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16 December, 2008

Walked half the fucken city today. We got lost in Palermo, north of the centre and ended up in sweet bumblefuck where no one habla's ingles. But can now safely say I've seen every inch of this place, barring the inside of a restaurant kitchen where they create vehicular-sized pieces of bovine.

Stopped at Evita museum. I just hate to love her. But I do. They have her designer clothes on display and store every last document written on her or by her.

Also saw Recoleta cemetery. Very gothik indeed. Rich and/or famous people are buried here, in their own little houses. With their embalmed bodies inside. All very elaborate. As dad says, “They do love the pomp and circumstance here, don't they?”

Stood like a dork at Eva Peron's grave, amongst a queue of people. Ate a ham sandwich.

Argentines are truly a bunch of raving carnivores. If it's not steak, they slap a piece of ham on everything. Hamburgers have ham on them. Just saying.

18 December 2008

Went shopping up Florida Road, a pedestrianised shopping mecca, filled with leather and cashmere. Thought of buying Chester a saddle as a present as a bad joke, but it seemed helluva impractical. Saw really bad pictures of latino guys on sale.

Did buy a pair of cowboy boots. Fuck yes. Never been a light traveller, in Europe we bought leather jackets, and like the boots, it's too hot too wear them, they just take make the already heavy house on my back that much worse.

Went to Boca, a neighbourhood or, actually just a hood. It's meant to be a rough suburb, home to the Boca Junior soccer champs but with a beautiful set of streets filled with brightly painted buildings.

Took bus there and stepped into Cuba. Heaven! People openly doing tango on he streets, the bright colours, it was gorgeous. The beer is going down like a lead balloon too.

19 December, 2008

That bus trip is upon me. The only way people can get round Argentina is on a bus, so in fact, I have not one, but three 18 hour journeys on a bus ahead of me.

Crisis. What if I get deep vein thrombosis?

We got on the bus headed to Bariloche, and it was like a first class flight. Chairs that recline all the way back, hot food and endless wine for dinner, it wasn't half bad.

The thing zoomed across the The Pampas like an airbus.

All the while, the scenery is flatter than Pete Wentz's hair after it's been gelled, so it was much like travelling through the Free State.

Dad read my book the whole way there. Squirming like a beeyutch. He wants to read it, fine, but right next to me? He's not meant to know that I know what the word 'sex' means.

Anyway. Suddenly the Andes sprung into view, all snowcapped and delicious.

Bariloche is in the Patagonia region in the south, bordering Chile. It's set on a group of lakes, and serves as a ski resort in winter. It's exquisite. Like a Swiss town, but instead filled with Spanish hippies that wear a frightful amount of merino wool.

I was expecting to see lots of mountaineering types who talk about 'trekking,' like how I talk about Grey's Anatomy and how, back in Colorado, they fight bears in the wild with their bear hands and wear clothing by The North Face.

Well whaddoyouknow. The hostel is fulla them. Owned by an Irish couple – people were drinking pints for breakfast – this is our kinda place – big burly men and ambitiously fanciful hiking types – we're going to make some interesting friends.

Especially Dad. I'm learning fast. He walks into a new place, guns a-blazing and basically talks to everyone we meet. And I mean everyone, whether they like it or not.

Already some American (Crisis, how many Americans travel South America? They're freakin' everywhere), is joining us at the lake to sink a couple of bottles of Malbec.