Dear Readers, your Humble Blogger must apologise for a blatant display of slackness and disregard. However, the time has finally come to scribble down the news from these far-flung and Jaffa-Cake-free shores.
Schedules of general nothingness were replaced almost a month ago by classes and supposed hard-work, which of course confronted this Humble Blogger with a dilemma of gargantuan proportions: just how is one supposed to sleep for 12 hours a day when school begins at 8am and finishes at 8pm? Answers on a postcard? Fear not, Dear Readers, the answer in simple: the National Institution of the Siesta. You may think it is not worth queueing for, then cramming onto, a 3mph trolley-bus just to be able to salvage an hour of sleep at midday, but rest assured - it truly and undeniably is.
And yet, more events threw themselves haphazardly into the road like schoolboy divers from 1930s jetties. More midnight parties in the flat, requiring the use of earplugs and an extra-loud alarm clock; fun and games with the disillusioned employees of Immigration and it's university counter-parts; scuffles with poorly-accented Argentinian French teachers ("I do speak French. It's you I don't understand".. are words that your Humble Blogger wishes she had had the courage to use) and last but definitely, certainly, indisputably not least, the Invasion of the Family.
There is something inspiring about the arrival of tourists, be they friends or family, to a town in which one lives. Old, tired views are suddenly shiny and new, days out to visit attractions are suddenly allowed for, and the prospect of dinner becomes once again a highlight when it is spent in a restaurant and consists of more than rice and pieces of hot dog.
And yet.. it is draining. As delightful as it is to finally speak in one's own language, to see friendly faces of loved ones and to be able to reference little-known and heavily-British television shows at will, playing host, translator and tourguide can be a little on the tiring side, made all the more true when siesta time is spent wandering the streets looking for sandals.
The proverbial good time, however, was had by all. Mountains were seen, thermal springs were sprung (and swam in), and the Frenchman was a delight with both the Parentals and The Smalls. But now, Dear Readers, the guests have departed, and this Humble Blogger is going to take a siesta... Until the next guest arrives in a week.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Saturday 14 March 2009
Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Nights... And Lazy Lazy Lazy Lazy Days
Dear Readers, your Humble Blogger must be commended. It is the morning (afternoon) after the night before, she can barely function, she is sat in a darkened room with an glass of ice water and the air-conditioning single-handedly destroying the earth's resources, and yet she is here, ready to recount the tales of the Housewarming.
We had drinks. We had snacks. We had finally told various people that festivities were on the cards. But when it hit 10.30pm and not a soul had turned up, we began to wonder two things:
1. Was anybody actually going to come?
2. Would we have been better hosts had we actually given people a rough idea of a start time?
Finally one lone guest drifted in, at which point your Humble Blogger disappeared to change. Given that the party was in my house, she was literally going to be all dressed up with nowhere to go, but it's nice to make an effort. At this point, the opening notes of some garish party tune wafted through to this Humble Blogger's ears, with the promise of more guests at the door. They were indeed. Well before midnight, there was a small crowd of people equipped with not-unimpressive supplies of alcohol, and a desire to let it all hang out (thankfully, no one did). This Humble Blogger immediately found herself some rum, some cigarettes and some corner space, and proceeded to get quietly merry. But, Dear Readers, do not think that this was a display of anti-socialness itself. This time, the mountain came to Mohammed.
At no point in the evening was your Humble Blogger alone. Indeed, people came from across the party to converse with her. She had more conversations with people she knew and people she didn't than any other night of the past eight months. She found that there are indeed some people out there who are worth the effort. She learned that there are others who should from now on, perhaps, be avoided, due to not-underwhelming evidence that they are possibly marginally insane. She learned that there are more english speakers than ever imagined, and all with a higher level than expected. She learned that it is probably not wise to ask a handful of people whether one particular guest is a lesbian.
The middle of the party saw the group divide into two factions. Those at the front of the flat, and those on the patio at the back. Towards the end of the night, when more people arrived, the atmosphere shifted and people started to mingle once again. Your Humble Blogger, however, stayed right where she was, on the patio, sipping rum and coke and chain smoking the night away? Why, Dear Readers? Aside from the fact that there was no desperate need to get up, this party host wasn't entirely sure what the state of affairs would be if she tried...
And the Frenchies? El Chileno? The latter joined me in a pact to get drunk in corners, and then convinced me to accompany the remaining stragglers to a bar halfway across town, which at 4.30am was almost certainly closed but someone was saying they knew someone that worked there. Half an hour of trekking later, we arrived to discover it was indeed closed, and that this someone didn't know anyone. Where was Frenchie II? At a club, with some Argentines. And Le Frenchman? Having vomited twice, he proceeded to go to bed and sleep it off, and to slap away any attempts by this Humble Blogger to take care of him.
Thankfully, the carpet remained, for many a reason, vomit-free.
We had drinks. We had snacks. We had finally told various people that festivities were on the cards. But when it hit 10.30pm and not a soul had turned up, we began to wonder two things:
1. Was anybody actually going to come?
2. Would we have been better hosts had we actually given people a rough idea of a start time?
Finally one lone guest drifted in, at which point your Humble Blogger disappeared to change. Given that the party was in my house, she was literally going to be all dressed up with nowhere to go, but it's nice to make an effort. At this point, the opening notes of some garish party tune wafted through to this Humble Blogger's ears, with the promise of more guests at the door. They were indeed. Well before midnight, there was a small crowd of people equipped with not-unimpressive supplies of alcohol, and a desire to let it all hang out (thankfully, no one did). This Humble Blogger immediately found herself some rum, some cigarettes and some corner space, and proceeded to get quietly merry. But, Dear Readers, do not think that this was a display of anti-socialness itself. This time, the mountain came to Mohammed.
At no point in the evening was your Humble Blogger alone. Indeed, people came from across the party to converse with her. She had more conversations with people she knew and people she didn't than any other night of the past eight months. She found that there are indeed some people out there who are worth the effort. She learned that there are others who should from now on, perhaps, be avoided, due to not-underwhelming evidence that they are possibly marginally insane. She learned that there are more english speakers than ever imagined, and all with a higher level than expected. She learned that it is probably not wise to ask a handful of people whether one particular guest is a lesbian.
The middle of the party saw the group divide into two factions. Those at the front of the flat, and those on the patio at the back. Towards the end of the night, when more people arrived, the atmosphere shifted and people started to mingle once again. Your Humble Blogger, however, stayed right where she was, on the patio, sipping rum and coke and chain smoking the night away? Why, Dear Readers? Aside from the fact that there was no desperate need to get up, this party host wasn't entirely sure what the state of affairs would be if she tried...
And the Frenchies? El Chileno? The latter joined me in a pact to get drunk in corners, and then convinced me to accompany the remaining stragglers to a bar halfway across town, which at 4.30am was almost certainly closed but someone was saying they knew someone that worked there. Half an hour of trekking later, we arrived to discover it was indeed closed, and that this someone didn't know anyone. Where was Frenchie II? At a club, with some Argentines. And Le Frenchman? Having vomited twice, he proceeded to go to bed and sleep it off, and to slap away any attempts by this Humble Blogger to take care of him.
Thankfully, the carpet remained, for many a reason, vomit-free.
Friday 13 March 2009
We're Gonna Party Like It's 2009... Maybe.
Be amazed dear readers. La Casa de Humble Blogger will become, tonight, one of the hottest party scenes that this town has ever known.
But I'm British, so let's scale it down a bit.
There are several smalls flaws that are slowly raising their ugly heads:
1. It is 1pm on the day of the party and we have neither alcohol nor scrumptious snacks with which to feed the hungry masses.
2. It is 1pm on the day of the party and the flat is still a state.
3. It is 1pm on the day of the party and we haven't really told anyone that there is a party.
As you can see, Dear Readers, this has the potential to be wetter than a flannel in an outdoor bathtub in spring. Your Humble Blogger, as noted in many a post, is not so much the gracious party host as the anti-social party avoider. Or, at a push, the semi-social party -goer who skulks outside with a cigarette. That is not to say that this is not a technique with advantages. The Frechman was, of course, met as a direct result of this personality trait. But one cannot really do that at one's own party. Thankfully, of course, there are the Housemates, who will take care of everything people-related, leaving your Humble Blogger to get quietly drunk in a corner without creating much of a fuss. That is, should alcohol make an appearance.
Please allow me, Dear Readers, to make a prediction re. the evening's festivities...
The night will only be half-prepared when over-keen and un-adjusted foreigners, who have not quite grasped the Argentine idea of never turning up before midnight, even when the invite says 10pm, arrive to grace the house with their presence and minimal profferings of alcholic goods. Frenchie II will play some dreadful mix of Cuban Reggaeton and it will be blasted through the amp at a million decibels an hour. The Frenchman will socialise, mainly with women, which will erupt into a fountain of jealously on the part of Frenchie II who has once again neglected to invite any fanciable women, due to some obscure and thoroughly weak excuse such as, "my boss was there at the time, I couldn't invite them". He will then proceed to wind up your Humble Blogger, and the more lamp-shaded he gets, the worse it will become. El Chileno will remain, as always, harmless. Your Humble Blogger will drink more than is necessary, and either hide in a corner or talk incessantly to innocent bystanders. In the event that the evening gets too wild for words, vomit could also enter into the equation.
Please excuse, Dear Readers, the cynicism, but your Humble Blogger has never been one for parties. I will, of course, make an effort. Much like last weekend, at the club party, when I tried to talk to a Frenchgirl who was sat on her own and was rewarded with all of three sentences followed by awkward silence. I probably should not have then proceeded to tell Frenchie II not to bother approaching her, as it "really wasn't worth it."
However, should any efforts at socializing be greeted with anything more responsive, rest assured, Dear Readers, than vomit will not be on the cards, nor the carpet.
But I'm British, so let's scale it down a bit.
There are several smalls flaws that are slowly raising their ugly heads:
1. It is 1pm on the day of the party and we have neither alcohol nor scrumptious snacks with which to feed the hungry masses.
2. It is 1pm on the day of the party and the flat is still a state.
3. It is 1pm on the day of the party and we haven't really told anyone that there is a party.
As you can see, Dear Readers, this has the potential to be wetter than a flannel in an outdoor bathtub in spring. Your Humble Blogger, as noted in many a post, is not so much the gracious party host as the anti-social party avoider. Or, at a push, the semi-social party -goer who skulks outside with a cigarette. That is not to say that this is not a technique with advantages. The Frechman was, of course, met as a direct result of this personality trait. But one cannot really do that at one's own party. Thankfully, of course, there are the Housemates, who will take care of everything people-related, leaving your Humble Blogger to get quietly drunk in a corner without creating much of a fuss. That is, should alcohol make an appearance.
Please allow me, Dear Readers, to make a prediction re. the evening's festivities...
The night will only be half-prepared when over-keen and un-adjusted foreigners, who have not quite grasped the Argentine idea of never turning up before midnight, even when the invite says 10pm, arrive to grace the house with their presence and minimal profferings of alcholic goods. Frenchie II will play some dreadful mix of Cuban Reggaeton and it will be blasted through the amp at a million decibels an hour. The Frenchman will socialise, mainly with women, which will erupt into a fountain of jealously on the part of Frenchie II who has once again neglected to invite any fanciable women, due to some obscure and thoroughly weak excuse such as, "my boss was there at the time, I couldn't invite them". He will then proceed to wind up your Humble Blogger, and the more lamp-shaded he gets, the worse it will become. El Chileno will remain, as always, harmless. Your Humble Blogger will drink more than is necessary, and either hide in a corner or talk incessantly to innocent bystanders. In the event that the evening gets too wild for words, vomit could also enter into the equation.
Please excuse, Dear Readers, the cynicism, but your Humble Blogger has never been one for parties. I will, of course, make an effort. Much like last weekend, at the club party, when I tried to talk to a Frenchgirl who was sat on her own and was rewarded with all of three sentences followed by awkward silence. I probably should not have then proceeded to tell Frenchie II not to bother approaching her, as it "really wasn't worth it."
However, should any efforts at socializing be greeted with anything more responsive, rest assured, Dear Readers, than vomit will not be on the cards, nor the carpet.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Disorganisation Is Close To Annihilation
Your humble blogger, dear readers, would like to draw attention to the woeful state of organisation in this land of Mate and Tango. Coming mostly from the UK , as I know you do, I of course hear you cry, "But what about the British Postal Service?" and so forth. However, I feel I can compete.
In the past two weeks, your humble blogger has visited a total of six different institutions, spent over 350 pesos, and passed in total 8 hours waiting for the hideously disorganised staff in every single one to at least explain what the hell she is actually waiting for. She has been shouted at by a member of staff for something entirely out of her control, tricked by the bank into paying where she shouldn't have, and lied to by more than one employee of the Argentina Public Service Sector.
There is just no way to describe the frustration that you experience when you have walked for an hour to the bank and back, paid the equivalent of £40 that you just don't really have, photocopied every single page of your passport including the ones with nothing on them, and return to the original office only to be asked, with a tone of uncomprehending wonder, exactly why you haven't brought your certificate of previous convictions in Argentina. Why, dear readers?
1. It costs a grand total of 150 pesos to do this.
2. It involves going to the Police Beaureau at 8am in the morning, to wait with the multitude of Bolivians, in order to get your fingerprints done. This is, much like the dark ages, still done with ink. On every single finger.
3. It then involves going to the bank to pay two deposits.
4. It then involves going to OCA, the postal service, to pay more money and send everything off to Buenos Aires.
5. It can take anything up to a month to do.
And finally...
6. I WAS TOLD I DIDN'T NEED ONE.
Your humble blogger, however, did not complain. She did the above, visited every place, paid every peso. And then, on arriving at OCA, was told, contrary to what was written on the handy, university-provided leaflet, that the deposits are no longer paid at the bank, but at OCA. Despite the glaringly obvious fact that no one at the bank, nor at the university, knows that this is the case. Thankfully, the friendly guys at OCA were only too happy to help.
So there is now nothing left to do but wait. But fear not, dear readers. Your humble blogger has learned two valuable pieces of information from this Saga of Beauracratical Correctness Gone Mad:
1. First impressions always count. Much like in the OCA instance, problems tend to be fixed at a miraculous speed when you are wearing a low-cut, figure-hugging shirt.
2. In judging those naughty, naughty people who enter an office and proceed to blow the heads of anyone, we must not have sympathy, of course, but perhaps a glimmer of understanding. This blogger has been to the jaws of Beaureaucractical Hell, and whilst homicide is somewhat extreme, it was indeed a stroke of luck that there was nothing within throwing distance...
In the past two weeks, your humble blogger has visited a total of six different institutions, spent over 350 pesos, and passed in total 8 hours waiting for the hideously disorganised staff in every single one to at least explain what the hell she is actually waiting for. She has been shouted at by a member of staff for something entirely out of her control, tricked by the bank into paying where she shouldn't have, and lied to by more than one employee of the Argentina Public Service Sector.
There is just no way to describe the frustration that you experience when you have walked for an hour to the bank and back, paid the equivalent of £40 that you just don't really have, photocopied every single page of your passport including the ones with nothing on them, and return to the original office only to be asked, with a tone of uncomprehending wonder, exactly why you haven't brought your certificate of previous convictions in Argentina. Why, dear readers?
1. It costs a grand total of 150 pesos to do this.
2. It involves going to the Police Beaureau at 8am in the morning, to wait with the multitude of Bolivians, in order to get your fingerprints done. This is, much like the dark ages, still done with ink. On every single finger.
3. It then involves going to the bank to pay two deposits.
4. It then involves going to OCA, the postal service, to pay more money and send everything off to Buenos Aires.
5. It can take anything up to a month to do.
And finally...
6. I WAS TOLD I DIDN'T NEED ONE.
Your humble blogger, however, did not complain. She did the above, visited every place, paid every peso. And then, on arriving at OCA, was told, contrary to what was written on the handy, university-provided leaflet, that the deposits are no longer paid at the bank, but at OCA. Despite the glaringly obvious fact that no one at the bank, nor at the university, knows that this is the case. Thankfully, the friendly guys at OCA were only too happy to help.
So there is now nothing left to do but wait. But fear not, dear readers. Your humble blogger has learned two valuable pieces of information from this Saga of Beauracratical Correctness Gone Mad:
1. First impressions always count. Much like in the OCA instance, problems tend to be fixed at a miraculous speed when you are wearing a low-cut, figure-hugging shirt.
2. In judging those naughty, naughty people who enter an office and proceed to blow the heads of anyone, we must not have sympathy, of course, but perhaps a glimmer of understanding. This blogger has been to the jaws of Beaureaucractical Hell, and whilst homicide is somewhat extreme, it was indeed a stroke of luck that there was nothing within throwing distance...
Saturday 21 February 2009
Time May Change Me, But I Still Chase Wine
Well, dear readers, big changes are afoot. The Housemate has gone, run away to the capital and then back to her country, leaving your Humble Blogger alone in the pad for another couple of weeks. How is she celebrating this? By downloading Lost and watching endless movies on cable. And studying for the exam? Making the most of the free house by throwing all-night-long, drug-addled parties? Cleaning? Dear Readers, you know as well as I do that none of these things will ever really come to pass.
The cleaning, however, is being sporadically taken into hand by the Frenchman. Why? What would be his interest in cleaning his only girlfriend's flat? Another change in the world of Expats. The Frenchman, his loyal sidekick Frenchie II, and El Chileno, are all moving in at the end of the month. Whilst this was in fact your Humble Blogger's own genius idea, in a bid to hold onto the Flat of Dreams (TM) whilst simultaneous easing the monthly ache of her bank account, as well as reducing the chance of Les Frogs finding an apartment on the other side of town and thus creating many a cause for this blogger getting off her ever-expanding derriere, there is an issue. And it is thus:
This apartment is my space. When the Housemate was away for three weeks, and then came back and immediately announced plans to depart again, your Humble Blogger felt at ease having a space to call her own. And now, the Invasion. It is coming, and it will be ugly.
But there are upsides. Les Frogs and El Chileno are entertaining, to say the least. They go out. They have people round. They cook. They clean. This is not to say that I won't - I have now perfected the art of chocolate brownie-making and am well on the way to almost learning how to cook (baked goods and fudge aside), and I have almost raised my washing per week ratio to 1. Almost. But they are good to have around. And Le Frog will be obliged to share a bed with me every night (there is now, frankly, nowhere else for him to run).
And we have wine. 6 bottles of good Cabernet Sauivignon, complete with asado-style knife, fork and chopping board, for 60 pesos. Otherwise known at £12. What does this mean, dear readers? That even when your Humble Blogger craves her own space and loses a little bit of her sanity, she can just pop into the kitchen, find some wine and lose a little bit of her dignity too.
The cleaning, however, is being sporadically taken into hand by the Frenchman. Why? What would be his interest in cleaning his only girlfriend's flat? Another change in the world of Expats. The Frenchman, his loyal sidekick Frenchie II, and El Chileno, are all moving in at the end of the month. Whilst this was in fact your Humble Blogger's own genius idea, in a bid to hold onto the Flat of Dreams (TM) whilst simultaneous easing the monthly ache of her bank account, as well as reducing the chance of Les Frogs finding an apartment on the other side of town and thus creating many a cause for this blogger getting off her ever-expanding derriere, there is an issue. And it is thus:
This apartment is my space. When the Housemate was away for three weeks, and then came back and immediately announced plans to depart again, your Humble Blogger felt at ease having a space to call her own. And now, the Invasion. It is coming, and it will be ugly.
But there are upsides. Les Frogs and El Chileno are entertaining, to say the least. They go out. They have people round. They cook. They clean. This is not to say that I won't - I have now perfected the art of chocolate brownie-making and am well on the way to almost learning how to cook (baked goods and fudge aside), and I have almost raised my washing per week ratio to 1. Almost. But they are good to have around. And Le Frog will be obliged to share a bed with me every night (there is now, frankly, nowhere else for him to run).
And we have wine. 6 bottles of good Cabernet Sauivignon, complete with asado-style knife, fork and chopping board, for 60 pesos. Otherwise known at £12. What does this mean, dear readers? That even when your Humble Blogger craves her own space and loses a little bit of her sanity, she can just pop into the kitchen, find some wine and lose a little bit of her dignity too.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Absence makes the nicotine-urge stronger
Less than forty-eight hours on the other side of the world, and your humble blogger has already become a feast for the moustiques. Blood on the pillow would imply that, as soundly as she sleeps, she is still capable of scratching the bejeezus out of the buggers. One on the knuckle, two on the thigh, and any number on the torso, I am only thankful that they have not, as yet, attacked the soles of my feet. Of course, that would require any sort of sojourn into the real world, but I have so far graced with my presence only Carrefour, MacDonalds and the bank.
But why, why, I hear you cry. Why, indeed. Because it is hot. Damn hot. Furthermore, I find it difficult to believe that any human being can take lightly the transition from -7, ice and snow to 30 degrees with less shade than the sahara. An exaggeration the latter may be, but the temperature is not. Combined with 24 hours of travelling (comprising of 17 hours on various planes and a 40-minute, cross-Andes flight filled with turbulence and fear) and energy levels are low.
To add a touch of romance to an otherwise lethargic tale, the Frenchman was indeed at the airport to greet the prodigal anglaise, although nerves and exhaustion respectively took the edge off somewhat. The desperate cry for nicotine also did its best to distract.
To nullify the romance before we become a cheap Mills and Boon imitation, the presence of month-old milk, and a sweet potato with more arms than the Hindu deities combined was there to greet the traveller on return. I have not, thus far, tackled the tupperware, as it's original removal from the fridge disturbed whatever was living inside enough to discourage further attempts. That can be saved for the Housemate's return. On a positive note, the curtains are up, and never again will a neighbour witness what can only be described as a head-up-skirt moment.
The wondrous journey to Carrefour highlighted in itself many a cultural difference, as your humble blogger did not fail to point out at the time. The beer supplies for the evening were of course chosen by the Frenchman. Not only did this entail an involved run-through of the quality of each option, tempers frayed when English beer was criticised. I am the first to admit that England may not make the best beer, despite drinking more of it than truly conceivable, but we enjoy it and therefore I hastened to point out that a (literally) pint-sized bottle was not sufficient between three people. It certainly proved not to be after some creative (french) cuisine went awry later in the evening. Close to collapse with a body clock not yet accustomed, I was unfortunately too close to collapse to utter even an I told you so.
This will be remedied, with any luck, tonight, when we hit the strip and remind the Frenchman of the real way to drink.
But why, why, I hear you cry. Why, indeed. Because it is hot. Damn hot. Furthermore, I find it difficult to believe that any human being can take lightly the transition from -7, ice and snow to 30 degrees with less shade than the sahara. An exaggeration the latter may be, but the temperature is not. Combined with 24 hours of travelling (comprising of 17 hours on various planes and a 40-minute, cross-Andes flight filled with turbulence and fear) and energy levels are low.
To add a touch of romance to an otherwise lethargic tale, the Frenchman was indeed at the airport to greet the prodigal anglaise, although nerves and exhaustion respectively took the edge off somewhat. The desperate cry for nicotine also did its best to distract.
To nullify the romance before we become a cheap Mills and Boon imitation, the presence of month-old milk, and a sweet potato with more arms than the Hindu deities combined was there to greet the traveller on return. I have not, thus far, tackled the tupperware, as it's original removal from the fridge disturbed whatever was living inside enough to discourage further attempts. That can be saved for the Housemate's return. On a positive note, the curtains are up, and never again will a neighbour witness what can only be described as a head-up-skirt moment.
The wondrous journey to Carrefour highlighted in itself many a cultural difference, as your humble blogger did not fail to point out at the time. The beer supplies for the evening were of course chosen by the Frenchman. Not only did this entail an involved run-through of the quality of each option, tempers frayed when English beer was criticised. I am the first to admit that England may not make the best beer, despite drinking more of it than truly conceivable, but we enjoy it and therefore I hastened to point out that a (literally) pint-sized bottle was not sufficient between three people. It certainly proved not to be after some creative (french) cuisine went awry later in the evening. Close to collapse with a body clock not yet accustomed, I was unfortunately too close to collapse to utter even an I told you so.
This will be remedied, with any luck, tonight, when we hit the strip and remind the Frenchman of the real way to drink.
Monday 17 November 2008
A Bachelorette Pad By Any Other Name...
Would still be the potential party central of Mendoza. However, let us not forget that your humble blogger lives there, and therefore, this ideal is nul and void before it has even had a chance to manifest itself.
But let's put reality on hold for a little while and take a brief tour of my new home. First, it is cream. The sofa is cream. The chairs are cream. The walls are cream. Whilst it is bright and spacious, it is by anyone's judgement absolutely bare. We need pictures, and plants, and an emergency visit from Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen. And we need them fast.
Thankfully, this is entirely outweighed by the luxury items that are included - cable tv, wireless internet and most importantly of all - a microwave and washing machine. The notion of being in a third world country only really hits you when you are washing your clothes in a remnant from the dark ages. This was, among any number of others, one of the major downfalls of The Cave; when you spend half an hour washing one pair of jeans at a time, in a spin machine full of cold water, only to pull them out to discover that the white soap has stuck to the outside of the black jeans and that everything smells of rust. Rust, despite the glaringly obviously fact that the "machine", and I use that term oh-so-very loosely, is made of plastic.
But, despite all this, it's all about the location. We are two blocks from Plaza Independencia, three blocks from the largest supermarket in town, and all of thirty feet away from the apartment of the Frenchman. Clearly, the latter could all end in tears and awkwardness. But for now, it is joyful.
Your humble blogger does not want to get into the habit of discussing the affayre, but suffice it to say that she is no longer spending every night watching The Young Ones ("I'll have to sit in the wickety chair") on her laptop and eating nothing but BBQ Pringles.. OK, the BBQ Pringles are still kicking around. But you know what they say - once they pop... you get fat. Or maybe that's the beer.
Beer?! I hear you cry. Beer, vodka, wine, Martini... three nights of consecutive partying and continuous mixing of ales, spirits and endless, but endless, cigarettes. Clearly the idea of giving up smoking has been washed away by the constant stream of alcohol. The typically smoking Frenchies are also no help.
But now, I must unpack. Day Four of the Bachelorette Pad has seen food and bathmats, but the floor remains hidden by bags, suitcases and dirty clothes.. You can take the girl out of The Cave but you can't take the Cavegirl out of... Ah.
But let's put reality on hold for a little while and take a brief tour of my new home. First, it is cream. The sofa is cream. The chairs are cream. The walls are cream. Whilst it is bright and spacious, it is by anyone's judgement absolutely bare. We need pictures, and plants, and an emergency visit from Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen. And we need them fast.
Thankfully, this is entirely outweighed by the luxury items that are included - cable tv, wireless internet and most importantly of all - a microwave and washing machine. The notion of being in a third world country only really hits you when you are washing your clothes in a remnant from the dark ages. This was, among any number of others, one of the major downfalls of The Cave; when you spend half an hour washing one pair of jeans at a time, in a spin machine full of cold water, only to pull them out to discover that the white soap has stuck to the outside of the black jeans and that everything smells of rust. Rust, despite the glaringly obviously fact that the "machine", and I use that term oh-so-very loosely, is made of plastic.
But, despite all this, it's all about the location. We are two blocks from Plaza Independencia, three blocks from the largest supermarket in town, and all of thirty feet away from the apartment of the Frenchman. Clearly, the latter could all end in tears and awkwardness. But for now, it is joyful.
Your humble blogger does not want to get into the habit of discussing the affayre, but suffice it to say that she is no longer spending every night watching The Young Ones ("I'll have to sit in the wickety chair") on her laptop and eating nothing but BBQ Pringles.. OK, the BBQ Pringles are still kicking around. But you know what they say - once they pop... you get fat. Or maybe that's the beer.
Beer?! I hear you cry. Beer, vodka, wine, Martini... three nights of consecutive partying and continuous mixing of ales, spirits and endless, but endless, cigarettes. Clearly the idea of giving up smoking has been washed away by the constant stream of alcohol. The typically smoking Frenchies are also no help.
But now, I must unpack. Day Four of the Bachelorette Pad has seen food and bathmats, but the floor remains hidden by bags, suitcases and dirty clothes.. You can take the girl out of The Cave but you can't take the Cavegirl out of... Ah.
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