dressed in a made-to-fit designer shirt that seems typical of proud, fashion-conscious Porteño men. I was surprised to see him, as you would be. I know by now that people don’t go out here until midnight, maybe even later, but showing up almost three hours late for a date is kind of the same as not showing up at all, isn’t it?
I expected Eduardo to apologise profusely, to wrack his hands in guilt and offer to buy me copious amounts of drinks to make up for his unacceptable tardiness, but instead he ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, patted his stomach in rather a bored fashion and said, ‘Shall we go?’
Waving goodbye to my new friends, I was marched out of the bar and bundled into a taxi, where I assumed I was about to be taken to a tango hall, or a salsa bar, or something culturally splendid that would make having been left in a bar for almost three hours worthwhile.
Alas. I was delivered instead to a nightclub so vast and pounding and full of smoke I felt as though I’d been dragged into the very pits of hell. To his credit, Eduardo did pay the entrance fee for me, which was some extortionate price I’d never have paid on my own. He then ordered some drinks (an entire bottle of vodka in an ice-bucket) and ushered us over to his mates, where we proceeded to scream at each other for two hours in an effort to be heard. I didn’t get to see any of San Telmo. I just got even more of a sore throat. By the time I got back to my hostel, and Eduardo had tried his best to snog me in the back of a taxi, I was actually quite relieved the night had ended.
Ah yes, I’ve moved out of Julio and Sylvia’s. My time was up. I can’t say Julio’s enthusiasm and mildly chastising rants about the Falklands around the dinner table weren’t interesting, my Spanish is finally improving, too, and everyone including Carmen was lovely, but the bed was starting to cripple me. Plus, Julio kept turning lights off after me throughout the house. It’s not that I was forgetting to turn them off myself, but he seemed to leap for the switches before I could ever flip them. This made me feel as though he assumed I wouldn’t remember, which made me feel a bit awkward. It also made me wonder if he thought I’d also forgotten how I started the problems in the Falklands.
I’ve moved into the Milhouse Avenue hostel, which is closer to the train line. Now that the subte is finally working again it makes getting to class much easier. It’s also much cheaper to stay in a hostel.
I’m discovering that staying in Buenos Aires is eating away at my bank balance like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not just the food. The choripans (chorizo in a giant crusty baguette — my God!), Milka bars, alfajors (caramel biscuit sandwiches) and jamon y queso medialunas (ham and cheese croissants) are irresistible and not doing my figure any favours. But everything’s more expensive here than in Ecuador. Hostel living is a means of survival now, and for an entire week I’ve been sleeping … or catching sleep where possible in a bottom bunk, witnessing a non-stop stream of twenty-somethings from all walks of life walk in and walk about ridiculously wasted. I may have joined in, on occasion …
Milhouse is renowned as being the party hostel in Buenos Aires. The staff are all absolutely awesome. They’ll book any bus ticket or tour you like and there are tons of activities to keep you occupied (do the free salsa class!), but be warned: sleeping here is a game of chance. You never know who is going to show up, or when they’ll leave. You can shut your eyes in the bunk next to a delightful nineteen-year-old trainee vet from Cairns, and open them to the beer-farting arse end of a vile boy from Wigan who wears a T-shirt listing all the ways to dump a girlfriend he’s probably never had (this really happened).
This boy in particular took great joy in shouting absolutely every word at great volume in the dorm, mostly between the hours of 4 and 5 a.m.,
I expected Eduardo to apologise profusely, to wrack his hands in guilt and offer to buy me copious amounts of drinks to make up for his unacceptable tardiness, but instead he ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, patted his stomach in rather a bored fashion and said, ‘Shall we go?’
Waving goodbye to my new friends, I was marched out of the bar and bundled into a taxi, where I assumed I was about to be taken to a tango hall, or a salsa bar, or something culturally splendid that would make having been left in a bar for almost three hours worthwhile.
Alas. I was delivered instead to a nightclub so vast and pounding and full of smoke I felt as though I’d been dragged into the very pits of hell. To his credit, Eduardo did pay the entrance fee for me, which was some extortionate price I’d never have paid on my own. He then ordered some drinks (an entire bottle of vodka in an ice-bucket) and ushered us over to his mates, where we proceeded to scream at each other for two hours in an effort to be heard. I didn’t get to see any of San Telmo. I just got even more of a sore throat. By the time I got back to my hostel, and Eduardo had tried his best to snog me in the back of a taxi, I was actually quite relieved the night had ended.
Ah yes, I’ve moved out of Julio and Sylvia’s. My time was up. I can’t say Julio’s enthusiasm and mildly chastising rants about the Falklands around the dinner table weren’t interesting, my Spanish is finally improving, too, and everyone including Carmen was lovely, but the bed was starting to cripple me. Plus, Julio kept turning lights off after me throughout the house. It’s not that I was forgetting to turn them off myself, but he seemed to leap for the switches before I could ever flip them. This made me feel as though he assumed I wouldn’t remember, which made me feel a bit awkward. It also made me wonder if he thought I’d also forgotten how I started the problems in the Falklands.
I’ve moved into the Milhouse Avenue hostel, which is closer to the train line. Now that the subte is finally working again it makes getting to class much easier. It’s also much cheaper to stay in a hostel.
I’m discovering that staying in Buenos Aires is eating away at my bank balance like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not just the food. The choripans (chorizo in a giant crusty baguette — my God!), Milka bars, alfajors (caramel biscuit sandwiches) and jamon y queso medialunas (ham and cheese croissants) are irresistible and not doing my figure any favours. But everything’s more expensive here than in Ecuador. Hostel living is a means of survival now, and for an entire week I’ve been sleeping … or catching sleep where possible in a bottom bunk, witnessing a non-stop stream of twenty-somethings from all walks of life walk in and walk about ridiculously wasted. I may have joined in, on occasion …
Milhouse is renowned as being the party hostel in Buenos Aires. The staff are all absolutely awesome. They’ll book any bus ticket or tour you like and there are tons of activities to keep you occupied (do the free salsa class!), but be warned: sleeping here is a game of chance. You never know who is going to show up, or when they’ll leave. You can shut your eyes in the bunk next to a delightful nineteen-year-old trainee vet from Cairns, and open them to the beer-farting arse end of a vile boy from Wigan who wears a T-shirt listing all the ways to dump a girlfriend he’s probably never had (this really happened).
This boy in particular took great joy in shouting absolutely every word at great volume in the dorm, mostly between the hours of 4 and 5 a.m.,
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