This is the last day and my emotions are not really in sync with it. I'd expected to be filled with joy and excitement about going home and seeing my friends and family. I also expected to be choked with sadness that I had come to the end of my journey. A journey that has allowed me to see incredible things, to finish things I'd never have dreamed of completing, and meeting some of the most amazing people I think I'll ever meet.
But I don't feel either way. I feel a bit sick because I've drunk too much and eaten too much over the last 5 days. Or maybe the last 5 months. I can't really tell.
But I'm determined to go out of Buenos Aires fighting so I've forced Gina to book us into La Cabrera, the best and most famous steak house in Buenos Aires. I'd heard that the sirloin for 2 was ridiculously big at 800g (28.2 OZ), and not to be ordered for one person. I felt like my whole trip had been building up to this moment, and that this steak could be used as a analogy for my trip:
A obscenely large meal, to be eaten by a greedy, naive individual.
When it arrives I feel what I can only describe as fear run through me. The thing is enormous, it looks like a big, thick, sweaty brick. And for a split second I think about asking Gina to cancel her steak and share mine. But it's too late as the waiter brings everyone's food at the same time.
We plow in and I decide to cut out a third at a time and eat away calmly. The meat is lovely and cooked to perfection, and couple it with the Septima Malbec, it's quickly jumping up the ranks as the best meal I've had. Ever.
I'm already full as I carve off the next part of the sirloin, my conversation has dwindled, and I swear someone's turned the heating on. Kate and Danny have decided that I won't finish it, but Gina has faith in me, even if I do occasionally see her look over at me with a look of genuine concern on her face.
I finish the second piece and I'm left with the last part, which on closer inspection is very fatty. I'm quite pleased about this, my reasoning being that it is easier than meat. By now I am sweating from every pore I have, my speech has slowed to that of a punch drunk boxer, and I can't really hear the others talking very well. I think that I might even be hallucinating. I look outside and everyone is walking really slowly, like the Mr Soft guy from the Mentos adverts. I am now so out of the conversation that I simply shout words into the melee of chat, hoping that they have some relevance.
I get down to the last three mouthfuls and Kate keeps saying,
"he's going to do it, I can't believe it, he's going to finish it" she actually texts her boyfriend to tell him. The last time people spoke about me like this was about the marathon, and now I feel like I've just run another one. The last mouthful drops into my mouth and I raise a fist in triumph, the girls clap and Danny just laughs and shakes his head at me.
We walk home and say our final goodbyes to Kate and Gina, and then it's back to the hostel for my last night sleeping on a bunk bed.
In the morning I arrange a late check out so that I can relax and take my time to pack everything for the last time. The next time I unpack this bag most of these clothes will be given to Oxfam or burnt.
My flight leaves at 6pm so the cab collects me at 2pm, leaving me plenty of time for the 1 hour ride and check in. I give Danny a hug and thank him for being such a wicked friend to hang out with over the last week. And then I'm alone for the first time in 2 weeks.
I watch the streets of Buenos Aires fly past me and I can't believe it's over. 5 months have gone quicker than I could ever have imagined, half a year gone in a blink of a eye, Colombia seems so far away now.
I've try really hard to feel that something profound and life changing has happened to me on this trip, something that has changed the person that I was to who I am now.
But it hasn't. What's changed is my understanding of what I am doing on this earth, and how I want to be remembered.
I may not ever be a huge, famous, success in life, I may not earn all the money I 'need' to be happy in this consumer obsessed world, and maybe I won't write the defining album of a generation, but I know what my goal is now, what will make me truly happy on this planet, and that is to leave this life richer for the love of my friends and family, and leave behind a memory of me as a person that made people happy.
Because I've seen men build shrines to earth gods, I've seen how men spent 40 years building a monument to the sun, only for the crusaders to kill them and steal everything they have. All in the name of God. I've seen how believing in something greater than yourself is a false hope, and a painful lie. There is no higher power in your life, you are the greatest power you will ever come across to make your life what it is and what you want it to be.
I've been to places where people really struggle, where daily life is tougher than anything I've ever encountered. I haven't learned anything, I just understand things more.
This life is the only life we have, and the choices we make now we can never get back. In this life or the next. So you have to decide how you will define your life? And I'll define mine by making sure that when people choose to remember me, if anyone actually does, it will be as a great friend, a dedicated family man, and someone who bought happiness to whichever person decided to share their life with him, even if that moment is fleeting.
I get to the airport on time and patiently wait to implement my 'airfare refund plan'
The plan is simple, get yourself seated and pretend that you are in a normal London bar on a Friday night. Then start ordering drinks and calculate in your head the going price for that drink in London. Glass of champagne? £7. Glass of wine with your meal? £6, and so on. As you trot up your total try to drink as much as you can and see how much 'money' it would have cost you had you'd been in a bar, then subtract that from the original cost of the flight and you'll see that you've made it much cheaper!
I get to about £78 before the air hostess refuses to serve me anymore,
"but you forgot to bring my food and then I had to have the left over risotto! Please let me have another 2 cans of stella?" I whined to the tubby, lovely hostess,
"I'm sorry but you've had more than enough, and as this is a night flight, I must ask you to return to your seat and sleep" she replied before she closed the curtain between us.
So I wander back to my seat a reach for my secret weapon, a diazepam! I take it with my last swig of stella and slowly and happily fall into a very deep sleep.
I wake up and we're flying into Paris, I am nearly home. I feel very perky and excited at Paris airport and the next flight is super quick, and before I really register it I look out of the window and see the Thames, and St Pauls,
"I live up that road" I say to nobody in particular. 10 more minutes and we land at the airport.
I love airports, even if I'm coming back from somewhere I still think they're great. I love walking through 'nothing to declare' even though I've got loads to declare, I love it when my bag drops onto the conveyor belt early, I love saying good morning to the passport control people, even if they do just say,
"afternoon I think you'll find Sir" back to me.
And my favorite part is scanning the names on the cards that the chauffeurs and private car hire guys are holding, I know that I haven't booked a car, or that anyone would have booked one for me, but I still have the hope that someone will have decided to come to collect me, and drive me home in comfort. It comes from wanting to see the people you love the most the second you get home I suppose.
I made a card like that once for a girl I loved, and her friend (that I loved too, but in a different, platonic way obviously) when they came home from a holiday. I found the fattest driver I could see and stood behind him, with my homemade card sticking out. And seeing her face turn from confusion, to embarrassment, then finally to happiness, was one of the nicest things I'd ever seen.
They double doors swing open and I need to turn left to go straight to the Heathrow Express, but all the drivers are on the right alongside the barrier. I stop, hesitate, look left and right like I'm crossing the road, then look right again. There's nobody holding my name up, so I turn left and head straight for the Express to get back to a welcome I know I'll have waiting for me. One in Paddington with my housemate, and finally in Cardiff where I'm hugged by two of the best people in the world. And as I sit at their table, listening to their stories over the last 5 months, a small tear comes to my eye, which I hide by charging my phone.
I've been to places that I could only have dreamed of going once, places that I will never ever forget, but sitting here with them, my sister, and mother is better than anything else in the world and makes me understand the final, most important thing,
You are nothing without the people around you.
The End.
I'm not really sure if anyone's actually read any of this, or indeed if anyone actually liked it. The people I thought I was writing it for have since told me that they haven't really been paying attention to it. Which is totally cool. But if you have read this could you please either comment or like on my facebook please? If only so I can get a clear indication of how much a waste of my time this was to do in the first place.
For the people who did or didn't read it, thank you and I love you all very much,
Gareth Potter xx
Monday 15 November 2010
Part 1 - Buenos Aires, Census day, and a death of a president.
Part 1
'Big' Danny Jenkins and I board our 1st class, full cama, it's the last bus journey I'll take in South America so why not go large, top booze and food, executive bus, to Buenos Aires. We've left behind some wonderful people in Mendoza but the Buenos Aires nightlife and women are calling Danny, and on top of those, my plane home is calling me.
Full cama means that the seat will recline to horizontal instead of the normal 3 inches back. Most of the time you'll travel semi cama, which obviously means half way, so you only half sleep. But with full cama? it's like being on a 1st class plane, or a very very small bed, covered in cheap leather. Perhaps a bit like a S+M dungeon bed for midgets.
We immediately start harassing the steward for alcohol but he's refusing to serve drinks until dinner is served, which is of course, not until 10:30pm. Of course it is.
We do manage to get him to give us some aperitifs, so we sit back, adjust the chairs to semi cama, and relax watching Mendoza slip away, and the countryside replace it.
Danny makes the mistake of asking me what my favorite part of my trip was, and so I launch into some tales:
He seems engrossed when I tell him about the crazy, nutjob girl in Brazil, who managed to get herself pregnant by another man, just before she was meant to marry my mate.
He laughs a lot louder and longer than really necessary when I tell him about being drugged by a man in Sao Paulo.
He looks out of the window when I talk about the Inca's in Peru, and how seeing the ruins has altered me as a person.
He is clearly bored when I tell him about the Welsh in Patagonia, and my love of the Welsh culture and language.
He puts his Ipod on when I tell him about the splendors of the Salt plains in Bolivia.
And finally he just pulls a curtain between us when I try to tell him of the amazing people I've met, and how the friendships and relationships I've made will carry on for many years to come,
"Well you asked!" I say before I realize that dinner, and by dinner I mean drinks, are being served. Danny and I enjoy the meal, have a few drinks and laugh and talk until it's time to go full cama and get some sleep.
We wake up in Buenos Aires and I have my last ever breakfast of assorted biscuits. That's all they'll ever serve you on a plane, bus, or train on this continent. A assorted biscuit selection. It's like waking up in the morning for afternoon tea with you granddad.
Buenos Aires, and by the way, I will write Buenos Aires all the way through this because everyone I meet calls it BA, and it sounds so wanky and annoying that I want to kill everyone, for example,
"yah, yah, we hit BA for a few days then left. It was great" or
"Yah, flew into BA and, like, totally took it over! BA is so cool and cosmo, you'll really love it!"
anyway, Buenos Aires is like a ghost town when we arrive, all the shops are shut, nobody is on the streets, there's barely any other cars on the road except for a couple of taxis. Even the McDonalds is closed! I've NEVER seen a McDonalds closed at 9am. Never.
Turns out that today is census day, and everyone has to stay indoors and be censured by people who will knock door to door to get details of who lives where, and what they do! It's totally crazy to see in a country as big as this that people still find the census details by walking door to door! We get to the hostel and ask,
"Can we go to the museum?"
"no"
"the cinema?"
"no"
"the church?"
"no"
"the art gallery?"
"no"
"the zoo?"
"no"
"the shopping mall?"
"no"
"the park?"
"yes. yes, you can go to the park"
We think about it for a while and decide to go to the park. The park is full of rollerskaters, runners, skateboarders, families, 5 a side football, street hockey, but mostly it's full of bemused tourists who don't know what the fuck to do. We've not eaten since the biscuit madness of 8:00am and it's 1pm now. We are starving but every restaurant is closed. We spot an ice cream guy on a bike who looks like he'll retire on his earnings later that day. We buy some ice creams at an outrageous price and wander round the lake in the central park. The women are sensational, and more than twice I nearly lose my ice cream down my front.
The ice cream barely touches the sides and we resort to buying some chorizo burgers from a gypsy who has the health and safety standards of a homeless man. As we queue we marvel at his cross contamination of cooked and raw food, and watch open mouthed at his faultless display of under cooking meat. As we sit down to enjoy this glorious feast I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette with a hot dog.
That night we head out into the Palermo district to meet up with Gina and Kate, 2 amazing girls I met in Igazu Falls. They both guessed correctly that the pasty, white, ginger haired, English speaking guy would have sun block, and they ask me for some. They are both hotties so I asked them what they were up to,
"we live in BA (aaarrrghhhh!) studying and working" they replied,
"I leave from there in a couple of weeks, I'll come and harass you, and you can take me to the best steak places"
Stupidly they actually agreed! so Danny and I put on shirts and head off into the night.
Palermo may as well be the village in New York. It's basically tree lined streets, cool arty shops, posh wine bars, and restaurants. It's amazing but a genuine culture shock as it's so unlike the rest of Argentina. It's nice and everything but I live in London and places like this are on my doorstep, so I find it hard to really get into it. But the company is wicked, and I enjoy yet another steak and malbec, before going to meet up with Gina and Kate's pals in a bar while they watch the world series.
I vowed that I would eat a steak and drink red wine every other day for the month that I stayed in Argentina, and I have kept my vow. However, I didn't really think the plan through and I am now carrying a decent bit of weight. In fact, some shirts are now off limits as my paunch is too visible. Normally I would let this bother me, and maybe even get a little down but not anymore. Life is too short for any negative thoughts, and I make a pact with myself to drop the weight as soon as I get home. A mate is running the marathon next year so I'm going to train with him.
I've done it before and I'll do it again.
The next afternoon I wake up slowly. It's hard to get up early when you only get to bed at 4am, and that's considered early over here! People go to clubs at this time, not go home. It's mental. I eventually get downstairs and hear that the ex president has died, and that because of this, the country will go into 3 days of mourning. 3 days! he's not even the current president, but the current president is his wife so she basically does whatever she likes, which includes making the subway system free, and canceling ALL the league football! which means that my trip to see Boca Juniors is off. Out of the fucking window. Gutted. It was the only thing I wanted to do in Buenos Aires, apart from eat steak, drink wine, go clubbing, and kiss girls. I'm sick of doing anything else.
The next night Danny and I decide to have a change and go to eat sushi. We get in, order some sake, water, beers, and loads of fish. The waiter comes back with some drinks but Danny isn't happy,
"uhm senor, es possible, sake caliente?"
"did you just ask for the sake to be hot? I've already done that" I said,
"yeah but it's cold" replies Danny,
We both look at the table and Danny lifts his wine glass and repeats,
"it's cold"
"yes Danny, it is cold, but that's because it's water" I try to say without laughing.
That night we get really drunk and meet an English fella called Shane in a Irish pub. He'd managed to get himself into a conversation with a mental local guy, but we rescue him. We go downstairs and there's a proper cool nightclub under the Irish pub, it's a massive contrast but it works really well. Then we head to a super club called crowbar, but by that point I don't really have the faculties to really take it in. It's the most drunk I've been in a good couple of months. It's wicked.
We fall out of the club at 7:30am and into bright sunshine, and maybe it's because I'm not full of drugs, as I normally am if I fall out of a club at this hour, but the light is blinding. We hail a cab and sing Michael Jackson all the way home.
'Big' Danny Jenkins and I board our 1st class, full cama, it's the last bus journey I'll take in South America so why not go large, top booze and food, executive bus, to Buenos Aires. We've left behind some wonderful people in Mendoza but the Buenos Aires nightlife and women are calling Danny, and on top of those, my plane home is calling me.
Full cama means that the seat will recline to horizontal instead of the normal 3 inches back. Most of the time you'll travel semi cama, which obviously means half way, so you only half sleep. But with full cama? it's like being on a 1st class plane, or a very very small bed, covered in cheap leather. Perhaps a bit like a S+M dungeon bed for midgets.
We immediately start harassing the steward for alcohol but he's refusing to serve drinks until dinner is served, which is of course, not until 10:30pm. Of course it is.
We do manage to get him to give us some aperitifs, so we sit back, adjust the chairs to semi cama, and relax watching Mendoza slip away, and the countryside replace it.
Danny makes the mistake of asking me what my favorite part of my trip was, and so I launch into some tales:
He seems engrossed when I tell him about the crazy, nutjob girl in Brazil, who managed to get herself pregnant by another man, just before she was meant to marry my mate.
He laughs a lot louder and longer than really necessary when I tell him about being drugged by a man in Sao Paulo.
He looks out of the window when I talk about the Inca's in Peru, and how seeing the ruins has altered me as a person.
He is clearly bored when I tell him about the Welsh in Patagonia, and my love of the Welsh culture and language.
He puts his Ipod on when I tell him about the splendors of the Salt plains in Bolivia.
And finally he just pulls a curtain between us when I try to tell him of the amazing people I've met, and how the friendships and relationships I've made will carry on for many years to come,
"Well you asked!" I say before I realize that dinner, and by dinner I mean drinks, are being served. Danny and I enjoy the meal, have a few drinks and laugh and talk until it's time to go full cama and get some sleep.
We wake up in Buenos Aires and I have my last ever breakfast of assorted biscuits. That's all they'll ever serve you on a plane, bus, or train on this continent. A assorted biscuit selection. It's like waking up in the morning for afternoon tea with you granddad.
Buenos Aires, and by the way, I will write Buenos Aires all the way through this because everyone I meet calls it BA, and it sounds so wanky and annoying that I want to kill everyone, for example,
"yah, yah, we hit BA for a few days then left. It was great" or
"Yah, flew into BA and, like, totally took it over! BA is so cool and cosmo, you'll really love it!"
anyway, Buenos Aires is like a ghost town when we arrive, all the shops are shut, nobody is on the streets, there's barely any other cars on the road except for a couple of taxis. Even the McDonalds is closed! I've NEVER seen a McDonalds closed at 9am. Never.
Turns out that today is census day, and everyone has to stay indoors and be censured by people who will knock door to door to get details of who lives where, and what they do! It's totally crazy to see in a country as big as this that people still find the census details by walking door to door! We get to the hostel and ask,
"Can we go to the museum?"
"no"
"the cinema?"
"no"
"the church?"
"no"
"the art gallery?"
"no"
"the zoo?"
"no"
"the shopping mall?"
"no"
"the park?"
"yes. yes, you can go to the park"
We think about it for a while and decide to go to the park. The park is full of rollerskaters, runners, skateboarders, families, 5 a side football, street hockey, but mostly it's full of bemused tourists who don't know what the fuck to do. We've not eaten since the biscuit madness of 8:00am and it's 1pm now. We are starving but every restaurant is closed. We spot an ice cream guy on a bike who looks like he'll retire on his earnings later that day. We buy some ice creams at an outrageous price and wander round the lake in the central park. The women are sensational, and more than twice I nearly lose my ice cream down my front.
The ice cream barely touches the sides and we resort to buying some chorizo burgers from a gypsy who has the health and safety standards of a homeless man. As we queue we marvel at his cross contamination of cooked and raw food, and watch open mouthed at his faultless display of under cooking meat. As we sit down to enjoy this glorious feast I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette with a hot dog.
That night we head out into the Palermo district to meet up with Gina and Kate, 2 amazing girls I met in Igazu Falls. They both guessed correctly that the pasty, white, ginger haired, English speaking guy would have sun block, and they ask me for some. They are both hotties so I asked them what they were up to,
"we live in BA (aaarrrghhhh!) studying and working" they replied,
"I leave from there in a couple of weeks, I'll come and harass you, and you can take me to the best steak places"
Stupidly they actually agreed! so Danny and I put on shirts and head off into the night.
Palermo may as well be the village in New York. It's basically tree lined streets, cool arty shops, posh wine bars, and restaurants. It's amazing but a genuine culture shock as it's so unlike the rest of Argentina. It's nice and everything but I live in London and places like this are on my doorstep, so I find it hard to really get into it. But the company is wicked, and I enjoy yet another steak and malbec, before going to meet up with Gina and Kate's pals in a bar while they watch the world series.
I vowed that I would eat a steak and drink red wine every other day for the month that I stayed in Argentina, and I have kept my vow. However, I didn't really think the plan through and I am now carrying a decent bit of weight. In fact, some shirts are now off limits as my paunch is too visible. Normally I would let this bother me, and maybe even get a little down but not anymore. Life is too short for any negative thoughts, and I make a pact with myself to drop the weight as soon as I get home. A mate is running the marathon next year so I'm going to train with him.
I've done it before and I'll do it again.
The next afternoon I wake up slowly. It's hard to get up early when you only get to bed at 4am, and that's considered early over here! People go to clubs at this time, not go home. It's mental. I eventually get downstairs and hear that the ex president has died, and that because of this, the country will go into 3 days of mourning. 3 days! he's not even the current president, but the current president is his wife so she basically does whatever she likes, which includes making the subway system free, and canceling ALL the league football! which means that my trip to see Boca Juniors is off. Out of the fucking window. Gutted. It was the only thing I wanted to do in Buenos Aires, apart from eat steak, drink wine, go clubbing, and kiss girls. I'm sick of doing anything else.
The next night Danny and I decide to have a change and go to eat sushi. We get in, order some sake, water, beers, and loads of fish. The waiter comes back with some drinks but Danny isn't happy,
"uhm senor, es possible, sake caliente?"
"did you just ask for the sake to be hot? I've already done that" I said,
"yeah but it's cold" replies Danny,
We both look at the table and Danny lifts his wine glass and repeats,
"it's cold"
"yes Danny, it is cold, but that's because it's water" I try to say without laughing.
That night we get really drunk and meet an English fella called Shane in a Irish pub. He'd managed to get himself into a conversation with a mental local guy, but we rescue him. We go downstairs and there's a proper cool nightclub under the Irish pub, it's a massive contrast but it works really well. Then we head to a super club called crowbar, but by that point I don't really have the faculties to really take it in. It's the most drunk I've been in a good couple of months. It's wicked.
We fall out of the club at 7:30am and into bright sunshine, and maybe it's because I'm not full of drugs, as I normally am if I fall out of a club at this hour, but the light is blinding. We hail a cab and sing Michael Jackson all the way home.
Wednesday 10 November 2010
Mendoza. God, I love wine and I love life, a Frenchman excels, and I meet someone who knows George Bush.
Having left Bariloche and all its picture postcard beauty I expected Mendoza to look exactly the same, especially as the only thing I know about Mendoza is that it is home to some of the best wineries in the world. For some reason I expected a tiny bus station, surrounded by acres of vine trees, and one hostel.
Not for the first time on this trip I find myself painfully wide of the mark. Mendoza is a big cosmopolitan city, and having been re-built following an earthquake in 1861, its wide streets are majestic and impressive. The town's economy is booming, and it has a lot to do with the popularity if its wine, notably the red malbec.
I get to my hostel, the Damajuana, and get a tour around. Swimming pool, little bar area, TV, clean beds, good bathrooms. The place is also bang in the middle of the most popular bar and eating area of the city. Everything is coming up roses for my penultimate living quarters.
It's been 5 months by now and I've had enough of churches, seen plenty of old things in museums, marveled at too much local architecture, and done enough activities. It's time to really focus all my energy on one main goal: drinking and eating my body weight in red wine and steak. So I retire to the pool with a beer and take in the late afternoon sunshine.
I meet a happy Texan called William O'Neil, he's gregarious and laid back, in a way that only Americans can be, and he's great. Turns out he's in my dorm too so we share some beers and agree to go and see the world famous Mr Hugo.
Mr Hugo has basically got the life we all want, he does nothing, earns a shit load of money, gets pissed every day, and makes about 60 - 80 new best friends every single day. Except Sundays. Which he has off to do something even better than what he does the rest of the week. The lucky old fucker.
And how does he do this I hear all 4 of you ask?
Here's how it works:
For 70 peso Mr Hugo will have you collected from your hostel and driven for 30 miles into the heart of stunning wine making country.
You get dropped off and are met by a big smiling fellow with one of those cheery round stomachs, a bit like a beach ball under a shirt, the sort of stomach that doesn't make you want to be sick straight away, more give him a cuddle.
This man (Mr Hugo himself) will then ply you with good wine, and will get you to happily sign an agreement that completely clears him of any blame, fault, or liability should you get mowed down by a lorry or killed whilst out riding one of his bicycles.
Then he'll give you a map, a red bike, another 2 glasses of wine, and wave you off.
Then he sits there and does whatever he wants and waits for you to crash back into his driveway 6 hours later, whereupon you'll be given yet more wine, before he decides to put you in a taxi and send you on your merry way.
Now this may sound like some small time operation Hugo's got going on but he's got 156 bikes in his garage, and the power of word of mouth at his disposal. I'd heard of his amazingness all the way back in Brazil, long before I'd even got to Mendoza, the man is cleaning up. And good luck to him.
Me and Billy get on our bikes and shakily ride off, I've not ridden in 4 months, Bill in 15 years, so the first few hundred meters are quite nervous. And dangerous. We decide to counteract this with a couple of glasses of absinthe, just to settle the nerves.
After the settler we head off around and explore the local wineries, having tastings, and enjoying the sunshine. We finish the tour back at Hugo's, him with a massive 'money for fuck all' grin on his face, and a big jug of wine in his hand. What a legend.
Back at the hostel Billy and I get chatting to some of the other guests, A Frenchmen (who's identity I have been asked to keep secret), a top bloke called Danny, a heart broken lad called Phil, who's Argentinian wife had just left him, and some other assorted peeps. The atmosphere is great and we all have a laugh and I realize that I don't want to go home anymore. This is way too much fun. We hit the bars and have the banter.
We come back to the cool bar next to the hostel and a Danish girl comes up to us and says,
"you guys are staying in our hostel, would you like to join us?"
she then pointed to a table of 3 other Danish girls. Billy jumps over the barrier onto the terrace, I push the Frenchmen out of the way, and Phil somehow manages to just appear at the girls table.
We all set about drinking and chirping to the ladies but it's quickly clear that the Danish girl who invited us over did so because she was all over the Frenchmen. The rest of us are a trio of wing men.
For us the night comes to an abrupt end when a couple of the girls tease Billy about Americas ex president, and foreign policy in general. Billy simply retorts with,
"He's the Daddy of one of my buddies from college and he's a real good guy. Y'all'd like him if you met him"
I've never seen a room empty so fast, and within a few seconds it was just me, Billy, the Frenchmen, and the Danish who wanted the Frenchmen.
"You'd really like him though" says Billy to the backs of the leaving people.
The Frenchmen takes the Danish upstairs, pulls his mattress off his bed, uses it to barricade himself and the Danish into the communal bathroom and proceeds to have loud sex with her.
The master of seduction will then have sex with an American lady on the grass by the pool not even 24 hours later! The guy is a machine.
The following day I have an appointment at one of the biggest wineries in the area, Septima. This has been arranged by a friend of mine who owns a Argentinian steak house in London. I am to have a private tour around the vineyard, factory, and laboratory. Followed by a hour of tasting their entire collection, finally ending with a lunch on the roof terrace of the winery with the international sales director.
It's the best day of my life.
From the table at lunch I could see the Andes, the company was excellent, the food sublime, and the wine heartbreakingly good.
My car arrives and as we drive through the 150 hectares of vine trees, and out of the winery, I'm struck by a wonderful feeling of tranquility and calm. My time is nearing it's end but I know that I've seen and done some wonderful things and I don't mind that it's going to stop soon.
We have another night out in Mendoza, I make jokes about Danny's possibly massive cock (he's 6,7 for god sake! It must be like a lamppost. I got the chance to have a stare a few days later when we went to the cinema, and we both used the toilet post film. I didn't have the bottle and used the cubical. It's one thing to make jokes about a giant cock the size of a elephant trunk, but it's another to stand next to it while you're holding your own tiny* wedge) and we all have a wicked night.
The next day is football in the park with the locals, then a night bus to Buenos Aires.
The end of the line.
*While my Father assures me, almost fanatically, that size doesn't matter, it does. Just ask ------ -------- (ha. no chance I'm writing those! names down. You know who you are)
And mine's more than fine thank you very much. At least I think so.....although an ex did say she didn't feel the passion anymore......maybe it was the passion of a small penis? oh god! what if she was lying to me? people lie to be nice don't they? But they can't all be lying to be nice? Not every single one of them? Can they? I'm not small, 5,9 isn't midget small height wise. And it's in proportion. I guess it's not baton size when it's not busy, but let me tell you! When there's a job to be done! he'll stand up and be counted! I've been to the public pool, it holds its own against the others. But the water's cold! that means shrinkage! oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Not for the first time on this trip I find myself painfully wide of the mark. Mendoza is a big cosmopolitan city, and having been re-built following an earthquake in 1861, its wide streets are majestic and impressive. The town's economy is booming, and it has a lot to do with the popularity if its wine, notably the red malbec.
I get to my hostel, the Damajuana, and get a tour around. Swimming pool, little bar area, TV, clean beds, good bathrooms. The place is also bang in the middle of the most popular bar and eating area of the city. Everything is coming up roses for my penultimate living quarters.
It's been 5 months by now and I've had enough of churches, seen plenty of old things in museums, marveled at too much local architecture, and done enough activities. It's time to really focus all my energy on one main goal: drinking and eating my body weight in red wine and steak. So I retire to the pool with a beer and take in the late afternoon sunshine.
I meet a happy Texan called William O'Neil, he's gregarious and laid back, in a way that only Americans can be, and he's great. Turns out he's in my dorm too so we share some beers and agree to go and see the world famous Mr Hugo.
Mr Hugo has basically got the life we all want, he does nothing, earns a shit load of money, gets pissed every day, and makes about 60 - 80 new best friends every single day. Except Sundays. Which he has off to do something even better than what he does the rest of the week. The lucky old fucker.
And how does he do this I hear all 4 of you ask?
Here's how it works:
For 70 peso Mr Hugo will have you collected from your hostel and driven for 30 miles into the heart of stunning wine making country.
You get dropped off and are met by a big smiling fellow with one of those cheery round stomachs, a bit like a beach ball under a shirt, the sort of stomach that doesn't make you want to be sick straight away, more give him a cuddle.
This man (Mr Hugo himself) will then ply you with good wine, and will get you to happily sign an agreement that completely clears him of any blame, fault, or liability should you get mowed down by a lorry or killed whilst out riding one of his bicycles.
Then he'll give you a map, a red bike, another 2 glasses of wine, and wave you off.
Then he sits there and does whatever he wants and waits for you to crash back into his driveway 6 hours later, whereupon you'll be given yet more wine, before he decides to put you in a taxi and send you on your merry way.
Now this may sound like some small time operation Hugo's got going on but he's got 156 bikes in his garage, and the power of word of mouth at his disposal. I'd heard of his amazingness all the way back in Brazil, long before I'd even got to Mendoza, the man is cleaning up. And good luck to him.
Me and Billy get on our bikes and shakily ride off, I've not ridden in 4 months, Bill in 15 years, so the first few hundred meters are quite nervous. And dangerous. We decide to counteract this with a couple of glasses of absinthe, just to settle the nerves.
After the settler we head off around and explore the local wineries, having tastings, and enjoying the sunshine. We finish the tour back at Hugo's, him with a massive 'money for fuck all' grin on his face, and a big jug of wine in his hand. What a legend.
Back at the hostel Billy and I get chatting to some of the other guests, A Frenchmen (who's identity I have been asked to keep secret), a top bloke called Danny, a heart broken lad called Phil, who's Argentinian wife had just left him, and some other assorted peeps. The atmosphere is great and we all have a laugh and I realize that I don't want to go home anymore. This is way too much fun. We hit the bars and have the banter.
We come back to the cool bar next to the hostel and a Danish girl comes up to us and says,
"you guys are staying in our hostel, would you like to join us?"
she then pointed to a table of 3 other Danish girls. Billy jumps over the barrier onto the terrace, I push the Frenchmen out of the way, and Phil somehow manages to just appear at the girls table.
We all set about drinking and chirping to the ladies but it's quickly clear that the Danish girl who invited us over did so because she was all over the Frenchmen. The rest of us are a trio of wing men.
For us the night comes to an abrupt end when a couple of the girls tease Billy about Americas ex president, and foreign policy in general. Billy simply retorts with,
"He's the Daddy of one of my buddies from college and he's a real good guy. Y'all'd like him if you met him"
I've never seen a room empty so fast, and within a few seconds it was just me, Billy, the Frenchmen, and the Danish who wanted the Frenchmen.
"You'd really like him though" says Billy to the backs of the leaving people.
The Frenchmen takes the Danish upstairs, pulls his mattress off his bed, uses it to barricade himself and the Danish into the communal bathroom and proceeds to have loud sex with her.
The master of seduction will then have sex with an American lady on the grass by the pool not even 24 hours later! The guy is a machine.
The following day I have an appointment at one of the biggest wineries in the area, Septima. This has been arranged by a friend of mine who owns a Argentinian steak house in London. I am to have a private tour around the vineyard, factory, and laboratory. Followed by a hour of tasting their entire collection, finally ending with a lunch on the roof terrace of the winery with the international sales director.
It's the best day of my life.
From the table at lunch I could see the Andes, the company was excellent, the food sublime, and the wine heartbreakingly good.
My car arrives and as we drive through the 150 hectares of vine trees, and out of the winery, I'm struck by a wonderful feeling of tranquility and calm. My time is nearing it's end but I know that I've seen and done some wonderful things and I don't mind that it's going to stop soon.
We have another night out in Mendoza, I make jokes about Danny's possibly massive cock (he's 6,7 for god sake! It must be like a lamppost. I got the chance to have a stare a few days later when we went to the cinema, and we both used the toilet post film. I didn't have the bottle and used the cubical. It's one thing to make jokes about a giant cock the size of a elephant trunk, but it's another to stand next to it while you're holding your own tiny* wedge) and we all have a wicked night.
The next day is football in the park with the locals, then a night bus to Buenos Aires.
The end of the line.
*While my Father assures me, almost fanatically, that size doesn't matter, it does. Just ask ------ -------- (ha. no chance I'm writing those! names down. You know who you are)
And mine's more than fine thank you very much. At least I think so.....although an ex did say she didn't feel the passion anymore......maybe it was the passion of a small penis? oh god! what if she was lying to me? people lie to be nice don't they? But they can't all be lying to be nice? Not every single one of them? Can they? I'm not small, 5,9 isn't midget small height wise. And it's in proportion. I guess it's not baton size when it's not busy, but let me tell you! When there's a job to be done! he'll stand up and be counted! I've been to the public pool, it holds its own against the others. But the water's cold! that means shrinkage! oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
Friday 5 November 2010
Bariloche, Horseriding, wifeswapping, and meat.
Bariloche sits at the foot of the Andes, and the town nestles on the side of the Gutiérrez Lake, and it's surrounded by yet more mountains and lakes. It's also only a few hours away from the Chilean border, so it's a beautiful destination and hub for people moving across to Chile.
For some reason, I'm going to guess the mountains and snow, it reminds me of Austria. The little, wooden houses and chocolatiers finish the look. It a lovely, quaint little town, and I sort of fall in love with the place.
My hostel (hostel 1004) is on the 10th floor of a block of flats that wouldn't look out of place in Hackney. It's right in the middle of the town, overlooking the principal square. I was expecting a quaint, wooden, cottage style hostel, but as I read the easily understandable profanity on the walls of the smelly service lift I realize that my expectations are to be curbed a little.
The guy who owns the hostel has basically bought half of the 10th floor of the block, he's then knocked through 3 apartments at the end to make a reception, kitchen, living area, some bedrooms, and a observation deck. Then he's turned the other flats into dorm rooms. It's amazing and the views across the square and beyond the lake make me feel a little giddy.
There's loads to do and I'm meeting 2 lovely peeps from London that I met in Puerto Madryn, Kat and Adam.
Now sitting on a large animal while it throws you around the countryside is a activity I've always left for jockeys and people making animal porn. There was a incident on a school trip when a horse initially stood on my foot, then bolted for the gate while I was sitting on it. I was only 10 at the time. I still believe to this day that he had a personal problem with me. It could have been the red hair but I don't want to speculate, only to say that since then me and the horses have kept a respectful distance, me in cities, them in fields.
But I am here only once and getting out of your comfort zone is the challenge so I agree to go horse riding round the lake. When we get there and the guy readies the horses I can see that he's paired me up with a ginger horse, I believe that he knows that a ginger would never turn on another ginger, irrespective of species, and I bond with 'caramello' like that fella did with the flying thing in Avatar. But minus the weird hair/tentacles thing. I do try some horse whispering though but Caramello just ignores me.
We trundle along very slowly but the scenery is worth the painfully slow progress, I try kicking Caramello into a trot but he's not bothered, and I acknowledge the unspoken words,
"mate, you're up there because I let you be up there, you kick me again and I'll put you back on the floor, and on your arse"
Animals this big are essentially in charge, and ultimately they are big enough to do it or not do it. They don't even need those whips at the horse racing, I think they're there to make the midget jockeys look a bit more hard.
After a few painful hours we come to an end and have a parrilla, which is just meat bought to you on regular intervals until you're sick, or have the decency to say 'enough'.
That night we all get together and head to the best steakhouse in town, and I get my first taste of supposedly the best meat in Argentina, possibly the continent. The west has always been considered the best area for wines and steak and I am not going to disagree. My filet melts in my mouth like a succulent, beef tasting ice cream, and the wine is so smooth that at one point I slide of my chair. I sit and listen to the banter round the table but the mixture of sublime tastes almost brings a tear to my eye. And I haven't even got to Mendoza yet! or Buenos Aires!
I spend the next couple of days lazing around town and eating the unbelievable chocolate. I am now only 13 days away from going home and the date is so close I'm ready for it. I miss my friends so much that I can't wait to just sit in a pub and listen to my friends speak and jabber rubbish. It's such a strong emotion when I think about my friends and family that I try to fill my mind with anything else, mostly the amazing sites around me, and the podcasts on my Iphone.
There's a 'bring a bottle of wine night' at the hostel, organized by the girls who work there. It's a little odd because the hostel decor is all 70s kaftan and hippy rugs. Then they add some 'mood' lighting and some really bad disco. The girls from the hostel start dancing and it suddenly feels like a early 80s wife swapping party. But you get chatting to the other guests and I meet a amazing Irish couple who have upped sticks and gone traveling for a year and a half, and they've only just started. I am a bit jealous but I just want to get home.
The next day I head to Mendoza. And I've been waiting for this for almost 4 months. The home of malbec wine. This is where things get fat and funny.
For some reason, I'm going to guess the mountains and snow, it reminds me of Austria. The little, wooden houses and chocolatiers finish the look. It a lovely, quaint little town, and I sort of fall in love with the place.
My hostel (hostel 1004) is on the 10th floor of a block of flats that wouldn't look out of place in Hackney. It's right in the middle of the town, overlooking the principal square. I was expecting a quaint, wooden, cottage style hostel, but as I read the easily understandable profanity on the walls of the smelly service lift I realize that my expectations are to be curbed a little.
The guy who owns the hostel has basically bought half of the 10th floor of the block, he's then knocked through 3 apartments at the end to make a reception, kitchen, living area, some bedrooms, and a observation deck. Then he's turned the other flats into dorm rooms. It's amazing and the views across the square and beyond the lake make me feel a little giddy.
There's loads to do and I'm meeting 2 lovely peeps from London that I met in Puerto Madryn, Kat and Adam.
Now sitting on a large animal while it throws you around the countryside is a activity I've always left for jockeys and people making animal porn. There was a incident on a school trip when a horse initially stood on my foot, then bolted for the gate while I was sitting on it. I was only 10 at the time. I still believe to this day that he had a personal problem with me. It could have been the red hair but I don't want to speculate, only to say that since then me and the horses have kept a respectful distance, me in cities, them in fields.
But I am here only once and getting out of your comfort zone is the challenge so I agree to go horse riding round the lake. When we get there and the guy readies the horses I can see that he's paired me up with a ginger horse, I believe that he knows that a ginger would never turn on another ginger, irrespective of species, and I bond with 'caramello' like that fella did with the flying thing in Avatar. But minus the weird hair/tentacles thing. I do try some horse whispering though but Caramello just ignores me.
We trundle along very slowly but the scenery is worth the painfully slow progress, I try kicking Caramello into a trot but he's not bothered, and I acknowledge the unspoken words,
"mate, you're up there because I let you be up there, you kick me again and I'll put you back on the floor, and on your arse"
Animals this big are essentially in charge, and ultimately they are big enough to do it or not do it. They don't even need those whips at the horse racing, I think they're there to make the midget jockeys look a bit more hard.
After a few painful hours we come to an end and have a parrilla, which is just meat bought to you on regular intervals until you're sick, or have the decency to say 'enough'.
That night we all get together and head to the best steakhouse in town, and I get my first taste of supposedly the best meat in Argentina, possibly the continent. The west has always been considered the best area for wines and steak and I am not going to disagree. My filet melts in my mouth like a succulent, beef tasting ice cream, and the wine is so smooth that at one point I slide of my chair. I sit and listen to the banter round the table but the mixture of sublime tastes almost brings a tear to my eye. And I haven't even got to Mendoza yet! or Buenos Aires!
I spend the next couple of days lazing around town and eating the unbelievable chocolate. I am now only 13 days away from going home and the date is so close I'm ready for it. I miss my friends so much that I can't wait to just sit in a pub and listen to my friends speak and jabber rubbish. It's such a strong emotion when I think about my friends and family that I try to fill my mind with anything else, mostly the amazing sites around me, and the podcasts on my Iphone.
There's a 'bring a bottle of wine night' at the hostel, organized by the girls who work there. It's a little odd because the hostel decor is all 70s kaftan and hippy rugs. Then they add some 'mood' lighting and some really bad disco. The girls from the hostel start dancing and it suddenly feels like a early 80s wife swapping party. But you get chatting to the other guests and I meet a amazing Irish couple who have upped sticks and gone traveling for a year and a half, and they've only just started. I am a bit jealous but I just want to get home.
The next day I head to Mendoza. And I've been waiting for this for almost 4 months. The home of malbec wine. This is where things get fat and funny.
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