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.