I went out to explore. I did not have long in Bs As, and I didn't want to sit in the hotel all afternoon.
It was a beautiful day.
I wandered around for a while: looked at sculpture; watched a woman get a tarot reading; walked past the Recoleta Cultural Center and the Buenos Aires Design. I just wanted to feel the atmosphere, smell the air. No camera, no photographs.
I drank coffee while the sun burned my neck and English pop music played on the radio. I grew hungry and found a restaurant near to the hotel.
"Hola," I said brightly to the man at the door - a short, dark individual with a thick moustache. "Habla Inglesi?" Of course not, but we tried to work our way through the menu between us. He called another, younger man over. Speak English? He shook his head, laughing. The two of them tried to tell me what was on offer, very slowly. A waitress joined us (no), and negotiations continued between the four of us. Then the first man had an idea. He brought over a tray with all the cuts of meat on it, and went through them one-by-one telling me what each was.
Success, I thought, but what about vegetables? We set off again.
Later, I picked a table and asked for some beer. Surely I'm on safer ground here, and so it proved. Danish, American or local? I always drink local beer when I travel (being the seasoned traveller that I am). Why fly halfway around the world just to drink Heineken? Crystal it was.
One meal and two large bottles of Crystal later, I mimed for the check, which I paid with a $50 bill.
Soon after, an elderly gentleman, not involved with the earlier discussions, headed out the door with what looked like my $50 note held gingerly by the edges and with a worried expression upon his face. Time passed. I began to wonder that perhaps it was the custom in Argentina to not give change, you pay what you feel the food is worth, your hosts gratefully accept your payment and patiently wait for you to leave so they can clear the table.
More time passed. I finished my beer. The door opened and in came the elderly gentleman with a smile on his face. "It's good!" He called towards the rear. I got my change soon afer.
I learned later that there are a lot of fake $50s around. Before I left, I thought it best to thank everyone for their patience with the idiot tourist, then I headed back to my hotel.
Travel broadens the mind, I thought, as I fell asleep watching The Simpsons in Spanish.
Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 3
29 January, 2006
27 January, 2006
The Adventure: Day 2 Part 1
Buenos Aires 9am
The stop at Sao Paulo was only an hour, so no-one was allowed off the plane. Soon another take-off, another flight, this time to Buenos Aires.
Once I had retrieved my luggage and been through customs, I found a kiosk to order a taxi to my hotel. I was joined by a young man, also from England, who asked if he could share the ride with me. It seemed like a good idea, so I agreed. We loaded up and set off.
On our way to the city, we introduced ourselves. James Leboar is a poet, returning to Buenos Aires to continue his project, a series of poems about the developments in Argentina since the financial crises of a few years ago. He still had many friends there, but was planning to buy a house over the river in Uruguay. I was a little sorry to see him go.
Left to myself, I noticed the driver didn't know the way to the hotel. At traffic lights, he asked other taxi drivers the way to Guido, none could help. A man who looking as though he spent his nights dancing the tango leaned in a doorway, a cigarette drooping from a pencil-moustached lip, probably advised us we couldn't get there from here, and spoke without looking in our direction.
To be honest, I didn't care. I was fascinated watching the chaos of Argentinian traffic: buses, straight out of the fifties and ablaze in chrome, including the pipework that lead to the wheel hubs; delivery boys with huge baskets on the front of their bicycles, always empty; battered cars, battered trucks, thickening the atmosphere with their exhausts. Nobody indicating, everyone sounding their horn to warn others 'I'm here and about to pass, so don't move over'.
And trees everywhere.
We stop and the engine is turned off. Is this Guido? Where is Apart Recoleta? I see black iron gates and the number 1948 on the wall. Are we there? It seems so. The driver gets my luggage out of the boot, goes in through the gates, past the security desk and along the corridor to reception, just before the waterfall. I pay him and thank him.
I am checked in and get the lift - manual doors - up to my room on the second floor. It seemed disappointingly gloomy and windowless until I realised the shutters were down. It is always a little odd being in a hotel room, especially in a foreign country. Working out how things work, why is there a kitchen, how to open the shutters and the sliding door. Then I carry a chair out on to the balcony and look out on Buenos Aires, or at least the little bit I can see of it.
The jacaranda is still in bloom
Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 2 Part 2
The stop at Sao Paulo was only an hour, so no-one was allowed off the plane. Soon another take-off, another flight, this time to Buenos Aires.
Once I had retrieved my luggage and been through customs, I found a kiosk to order a taxi to my hotel. I was joined by a young man, also from England, who asked if he could share the ride with me. It seemed like a good idea, so I agreed. We loaded up and set off.
On our way to the city, we introduced ourselves. James Leboar is a poet, returning to Buenos Aires to continue his project, a series of poems about the developments in Argentina since the financial crises of a few years ago. He still had many friends there, but was planning to buy a house over the river in Uruguay. I was a little sorry to see him go.
Left to myself, I noticed the driver didn't know the way to the hotel. At traffic lights, he asked other taxi drivers the way to Guido, none could help. A man who looking as though he spent his nights dancing the tango leaned in a doorway, a cigarette drooping from a pencil-moustached lip, probably advised us we couldn't get there from here, and spoke without looking in our direction.
To be honest, I didn't care. I was fascinated watching the chaos of Argentinian traffic: buses, straight out of the fifties and ablaze in chrome, including the pipework that lead to the wheel hubs; delivery boys with huge baskets on the front of their bicycles, always empty; battered cars, battered trucks, thickening the atmosphere with their exhausts. Nobody indicating, everyone sounding their horn to warn others 'I'm here and about to pass, so don't move over'.
And trees everywhere.
We stop and the engine is turned off. Is this Guido? Where is Apart Recoleta? I see black iron gates and the number 1948 on the wall. Are we there? It seems so. The driver gets my luggage out of the boot, goes in through the gates, past the security desk and along the corridor to reception, just before the waterfall. I pay him and thank him.
I am checked in and get the lift - manual doors - up to my room on the second floor. It seemed disappointingly gloomy and windowless until I realised the shutters were down. It is always a little odd being in a hotel room, especially in a foreign country. Working out how things work, why is there a kitchen, how to open the shutters and the sliding door. Then I carry a chair out on to the balcony and look out on Buenos Aires, or at least the little bit I can see of it.
The jacaranda is still in bloom
Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 2 Part 2
25 January, 2006
The Adventure: Day 1
Heathrow: 8pm.
It's easy, really. I don't know what I was so worried about.
I'm glad I checked the journey to the airport - the shuttle bus service from Hatton Cross to Terminal 4 would have been a surprise, and knowing where to change from Circle to Piccadilly (not South Kensington) saved me a long walk.
Apart from that, I've got currency (US $), I've done all the paperwork and I'm sitting on the plane, window seat, next stop Sao Paulo.
I feel like a child on his first train journey to a new school. I've never flown by myself before, I've never even flown beyond Europe before.
I've had sleepless nights.
I've had panic attacks. It's too big. Too big an adventure for me.
But now it is too late. Nothing left to do or worry about. I just wonder why we are an hour late taking off.
Then everything seems to happen very quickly, and suddenly we're airborne. The little plane on the little screen flickers gently out over the Atlantic, past Africa, heading southwest towards the equator.
Eventually I go to sleep. Eventually.
To Day 2 Part 1
It's easy, really. I don't know what I was so worried about.
I'm glad I checked the journey to the airport - the shuttle bus service from Hatton Cross to Terminal 4 would have been a surprise, and knowing where to change from Circle to Piccadilly (not South Kensington) saved me a long walk.
Apart from that, I've got currency (US $), I've done all the paperwork and I'm sitting on the plane, window seat, next stop Sao Paulo.
I feel like a child on his first train journey to a new school. I've never flown by myself before, I've never even flown beyond Europe before.
I've had sleepless nights.
I've had panic attacks. It's too big. Too big an adventure for me.
But now it is too late. Nothing left to do or worry about. I just wonder why we are an hour late taking off.
Then everything seems to happen very quickly, and suddenly we're airborne. The little plane on the little screen flickers gently out over the Atlantic, past Africa, heading southwest towards the equator.
Eventually I go to sleep. Eventually.
To Day 2 Part 1
...and about time too
God! What a mess! Has someone had a party here while I've been away?
*Paul tidies comments, sweeps dust into the corners*
There. That will do for a first pass. I think I may have to re-decorate, though.
*Paul glances at the links in READING column and shakes his head*
No... that's gone, that hasn't updated in a *year*, she's moved...
Better. I can see me tinkering for a while.
*Paul looks up and smiles*
How goes?
Me? I'm good. Been busy. Been away. Had an adventure.
Yes it is cold. Not as cold as Russia, and certainly not as cold as where I was recently.
You'd like to know more? Then read on, dear reader. Read on...
*Paul tidies comments, sweeps dust into the corners*
There. That will do for a first pass. I think I may have to re-decorate, though.
*Paul glances at the links in READING column and shakes his head*
No... that's gone, that hasn't updated in a *year*, she's moved...
Better. I can see me tinkering for a while.
*Paul looks up and smiles*
How goes?
Me? I'm good. Been busy. Been away. Had an adventure.
Yes it is cold. Not as cold as Russia, and certainly not as cold as where I was recently.
You'd like to know more? Then read on, dear reader. Read on...
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