Buenos Aires

To fly or to bus? A damned difficult question to answer if the sod who asked it hasn't provided any context. Safe answer is "to bus", as apart from probably dying, flying in South America is a false economy of time once you figure in the obligatory 4 - 10 hour delays. Well Claire was sold on this false economy and the tickets were sold on a false credit card, so I guess the numbers worked in our favour. Fortunately the pilot's last announcement wasn't to the tune of "OH GOD! WE'RE GOING DOWN! WE'RE A GLEAMING WHITE COCOON OF DEATH!" and we landed safely, albeit 5 hours late, in Buenos Aires.

My 2.5 hours of Spanish lessons in Lima had been enough to survive for 7 weeks in Peru and Bolivia ("baño", "Imodium", "No gracias", "I said, NO gracias", "they're thongs - you can't polish thongs"); so I thought travelling in Argentina was going to be a cinch. Battling with a BA map that put up at South-West, (for the uninitiated) an unpronounceable street address for our hostel (Hipolito Yrigoyen), a half blind cab driver who couldn't read the map (upside down), followed by a brisk pack-walk the right way down the wrong street and I realised Claire and I might be in a little bit of llit.

As this was my little sister's last week in South America, I was determined to get her to act like a responsible backpacker and do some serious drinking. So we stayed at the Milhouse; where the ugly alternative to drinking is listening to people have sex all night: from the cinema next door (if you're lucky), or in your dorm (if you're unlucky).

We were unlucky.

Thus far I've shied away from recounting sordid stories of dormitory debauchery in this mostly one-way forum; this is not because of my inability or unwillingness to foray into the challenging genre of stylised erotic non-fiction, I've got loads of lines worked out for the juicy bits already: ... her skin was as smooth and white as the congealed fat on a cold steak ... not unlike retrieving a stuck gumboot from a peaty mire ... his breathing became determined and laboured like an asthmatic donkey ... etc.

A simile which quite neatly brings us back to the point that I awoke - though in this case the wheezing and fiddling of the asthmatic donkey was playing second fiddle to the cacophony of metal bunk beds and steel cage lockers reciprocating into alternate walls of our room. Being on the far side of that room, my sleepy eyes first opened to the shocking sight of two fellow backpackers on a top bunk, engaged in one of the least furtive acts of dormitory doing imaginable. My eyes then briefly looked towards my little sister clinging on for dear life - and praying for a swift death - in the lower and adjoining bunk to the ruckus; before closing in the vain hope that all this would go away so I could instantly fall back to sleep. OK, so not that it was likely, what with the equivalent metallic and organic noise of a rhinoceros tipping a car over continuing unabated at my now symbolically - though unnoticed - turned back; but I'm glad I didn't nod off before the drunken post-coital whispering. In an unexpected (though spectacularly unsuccessful) show of modesty; our female principal whispered to her man in a thick Irish lilt:
"I hate it when people can hear me fucking."
"What?" questioned the male lead, in an unspecific continental slur.
"I hate it... when people... can hear me fucking" she repeated, a little louder.
A dramatic pause followed, punctuated only be Claire's and my pillow-muffled giggling.
"... What?" he queried again clearly struggling with her accent and his afunctional synapses.
"I HATE IT... WHEN PEOPLE... CAN HEAR ME... FUCKING!"
(more giggling)
"... What?" he said.
"Oh forget it", she huffed.

The next morning, as far as searching-for-clothes/walks of shame go, our Irish girl's was top notch; helped in no small part by Claire's and my parrot-like renditions of the preceding night's dialogue.

Our first day in Buenos Aires was also the only day that Claire and I had to endure the Argentine equivalent of Vegemite: dulce de leche, which was served for breakfast at Milhouse. For anyone familiar with sweetened condensed milk, it's like that. For anyone familiar with pure evil, it's also like that. After a day of mediocre sight-seeing (La Boca) and plus-sized shopping (for our circa-6ft frames), Claire and I decided that we didn't need the mid-morning gustatory assault (or daylight) to enjoy BA, and entered the twilight zone... (well, mainly the bit after twilight).

Pursuing a nocturnal life in BA is very easy, given the locals' penchant for dining at 1-2am, clubbing til 8am (or more) and not doing very much of anything during the day. We had all three of these nailed by about the third day - though did manage to fit in a bit more plus-sized shopping in the late afternoons. I even managed to stave off Vitamin D deficiency by working in some Time Crisis 3/Daytona to my daily routine.

One of my favourite nights that week was at Club 69, which had a rather interesting and provocative drag (and maybe straight) show on a stage in front of the dance floor. After a solid two-minute "What the fuck?" moment experienced by myself and another Tassie escapee (Nick); we quickly put our agape mouths to use at the bar. We clearly spent a fair bit of time there, because halfway through the night I remember thinking all the feathers, leathers and dry-humping on stage was quite normal and probably in every nightclub these days. In retrospect, my perception of normality may have been somewhat skewed, as I also remember thinking that putting a tequila shot in my pocket was a perfectly acceptable solution to not being able to carry a round of seven back to the dance floor; then drinking five in quick succession after spilling that one down my leg and another down my front on the perilous return trip.

Of course, it wasn't all fast virtual cars and faster cross-dressed women; BA also has a fantastic dining scene, which I very much enjoyed: from eating bife de lomo and riñones with "the bear" in El Desnivel to sushi in Palermo - there are two constants: the food is always going to be great and there's going to be a lot of it. It's actually at the point where going to an all-you-can-eat restaurant is just a waste of time and money - unless you're going to drunkenly and mistakenly insist on tipping 100% on a 100 peso meal - Claire - then you save money.