"I speak some Spanish, I'm just a little bit pregnant"

Many people adiviced me against going to Chile. The Argentians thought it would be "a waste of time". Other travellers told me "there are many other nice places to see". Many people said it would be too cold, too expensive, too dangerous. So I decided to go. Because I like to have my own opinions and because I rarely agree with the rest of the world.
In order to prove  that everyone else was wrong, I embarked on a 12 hour bus journey, got stuck on the Andes for hours in a mother fucking blizzard, with no food and no hot drinks, and sat next to a passenger who owned a mobile phone with the most annoying ring tone ever. At least now I know that there is plenty of network coverage on the Andes. Her phone worked brilliantly.

Chile was not a waste of time. It wasn't cold nor expensive. Taxi drivers are really dangerous though : they talk to you for hours in a speed you never thought possible and I was often at danger of looking like a twat, nodding and smiling randomly, pretending I understood. I didn´t.
Conversations often go like this: "Hola!". "Hola!". "blablablabla?" "si". "oh. Blablablablabla?!". "no". "no?!". "Si!Si!". That, multiplied by 10. Exhausting. The best scenario is when the taxi driver knows some random Italian singer and I get to sing him a song. I make it last long enough so I don't have to speak.
During one of my taxi journeys I realised that the Italian word "imbarazzata" (shy) does NOT translate into the Spanish word "embarassada" (pregnant). So when the talkative taxi driver asked me if I speak Spanish, I replied:  "I speak some Spanish, I'm just a little bit pregnant". So I guess he thought in my home Country pregnant women become mute or retarded, depending on how advanced they are in their pregnancy. And because I was stattering, blushing, making words up and acting weird, he must have thought I was ready to pop there and then in his taxi. Which was a good thing as he stopped talking and flew to the bus station.
From now on,  I am pregnant.

I went to a gorgeous port town called Valparaiso. I loved it and I loved the company I was in. No need to say, I was in the company of an Irish couple. This always helps. They were wholesome.And refreshingly "normal".
Scott and Sinead (otherwise called Janet by the the gaucho who simply could not pronuncate her name) cooked a lovely chicken soup for my birthday dinner. A freshly cooked, healthy meal, is very precious at any given time, but when you travel and feed on crisps and wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner, it becomes the most valuable thing you can think of. And you protect it with your life! So I bought the most important object that money can buy: a tupperware.
On the day I left Valparaiso (and my beautiful friends) I was smiling. Not so much because I no longer have to wake up every morning at dawn to go work. Not so much because I can do what I want, wherever I want, whenever I want. And not even because I have millions of possibilities ahead of me. No. I was smiling because I had a little cute tupperware filled with chicken soup. And that made me the happiest little one abroad!

The journey from Valparaiso to Santiago was short and sweet (like me). As the bus approached the terminal, I froze. I could smell chicken soup. I mean, I could smell  the chicken soup TOO MUCH, considering it was stored in a tupperware. Fuck. Oh, fuck. The tupperware betrayed me.
 It is with great regret and sadness that I inform you that the chicken soup never made it into my tummy. The soup made its way all over my clothes, my passport, my rucksack.
As I got into the taxi I smelled like a farmer´s armipts after a long day spent cleaning chicken shit. Yum.

Santiago is cool. It's lively, clean, just a little too polluted. Pollution is great: after a day walking in the streets, your throat hurts so much that you don't feel like smoking. So pollution saves lives.
In Santiago I met some really weird people. Spending two days at the hostel drained all of my energy.
 For two entire days I was in the company of an 80 y.o. American man who had been trying for a year to be deported back to the States and an Australian man who, for those 2 days, didn't sleep and just drank beer. I was stuck in the middle. Like a delicious piece of cheese stuck in between two slices of rotten bread. After two days I felt like I was rotting too, so I had to leave.

I'm learning more and more about different nationalities. When I'm bored I like to play (in my head) the game  "guess the nationality".
British are the easiest to spot: they are the ones who like to show off their KC boxer shorts that creep up from denim jeans that are way to tight for their skinny chicken legs. They are also the ones who very rarely engage in conversations and seem quite closed up. Oh! They also don't seem to understand how penalties work, in the football games.
Americans, well, what can I say about Americans.....they are the ones who within seconds tell you that you're great, they love you, they will keep in touch.....but they never do. They are the friendliest and the fakest. I no longer trust Americans. They bomb people!
The Scandinavian are so hot that when I look at them I forget that I'm playing the "guess the nationality" game. I can't guess, I'm too busy dribbling.
French men sound gay. French women sound too sexy for the gay French men.
Germans never laugh at my jokes. But that's because they were born with no sense of humour.
Australians NEVER share their Vegemite. In fact, they're rather kill their partner than give you a little taste of the stuff.
Italians.....you don't meet Italians who travel as backpackers. Italians go to a foreign country and if they don't become drug dealers, they open a pizzeria and they invite the aunts, the uncles, the great grand mothers and newborn nieces to work for them in their pizzeria. We don't travel, we migrate. And we also know how penalties work.

Back in Argentina! Time for more horse riding, some cooking and some relaxing before heading further north. My next stop is Cordoba. But I would not be surprised if I end up in Colombia. I hear they sell great pizzas there!

HUNG

I love riding horses. I like to think that they like me just as much.
The afternoon spent horse riding by the Andes is the highlight of my travels, so far.
I had little expectations: I heard many stories of travellers who pay to ride a horse and they are then presented with a donkey. To be honest, the scenary was so breathtaking that I would have been happy to ride a Great Dane. But I did get a real horse!
The trainer began with the introductions (Fede, this is the horse. Horse, this is Fede) and explained us all that with horses, you have to be firm. Decisive. They need to know who's the boss. I have been dealing with plenty of animals in my life, (especially at clubs and bars) and being firm and assertive has never been a problem. However....I might have taken this advice a little too literally. I kicked the horse with my heals with the innocent intention to show him who's the Boss (Me!Me!) and off he went....my first, natural thought was how to explain my mum that I had broken several bones after falling from a horse (not a donkey). But I did not fall! I was born to ride horses. I'm the new John Wayne.

Galopping is dead easy: the horse goes 100 mph and you just pray not to be killed. Some people don't pray, they just shit themselves. I prayed. It's cleaner.
Trotting is bloody hard. Hop! Hop! Hop! And you feel all the internal organs hopping up and down into your body. I felt my Fallopian tubes hopping all the way up into my throat.
After 2 hours of strolling, trotting, galopping and tits-slapping, we stopped for dinner. Not much point in asking "what's for dinner tonight, dear?", as the answer is pretty much the same: "cow". "we shall be eating cow".
The day after horse riding I discovered with surprise that we have several muscles aound the groin area. I know because every single one of them hurts like hell. I think I might sue my horse.

My Spanish is improving, but very slowly. I'm still confused between the Spanish I learned in Spain, the one I learned in Central America and the one spoken in Argentina.
I have been asking (countless) waiters to give me a "vaso de vino tinto", thinking I was ordering a glass of red, but strictly speaking, in Argentina vaso is "vase". So I've been asking waiters for "vases of red wine". No wonder I'm always shit-faced!
So I went with my friend to a language school, to enquiry about a Spanish course. Prices are way too high so I did not enroll. I did, however, took part to what they call "language exchange". Basically I got squeezed in a crammed room, with a tiny window (closed) and a big radiator (on) surrounded by other sweaty foreigners.
 Spanish was spoken for the first hour or so, then English. I cheated a little and spoke Italian, just to go against the rules and make things a little more challenging. To be honest, the scenario was a little awkward: basically I was pushed to speak a language I'm not familiar with, to sweaty people I have not met before, in a room that looked like a cell. I loved it. There is something fascinating in every awkward situation.

20 minutes into the session, the teacher (who wasn't teaching, was just pushing people to speak a foreign language) took some weed out of a bag, loaded a tiny pot, poured water into the pot and passed this kind of pipe to everyone in the circle. " WE ARE GETTING HIGH!!!", I thought. Now we're talking.(in fact, now we can start talking in any language you want me to). But what I tasted did not make me high, it made me pee. It was Mata, the traditional tea. It's packed with goodness, they say. But it's not as nice as weed, I add.

I briefly chatted to an English girl, here at the hostel. She has the cutest tattoo ever. It's just a circle, with a dot in it and all around it it's written "porque no?" (why not?). It inspired me. It really is what life is all about, in my eyes. Why not? So after I spoke to her I decided I'm going to see what's across the boarder. Tomorrow I'm heading to Chile. Why not?

Una copa de vino tinto, por favor.

I'm having a shy day. I feel self conscious in my stupid traveller s clothes. I'm craving skinny jeans. And funky boots. I might have to save some money on food and purchase a pair of "emergency shoes". No, I can't save money on food. I'll save money on accomodation.
Another pair of shoes will not fit in my backpack, but hey, I'll wear them on my hands if necessery. I'll tell everyone that this is how gloves look like in Europe. They won't know and I might even start a new trend.

I have been trying to keep up with my exercise routine. My Irish room mates found obscene that I would do push ups in the room, whilst they were trying to get over their hangovers. My new room mates are Danish. They think it's acceptable. I need to carry on as I'm already putting on weight and that's not good: I'll be taking Tango classes, soon and I don't want my future dance partner to explode trying to lift me in the air.
The one muscle developing fast is my (right) arm muscle. But that might be because I'm constantly lifting pint glasses.

Food is my passion. I have established so a long time ago. Going to the local steakhouse was one of the highlights of my 'culinary life'. I felt morally obliged to hug the waiter who fed me.
The point is, I don't even eat meat. I loathe that metallic taste that leaves in your mouth, the rubbery texture, the after taste. But, Jesus Christ Almighty, the cow I ate did not die invane! Each bite made me high, I felt sparkles in my tummy,  I felt my muscles absorbing all the nutrients (especially my fatigued right arm), I felt energy running through my veins! I never felt that way after eating an apple. Thank you, cow. Thank you.

I left Buenos Aires. The 13 hour bus journey was quite an event in itself. First, I nearly missed the bloody bus. I wrongly assumed that there would be some sort of screen with platform informations of some sorts. Even In Napoli we have one of those. In Buenos Aires you need to pay attention to what the lady says through the speakers. In Spanish, of course. So each time I heard the word "Mendoza" I'd grab by backpack and run from platform to platform, then find out it was not the Bus Company I had paid for. I even load my luggage on board of the wrong bus. There were 3 buses going to Mendoza at the same time, man! How am I supposed to guess?
Got on the right bus soaked in sweat and with a stress-induced headache. I was looking forward to be in silence for 13 hours. Bliss. Until an Argentian man sat next to me, that is. You can never sit next to an Argentian person without engaging in a conversation.
 I don't know what vibes I was giving out, but the lovely man thought I was willing to know all the reasons why he thought that the United States of America are responsible for the imminent end of the world. Dude, I can't even understand which bus to take, do you think I'll understand any of  your political crap? The secret is: you nod whe they nod. Smile when they smile, look shocked when they looked shocked. And hope to God they never ask you what your opinion on the matter is.

I'm in Mendoza! It's lovely! It's authentic! It's fucking freezing!
This is where the best wines in the world are produced. It would be rude not to try as many varities as possible. Also,this wine is magic: the more I drink, the better Spanish I speak! Me gusta!
I'll settle here for 10 days, then decide where to go next. I hope my liver won't let me down when I need it most.

La chica con el boton

This is the main reason between a young person and a not so young person (or, to be precise, the difference between me and my room mate): I had 3 drinks and 7 hours sleep and I woke up this morning feeling as if I had been hit by a double decker bus. She had 15 drinks, no sleep, and when she came back to the room, this morning at 7 a.m., she was chirpy enough to make a speech about the negative effect that central heating has on the skin and for the environment. I could have objected that the combo " booze/lack of sleep" doesn't exactly help you look like J-Lo, but with the little energy I had left I could only manage :"pass me my water and shut up, bitch".

We all went to the hostel bar, last night, for a 'club night'. I'm not sure why they keep calling these nights 'club nights' when what they should really be called 'find-a-fuck-buddy-night'. Everyone (except me, the old cleaning lady and the poor fuckers who are in a relationship) were on heat. Sniffing each others like dogs, observing each other's body language searching for clues that would lead to the closest bedroom (or toilets. Any place goes at this stage).
I spent most of my evening sitting down as I feared someone might sniff my ass, searching for clues, but truth is, there are plenty of young, pretty and willing ladies around so no one sniffed me.

My plan to get to Bolivia by air has changed. I decided against the long and tedious 18 hour bus journey and accepted a full refund from the travel agency instead. I strongly believe that obstacles always appear for a reason. The gut feeling that never failed me, suggested I would wait so that is what I'll do. I will be enjoying beautiful Argentina for now and see what happens next. I'm so excited to slowly discover what the future holds......

When in Buenos Aires (and I suspect this is more like a South American thing.....), if you ever want to catch up with a long-lost friend, do not invite them at a cafe'. Invite them at the local supermarket instead. The tills seem  to be, for the locals, ideal places to engage in very long conversations, feed the babies, observe with unnatural interest every single item slowly (VERY slowly) put on the (broken) conveyor belt, plus any other profoundly annoying and totally unnecessary activity that in Europe you would never be able to engage with, without having your head kicked in.
By the time I had put my own shopping in my bag (quickly and efficiently), lady numero uno and lady numero dos in line BEFORE me, were still putting the small change in their purse. In fact, I had to climb over their heads and shopping trolleys to get out of the bloody supermarket.
What have I learned today? To bring a book and a chair on my shopping trips.

I spent another evening spent at the hostel. I thought it was safer than venturing out alone, at night. Except, I got restless after a short while so, pushed by my ever-present hunger, I did venture out alone. I headed towards a very reassuring place: the local chip shop. I walked in confidently, with my head held high and with a good Spanish accent I made my statement: "Hello. I am hungry". So my friday night was eventually spent chatting to the the local drunken old  man, eating greasy chips. Which is exactly what travelling is all about, for me.

I woke up feeling a little dead, so I went to visit the local historical cemetery, to feel a little more alive. It worked!! I spent the day with yet another Irish person. I absolutely LOVE Irish people. They are fun to be around and friendly and always up for a drink or 200. My kind of people, basically.

I'm leaving Buenos Aires tomorrow, but I will be back in November to learn tango. Heading north. Destination: Mendoza. The wine Country. And I am already salivating........

There is something better than one beer: two beers.

If first impressions are important to define your travel experience, then I'm totally sorted.
 I love Buenos Aires, even though my plan to look and act confident and never show to anyone I'm lost, miserably failed. 3 minutes into my "confident/head-high walk" out of the airport terminal, a sweet old man stopped collecting rubbish from the floor and asked me whether I was lost. Actually, he didn't ask me, he TOLD me. What a genius. So he escorted me to the bus terminal and I was so grateful I could have kissed him in the mouth. But he had no teeth so I didn't.
 A lot of people here look at me. If I would see someone equally small, carrying such a huge rucksack, sporting a constant drop of sweat on the moustache, I d smile too. And I would think "poor fucker". Which is bound to be their thought, too.
 I have been in BA for only half a day and I have already observed as such: First, as soon as I took the first breath of air, outside the airport, I felt an incredible familiar feeling. As if I had already been here before.The air somehow smells like home. Second, when they greet each other, even men kiss each other.They are not as tactile nor affectionate, in England. I guess it s not in their culture, but it definitely is in mine!I have the desire to greet as many people as possible. Third.....I have no third observation yet (Jee! I've only been here a few hours!) but a list made of only two points looks rather silly.
 I checked into my hostel. In fact, I checked into the WRONG hostel, so I had to walk through 3 blocks to get to the right one. 3 blocks is nothing! A breeze. Easy peasy. But try to walk three blocks when the strap of a heavy rucksack is pushing on your full bladder. Please, really, do try it. I arrived at my correct destination without major accidents.
 The locker in my room was located 6 feet above the ground. I know from experience that if you can access your locker without having to climb on the shoulders of a random, oblivious fellow traveller, then your own (and theirs) travelling experience will benefit from it.
 I requested for my room to be changed, due to "physical restrictions". The receptionist was very apologetic when she informed that there was a bed available in the mixed dorm, not in the female one. I had to clarify that she meant I had to spend my nights with young, adventurous men."Yes", she said quietly. "Happy days!" , I screamed, at which point I nearly pissed myself as my overflowing bladder could barely deal with such excitement .
 So I moved to my new, bright, mixed sex dorm. And the locker, you ll be pleased to hear,it s right there, on the floor level. Perfect for when I ll crawl back home.

Obstacle numero uno

The Bolivian airline which should have taken me to my final destination went bankrupt. As much as I worry for the Bolivian employees left without a job, my main concern now is how to get from Santa Cruz to Sucre.
 In fact, let me be honest. I absolutely don't give a shit about all the employees left without a job. I worry about myself. Somehow the cancelled 30 minutes flight translates into an 18 hours bus ride.
After a quick but intense last minute research I found out that more often than not, bus drivers are drunk, the roads are atrociously dangerous and buses have no toilet but plenty of drafts. I can deal with drunk drivers and I could try to hold my pee for 18 hours but I don't deal very well with drafts. I explained the situation to the Sucre hostel, since I might arrive one day late. I told them I might come by bus. Their reply? "oh.good luck".
 Gracias,señor.

One goodbye drink too many

The good thing about leaving, is you have an excuse to drink as much as you want. Even better than that, most drinks are paid by your friends, who are so sorry to see you go that they will do all there is in their power to make you totally and utterly shit-faced, so that the last image they have of you, is  you hugging the toilet. Glitter and all.
My friends succeeded. By the end of the evening my toilet had become my inseparable friend. A friend I could not be away from.
I had my "goodbye leaving do" at my local pub. There were many smiley faces, some tears, a lot of love and a LOT (and I mean A LOT) of gin. Gin is my favourite. It makes people look beautiful and funny. It makes conversations very interesting. It's not love that makes the world go round, it's gin!
So during the first few hours it all went well. I talked and made sense. Towards the end of the night the Pauls become Katies, the faces become blurred, I was telling everyone I loved them (including the random big boobed lady met in the toilet) and I felt a little unstable on my platform shoes. But everyone looked stunning!
Next thing I remember I'm laying on my kitchen floor, aware of who I was, but convinced I was on Jupiter.(I saw lots of stars around me!).
 A very kind friend threw a blanket on me, like you would do when you see a homeless in the street and took pity on him. No one threw money, though, which is a result in itself. I have no recollection of reaching my bed, but I do remember wondering if there are any pillows on Jupiter, since mine was nowhere to be found.
The morning after my goodbye drinks I felt as if I had spent the night fighting with an angry bull in a Spanish arena (and the bull won). I wondered the usual: "did I do or say something really stupid?!"; "did I keep my clothes on?!"; "did I demand to touch the boobies of the random lady I met in the toilet?!"; "did someone post Facebook any pictures of my puking my undigested pork chop in the toilet?!".
 I think it went well. I woke up to a lovely note left under my pillow: "You are my favourite person in the world and I love you". I woke up with the worse hangover ever, but I also woke up to a line of goodbye cards left on my bed side table. After reading them I realized tht even if I had demanded to touch someone's boobs, even if I did say something stupid, my friends would still love me. Their love makes me invincible. I'm ready for everything! Even ready to fight with an angry bull..... Just give me a couple of minutes though..... I think I might be sick......