It was a brisk early morning as I leapt onto the slowly moving bus. I had enjoyed a nice media luna and orange juice for breakfast and I was prepared to embark on yet another exciting journey. This new voyage would take me to some far away cultures, beautiful scenery, and the feeling that I had really taking myself out of my own environment. I was going to WINE COUNTRY!!!
The bus arrived promptly at 9am. It arrived, that is, to a small bench on the side of a dirt road. The bus driver indicated that this was indeed our stop and that it was time for us to get off and stop coming up to him every five minutes to ask if we had already pass our stop.
I leapt off the last step of the bus with an energetic zeal. However, I was quickly brought back to reality when a bustling town driven by the vino tinto and blanco commerce appeared to be just a small farming community where nothing was open. Oops.
We new that this was to be expected as the vineyards were all a bit spread out through the small town. For that we were going to need to rent bikes. Luckily, using my spanish wit and charm, HA!, I spoke to the local butcher to discover that we were in no way near a bike rental place.
As usual we decided to simply move our legs in search of someone who might know a bit more information that the blood soaked meat barren we had just met.
SIDE NOTE: While the people here are very friendly and always eager to help out a fellow traveler, I´ve noticed that most the people have no real idea what is going on or where they are or what things actually exist in their country. For that reason you just have to ask an average of 5 people to figure out something that could most often be delivered by one. I guess it´s a culture thing.
We walked and we walked and would you believe it? we walked bit more. We soaked up all the wonders of the charming town and spoak to the locals about our enthusiasm for their wine and their lack of enthusiam for the obvious cold that was seeping into every crack and weakness in our insufficient clothing.
After an hour of walking we did finally find a bike shop. It only took about 20 minutes to then stir the incompetent (we would later find out) employee of this fine rental shack. He gave us some some bikes and our free ¨drinks¨ which appeared to be gatorade bottles that way way have been from the 70s when the company first began. I don´t know if they think like wine all drinks are better with age, but I wasn´t about to test that.
Well, what would you know, I had a bike and some old gaterade and things were looking up. We picked a spot to make our first bodega visit and we were off.
We took a nice ride about 10 km down the nice tree shaded roads and I was excited for a day that would surely end in me being too buzzed in a place where I should have ¨respected my alcohol.¨ I could see great things on the horizon.
That was, until, BOOM! The pedal of my bike after a slowly withering struggle to stay on finally popped right off in the middle of the road. Luckily the bike was already crappy enough that I was riding rather slowly, so I didn´t fall too hard. I tried to fix it some how, but the bike had decided that it was broken and that there was no going back.
Of course the rest of the group slyly hid the irritating fact that their bikes were still shittily functioning just fine and now they would have to walk with me. I thought the solution would be simple as all we would have to do would be to arrive to the fist bodega, call the bike guy for a new bike, have some wine, and await his glorious arrival.
After that decision was made one hopeful thing happened and a mess of hopeless things occured. While taking my bike on a walk along the road I noticed some gentlemen working on a gate at the front of a resident´s house. I asked if they could help and what do you know, they had a full tool box and all the enthusiam needed to aid the idiot tourist who was obviously just beginning his day as the annoying drunk biker who had nothing to add to his town other than noise and car accidents.
He did what he could to fix the pedal and I thought all was saved. I was quickly brought back to a rather glib reality when the new problem arrived...the bike fell apart. The chain broke, the gears actually snapped off and the pedal fell off again. My bike basically said ¨Fuck you! I quit!¨ Oh did it quit. I knew right then that somehow this day was not going to be as easy as I thought it would be. But then, when is it ever easy. I wouldn´t be able to write these stories if life was always peachy, right?
We continued on the hopes that some bodega would be open for us to call the bike man while enjoying some vino, but vineyard after vineyard was closed Closed CLOSED! Crap.
What could we do but walk the 10 km back into town for the next 2 hours. I really thought that the day might be ruined and I irritatingly apologized over and over for something that was clearly not my fault.
Our first stroke of real luck hit when we arrived to the Cabrini Bodega. They were also closed, however the woman there not only called the bike guy finally, but they offered our first taste of some delicious Mendozan Malbec. It was great!
After the man arrived the day passed with the ease and delight I had hoped for that whole day. It was truly one of the best days I´ve had here in Argentina. We visited several vineyards, all very small, and we learned a lot about the cultivation of Argentine wines and how the process and culture behind it differs from wines in other countries. Ask me some time and I´ll tell you all about it. Not here though, because you´ve read enough and I want you, oh faithful reader, to take a break. Enjoy yourself, take a bike ride, have a glass of wine. Do anything you want to remind you of how great things are if you just maintain a healthy and happy attitude. Remember, there is no spoon!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Stank folk!
Roommates. Almost everyone has had some type of live in, roommate, friend crashing on the couch, or something to that extent. The difference is that usually you have the option to pick who it is you´re sharing your living space with. When traveling it´s not like that. At least, not when you´re traveling on dirt dollars and can only afford the bleakest of lodging.
I have stayed in some shady places in my life, but this recent location has been one of the most modest hostels I could have ever had nightmares about. Some things you might be able to agree upon would be the constant smell of cigarette smoke even though no one apears to be smoking in the hostel. That smell is even present when you´re sitting on the plastic toilet seat using toilet paper you can see through. Next, you continue to breath in the second hand smoke fumes while itchily walking over to the constantly damp and slippery shower with the see through shower curtain that is barely hanging on the pole. Ahhhh, now you´re ¨showered¨ and it´s time to go get a bit of shut eye. You lay down on your soggy bed and it feels like your skin is rubbing up against the skin of some other person. ¨Have these sheets ever been washed?¨ you wonder? Most likely not. So that´s the start, oh fellow readers, but more is to arrive when one considers the most enjoyable part of the whole experience: the roommates.
I first met our two delightful roommates when I was taking a most awkward nap at about 6 in the evening. You see, that morning I had arrived from a 23 hour bus ride and was feeling more than a bit disoriented and I was really in need of some sleep no matter the hour. Of course, once I had finally gotten to REM status these new people came in and disturbed my slumber. I attempted to be social, but I was inhibited by the fact that I had finally fallen into a heavy sleep coma only to be awoken 15 minutes later. I tried some social dribble and then decided that I was more grouchy than interested in getting to know people and I left to go to a new smoke filled room to read my book on a broken couch.
So that was the intro. Little did I know that while I would not speak to my roommates ever again, I would have many strange and uncomfortable experiences with my new bunkpals over the next two days.
That night I arrived home ready to get in an early night so that I could wake up for a day trip that was truly amazing. (Sure I could tell you about my beautiful ride through the Andes and my experience at one of the world´s largest salt flats, but I´d rather complain about these psychos.) I walked into my room and for once it didn´t reek of cigarrettes. Rather, the room was soaked in the most pungent stink of B.O. I have ever experienced. This English couple appeared to be about as smelly as a dead rotting moose on the side of the highway. Holy shit some stank!!!
Somehow, I managed some sleep despite the feeling of plague ridden rats crawling into my nostrils to then keel over and die inside of my olfactory system. However, I was awoken at some ungodly hour by these two bumbling doofuses. They bumped around and somehow infiltrated a bit a alcohol breath into the otherwise BO dominated cave and then they both left. Note: this hostel is very cheaply built and you can hear every tiny disturbance in the otherwise silent building.
What I heard next was something that took this couple into inconsiderate asshole overdrive. The sounds of passion went echoing throughout the whole of the hostel. That´s right, this couple was having steamy gross drunk sex in the bathroom which only a day later was covered in a newly pungent and black throwup. Yuck! After the passion came to an echoingly loud climax, the newly sweaty couple came into the room, made out some more on the bunk bed above me, and then passed out without putting on their bed sheets.
I didn´t see the couple the next day and that proved to be quite a pain in the ass too. The way our hostel works is that there is only one key for the room, which means that the last one out simply has to leave it on a hook in the main room. Not a problem right? Oh no, I got locked out of my room twice yesterday. Both times resulted in having to call the manager guy to come from his house to phyisically open the door who´s lock has only one key. Why the hostel would put all their faith in every random traveler is beyond me, but I guess I´m not in the biz.
After I finally got into bed again, these dicks arrived once again drunk and late and ready to make tons of noise and add extra stink to an already seweresque atmosphere. This time the girl passed out quickly which was nice only until 5 minutes into sleeping when she started to make some of the most bizzarre and gross noises in her sleep. The guy didn´t arrive for about 4 more hours and even then he crashed with all his clothes on.
When I woke up this morning both were in their unmade beds sleeping on old stained mattresses with all their clothes on. Do these people sound like pyschos or what??? Yes, they are. I don´t understand what is going through their heads at all. But...tis hostel life.
Luckily, thanks to my charming personality and my delightful command of the local tongue (Spanish) I was able to explain my utter displeasure to our hostel folk so well that they have decided to move me into my own private room at the same price. I will always choose to be a good person over an inconsiderate dickhead.
I have stayed in some shady places in my life, but this recent location has been one of the most modest hostels I could have ever had nightmares about. Some things you might be able to agree upon would be the constant smell of cigarette smoke even though no one apears to be smoking in the hostel. That smell is even present when you´re sitting on the plastic toilet seat using toilet paper you can see through. Next, you continue to breath in the second hand smoke fumes while itchily walking over to the constantly damp and slippery shower with the see through shower curtain that is barely hanging on the pole. Ahhhh, now you´re ¨showered¨ and it´s time to go get a bit of shut eye. You lay down on your soggy bed and it feels like your skin is rubbing up against the skin of some other person. ¨Have these sheets ever been washed?¨ you wonder? Most likely not. So that´s the start, oh fellow readers, but more is to arrive when one considers the most enjoyable part of the whole experience: the roommates.
I first met our two delightful roommates when I was taking a most awkward nap at about 6 in the evening. You see, that morning I had arrived from a 23 hour bus ride and was feeling more than a bit disoriented and I was really in need of some sleep no matter the hour. Of course, once I had finally gotten to REM status these new people came in and disturbed my slumber. I attempted to be social, but I was inhibited by the fact that I had finally fallen into a heavy sleep coma only to be awoken 15 minutes later. I tried some social dribble and then decided that I was more grouchy than interested in getting to know people and I left to go to a new smoke filled room to read my book on a broken couch.
So that was the intro. Little did I know that while I would not speak to my roommates ever again, I would have many strange and uncomfortable experiences with my new bunkpals over the next two days.
That night I arrived home ready to get in an early night so that I could wake up for a day trip that was truly amazing. (Sure I could tell you about my beautiful ride through the Andes and my experience at one of the world´s largest salt flats, but I´d rather complain about these psychos.) I walked into my room and for once it didn´t reek of cigarrettes. Rather, the room was soaked in the most pungent stink of B.O. I have ever experienced. This English couple appeared to be about as smelly as a dead rotting moose on the side of the highway. Holy shit some stank!!!
Somehow, I managed some sleep despite the feeling of plague ridden rats crawling into my nostrils to then keel over and die inside of my olfactory system. However, I was awoken at some ungodly hour by these two bumbling doofuses. They bumped around and somehow infiltrated a bit a alcohol breath into the otherwise BO dominated cave and then they both left. Note: this hostel is very cheaply built and you can hear every tiny disturbance in the otherwise silent building.
What I heard next was something that took this couple into inconsiderate asshole overdrive. The sounds of passion went echoing throughout the whole of the hostel. That´s right, this couple was having steamy gross drunk sex in the bathroom which only a day later was covered in a newly pungent and black throwup. Yuck! After the passion came to an echoingly loud climax, the newly sweaty couple came into the room, made out some more on the bunk bed above me, and then passed out without putting on their bed sheets.
I didn´t see the couple the next day and that proved to be quite a pain in the ass too. The way our hostel works is that there is only one key for the room, which means that the last one out simply has to leave it on a hook in the main room. Not a problem right? Oh no, I got locked out of my room twice yesterday. Both times resulted in having to call the manager guy to come from his house to phyisically open the door who´s lock has only one key. Why the hostel would put all their faith in every random traveler is beyond me, but I guess I´m not in the biz.
After I finally got into bed again, these dicks arrived once again drunk and late and ready to make tons of noise and add extra stink to an already seweresque atmosphere. This time the girl passed out quickly which was nice only until 5 minutes into sleeping when she started to make some of the most bizzarre and gross noises in her sleep. The guy didn´t arrive for about 4 more hours and even then he crashed with all his clothes on.
When I woke up this morning both were in their unmade beds sleeping on old stained mattresses with all their clothes on. Do these people sound like pyschos or what??? Yes, they are. I don´t understand what is going through their heads at all. But...tis hostel life.
Luckily, thanks to my charming personality and my delightful command of the local tongue (Spanish) I was able to explain my utter displeasure to our hostel folk so well that they have decided to move me into my own private room at the same price. I will always choose to be a good person over an inconsiderate dickhead.
Monday, June 28, 2010
El CLUBE!
The weekend has come and gone and once again I´ve managed to go crazy, meet a bunch of random people and come stumbling home at a solid 8 in the morning. Want to hear about it?
Futbol futbol futbol!!! That´s what I´ve been doing here in Argentina. I´ve been watching every game with a certain zest and excitement that one only gets every four years. (You see, the world cup only occurs once every four years and for that reason one can only get this excited when it arrives. Now if the cup happened every year, or annually, it would be different, but since it isn´t I have to appreciate this type of fun only once every four years. Get it?)
My day pretty much just flows with the world cup schedule. I usually wake up at about 11 to the sounds of cheering from those who are already in the spirit. I watch the fist game on the couch in my hostel until about 1 pm every day. Then I have about two and a half hours to do something until the next game starts.
On Saturday, I was following my usual pattern which lead to a little walking tour with a new hostel friend from Australia. We walked all over the city and went to my favorite destination so far, the Ateneo book store. It is a giant book store made inside an old theater. Very cool. After that, we picked a semi run down restaurant to have some mid day pizza and even more mid day glasses of wine. Well, she had chocolate milk and I had a couple of huge 75 cent glasses of wine.
She had to leave to meet friends so I worked my way back through the city stopping once and a while to have a wine and keep up with the game. That took me all of 2 hours and when I finally began my B line to the crib the rain kicked in and I was forced to walk soakingly to my little crash pad.
At this point I thought it was going to be a regular movie on the couch and crash night, but I was mistaken. I decided to check out the party floor on the top to see what was happening and to my surprise...it was happening.
Now at this point it might be interesting to know that for the first couple of days here I was being a bit of an anti-social dud. A bit unlike myself, I´ll agree, but nonetheless I was spending more of my time sleeping or laying on the couch instead of actually being friendly or talking to anyone. So, when I showed up on Saturday with a bit of wine in the belly and my usual butterfly like attitude, most were more than surprised.
After a couple more glasses of wine and beer the decision was made to head to the Clubes as they call it. Our group was quite large which meant that the inevitable decision of where to go was going to be nearly impossible.
We found our first club and entered only to find out that half the group had said ¨Screw this¨ and left for some other place. I tried to get into it, but it was clear that the others were also dissatisfied. The music seemed about a half tempo too slow and it was really enjoyable watching all the locals try to compensate for the fact that the DJ had a serious hearing disorder. There seemed to be a lot more people crashing into each other and no one was able to find his/her rythm. It was a no brainer that we needed to step things up.
At this point I was on fire or ¨in the groove¨ and I was ready for any kind of party they could throw at me. After an intriguing conversation with the taxi driver about the beef in Argentina we arrived to the new club. Our second of the evening.
This next part is sort of a wild blur of events. The highlights for me where taking random pictures with all sorts of people, having some massive dance offs with the locals and one serious dance off that led to us being in a circle trading off moves and then agreeing that we both rocked and doing our own synchronized dance together, and of course...getting several different high rolling Argentines to buy me drinks even though I had my own money in my pockets. You gotta do what you gotta do.
After that my Spanish was zooming and I no longer wanted to be around those who wouldn´t speak it to me. While walking with my hostel friends back to the.....that´s right, the hostel, I met some local Argentines by initiating a very inviting, ¨HEY! ¿QUE PASA AMIIIIIIGGGGGOOOOOOO?¨
Some how we got to talking and I ditched the others and we were off to find another beer. Unfortunately though, we were a bit too stupid to realize that no one was going to have beer at 630 in the morning. Of course that did not stop us and we made a long journey all throughout Buenos Aires.
In the end we decided to settle on some footlong hotdogs sold by a Bolivian woman in a kiosk in the middle of a dark street. The ideal way to eat your breakfast. It was fun to team up with the Bolivian in making fun of Argentinian accents.
After some hugs and some goodbyes I was walking off towards the rising sun and my rock soft bunk bed when I heard my new friends shout, ¨You´re the coolest American evvvveeeerrrrrrr!¨ And with those kind words in my head I found my way to the hostel and drifted off to dream land until 430 in the afternoon the next day. A pretty good night over all and a great way to finally start my trip.
Futbol futbol futbol!!! That´s what I´ve been doing here in Argentina. I´ve been watching every game with a certain zest and excitement that one only gets every four years. (You see, the world cup only occurs once every four years and for that reason one can only get this excited when it arrives. Now if the cup happened every year, or annually, it would be different, but since it isn´t I have to appreciate this type of fun only once every four years. Get it?)
My day pretty much just flows with the world cup schedule. I usually wake up at about 11 to the sounds of cheering from those who are already in the spirit. I watch the fist game on the couch in my hostel until about 1 pm every day. Then I have about two and a half hours to do something until the next game starts.
On Saturday, I was following my usual pattern which lead to a little walking tour with a new hostel friend from Australia. We walked all over the city and went to my favorite destination so far, the Ateneo book store. It is a giant book store made inside an old theater. Very cool. After that, we picked a semi run down restaurant to have some mid day pizza and even more mid day glasses of wine. Well, she had chocolate milk and I had a couple of huge 75 cent glasses of wine.
She had to leave to meet friends so I worked my way back through the city stopping once and a while to have a wine and keep up with the game. That took me all of 2 hours and when I finally began my B line to the crib the rain kicked in and I was forced to walk soakingly to my little crash pad.
At this point I thought it was going to be a regular movie on the couch and crash night, but I was mistaken. I decided to check out the party floor on the top to see what was happening and to my surprise...it was happening.
Now at this point it might be interesting to know that for the first couple of days here I was being a bit of an anti-social dud. A bit unlike myself, I´ll agree, but nonetheless I was spending more of my time sleeping or laying on the couch instead of actually being friendly or talking to anyone. So, when I showed up on Saturday with a bit of wine in the belly and my usual butterfly like attitude, most were more than surprised.
After a couple more glasses of wine and beer the decision was made to head to the Clubes as they call it. Our group was quite large which meant that the inevitable decision of where to go was going to be nearly impossible.
We found our first club and entered only to find out that half the group had said ¨Screw this¨ and left for some other place. I tried to get into it, but it was clear that the others were also dissatisfied. The music seemed about a half tempo too slow and it was really enjoyable watching all the locals try to compensate for the fact that the DJ had a serious hearing disorder. There seemed to be a lot more people crashing into each other and no one was able to find his/her rythm. It was a no brainer that we needed to step things up.
At this point I was on fire or ¨in the groove¨ and I was ready for any kind of party they could throw at me. After an intriguing conversation with the taxi driver about the beef in Argentina we arrived to the new club. Our second of the evening.
This next part is sort of a wild blur of events. The highlights for me where taking random pictures with all sorts of people, having some massive dance offs with the locals and one serious dance off that led to us being in a circle trading off moves and then agreeing that we both rocked and doing our own synchronized dance together, and of course...getting several different high rolling Argentines to buy me drinks even though I had my own money in my pockets. You gotta do what you gotta do.
After that my Spanish was zooming and I no longer wanted to be around those who wouldn´t speak it to me. While walking with my hostel friends back to the.....that´s right, the hostel, I met some local Argentines by initiating a very inviting, ¨HEY! ¿QUE PASA AMIIIIIIGGGGGOOOOOOO?¨
Some how we got to talking and I ditched the others and we were off to find another beer. Unfortunately though, we were a bit too stupid to realize that no one was going to have beer at 630 in the morning. Of course that did not stop us and we made a long journey all throughout Buenos Aires.
In the end we decided to settle on some footlong hotdogs sold by a Bolivian woman in a kiosk in the middle of a dark street. The ideal way to eat your breakfast. It was fun to team up with the Bolivian in making fun of Argentinian accents.
After some hugs and some goodbyes I was walking off towards the rising sun and my rock soft bunk bed when I heard my new friends shout, ¨You´re the coolest American evvvveeeerrrrrrr!¨ And with those kind words in my head I found my way to the hostel and drifted off to dream land until 430 in the afternoon the next day. A pretty good night over all and a great way to finally start my trip.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
¿My Kind of Tourism?
¡Well here I am in the great land of Argentina! I have finally crossed the equator. I can now add another continent to my list. I have been very lazy since I got here. There is something great about going on a trip for 6 weeks, and that great thing is that you don´t have to worry about cramming a million things into your day. Not only that, but it gives you more time to actually think about what you want to do. Not everyone likes going to old churches or seeing giant museums but they go there because they consider it a part of the unique experience one can have when in that specific location.
I have found that there are many things that you can consider ¨cultural¨ or ¨memorable¨ and many of them are much easier and cheaper than a lot of the more typical tourist things.
Yesterday was a good day because I was able to actually enjoy my first real full day in Argentina. The day of arrival can always be a little daunting because you are still awake after coming from the last place you were just enjoying. When I arrived here in South America I still had the smell on palm trees on my body and the sand of Venice Beach in my hair. Not only that, but I was still filled with the elation I had felt from hanging out with some of my good friends in my own country. Take that experience and then thrust yourself into a completely new environment and it can feel a little nerve-racking. Normally I would like to arrive and then just go to sleep in order to adjust to this new place, but instead I had a long and fun day.
I arrived at the airport after one of the most boring flights I have ever had in my life. I was fine being anti-social on my 6 hour flight to New York, but I was preparing myself to meet a very eccentric and interesting Argentine on my 11 hour flight down south.
To be honest I never actually found out where the guy sitting next to me was from because he did not say a single word the whole flight. Even the flight attendants were confused as to how to address him. The same woman kept coming by and asking ¨Would you like anything to drink?¨ only to receive a head nod or hand gesture. The next time she would stop by and say ¨Quieres algo para comer?¨ and she would still get a mute answer. The guy literally didn´t want to talk to anyone. All he wanted to do was very carefully and methodically analyze the giant book he had brought along.
Now I´ll admit, I have some strange and sometimes uninteresting interests, but I usually divide my attention equally between them all. This guy sat in his chair for the full 11 hours reading a foot and a half wide coffee table book all about the history of modern furniture. We´re talking pages and pages of chairs and tables. Sure that is interesting for some, but 11 hours????¿¿¿¿ Not only that, but he was actually reading all the captions and descriptions page for page. I didn´t think anyone actually read the stuff in the coffee table books. Aren´t they just for guests to flip through while they wait for you to bring out their drink¿ (I forgot that my keyboard has some extra keys for me to enjoy¡)
He also kept rubbing each page and feeling them down as if he intended to measure each individual page with his eyes. It was all just very strange.
This guy seemed so incredibly consumed by his furniture book that even I was nervous to break his chair concentration. I didn´t even get up to pee until 9 and a half hours into the flight, and I always have to pee. Especially on airplanes¡¡¡
So he was obviously not a delightful seat mate and as soon as I got into the airport I was eager to speak to anyone who wasn´t passionately devoted to old furniture or taxidermy or any other thing you are supposed to think one thought and then forget about.
However, I was now in a foreign land and I had to switch to a brand new language. (A language I was hoping to have practiced for 11 hours pre-arriving. BUT NO¡ When I went through the customs I made my obvious mistakes by asking for a pencil when I wanted a pen, saying I was a woman to the customs official, and then asking where I could find my couch when I clearly was in search of my luggage. No problem though, because it got sorted out and after a quick bus ride I arrived in a city I have never quite seen before.
Buenos Aires is really beautiful and very big. It looks like a metropolitan city that you might see in Spain and yet the whole time you constantly remind yourself that you are actually in the southern part of South America. Somehow knowing that this city exists in the same part of the world as the Amazon and Machu Picchu is constantly mind blowing. I´ve seen a good amount so far and I´ve enjoyed some good steaks and some great wines and I even had dessert at a T.G.I. Fridays with a local of Buenos Aires. I´ve also done a lot of hanging out and a immense amount of Futbol watching.
So if I were to recommend how to be a good tourist when staying in a place for a long time I would say........ do whatever you want whenever you want to. Enjoy all the simple things and don´t forget the ¨insignificant¨ things. It is often hard to relate the experience of a great art museum to someone who has never been there or who has no interest, but many can relate to the boring and mysterious dork sitting next to him on the airplane. And that is important¡
I have found that there are many things that you can consider ¨cultural¨ or ¨memorable¨ and many of them are much easier and cheaper than a lot of the more typical tourist things.
Yesterday was a good day because I was able to actually enjoy my first real full day in Argentina. The day of arrival can always be a little daunting because you are still awake after coming from the last place you were just enjoying. When I arrived here in South America I still had the smell on palm trees on my body and the sand of Venice Beach in my hair. Not only that, but I was still filled with the elation I had felt from hanging out with some of my good friends in my own country. Take that experience and then thrust yourself into a completely new environment and it can feel a little nerve-racking. Normally I would like to arrive and then just go to sleep in order to adjust to this new place, but instead I had a long and fun day.
I arrived at the airport after one of the most boring flights I have ever had in my life. I was fine being anti-social on my 6 hour flight to New York, but I was preparing myself to meet a very eccentric and interesting Argentine on my 11 hour flight down south.
To be honest I never actually found out where the guy sitting next to me was from because he did not say a single word the whole flight. Even the flight attendants were confused as to how to address him. The same woman kept coming by and asking ¨Would you like anything to drink?¨ only to receive a head nod or hand gesture. The next time she would stop by and say ¨Quieres algo para comer?¨ and she would still get a mute answer. The guy literally didn´t want to talk to anyone. All he wanted to do was very carefully and methodically analyze the giant book he had brought along.
Now I´ll admit, I have some strange and sometimes uninteresting interests, but I usually divide my attention equally between them all. This guy sat in his chair for the full 11 hours reading a foot and a half wide coffee table book all about the history of modern furniture. We´re talking pages and pages of chairs and tables. Sure that is interesting for some, but 11 hours????¿¿¿¿ Not only that, but he was actually reading all the captions and descriptions page for page. I didn´t think anyone actually read the stuff in the coffee table books. Aren´t they just for guests to flip through while they wait for you to bring out their drink¿ (I forgot that my keyboard has some extra keys for me to enjoy¡)
He also kept rubbing each page and feeling them down as if he intended to measure each individual page with his eyes. It was all just very strange.
This guy seemed so incredibly consumed by his furniture book that even I was nervous to break his chair concentration. I didn´t even get up to pee until 9 and a half hours into the flight, and I always have to pee. Especially on airplanes¡¡¡
So he was obviously not a delightful seat mate and as soon as I got into the airport I was eager to speak to anyone who wasn´t passionately devoted to old furniture or taxidermy or any other thing you are supposed to think one thought and then forget about.
However, I was now in a foreign land and I had to switch to a brand new language. (A language I was hoping to have practiced for 11 hours pre-arriving. BUT NO¡ When I went through the customs I made my obvious mistakes by asking for a pencil when I wanted a pen, saying I was a woman to the customs official, and then asking where I could find my couch when I clearly was in search of my luggage. No problem though, because it got sorted out and after a quick bus ride I arrived in a city I have never quite seen before.
Buenos Aires is really beautiful and very big. It looks like a metropolitan city that you might see in Spain and yet the whole time you constantly remind yourself that you are actually in the southern part of South America. Somehow knowing that this city exists in the same part of the world as the Amazon and Machu Picchu is constantly mind blowing. I´ve seen a good amount so far and I´ve enjoyed some good steaks and some great wines and I even had dessert at a T.G.I. Fridays with a local of Buenos Aires. I´ve also done a lot of hanging out and a immense amount of Futbol watching.
So if I were to recommend how to be a good tourist when staying in a place for a long time I would say........ do whatever you want whenever you want to. Enjoy all the simple things and don´t forget the ¨insignificant¨ things. It is often hard to relate the experience of a great art museum to someone who has never been there or who has no interest, but many can relate to the boring and mysterious dork sitting next to him on the airplane. And that is important¡
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Hotel-de-Tramp
Well, another trip has begun and just as always I've found a room in a dumpy little hostel where I can get on a computer for 5 bucks an hour to inform my faithful readers of my grand adventures.
I've made it to my first destination: San Diego. This is my third trip here in my life and I've really enjoyed myself. This time I've been staying in the heart of the city where one is surrounded by classic buildings, a myriad of restaurants and bars and every kind of hobo/bum/street person he could hope to meet.
I've seen a lot of bums in my day. In fact, when I'm traveling I usually live the life similar to a vagabond. However, I've noticed a special bread of street person out here in San Diego. In this place the bums have a keen sense of how sidewalk life must be pursued. Unlike the bums of Chicago or the cities of the northeast, the SO-CAL bums already have an edge up by recognizing that street life is more effective and profitable whilst living in a warm city. Life is always better when the sun is out!
As I walk through the hustle and bustle of the San Diego streets I'm often fortunate to come across all sorts of colorful beggars. There are so many out here and most have thrown out the classic and creative excuses and simply go for a quick "You got any change?" or a slightly more enticing, "I need a quarter for the bus. Can you spare some?"
Since most bindle punks use the same excuses, they have to rely on other pans in order to win the jingling prize hidden deep within all of our pockets. Some have massize shopping carts with tassels and doo dads dangling from every side. Others sport bizarre clothing ensembles that somehow seem to match even though it's quite obvious that every item has a entirely different origin than the next. These are the boes that appear to be the most successful. They aren't tied down to a cart and they don't need to search endless trash cans in the hopes of snatching a plastic bottle or two. These ones use their tact and spunk to win the dimes and quarters of their loyal supporters. These freeloaders are true masters in the art of flim flamery. They are the bread winners of the street community and for that they are certainly a proud breed.
The grease balls are a type of hobo often confused for the true tramps of these great streets. Grease balls steal from other hard working loafers and are often known to toot the ringer if you can believe that. These guys are tricksters who may look like regular hard working hobos, but are actually thieves within their own community. These grease balls are too smart to actually be on the streets and are clearly driven by sheer laziness. For if one is smart enough to outsmart other hobos, that hobo is thus intelligent enough to find a better means of contributing to society. However, the greasers are more inclined to trick and thieve than to really embrace the Happy Hooligan lifestyle. It can sometimes be hard to spot the difference between a Grease ball and a Boe, but when you do you'll feel glad you didn't make the grave error of supporting this shameful lifestyle. The world simply cannot benefit from these tomato-can stiffs.
So while I've obviously been doing a lot more things in this great city, I feel it necessary to give some credit to those "hard-working" men...and a few women, who make their homes throughout the streets, alley ways, and beaches of this fair city. Would the world be better without the hobo? I doubt it. Sometimes life for others can become so monotonous that they forget the path they took from point A to point B. Spotting a tramp, hobo or streety helps us stay awake. They add a bit more color to an already colorful world.
A Monika will often attempt to run the line, but if that scalawag ever wants to find a scenery cruiser he had better get some thin ones by throwing his feet and avoiding the yahoos. Right?
I've made it to my first destination: San Diego. This is my third trip here in my life and I've really enjoyed myself. This time I've been staying in the heart of the city where one is surrounded by classic buildings, a myriad of restaurants and bars and every kind of hobo/bum/street person he could hope to meet.
I've seen a lot of bums in my day. In fact, when I'm traveling I usually live the life similar to a vagabond. However, I've noticed a special bread of street person out here in San Diego. In this place the bums have a keen sense of how sidewalk life must be pursued. Unlike the bums of Chicago or the cities of the northeast, the SO-CAL bums already have an edge up by recognizing that street life is more effective and profitable whilst living in a warm city. Life is always better when the sun is out!
As I walk through the hustle and bustle of the San Diego streets I'm often fortunate to come across all sorts of colorful beggars. There are so many out here and most have thrown out the classic and creative excuses and simply go for a quick "You got any change?" or a slightly more enticing, "I need a quarter for the bus. Can you spare some?"
Since most bindle punks use the same excuses, they have to rely on other pans in order to win the jingling prize hidden deep within all of our pockets. Some have massize shopping carts with tassels and doo dads dangling from every side. Others sport bizarre clothing ensembles that somehow seem to match even though it's quite obvious that every item has a entirely different origin than the next. These are the boes that appear to be the most successful. They aren't tied down to a cart and they don't need to search endless trash cans in the hopes of snatching a plastic bottle or two. These ones use their tact and spunk to win the dimes and quarters of their loyal supporters. These freeloaders are true masters in the art of flim flamery. They are the bread winners of the street community and for that they are certainly a proud breed.
The grease balls are a type of hobo often confused for the true tramps of these great streets. Grease balls steal from other hard working loafers and are often known to toot the ringer if you can believe that. These guys are tricksters who may look like regular hard working hobos, but are actually thieves within their own community. These grease balls are too smart to actually be on the streets and are clearly driven by sheer laziness. For if one is smart enough to outsmart other hobos, that hobo is thus intelligent enough to find a better means of contributing to society. However, the greasers are more inclined to trick and thieve than to really embrace the Happy Hooligan lifestyle. It can sometimes be hard to spot the difference between a Grease ball and a Boe, but when you do you'll feel glad you didn't make the grave error of supporting this shameful lifestyle. The world simply cannot benefit from these tomato-can stiffs.
So while I've obviously been doing a lot more things in this great city, I feel it necessary to give some credit to those "hard-working" men...and a few women, who make their homes throughout the streets, alley ways, and beaches of this fair city. Would the world be better without the hobo? I doubt it. Sometimes life for others can become so monotonous that they forget the path they took from point A to point B. Spotting a tramp, hobo or streety helps us stay awake. They add a bit more color to an already colorful world.
A Monika will often attempt to run the line, but if that scalawag ever wants to find a scenery cruiser he had better get some thin ones by throwing his feet and avoiding the yahoos. Right?
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Getting Domesticated
Well here I am. I have managed to survive a bit more than a month in the US of A. For a while I really thought that I wasn't going to make it. After months of exotic travel and years of bizarre living conditions, becoming a full blooded "American" seemed a bit too terrifying to truly accept. Now, however, as the stomach is once again calming to the food, my job search is (hopefully) nearing a result, and my life in Denver shall soon be realized; I feel like I'm going to make it.
But before I decided to devote my bloggues to the wonders of suburban-all-American-style-livin', allow me to tell you about some of the things that really scared the shit outta me upon entering this immensely strange place.
FOOD- Whooooooooaaaaaaa now that was quite the adjustment. It could be that I was drinking too much tap and river water in Central America or (which I think is more likely) I could have just been too overwhelmed by the crazy diet they have here.
The first day back in the States I was visiting friends in Chicago. My friend JP took me to a famous heavy metal style hamburger joint where you eat 30 pound burgers while Pantera rages from the speakers and kung fu movies play endlessly on the omnipresent flat screens. Only in America. After we dined on the half-heifer heart attack cakes we left to go for a bit of tux shopping for my friend's upcoming wedding. Along the way, I felt like my stomach was bursting and that I literally had no vacancy for all the toxins boiling away in my belly. I asked my friend for a fruit shake as I was accustomed to drinking light mango shakes on the beaches of all my little hot spots. He of course brought me a cornucopia of 8 fruits crammed into a brick of a smoothie. I drank it to what I thought was delight until about ten minutes after.
Driving along the streets of Chi-Town, as the locals secretly call it, I started to feel a bit of both queasy and nauseous. I ask my friend, "are we close to your house?"
"About fifteen minutes. Are you al.."
"Dude I just want to....uh...maybe lay down or drink some water or take a nap I think." I interrupted awkwardly.
We continued along the street until my friend spoke, "I'm just waiting for you to POP!"
Well that did it. I burst. I yelled for him to pull over and chucked the car's weight in vomit out of his slightly open door. The puke went about 80% all over the bus stop and 20% on the passenger side door of my friends 2 week old Volvo. It was amazing. I could feel, first, the cold, mildly refreshing smoothie followed by the warm Heavy metal burger, all the way up to the oven roasted pear shooting out my nose like a spit wad. Quite a relief in all.
I puked like this about once a day after eating for the first two weeks. I even puked up the filet mignon and sea bass at the aforementioned wedding. OOPS!
DOG PARKS- Another thing that really scared the shit out of me at first was going to the dog park or DP as my parents called it. I was frightened by the realization that people's pets could actually have better personalities than themselves.
You enter into the park on any random day and it is full of people watching their dogs fight, sniff, and hump with utter delight. The dogs go and have fun and while a bunch of random people walk around waiting for you to make eye contact or yell at your dog that is playing with their dog.
"Oh they play so well together, don't they?" The random old lady will ask.
"Yep, sure do," says me, the guy who doesn't really know why he is here and just wants his dog to crap so he can leave.
"I've seen these two playing a lot. The other dogs tend to be so dominate and aggressive, don't you think?" She smiles.
"Yep, sure do," I really don't know why we are talking about this.
"Your dog's name is Sophie isn't it? That's my dog's name too." I neglect to tell this woman that, like all of our family dogs, this dog has been named after a famous Hooker. It's just something we do. However, we spare the knowledge for some.
Eventually after we talk about how many tennis balls there are in the park and how small some other dog is and how much "yucky slobber" another one has, I say "nice to meet you" and walk over to another quadrant of the park. I say nice to meet you and yet we never actually met. We are actually socializing servants for our pets. We talk about our pet's personalities, names and funny quirks without ever actually talking to each other. It would be like if you just started talking about a tree to someone just because you were both standing next to it. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
You also have those buttholes who go the to "pick up chicks." I would too, but this park is filled with regular North Face wearing Colorado family people. One old fart once showed up while I was with my mother and thought he might try a little cougar hunting. He looked right at her and said "Excuse me, what do we we do here? I never been to one of these before. You see my girlfriend left me with the dog and moved off to New York and now I don't know what to do." After he said that I knew that there was something that pissed me off more about this man other than the fact that he had his sweatpants tucked into his socks.
I immediately wanted to yell, "Oh you don't know the complex science of a dog park sir? Well let me inform you. You see we all bring our dogs here, have sex with them and then let them run around in circles for about 30 minutes. Everyone else has been here a while so that's why all the sexin' is all over. Go ahead, I mean your girlie left you anyways so this will be refreshing."
Come on man. Your opening line is going to be how you don't know how to take your dog's leash off and then the closer is that, despite your impeccable style, you have just failed in your relationship and got stuck with the chick's pet while she went off to make millions in NYC? I just don't understand people. My mom of course enjoyed his pathetic effort and he did figure out how to take his dog's leash off. Good boy!
COLD WEATHER- I don't really have much to say about this except that sometimes it gets cold as nuts out here. Last week it snowed almost 12 inches in two days. That is a lot of snow for October. It's much colder than a tropical island. Much colder.
So while there are many other things like these that could be classified as "culture shock," I have gained the confidence to move on and become a part of this community. I think the days will be good and as long as I admit that there are pants in socks morons everywhere in life, I think I'll survive. I will be domesticated.
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Guatemalan HULK!
It is true. My enthusiasm for the bloggueing did diminish with the commencement of my journeys. This entire time i thought taking some more trips would reinvigorate me to take a seat in yet another crappy back breaking "internet cafe" chair to throw out some new and exciting stories for all those concerned in what it is i do.
I guess, on this particular trip, i became so involved in the moment that i hardly had enough time to react to the day to day happenings, which made it even more difficult to actually sit down and record some jaded and "humor" injected reimagination of them. But the trip has been very good and I can say that the only reason why I haven't been bloggueing is because I have been filling every moment with real life bloggueing or...living. So now, on the day before my final departure to a very confusing existence in the US, I will tell you of some of my adventures only in the hopes that the stories will further peak your interests and thus make you more inclined to find a way in which to visit me and hear them from my mouth in their purest form.
Guatemala - Advice for going to Antigua, Guatemal: If you want to go with some friends that is fine. If your two friends happen to be best friends who are themselves El Salvadorians and thus free to roam and "create any type of rukus they please" in neighboring Guatemala, remember that they have their own nationalities and your's does not permit you to go and act the same way as they do.
Antigua is a drinking man's place. Well technically all of central america is like that. The whole world is. Ok let's start over. Antigua is the clostest place to San salvador where you can find an ancient city thus "culture" and hordes of excitable gringa girls who have come to guatemala on their parents credit card to do a three week spanish course which they forget each night as the get plastered off tequilla shots and cheap beer poured into old styrofoam cups making it possible to booze in the streets.
We went there because the dudes were ready to shock all the girls, as they always do, by looking super latin (we're talking a kilo each of hair gell per cabeza) and yet speaking English like a mother toungue. It's wonderful to watch the girls as they stutter through their basic HOLA, Como estas? to then recieve the eloquent reply "I'm quite well thank you."
We were having some luck here and there, but no one was really "feelin' it." We continued to peruse the bars in the hopes that some girls might find our well pressed polo shirts a bit more appealing than those of the other 300 horndogs walking the cobblestone streets of this old central American capital, but we had no luck.
Finally, I have managed to allow my bad luck to simply be bad luck and not an excuse to get outrageously intoxicated...or maybe I just got lucky with this night. Our good friend, however, was not able to separate his emotion from the bottle and this is where the plot thickens.
This young man who we shall call....Juan Carlos, to both protect his identity and be slightly offensive, is no small dude. Imagine if a VW Beetle came to life and sprouted limbs and this would be an accurate discription of the ex-body builder who can crush litre beers faster than you can take a pee. In the beginning of the night Juan Carlos informed us that he usually put away around 30 beers in the period of one drinking night and he was getting very close to our believing every word to which he had earlier spoken.
After drinking what seemed like a child sized pool worth of beer JC was doing pretty well for himself and was showing that extra umf of confidence only realized through the use of the old "social lubricant." But then we got the time honored after party invite and there was simply no hope. (You see, in Guatemala all the bars close at 1am making it hard to do much late night partying. In recent years it has become a bit of a cult phenomenon to throw "after parties" to continue the bar feeling after hours. However, these after parties are usually someone's effort to open their own bar and illegally sell liquor to the select few bar folk that they choose to invite. The police do not like this practice.)
So we went to this after party and someone bought us a bottle of vodka and we started mixing it with orange juice. I know, brilliant! Alberto and I got the idea, that after parties are for mingling and not creating bad vibes in an already tense environment of law breaking partiers. Our friend JC however, got haaaaaaaammmmmered. Finished the bottle. Fell around. Made mean faces. Now looked like a drunk VW Beetle swirving around a small poorly lit bar. Oh yeah, disastrous.
The night ended without problems until big man JC saw us collect the girls emails (oh yeah, we are like so gonna email long distance syle until marriage get's into the convo) and he went off his rocker. Walking around the streets just screaming in any language that popped into his head first. 265 pounds of El Salvadorian raised meat rolling around the streets on a full on sexually frustrated rampage. He was yelling and pulling his hair, and banging on people's closed doors and even came up to me and bit me saying "i want flesh." It...was...fucking...crazy!!!
We tried our best to console him and figure out what to do, but before we could even get our footing right to brace the giant walking T-bone steak, I saw the blue sparking caps of the Guatemalan police force. Oh yes, Guatemala, one of the most currupt governments in all the lands, where the police do whatever they feel needs to be done in order that they recieve dinero. (Don't worry this isn't another I pooped my pants story, but it was close.)
I began to freak and wonder how I had even ended up with these two 19 year old bozos who were doing exactly the same things i was doing for four more years after the age of 19. I paniked and tried one last efort to stop JC when I was blinded by the two police jeeps that followed from both ends of the street to then reveal 8 more soldiers brandishing real live machine guns. HOLY SHIIIIITTTT!!!! (Don't worry, if I was shot i wouldn't be able to write this...or would I?)
So with guns drawn and police everywhere, who do they turn to for responsibility? El Gringo..ME!
Thank god I speak spanish
Officer- what is going on here?
Me- too much to drink sir. we were just trying to get our friend home
officer- do you know how late it is?
me- muy late
Officer- yeah, so why is your friend walking around banging on doors?
(JC is now walking around shaking hands and taking pictures with the police officers and asking to hold one of their machine guns.)
me- he has had way too much to drink sir and we have just been trying to get him back to our hotel.
Officer- what are you scared of you friend?
At this very moment we both look at JC and he lets out a giant scream before ripping his shirt off to expose a bigger chest than any two cops combined.
Me- sir, he is the fucking HULK!
At this both myself and the officers had one of those moments that only happen in outrageous movies; we slowly rose together in a giant eruption of group laughter.
We somehow made great pals of the cops and they even elected to throw us all into the back of the police pickup truck and drive us back to the hotel.
4am 4star hotel
Our three car police escort arrrived to a bit of fanfare as you might imagine. All the late night auditors came out to see us rolling a giant half-passed whale out of a police car and I'm sure at least one had a hernea. As we rolled down the halls waking every resident with the moans of old sexually frustrated JC, the manager was asking us our names and nationalities and many other questions.
He did that to ban us from ever staying in that hotel. We left the next day, sad at having had no luck with the girls, but happy nonetheless to have made a good story.
I guess, on this particular trip, i became so involved in the moment that i hardly had enough time to react to the day to day happenings, which made it even more difficult to actually sit down and record some jaded and "humor" injected reimagination of them. But the trip has been very good and I can say that the only reason why I haven't been bloggueing is because I have been filling every moment with real life bloggueing or...living. So now, on the day before my final departure to a very confusing existence in the US, I will tell you of some of my adventures only in the hopes that the stories will further peak your interests and thus make you more inclined to find a way in which to visit me and hear them from my mouth in their purest form.
Guatemala - Advice for going to Antigua, Guatemal: If you want to go with some friends that is fine. If your two friends happen to be best friends who are themselves El Salvadorians and thus free to roam and "create any type of rukus they please" in neighboring Guatemala, remember that they have their own nationalities and your's does not permit you to go and act the same way as they do.
Antigua is a drinking man's place. Well technically all of central america is like that. The whole world is. Ok let's start over. Antigua is the clostest place to San salvador where you can find an ancient city thus "culture" and hordes of excitable gringa girls who have come to guatemala on their parents credit card to do a three week spanish course which they forget each night as the get plastered off tequilla shots and cheap beer poured into old styrofoam cups making it possible to booze in the streets.
We went there because the dudes were ready to shock all the girls, as they always do, by looking super latin (we're talking a kilo each of hair gell per cabeza) and yet speaking English like a mother toungue. It's wonderful to watch the girls as they stutter through their basic HOLA, Como estas? to then recieve the eloquent reply "I'm quite well thank you."
We were having some luck here and there, but no one was really "feelin' it." We continued to peruse the bars in the hopes that some girls might find our well pressed polo shirts a bit more appealing than those of the other 300 horndogs walking the cobblestone streets of this old central American capital, but we had no luck.
Finally, I have managed to allow my bad luck to simply be bad luck and not an excuse to get outrageously intoxicated...or maybe I just got lucky with this night. Our good friend, however, was not able to separate his emotion from the bottle and this is where the plot thickens.
This young man who we shall call....Juan Carlos, to both protect his identity and be slightly offensive, is no small dude. Imagine if a VW Beetle came to life and sprouted limbs and this would be an accurate discription of the ex-body builder who can crush litre beers faster than you can take a pee. In the beginning of the night Juan Carlos informed us that he usually put away around 30 beers in the period of one drinking night and he was getting very close to our believing every word to which he had earlier spoken.
After drinking what seemed like a child sized pool worth of beer JC was doing pretty well for himself and was showing that extra umf of confidence only realized through the use of the old "social lubricant." But then we got the time honored after party invite and there was simply no hope. (You see, in Guatemala all the bars close at 1am making it hard to do much late night partying. In recent years it has become a bit of a cult phenomenon to throw "after parties" to continue the bar feeling after hours. However, these after parties are usually someone's effort to open their own bar and illegally sell liquor to the select few bar folk that they choose to invite. The police do not like this practice.)
So we went to this after party and someone bought us a bottle of vodka and we started mixing it with orange juice. I know, brilliant! Alberto and I got the idea, that after parties are for mingling and not creating bad vibes in an already tense environment of law breaking partiers. Our friend JC however, got haaaaaaaammmmmered. Finished the bottle. Fell around. Made mean faces. Now looked like a drunk VW Beetle swirving around a small poorly lit bar. Oh yeah, disastrous.
The night ended without problems until big man JC saw us collect the girls emails (oh yeah, we are like so gonna email long distance syle until marriage get's into the convo) and he went off his rocker. Walking around the streets just screaming in any language that popped into his head first. 265 pounds of El Salvadorian raised meat rolling around the streets on a full on sexually frustrated rampage. He was yelling and pulling his hair, and banging on people's closed doors and even came up to me and bit me saying "i want flesh." It...was...fucking...crazy!!!
We tried our best to console him and figure out what to do, but before we could even get our footing right to brace the giant walking T-bone steak, I saw the blue sparking caps of the Guatemalan police force. Oh yes, Guatemala, one of the most currupt governments in all the lands, where the police do whatever they feel needs to be done in order that they recieve dinero. (Don't worry this isn't another I pooped my pants story, but it was close.)
I began to freak and wonder how I had even ended up with these two 19 year old bozos who were doing exactly the same things i was doing for four more years after the age of 19. I paniked and tried one last efort to stop JC when I was blinded by the two police jeeps that followed from both ends of the street to then reveal 8 more soldiers brandishing real live machine guns. HOLY SHIIIIITTTT!!!! (Don't worry, if I was shot i wouldn't be able to write this...or would I?)
So with guns drawn and police everywhere, who do they turn to for responsibility? El Gringo..ME!
Thank god I speak spanish
Officer- what is going on here?
Me- too much to drink sir. we were just trying to get our friend home
officer- do you know how late it is?
me- muy late
Officer- yeah, so why is your friend walking around banging on doors?
(JC is now walking around shaking hands and taking pictures with the police officers and asking to hold one of their machine guns.)
me- he has had way too much to drink sir and we have just been trying to get him back to our hotel.
Officer- what are you scared of you friend?
At this very moment we both look at JC and he lets out a giant scream before ripping his shirt off to expose a bigger chest than any two cops combined.
Me- sir, he is the fucking HULK!
At this both myself and the officers had one of those moments that only happen in outrageous movies; we slowly rose together in a giant eruption of group laughter.
We somehow made great pals of the cops and they even elected to throw us all into the back of the police pickup truck and drive us back to the hotel.
4am 4star hotel
Our three car police escort arrrived to a bit of fanfare as you might imagine. All the late night auditors came out to see us rolling a giant half-passed whale out of a police car and I'm sure at least one had a hernea. As we rolled down the halls waking every resident with the moans of old sexually frustrated JC, the manager was asking us our names and nationalities and many other questions.
He did that to ban us from ever staying in that hotel. We left the next day, sad at having had no luck with the girls, but happy nonetheless to have made a good story.
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