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.

What A Difference A Weekend Makes

Time of sleep: 4:30am
Time of wake: 2:30pm
Alcohol consumed: Fair
Cigarettes smoked - last night: Plenty / today: 6
Food eaten: Limited


One hour before I left for Chile I found myself single, homeless, and once again on the very point of making a melodramatic gesture of farewell before catching the next flight back to Blighty.

One hour after I left for Chile I found myself smiling at the scenery, listening to cheerful music (one can only thank the God Lord for the magic of the Eighties) and enjoying every ridiculous memory that popped into my brain. There were many, and they were unsummoned. Walking through town handcuffed together. Dancing to Madonna in the doorway to my bedroom. Pretending to be a beetle on the living room floor. For the first time since I clutched onto the armrests of that plane, practising deep breathing and clenching back tears, I felt as though everything was, finally, going to be alright. Not even the hairpins bends steeping down from the tortured souls at immigration could dampen my mood. You have to hand it to the mountains, they do bring out the most spectacularly cliched emotions.

It must be said that there is nothing wrong with planning a trip in advance. No traveller worth his salt needs a bullet-point itinery, but the faintest idea of which direction the town centre is in, a hint of a clue of a decent hostel, and debit cards in case of unexpected bankcruptcy are all useful, nay, indispensible factors. And in the true spirit of story-telling, it was exactly these three elements that we lacked.

On disembarkment, we wandered in the general direction we had been pointed. The nearest kiosk informed us that we were not only going the wrong way, but the entirely opposite one. The unarguably helpful Chilena outside the kiosk explained to us, no less than four times, exactly how one should use the metro. And she was right, every time. You do indeed need a card. You do indeed need to load it first. You do indeed need to make sure that it doesn't run out. We were gringos, and we did indeed appear foolish.

We did not, however, claim to have an Italian restaurant, then apologise for not serving pizza.

We did stir up trouble when one of the Frenchmen could not control his natural cultural urges and insisted on vary his expression towards the next table between seductive and menacing, to the Argentinian girl and her goonish boyfriend respectively.

We did not buy the "space cakes" for sale in the street, nor tip the man making the racket with the tambourine, nor his fairly well-playing guitar-strumming counterpart.

We did spend two nights with all three of us in one bedroom, sat on the windowsill with our feet dangling over the road, smoking Kent Suave with all the flavour of a Silk Cut wrapped in cotton wool.

We did not get to swim in the sea.

The Afternoon After The Night Before

Time of sleep: 8am
Time of wake: 4pm
Alcohol consumed: Much
Cigarettes smoked: 15+
Food eaten: Limited

I feel unwell. My vision is starting to blur under this halogen lighting and I feel dizzy and weightless. I need food, and to escape from this screen. I have now been in this cafe for two hours, and have succeeding in frustrating the staff in only ordering two coffees and an orange juice. I need internet, and I am not made of money.

My loan has not arrived. Where is it? Only the good people at the Student Loans Company can know. Can, but probably don't.

I cannot stay in the apartment. It is a cave, and I need light and warmth and a bed that isn't constantly filled with grit. It does not come from me. The walls are flaking paint and dirt, and the purchase of two candles and a small bedside lamp can only do so much for the aesthetics of the place. Were it comfortable, I would probably make more of an effort to keep in tidy. Were it habitable, I would probably eat more, but as it stands the kitchen barely merits the title and thus I starve, save for the occasional packet of Oreos. I exaggerate - sometimes I have toast.

I need cigarettes. My cunning plan to give up has been thwarted by a desperate cry for nicotine. I will give up. I must give up.

Not one person at the party last night was under 20, and yet we passed a good hour hiding from each other in the dark, in order to avoid a forfeit that no-one fulfilled anyway. Except me. Perhaps there is some truth to be found in the rumours about English girls. Perhaps that's why I attracted "varios chicos" at the party on Friday night - tall, blonde, and reportedly easy.

How to find a new flat? That is the question. The only ones worth having on the only website I have are taken or approaching English prices. You realise that you have adapted to the exchange rate when any apartment over £150 a month is an absolute fortune. Or when a packet of 20 Camels is more than 70p.

I must leave this place. The cafe? The apartment? Argentina? Ambiguity thrives. To the cigarettes.