Don't have a hernia, it's not appendicitis

After Havana I'd had quite enough of shady hospitals, thank you very much.

The first time it was probably around 3 a.m., after a night out in Habana Viejo, about 45 minutes from where we lived. It had been another spectacular, humid Cuban night, and we'd decided to walk - but in the darkness (they're not big on street lights in many parts of the city) and the mess of narrow street and rubble that is Centro Habana we lost our bearings. Finally we'd given up and were attempting to steer ourselves in the direction of the Malecon. The houses were blue where the man attacked - with such force that he was able to rip my friend's bag from where it was slung across her body, tearing the handle in half. The lone guy who was with us immediately took off after him, flying around the corner into the darkness in hot pursuit - out of our sight, leaving me scared for a friend's life for the first time ever. (Apparently he chased the guy into a house and up the stairs where he disappeared, possibly out the window, leaving my friend standing there alone - much to the bemusement of those living in the house.)

Usually there is a Policeman standing on every corner in Havana, but they can be made to temporarily disappear when asked in the right way. Clearly by the time the Police finally showed there was no chance of catching the guy. Instead they insisted on taking us to get our friend's shoulder checked at the "hospital" - a cavernous ruin of a building, with dizzyingly tall and narrow doors. It was nearly three years ago so now I only have the impression of a single electric light bulb dangling on a wire disappearing into blackness, the ceiling so high the light couldn't reach it. A bare examination table directly beneath the light, a single folding chair in the corner. Blue walls again, peeling paint. Our footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Darkness and silence everywhere else. Fortunately she was alright - we beat feet out of there as fast as possible.

The second time was after I'd sprained my ankle. Those who know me will know I do tend to do this, but this sprain in particular was a doozy, probably the worst I've ever done. My ankle had swollen to the size of my cat (and he's a fat cat) and turned black before my Cuban family were able to convince me I had to go to the hospital.

This time it wasn't so bad - mostly because they were with me, it was daylight, and unlike the other place, this hospital cheerfully blazed the word "hospital" across its front doors. Telling me to keep quiet so they could pretend I was Cuban (this was back when I actually could speak Spanish but did have a telling American accent) they managed to smuggle me through the pesos door instead of through the foreigners' area (dollars rule there - I would've happily just paid the dollars but by this point was in too much pain to speak up). The examination room was again blue, but this time reminded me more of a Police interrogation room than a torture chamber, and the doctor again sat on a scuffed and torn folding chair to examine me at the wooden table. Unfortunately for me, he told my Cuban parents that I had to stay off the ankle completely for two weeks - instructions they promptly followed to the letter, maintaining a watchful vigil and barely allowing me to get out of bed to hobble to the bathroom. (I felt like I couldn't fight them on it as they'd also gone to great lengths to get me some medicine on the black market which they promised would provide some sort of miracle cure - and turned out to be Bayer aspirin.)

What's the point of all this, when we're now in Mendoza? The point is that when we walked through the doors of the hospital this morning, concerned after we'd both (mistakenly, it turns out) diagnosed Becca's continuing pain as appendicitis, on first glance I was relieved. It was no KEMH, but it was also no blue-walled Cuban ruin either. That was before we were sent downstairs to the emergency room - where the first person we saw was a ragged, sagging man wandering aimlessly around the grimy hall with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his entire head and some sort of fluid dried and cracked all down his dirt smeared clothes. We promptly both did an about-face to leave but for some reason (the threat of her appendix rupturing outside on the street) decided to press on. The waiting room, reminiscent of a large, old communal shower, didn't encourage us; nor did the guys at reception, who peered at us suspiciously through blackened glass with large cracks running all through it and asked for Becca's passport before anything else. (Could Arnaldo have infiltrated the Mendoza hospital too?)

As in Cuba, it turned out alright. The doctor didn't speak English but all of a sudden we could speak Spanish again (apparently when the pressure's on, it's there - if only everyone else would give us a chance to speak it now instead of speaking English to us all the time) According to him she did not have appendicitis - fortunate as she'd sworn as we entered the hospital that if she needed to get it out, she was not getting it out in Argentina, despite my attempts to point out that when your apendix is about to rupture you can't wait a week and a half until you're back in the States to get it out. We left with a prescription for some painkiller we'd never heard of before and a feeling of immense relief.

Unfortunately now we're stuck in Mendoza, the outdoor activities town, with Becca unable to walk more than a few blocks. The border to Chile is still closed tomorrow and now there's about a thousand vehicles waiting to make the crossing. Even if it did open up on Saturday it doesn't sound like the smartest idea anymore, particularly since it could close again at any moment and Becca does have a flight to catch next week out of Buenos Aires. They did show Cheaper by the Dozen again on the bus last night (that makes the fourth time we've seen it in two weeks - they showed it twice, back to back, on the way to Buenos Aires from Mendoza last time) and Owen, Island Girl's favourite bunk buddy, is still at Campo Base (I nearly swallowed my toothbrush when he walked into the bathroom. He's been there for weeks now. What is he doing there? Does he live there? Even college backpackers don't stay in the same hostel for weeks at a time and he's at least in his late 40s. Does he not have a job? I'm dying to find out this guy's story).

In short, between this and Boca our karma has fallen apart since you left, Robby. Now it's actually getting cloudy in Mendoza. We would pick the one week in the entire year where this desert region actually gets rain.

But she could've had appendicitis! It could always be worse. Thank goodness it's not!

Honestly, we're trying our best!

Unfortunately, this lack of achievement (despite our best efforts) appears to be a pattern lately. On Sunday we had big plans - we were finally going to see Boca Juniors at La Bombonera, playing Quilmes (one of our favourite Argentine beers). We'd been trying for ages to get tickets only to be mysteriously informed at every ticket place that they didn't actually sell tickets - ours is not to reason why. So finally we'd decided to go down to the stadium early on Sunday and just get our tickets there.

Dressed in neutral colours and leaving anything nonessential at home (including our maps of the city), we grabbed the good ol' 152 and arrived at the stadium no problem. It was mysteriously quiet considering it was two hours before a game but we were in denial. After walking past about twenty ticket booths (all closed) we found ourselves in the Boca Juniors museum asking where we could buy tickets. Right behind you, the guy told us - and then added, "pero no se juegen aca hoy".

Well that sure sounds like he said they're not playing here today, I thought, but clearly he's wrong. "What?" we both asked. "Yeah, they're not playing here today," he said. Fortunately we're so good at the bluffs now we didn't even blink. Well yeah, duh, we said coolly. We're totally just here checking it all out and stuff like. Seriously. De veras.

Casually we sauntered over to the ticket booth and said so, like, obviously they're not playing here today, duh, haha, but you know, when are they playing here again? And, um, how far away is where they're playing today?

True to Argentine form, the guy took one look at us and started speaking English (we're here to learn your language, people!). Apparently Boca will not be playing in Boca until August (the season's ending, would you look at that timing) - but San Lorenzo, where they were playing that day, was only 45 minutes away.

Then he popped that bubble too - looking us up and down, he carefully added it probably wasn't the safest neighbourhood for the two of us to visit, particularly for a football game.

Well I know what we'll do, Becca said. Let's go to Locos por Futbol, a sports bar in the barrio of Recoleta where they'd surely be showing the game. It had suddenly become very important that we see this game somehow. Without the trusty guidebook I wasn't exactly sure how far Recoleta was from Boca, but Rebecca assured me it wasn't far at all.

After an hour and a half of walking, a subway ride uptown, and another 20 minutes of walking, we arrived (good one, Bec) - only to be blocked at the door. Locos was full and had been for ages - because they were showing the Argentina vs Mexico game. Even better than Boca and Quilmes. So we sat outside and listened to the roar of the crowd inside every time a player even touched the ball, and tried to act like we didn't really care that much anyway.

Fortunately it was the first sunny day in Buenos Aires in about six weeks, and surprisingly warm also. Armed with the Sunday papers, coffee and pizza, we absorbed all the Vitamin D we could. And next Sunday you better believe we'll be camping outside Locos por Futbol at 9 a.m. We'll drink all day, if that's what it takes.

If we're not in Chile, that is.

At least we're not Katie Holmes

And we're in Chile!

Just kidding. Actually we're still in Buenos Aires and now have no idea if we're making it to Chile at all. We were to get on the bus to Mendoza yesterday, but Becca has been slain by a stomach bug (I nearly had the lady at the pharmacy thinking she was pregnant, but eventually thought better of it - some things really just aren't that funny). So we reasoned that a 14-hour overnight bus ride with putrid toilets might not be the best course of action, and minutes before the bus departed, with the pressure on, voted to stay in Buenos Aires. Very exciting and dramatic. Really.

So, we were set to leave tonight instead, and cancel the stop in Mendoza - just go straight through to Santiago. Then, fortunately, we actually read a newspaper and saw that the border crossing is closed due to snow and isn't expected to open up until Thursday at least. 400 trucks waiting on the Argentine side of the border, two drivers already succumbed to the cold. Good thing we didn't get on that bus, huh? The guy in Candide was right, everything does work out for the best! (Except of course that the whole point of Candide was to question that premise, but that's just a detail really.)

Then we thought well, maybe we'll just go to Mendoza and hang out until the border reopens. Unfortunately Mendoza is purely about outdoor activities, and with Becca still feeling less than par we ruled against that idea. Then we perused the other main border crossings to see if they were open - some were, but they were also in Patagonia or practically on the border with Brasil. Mendoza, 14 hours away, is by far the closest. Hmmmm, we thought. What to do, what to do ...

So in the end we just decided to go see Batman Begins and regroup tomorrow. I'm sure Katie Holmes' acting skills will make our problems seem a lot smaller. Oh, Katie. How does it feel, knowing that Dawson's Creek is the pinnacle of your career? And that your fiance is probably gay?

Whew. I feel better already!

Everything's less awkward with three

Now, without Island Girl to make it at least seem like there's a crowd of us (safety in numbers), the countless awkward situations we keep getting ourselves in are just going to seem worse.

The apartment seemed strangely empty last night. (Someone, I won't name names, wanted me to keep the light on in my room in case she got lonely in the middle of the night in the Special Bed and wanted to talk). And I couldn't even enjoy sprawling out in bed in the star position with no one stealing the blankets. Finally I had to steal my own blankets just so that I could get some sleep.

I'm guessing our girl is battling to get through Customs right now. Good thing you left that mate behind, lovey. There's just no way you would've been able to explain it to our zealous Aduanes officials!

No, Mother, we are not walking to Chile

And yes, Dad, we are aware that it may be "chilly" and that the food may be "hot" - i.e. chili. I get it. I promise. We got comedians, right here, folks.

But we're going anyway. On Monday Becca and I are braving the nightmarish TAC bus ride back to Mendoza. We'll spend Tuesday there and sleep at Campo Base one more time (would you die if Beckham was still there, Becca? Would! You! Die!), before hopping on a morning bus over the Andes into Chile. Apparently they've re-opened the routes after all the snow and avanlanches last week (we asked, Mom, it's perfectly safe and if it isn't we won't go, I promise!).

We'll arrive in Santiago de Chile sometime on Wednesday afternoon, meeting up with Becca's cousin the next day. Then, if all goes according to plan, we'll be back safe and sound in Argentina by the weekend (though plans really are just made to be deviated from, so I'm making no commitment to that yet). (Wait, we have massages scheduled for Saturday. Ok, maybe this one time we'll stick to the plan.)

Any word out there on Chilean wines?

She's all gwowed up!

Lately it seems like every time I talk to my little sister she makes me get all teary.

She and my parents called from Quebec City last night, the last port for her ship, the Concordia. She's spent the last year circumnavigating the globe as a member of a tall ship crew with Class Afloat, and now she's done, graduation is Monday. None of us had any idea what she was getting into when she signed up for the programme a year ago, and I think I can safely say that it is the best choice she's made - so far.

And I'm very proud of her and I love her very much - so good luck on Monday, Katemeister!! And go get your driver's license when you get home - that way the night I get home YOU can drive ME on a "spontaneous" milkshake run. I'll have the Moulin Rouge soundtrack ready!

For the record ...

... we discovered our receipts from Asia de Cuba the other day. Apparently my companion who informed me that my martinis cost 30 pesos each was sorely, sorely mistaken. My little martinis were 12 pesos each. TWELVE. Not 30. I feel like my love for martinis has been vindicated. And I won't bother to point fingers at who were the real culprits of the expensive drinks because I'm above that sort of childish nonsense (Red Bull and vodka, Island Girl?! A 20-peso vodka tonic, Becca?!).

Of course that completely negates any shreds of logic that still happen to be attached to our decision to buy the bottle of champagne. Had we known this info beforehand I'm sure we never would have bought it.

Ah, who am I kidding ...

Why is your zipper down??!!

Ever since reading Locke in university I've been a big believer in his theory that the road to all true knowledge is first via experience (sensation), then reflection (on those experiences). With that in mind, we have now been in Buenos Aires for over a month - and we're losing a limb. Robynae begins the long journey home in just a few hours. So, we decided it's time for a little reflection on all the experiences we've had, and we came up with a list.

I think I can safely say that this list is going to bore to tears anyone who is not me, Rebecca or Robby. It's full of inside jokes and quotes that really don't translate well into the written word (the favourite movie line, for example, really has to be acted out, accompanied by the obligatory hand gestures). I got a tip from a well-placed source the other day who informed me that the procrastinating audience in Perv's Corner want me to sex this blog up a bit, so let me just warn Perv's Corner especially: you are not going to find this post interesting.

But we practically fall apart laughing every time we read it. So:

The List

*Song of the trip: The Killers, "Mr. Brightside" (Robby nearly turned a table over in her battle to get to the dance floor when it came on in Asia de Cuba)
*Favourite seasoning: Salt
*Favourite drink: vino tinto (in particular, Vasco Viejo, which is served as the house wine in all our favourite sketchy places - the milonga and La Vaca que Fuma - not Ugi's, though, they stick with beer!)
*Least favourite drink: Fernet (note, to Rebecca's grandparents - it's a sweet offer, really - but we're good!)
*Favourite neighbour: Florencia
*Least favourite neighbour: Ian (The Chap from Manchester)
*Favourite landlord: Joe (Leo!)
*Least favourite bunk buddy: Owen
*Favourite Newspaper: The Buenos Aires Herald (we ARE working on our Spanish, I promise, but we have to keep up with what's going on in the world, right? Particularly on Sundays when we're drinking coffee for eight hours in Piacere!)
*Favourite cafe: Rapsodia/Piacere
*Favourite jeans: Rapsodia
*Favourite store: Rapsodia
*Favourite Locutorio worker: Johnny II
*Least favourite Locutorio worker: Juanita
*Favourite restaurant: Sucre
*Favourite sketchy place: Ugi's (one on every corner!)
*Favourite TV channel: TNT (pronounced, of course, "tay-ehnee-tay")
*Favourite place to sleep: The Special Bed
*Best night's sleep: The morning we arrived back in BsAs from Mendoza
*Worst night's sleep: On the bus back from Mendoza (stupid red light and shrill beeping noise every time the driver went over a certain speed limit - and he took a grim pleasure in going over that speed limit, let me tell you) *Favourite saying: "Why is your zipper down?"
*Best moment: The Becham double-take (the night after we discovered him at the asado in Mendoza, when we went out on the town and spotted him in an Irish bar - Rebecca casually-on-purpose walked by to go to the bathroom and he did a fantastic double take when he saw her. I'm sure it had everything to do with how excited he was to see her, and nothing at all to do with the Favourite thing to say to Becca category.)
*Favourite thing to say to Becca: "You're ugly as fucks, but you're lovable!"
*Favourite thing to do to Sarah: make her stand in sad pictures all by herself ("I'm so desperately lonely!")
*Favourite thing to do to Robyn: Not listen
*Favourite waiter: Ricky (Keegan?) (El Guapo!) (Who did email us back, btw, and very promptly too, but who we then just as promptly never emailed again - now, unfortunately, we can never go back to Sucre again because we dissed the hot waiter who wanted to give us massages ...)
*Least favourite person in all of South America: Arnaldo
*Best breakfast: "Tres medialunas y un cafe con leche, por favor"
*Favourite salad: tomato cucumber
*#1 food: tomatoes
*Worst food we've ever tasted: the powdery soup
*#1 ice cream place in the entire universe: Tuyu
*Favourite mixer: sifon
*Favourite thing to play with: sifon
*Favourite facewash: sifon
*Favourite subte line: Linea D (the Green line)
*Favourite bus: the 152 (honestly, it goes everywhere in the city) or the 380 in Mendoza (takes you to the vineyards - eventually)
*Most necessary sleeping apparel: earplugs and an eyepatch ("But it's not called an eyepatch! What the hell are those things?")
*Favourite kid: Martin Leonardo (Jorge and Viowheaowe's son)/Ignacio (the chubby little kid we saw in the grocery store who we then saw again randomly outside an Irish bar and on the street)/Antonio from Law and Order SVU
*Favourite Jew: The Jason Titterton lookalike (I love you, Jasey!)
*The noise that will haunt us all for the rest of our lives: clip, clip, clip ...
*Favourite movieline: "This is the moneymaker! I'm not that good of an actor!" (Ashton Kutcher, Cheaper by the Dozen, which by the way we saw about a dozen times on the bus trips to and from Mendoza - oh God, I bet they're going to show it again when we go back through Mendoza on the way to Chile. Becca, we're going to know that movie off by heart! I can't wait!)
*Best attempts at speaking Spanish: Sean (i.e. not any of us)
*Best karaoke: George (Ian??)
*Favourite porteno accessory: sparkly scarf
*Best bartender: Fred at Jackie O's (no idea what his real name is)
*Most awkward meal: at Elcano Grill (we were literally - yes, literally - the only people in the entire restaurant. And it was such an amazing restaurant. Why was no one else there?! Were they actually closed? Was it even a restaurant? A mystery which will forever remain unsolved ...)
*Most awkward moment: This morning, when the gang at Piacere gave us some free biscuits - presumably because we're their most favourite customers in the entire world (and here we thought they hated us) - and we had to ask if they were for us or the guy next to us - and she awkwardly told us they were a gift for us ...
*Most awkward repeated moments: every time we set foot in Tuyu (or Plums) late at night and they start laughing when they see us coming
*Favourite randoms in a photo with us: The supercute Gael guys who jumped into a pic with us outside Asia de Cuba - too bad we didn't notice how hot they were at the time
*Favourite haircuts: The Gael (on the guys) and the Giselle (on the girls). (And because I know there was a certain faction at the RG who were extremely concerned about us encountering a multitude of greasy mullets, I will say that we certainly have seen one or two mullets - but that overall Argentina is a fabulous hair country!)
*Favourite pictures: The "Becca Excuse" pics - i.e. pics where we pretend to take a picture of Becca while really taking a picture of something behind her, e.g. Beckham - best Becca pictures ever, other than the Fernet one
*Favourite bodega: Dolium
*Favourite English Couple: The English couple
*Favourite book: the Spanish dictionary
*Least favourite thing in the apartment: the alarm clock
*Most favourite thing in the apartment: the wine opener
*All-time favourite TV character: Leo - the blind French porn star who wasn't blind
*Favourite street: Vuelta de Obligado ("Is there a movie theatre on this street?")
*Least favourite street: Virrey del Pino
*Scariest dog ever: the crazy fucker in La Boca (I've never been scared of a dog in my life before but one look in this fucker's eyes and if Rebecca hadn't already shoved Robyn in front of her, I would've)
*Wettest place in South America: Tres Bocas
*Quietest place: Tres Bocas
*Eeriest place: Tres Bocas
*Tightest spot to get out of: when your right leg gets caught in the door of a moving bus (yeah, two guesses who that happened to)
*Favourite blog commenter: my mother (I love you, Mom!)
*Favourite animal: the two-humped camel in the Buenos Aires zoo (for obvious reasons), or Gimpy, the gimpy pigeon with bedhead hobbling around the Vivaldi cafe and making us feel guilty for hating all pigeons ("You're rats with wings!")
*Most depressing place in BA: the zoo
*Least favourite pizza in the entire world: the grande mozzarella from the milonga (reminiscent of wood shavings and glue - and we were so hungry we ate it anyway)
*Favourite nightspot: Las Canitas
*Favourite bathroom: in the Faena Hotel and Universe (gilded silver swans for taps)
*Favourite bribe: "I'll buy you an empanada ..."
*Favourite tango teacher (partner): Adrian Brody lookalike (aka Twitchy) at La Confiteria Ideal
*Favourite milonga (tango dance hall): La Confiteria Ideal (ok, ok, it's the only one we've been to so far)
*Robyn's favourite cookie of all time: alfajores (dulce de leche sandwiched between two shortbread cookies and dipped in meringue or chocolate)
*Our Shared Anxiety Disorder: OCD

Robyn, we are going to miss the shit out of you. Not when we're sleeping at night and we both actually have our own beds, but the rest of the time fo' sheezy.

And I'm out like a fat kid in dodgeball!

Blast "fusilar"!

Before last night I hadn't seen a truly mind-blowing movie in a while. Unfortunately the last truly mind-blowing book I read was All Quiet on the Western Front, about a week ago, and quite frankly that gave me enough food for thought that I didn't necessarily need another turn-your-world-upside-down World War story for at least another few weeks. But then we decided to go to the movies last night.

La Caida, or Downfall, was the name of the film. World War II this time, not World War I, and the view was from the top, not from the trenches. I vaguely remembered hearing about it, something to do with Hitler's last hours in the bunker. There's posters for it all over Buenos Aires but we'd really only ever glanced at them, and for some reason fully believed that this would be yet another action film, a Jerry Bruckheimer-type classic - starring Gene Hackman nonetheless.

Needless to say, about two minutes in when we realised the characters were going to be talking in German the entire way through, we understood there was no way Gene Hackman would be starring in this movie. We also realised that meant that the characters would be speaking in German (the only word I recognised was "scheisse!"), and that all the subtitles would be in Spanish. That was fine for me and Rebecca - let's face it, I can read Spanish like a bandit, I just can't understand a word whenever anyone speaks to me. Robyn, on the other hand, was out of luck.

Like a trooper she stayed put, however. And by the time we walked out of the theatre hours later, completely emotionally drained, she actually said she was kind of glad she couldn't understand what the characters had been saying. The movie was powerful enough without the actual words. It left us all traumatised - I actually had one thought process where I thought oh, I feel bad for him, he was such a great leader and now he's a broken old man - Jesus Sarah, Hitler was a great leader? Have you lost it? - Oh Lord, Jesus was a Jew, I bet he hates me now - I'm sorry, Jesus!

But, really. They did show him as paranoid and fanatic, and they did show his ruthless and murdering side. But overall they portrayed him as a once great man with great visions who gave his people something to believe in, and then showed how devastated his greatest believers were when they realised he'd given up, and you really did have to remind yourself that the guy was a psycho who murdered millions of people and quite frankly gives all vegetarians a really bad name.

And the Goebbels. I mean, they seemed way more psychotic than Hitler himself did. Scary, fanatic psychotic. Then, at the end, a clip of his secretary talking in a documentary was shown (the movie was based on her book) and she basically said that she'd kind of felt that she had been innocent of it, that she could be forgiven for buying in to it because she'd been so young (25-ish) - but that one day she'd realised that youth was no excuse. Which immediately made me feel horribly guilty over the tiny twitches of sympathy I'd felt.

Anyway the point is it left us all reeling, so much so that we had to go to a sketch Buckaroo-type restaurant for dinner afterwards - La Vaca que Fuma (the Smoking Cow). Feeling slightly better (though a little greasy) after that, we searched desperately for a comedy on TV but had to settle for ER and Law and Order SVU before finally stumbling across an episode of Joey - sadly not at all funny.

Gene Hackman probably wouldn't have been any good in that movie anyway. But the point is, if you get a chance to see it - see it! It definitely blew our minds.

Look who it is!

Mad props to TJL for winning this week's Limey in Bermuda caption competition. Didn't you come second or something a few weeks ago? I'm so proud!

I never met a drink I truly hated

I mean, I've met drinks I don't like before. I'm not a huge fan of soda in general, except of course Diet Coke (and Diet Vanilla Coke, thanks to S.E.A.). I'll also pass on whiskey pretty quickly. And as NTF knows damn well I really am not a fan of Jagermeister. I know he knows this, even though he blatantly ignores me whenever I remind him as he starts lining shots up at the bar. He ignores me because he also knows full well that for all my complaining, I'll probably drink the drink in the end. Twist my rubber arm.

So with my high tolerance for bad-tasting drinks in mind, I was unafraid the other day to take the risk and order a completely unknown drink that had been recommended long ago by a friend when she heard I was going to Argentina. At least, she used to be a friend. After this debacle she has been officially demoted to the status of co-worker.

We were sitting in Van Koning, a Dutch bar in Las Canitas, when I saw it on the menu. Fernet y coca. Well, coca I can handle, that's just Coke. Fernet was the unknown. Becca was all over it like a fat kid on a smartie, so we both ordered one (Island Girl, the smart chicky, stuck with her Cosmopolitan).

Our grinning waiter trotted off and we watched as the bartender started mixing the drinks. We first started wondering what we'd gotten ourselves into when she practically had to use a fork to scoop the thick, black sludge out of what we presumed was the Fernet bottle. Then back came our jolly little waiter, and set the drinks down on the table with a flourish.

It just looks like a Black and coke, I persuaded myself (the one skill I managed to carry away from Queen's as an English major is being able to persuade myself of anything). Becca, the sneaky little site, generously waited for me to drink first.

When it hit the tip of my tongue my first thought was root beer, which was disappointing (root beer is also on the list of drinks I don't like, so much so that I never drink it, which may be why Rebecca was so confused when I later on compared that first taste to root beer - according to her, the first taste tastes nothing like root beer).

But then the second wave of taste hit. Out of nowhere the Fernet karate-kicked my taste buds and left them for dead in a crying heap before burning a fiery path down my throat into my stomach. I could practically feel my stomach lining dissolving.

"This is fantastic!" I told Rebecca, trying desperately not to puke. "Drink up!" Off to the side, our waiter was still grinning. We had to take a picture of Becca's face when she drank, I've never seen her look quite so horrified before.

"What the fuck is this shit?" we asked the waiter politely. He brought over a bottle for us to examine. The sludge is originally from Italy, which turned my entire world upside down (how could something so foul-tasting come from Italy, of all places?), and is, believe it or not, a distillation of herbs.

"A distillation of herbs??" we said. "A distillation of herbs," the waiter repeated. What herbs?

I mean, I'm a big fan of herbs. I like herbal tea, I like herbal essential oils, I like herb spices. My good friend Walter and I have had many a cheerful discussion on the healing qualities of herbs, and the final conclusion has always been in favour.

But what those Italians must have done to whatever unnamed herbs they used in that witchy concoction, I don't even want to know about.

For some reason, perhaps an insane desire to just prove we could, we choked down the rest of the poison, trying to breathe through our mouths as we did so. Yeah we finished them. Even sucked up the last few drops through the straw. No, it sure as shit didn't grow on us. I was hopeful that it would by the fourth sip, but then I took the fifth, and realised I was unequivocally wrong.

So for all those crazy fools (not you, Marcus, please) out there who are searching for a drink to hate, this is the one. Fernet y coca. Hell, just drink straight Fernet. Oh God, straight Fernet. What would it have tasted like without the Coke?? Oh wow. I don't even want to think about it. I'm getting heart palpitations at the mere thought. I have to tell Becca to imagine straight Fernet.

Oh, EW.

Where are we again?

We've been to Mendoza, Belen is taking me to Patagonia and Rosario, and you better believe plans to go to Chile are now in the works. But we hadn't done any of the areas immediately surrounding Buenos Aires, so last week we jumped on the train and went to Tigre. After a long journey all the way down the green line on the Subte, switching to the blue line, and then finally getting on the train (and realising that the second stop on the train was the one right behind our apartment and so we hadn't needed to take the subway at all), we finally arrived in the little town - tired and extremely hungry (of course). Tres Bocas is a residential neighbourhood about half an hour away and we followed our stomachs there to a restaurant we'd heard about - and found ourselves in another world. See, the thing about Tigre is that it's on the delta of the Rio Plate. Water, water everywhere. No roads, but the river. Streets were of water. The quiet little suburbs were tree-lined rivers, not tree-lined roads. People didn't have cars, they had boats. There is no bus system, there's a commuter launch system. That would've been intense enough, but on top of that Tres Bocas was so eerie.Twilight zone. I don't know where everyone was, we guessed at work, but everything was dead quiet save for the drip drip of water and the squish of muddy grass beneath our feet. It was a grey, dismal day anyway, but everything was soaking wet. Mud was everywhere. Houses were silent and raised up on stilts to protect against flooding, every one had a little dock out on the water and no one was around. The place seemed deserted. The water was the colour of milky coffee and the grass was´practically neon green because there was so much moisture. It is Argentina, so of course while no houses seemed to hold people, every one had a dog. And even the dogs, all collared and well fed, were covered in mud - there just seemed to be no way to keep them clean. The few people we saw wore galoshes as shoes. At one point, sloshing down the path, we came across an enormous black dog - the size of a small horse. Thick black fur, muddy, paws the size of dinner plates, he looked like something out of one of those old Scholastic books we used to order in Port Royal, there was one about an island with the ghost of a dog and a man on it. He was super spooky. And of course he, like the creepy dog in Mendoza that Island Girl mentioned, decided to adopt us. To de-spookify him we named him Patches, and almost immediately I actually felt better about having him there. Patches so needed a walk, so he tagged along happily on ours. His big scary presence was a relief when a scary man wielding a saw came crowding down the narrow lane. Patches to the rescue. It was said to say goodbye - he left us waiting for the launch. The whole place was totally surreal. It was a relief to get back to our nice little corner of Belgrano, and our apartment with its high ceilings and bright orange walls. That being said, now I kinda want to go back - it was such a crazy place!

150 pesos my ass

Now that I'm a student again, budgeting is a top priority.

Actually, technically speaking, I'm not even a student right now - technically I'm just unemployed. Which means I should be living like unemployed people do, ie off Kraft dinner every night (I'm not even living off the dole! Where's Financial Assistance when you need them?). With our poverty in mind, while living it up in Mendoza last weekend Becca and I swore that once we returned to Buenos Aires we were limiting ourselves to 150 pesos (around $50) per week. As Becca actually IS a student who also has rent to think about (which reminds me, I don't have to pay rent right now, do I Mom and Dad?), budgeting was a priority. Not so much for Island Girl, who fortunately (I use that term loosely) does have a job waiting for her at the good ol' RG when she goes home next week. (Apparently I'm the only scrub of the group. Ah well, somebody's gotta make everybody else look good, right?)

But I digress. The point is, we set ourselves a budgetary limit of 150 pesos. And then on Wednesday night we went to Asia de Cuba and blew the entire week over one meal.

Again, keeping our spending in perspective (ie converting it into Bermuda dollars), the dinner out (which turned into drinks and dancing until 6am) really only cost us approximately the entrance to Splash and the experience blew that place away. Plus we really tried to keep the budget in mind - most notably when we reasoned at around 3am that purchasing a 60 peso bottle of Chandon champagne was in fact perfectly acceptable as that was the same price as two martinis at the bar. (Keeping in mind the fact that I had already downed two martinis, and was truly horrified to discover that they cost 30 pesos each. I mean, that's right up there with Pickled Onion prices. And they only came with one olive! At Pickled the guy practically hands over the jar of olives when I ask for extras!)

The champagne was so worth it though. As were the other Chandon products - the O2, and the Latitud 33. (The martinis were so-so.) The meal itself was also killer - right up there with Sucre. And Asia de Cuba is to die for - again, super hip trendy restaurant - I think I actually liked the decor better there, and the music. They eat dinner a wee bit late in BsAs (around 11pm usually) and at 1am it turns into a club - that was the point when ALL the beautiful people came crawling out of the woodwork. To my everlasting shock, I even found myself be-bopping around the room at several points.

So, the moral of the story is, if you set yourself a budget - don't ever, EVER go out drinking with your card, especially if Rebecca is your Budget Buddy and actually convinces you that it's economical to purchase champagne.

But really. It made total sense at the time!

"Tap it!" (or, An Asado is So Much More than a BBQ)

Ok, now, word on the street is there might be a few parents (and even grandparents) who are reading this blog (Hi Mom). So I just want to put this caveat in place: this entry is going to be solely focused on hot men staying in our hostel in Mendoza. There. Consider yourselves warned!

That being said, it's interesting and an itty bit disturbing to think that even though there must be beautiful men in Buenos Aires (El Guapo can't be the only one in the entire city), it wasn't until we met a bunch of English guys a thousand kilometres from BsAs that we started drooling.

But really - Katemeister you, for example, I know full well, would have been just as starstruck had some guy with an English accent who looked just like David Beckham (circa his scruffy era) showed up across the dinner table from you. And a guy who looked like Colin Farrell travelling with him (eyelashes the length of my arm, Katie, honestly). And a tall lean kid with hat-head who looked like the young fella from Smallville. And must I go on?

Ok, ok, I will. There was also Sean, a tall skinny grad going for his chemistry doctorate at UVM who'd needed a break from studying and was trying so hard to learn Spanish on his own, it was really cute. And George (lord knows what his real name is, we dubbed him George because he shared a vague resemblance to our friend GS and it was GS's birthday that night after all), who was studying in Chile and was part of his high school singing group.

Campo Base II was the name of our hostel. It's pretty clear that it's a YOUTH hostel (it's in the name, already) so we weren't entirely sure how we ended up with a creepy British bodybuilder in his late 40s on the bottom of Robyn's bunk (poor IslandGirl). Owen aside, the hostel was crammed full with young people from all over the world (but mostly Australia and England) doing all kinds of amazing things. And when some 60 of us sat down that night to a giant asado (honestly, forget pig roasts, they had an entire cow roasting in a fireplace the size of the RG newsroom) it reminded me so much of mealtimes on board the Seamans - exactly the same types of people, with the same ridiculously large appetites, and the same mountains of food. (George even announced at one point that he wanted to do this programme called the Sea Education Programme and I think I might've scared him off it, I was so overwhelmingly enthusiastic about it).

The chef (I use that term loosely) even kindly handed Becca and I a soyburger to share (as he did so we noticed his zipper was down but hey, you gotta let some things slide). The only difference from shipboard life was that you had no idea who the people sitting across from you were (though they became your best friends in about five minutes), and the alcohol was flowing.

Oh, and afterwards they had karaoke. George was LOVING the karaoke. I do have pictures, but I don't have the cord necessary to download them. So you'll all just have to wait (yes, Kate, of course I snapped a picture of Beckham too!)

Hostel life is certainly special - I can see now why certain of my friends are addicted. You walk in and are immediately sharing showers, bathrooms and bedrooms with people you've never met in your life (guys and girls), and everyone takes it all in stride, even Irishmen yelling proudly about how quiet they are when they stumble in from the bars at 6a.m. and weary travellers sound asleep in the common areas at 4 in the afternoon. Hostels must be the most laid back places in the world.

It's a blast. I can't believe I haven't stayed in a hostel before this. Kate and LisaJayne, if you guys do Europe, do it in hostels all the way!

Feeling Chile

The bus ride to Mendoza is both through the night and through the Pampas, so it's not the most scenic bus ride I've ever taken - until the very end.

Suddenly there was a gap in the early morning fog and there they were, snow-covered and rugged, the Andes. Directly in front of us, stretching north and south as far as you could see. Just begging for us to come and explore them - and, beyond them, hugging the edge of the continent like a really skinny child about to be pushed out of bed by a really fat one, Chile.

So close ... all of a sudden, I could hear myself saying it, really off-handedly: "Yeah, I've gone over the Andes and crossed the border into Chile." I mean, how cool would it be to be able to say that? At one point over the weekend we were "hiking" (strolling) around a park and we started talking about how we would trek over the mountains, what we would need (couple of hot guides) and so on, and while it was all half in jest it really was only half. I've got the bug. I've gotta go.

Maybe not TREKKING over them, let's be honest, quite apart from the fact that winter is rapidly approaching we all know I'm no trekker (though really, I helped sail a ship across the ocean, why not a trek over the Andes?). But realistically, the better option is the one Joe told us about - the bus to Chile. It climbs up and up, he said, until it can't go any higher and you lose your breath every time you look out the window, and then it disappears into a tunnel through the tops of the mountains. Chile on the other side. Santiago is nice enough, he said, but the reason you go is for the bus ride.

And Becca just happens to have a cousin in Santiago ...

¿¿Como se puede ... ??

After more than two weeks in Argentina we are mastering the art of bluffing.

Yesterday as we wandered the Retiro bus station both Rebecca and I had to fake it as our trials and tribulations with the Spanish language continued (Robyn, the sneaky little site, manages to get out of these humiliating situations - for the most part - by arguing that she doesn't know ANY Spanish so of course she can't be expected to ask questions).

It started when Rebecca went to ask what time we could board our bus to Mendoza. "At what time does one ... " she began articulately, with an innocent look and her eyebrows raised. Sure enough, the ticket agent jumped right in and finished her sentence for her. We got the info we needed and still have no idea what "to board" is. (Llevar or subir??)

Then, as the clock ticked down (way past the time we should've boarded by) and our bus didn't appear, we grew increasingly worried that we'd missed it. Apparently it could have been in any one of the eight bays we were standing near, and buses of all different shapes, sizes and companies were around us. Our tickets clearly stated "TAC" and platforms 10-18, but hey, really. That could've meant anything. So Rebecca decided I was the batter up on this one, and off I trotted to the first bus that came in (an Expreso something or other). The driver was lounging on the platform when I presented him with our tickets with a flourish, and asked politely (batting my eyelashes the best I could) if he was our driver.

"No," he replied, looking at me oddly (probably wondering if I had something in my eye). "Your bus is a TAC bus. This is Expreso something or other."

"Oh," I replied, faking it. "That's the NAME of the bus?!" (Naturally we'd suspected it was but who knows. Homer: "Doh!")

"Yes," he replied. "You'll be in one of those bays." Well thanks for that, buddy.

Of course, we needn't have worried. The bus pulled up right on time with TAC proudly displayed - though to be fair it was all blue, and we were looking for yellow and red like on our tickets.

Still. Sometimes I can't believe the three of us hold university degrees. Look out, LSE, you have no idea what you're getting in to come September ...

The land of sun and good wine

We leave today for Mendoza, so if there are no posts for a few days, it's because we three have been set loose in the region that produces 80% of the country's wine. Nuff said!

The bus ride promises to be interesting (it's only 14 hours - ha!), and we were rather impressed with how reasonable the price was considering it's a double decker bus with seats that turn into beds. Then we realised we'd neglected to book a return ticket. Good one. Chalk another casualty up to Sarah and Rebecca's Spanish.

Oh well, maybe we'll just keep going to Chile. I've always wanted to go on a trek through the Andes and Mendoza is right at the foot of them.

And it's a desert! Wine growing in the desert. It's like something out of the Chronicles of Narnia. (Only in Spanish.) They call it the land of sun and good wine. Move over, Cali - Mendoza here we come!

I love the sketchy places

I don't know why all the posts I put up seem to revolve around our food adventures, but there you have it.

We'd gone to a movie in this ridiculous mall called Abasto which has an enormous amusement park in it for children called Neverland (has a verdict been reached in that trial, btw?), we were miles from our house on a street we didn't really know, and I was about to start chewing on my Spanish dictionary from hunger. So when the smell of pizza slammed into my nostrils, I didn't stop to think. Fortunately the girls were right behind me.

The place? Ugi's. The decor? White bathroom tiles with red plastic chairs, flourescent lighting - the overall effect leaves your face looking like the stuff of nightmares. The menu? Large cheese pizza. That's it. Just large cheese pizza. Nothing else.

The price? 3.79 pesos for the large pizza. That's around $1.20 - split between three people. We ordered one and three beers. (Naturally we'd neglected to remember that in Argentina, "a beer" means a bottle the size of an OE bottle.) In Ugi's, they were hauled over the counter to us complete with little dixie cups like those you see at the dentist's office. We devoured the first pizza and ordered another - they were just making them regardless of whether people were ordering them or not, so barely had I opened my mouth to order the second when he was handing the steaming pie to me. The hobbit-sized dixie cups made the Ent-sized beers go down no problem. In the end we'd stuffed ourselves with some of the best pizza we'd ever tasted, quenched our thirst, and gotten the strength for the trek back home, all for roughly the equivalent of two bucks each.

How can I ever go back to Bermuda - or worse, to London - after this?!

Your first is NOT always the best!

Whoever knew so much shit could go down at a dinner party?

We go to one dinner party and next thing we know we're all using, we have dark suspicions about our neighbour and his love life, and the legendary Beast of Apartment 59 has taken on mythological proportions in our minds.

On Saturday Joe (Leo) (whoever) the landlord invited us to his apartment for a dinner party. Another guy he rents a place to, an elderly chap from Manchester, was going back to the Green and Pleasant Lands for a few weeks and the dinner party was a little chau to him.

We had no idea who would be going or what language would be spoken or really what we were getting ourselves in to, which was exactly why we were looking forward to it. I was even prepared to be served meat - the Dinner Club are excellent about ensuring that I have vegetarian dishes at dinner parties, but as this was a man I'd spoken to for all of ten minutes in my entire life, I didn't really feel comfortable demanding he create an entire special dish for me, the lone vegetarian in all of Argentina. Fortunately my days of attending fancy functions as a reporter had left me with a few tricks up my sleeve, including the old cut-the-meat-up-and-move-it-around-your-plate-so-it-looks-like-you-ate trick, which I fully intended to employ that night.

We arrived, we sat, we ate olives and eggplants (well, Rebecca and I chowed down on them, everyone else seemed to be watching us in a mild kind of horror). The other guests included Joe's business partner and best friend since he was ten, Jorge, and Jorge's wife, Voihweaovinawe (I didn't actually catch her name properly and none of us can remember it now), and The Chap from Manchester. Joe's cat, Homi (sp?) watched us quietly while his two parakeets screeched from the corner. Florencia, we learned, had been banished to the dog-sitter's for the evening. "She's not good at dinner parties," Joe explained carefully as Jorge snickered. By the end of the night enough stories of Florencia's - um - energy - had been told that we completely understood Joe's reservations at having her present. (The story of her causing Police cars and a roadblock to be set up outside his dear little mother's house was my favourite, but I won't go into all that now.)

Conversation flowed between Spanish and English (and a few awkward silences), with Rebecca and I simultaneously delighted (at how much we could understand them saying) and alarmed (at how we immediately turned into Mentally Challenged People every time we opened our mouths). Impressively Robyn was also able to follow along with much of the Spanish.

In Spanish they explained to us that we would be eating "lentajes". Lentils?? I thought. It's too good to be true. There's no way there's no meat involved here. Be careful, I thought, the lentils might have meat in them. "Be careful, I think the lentils might have meat in them!" Rebecca whispered to me. "Thanks!" I whispered back.

Sure enough, it was a lentil STEW. Complete with large chunks of dead animal swirled around in it. I stared down at it in masked horror. Blast! My plans had been foiled! I would have to wing it ... Gingerly, I scooped a spoonful of what I hoped was pure lentils and started chewing - just in time for Jorge to ask, in Spanish, "Is there rabbit in this one?"

Please tell me I translated that wrong, please tell me I translated that wrong, I thought desperately ... No no, I had it right. Fortunately Joe replied no, but I was already turning purple from trying not to choke. Thank god I'd made such a pig of myself earlier with the olives and eggplant, I thought. It was time to employ Vegetarian Faced with Meat Dish Tactic No. 2: make a show of eating, eat as much as you can, and then announce that you must've pigged out too much on the appetisers and can't eat another bite. You sacrifice your dignity by reminding strangers of what a cerdita you are, but at least you don't have to eat the flesh.

As I was waging my own little war on the lentajes (which everyone else was devouring with mucho gusto), laughing at stories of Florencia (I can't wait to see this dog again, she's such a monster) the doorbell rang. Enter Gepetto (not his real name, it's a long story), a kid who looked to be around our age and was warmly welcomed by the Chap from Manchester (who is in Buenos Aires on his retirment pension, has an earring, and practically ran to the door to let Gepetto in before monopolising conversation with him the entire night).

I could practically see the wheels in Rebecca's head turning (Robyn was still taking care of her lentils). I was thinking the exact same thing. Who exactly is this kid and what exactly is his relationship with The Chap, who I had already pegged in my mind as one who was still trying to relive his youth?

It may be one of those unsolved mysteries, like the question of Joe's sexuality (just because you live alone and talk to your pets does NOT mean you are gay! Right?)

But I digress. Next thing we knew, Joe was writing down the types of ice creams we like. To our feigned horror (at least, I was feigning it, really it was the best idea I'd ever heard) he announced we were ordering ice cream.

But not from Plums, the heladeria we had been attending faithfully every night (to the point where it was just getting awkward with the geeky boys on the late shift). They were horrified when we told them we've been going to Plums. Apparently Cabanna Tuyu (the heladeria next door) is light-years better.

Robyn and I, convinced that our first (the only one we'd ever had) would always be the best, remained skeptical. Rebecca, on the other hand, had been preaching to us for several days that, like with other things, the first heladeria does always seem good - but that you have no idea how good it can get until you explore other options.

Sure enough, Robyn and I took one taste of Tuyu's wares (which, by the way, you can get delivered, oh the sinful possibilities) and - well. Let's just say it was a good thing we were already sitting down.

It was after 1am by the time we left, stuffed full of ice cream, completely in love with Jorge and Voiwehaogienwa (and their one year old baby, Martin, who Jorge proudly showed off pictures of and whose middle name is Leonardo - after Joe! So cute!), still wondering about Gepetto and the Chap, cursing the fact that we were now addictied to Tuyu (it was like switching from sniffing glue to straight heroin), and with me clutching a little mate that Jorge had presented me with - at least, we THINK he said I could keep it.

We had so much fun that we're inviting them for dinner next week sometime. Any suggestions on what we can make them?

Lo veo - pero no lo creo!

Yesterday started off being the saddest day ever.

We woke up late - again. It was cold with the saddest, drizzliest, most England-type rain I've ever seen. We were all broke and though we tried every single ATM within a 40-mile radius all snottily informed us that they could not process that transaction at this moment. (Becca promptly convinced herself that Stupid Arnaldo has already stolen our identities, however I wasn't too worried on that point - even if he WAS planning on stealing our identities there's no way Bermuda banks move that fast, it'll be two months at least before I can't access my bank account).

We went to the post office and were horrified at how much it cost us to send 17 postcards to friends and family, scraping in our wallets for every last cent (now we were REALLY broke). It was still raining. Every time we crossed a street we had to leap ballerina-style across rivers of black water rushing through the gutters. (Clearly we all three missed at least once, soaking our jeans and shoes.) We piled hexes on Arnaldo's head, convinced that he was the root of all our bad karma. A curse on both your houses Arnaldo, I thought furiously. I'm sure he only has one house but quoting Shakespeare always makes me feel better, even when it's out of context. Becca's MP3 player broke and my iPod ran out of power. IslandGirl had lost her license. We didn't even have enough change for the bus. I was half a step behind both of them (the Caboose lives on) when they stepped off the curb and a car hurtling around the corner at mach 3 missed them both by about half an inch. Please don't die, I told them, and we all laughed hysterically and clutched at each other.

And our big plan for the day had been to visit the cemetary.

Clearly we decided instead to just get drunk. Then we realised we couldn't even afford to do that.

Becca took a sad picture of me standing in a monsoon on the corner of Santa Fe and Virrey del Pino. My hideous gold umbrella was broken (it was brand new, btw) and as all 13 million other people in BA were sheltering under buildings at the moment, I was entirely alone on the corner. I put my best Eeyore face on for it. Saddest picture ever.

Then, a trickle of luck. A random gas station allowed me to take out a ridiculously huge chunk of money. I let out a shout of triumph, much to the alarm of the four greasy-haired men hanging out in the gas station with us.

In a sudden stroke of brilliance we realised we could kill two birds with one stone by returning to the bar where Becca and IslandGirl were when she lost her license - we could get the license back and get wasted. We're so efficient, we told each other proudly. Look at how efficient we are.

It was 4pm when we reached the bar (Jackie O, with, naturally, tributes to Jackie everywhere). They were closed but a girl there (who took one look at us and started speaking in English) got the license anyway.

We moved to a bar down the street and celebrated. The celebration turned into an odyssey through that neighbourhood (which we were informed is busy, but not cool, even though we thought it was pretty cool). Yes, we drunk dialed some people (who had some nerve not to be waiting by their cellphones in case we called, by the way). We finally sat down to dinner, back in Jackie O's, at around 10 (early for BA) after eating lunch at 5 and a nice little American snack at about 9.30. We hit the heladeria right on time at 11.30 and were in bed watching Scrubs by midnight. We were exhausted from giggling for eight hours straight.

I love it when sad days turned in to the best random days ever.

Top ten things I love about My Mother

1) When she and her sisters all laugh together, their shoulders all move up and down at the exact same time and they all have the exact same helpless look on their faces and it's one of the funniest sites that Katemeister, LisaJayne and I have ever seen

2) She calls everyone "lovey", even if she's only just met them

3) She truly believes that our dog is her fourth child and will let him get away with just about anything

4) She's one of the most generous people I've ever met, practically ready to mortgage the house if it means she can help someone

5) She's also one of the most hospitable people I've ever met, welcoming every single random person that her children have brought home or that Rotary has dumped on her with open arms (and a cup of tea and a "Hello, lovey", of course)

6) She believes that drinking hot tea in the summer time actually cools her down

7) She also believes that tea is the ultimate solution to every single one of life's tribulations

8) She's like a momma bear protecting her cubs, charging at the slightest threat to her kids (her decision to phone one child's ex and bitch them out being a case in point)

9) She watches Desperate Housewives with me every Sunday, even when she's pooped

10) She is completely convinced that her children are the greatest people to ever live in the history of the entire universe, even when our rooms aren't clean - with that kind of faith behind us, how can we ever go wrong?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!

La Guerra Sucia

On March 24, 1976, after years of turbulence, a bloodless military coup took control of the Argentine state apparatus, attracting the most international attention to Argentina in its history for the worst reasons.

This according to our Bible - Lonely Planet.

The general in charge, Jorge Rafael Videla, swore that he would crush guerilla movements (including several inspired by Ernesto Guevara) by any means necessary. The press and the public gave their support and the Process of National Reorganisation (El Proceso) was the euphemistic handle for the new government's dual policy of authoritarian rule and an economic agenda designed to encourage foreign investment. Sure, they had a little success with all that, but after a while the minor detail of state terrorism kinda eclipsed what success they had.

They used CIA intelligence and 'interrogation' techniques (why does the CIA always seem to be linked to these horrible things) and security forces, working undercover, went about arresting, torturing, raping, and killing anyone on their hit list of suspected leftists. Liberals, intellectuals, journalists and trade union leaders were obvious targets, some armed revolutionaries were locked up. Mass murder, torture by electrocution, death flights over the ocean, imprisonment in dungeons throughout the country (including pregnant women and disabled people). The details are documented in Nunca Mas (Never More), a report from 1983 by a committee chaired by Ernesto Sabato, a brilliant contemporary Argentine writer (On Heroes and Tombs). By 1978 ordinary civilians had been drawn in to the conflict.

1978 was also the year of the World Cup - here's where journalism begins to shine. International journalists flown in to cover the event weren't taken in by Videla's propaganda stunts and word got out of what was going on. The Falklands War (we have to call it the Malvinas War here) put an end to military rule and the period eventually became known as La Guerra Sucia, the Dirty War.

It all ended 22 years ago but yesterday in the Plaza de Mayo we watched the Mothers and the Grandmothers of the desaparecidos - the dissappeared - marching. From 1976 to 1983 it's estimated that some 30,000 people were "disappeared". The Mothers and Grandmothers keep up their protest, campaigning for justice and information about their lost children. Post-1983 governments didn't cover the crime of military officers kidnapping children for adoption. The Abuelas and HIJOS (sons and daughters) organisations are committed to naming all these illegally adopted children, now in their twenties - my age.

They march every Thursday in the Plaza in front of Casa Rosada, the presidential palace, where Evita makes her famous speech. They're old but young people march with them, and they greet them with open arms, hugging and kissing. Every Thursday for 22 years they've done this. They get no answer. Most of the people who know the answers are either living in relative anonymity under house arrest, or are already dead. They don't care, they just keep marching.

Now THAT'S something worth fighting for.

And, see, Mom? Extremely different from jerky Arnaldo stopping us on the street for taking a picture!

Possibly sketchy ...

Busy day so far. We've been at two demonstrations and nearly got arrested in a third situation!

Don't worry, Mommy and Daddy, we're fine. The first demonstration appeared to be a bunch of housewives campaigning to get another woman set free, the second was the well known Mothers of the Disappeared (more on that later, it's a pretty intense story).

But the third instance, just in case: Rebecca and I were standing outside the bank (an HSBC, nonetheless) waiting for the Third Musketeer to get some money at the ATM. It´s a grim, oppressive fall day here in Buenos Aires, and I was taking a picture of the leaves falling from the trees with these gorgeous scary-looking buildings in the background when out of nowhere a Police badge was flashed in my face.

Now let´s be clear that I have read about this happening and it happened in Cuba also so I wasn't too surprised. He was dressed in a suit and he informed me that I can't take pictures there. Apparently because we had big bags and my camera isn't just a little snapshot one he had noticed us. Why exactly I can't take a picture of a building opposite a bank remains unclear to me, but I wasn't too bothered by it and put my camera away - then he asked us for ID.

Now of course a little red flag went up. Becca and I both gave him our drivers licenses and he took out a piece of scrap paper (not a nice official-looking notebook) and wrote down a bunch of info. Almost immediately we were kicking ourselves, why hadn't we just said we had no ID on us? There were three or four Buenos Aires policemen standing about five feet away watching us and smirking, and I didn't like it - I didn't think we were in any danger, but it definitely wasn't right. (I mean, really. No girl likes it when a bunch of guys are standing next to her and smirking at her.)

So we asked the guy for his info as well. At first he didn't want to give it to us but Becca went off on him a bit so he pulled it out, though he wouldn't let me hold it. So, just in case, I want to post it here: Arnaldo Daniel Escobar, Agente de Policia Federal Argentina, legajo N. 16174. Bs.As. 07-11-2001.

Again, Mom and Dad, stop worrying! Nicole got stopped by the Police for taking a picture in Havana and they actually took her roll of film out of the camera, but they didn't do anything more, and I really feel a helluva lot safer here than I did there. I'm not worried, it all looked legit, we just really didn't like the guy (and apparently Becca has recently seen Brokedown Palace), so I'm just posting his info here just in case.

And now we're going to go shopping (again) on Avenida Florida, a pedestrian street that's supposed to have some of the best shopping in BA (could it really get better than what we've already seen?). So more on the Mothers later - it's such a sad story!