Another blog in such quick succession? What is he, on drugs? Alas, my friends he is not. I wrote the last blog and it was so long I thought it might throw you in to the depths of despair by publishing it all in one go. I didn’t want to be responsible for a spate of suicides in the Greater London area so here is what I affectionately label Part 2.
So we spent Easter in Rosario and the day after our little ordeal with Luis the psychopathic nightman we get up at two in the afternoon and decide to go for a walk. I have to say it’s great being back in Argentina. It’s cheap, the people are friendly, you don’t feel like you’re going to be raped every time you step out of your door. It’s just a great country. We find a restaurant for dinner and I’m pumped. I want a good Argentinean steak and now. And get it I do. The food is impeccable, the service is good, the wine is divine. The only issue came when they delivered the bill. Something called Cubiertos for 5 pesos. Interesting. What’s that? I didn’t order any Cubiertos, whatever it was. So we ask the waiter, who can’t speak English, so he runs away and comes back with someone who can. Here’s how the conversation went:
Me: Hi there, (showing the bill) what’s this…cubiertos?
Waiter: It’s for this (he points at the knife.)
Me: The knife?
Waiter: For the cutlery.
Me: You’re charging me for the cutlery?
Waiter: (Nods and smiles)
Me: 5 pesos…to use the cutlery? What did you expect me to eat the steak with…my hands?
Waiter: (Smiles some more and shrugs) I’m sorry I’m from Germany...(leaves)
Rosario was nice but we were definitely ready to go after 4 days. So we jump on another bus back to Buenos Aires. Because we love this city, we have decided to rent an apartment in the San Telmo area. I had this idea that we would eat steak, drink wine, go jogging along the river, do some writing and just relax before we head off to Patagonia for a couple of weeks. Well the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. You’ll think I’m making this up but I assure you everything I write is from truth (or truth as I recall it)
So it was Friday and we get to our apartment and immediately I’m worried. There’s these hippie student types just hanging around outside the building which is an old big window jobbie. So after clearing them off the steps to the door, we go in with the agent. First impressions? Nice, big, modern. Upstairs bit has bedroom and bathroom. Downstairs - kitchen, living area. It’s on the ground floor so when you open the windows, there’s the street…with the hippies. Not to worry, I’m sure they’re just there during the week. There was no fan or air con (bear in mind it’s 85 outside, I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me because I know in England it’s pissing it down and cold but stay with me if you will). The gas oven took as long to light as it takes to read the Book of Genesis out loud and the bed didn’t have sheets on it.
Also the agent wanted us to pay in cash, a fact they had omitted to tell us. So I had to go traipsing around San Telmo looking for a cash point that would accept my card (most of them didn’t), then when I finally found one, it would only let me take out a maximum of 250 pounds. So I come back sweating like a fat man who’d been chasing a runaway M&M and I’m not happy. After much discussion they agreed to let us pay the rest on Monday. The agent leaves. It’s not two minutes she’s gone when Alison yells downstairs ‘The toilet doesn’t work.’ She was right, it didn’t flush. More phone calls. The agency said they could get a plumber round tomorrow. I asked where I was supposed to take a dump in the meantime. She didn’t have an answer.
Then Friday night comes and San Telmo becomes a party town. Revellers out till late, drunks, noise. Brilliant. And it’s hot. I can’t open the windows without letting the whole street see my arse so I just have to lump it.
The following night, our neighbours upstairs decide to throw a party and are shouting and screaming until four in the morning! I mean literally screaming. And the jumping as well, let me not forget that. Were they engaged in some sort of crude high jumping competition? Who knows? All I do know as I gaze at the clock through cracked, sore eyes is that I want to kill people, but I haven’t got the energy or tools at my disposal. Then just as I’m starting to nod off (bearing in mind it’s now 0530) there’s noise outside. A different kind of noise. I crawl on all fours to the window, beaten. I look out to see, a market. They are setting up a market outside our apartment. With all the metal banging and yelling. What…the…hell.
So come Monday we take a trip to the ‘Agency’ (Sounds like the CIA but I assure you it’s a lot less impressive). And after barking at them for half an hour they eventually offer us another apartment in a district called Palermo. This place is nice and it is where I am writing to you now with a glass of Malbec at my side. It’s on the 5th floor, it has a sunny balcony, it’s quiet and…it’s got a toilet that works! It even has a remote to close the shutters, nice. So things at the moment are very satisfactory.
I suppose I’d better sign off, this has been far too long-winded. I need to learn the ancient art of editing. Well at least I didn’t leave it open ended like last time, although I know you secretly love those Eastender cliff hanger writings.
And so, with a heavy heart and even heavier stomach (need to lay off those steaks) I say Adieu.
Dan
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