What's worse than texting and driving?

An original twist on an old story, drivers in Lima, but I had to sneak a photo of this fella on my regular combi, the Pachacamac to La Punta express. 

Stuck in traffic, Billy the Bus Driver considered giving it some horn. 

It took drives more than the duration of my journey to finish reading the article. Maybe - and I might be jumping to conclusions here - he was being distracted by the naked chic on the left.

What the UK looks like to an Argentine.

Here are a few of my favourite anecdotes that makes me look at the UK the way an Argentine does.


From a kid I used to teach, now working as a gap student. A couple of gems in here. 
I can see some notable differences with Argentineans, such as the sense of humor, which I think is sometimes "healthier" here. Also I was very surprised by the "pub" culture, where you do not buy your own drink, each one buys a 'round'. That's not very frequent in Argentina; and, also, you go several times a week. I can say that I havent noticed any negative aspects yet. The people I work with are always in a good mood and laughing. I dont know if I was lucky, or just the people here are very kind, I guess you can give me some info on that, haha.


Info: the people you are working with are drunk and/or foreign.  


A story a friend tells about visiting the UK with his Argentine fiancee, now wife:   
After going around the country, catching up with friends and meeting family, as we were leaving someone's house, Agos spun around and said: "Does anyone eat anything in this frikkin' country except f*ck*ng lasagna?" 


It is the middle class food of choice, isn't it?

After a kid flew to London for a public speaking competition:

Me: - How was London?

Kid: - Yeah. Really really organised. 

(I expected him to mention the architecture, the Thames, Big Ben... the food?)

Me: - Oh. How do you mean?

Kid: - Well. One day we were waiting for a bus. And there was a timetable, with the times the bus would come, And then, when the time arrived, the bus arrived. Things like that, but all the time. 

* Wow. Britain to Argentines is like Germany to the British. Now I realise why all those German tourists in Argentina looked a little... lostconfused *  

From another student I used to teach, after a school cultural exchange. What's the best thing about the UK? 

You feel a lot prettier when you're there. 

PS Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

Louis CK's Amazing and That Makes Me Happy. A much much funnier version of the previous blog entry.

"Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy"

Back in the UK for a wonderful May week served to me a painful reminder of that particular British (well, certainly something that binds the Scots and English) trait.

Whinging.

Now, I take into account that I now turn a tourist's eye on the UK. I am, genuinely, like an overweight American with an enormous map and a loud voice, amazed at how much history it's got, I gazed at the Big Ben like your best anorak and literally marvelled at the age and beauty of the buildings in Edinburgh in the sun.

I was there on holiday, and didn't have work looming at the end of the Bank Holiday weekend to quadruple my hangover. I had more mates to catch up with, and nothing to get up for. So, yes, spectacles well and truly tinted a la rose.

That's me, in the hat. With the legs. 

That said, you arrive at any other airport in the world, and are met with posters after magazines extolling the virtues and delights that await you as a guest in their country.

You arrive at Heathrow and are greeted by a large screen above Passport Control, which reads thus:

WANT TO COMPLAIN?

You've barely arrived - technically, I don't think you're even in Britain yet - and already you're introduced to assimilate in the worse way.

From landing on the airstrip to leaving the terminal was 14 minutes. Lima to London in about 11 hours. In the 6 minutes I was queueing for Passport Control - the new data scanning screening like something from Total Recall - those around me hardly had time to fill out their complaints forms so quickly was the queue moving. Maybe the question mark an accident.

Today, it will be absolutely miserable. And now for the weather... 

Maybe it's been the weather, and clearly the UK needs a dose of sun. That temptress of a warm weekend in March just raised everyone's expectations, so to return to winter mid-May seems a tough pill to swallow.

"Dinnae bother takin' a photo, pal. It'll all fa'
doon o' look shite by the mornin'." Rab, 17

Even so, you can look at the weather in two ways. Going for a run in Edinburgh, I found myself taking a breather whilst enjoying the view over the Dean Bridge.

Bear in mind I live in Lima, where the most beautiful and oldest building would be torn down as an eye-sore if it were in Edinburgh.

Still, Georgian Houses stretched out as far as the eye could see in the sunshine. A guy was stood near me. Grey of skin and looking on the point of a heart attack, I took him for a local. He was, however, apparently doing the same. Admiring the view, that is.

"That's about as good as it gets," I said. "Edinburgh in the sunshine..."
"Aye," he said. "Forecast says it's tae get worse later on."

OK, it's not as though I'm not aware that cutting down the irritating optimism of the tourist is a national pass time, but I found this particularly irritating. By definition, if this is as 'good as it gets', that also means it will get worse later. It has to. But that's not what people infer when they say, that is 'as good as it gets'.

But you can still enjoy the sunshine NOW, can't you? Now! Without getting existential on you, that is the only time you can ever enjoy anything. Apply that attitude to anything else in life, and there is literally no point in doing anything. Which is actually quite a Scottish attitude. Like the hill shepherds I grew up watching, sitting in the same chair every night in the local pub with an unmistakable aye, u'll jist sit here and drink till 'um deed disposition.

That's the best pint I've ever had. Oh shite. Every drink I'll have fae noo will be worse. My wan love ruined. Thanks a lot, barman. You've ruined ma life.     

Back to you on the Dean Bridge anyway, you walking NHS-waiting-list-statistic, clogged-artery, lung-wheezing, pint-is-half-empty, too-hot-in-the-summer-anyway doomsday-waiting John-Knox-descending arse of a miserable bastard! Just frikkin' look at that view! Enjoy it!! People would travel from all over the world to look at that view. I just have!! It's bloody wonderful.

Ah, forget it. Finish your Lambert & Butler and wait for your left arm to start tingling.

It's going to bloody awful, just how you like it. 

And I am of course aware of the irony that I am simply complaining about all the complaining. So, rather than add to the problem, allow me to outline 5 things that deserve to be complained about. Whinge at will:
1. Service stations on the M5. Chriiiiiist I could end it all.
2. Price of petrol. You'll see people squeezing out kidney stones in less discomfort than those squeezing out petrol.
3. The Media. Yeah, the whole frikkin' lot. Not, of course, proper journalists, writers or poets. 
4. The Forthcoming Disappointment That Will Be England's Showing In Euro 2012. At least this will give the Scots something to cheer about.
5. People Who Complain. Get stuck into them.

The Olympics is going to be amazing - possible the greatest ever collection of athletes - so will the weather be from May onwards, so are 90% of the things about the country. Shit, England might even play well in the Euro's, at least if Downing and Carroll take their club form into... ok. But everything else! So frikkin' cheer up and allow yourselves to enjoy it, ya miserable island!!

Post script:

At this point, I would like to mention what wonderful friends I have, none of whom fall into any of the above categories. Especially, as we walking back after a few pints in The Duke over the Thames in Richmond, one good fella, who said: "Look at that. You know, if you travelled to Paris, or Bruges, or wherever, and saw that view you'd stop, take a photo, update Facebook with a smug caption... and I walk over this bridge just about every day. Beautiful."

Good on ya, fella. More of that, Britain, more of that please.

Plaza de Armas

Used semana santa to give thanks and reflect on what we've been given get hammered and then drag ourselves into town while the traffic was asleep. Got to the centre in 20 minutes, which means nothing to me as I have no commute. Katie assures me that this would usually take one light year.   

Plaza de Armas: downtown Lima. Leah dancing, for money

It's absolutely beautiful. People always qualify their appreciation of downtown Lima, it seems. I told my colleagues we were going to the centre, and they told me to watch my bags, and not to take a camera, or anything valuable, like water or food. I don't think they've been there recently. 

Plaza de Armas

Plaza de Armas is lovely, and knowing nothing about either architecture or history, I shall move on immediately.

1613. And still no Starbucks.   

... bunch of narrow streets leading off the plaza, which take you to a bunch of interesting hidden gems, notably Bar Cordano. I mentioned grandly to Katie that this was in the bar in which the protagonists of Mario Vargas Llosas epic tale had many a conversation.

"Which book was that?" she replied, suspiciously.
"Conversations in a Cathedral" I quipped, realising my mistake.  

Casa de literatura: bring it, Mario Vargas Llosa. 

So a quick stroll through the Casa de Literatura, a name I am quite possibly making up out of laziness, which has a room each downstairs dedicated to the great Peruvian writers, from Mario Vargas Llosa to... wikipedia... for the full list.

Gothic Cathedral, just off the Plaza. 

Finished up opposite Bar Cordano next to the catacombs, which apparently are tops. Didn't visit. All in all, cracking day downtown.

Oh, and finally, the cultural highlight of the day: