I have been in Argentina, and specifically Bs.As. (I still can't reliably spell the name of this town. ¡Puta!) for quite awhile but only recently have I noticed the change this stay has wrought in me.
Before I left Australia I would find myself on the outside of many a laydeeez circle where everyone else would talk about how much they loooved sweet things and how none of them could ever say no to chocolate and I would find myself examining my shoes and wondering if I had accidentally smuggled an Y choromsome in on them because I felt nothing for sweet things and could say "no" to chocolate on a pretty regular basis.
But that was then.
Now, after just over a month in this bitcharse cold town, I find myself not just embracing the dolce but inviting it home on a regular basis. It started with slices of cake being served with coffee. Initially I thought 'wtf do I want with this day old cake, pah?!' and then I found myself here where, for 40 centavos one can buy a chococalte coated wagon wheeled sized sweet except that it is twice as thick as any wagonwheel and it is just...so...damn...sweet. But one ceases to notice anymore. After free pouring sugar into coffee, after eating the "special breakfast" (which equaled sweet pastries) at various hostels it is impossible to pretend that The Change has not occured. So the dilemma I dedicate this particular post to is not one I thought I would ever encounter but there you go.
The other day, weakned by flu and poverty I found myself in the local supermarket, thiking vaguely that I hadn't eaten anything of substance for awhile, I found myself 'out the back' with the small goods section. And yet... "nah, I can't be bothered with the blue cheese... its almost a whole AUD$1, I think I'll just take that packet of chocolate coated donut shaped biscuits instead."
And I was happy to have to break a note to get change for the bus the other day - it meant I got to bite into a stupidly sweet-upon-layer-of-sweet chocolate, coated around a crumbly chocolate cakey centre (that was also lined with caramel dulce de leche) alfajore because it was the cheapest thing in the kiosko and, surprise, the sweetest.
Most recently I found myself with a severe attack of Argentine specific bronca (this is a type of furious anger that can sweep over you only in Argentina after hours of confronting services that wilfully withold the service they are meant to provide, and smug cashiers that reject your cash) which, I discovered, could only be soothed by buying and consuming in less than one minute, the most ridiculously outsized alfajore I have ever seen.
So it looks as though the Argentine dilemma of sweet vs sweet is now no dilemma at all. Forget superpanchos, I´m off to find an alfajore
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
You want the realness? Well I gotcha
Bet you thought this was a travelling blog didnt you?
Since I am on hiatus from travelling I have no overwrought descriptive pieces for you, no railings against bus trips for you (except peak hour bus trips. Ay ay ay. Still better than peak hour subte trips. Japan has nothing on BA for ridiculous squashing on train carriages) no fear of woollen jumpers to share with you. Nada.
Instead I find myself sleeping competitively (every day, a new hour past 12 hours of solid sleep, soon I should crack the 18 hour barrier - exciting, no?) and wandering aimlessly around Palermo, a trendy suburb that is hard to get to and hard to get out of but has an inordinate number of bars and shops and, thankfully, when you look close enough, also a large number of kioskos selling super panchos.
My current habitation also has an incredible (to me) number of jocktastic americans (ok, one jocktastic american) and an alleged san fransican with a deeply corny accent who listens to rap and is quite the whitest person I've met here in some time. Also lurking out there somewhere is a lawyer from Washington, who prosecutes people who download movies and music illegally. Naturally he has not been invited to any parties nor has he been offered the use of the host's computer which is, of course, full of downloaded music and movies. There is also a tall black man from south africa who informed me sternly that I would get cancer from reheating things in the microwave without covering them properly and a wussy male pre-med student from minnesoater who keeps on getting drunk and being surprised that at 4 in the morning, your friend is not your friend if you are both trying to pick up the same girl in the bar.
Last night I found myself in an inpromptu United Nations Women Stylee gathering in some friend of a friend's apartment where only the two male hosts were from Argentina and the nine girls there were from all over the world. Claire (UK) and I (AUST) were most fascinated by the belgian Paris Hilton who, unlike the real paris hilton, could speak three languages and wear kickarse stockings. Amazing.
The night ended with a porteño and I writing swears in the dirt on the back of some car window while we waited for our friends. Some of you will remember that I have done similar things in frost back home so isn't it good to know that no matter how far you travel some things never change? It is annoying though that people only try to teach me bad words at the end of nights where I invariably forget them. Was it cajero? or hodjero? Damnit!
Since I am on hiatus from travelling I have no overwrought descriptive pieces for you, no railings against bus trips for you (except peak hour bus trips. Ay ay ay. Still better than peak hour subte trips. Japan has nothing on BA for ridiculous squashing on train carriages) no fear of woollen jumpers to share with you. Nada.
Instead I find myself sleeping competitively (every day, a new hour past 12 hours of solid sleep, soon I should crack the 18 hour barrier - exciting, no?) and wandering aimlessly around Palermo, a trendy suburb that is hard to get to and hard to get out of but has an inordinate number of bars and shops and, thankfully, when you look close enough, also a large number of kioskos selling super panchos.
My current habitation also has an incredible (to me) number of jocktastic americans (ok, one jocktastic american) and an alleged san fransican with a deeply corny accent who listens to rap and is quite the whitest person I've met here in some time. Also lurking out there somewhere is a lawyer from Washington, who prosecutes people who download movies and music illegally. Naturally he has not been invited to any parties nor has he been offered the use of the host's computer which is, of course, full of downloaded music and movies. There is also a tall black man from south africa who informed me sternly that I would get cancer from reheating things in the microwave without covering them properly and a wussy male pre-med student from minnesoater who keeps on getting drunk and being surprised that at 4 in the morning, your friend is not your friend if you are both trying to pick up the same girl in the bar.
Last night I found myself in an inpromptu United Nations Women Stylee gathering in some friend of a friend's apartment where only the two male hosts were from Argentina and the nine girls there were from all over the world. Claire (UK) and I (AUST) were most fascinated by the belgian Paris Hilton who, unlike the real paris hilton, could speak three languages and wear kickarse stockings. Amazing.
The night ended with a porteño and I writing swears in the dirt on the back of some car window while we waited for our friends. Some of you will remember that I have done similar things in frost back home so isn't it good to know that no matter how far you travel some things never change? It is annoying though that people only try to teach me bad words at the end of nights where I invariably forget them. Was it cajero? or hodjero? Damnit!
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