After Montevideo, I took a plane back to Quito and went straight home. The End.
No, wait, I’m forgetting something here. A little errand I had to run at the end. Before I left I still had the little task of going to THE FUCKING GALAPAGOS!
Now, as a biologist, I’m trained to believe this place is the Holy Grail, and it is. But why that is, is a question I have difficulty answering. Surely it’s not the beautiful landscapes; the islands are little more than humps of black sharp lava sprinkled with ugly shrubs. It’s not the gorgeous coral reefs, as there are none. There are no glorious lions and giraffes roaming the plains; the largest animal on most islands are feral goats. The famous Darwin’s Finches are not much different than your average noisy food-thieving sparrows. The feelings of untouched pristine nature are shattered the first time you shell out your already-dwinding dollars (Galapagos entrance fee: 100 US) in the internet cafés, nightclubs, art galleries, or faux French restaurants.
And yet, the Galapagos is just as spectacular as you expect it to be.
Perhaps for some, part of the enjoyment comes from spending a week cruising the open Pacific in luxury; our cramped 16 person boat reeked of diesel fumes, kept us up all night with it pitching and rolling, and fed us the same repetitive food of potatoes and illegally caught fish.
Perhaps some love soaking in the Equatorial sun; I missed a spot on my back the first day snorkeling and could barely lay down the rest of the week.
Perhaps some love the fresh ocean breeze. I’m sure they enjoyed it while out clutching the railings, bent over into space, hurling their illegally caught fish back into the sea. I was one of maybe 3 passengers not to get seasick. A couple left the boat early, forfeiting the 1000 dollars they paid for a week of what they must’ve misjudged as pampering.
No, what makes the Galapagos special is the animals. They sit still and stare and pose for your photographs. These animals have no fear. You will yield to seals and step gingerly around boobies.
And speaking of boobies, I’ve never seen so many, big pairs of boobies swaying beautifully. I took plenty of photos. Blue Footed, Red Footed, and Masked, all plenty. The Frigatebirds were showing off their huge sacks to uninterested females. And the sea turtles were just fucking shamelessly on the beach, continuing to go at it when capsized by waves.
The sealions though were the stars of the show here. They crowded every beach, snoozed on every dock, and clamored up on anchored boats. How one evicts a 300 pound sealion from their dinghy is beyond me. They show neither fear nor aggression. The babies would waddle right up to you, wishing to get petted.
And the diving. Scuba diving in the Galapagos is something you can gloat about for the rest of your life. Its hard to understand why, since there’s no reefs here, and the fish are less spectacular than any other Pacific reef I’ve been on (). The marine park is famous for its huge schools of hammerhead sharks, but tourists can’t get there. Hammerheads can also be found closer to shore, but in 4 dives I never saw one. The pro diver I’d met had done his own set of dives, and he hadn’t seen one either. With no reefs, no sharks bigger than a Blacktip, and not-particularly-exceptional fish, you’d think diving here would be a disappointment, but you’d be wrong. The marine life, the sea stars and sea turtles and moray eels, were in just the right abundance and variety to make the Galapagos one of the best diving places I’ve ever been.
Really, that’s kinda the crux of it. Surely you’ve noticed by now this entry is rather dull compared to, say, the volcano incident or any of my late-night social disasters. And that’s just the thing; nothing stands out as notably horrible here. In fact, nothing really stands out as exceptional at all, because everything was. The extraordinary is ordinary here. When I first arrived in the islands, the sealions were amazing and floored us all; by the end, we’d walk past them unaffected. The ability to make the exotic mundane speaks loudly either of our abilities to rationalize and adapt as human beings, or our collective ADD as a culture. A debate for another day I suppose.
If I took the Galapagos for granted (as the world at large seems more than apt to do), I regret it. But I don’t think I did. Because as long as I was surrounded by noisy, stinky sealions, as long as I bobbed and rolled in the nauseating sea, as long as I ate shitty repetitive meals with my new friends across from me and my old friends on my mind, I was happy. See, I discovered the formula for happiness in the Galapagos. Friends plus health times relaxation, minus financial woes, to the power of the future. 4 simple variables: If you’ve got you’ve got your friends, if you’ve got your health, if you don’t have stress (especially work and money related), and most importantly, if you’ve got your whole future open ahead of you, you can be happy. I found this sitting on the bow of the boat, far from diving iguanas and blue footed boobies. I knew this in my gut in the Salt Flats of Bolivia, and while hiking past the glaciers of Patagonia, but here I found the words for it. I had to go to some of the most exceptional places on Earth to discover just how mundane and ordinary true happiness can be. Maybe that’s what’s most special about the Galapagos…
… Actually, no, it’s definitely being face to face with sea turtles fucking.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Small World
I've noticed this phenomena before, in the Antiplano. The recursion, the seeing the same people over and over. I thought this was a specialty of Bolivia, or atleast Uyuni, until I met a friend from Cuzco in Mendoza.
In fact, the phenomena became stronger in Patagonia, where the land thins to one narrow strip north to south, and the Gringo Trail goes from being a sardonic concept to an actual road. When the Navimag boat let us off in Puerto Natales, I saw the same people shopping in the grocery store that I saw walking back down from Glacier Grey, and the same people gawking in front of calving ice at Perito Moreno Glacier in El Calafate. From there, they must've all caught a flight to Ushuaia, or taken the 15 hour bus, since I'd pass them on the streets there too.
But Buenos Aires was the real kicker. BA is where people would show up in my hostel and say "Hey, remember me from Lima?!" (I could not), or sit down at my table at lunch and say "You're the guy from the boat!" (I assume she's being honest). Generally, I didnt care about these random encounters, as I'd never remember the person. Now that I actually had real friends down here, I didnt need to cling to random encounters for my daily shred of human interaction.
However, I wanted to see these friends of mine, and this is where luck was for once on my side on this trip. Despite our total failure to organize, we managed to find each other.
On New Years, despite the utter breakdown of plans, I still managed to find Martin in the club. The day after, I got an email from Pete and Jan telling me I should meet them in Palermo Station at 9pm. I got this email at 8:45, and didnt arrive until 9:15, to find the just beginning to turn around and walk out of the station. I spent the night bar-hopping with them before kicking on back to the nightclub from New Years. I really half-expected Martin to be there, but it was Doug who made an appearance.
But none of this compares to the next day. I mentioned to Pete and Jan that I'd be in San Telmo around 3pm for the Antiques Fair. I didnt even wake up after the foam party until 4pm. Hustling to get dressed and hoof it down to San Telmo, I found the market only to discover that it was a giant maze of stalls and musty cocktail dresses inside a building of almost stadium proportions. Worse, it spilled out onto the street, and the packed throngs of people stretched for blocks in either direction. And we'd never even established a meeting place.
I meandered along the stalls half-heartedly, until the fact that I hadn't eaten breakfast caught up with me. Just as the need for food struck violently, I walked up to a live band playing on the street outside a restaurant. With a good enough ambiance, I sat down for a meal and chose an item on the all-spanish menu at random. It was a huge delicious steak and glass of wine, for under 10 bucks. Live music free.
With no sign of the others in sight, I decided to break for home and started walking down the street. Right before I needed to turn off the busy market street, someone grabbed me from behind. It was Pete! He directed me to the cafe on the corner where himself and Jan had sat down to eat. Surprisingly enough, I wasnt the first person Pete had pulled off the corner; Kristoff was with him, and Martin was on his way.
For all the failures to meet by plan, here the 5 of us were reunited by sheer luck in San Telmo for one final chance to say goodbye. I shook Kristoff's hand, and hugged Pete and Jan. But no goodbye for Martin, the two of us agreed to go clubbing one last time the next night.
Completely predictably, Martin was a no-show. As I'd learned later, he got drunk with people in his hostel until 1am - which is fine by clubbing standards, since they dont start until 3am, but that implies you dont pass out in a drunk stupor. I should've known better than to invoke the cliche of "I wont say goodbye", because when you do, you never get the chance to say it.
The next day, I left everyone behind and went to Uruguay. Kristoff was going to Brazil, Pete and Jan were packing for Iguazu, and Martin was probably getting his rocks off in the baths. I was finally on my own again. I took the boat over to Colonia, a quaint little town across the channel from Buenos Aires, and soaked up the namesake colonial sights and salty smell. Through the winding streets, over the rough cobblestone, around the crumbling walls, and up to the top of the ivy-covered lighthouse to take it in all from the top.
As I turned around to come back down, I noticed a face pressed to the glass, staring at me. It took a minute to reconstruct the squashed, distorted features... it was Pete! He grinned wide before turning and yelling down the stairs to Jan "I win the bet!" As it turns out, they werent able to book a boat the day they wanted, so instead they're in Colonia today on a day trip.
We spent the rest of the day much as I would've anyway, wandering around town with regular stops at shady watering holes to escape the absurd summer heat and humidity (hi to all you guys shovelling snow back home!). The town certainly wasnt any different, and I would still have to say goodbye yet again in a few hours. But who cares, I got just a little longer with my friends.
When I went to Montevideo, I truly was on my own again. It's a strange place, where colonial edifices are nestles in between modern office buildings, and have McDonalds occupying their ground floor. Where sandwiches cost hundreds of pesos and are still cheap. Where the garbageman comes around on a horse and buggie. I sadly only spent a total of 3 days in Uruguay.
On my way down the stairs after checking out, my breath caught in my throat. Someone familiar was coming up the steps. I nearly eeked out "Jesus Ben, is that you?!" before I caught myself and realized I was mistaken. Ben was probably back in Cambridge by now. The girl from Quito is somewhere in Chile. Pete and Jan are in Brazil, and Martin is still macking it in Buenos Aires.
No, my mind is playing tricks. I am alone again. And I'm going back to Quito, to the start of the Gringo Trail, to the start of everything, to watch other people begin their journies where I end mine. I wonder if they'll see each other down the road. I wonder if I'll see any of my friends again down our respective roads one day. Once we're off the Trail, we dont even know where our roads are going.
Ben is staying in the Navy for a few years, but might be shipped elsewhere. Martin might be in London or South Africa or still here. Kristoff might be in Austria, or Germany or the United States. Pete and Jan are either going to be in New York, or San Diego, or London, or anywhere. And I'll be in Australia, then God knows where. It's an Open Road now.
Well, not yet. First, the Galapagos.
In fact, the phenomena became stronger in Patagonia, where the land thins to one narrow strip north to south, and the Gringo Trail goes from being a sardonic concept to an actual road. When the Navimag boat let us off in Puerto Natales, I saw the same people shopping in the grocery store that I saw walking back down from Glacier Grey, and the same people gawking in front of calving ice at Perito Moreno Glacier in El Calafate. From there, they must've all caught a flight to Ushuaia, or taken the 15 hour bus, since I'd pass them on the streets there too.
But Buenos Aires was the real kicker. BA is where people would show up in my hostel and say "Hey, remember me from Lima?!" (I could not), or sit down at my table at lunch and say "You're the guy from the boat!" (I assume she's being honest). Generally, I didnt care about these random encounters, as I'd never remember the person. Now that I actually had real friends down here, I didnt need to cling to random encounters for my daily shred of human interaction.
However, I wanted to see these friends of mine, and this is where luck was for once on my side on this trip. Despite our total failure to organize, we managed to find each other.
On New Years, despite the utter breakdown of plans, I still managed to find Martin in the club. The day after, I got an email from Pete and Jan telling me I should meet them in Palermo Station at 9pm. I got this email at 8:45, and didnt arrive until 9:15, to find the just beginning to turn around and walk out of the station. I spent the night bar-hopping with them before kicking on back to the nightclub from New Years. I really half-expected Martin to be there, but it was Doug who made an appearance.
But none of this compares to the next day. I mentioned to Pete and Jan that I'd be in San Telmo around 3pm for the Antiques Fair. I didnt even wake up after the foam party until 4pm. Hustling to get dressed and hoof it down to San Telmo, I found the market only to discover that it was a giant maze of stalls and musty cocktail dresses inside a building of almost stadium proportions. Worse, it spilled out onto the street, and the packed throngs of people stretched for blocks in either direction. And we'd never even established a meeting place.
I meandered along the stalls half-heartedly, until the fact that I hadn't eaten breakfast caught up with me. Just as the need for food struck violently, I walked up to a live band playing on the street outside a restaurant. With a good enough ambiance, I sat down for a meal and chose an item on the all-spanish menu at random. It was a huge delicious steak and glass of wine, for under 10 bucks. Live music free.
With no sign of the others in sight, I decided to break for home and started walking down the street. Right before I needed to turn off the busy market street, someone grabbed me from behind. It was Pete! He directed me to the cafe on the corner where himself and Jan had sat down to eat. Surprisingly enough, I wasnt the first person Pete had pulled off the corner; Kristoff was with him, and Martin was on his way.
For all the failures to meet by plan, here the 5 of us were reunited by sheer luck in San Telmo for one final chance to say goodbye. I shook Kristoff's hand, and hugged Pete and Jan. But no goodbye for Martin, the two of us agreed to go clubbing one last time the next night.
Completely predictably, Martin was a no-show. As I'd learned later, he got drunk with people in his hostel until 1am - which is fine by clubbing standards, since they dont start until 3am, but that implies you dont pass out in a drunk stupor. I should've known better than to invoke the cliche of "I wont say goodbye", because when you do, you never get the chance to say it.
The next day, I left everyone behind and went to Uruguay. Kristoff was going to Brazil, Pete and Jan were packing for Iguazu, and Martin was probably getting his rocks off in the baths. I was finally on my own again. I took the boat over to Colonia, a quaint little town across the channel from Buenos Aires, and soaked up the namesake colonial sights and salty smell. Through the winding streets, over the rough cobblestone, around the crumbling walls, and up to the top of the ivy-covered lighthouse to take it in all from the top.
As I turned around to come back down, I noticed a face pressed to the glass, staring at me. It took a minute to reconstruct the squashed, distorted features... it was Pete! He grinned wide before turning and yelling down the stairs to Jan "I win the bet!" As it turns out, they werent able to book a boat the day they wanted, so instead they're in Colonia today on a day trip.
We spent the rest of the day much as I would've anyway, wandering around town with regular stops at shady watering holes to escape the absurd summer heat and humidity (hi to all you guys shovelling snow back home!). The town certainly wasnt any different, and I would still have to say goodbye yet again in a few hours. But who cares, I got just a little longer with my friends.
When I went to Montevideo, I truly was on my own again. It's a strange place, where colonial edifices are nestles in between modern office buildings, and have McDonalds occupying their ground floor. Where sandwiches cost hundreds of pesos and are still cheap. Where the garbageman comes around on a horse and buggie. I sadly only spent a total of 3 days in Uruguay.
On my way down the stairs after checking out, my breath caught in my throat. Someone familiar was coming up the steps. I nearly eeked out "Jesus Ben, is that you?!" before I caught myself and realized I was mistaken. Ben was probably back in Cambridge by now. The girl from Quito is somewhere in Chile. Pete and Jan are in Brazil, and Martin is still macking it in Buenos Aires.
No, my mind is playing tricks. I am alone again. And I'm going back to Quito, to the start of the Gringo Trail, to the start of everything, to watch other people begin their journies where I end mine. I wonder if they'll see each other down the road. I wonder if I'll see any of my friends again down our respective roads one day. Once we're off the Trail, we dont even know where our roads are going.
Ben is staying in the Navy for a few years, but might be shipped elsewhere. Martin might be in London or South Africa or still here. Kristoff might be in Austria, or Germany or the United States. Pete and Jan are either going to be in New York, or San Diego, or London, or anywhere. And I'll be in Australia, then God knows where. It's an Open Road now.
Well, not yet. First, the Galapagos.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
A Note on Clubbing
For those of you loyal readers who go as far back as my old Australia blog (that'd be none of you), this should sound familiar, and far less educational. It's supposed to.
I'd been to gay clubs in South America, in Quito and Lima. They were small, unimpressive, and entirely too similar to those in St. Louis. But Buenos Aires is different. Buenos Aires is big. The clubs are supposed to be like those in New York or Sydney, of which I've only experienced one of each. That's still almost novel to me.
Of course, one the biggest lesson I've learned in life is that the quality of the club depends on the quality of the people I'm with. Almost invariably, they're only fun if you go with and stay with friends. Luckily I had planned for this, and intended to go clubbing with old travel buddy Martin.
You know how I am about plans.
On New Years, Martin vanished on me. To this day, I have no idea what happened, except that he popped up for a moment in the same club I went to. But, I didn't need his help that night. I had a friend, a newly minted one to be sure, but someone I atleast felt comfortable with. Doug, the Brazilian from Martin's dorm room, would make sure I wansnt floundering around alone and lonely.
How could I, with my tongue down his throat? As I've mentioned, I've been perfectly celibate since leaving the United States, until that party on Christmas Eve in Ushuaia. As Martin predicted, the dam broke, and a torrent of hormones I'd been bottling up rushed forth. I hunted that boy, and later Doug, and had since the moment our eyes first met, but I didnt realized I'd been up to my old tricks until I was ready to go in for the kill. Unlike with Artie, I didnt hold back that time.
Well, with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years (*cough*), I felt the cycle was put to rest once again, and I could go back to my innocent traveling ways. LOL.
The next day was a waste, a day of sleeping, eating, and television (oh my!). The day after was one of relaxing and tourism. Recoleta Cemetery (Ever been down in a 150 year old crypt? Dont. It smells like powdered corpse.), the mall, the parks, a nice steak dinner, and an early end to the evening. I returned to the hostel at 8:40pm and checked my email.
"Hey Scott, meet us at Palmero Train Station at 9pm, Jan."
I arrived at 9:20, and bless their hearts, they waited there for me. The three of us went bar-hopping like we were supposed to on New Years. As we moved northwest across town, approaching the place I'd been clubbing on New Years, the bars went from dull to posh to bohemian. We finally settled on one for tapas and sangria. That's when Pete decided to pull it out on me:
"So, do you prefer birds or blokes?" The loudspeakers were playing a cover of "I'm Coming Out". But, I'm an honest man, and its not like I could claim sexual innocence on this trip anymore. Cue all the typical questions about "How do you know?" and "What do you prefer?", but they inquired with a refreshing combination of frankness, nonchalance, and British-style taking the piss.
Despite our original plan to go home around midnight (yeah, plans), the combination of sangria, politics, and sexual inquisition dragged us out to 2 before they called it a night. Finding a bus brought it to 2:30. And I was only a few blocks from reliable ole Club Amerika. A few long, tipsy, empty blocks by myself through a neighborhood of unknown report.
I'd never actually planned on going inside. Instead, I queried people on the line trying to find Fluxbar, the place Martin keeps trying and failing to go to. Perhaps he succeeded in finding it this time, since he wasn't on line tonight, but I failed to find anyone who knows it. But I wasnt tired, and its not like 50 pesos is really fatal, so I opted to go back inside.
Also on line was Doug, along with his sister and two of their friends. I strolled up and tried to start conversation, but it was clear that Doug was a textbook homosexual. You meets someone you can talk to, and immediately transmogrifies this connection, performing alchemy with the unfailing arousal to anything decent looking with all limbs (or not, a friend of mine has a one-armed boyfriend) to instant love. A few minutes of making out or a few hours of fucking, doesn't matter, the physical touch and minimum sense of connection is enough. Then the sun rises, and you can see what's happened in a harder light than the strobes of the club. It's just some schmuck you're not even that attracted to in better light, and all you want to do is get some distance between yourself and this mistake that reminds you of your arrested development. Politely, if you're kind. And God forbid they try to talk to you another day, the clingy bastard!
Of course, I knew this about him already, and thus I never tried to exchange contact info. It was just dumb luck (or a lack of creativity on both of our parts) that we crossed paths again. I walked off quickly to hit up an ATM (a 20 minute circuitous affair), and he was already mixed into the crowd inside. When I did finally run into him, barely a sentence exchanged before "I gotta find my friends". A third chance encounter upstairs, and he didn't even hide his flight.
I had already turned to go back downstairs and hit the dancefloor when the faucets opened. Foam poured unabated for 10 minutes from hidden nozzles in the ceiling. Within moments, the floor was a swimming pool, and everyone was covered head to toe in mystery foam. I refrained from joining in; I had my passport in one pocket, and my digital camera in the other. But with no desire to hit the dance floor and no one to talk to, I was left to resort to standing and staring from above, an entertaining but ultimately pathetic pasttime, a throwback to times before Australia.
Finally walking downstairs to get a drink, I was sure to make eye contact with everyone I crossed paths with. In normal day-to-day situations, this is taboo, but in a gay club, its how you judge people and assess potential (conversational or otherwise). Mostly locals here, either taken or ditzy or unable to speak English, all of which I could determine with a momentary eyelock. But one, a wallflower by himself, looked like a prospect. He was alone, available, and vulnerable. And he spoke English. The foam provided an easy line.
All my predictions were correct. What I didn't expect was that this short, skinny, waifish twink would actually be entertaining to talk to. Talking about linguistics, economics, and travel, this was more fun than just grinding. I could've sat off with him to the side and debated deep topics for hours. Instead, I leaned in even earlier than I planned to and ended all conversation.
You still reading, Mom?
What I didnt predict was the the little twink would be such a sexual dynamo. I guess it's always the unassuming ones. The boy kisses with passion, sucks lips and ears, bites, scratches, mounts, and takes any opportunity to grope. He had a real sense of fun; a relief since it meant I wouldn't have to deal with more emotional baggage tonight.
Yeah, fat chance. Rather than Jekyll-and-Hyding in an emotional shell, he becomes obesssed. Doesn't want to leave even though his friends are going. Wants to see me again even though I'm skipping town in 2 days. Wants my contact info, a cardinal no-no. And yet, I give it to him anyway, mostly because I bet he'll put out easy and be mind-blowing when he does. Not exactly noble. But worse, not only do I give him my email, I egg him on and drag out our goodbye, pulling him back into me, watching him plead to make his departure painless because he cant say no to me. To know I have this kind of power over someone, to be able to bring them to their knees (err, metaphorically) at whim, that's intoxicating. The predator inside is as dark as ever, and no brief sabbatical can change that.
Now liberated in all the wrong ways, when I finally let him go I move to the dancefloor. The floor is still a pool, and my shoes immediately become squidgy. I start to dance, awkwardly and soberly at first, but beginning to feel the music. Suddenly, the sprinklers go off. Rather than flee, I spread my arms and let the water soak in. Soak me through the shirt and through the passport pages and my camera and down into my bones. I'm liberated in all the wrong ways. I can dance until well past sunrise, without my shirt even, in a moshpit of total strangers. Pop strange pills if they're offered (dont worry Mom, they werent). Everything else be damned.
When I finally came to and crawled out myself, my first instinct was to go to McDonalds. A predator needs to feed, after all, and this is a tradition I hold fast to since my first time leaving The Beat around sunrise.
McDonalds down here, sadly, do not have hotcakes or hashbrowns. Instead, I depressedly ate an entire chocolate chip pound cake, again, while walking back to the hostel to sleep, my squidgy shoes oozing soap the whole way.
Before making the last turn, I passed a pair of men. They had rambuncious looks in their eyes, and I could see their fingers subtley playing behind one's back. They looked at me for a second, and I held a flat face while picking up my pace, pretending I didnt notice and leaving me to their privacy. I turn back a few seconds later and find they've fallen behind, huddling in a doorway, making out in public in the busy downtown. One opens an eye and looks at me again and I quickly turn around, but then I think twice about it. I flash him a clear and big thumbs-up as I walk away.
Maybe they're a devoted couple, and maybe they just met tonight and will avoid eye contact from now on. Either way, they too are liberated.
I'd been to gay clubs in South America, in Quito and Lima. They were small, unimpressive, and entirely too similar to those in St. Louis. But Buenos Aires is different. Buenos Aires is big. The clubs are supposed to be like those in New York or Sydney, of which I've only experienced one of each. That's still almost novel to me.
Of course, one the biggest lesson I've learned in life is that the quality of the club depends on the quality of the people I'm with. Almost invariably, they're only fun if you go with and stay with friends. Luckily I had planned for this, and intended to go clubbing with old travel buddy Martin.
You know how I am about plans.
On New Years, Martin vanished on me. To this day, I have no idea what happened, except that he popped up for a moment in the same club I went to. But, I didn't need his help that night. I had a friend, a newly minted one to be sure, but someone I atleast felt comfortable with. Doug, the Brazilian from Martin's dorm room, would make sure I wansnt floundering around alone and lonely.
How could I, with my tongue down his throat? As I've mentioned, I've been perfectly celibate since leaving the United States, until that party on Christmas Eve in Ushuaia. As Martin predicted, the dam broke, and a torrent of hormones I'd been bottling up rushed forth. I hunted that boy, and later Doug, and had since the moment our eyes first met, but I didnt realized I'd been up to my old tricks until I was ready to go in for the kill. Unlike with Artie, I didnt hold back that time.
Well, with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years (*cough*), I felt the cycle was put to rest once again, and I could go back to my innocent traveling ways. LOL.
The next day was a waste, a day of sleeping, eating, and television (oh my!). The day after was one of relaxing and tourism. Recoleta Cemetery (Ever been down in a 150 year old crypt? Dont. It smells like powdered corpse.), the mall, the parks, a nice steak dinner, and an early end to the evening. I returned to the hostel at 8:40pm and checked my email.
"Hey Scott, meet us at Palmero Train Station at 9pm, Jan."
I arrived at 9:20, and bless their hearts, they waited there for me. The three of us went bar-hopping like we were supposed to on New Years. As we moved northwest across town, approaching the place I'd been clubbing on New Years, the bars went from dull to posh to bohemian. We finally settled on one for tapas and sangria. That's when Pete decided to pull it out on me:
"So, do you prefer birds or blokes?" The loudspeakers were playing a cover of "I'm Coming Out". But, I'm an honest man, and its not like I could claim sexual innocence on this trip anymore. Cue all the typical questions about "How do you know?" and "What do you prefer?", but they inquired with a refreshing combination of frankness, nonchalance, and British-style taking the piss.
Despite our original plan to go home around midnight (yeah, plans), the combination of sangria, politics, and sexual inquisition dragged us out to 2 before they called it a night. Finding a bus brought it to 2:30. And I was only a few blocks from reliable ole Club Amerika. A few long, tipsy, empty blocks by myself through a neighborhood of unknown report.
I'd never actually planned on going inside. Instead, I queried people on the line trying to find Fluxbar, the place Martin keeps trying and failing to go to. Perhaps he succeeded in finding it this time, since he wasn't on line tonight, but I failed to find anyone who knows it. But I wasnt tired, and its not like 50 pesos is really fatal, so I opted to go back inside.
Also on line was Doug, along with his sister and two of their friends. I strolled up and tried to start conversation, but it was clear that Doug was a textbook homosexual. You meets someone you can talk to, and immediately transmogrifies this connection, performing alchemy with the unfailing arousal to anything decent looking with all limbs (or not, a friend of mine has a one-armed boyfriend) to instant love. A few minutes of making out or a few hours of fucking, doesn't matter, the physical touch and minimum sense of connection is enough. Then the sun rises, and you can see what's happened in a harder light than the strobes of the club. It's just some schmuck you're not even that attracted to in better light, and all you want to do is get some distance between yourself and this mistake that reminds you of your arrested development. Politely, if you're kind. And God forbid they try to talk to you another day, the clingy bastard!
Of course, I knew this about him already, and thus I never tried to exchange contact info. It was just dumb luck (or a lack of creativity on both of our parts) that we crossed paths again. I walked off quickly to hit up an ATM (a 20 minute circuitous affair), and he was already mixed into the crowd inside. When I did finally run into him, barely a sentence exchanged before "I gotta find my friends". A third chance encounter upstairs, and he didn't even hide his flight.
I had already turned to go back downstairs and hit the dancefloor when the faucets opened. Foam poured unabated for 10 minutes from hidden nozzles in the ceiling. Within moments, the floor was a swimming pool, and everyone was covered head to toe in mystery foam. I refrained from joining in; I had my passport in one pocket, and my digital camera in the other. But with no desire to hit the dance floor and no one to talk to, I was left to resort to standing and staring from above, an entertaining but ultimately pathetic pasttime, a throwback to times before Australia.
Finally walking downstairs to get a drink, I was sure to make eye contact with everyone I crossed paths with. In normal day-to-day situations, this is taboo, but in a gay club, its how you judge people and assess potential (conversational or otherwise). Mostly locals here, either taken or ditzy or unable to speak English, all of which I could determine with a momentary eyelock. But one, a wallflower by himself, looked like a prospect. He was alone, available, and vulnerable. And he spoke English. The foam provided an easy line.
All my predictions were correct. What I didn't expect was that this short, skinny, waifish twink would actually be entertaining to talk to. Talking about linguistics, economics, and travel, this was more fun than just grinding. I could've sat off with him to the side and debated deep topics for hours. Instead, I leaned in even earlier than I planned to and ended all conversation.
You still reading, Mom?
What I didnt predict was the the little twink would be such a sexual dynamo. I guess it's always the unassuming ones. The boy kisses with passion, sucks lips and ears, bites, scratches, mounts, and takes any opportunity to grope. He had a real sense of fun; a relief since it meant I wouldn't have to deal with more emotional baggage tonight.
Yeah, fat chance. Rather than Jekyll-and-Hyding in an emotional shell, he becomes obesssed. Doesn't want to leave even though his friends are going. Wants to see me again even though I'm skipping town in 2 days. Wants my contact info, a cardinal no-no. And yet, I give it to him anyway, mostly because I bet he'll put out easy and be mind-blowing when he does. Not exactly noble. But worse, not only do I give him my email, I egg him on and drag out our goodbye, pulling him back into me, watching him plead to make his departure painless because he cant say no to me. To know I have this kind of power over someone, to be able to bring them to their knees (err, metaphorically) at whim, that's intoxicating. The predator inside is as dark as ever, and no brief sabbatical can change that.
Now liberated in all the wrong ways, when I finally let him go I move to the dancefloor. The floor is still a pool, and my shoes immediately become squidgy. I start to dance, awkwardly and soberly at first, but beginning to feel the music. Suddenly, the sprinklers go off. Rather than flee, I spread my arms and let the water soak in. Soak me through the shirt and through the passport pages and my camera and down into my bones. I'm liberated in all the wrong ways. I can dance until well past sunrise, without my shirt even, in a moshpit of total strangers. Pop strange pills if they're offered (dont worry Mom, they werent). Everything else be damned.
When I finally came to and crawled out myself, my first instinct was to go to McDonalds. A predator needs to feed, after all, and this is a tradition I hold fast to since my first time leaving The Beat around sunrise.
McDonalds down here, sadly, do not have hotcakes or hashbrowns. Instead, I depressedly ate an entire chocolate chip pound cake, again, while walking back to the hostel to sleep, my squidgy shoes oozing soap the whole way.
Before making the last turn, I passed a pair of men. They had rambuncious looks in their eyes, and I could see their fingers subtley playing behind one's back. They looked at me for a second, and I held a flat face while picking up my pace, pretending I didnt notice and leaving me to their privacy. I turn back a few seconds later and find they've fallen behind, huddling in a doorway, making out in public in the busy downtown. One opens an eye and looks at me again and I quickly turn around, but then I think twice about it. I flash him a clear and big thumbs-up as I walk away.
Maybe they're a devoted couple, and maybe they just met tonight and will avoid eye contact from now on. Either way, they too are liberated.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Stroke of Midnight, Stroke of Luck
New Years, Buenos Aires. Simple enough plan: Pete, Jan, Martin, and Kristoff are all here, and we’re going to go out drinking and have a mellow evening.
You know this blog better than that by now, right?
I should’ve known the mode was set when the night before, I heard retching sounds outside my door. “Great, is someone gonna vomit?” I thought. Then I heard a splashing sound outside my door, and figured I was right. “Gee, I hope he or she is alright…” I thought, and then I heard one quick pound on my door, followed by silence. “I hope this person isn’t choking on vomit or something,” I pondered, followed by the distinct thudding sound outside my door. “Gee, I hope no one is dead…” then regretted ever thinking it. I crept toward the door, opened it, took a quick step outside, and promptly sunk my foot in a shallow puddle of vomit. Next to the vomit was flowing black hair, and with it a body, an asian girl lying splayed out, flat on her back, unseeing eyes wide open and staring at me.
I paused, unsure what to do. Was she really dead? Did I need to give CPR? Was she going to vomit into my mouth if I did? I began to kneel down to check, when suddenly she blinked, then smiled. “Hey mister!” She sat up, looked at the vomit, pondered it for a moment, shrugged, stood up, and walked off.
Fast forward to the next day. I wake up and check my email. Nothing from anybody. I send out another email, then decide to head to the neighborhood of La Boca for a few hours. The locale is world-famous for its colorful buildings, small art vendors, and tourist-ready street tango dancers, as well as a disgusting density of tourist shops, photo ops, and other mutilations of the neighborhood. It’s also known as one of the rougher inner areas of Buenos Aires.
Lamenting the tourist traps, I decided to get a late lunch at one of the more authentic cafes on a side street. Generally speaking, tourists are advised to avoid those. The whole menu here was in Spanish, and feeling adventurous, I ordered something I’d never heard of before, called Paderilla, which I was assured was delicious meat. Well, it is, in large quantities, but that’s just the start. Steak, chicken, sausage, blood sausage, tripe, kidney, intestine… I was starring in my own version of Fear Factor, and that novelty-seeking chip on my shoulder encouraged me to take a bite of all the new and exotic fares. I did not take a second bite of most.
As I chewed on the chicken, I noticed a crowd starting to gather at the end of the street. The crowd formed a circle, and in the middle, two people moving wildly. I couldn’t make out what was going on, until the crowd parted like curtains. Inside was two men; one was bleeding profusely from his head and staggering around drunkedly, swearing. The other wielded a lead pipe. Easy enough to figure out.
Claiming victory, the man with the lead pipe started to leave, but was stalked and harassed by the bleeding man who was somehow still standing despite a violent head wound and being pulled back by his friends. Someone calls the cops, and he walks off… except, he returns 5 minutes later, brandishing a huge butcher knife. Just then, the cops show up. The bleeding man turns from waiving his knife at the man to waiving it at the cops. The cops just point at their hip holsters and shake their heads. The bleeding man turns to walk away, and the cops follow. More cops show up. The bleeding man makes another attempt to go back down the street, and the cops jump him. One takes out his baton and starts beating the shit out of the man. Another cop joins in, while another still starts kicking. When, and only when, they feel satisfied, they cuff the now far bloodier man and haul him away. I take a bite of my blood sausage.
I return to my hostel, and find no email still. I resolve to take a nap, and if no one responds by then, I’ll just go by myself. I nap, I recheck my email, and still no response. A few minutes on Facebook, and its already 10pm and I’m ready to leave. Before I can click ‘log out’, a sudden email arrives. Martin’s hostel is hosting a party, and Pete, Jan, and Kristoff have just shown up. No one bothered to tell me any of this until now.
It’s a short 10 block walk through an unsafe neighborhood, but I arrive in enough time to enjoy some fatty steak and mediocre wine. Around 11:30, Pete and Jan want to go bar-hopping, but Martin has a friend, named Hanna, and this friend wants to go to a rave. But first, said friend wants to see the fireworks. I’ve shared about 10 words with this woman, in her mid to late 30s and still avoiding a real job, but I immediately volunteer to go. No one else does, so the two of us take off alone.
She intends to meet some of her friends in the plaza and go down to the riverbank. We find the friend she intended to meet and his two friends she knew about, but they have brought along 3 friends of their own. Whatever, the more the merrier, right? We take off down the block, and one of the new girls recognizes 2 friends of her own. They exchange hugs and join our group. Some black dude with an oversized camera asks us where to find the riverbank, then tags along with us. The bus deposits 2 girls fresh into the city, with their oversized backpacks, on the corner we’re waiting to cross at 11:50. They join us. We’re off to see the wizard.
Buenos Aires doesn’t actually have fireworks. This is just people with their own illegal wares shooting them off while the police turn their heads. The size and quantity of these fireworks isn’t very impressive, but the fact that they’re setting them off mere meters from our heads makes for pretty impressive bangs. Flowers and pom-poms of fire explode in front of our eyes, ringing our ears, illuminating the water and the bridge and the dock cranes and the mirror-windowed skyscrapers.
People partied in the streets, from in front of the swanky new Hiltz hotel to the large patio of the swanky new Hooters. People had warned us Buenos Aires is dead on New Years, and there’s especially nothing to do when the ball drops, but they were wrong. This homebrewed, spirited celebration was beautiful and energizing, and I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else for it. It was the perfect capstone for a perfect night.
Almost no one notices when one or two rockets misfired and exploded in the crowd. We certainly didn't flinch. Maybe even nobody got hurt.
Hanna and I return to the hostel party, and she starts preparing for the rave, changing into her heart-patterned shirt and nice jeans. Meanwhile, Pete, Jan, and Kristoff are ready to leave, and want me to come with them. I’m tempted, but a New Year’s Rave just sounds too good to pass up. I’ll see them again before they leave, right? Maybe, but when Pete says as he walks off “Maybe we’ll see you in Sydney”, I start to have second thoughts.
And the second thoughts are well founded when Hanna comes back to me and tells me she called her friend, and there’s no room for me in the car. I storm into Martin’s dorm room to tell him that she won’t let me come, but he tells me he wants to go anyway, and that I should find some club to go to. Hanna tells me “Don’t be a little bitch, I never promised anything.” Yes, she had.
So, with Pete, Jan, and Kristoff gone, and Martin and Hanna going, and the hostel party winding down, I’m left with nothing to do and nowhere to go and no one to go nowhere with. Just then, Martin’s new roommates arrive, also fresh transplants off the bus. They’re a Brazillian brother and sister pair, and I tell many things about them just by watching them interact: The girl is bossier, the girl is tired and wants to sleep early, the boy is tired but still isn’t ready to call it a night, and the boy is patently homo.
It takes some prodding, some cajoling, some logic, some pleading, some innuendo and coy smiles, and about half an hour of patience, but I finally encourage the boy, a 22 year old named Doug, to come with me. He takes another half hour to get ready, and we’re out the door to first go clubbing at 3am.
Except, its New Years, and there’s not a taxi in sight. It takes us 10 minutes to flag one down, and another 20 to reach the club, but we arrive at the club in time to be confronted by the monster line. It stretches out the door, down the block, around the corner, and all the way down the next block. We’re tempted to throw in the towel then and there, but the line seems to be moving at a decent clip, and it only one short hour until we get inside. It’s after 4:30 when we get our first drinks and hit the dance floor. Surprisingly enough, everyone on that serpentine behemoth fit in the club with plenty of room to spare, and the great DJ and atmosphere actually made the hour wait worth the experience of being in this space, an exuberant outpouring enough to match the street parties and then some.
Almost immediately I bump into Martin. For reasons he never explained and I’ll probably never ask, he ditched on the rave and decided to go gay clubbing himself. I offer to keep him company, but Doug wants to move closer to the stage. As the liquor flows further and the dancing becomes more frenetic, Doug moves inexorably closer. See, I never intended to go after Doug, but my invitation to go out must’ve been interpreted as an invitation to something more. Or he only relented and came out because he wanted me. Again, I’ll never know.
I consider turning him down, but his company is nice. More importantly, the lock I’d put on my sexuality in Quito had finally been broken by a drunken pash during the Christmas party (and again Christmas morning, a new take on unwrapping your presents). When he wanted to sit down, I knew where it was going. The routine is always the same. Sit, lean, play footsies, head snuggle, eye contact, go for it. I’d been playing the same game since I first went clubbing in Brisbane, but now I was both good at it and had a much better sense of who I’d enjoy it with. Regardless, he and I were both good enough to keep it fun, while just managing to stay within club legal boundries.
Of course, as the night wears on, the Arq quandary inevitably rears its head, named after the bar in Sydney where I’d first encountered this problem. When two people who meet at a bar are both staying in hostel dorms, you want to stay in the club as long as you can, until you’re either too tired or it starts shutting down. Then you wanna go somewhere and crap out, but you also want to keep the hookup going. You debate which hostel you want to go to, but ultimately someone chickens out on the prospect of messing around with other people sleeping in the room. Said chicken is never me. Instead, you just end up going back to your own places, with empty unfulfilled promises of trying again another day.
So instead, we wandered the streets, trying to find a taxi to take us back to our respective hostels, but none were about. Well, there were plenty, but they were all taken by others in the massive club exodus, and the ones who weren’t were headed back home and not by Satan’s pubic hair could they be bothered to pick up a bunch of gringo passengers. We walked to the train station, but it was barricaded shut, so we kept walking.
In our frustration (for different reasons), we almost didn’t notice the crowd gathered on the street. A woman was wailing. Another fight? We walk up, and find yet another bloody body sprawled on the ground. He was not moving. He didn’t appear to be conscious. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Hit by a car, my best guess. The responsible car and driver are long gone.
Besides the crying young woman, no one appears to be doing anything besides standing around. Someone on the corner calls the police. I try and ask one of the bystanders if the victim is breathing, but he brushes me off. I try and offer my help, but he’s even more insistent in getting rid of us. Probably one of the family, he wishes to have their moment of grief private in the middle of morning traffic, nevermind the first aid or CPR he might need but isn’t getting because they don’t understand I’m not just some gawking tourist.
So we walk away. What else can we do? The police were already called. An ambulance might arrive at some point. Unlikely, considering we can’t even catch a cab. He might be dying, or dead, and some people are going to have a very unhappy New Years. But this is Buenos Aires and I’m a gringo bystander just trying to get home after a frustrated hookup after ditching and being ditched by his friends, my randomness of meeting this boy and meeting that girl matched only by the randomness of witnessing a knife fight or getting hit by a car.
You know this blog better than that by now, right?
I should’ve known the mode was set when the night before, I heard retching sounds outside my door. “Great, is someone gonna vomit?” I thought. Then I heard a splashing sound outside my door, and figured I was right. “Gee, I hope he or she is alright…” I thought, and then I heard one quick pound on my door, followed by silence. “I hope this person isn’t choking on vomit or something,” I pondered, followed by the distinct thudding sound outside my door. “Gee, I hope no one is dead…” then regretted ever thinking it. I crept toward the door, opened it, took a quick step outside, and promptly sunk my foot in a shallow puddle of vomit. Next to the vomit was flowing black hair, and with it a body, an asian girl lying splayed out, flat on her back, unseeing eyes wide open and staring at me.
I paused, unsure what to do. Was she really dead? Did I need to give CPR? Was she going to vomit into my mouth if I did? I began to kneel down to check, when suddenly she blinked, then smiled. “Hey mister!” She sat up, looked at the vomit, pondered it for a moment, shrugged, stood up, and walked off.
Fast forward to the next day. I wake up and check my email. Nothing from anybody. I send out another email, then decide to head to the neighborhood of La Boca for a few hours. The locale is world-famous for its colorful buildings, small art vendors, and tourist-ready street tango dancers, as well as a disgusting density of tourist shops, photo ops, and other mutilations of the neighborhood. It’s also known as one of the rougher inner areas of Buenos Aires.
Lamenting the tourist traps, I decided to get a late lunch at one of the more authentic cafes on a side street. Generally speaking, tourists are advised to avoid those. The whole menu here was in Spanish, and feeling adventurous, I ordered something I’d never heard of before, called Paderilla, which I was assured was delicious meat. Well, it is, in large quantities, but that’s just the start. Steak, chicken, sausage, blood sausage, tripe, kidney, intestine… I was starring in my own version of Fear Factor, and that novelty-seeking chip on my shoulder encouraged me to take a bite of all the new and exotic fares. I did not take a second bite of most.
As I chewed on the chicken, I noticed a crowd starting to gather at the end of the street. The crowd formed a circle, and in the middle, two people moving wildly. I couldn’t make out what was going on, until the crowd parted like curtains. Inside was two men; one was bleeding profusely from his head and staggering around drunkedly, swearing. The other wielded a lead pipe. Easy enough to figure out.
Claiming victory, the man with the lead pipe started to leave, but was stalked and harassed by the bleeding man who was somehow still standing despite a violent head wound and being pulled back by his friends. Someone calls the cops, and he walks off… except, he returns 5 minutes later, brandishing a huge butcher knife. Just then, the cops show up. The bleeding man turns from waiving his knife at the man to waiving it at the cops. The cops just point at their hip holsters and shake their heads. The bleeding man turns to walk away, and the cops follow. More cops show up. The bleeding man makes another attempt to go back down the street, and the cops jump him. One takes out his baton and starts beating the shit out of the man. Another cop joins in, while another still starts kicking. When, and only when, they feel satisfied, they cuff the now far bloodier man and haul him away. I take a bite of my blood sausage.
I return to my hostel, and find no email still. I resolve to take a nap, and if no one responds by then, I’ll just go by myself. I nap, I recheck my email, and still no response. A few minutes on Facebook, and its already 10pm and I’m ready to leave. Before I can click ‘log out’, a sudden email arrives. Martin’s hostel is hosting a party, and Pete, Jan, and Kristoff have just shown up. No one bothered to tell me any of this until now.
It’s a short 10 block walk through an unsafe neighborhood, but I arrive in enough time to enjoy some fatty steak and mediocre wine. Around 11:30, Pete and Jan want to go bar-hopping, but Martin has a friend, named Hanna, and this friend wants to go to a rave. But first, said friend wants to see the fireworks. I’ve shared about 10 words with this woman, in her mid to late 30s and still avoiding a real job, but I immediately volunteer to go. No one else does, so the two of us take off alone.
She intends to meet some of her friends in the plaza and go down to the riverbank. We find the friend she intended to meet and his two friends she knew about, but they have brought along 3 friends of their own. Whatever, the more the merrier, right? We take off down the block, and one of the new girls recognizes 2 friends of her own. They exchange hugs and join our group. Some black dude with an oversized camera asks us where to find the riverbank, then tags along with us. The bus deposits 2 girls fresh into the city, with their oversized backpacks, on the corner we’re waiting to cross at 11:50. They join us. We’re off to see the wizard.
Buenos Aires doesn’t actually have fireworks. This is just people with their own illegal wares shooting them off while the police turn their heads. The size and quantity of these fireworks isn’t very impressive, but the fact that they’re setting them off mere meters from our heads makes for pretty impressive bangs. Flowers and pom-poms of fire explode in front of our eyes, ringing our ears, illuminating the water and the bridge and the dock cranes and the mirror-windowed skyscrapers.
People partied in the streets, from in front of the swanky new Hiltz hotel to the large patio of the swanky new Hooters. People had warned us Buenos Aires is dead on New Years, and there’s especially nothing to do when the ball drops, but they were wrong. This homebrewed, spirited celebration was beautiful and energizing, and I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else for it. It was the perfect capstone for a perfect night.
Almost no one notices when one or two rockets misfired and exploded in the crowd. We certainly didn't flinch. Maybe even nobody got hurt.
Hanna and I return to the hostel party, and she starts preparing for the rave, changing into her heart-patterned shirt and nice jeans. Meanwhile, Pete, Jan, and Kristoff are ready to leave, and want me to come with them. I’m tempted, but a New Year’s Rave just sounds too good to pass up. I’ll see them again before they leave, right? Maybe, but when Pete says as he walks off “Maybe we’ll see you in Sydney”, I start to have second thoughts.
And the second thoughts are well founded when Hanna comes back to me and tells me she called her friend, and there’s no room for me in the car. I storm into Martin’s dorm room to tell him that she won’t let me come, but he tells me he wants to go anyway, and that I should find some club to go to. Hanna tells me “Don’t be a little bitch, I never promised anything.” Yes, she had.
So, with Pete, Jan, and Kristoff gone, and Martin and Hanna going, and the hostel party winding down, I’m left with nothing to do and nowhere to go and no one to go nowhere with. Just then, Martin’s new roommates arrive, also fresh transplants off the bus. They’re a Brazillian brother and sister pair, and I tell many things about them just by watching them interact: The girl is bossier, the girl is tired and wants to sleep early, the boy is tired but still isn’t ready to call it a night, and the boy is patently homo.
It takes some prodding, some cajoling, some logic, some pleading, some innuendo and coy smiles, and about half an hour of patience, but I finally encourage the boy, a 22 year old named Doug, to come with me. He takes another half hour to get ready, and we’re out the door to first go clubbing at 3am.
Except, its New Years, and there’s not a taxi in sight. It takes us 10 minutes to flag one down, and another 20 to reach the club, but we arrive at the club in time to be confronted by the monster line. It stretches out the door, down the block, around the corner, and all the way down the next block. We’re tempted to throw in the towel then and there, but the line seems to be moving at a decent clip, and it only one short hour until we get inside. It’s after 4:30 when we get our first drinks and hit the dance floor. Surprisingly enough, everyone on that serpentine behemoth fit in the club with plenty of room to spare, and the great DJ and atmosphere actually made the hour wait worth the experience of being in this space, an exuberant outpouring enough to match the street parties and then some.
Almost immediately I bump into Martin. For reasons he never explained and I’ll probably never ask, he ditched on the rave and decided to go gay clubbing himself. I offer to keep him company, but Doug wants to move closer to the stage. As the liquor flows further and the dancing becomes more frenetic, Doug moves inexorably closer. See, I never intended to go after Doug, but my invitation to go out must’ve been interpreted as an invitation to something more. Or he only relented and came out because he wanted me. Again, I’ll never know.
I consider turning him down, but his company is nice. More importantly, the lock I’d put on my sexuality in Quito had finally been broken by a drunken pash during the Christmas party (and again Christmas morning, a new take on unwrapping your presents). When he wanted to sit down, I knew where it was going. The routine is always the same. Sit, lean, play footsies, head snuggle, eye contact, go for it. I’d been playing the same game since I first went clubbing in Brisbane, but now I was both good at it and had a much better sense of who I’d enjoy it with. Regardless, he and I were both good enough to keep it fun, while just managing to stay within club legal boundries.
Of course, as the night wears on, the Arq quandary inevitably rears its head, named after the bar in Sydney where I’d first encountered this problem. When two people who meet at a bar are both staying in hostel dorms, you want to stay in the club as long as you can, until you’re either too tired or it starts shutting down. Then you wanna go somewhere and crap out, but you also want to keep the hookup going. You debate which hostel you want to go to, but ultimately someone chickens out on the prospect of messing around with other people sleeping in the room. Said chicken is never me. Instead, you just end up going back to your own places, with empty unfulfilled promises of trying again another day.
So instead, we wandered the streets, trying to find a taxi to take us back to our respective hostels, but none were about. Well, there were plenty, but they were all taken by others in the massive club exodus, and the ones who weren’t were headed back home and not by Satan’s pubic hair could they be bothered to pick up a bunch of gringo passengers. We walked to the train station, but it was barricaded shut, so we kept walking.
In our frustration (for different reasons), we almost didn’t notice the crowd gathered on the street. A woman was wailing. Another fight? We walk up, and find yet another bloody body sprawled on the ground. He was not moving. He didn’t appear to be conscious. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Hit by a car, my best guess. The responsible car and driver are long gone.
Besides the crying young woman, no one appears to be doing anything besides standing around. Someone on the corner calls the police. I try and ask one of the bystanders if the victim is breathing, but he brushes me off. I try and offer my help, but he’s even more insistent in getting rid of us. Probably one of the family, he wishes to have their moment of grief private in the middle of morning traffic, nevermind the first aid or CPR he might need but isn’t getting because they don’t understand I’m not just some gawking tourist.
So we walk away. What else can we do? The police were already called. An ambulance might arrive at some point. Unlikely, considering we can’t even catch a cab. He might be dying, or dead, and some people are going to have a very unhappy New Years. But this is Buenos Aires and I’m a gringo bystander just trying to get home after a frustrated hookup after ditching and being ditched by his friends, my randomness of meeting this boy and meeting that girl matched only by the randomness of witnessing a knife fight or getting hit by a car.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Misson for a Missionary
When I asked for a bus ticket to Bahia Blanca, they looked at me blankly. Surely I must've meant Buenos Aires, right? The bus continues on to BA after BB, so I must be wrong. I actually had to talk them into giving me a ticket.
While waiting on line, I asked the people going to Bahia Blanca what fun things I could do for a day. No one had an answer better than "Walk around the mall?"
Upon arrival, I went around to the side of the bus to get my backpack out from under. The driver wouldnt give me my bag. He was convinced I was in the wrong city, I had to show him my ticket to prove it. He still didn't want to get it, just because it was buried at the bottom of the Buenos Aires pile. He just assumed backpack meant BA.
Walking into the bus terminal, the extremely white and sterile-looking terminal, I began to look around to see if they have an internet kiosk so I could look up the address I came to find. A helpful employee came up to me and asked me if I was looking for the bus to BA.
Clearly, there's a theme. People come to Bahia Blanca to live (or die), but not to visit. The city is big and pretty and full of all the movie theaters and municipal parks and McDonalds one could want. I'm sure its a great place to live, but there really is absolutely nothing to do in this city. So why am I here?
To answer this question, I'm going to have to rewind back to September and my whirlwind tour of the Southwest US. After Burning Man and after seeing Dave in Boise but before hitting up the national parks in southern Utah, I passed through Salt Lake City. The biggest tourist draw here is Temple Square. Working with Kyra, lodging with Kyra's family, I'd learned alot about Mormonism, and was curious enough (though not in a conversion sense) to visit their Ground Zero. In Temple Square is their large central temple, the namesake tabernacle of the famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir, an art museum, a family research library (to help baptize your dead ones... dont ask), a visitor's center, a missionary center (for doing God's Work), and lots and lots of office space (for doing God's Office Work).
Part of my reason to visit was curiosity. Partially it was to visit the family research library and see if I can trace my ancestors past Ellis Island (I could not). But in large part it was to fuck with the missionaries. To ask questions like "Why does God hate gay people?" and "If a guy gets a sex change to become a woman, then wants to marry a man, is that kosher?" (the answer to both: err, let me get back to you).
When I met the pretty young blonde servant of God, I didn't want to fuck with her. Well, not with anyway. Instead, I just struck up conversation. I told her about my travels in a bid to impress her. And that's where my misguided attempts to pick up a missionary fell flat.
"Oh, you're going to Argetina?! That's soo cool. My fiancee is serving a mission there!"
I was more confused than disappionted. "Wait, how old are you?" I asked. "Oh, I'm 19, but we've been dating since I was 14," she replied. "... and how old is he?" I followed up, afraid of what she'd say. But he was only 21, not 40-something.
I was prepared to move on, but she wasn't done. Instead, she reached into the folder she was holding, and pulled out a postcard-sized picture of the Temple at night, with some recruitment propoganda on the back. She pulled out a pen, and wrote on the back "Elder Drennan, Bahia Blanca. I <3 you".
"Can you give this to him?"
I stared at her for a few seconds, baffled. Was she serious? Where is Bahia Blanca? How big is Bahia Blanca? How am I going to find one starched-shirt white dude in a whole city? The request was so ridiculous, so absurd, what could she possibly expect me to say?
"Yeah, sure. No problem."
And really, it wasn't that hard. I know enough about the LDS structure that a brief internet search found the local stake, and the address for its mission office. After that, I just had to find the right time to go to Bahia Blanca. I could cut across after Mendoza, then bus down the east coast to Puerto Madryn to go whalewatching before getting to Ushuaia, or I could take a boat down the Chilean side, then bus up from Ushuaia through Puerto Madryn, too late to see whales, before stopping in BB on my way to BA. I made my fateful choice.
Fast forward to the Tuesday between Christmas and New Years. I took a taxi into town, walked to the square, into an internet cafe, and looked up the address. It was only 3 blocks from the square, a 5 minute walk. The office is on an upper floor of a pretty nondescript building. I ring the doorbell, with absolutely no expectation of what kind of reception awaits me. Will the man be excited to hear from the beau he hasn't seen in months? Or will he just think I'm a freak and shoo me off. If I were in his shoes, I'd probably pick the latter. I would meet myself and flee.
I was met with silence. No response. I rang again, but it was clear no one was inside. Perhaps they were out to lunch (at 10am?), so I sat in the doorway to wait for someone for return. Gave up on that after half an hour. Plan B.
Plan B was to return to the internet cafe, find the phone number for the mission, call them, and hope the doorbell was just broken, rather than the far more likely outcome of a voicemail.
To my surprise, someone picked up. It was a young American voice, clearly one of the missionaries. He explained to me the missionary office moved, to a place well out of walking distance. "Elder Drennan?" I asked hopefully. No, Elder Drennan has been moved to Mar del Plata, about 5 hours away.
Ok, time to move to Mar del Plata? It's on the way to BA... sort of. Its on the way in the same way that Chicago is on the way between St. Louis and New York. And I had no reason to go here except to deliver a postcard. Atleast Bahia Blanca had the excuse of being on the way. But I have a mission, and I went back to the bus station to find bus times to Mar del Plata.
As I found out, the bus to Mar del Plata was to leave in 10 minutes. I'd have to find Drennan today. I called the mission office back in a hurry, and gave them the excuse that I want to go scuba diving in Plata (a mediocre place to do it), and that I'll still be able to deliver my package in person. The missionary on the phone, who was skeptical when I first explained to him I had something to give Drennen, now sounded like he was ready to call the cops. I didn't blame him. He told me that they don't give out a missionary's address, and since Mar del Plata doesnt have a missionary office, I'd have to either find him on the street, or wait until Sunday and guess which chuch he'll attend.
So I did the only rational thing, and gave up. Got on the next bus to BA. I'm not going to bust my balls for a cute girl who isnt even single and her stranger fiancee. Instead, I wrote a very sweet and hokey letter about how far the postcard has come, and how I've persisted because her feelings were so radiant and genuine when I met her, and mailed it with the postcard to the missionary office. Frankly, I don't remember if she was radiant or genuine. I remember she was blonde and bubbly, but that's about it. I just wanted a cool story, and to see the completely flabbergasted look on the man's face.
I only got half.
While waiting on line, I asked the people going to Bahia Blanca what fun things I could do for a day. No one had an answer better than "Walk around the mall?"
Upon arrival, I went around to the side of the bus to get my backpack out from under. The driver wouldnt give me my bag. He was convinced I was in the wrong city, I had to show him my ticket to prove it. He still didn't want to get it, just because it was buried at the bottom of the Buenos Aires pile. He just assumed backpack meant BA.
Walking into the bus terminal, the extremely white and sterile-looking terminal, I began to look around to see if they have an internet kiosk so I could look up the address I came to find. A helpful employee came up to me and asked me if I was looking for the bus to BA.
Clearly, there's a theme. People come to Bahia Blanca to live (or die), but not to visit. The city is big and pretty and full of all the movie theaters and municipal parks and McDonalds one could want. I'm sure its a great place to live, but there really is absolutely nothing to do in this city. So why am I here?
To answer this question, I'm going to have to rewind back to September and my whirlwind tour of the Southwest US. After Burning Man and after seeing Dave in Boise but before hitting up the national parks in southern Utah, I passed through Salt Lake City. The biggest tourist draw here is Temple Square. Working with Kyra, lodging with Kyra's family, I'd learned alot about Mormonism, and was curious enough (though not in a conversion sense) to visit their Ground Zero. In Temple Square is their large central temple, the namesake tabernacle of the famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir, an art museum, a family research library (to help baptize your dead ones... dont ask), a visitor's center, a missionary center (for doing God's Work), and lots and lots of office space (for doing God's Office Work).
Part of my reason to visit was curiosity. Partially it was to visit the family research library and see if I can trace my ancestors past Ellis Island (I could not). But in large part it was to fuck with the missionaries. To ask questions like "Why does God hate gay people?" and "If a guy gets a sex change to become a woman, then wants to marry a man, is that kosher?" (the answer to both: err, let me get back to you).
When I met the pretty young blonde servant of God, I didn't want to fuck with her. Well, not with anyway. Instead, I just struck up conversation. I told her about my travels in a bid to impress her. And that's where my misguided attempts to pick up a missionary fell flat.
"Oh, you're going to Argetina?! That's soo cool. My fiancee is serving a mission there!"
I was more confused than disappionted. "Wait, how old are you?" I asked. "Oh, I'm 19, but we've been dating since I was 14," she replied. "... and how old is he?" I followed up, afraid of what she'd say. But he was only 21, not 40-something.
I was prepared to move on, but she wasn't done. Instead, she reached into the folder she was holding, and pulled out a postcard-sized picture of the Temple at night, with some recruitment propoganda on the back. She pulled out a pen, and wrote on the back "Elder Drennan, Bahia Blanca. I <3 you".
"Can you give this to him?"
I stared at her for a few seconds, baffled. Was she serious? Where is Bahia Blanca? How big is Bahia Blanca? How am I going to find one starched-shirt white dude in a whole city? The request was so ridiculous, so absurd, what could she possibly expect me to say?
"Yeah, sure. No problem."
And really, it wasn't that hard. I know enough about the LDS structure that a brief internet search found the local stake, and the address for its mission office. After that, I just had to find the right time to go to Bahia Blanca. I could cut across after Mendoza, then bus down the east coast to Puerto Madryn to go whalewatching before getting to Ushuaia, or I could take a boat down the Chilean side, then bus up from Ushuaia through Puerto Madryn, too late to see whales, before stopping in BB on my way to BA. I made my fateful choice.
Fast forward to the Tuesday between Christmas and New Years. I took a taxi into town, walked to the square, into an internet cafe, and looked up the address. It was only 3 blocks from the square, a 5 minute walk. The office is on an upper floor of a pretty nondescript building. I ring the doorbell, with absolutely no expectation of what kind of reception awaits me. Will the man be excited to hear from the beau he hasn't seen in months? Or will he just think I'm a freak and shoo me off. If I were in his shoes, I'd probably pick the latter. I would meet myself and flee.
I was met with silence. No response. I rang again, but it was clear no one was inside. Perhaps they were out to lunch (at 10am?), so I sat in the doorway to wait for someone for return. Gave up on that after half an hour. Plan B.
Plan B was to return to the internet cafe, find the phone number for the mission, call them, and hope the doorbell was just broken, rather than the far more likely outcome of a voicemail.
To my surprise, someone picked up. It was a young American voice, clearly one of the missionaries. He explained to me the missionary office moved, to a place well out of walking distance. "Elder Drennan?" I asked hopefully. No, Elder Drennan has been moved to Mar del Plata, about 5 hours away.
Ok, time to move to Mar del Plata? It's on the way to BA... sort of. Its on the way in the same way that Chicago is on the way between St. Louis and New York. And I had no reason to go here except to deliver a postcard. Atleast Bahia Blanca had the excuse of being on the way. But I have a mission, and I went back to the bus station to find bus times to Mar del Plata.
As I found out, the bus to Mar del Plata was to leave in 10 minutes. I'd have to find Drennan today. I called the mission office back in a hurry, and gave them the excuse that I want to go scuba diving in Plata (a mediocre place to do it), and that I'll still be able to deliver my package in person. The missionary on the phone, who was skeptical when I first explained to him I had something to give Drennen, now sounded like he was ready to call the cops. I didn't blame him. He told me that they don't give out a missionary's address, and since Mar del Plata doesnt have a missionary office, I'd have to either find him on the street, or wait until Sunday and guess which chuch he'll attend.
So I did the only rational thing, and gave up. Got on the next bus to BA. I'm not going to bust my balls for a cute girl who isnt even single and her stranger fiancee. Instead, I wrote a very sweet and hokey letter about how far the postcard has come, and how I've persisted because her feelings were so radiant and genuine when I met her, and mailed it with the postcard to the missionary office. Frankly, I don't remember if she was radiant or genuine. I remember she was blonde and bubbly, but that's about it. I just wanted a cool story, and to see the completely flabbergasted look on the man's face.
I only got half.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
End Of The World As I Know It
I arrived in Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina, with a goal. The city proudly proclaims itself on all tourist information as The Most Southerly City In The World, and I was going to finally accomplish my trip's biggest mission. Mitad del Mundo to El Fin del Mundo. Now all I had to do was figure out exactly what I had to do to claim the prize.
Pete, who was not coming to Ushuaia, collects stamps. Not to send a letter, but stamps in his passport book. He got one on the Equator, in the Galapagos, in Macchu Pichu, and now mandated that I get the famous End of the World stamp and show it to him so he can atleast live through my passport vicariously. Often a man of my word, I set about attempting to find this stamp.
I first tried the tourist office, an easy choice, and was delighted to learn they had the stamp. In fact, they had four. And the dock had one. And the post office had one. And apparently there's one in the nearby National Park. I chose one, the Lighthouse at the End of the World one, and considered it mission accomplished... but wait, not yet.
See, Ushuaia may be the most southerly city in the world, but its not the most southerly town. Across the Beagle Channel is Navarino Island and the Chilean town of Puerto Williams. I bet they have a stamp. I went down to the dock and attempted to find a ferry across.
Well, boats dont just go to Puerto Williams and back. You have to pay 100 dollars each way, go through the entire immigration process again, and you'd still be wasting your time, since it's mostly just a town for the families of the military base which takes up most of the island.
Ok, so I can't get to the world's most southerly settlement, but atleast I can get to the WMS lighthouse, the one in the stamp, right? Well, no. Only military transports from Navarino go out that far. But the boats will take you to A lighthouse at the end of the world. That's kinda the same, right?
Well, to be fair, it was a lovely boatride, and I did get to stand on a spit of land even further south than Ushuaia, and climb up on a hill to give me a distant, hazy view of Puerto Williams. I was hoping to see across the island and all the way to the start of the Southern Ocean. Nope. I was hoping to at least see down the Beagle Channel, to the clear line where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet. Nope. The view was fantastic, but nothing different than what I'd see on Ushuaia's frigid beach. The only difference is that this inconsequential rock is the most southerly point I'm likely to ever reach in my lifetiome.
I needed a different way to claim Mission Accomplished, and decided instead to reach the End of the Road. In Tierra del Fuego National Park is a sign at the end of Route 3, proclaiming to the proud drivers who have the chuzpah to drive down the entire excrutiating route just how far they've come (and how far they have to go back). I took a bus into the park, posed next to the sign, and considered it mission accomplished... but wait, not yet.
Route 3 is the road between Buenos Aires and Ushuaia. It's not the end of the Panamerica, which deadended somewhere in the middle of Chile. It's not WMS road, since that's between Puerto Williams and the military base. That road, like this road, is gravel. If you really wanted to celebrate something, you'd be taking pictures at the End of Paving, which is a completely uncelebrated, unmarked, and barely noticed transition point some miles outside the park.
So it was back to the stamps. I walked a few miles across the park, on a surprisingly underwhelming and dull trail considering its location, coming out next to a jetty into the Channel. At the end of the jetty was a small shack, the WMS Post Office. And it was locked. Post office closes at 5pm, I'd arrived at 5:15. No stamp for me.
But, I'm a persistant little fuck, and started looking for hinges or busted locks or other ways to covertly burglarize the post office. Except I was hardly covert at all, and the ranger drove up in his massive Land Rover to confront me.
Him: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Looking for a stamp."
Him: "We're closed."
Me: "When did you close?"
Him: "At 5."
Me: "Why?"
Him: "It's Christmas Eve."
Me: "Yes, it's almost Christmas. Did you close it?"
Him: "Yes I... fine, come on."
Mission accomplished. Of course I'd never intended to burglarize a building, especially so blatently. I just wanted him to come over so I could lure him into the Christmas Miracle Trap.
I got my stamp, a giant page-stealing seal of a stamp featuring a family of penguins, despite the lack of actual penguins in Ushuaia or the National Park. In fact, I got an entire page of stamps, the ranger's frustration and generosity mingling to completely horde an entire page of my precariously dwinding passport space. I hope Pete is happy.
But more importantly, I got a beer. People who trek all the way to the WMS post office dont just get free stamps, they get a free beer: Cape Horn Microbrew. A beer you will not find anywhere else on earth. I laid back on the cloudy, freezing beech and drank my prize. Perhaps this I can call mission accomplished.
As it turns out, the last bus was also at 5pm, and I was left stranded in the park. Thankfully though, a pair of Europeans gave me a lift back to town. As I sat in the back seat and quietly stewed in my own arrogent sense of achievement, the pair start comparing birds here to those in Alaska. I stop them; "Wait, you've come all the way from Alaska?" Oh yes, they came all the way down the Panamerica, over to Route 40, and finally to Route 3, to reach the end of the road, having began at the start of it. I had a nice slice of humble pie to go with my WMS beer.
And yet, none of these objective-based material Mission Accomplished matter compared to the real goal gained. While traipising around Tierra del Fuego, I got an email welcoming me, with full scholarship, to postgraduate studies in Australia. I was finally finished chasing, both pointless mission objectives and an uncertain future.
And above the computer terminals in the hostel is a map, an upside down map of the world with Ushuaia at the top. And on this crazy inverted map, a slogan: The End of the World, the Beginning of Everything.
Pete, who was not coming to Ushuaia, collects stamps. Not to send a letter, but stamps in his passport book. He got one on the Equator, in the Galapagos, in Macchu Pichu, and now mandated that I get the famous End of the World stamp and show it to him so he can atleast live through my passport vicariously. Often a man of my word, I set about attempting to find this stamp.
I first tried the tourist office, an easy choice, and was delighted to learn they had the stamp. In fact, they had four. And the dock had one. And the post office had one. And apparently there's one in the nearby National Park. I chose one, the Lighthouse at the End of the World one, and considered it mission accomplished... but wait, not yet.
See, Ushuaia may be the most southerly city in the world, but its not the most southerly town. Across the Beagle Channel is Navarino Island and the Chilean town of Puerto Williams. I bet they have a stamp. I went down to the dock and attempted to find a ferry across.
Well, boats dont just go to Puerto Williams and back. You have to pay 100 dollars each way, go through the entire immigration process again, and you'd still be wasting your time, since it's mostly just a town for the families of the military base which takes up most of the island.
Ok, so I can't get to the world's most southerly settlement, but atleast I can get to the WMS lighthouse, the one in the stamp, right? Well, no. Only military transports from Navarino go out that far. But the boats will take you to A lighthouse at the end of the world. That's kinda the same, right?
Well, to be fair, it was a lovely boatride, and I did get to stand on a spit of land even further south than Ushuaia, and climb up on a hill to give me a distant, hazy view of Puerto Williams. I was hoping to see across the island and all the way to the start of the Southern Ocean. Nope. I was hoping to at least see down the Beagle Channel, to the clear line where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet. Nope. The view was fantastic, but nothing different than what I'd see on Ushuaia's frigid beach. The only difference is that this inconsequential rock is the most southerly point I'm likely to ever reach in my lifetiome.
I needed a different way to claim Mission Accomplished, and decided instead to reach the End of the Road. In Tierra del Fuego National Park is a sign at the end of Route 3, proclaiming to the proud drivers who have the chuzpah to drive down the entire excrutiating route just how far they've come (and how far they have to go back). I took a bus into the park, posed next to the sign, and considered it mission accomplished... but wait, not yet.
Route 3 is the road between Buenos Aires and Ushuaia. It's not the end of the Panamerica, which deadended somewhere in the middle of Chile. It's not WMS road, since that's between Puerto Williams and the military base. That road, like this road, is gravel. If you really wanted to celebrate something, you'd be taking pictures at the End of Paving, which is a completely uncelebrated, unmarked, and barely noticed transition point some miles outside the park.
So it was back to the stamps. I walked a few miles across the park, on a surprisingly underwhelming and dull trail considering its location, coming out next to a jetty into the Channel. At the end of the jetty was a small shack, the WMS Post Office. And it was locked. Post office closes at 5pm, I'd arrived at 5:15. No stamp for me.
But, I'm a persistant little fuck, and started looking for hinges or busted locks or other ways to covertly burglarize the post office. Except I was hardly covert at all, and the ranger drove up in his massive Land Rover to confront me.
Him: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Looking for a stamp."
Him: "We're closed."
Me: "When did you close?"
Him: "At 5."
Me: "Why?"
Him: "It's Christmas Eve."
Me: "Yes, it's almost Christmas. Did you close it?"
Him: "Yes I... fine, come on."
Mission accomplished. Of course I'd never intended to burglarize a building, especially so blatently. I just wanted him to come over so I could lure him into the Christmas Miracle Trap.
I got my stamp, a giant page-stealing seal of a stamp featuring a family of penguins, despite the lack of actual penguins in Ushuaia or the National Park. In fact, I got an entire page of stamps, the ranger's frustration and generosity mingling to completely horde an entire page of my precariously dwinding passport space. I hope Pete is happy.
But more importantly, I got a beer. People who trek all the way to the WMS post office dont just get free stamps, they get a free beer: Cape Horn Microbrew. A beer you will not find anywhere else on earth. I laid back on the cloudy, freezing beech and drank my prize. Perhaps this I can call mission accomplished.
As it turns out, the last bus was also at 5pm, and I was left stranded in the park. Thankfully though, a pair of Europeans gave me a lift back to town. As I sat in the back seat and quietly stewed in my own arrogent sense of achievement, the pair start comparing birds here to those in Alaska. I stop them; "Wait, you've come all the way from Alaska?" Oh yes, they came all the way down the Panamerica, over to Route 40, and finally to Route 3, to reach the end of the road, having began at the start of it. I had a nice slice of humble pie to go with my WMS beer.
And yet, none of these objective-based material Mission Accomplished matter compared to the real goal gained. While traipising around Tierra del Fuego, I got an email welcoming me, with full scholarship, to postgraduate studies in Australia. I was finally finished chasing, both pointless mission objectives and an uncertain future.
And above the computer terminals in the hostel is a map, an upside down map of the world with Ushuaia at the top. And on this crazy inverted map, a slogan: The End of the World, the Beginning of Everything.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Food List
Just a minor addendum, here's a list of everything I ate in 4 days in Torres del Paine National Park:
- 3 pasta dinners (tomato sause, sausage and mushroom, tuna bolognaise)
- the rest of the box of tuna
- 3 bowls of oatmeal with milk and jam
- 2 italian sausages
- 1 ham and cheese sandwich (cost $11)
- crackers with pork spread
- tube (12-15) of chocolate chip cookies
- tube of shortbread cookies
- tube of coconut cookies
- tube of vienna fingers
- 2 tubes of mediocre Oreo knockoffs
- bag of raisins
- bag of peanuts
- small box of chocolate covered peanuts
- 2 tubes of knockoff Pringles potato chips (lot more than 12-15)
- 4 bananas
- 6 hard boiled eggs
- 14 cereal bars
- 3 large chocolate bars (2 dark, 1 milk)
- an entire pound cake (eaten in under 4 minutes)
- partridge in a pear tree
- 3 pasta dinners (tomato sause, sausage and mushroom, tuna bolognaise)
- the rest of the box of tuna
- 3 bowls of oatmeal with milk and jam
- 2 italian sausages
- 1 ham and cheese sandwich (cost $11)
- crackers with pork spread
- tube (12-15) of chocolate chip cookies
- tube of shortbread cookies
- tube of coconut cookies
- tube of vienna fingers
- 2 tubes of mediocre Oreo knockoffs
- bag of raisins
- bag of peanuts
- small box of chocolate covered peanuts
- 2 tubes of knockoff Pringles potato chips (lot more than 12-15)
- 4 bananas
- 6 hard boiled eggs
- 14 cereal bars
- 3 large chocolate bars (2 dark, 1 milk)
- an entire pound cake (eaten in under 4 minutes)
- partridge in a pear tree
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