My body hates me, which, if you look at the detestable things I've made it do over the years you can almost understand its quiet disdain and disgust of me.
I always thought we got on, my body and me. It was a dysfunctional relationship yes, I would get upset at certain sizes and curves my body had, and in turn, my body would reply,
"Well the size of your cock you can blame on your parents and the basic principals of genetics. As for being rotund, do some exercise and eat less shit you fat fuck"
But like any healthy union we were bonded together for eternity, because we didn't have a choice in the matter.
But now my body has gone too far, its stubborn and uncooperative actions have seriously put my marathon running hopes on the line. I have acute and constant pain in my left calf muscle every time I step down on my left leg to propel myself forward. Something you have to do quite a lot when you run,
"It's your own fucking fault you fucking mug" is the only thing my body says when I try to raise the matter with it,
"You can't swan around expecting to run 6 minute miles after you've done fuck all for 5 months, and then when we give you initial warning signals, don't fucking ignore them and carry on running! of course you're going to do more damage to yourself you wanker"
I had broken the first rule, always listen to what your body tells you, if you're in pain, stop. If you get fat, stop eating. If you're tired, go to sleep. If your penis gets sore, maybe try to curtail the 5 hour tantric wanks you treat yourself to on your day off. That sort of thing.
So I have been off the road, off my leg, and onto the couch. For a week I couldn't even climb stairs. The bitter irony of this whole situation is my usual love of doing precisely nothing. Being forced onto the couch because I can't walk would have been my go to option over anything, but now I am restless and depressed. Time's ticking away, and I'm not physically anywhere near ready to finish at the time I want, and that bothers me. It bothers me so much that I can't sleep, the thought of failure fills me with anger and indignation, and I hate myself for being so stupid, to be blinded by an obsession to beat my old time, and to ensure that I go faster than someone else.
I begin to run out of patience and decide to go and try some acupuncture and massage to try to relive the pain. Having never experienced the joy of loads of tiny needles thrust into my body, I am a little hesitant, but I've got to do something, so off I go.
The Chinese quack sits me lays me down, does some prodding and poking around my leg then says,
"Yes, your back very bad, we going to start there"
"But it's me leg that hurts"
"Yes" he says, then walks out of the room. I wonder if he's confused me with another patient, or if, in his anciently wise way, he's located the problem from my spine downwards. I begin to marvel at how complicated the body is, and how fascinating it is that a pain in my lower leg can be caused by something in my back.
1 hour and £90 later I float out of the place feeling excellent. I've had 40 minutes of relaxing massage and the sensation of tiny needles letting the pressure escape my body is wonderful,
"Now you must buy this medicine, and we do treatment 7 times to fix problem in your back and your leg" the quack is on me like a charity mugger in Covent Garden,
"If we don't do treatment, it's very bad for you"
I'm still in la la land from the massage, the heat, the needles, and the soothing music, my head's all over the place, but the fact that I've just been given the hard sell to procure some herbal tea, herbal leg wrap, and another 6 session of this, wakes me out of my soft cocoon, and straight into 'he's trying to cheat me' mode,
"I have got to do the marathon in 4 weeks, I don't have time to do this, or the money" I say, the quacks eyes light up!
"The marathon! oooo! Then we do double course! you come in 3 times a week! you need more medicine!" as he reaches for another boxes of the herbal stuff,
"no, no. I'll have one more session then see how we go"
I bound purposefully out of the shop and into the shopping centre, by the time I finish my shop in Sainsburys my leg's started hurting again. Motherfucking Motherfuckering Fuck Fuck!
After another week of rest and stretching I still can't shake this pain, and the start date looms over me like a massive black cloud, a bit like the wall of black in 'the 5th element'
I see the doctor and get a referral, then I find the best sports physiotherapist in London and book myself in. He takes one look at me, pulls my leg, cracks a few bones, cracks my back, then basically manually loosens all of my leg muscles by applying huge, agonizing pressure to my buttocks using only his thumb. If you want to have any idea of how painful this is give it a go on yourself, or perhaps a lover while they lie next to you.
From there he basically rips my legs to bits, then massages it all back in again,
"So, basically what you've done is torn the calf just a little, then you've also twisted your pelvis a bit there as well, then the alignment of your legs are off because your body has been leaning to one side to compensate, which has then caused more pressure and pain in this leg. And you've carried on running through this then have you?"
"Yes" I meekly replied.
"Then you're a fucking idiot then aren't you? The good news is that I've done your pelvis, and once the achy feeling has gone you should feel a little off balance as you correct yourself, but the pain should be gone, and we'll have you back to running by Tuesday, and you'll definitely be able to run the marathon"
I am so happy that for a brief second I consider noshing him off as a thank you, but I'll be seeing him for another few sessions so I decide not to fellate him to orgasm just that second.
Maybe after the marathon.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
I clear the air for all of us.
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
Before you read the rest of this I'd just like to say something in all seriousness. I know that some people's parents read this, I know that family friends read this, and I know that my Dad has occasionally glanced at it, and told me that I use swearing as a comedic device too often and that I should limit it. I would advise respectfully that everyone mentioned above not read this post. Just bypass this one, and wait for another one. Please?
The rest of this post is FULL of swear words. Full like a people carrier heading out of Libya.
And the swear words are surrounded by opinions that will offend almost 80% to 90% of you. But I've warned you now, and I hope that you admit that I'm basically right. Here we go then, ready?
I let my body calm down and offered very contrite apologies to it every few hours, but my body is stubborn and refusing to play ball, so every run I go on, acute pain spreads through my legs and feet. The rest of me is OK, I've started a meticulous carb free diet, with raw veg and fish being the main staple, and the body is grateful, but the muscles still hate me.
As I ran one night I was nagged by a memory of a conversation I'd had with a friend when I got back form traveling. He'd turned to me and said,
"I wanted to read your blog, because I was quite shocked by some things you'd said to me before you left. I was shocked and quite offended to be honest, as I'd never have thought you'd say something like that"
"Really?" I replied, quite shocked that I could have offended this big fella,
"what did I say? and I'm sorry if it caused you offence but what did I say?"
"you said that all women were slags. all of them were fucking slags"
"Oh. That."
And when you take it out of context it does come across as being a little, how do you say? massively hateful towards women?
I hadn't explained to him the full theory, I hadn't gone into the full extent of how horrible and hateful I thought women were. How they do, say, and act in the most heinous way to each other, and mostly towards the men they claim to love. I just said it in passing and forgotten about it. But now maybe the time is right to explain why I think all women are slags.
Firstly, I don't mean that they, maybe I should start using the word you? in case you are a women, reader. I don't mean that you are all sexually promiscuous, and happy to drop your draws to anyone, anytime, irrespective of your boyfriend, fiance, or husband. Although a lot of you have haven't you? You slags. But I don't mean that. What I mean is that you act in a way that is reprehensible, you emotionally damage and hurt other people without a secondary thought. Fallen in love with a new man? Love him? Tell him so? see a future with him? lovely. Go and fuck his best mate while he's on a holiday with his Dad? course you do. Excellent. Well done. Same goes for the way you treat your mates. Really close are you? get on really well? almost like sisters? lovely. You need friends. Then you start slagging her off to the rest of your mates, then you start edging her out of your circle of friends? Why not. Lovely. well done.
I know a girl who has strung along a guy for a number of years, happily swinging from 'I want to marry you' to 'I just don't think that it's right' without even thinking once about the damage she's doing to his head, heart, and life. Or hers for that matter. That's a slag. not the men she's fucked in between, who cares about that? It's the disregard for basic humanity that I can't sit with, you love this man, he loves you, and yet you continue to flit from one to the other without a care or acknowledgment of the damage you're causing. The word slag is simply a umbrella term for all the horrible things that you do to people.
And it's everywhere, I've heard of certain acts that truly amaze me, levels of disgracefulness and heartlessness that would make Count Dracula want organize his own intervention and go into rehab. And I don't mean individuals, because I know that at least 4 of you are thinking that I'm talking about you. Which I'm not. Well not specifically, obviously you fall under the umbrella, but I don't think you're the worse one. Promise.
And I know you must think that I'm a hateful, embittered, lonely, sad, man? Who's life has been crushed by a small number of women, that has left me raging and furious to all womankind?
And you'd be dead wrong. I'm not sad that women treat people this way. I'm not angry at any women at all. I love women, they gave me life, and they hold the key to prosperity, health, and peace for all mankind in the future. Women are amazing, subtle, complex beings and I think you're all amazing, and when I call you a slag, I do it with a rye smile and a shake of the head. And do you know why?
Because all men are cunts.
We are all vacuous, stupid, callous, self centered, brainless, cheating, lying, cunts. We don't care if we have sex with you, then never ever see you again. We don't care, or even know if there's a problem between the two of us, because we're too busy playing computer games and watching TV, wondering if the 'bad mood' your in is going to stop us from having sex with you later that night. We're so stupid that we waste years of our lives getting wasted, instead of realizing that the future is not 2 grams of coke, 4 E's and staying awake till Sunday. The future is building on the deep, loving friendship we share, and turning the dreams that we had into reality. We're so fucking stupid that we should be grateful that you even speak to us, let alone let us make the sex with you.
It goes without saying that I am none of the things I mentioned above. I'm joking, I am a cunt. But nowhere near as bad as some of the things I've seen and heard. Men in relationships that they should be counting their lucky stars to be in, running off and fucking the nearest thing they can find when there girlfriends are away.
Men who simply cannot be on their own, and would rather string a girl along for a year, rather than go to the cinema on their own, even though they know they don't love them, and she does love him, and he just carries on regardless. Men who sleep with their wives friends without even the thought of the damage and pain it might cause to their children. Cunts basically.
Everyone is either a slag or a cunt, Thankfully you're all good people, and good people meet, and eventually bond with good people. And while we all have the ability to be a slag or cunt to one another, we know that we're not as bad as the rest of the people we don't like or love. And that's the key, at some point your loved one will have either-
Been a slag/cunt
Will be a slag/cunt
Is a slag/cunt
And it's about how you want to proceed with that, I'd rather go with the one that was a slag/cunt and move on from there.
This train of thought got me about 11 miles when I had to stop. I'd run too hard again and could feel blood coming out of my foot.
Ahem.....so there we are then. What I think when I run. I won't apologise though.
Before you read the rest of this I'd just like to say something in all seriousness. I know that some people's parents read this, I know that family friends read this, and I know that my Dad has occasionally glanced at it, and told me that I use swearing as a comedic device too often and that I should limit it. I would advise respectfully that everyone mentioned above not read this post. Just bypass this one, and wait for another one. Please?
The rest of this post is FULL of swear words. Full like a people carrier heading out of Libya.
And the swear words are surrounded by opinions that will offend almost 80% to 90% of you. But I've warned you now, and I hope that you admit that I'm basically right. Here we go then, ready?
I let my body calm down and offered very contrite apologies to it every few hours, but my body is stubborn and refusing to play ball, so every run I go on, acute pain spreads through my legs and feet. The rest of me is OK, I've started a meticulous carb free diet, with raw veg and fish being the main staple, and the body is grateful, but the muscles still hate me.
As I ran one night I was nagged by a memory of a conversation I'd had with a friend when I got back form traveling. He'd turned to me and said,
"I wanted to read your blog, because I was quite shocked by some things you'd said to me before you left. I was shocked and quite offended to be honest, as I'd never have thought you'd say something like that"
"Really?" I replied, quite shocked that I could have offended this big fella,
"what did I say? and I'm sorry if it caused you offence but what did I say?"
"you said that all women were slags. all of them were fucking slags"
"Oh. That."
And when you take it out of context it does come across as being a little, how do you say? massively hateful towards women?
I hadn't explained to him the full theory, I hadn't gone into the full extent of how horrible and hateful I thought women were. How they do, say, and act in the most heinous way to each other, and mostly towards the men they claim to love. I just said it in passing and forgotten about it. But now maybe the time is right to explain why I think all women are slags.
Firstly, I don't mean that they, maybe I should start using the word you? in case you are a women, reader. I don't mean that you are all sexually promiscuous, and happy to drop your draws to anyone, anytime, irrespective of your boyfriend, fiance, or husband. Although a lot of you have haven't you? You slags. But I don't mean that. What I mean is that you act in a way that is reprehensible, you emotionally damage and hurt other people without a secondary thought. Fallen in love with a new man? Love him? Tell him so? see a future with him? lovely. Go and fuck his best mate while he's on a holiday with his Dad? course you do. Excellent. Well done. Same goes for the way you treat your mates. Really close are you? get on really well? almost like sisters? lovely. You need friends. Then you start slagging her off to the rest of your mates, then you start edging her out of your circle of friends? Why not. Lovely. well done.
I know a girl who has strung along a guy for a number of years, happily swinging from 'I want to marry you' to 'I just don't think that it's right' without even thinking once about the damage she's doing to his head, heart, and life. Or hers for that matter. That's a slag. not the men she's fucked in between, who cares about that? It's the disregard for basic humanity that I can't sit with, you love this man, he loves you, and yet you continue to flit from one to the other without a care or acknowledgment of the damage you're causing. The word slag is simply a umbrella term for all the horrible things that you do to people.
And it's everywhere, I've heard of certain acts that truly amaze me, levels of disgracefulness and heartlessness that would make Count Dracula want organize his own intervention and go into rehab. And I don't mean individuals, because I know that at least 4 of you are thinking that I'm talking about you. Which I'm not. Well not specifically, obviously you fall under the umbrella, but I don't think you're the worse one. Promise.
And I know you must think that I'm a hateful, embittered, lonely, sad, man? Who's life has been crushed by a small number of women, that has left me raging and furious to all womankind?
And you'd be dead wrong. I'm not sad that women treat people this way. I'm not angry at any women at all. I love women, they gave me life, and they hold the key to prosperity, health, and peace for all mankind in the future. Women are amazing, subtle, complex beings and I think you're all amazing, and when I call you a slag, I do it with a rye smile and a shake of the head. And do you know why?
Because all men are cunts.
We are all vacuous, stupid, callous, self centered, brainless, cheating, lying, cunts. We don't care if we have sex with you, then never ever see you again. We don't care, or even know if there's a problem between the two of us, because we're too busy playing computer games and watching TV, wondering if the 'bad mood' your in is going to stop us from having sex with you later that night. We're so stupid that we waste years of our lives getting wasted, instead of realizing that the future is not 2 grams of coke, 4 E's and staying awake till Sunday. The future is building on the deep, loving friendship we share, and turning the dreams that we had into reality. We're so fucking stupid that we should be grateful that you even speak to us, let alone let us make the sex with you.
It goes without saying that I am none of the things I mentioned above. I'm joking, I am a cunt. But nowhere near as bad as some of the things I've seen and heard. Men in relationships that they should be counting their lucky stars to be in, running off and fucking the nearest thing they can find when there girlfriends are away.
Men who simply cannot be on their own, and would rather string a girl along for a year, rather than go to the cinema on their own, even though they know they don't love them, and she does love him, and he just carries on regardless. Men who sleep with their wives friends without even the thought of the damage and pain it might cause to their children. Cunts basically.
Everyone is either a slag or a cunt, Thankfully you're all good people, and good people meet, and eventually bond with good people. And while we all have the ability to be a slag or cunt to one another, we know that we're not as bad as the rest of the people we don't like or love. And that's the key, at some point your loved one will have either-
Been a slag/cunt
Will be a slag/cunt
Is a slag/cunt
And it's about how you want to proceed with that, I'd rather go with the one that was a slag/cunt and move on from there.
This train of thought got me about 11 miles when I had to stop. I'd run too hard again and could feel blood coming out of my foot.
Ahem.....so there we are then. What I think when I run. I won't apologise though.
The unwanted return
So.......where was I?
Ah yes, I'd vowed to never write this blog again, as I had nothing left to write about or say. I'd run a marathon and traveled through South America, and yes, I'd learnt a lot about myself and had made my peace with this crazy thing called life. But there was no reason to come back to this blog, I'd said everything I could possibly have wanted to.
But something happened reader, something that would profoundly change me, something that would bring me back to this laptop to catalogue my thoughts, problems, and issues with life, and also to log my trials and pains as I try to run another marathon.
I got fat.
"You fat Fuck"Not obese or hideous, just fat. I'd gone from marathon build to a fat fuck in 6 amazing, fun filled months. You don't notice, well you do, you just pretend that it's fine.
The excesses of traveling life hit me with a fat punch to my stomach, and a choke hold to my arteries. My promise to myself to eat a steak every other day for month had backfired, and resulted in me being very weighty when I got back to London. Loved ones laughed, friends playfully renamed me 'Fatty Potter fat fat' and a girl who I care very deeply for told me that I repulsed her. It was a shock to my system, luckily I had a rubber ring a blubber to protect me.
I got back and got a call from a charity, asking me if I'd consider running for them at this years marathon. I agreed immediately, knowing that I need goals and targets to achieve in life, and if I'm ever going to get off my fat arse and do something then helping this charity is a beautiful way of applying pressure on myself. This was in January, and the race is in April, I was in trouble but knew that I could do it.
First run back
Knowing that I was in bad shape, and knowing that I used to be able to run fast I set off quick. It quickly became clear that the feeling of running was different, I didn't feel loose and relaxed, I felt bloated and sick. With every forward step I could feel the excess of 5 months of steak, beer, chips, and rice bounce around my hefty belly. It felt like I had Maddie Mcann strapped to my stomach, except that if you consider decomposition I was easily carrying a heavier weight than her. You know, with her being dead and everything.
With every bone rattling step it felt like I was smashing into the hundreds of bottles of beer I'd drunk, I felt slow and unresponsive, like being out on a date with a special needs girl. This fueled an anger inside me, an anger that I'd let myself get to this position, and the thing about anger is that you make silly decisions when you're angry, so I decide to run faster. I did 5 miles in 39 minutes. I stopped outside my house and puked into a drain.
My body heaved a collective groan, and then the pain started. From the inside of my feet first, as the blisters decided to reveal themselves. then the calves and thighs, as they politely, and aggressively started making stabbing pains on regular, 3 second intervals. My chest was shaking with fury, the lungs and heart were sobbing wildly, like they'd just found out that they'd been conned out of their life savings by a heartless shyster. Then finally my brain, which at first was calm, then simply said,
"Well you fucked your body up, now it's going to fuck you up"
Then the brain started with a spine curling headache.
I am in trouble.
Monday, 15 November 2010
Part Two - Go back to part 1 first!
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
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
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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