More things to tick off my Must Do In Argentina Before We Leave list.
A confusing combination of authentically Argentine experiences, and experiences so authentically Argentine that ONLY a tourist/ex-pat and never a local would do them.
Driving in the city at rush hour.
After hiring a car once again without correct docs (last time I had no driving license cause I left it in BsAs, this time we didn't pay a deposit: I think he swiped my Blockbuster card), I weaved with Fangio-like skill through the mental asylum on wheels that is the rush hour around the city. And we didn't die once.
Riding a horse like a crazed gaucho.
After initially embarrassing myself un poco by asking el gaucho where the seatbelt was, it turns out I'm a cross between Robert Redford and Robert Redford (part Horse Whisperer part Butch Cassidy) and took to the saddle with gay abandon, as they used to say in more innocent times.
Near death experience on the autopista.
Suffered a full on explosion enroute to work. The fire extinguisher exploded on the bus on the way to work. It was all very exciting: smoke filled the cabin in seconds and it was determined that we would all DEFINITELY HAVE DIED had this happened on the autopista. As it was we were parked, and only a little dusty. I think I speak for everyone in saying that it was a great disappointment it hadn't been foam.
Tourist Price: paying miles over the odds for something on account of being foreign.
Tourist Price is actually a very clever pun as Pricey is here at the moment, and bought two train tickets into town yesterday morning. The costs was 1.70, or 0.85 each (or nothing, in sterling or dollars). For reasons known only to him, Pricey gave the guy two 50$ notes and walked away without any change. With the quick thinking of an American military general, he realised that paying around $35 for 2 local train tickets was a bit steep, and (tone changing to respect now) somehow managed to communicate this to the invisible man behind the one way glass counter, who - with an ever growing commuter queue growing ever angrier - returned him his remaining 98.30. In change.
You do not cocinar (cook) an asado, you hacer (do/make) an asado. I would say I cooked an asado at Christmas. I pretty much broke every golden rule of the asador (see next entry) en route to producing what ended up being an acceptably large amount of meat. But I was cooking for fellow foreigners, which is not the acid test. On Saturday I would claim to have done an asado, from coals to colita, and satisfied some locals.
Enjoying Fernet.
A medicinal little black number that tastes like pastis, or maybe licorice or maybe mouthwash, or maybe medicine. Much like when you're a kid/teenager trying lager for the first time (my first was Tennants). The first time you taste it it's like stale ashtray, but you soldier on through for months and months, past the pain barrier, dumbing you senses in between with bar snacks until you've had so many enjoyable nights out whilst drinking the filth that you're convinced you enjoy it. And then suddenly you do. Well, I've reached that stage with Fernet (thought not yet with Tennants, which really just does tastes like a stale ashtray).
Drunk a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine.
Wine tasting Friday night. 160$. Confirming in my mind that I do not need to drink a 160$ bottle of wine to enjoy good wine. I think the clue to my ignorance lies in the fact that I can remember the price, the colour and nothing else.
Gracias, y ciao.
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