My dorm in Hostel Inn Buenos Aires was branded the 'Party Room'. Not really cos it was where the party was at (on the contrary it was dingy and smelt of socks) but because it was immediately adjacent to where the nightly party happened. Restocked daily by the three cheerful 18 year-olds who seemed to run the place, the hostel beer fridge was drunk dry nightly. Backpackers fall into the local habit of getting some meat in, seeing a cover band and/or putting a few litre bottles of Quilmes cervesa away and then after midnight getting dressed up to head out on the town to play.
Between 5 and 9am they fall back in to the hostel, settle down outside my door and noisily empty the fridge of booze, generally accompanied by an unskilled guitarist. For the duration of my stay there were four nocturnal Irish ladies who'd come in daily from a solid night on the sauce at 9am for the free breakfast then hit the fart sack until the following evening, when they'd do exactly the same. Not the most cultural experience, but hey. While they are reinforcing the Irish stereotype, to be sure, there are indeed different courses for different horses. And being in Argentina's capital continually getting pissed ain't the worst course going.
Now while 'If you can't beat them, bite them' is a perfectly sound policy I chose to join them. I generally hooked up with all sorts of fine folk for drinks in squares, drinks in bars, and drinks in hostels. One night we even managed to round up a table of 25 for a 6 course T-bone & vino tinto extravaganza downtown followed by a mass exodus to a square for late night outdoor drinking (all good when it's 20+ degrees C at 2am) and nipple flashing (from Canadian men anyways).
For me though, one of the best evenings in BA was lounging on hostel beanbags with a crew of random travellers. Two most excellent Canadians, a linguistically flamboyant French chica, an attractive (if vacuous) Kiwi and a San Fran Yank. We sat around chugging on dubious Isenbeck beers (punctuated by compulsory shots of Scotch from Forest and Karsten, the Canadians) and exchanged animated and inflated travel tales. Forest and Karsten had impressively travelled overland all the way from Vancouver Island to BA, with many an entertaining anecdote en route. The deceptively mild-mannered looking French lady had got up to all sorts of mentalism, aboard full hammock laden amazonian local boats and camping with Bolivian families when her bus got rained in. And pretty much everyone, including San Fran Jack, seemed to have fallen big time for Nicaragua. Put it on your places to see list peeps.
Buenos Aires, 'the Latin Paris' is a funny old place. A massive city with a European café culture feel, filled with squares, markets and hidden bars and eateries. I found it surprisingly easy to get run down by 'professional' dog walkers, dragging along eight dogs (complete with a small dog literally skidding along behind, leaving a trail of poo). There always feels like there's something cool to do. So even if you're only there to book a ticket out it draws you in. Anyone staying a two days ends up staying a week; a week becomes two and folk staying for a month 'to learn Spanish' (read: get wrecked lots) may as well get an apartment.
I decided, less by choice and more by the noise of the free breakfast being served outside my door at 9am, to burn the candle at both ends. And why not, by day BA is a fantastic city, embracing both the new and the old, optimistically emerged from a politically turbulent history with plenty to offer. Absolutely potty about footy and so vainly bent on looking good that apparently one in ten adolescent girls suffer from an eating disorder.
From the crumbling colonial grandeur of San Telmo & colourful exuberance of
Locals of all ages pull on ornate omnipresent mate cups (local herbal tea cups with a metal straw) irrespective of being on a bus, sat on a street corner or operating heavy machinery. The Portenos (resident Buenos Airians) love that stuff so much (mainly cos it's more addictive than caffeine) that they carry full thermos flasks and massive bags of Yerba Matte everywhere they go. That's a lot of love for the brew.
But in BA it's all about meat. It's the wrong place to be veggie. The smell of BBQing meat wafts from Parrilladas and Cantinas. Asado's have whole lambs and chickens splayed round smoky log fires. Sirloin and rump steaks are cut clearly too big for one and pretty much however you ask for it, it's served bloody. Every bit of the cow is used. A Swiss girl, Valerie and I shared a Parillada Brochettes for lunch one day: a veritable meat injection, featuring some seriously suspect cuts of meat. The chorizo sausage and ribs were great, but the black pudding contained hot runny blood and fatty chunks, the sliced lumpy kidneys were strangely crunchy and the intestines filled will with tripe were just wrong. I'll try anything once, twice if it's nice, but no more ranky mixed grills for me, ta. Praise the guy in the sky for the free bread!
However, bitter stimulants and protein-heavy meals aside, all play and no sleep makes Jack a tired boy. So when I finally board the night train to nod each night my subconscious has been up to most strange things. One night I apparently engaged in a most entertaining bout of sleeptalking. Actually, I'm informed by amused dormies that it was more 'sleep negotiation', as for some time I tried to negotiate a character of my dreams down to $20 cos it clearly wasn't white. Or something. I had a sleep sneezing show on one night, but another evening, less to the dormsters amusement, I took to snoring in a big way. 'Like a man possessed' I'm told. I only remember once, but apparently I was shaken awake several times only to promptly return to a deep contented rumbling snore.
Generally I hate that guy, but when he's you what can you do?
So from Buenos Aires, the city with the most unnecessarily high doorways in the world, I bid thees to fare well,
Barns
No comments:
Post a Comment