Buenos Aires Revisited

So you may well ask, this year long solo voyage of self discovery thing - how was it going? Had I had an epiphany, or was it just giardia? Had I searched my soul, or its homonym with a stick after wading through foot high piles of dog shit lining Chile's streets? Well, neither of the good ones there, but I had met up with my little sister; aunt and uncle; mother and father on a different continent; so even if I'd had the inclination, there wasn't the requisite healing time for my body piercing wounds before the next family gathering for me to find myself spiritually or metallurgically.

Anyway, I'm getting a little ahead of myself; which causes all sorts of problems at passport control and with the chronological accuracy of this narrative. So let's go back to Pucon, or more precisely, the corner shop next to my hostel which was also the bus stop for the trans-Andean and trans-mission-less bus to San Martin de los Andes (de los Argentinians, del mundo, del universo). It was raining. Not that rain could dampen my spirits or punning ability, but it had me a little on edge - rain in Pucon meant snow at the small mountain pass my bus was aiming for. As it turned out, my bus kind of aimed at it in a sideways fishtailing mode; which seemed to do the trick, not that I would have noticed were it not for the Fran Drescher-esque commentary by the larger than petri-dish-of-life American lady behind me. Her hair was quite large. Maybe that was why she spoke loudly - I imagine speech would sound quite muffled on the other side of 14 inches of power perm.

I didn't stick around in San Martin terribly long - long enough to admire the enormous kettle at the bus station and to run - quite improbably - into (and bus to BA with) a particularly sodden pair of Venezuelans I'd met in Torres del Paine. Hmmm: tea, towels, improbability, drives - this story needs a robot with an oversized head.

Another bus montage scene later (Mana unplugged, bus driving off on Miguel and I when we went to the loo in Neuquen) and I was checked straight back into the Milhouse for BA round 2. This time was a little different though, as instead of having in depth conversations with fellow backpackers on the ethics of travelling and our social responibility in the countries we visited; drinking 9 litres of very cheap beer and flipping plastic cups upside down; I went out for the high life and dinner with my Aunt (Viv) and Uncle (Lawson) at Bar 6 in Palermo. It was halfway through my main course of slow cooked lamb shank that I decided my journey of spiritual enlightenment could bugger off and I would be detouring on the gastronomic high road for a little while.


Back in backpacker mode, one of my sorta-must-do things was going to a South American soccer match. Preferably one with flares, stampedes, riot police and no soccer. Unfortunately the match I chose had more opposition players than supporters (which were like caged monkeys, except they were throwing bottles rather than poo, in the main), so the crowd kept themselves busy watching footage of yours truly on the big screen.

I was actually very glad for the second visit to BA, as it meant I could visit some of the more famous tourist attractions I'd missed the first time around: the Recoleta Necropolis, the zoo, Rumi, The Bourne Ultimatum. It was actually after returning from my second viewing of Bourne that I found a curious email from my father along the lines of "we're in BA, we're calling the embassy because we think you've been kidnapped and now you've missed your Mother's birthday - I hope for your sake you've been kidnapped." So just how I managed to get my parents' arrival date wrong was anyone's guess - I'm blaming it on the international date line, eating too much red meat and spending the previous 9 months essentially not knowing what day it was. Not through drunkenness, Mum.

It was not long after checking out of the (Mil)whorehouse and checking into Mama and Papa's plush Palermian pad that I discovered that self discovery was on the Discovery channel all along and I needn't have bothered with the whole trip. I also discovered that parents in holiday mode tend to do about twice as much stuff every day as the average backpacker; they had this interesting concept called "morning" (no I don't know what it really was either - don't worry - I don't think it'll catch on). But like any true homo sapien mobile disco, I quickly adapted to their ways and used this "morning" to do some "stuff". Of this, I would like to tell you of three good bits, none of which are on the normal backpackers to-do list, and only one that you have to do in the morning:

1. Forget El Deznivel, the fun in that places hinges on whether or not you have The Bear as a waiter. The place to go for inter-table fun is El Obrero, in La Boca. OK, so the food's pretty much the same (2kg of kidney for 8 pesos); it's in a shitty part of town under a bridge, but a cab there will cost you about about $1 each and it's definitely worth the trek.

2. Owing to the distinct lack of backpackers out there, I can only surmise that the delta only gets a very brief mention in the pink bible. I reckon it's probably a top three BA attraction (along with a Boca Jnrs match - though I missed out; hanging out in Palermo - food, bars, shopping - just a cool place; and the Bourne Ultimatum - OK, top four). You have to catch a rather naff tourist train out there then jump on a local ferry (which is cool), but then you're off wandering around ship-shaped holiday homes, prodding (presumed dead, presumed incorrectly) snakes with your foot, and generally getting lost in a very different part of BA.

3. One of my favourite hot dinners of the whole trip was at Casa Felix. On the recommendation of a friend I made on the Navimag (Marc), I took my parents out for dinner for the birthdays and parents' days I'd missed throughout the year. Not much to say really; great atmosphere, top notch food and wine, Diego and his wife are lovely (you eat at their home). I guess it was just one of those rare occasions when I felt like I was living in the city, rather than just travelling through it. God that sounded gay