Thus, to determine whether this world-class bowler fits the bill, we should turn to Alfred Nobel's will, the original document that created the whole thing and set the standards that should be observed by the committee. It says that the Peace Prize should be awarded "to the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity among nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses [...] in the preceding year". There are a few interesting elements in this definition that would make the case for Obama which seem to have gone unnoticed.

Firstly, the will mentions "the preceding year", meaning that the Nobel is an annual award, not a lifetime achievement one. History shows that this trait, particularly in the Peace Prize, is not always taken into account, probably because, when it comes to something as complex as world peace, efforts tend to take more than 12 months to yield significant results. Consequently, a considerable number of laureates received the Prize after decades dedicated to a cause, even if what they have to show for it is a series of steady improvements rather than one major breakthrough. Nevertheless, even though this tendency slowly changed the public's perception of what the Nobel is supposed to reward, it was never its founder's intention to award it to the best résumé. So it shouldn't matter that Obama just got here: if he did the best work in the previous year, he's our guy.

The second aspect of Nobel's will that is relevant to Obama's case is that it provides its own definition of what peace is. Peace is one of those words, like love or happiness, that mean different things to different people. For some it's the mere absence of conflict, for others it also involves the widespread rule of law and justice, or perhaps the end of social disparities. So, when people think of a peace prize, they usually go with their own concept of what that represents. However, for this purpose, the one definition that counts is Nobel's.

So, reading the will again, we see that he put the promotion of fraternity among nations and peace congresses on equal footing with reduction of standing armies; meaning that, to him, an abstract notion like fraternity was just as important as the actual reduction in the number of soldiers. In other words, the man was an idealist, who considered those who simply brought the peoples of the world closer together just as deserving of his award as those who accomplished more measurable feats.

With those two elements in mind, let's look back at Obama. During the past year, no man or woman on the planet was a stronger beacon for the hope of billions around the globe. Still as a presidential candidate, he reached out to the entire world and, with one campaign rally in Berlin, he bridged gaps in international relations in a way that eight years of Bush administration could not. 'Yes we can' became the motto for anyone who wished to change things for the better. As the first black president in the history of the United States, he made people believe that the ethnic disputes that hurt humankind for so long could be overcome. Like it or not, no name was a bigger synonym for fraternity and hope than Obama's last year and that, according to our friend Alfred Nobel, is Peace Prize-worthy.

That is also why it doesn't matter that his nomination occurred only 9 days after his inauguration or that he hasn't done much as a president. Many of the positive effects created by Obama in international relations were felt even before the election. Now, I can see why people, especially North-Americans, might have a difficult time separating his presidency from his Nobel nomination. I won't dispute that he has done much less than expected so far, as seen in a recent (and really, really funny) Saturday Night Live skit (although it could be argued that, in face of such lofty expectations, Superman himself would have to break a sweat). I can also see why the Republicans are really pissed off, after all this is an award that has little to do with his domestic policies and yet it gives him a major popularity boost. Still, it doesn't matter whether his healthcare reform is good or bad, or if he failed to get the Olympics to Chicago or whatever: those things are not decisive (or even relevant) to evaluate his contribution to fraternity among nations.

What could be said against him is that he continues to send troops into Iraq and Afghanistan, which looks like a very non-peacelike thing to do. But then again, Obama inherited those wars, and pulling out of either country right now would most certainly sentence Iraqis and Afghans to years, if not decades, of civil war. I'm not really sure what he could do here. This is an admittedly low standard, one that might takes us back to the "give half of the Nobel to Bush" joke, but it is impossible to ignore the bleak outlook in international relations since 2001. When people openly talk about a clash of civilizations and start looking at armed intervention as the best option available, something as simple as someone in a position of power reaching out to the rest of the world goes a long way.

I guess the point is that, although one might have had another favorite to win the Nobel this year, Obama was not a bad choice at all and we have to respect that. When it is all said and done, the Peace Prize does not necessarily need to reward a successful policy or recognize a lifetime dedicated to humanity. It could very well acknowledge the importance of a symbol or endorse a worthy cause. You know what? You really started something there. We like what you stand for and we believe it makes the world a better place. Keep it up. Obama himself said that this award was a "call to action" and I think I'll go with that.

Awesome Quote of the Week

This piece of wisdom is brought to you in honor of Vida Guerra's mind-altering anatomy, briefly mentioned on the last post:

"We love our asses. When God gave us our asses he had to stick them 'round the back just so that we wouldn't sit and stare at them all day. 'Cause when God made the ass he didn't say: 'Hey, it's just your basic hinge, let's knock off early'. He said: 'Behold ye angels I have created the ass! Throughout the ages to come men and women shall grab hold of these and shout my name!'"

- Jeff Murdock, from Coupling

Coupling, by the way, is one of the best shows ever produced. Just great comedy. I can't recommend it enough.

Jeter and the Gravitational Pull

A few weeks ago I was reading Rick Reilly’s column on ESPN.com when I stumbled across Derek Jeter’s résumé. I always knew he did well with women – his few gazillion dollars and his demigod status in NYC were kind of a giveaway – but I had no idea of the real dimension of his feats. His catalog of ex-girlfriends and love(?) affairs includes, among several other famous, not-so-famous and anonymous hotties: Lara Dutta (then-in-office 2000 Miss Universe), Jordana Brewster, Mariah Carey (in her prime, mind you), Adriana Lima and Vida Guerra (they don’t keep official records, but I’m pretty sure she has the most amazing ass to ever be sent into cyberspace – do yourself a favor and google her), as well as the unbeatable, unprecedented and so far unmatched Jessica tandem: Ms. Biel and Ms. Alba.

Seriously, read that list again. Even without the crown jewels (i.e. that double dose of Jessica), that’s already a Hall of Fame career. With them, the guy easily reaches the Casanova-Don Juan de Marco-Sinatra Pantheon. Apparently he’s now engaged to young starlet Minka Kelly, so, unless things fall through at the last moment, a sharp decline in his performance is expected, at least for the next few years. Still, the institution of marriage is not as solid as it once was and it no longer equates to a life sentence, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeter comes out of his early retirement and rejoins the game. If he does and maintains the same pace, he might be the best ever by the time he definitively hangs up his… uh… bat. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, all he needs now is to complete his Jessica collection with the most elusive of them all, Mrs. Jessica Rabbit, to claim that G.O.A.T. title for good.

(A quick tangent here: I could never understand why G.O.A.T. – i.e. Greatest Of All Time – was the chosen acronym to describe the very best there ever was. A goat is not a fearsome animal by any stretch of imagination (although I was attacked by a goat once and it was pretty scary. Then again, I was 8 and also afraid of the dark, so that’s probably not a good standard). A goat has no outstanding speed, strength, size, aggressiveness; nor any other relevant trait that would justify this association. It’s a boring herbivore. Plus, it’s pretty much a synonym for scapegoat, which, last I checked, wasn’t a glorious thing to be. Why not change ‘greatest’ for ‘best’ and use B.O.A.T. instead? A boat at least can be big and powerful. And, as a nickname, it sounds way cooler: He’s the BOAT. It’s so good I’m surprised no rapper has taken it yet. It’s decided, then: BOAT it is.)

So Jeter has one of the most impressive CVs in recent history. Or does he? What made Jeter’s conquest index stand out when I first saw it was that I don’t recall celebrities, not even A-list ones, just lining up other celebrities like that. Bear in mind I don’t mean one-nighters that remain mostly in the realm of hearsay, but rather actual relationships with other famous and highly desired people that lasted for more than a couple of hours and were made public – you know, with red carpet appearances and what not.

To settle the question, I decided to do some quick research on the most obvious names out there, but could only find a handful of guys whose numbers and enthusiasm for the game match or surpass those of the Yankees captain: the aforementioned Frank Sinatra (absolute king in this category, Jeter would definitely need Jessica Rabbit to catch him); the veteran Mick Jagger; powerhouses Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and George Clooney; and Justin Timberlake.

What’s perhaps more interesting is that, while conducting this very important case study, I noticed that most of the celebrities I thought would have enough clout to shadow Jeter’s accomplishments were in fact quite monogamous: Tom Cruise first wed Mimi Rogers; then was married to Nicole Kidman for ages before briefly dating Penelope Cruz and then brainwashing Katie Holmes. Tom Brady went from a long term relationship with Bridget Moynahan to a marriage with Gisele Bünchen. Ben Affleck dated Gwyneth Paltrow and accomplished a somewhat impressive Jennifer combo (Lopez and Garner – no Aniston, though), but was engaged to the first and eventually married the second. Bruce Willis became Mr. Demi Moore two seconds after reaching major stardom and only really played the field later in life. David Beckham married the very first celebrity he dated, Spice Girl Victoria Adams. Even up-and-coming Ryan Reynolds went straight from 5 years under Alanis Morissette to tying the knot with Scarlett Johansson.

I also looked into the feminine part of the equation, and the trend continues. If you discard the likes of Tara Reid, Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan, whose alleged encounters with top-tier celebrities, albeit frequent, would hardly qualify as relationships, the leading ladies would be your usual suspects: Cameron Diaz, Gisele, Gwyneth, Uma Thurman… None of them has more than 3 or 4 big names to her account; and even those are often the result of lasting relationships.

I’m sure I overlooked a few noteworthy exceptions on both sides, but there’s no doubt the tendency is there. That’s confusing: I was expecting a full-blown sexual merry-go-round and instead what I found was a bunch of committed people. I know most of them are Hollywood-committed, not committed-committed, so perhaps the free-for-all sex is still there. If the tabloids get half of their stories right, there’s certainly no shortage of it – surely Paris Hilton is bound to have slept with at least some of those guys (and girls). Nevertheless, however rampant the sexcapades might be, they are not counting towards anybody’s official stats.

So either these monogamous celebrities are flying under the radar while dating other artists/athletes/models or they are in actual loving and faithful relationships. I don’t mean to be overly cynical, after all they are real people with real feelings and all that crap, and I’m sure that sometimes they are the real thing… but honestly, what are the odds of so many celebs continuously falling for and staying with precisely their most famous/hottest counterparts? I just don’t buy it: if it were that easy to meet a significant other on a movie set, casting agencies should start internet dating services and capitalize on their matchmaking skills.

If it’s not true love, then we’re back to widespread behind-the-curtains affairs, and that’s where I get lost. If it were just about getting laid, wouldn’t it be easier to just stick to the anonymous groupies, who can be just as attractive, tend to be less complicated and are never short in supply? Isn’t telling people one of the perks of knocking boots with a hot star? Both men and women take pride in showing off their catches, so how come so many celebrities don’t try to prance around with their many different high-prized trophy dates?

Truth be told, I think most self-respecting women would consider their reputations and be smart enough to avoid raking up a lofty and embarrassing figure, so maybe that explains why so many ladies top up at four. But men are not that bright, and definitely not very mature: they speak of résumés, careers, stats, accomplishments, collections and conquests; they resort to distasteful puns when referring to sex; they even google women and compare asses, oh the horror! They would see themselves as playas, not sluts. And I’m sure those larger-than-life types could pull it off, so why is it that, instead of mimicking Hugh Hefner, they pick one really shiny trophy and stick with it?

My take on this intriguing state-of-affairs can be dubbed the Gravitational Pull Theory. It’s a bit like love, only more pragmatic. See, as people attain certain notoriety, they also acquire what can be described as a gravitational pull, depending on their looks, fame and fortune. This force, which is part of the very essence of their status as celebrities, is what draws people to them, sexually, professionally or otherwise; and its intensity is what ultimately defines their places within the Hollywood food chain. A guy like Tom Brady or a woman like Beyoncé, for example, are close enough to the top to have their pick from the array of celebrities available, whereas DJ Qualls and Kathy Bates probably not so much.

Nevertheless – and this is important – in spite of their own gravity, they are still (and perhaps even more so) vulnerable to other celebrities’ pull. Remember, they remain human and usually care way too much about fame and beauty. So anybody caught up in the celebrity dating dynamic is always, even if only at the subconscious level, tempted to trade up – especially if their own stock is rising. Just watch as Zac Efron dumps Vanessa Hudgens for the next Megan Fox type that comes along and you’ll know what I mean.

Eventually, however, balance is reached and they find someone just as dominant, creating a scenario where neither one wants to bail. This is also known as the Holy-Crap-I-can’t-believe-I’m-sleeping-with-that-person effect – which, by the way, affects all of us. And whenever it hits both sides in a relationship, you can be sure that it’s one that is going to last for a while.

The theory can be tested by going through those names mentioned above – except for Tom Cruise, who, even though arguably a fit, is also batshit insane and therefore not very good as proof one way or the other. Demi Moore and Bruce Willis, Beckham and Posh Spice… even Brad Pitt, who had quite a run – Christina Applegate, Geena Davis, Juliette Lewis, Claire Forlani and Jennifer Aniston are on his list – eventually met his match in Angelina Jolie (who also had been trading up since her ‘Hacker’ days). Same goes for DiCaprio, who stayed with Gisele Bünchen for quite a while, and Timberlake, who first wouldn’t let go of Cameron Diaz, then went steady with Jessica Biel. Hell, Sinatra himself couldn't escape the pull, so you better believe it’s there.

That’s why I think Jeter’s engagement won’t last. Considering the overall level of his ex-girlfriends, Minka Kelly is a downgrade. She just doesn’t have enough pull to compete with the kind of women he usually attracts. If Vegas decides to take bets on it, I don’t care what the line is, I’m taking the under.

Or maybe this is all nonsense and love really trumps all in the end. Who knows?