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.
Saturday 14 March 2009
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...
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