Caminito, Buenos Aires

Chapter 31:  Back in Buenos Aires

Tuesday, September 21

I was back to where it had all started.  My South American odyssey was coming to an end.  After so many bus journeys, covering thousands of miles, I was on my last one.  It was a relief in some ways, but it remained so wonderful to see the land.  The sun rose over the flat lands as a subdued, half full bus slowly woke up to a light breakfast.  Late in the morning we crossed a large bridge over some wide plains surrounding the Rio de la Plata.

An increasingly industrial landscape emerged as we reached the north western suburbs of Buenos Aires.  Domestic flights were landing and taking off as we skirted the Aeroparque Jorge Newbury.  We then turned back away from the docks and into the depths of Retiro’s huge terminal.  Almost eight months after my departure from Retiro I felt strangely familiar with its atmospheric hustle and bustle.  I retrieved my belongings and found the taxi desk where a young woman hailed a driver to take me into town.  We sped through the busy streets to San Telmo.  There were tints of greenery and light blossom underneath a leaden sky.  It was early spring in the southern hemisphere.

We arrived at the HI San Telmo.  I was soon in bed, and I slept until the evening.  The old building was quiet.  There were other people still asleep in the dormitory.  It was a mixed room.  A couple of young women from the United States resurfaced during the evening.  There were flashy shopping bags all over the floor.  They contained boxes of new jackets, dresses, and shoes.  Retail prices were still quite favourable in Argentina and Buenos Aires was a great place for buying good value clothes.  This supplemented the city’s all-night party reputation.  Indeed, there was quite a young crowd of shoppers and party people in the hostel.  The American girls in the dormitory were confident, chatty, and quite pleasurable company.  They were ready for another night out on the town but also ready packed for a morning departure to Mendoza.  Having just begun their South American journeys, they were happily considering their next plans.

I felt quite unaligned to the prevailing atmosphere.  I felt terribly tired.  Now was the time to relax.  The priority had been a return to Buenos Aires for my flight back home.  I’d made it.  With a good week left I now had time to really appreciate one of the world’s finest cities.  How different would the experience be to when I was last in town back in February?  What new delights would I discover?

Wednesday, September 22

There was a proper spring freshness to the day.  Light blue skies and white clouds mingled in with the good airs of Buenos Aires.  The streets were clogged with traffic though.  I ventured out and made my way to the Iberia Airways offices on Avenida Corrientes, near to the Obelisco landmark.  A stern-looking gentlemen assured me that all I needed to do was present myself at the airport two hours before take-off.  It seemed sensible to check though, I said in broken Spanish, because it was six months since I’d changed the flight booking.  The man smiled and agreed before printing out an e-ticket for me.

On the pedestrianised Avenida Florida I spent some time browsing in a bookstore.  The John Lennon Diaries caught my attention.  It was almost 30 years since the Beatle had been so cruelly gunned down in New York.  I called in at another HI-affiliated place, the Hostel Suites-Florida.  It was a big but centrally located place.  Many of the rooms were being vacated and cleaned.  Instead, I looked at some pictures the receptionist showed me and agreed to reserve a four-night stay.  I then returned to the San Telmo Hostel and slept for the rest of the afternoon.

I woke up, showered, and briefly ventured out just as the city workers were making their way home.  There were many invigorated looking people, probably appreciating the lengthening hours of daylight.  I read some more Dickens during the evening.  Reading English and hearing Spanish continued to be a big theme in my South American experience.

Thursday, September 23                                                                                        

I sat with Chris from Los Angeles for breakfast.  Chris had lived in Hawaii for nearly five years working on fishing tours.  It was fascinating hearing about his adventures.  Hawaii sounded so interesting.

It was a sunnier day in Buenos Aires.  The temperature hovered in the high teens, and it felt so fresh.  I was moving on to Hostel Suites-Florida, crossing Avenida Belgrano and turning left at Peru which merged into the pedestrianised Florida.  My rucksack was hanging by a thread.  Hostel Suites had more than 300 beds inside a 10-storey block.  There were lots of facilities.  It all cost 50 Pesos a night (40 with my YHA card).  I was the sole occupier in my dormitory to begin with.  I settled in and opened the window.  There was a bird’s eye view of the bustling activity down below on Florida.  A classical guitarist’s tunes filtered up into the air.  It was so atmospheric.

I found a decent restaurant in the business district around San Martin.  It offered set lunches.  The friendly waitress directed me to a corner table.  She cheerfully introduced herself as Paula Iglesias and told me to take my time.  The place was busy catering for working lunches.  Paula soon came back to my table.  She recommended a tasty meat dish with fried vegetables and fries.  It tasted good, so wholesome and filling.  I laughed as Paula returned to ask if I had room for a dessert.  I agreed and she brought me stewed apple with ice cream.  As the other mid-afternoon diners departed Paula came to sit down with me.  We chatted away for a good while.  Paula spoke rapidly in a very sweet and melodic voice.  She had just finished her studies and was hoping to travel.  Portenos (Buenos Aires folk) are renowned for being bright, alert and quite curious.  Here was a fine example!

I later tried to change all my surplus notes and coins in an exchange bureau back on Florida.  They accepted my Peruvian and Brazilian notes but not the rest.  I wandered down Avenida Corrientes to see some more city life.  The waxing moon was rising above the iconic obelisk.  All the supermarkets were closing by 9.  The Cartoneros (waste pickers) reappeared for their nightly rummaging and recycling among the street garbage.  It was an interesting sight, perhaps a bit disconcerting.  This evidence of extreme poverty reminded me I was still in a South American, and not a Western European city.  There were thousands of Cartoneros doing this work for a meagre living.  Like the can collecting on the beaches of Rio, there was an incentive to recycle in Buenos Aires.  However, the Cartoneros had to brave all weathers and some indifferent attitudes.

Before bedtime I emailed Cecilia, who I’d met in El Chalten back in February.  I was asleep by midnight but suddenly awoke in the early hours.  Two young men came crashing into the dormitory.  One of them was a Brazilian lad I’d briefly chatted with earlier in the evening.  He was now in a drunken, legless state and threw up in the bathroom.  His companion then put him to bed.  He kept making vomiting noises though, so I got up, put the light back on and stayed awake to make sure he was okay.

Friday, September 24

I slept in and missed breakfast.  However, I explained about the night disturbance in the dormitory.  The receptionist apologised, then rushed into the kitchen and brought out a full breakfast.  I apologised for sounding grumpy and asked who the lads staying in my room were.  The receptionist just giggled.  Her response made me laugh.  I ate my breakfast sitting near to a young woman with a London accent.  She was on her computer, having a Skype conversation with her mother by the sounds of it.  The next thing she began screaming and shouting at her mother for apparently not paying attention to what she was explaining.  It sounded quite strange, but possibly she was feeling tired.  The Skype call ended with her hoping to get through the night without talking to anyone!

My roommates had already vacated the dormitory.  I went out despite feeling quite drained.  Perhaps everything was catching up with me.  After covering so many miles in such a small amount of time since Venezuela, was I seizing up? A bit of stimulation was necessary to keep me going over the next few days.  Nightclubs didn’t interest me, but a tango show, live folk music and barhopping were far more appealing.  Even a few more book shops wouldn’t go amiss or some modest retail therapy!

Sat at a cafe window table I viewed the street life while tucking into a light lunch.  I later spotted some trendy Topper trainers in a Dexter sports shop on Florida.  What I really wanted though was a far more authentic experience to mark my final week in South America.  Checking my Lonely Planet, I picked out Portal del Sur on Hipolito Yrigoyen.  I called there during a late afternoon walk.  The place immediately attracted me.  It certainly matched its high recommendation and description in the guidebook.  There was an old-world charm that represented a Buenos Aires of the imagination.  I reserved my final three nights there and made my way back through the crowds of harried looking people.  I handed in a bag of dirty laundry, checked my emails, and then went back to bed.

Saturday, September 25                                                                                    

The breakfasts at Hostel Suites were excellent.  They were served in the large dining area on the ground floor.  I helped myself to coffee, fresh orange juice, yogurt and cornflakes, a banana and some bread and jam.  It really was a great start to the day.  The Saturday morning sounds of Avenida Florida became distorted by workmen drilling a 50-metre strip of the street, so I wandered over to the Defensa district.

It was a quite different Defensa to the rain soaked place I’d visited in February.  A small restaurant was just opening for the day.  I took a pavement table.  In a Parisian like setting, the strong spring sunshine shone so brightly.  Some of the arriving customers wandered inside and into the shade.  Dapper looking gentlemen with morning newspapers and young parents with exuberant children remained outside with me.  We all sat beneath our cool canopies and inspected the menus.

My substantial fish lunch on top of a fine breakfast provided a perfect energy boost.  I later walked down through the quieter weekend streets to look around Puerto Madero, a new docklands development strip.  My feet felt far more comfortable in my new, blue Toppers.

Lots of pretty Portenos strolled happily along the pleasant sun-drenched walkways.  Young roller bladers glided through the gaps, laughing aloud with their companions.  It was a nice part of town.  There were lots of plush looking, high-rise apartments skirting the green and pleasant space.  I later made my way back through the deeply shaded streets of the empty business district to Plaza de Mayo.

I sat on a bench admiring the central location.  Then I entered the Casa Rosada presidential palace.  There were large crowds.  Guided tours were all taken for.  To Avenida Florida I returned.  The evening traders were assembling their colourful wares all along the street’s incredibly clean surface.  There were three new lads in the dormitory.  One was a friendly Australian windsurfer called Ben.  The other two were rather shifty characters from Russia.  They were sociable enough but seemed incredibly restless.

Sunday, September 26

Hostel Suites was very clean.  However, its large size created an impersonal atmosphere.  So, I returned to Portal del Sur later in the morning.  I changed my reservation to five nights, four in a dormitory and my final one in a single room.

The Plaza de Mayo looked particularly picturesque on a day of little traffic in central Buenos Aires.  I joined a guided tour of the Casa Rosada, a quite resplendent place.  Afterwards, I returned to Defensa.  It was a balmy day.  The famous Sunday market was full of craft and food stalls and there was a festive sound of live musicians.  There were guitar bands, melancholic elderly, social stalwarts, and a reflective looking harp player.

Further along I took a left onto Estados Unidos and came to the Walrus Bookstore on the corner with Avenida Peru.  There were lots of English literature classics.  I was looking for something by the Argentine literary legend Jorge Luis Borges though but couldn’t find anything.  I then checked out the nearby English-looking Gibraltar Pub.  In its traditionally darkened interior, I settled for lunch.  In keeping with the surroundings, I chose fish and chips and a pint of lager!  A massive plateful was served, which I had no hope of finishing.

I read a copy of the local English-language paper The Buenos Aires Herald.  Then I got talking to an American guy called Ray.  He was sitting opposite me with his Argentine friend Andreas.  Ray was a rich man.  He had toured the region for four years, not going further beyond Mar del Plata.  They both seemed to like the finer things in life and shared grimacing expressions with each other when I described my dormitory experiences!

The barman bagged my leftover food, and I left soon after.  I handed the surplus grub to a couple of old characters who were tearing apart cardboard boxes on a nearby street corner.  I ventured down to the ecological reserve.  It was situated in a reclaimed area of land between Buenos Aires and the open sea.  There were hundreds of families enjoying the last few hours of a sunny afternoon.  I didn’t stray too far off the path and turned back to pass by a busy street fair.

Lots of people were giving me funny looks.  All my t-shirts were in the wash, so what was I wearing?  Yes, my Brazil/Pele t-shirt!  Most people seemed amused that someone would be brave, or stupid enough to stroll the streets of Argentina’s capital dressed in a Brazil football shirt.  I didn’t think too much about it.  Perhaps I should have?  When a carload of young men briefly slowed down, one of them wound down a window.  He shoved two fingers up at me and shouted some expletives.  Nothing else thankfully happened but I thought it best to quickly head back through the more civilised Puerto Madero.  I became momentarily wary, reflecting that this wasn’t my brightest idea of dress wear!

Monday, September 27

I now wanted to be somewhere that brought this adventure to a grand close.  After collecting my laundry, I emptied my tattered rucksack and put everything inside my backpack.  I shoved my passport and wallet into my zipped fleece pocket, checked out, and made my way to Hipolito Yrigoyen.  I soon warmed to the 19^th Century interior surroundings of Portal del Sur.  The old-fashioned lift and dark furnishings were stylish.  There were lots of large potted plants and a natural light from the glass domed ceiling above the elegant landing.

A nearby Irish bar called The Old Clover tempted me in for its set lunch.  I was in no rush and the weather outside wasn’t that tempting neither.  However, the darkening clouds and spots of rain reminded me that I needed a new camera case.  I ventured out and eventually found a decent waterproof Asa case for just 59 Pesos.  After a glorious time checking out the sumptuous shopping delights of Galeria Pacifico, I visited an old haunt of Jorge Luis Borges.

The Richmond Cafe on Avenida Florida was where many a literary gathering had assembled in days gone by.  I admired its rich interior and the equally wealthy looking guests sat around the little tables.  Quiet conversations filtered through the place.  I ordered tea and cake and relaxed for an hour or so.

A tango dance display on Florida convinced me to try out the evening’s free lesson in Portal del Sur.  When I arrived at the bar, I introduced myself to the instructors Luciana and Gabriado.  A young woman from Brazil called Vanessa joined me in the first attempt.  Then we swapped partners.  Luciana urged me to take command as she guided me to a point.  In just one hour I learnt about balance, leaving the weight on one leg, having a firm grip, taking command, following through, facing up to my partner and feeling her move.  It was all quite sensual!  I progressed to an eight-step movement before the hour was up.  With stops in between, I stepped back, left, straight, straight again, right and eight for straight.  We all stopped.  I relaxed but my hands were sweating.  I caught Vanessa’s expression.  We both chuckled.  What a pleasant introduction!  We agreed to meet up by the bar again later.

Back in the four-bed dormitory I got talking to a French chef from Lyon called Christophe, and Ahmed from India.  I already felt far more comfortable in this tranquil hostel.  I later re-joined Vanessa.  Then Laura from Switzerland and Priscilla from Belo Horizonte came to sit with us as did Christophe.  We enjoyed a lovely time.  There was drink, good conversation and a few cigarettes, while Osvaldo the tall barman selected some cool pop tunes.

Tuesday, September 28

Deep sounds and thoughts dominated the day.  The dark clouds, wind and heavy rain became the backdrop.  I gave up on resting while Ahmed gave out a terribly odd snoring sound.  When I tried to replicate the sound later, Christophe started laughing.  He wondered if Ahmed had female company in the room!  I didn’t think so, but I definitely considered buying some ear plugs.

A lady from Vancouver called Katy joined me for breakfast.  Katy retained her lovely Leicestershire accent despite having left England for Canada nearly 30 years ago.  I asked about Vancouver because I have four third cousins living out there.  Katy described it as a rather boring place where people tended to keep themselves to themselves in the suburb where she lived.  She had a lovely, dreamy sort of voice.

At the breakfast table I also got talking to two Australian ladies, experienced teachers from Sydney.  One of them was called Jane.  She was born and raised for the first four years of her life in Liverpool.  She recognised a familiar Northeast Wales twang in my voice.  Her and her friend were both keen bush walkers.  They were looking forward to some trekking adventures in Patagonia.

The rain became heavier, but I needed to get out and about.  I was thinking of home and especially of Mam.  I rang her up to see how she was.  It was 21 years to the day since Dad died, on the 28^th September.  1989 had been a very challenging year at the end of a testing decade for our family.  We all remained close though.  Despite the present distance I assured Mam that she was in my thoughts all day.  Mam said she was fine.  She was preparing to go to Ruthin on the bus for her Tuesday afternoon shopping at the Coop Store.  The cats were also good and enjoying a settled spell of weather.  I was starting to think a lot more about home.  There were still plenty of good days left to spend in Buenos Aires though.

On Reconquista I popped into Aznares Glaria y Otras for lunch.  There were many businesspeople in deep discussions and reading the day’s broadsheets.  I opted for one of the set meals, a tasty mini steak and chips (bife de chorizo).  I selected a small fruit salad for dessert.  I later remembered to buy some ear plugs and returned to Portal del Sur to sleep through the afternoon.

A new arrival, Daniel, from California’s Silicon Valley, was in the dormitory.  I invited him to join me upstairs in the hostel bar.  Vanessa came up to the bar early on but seemed rather subdued.  She had stomach pains, so we decided on just a short stay there with Laura and Priscilla.  They were due to return to Belo Horizonte the following day.  Laura had packed in her job as a flight attendant to join her Brazilian boyfriend on a full-time basis.  She was very excited about life.

Wednesday, September 29

I wandered alone onto the melancholic streets.  Most of the people wore sad, frowning expressions.  They reflected the cloud and continual drizzle.  The mood really sank when the cloud descended over Buenos.  I checked out some clothes shops on Florida.  All the jeans, in places like the Wranglers Store, were cut to the same length, two leg sizes too high for me.  I realised how much weight I’d lost.  My waist size had shrunk from 33 to 30.

After lunch I spent an hour in an internet cafe on Maipu before returning to the hostel.  Ambulances blasted through the streets with their sirens blaring.  The noise echoed everywhere.  It was a terrifically alarming sound.  I played my guitar in the empty hostel bar, still following John Rogers’ invaluable tuition notes while continuing to develop my own sound.  One of the receptionists also played.  He said his band and friends were performing at the hostel on Friday night.

I telephoned Cecilia after receiving an email from her.  We agreed to meet up on Thursday evening.  She sounded very busy and was just finishing another hectic nursing shift in a Buenos Aires hospital.  I also phoned Mam from the dormitory.  This was another personal touch in such a pleasant hostel.  We had a nice little chat.  I was telling her how the weather resembled home!  She laughed and said the weather was still fair up there in North Wales.

Christophe was leaving to go back to his job in Mendoza.  He was a lovely, down to earth character.  He’d lived in England for three years and worked on cruise ships.  His life in the kitchen could be a mad one.  He pondered whether, in fact, life was just that.  He finally concluded that it was rather good to be a bit mad!  If there was anything I really loved about the French, it was their philosophy.  From Jean Paul Sartre to Eric Cantona, they were a bunch of geniuses!

I met up with Vanessa during the evening.  We took a taxi to Defensa but soon realised the tango shows were geared up for wealthy tourists.  The meal and show packages were so expensive.  Nevertheless, we persevered.  After Vanessa asked a few passers-by and doormen about places to go, we found a lovely street corner cafe bar.  Two tango dancers were finishing off their moves before a live music show began.  We went halves on a small bottle of wine to go with our table nibbles and enjoyed a lovely two hours talking and listening to the samba style band.

I suddenly realised my colourful wrist band from Rocinha in Rio had disappeared.  I muttered the fact to Vanessa, and I just sighed in light resignation.  The company was too good to allow something like a lost wrist band to spoil matters.  We admired the interior design.  The artwork, featuring lots of Salvador Dali prints, was fascinating.  Vanessa particularly liked a large, framed poster of a naked Madonna, from the Sex (book), which I remembered seeing many years ago in college.

Vanessa was from Sao Paulo.  She was quietly confidence with a strong sense of perception and an understated nature of an almost English type.  She liked British indie-pop and counted Belle and Sebastian as a favourite.  In fact, she was going to see them in October when their South American tour reached Brazil.  After paying up and just before leaving our table, Vanessa knelt down to retrieve my lost wristband.  My face lit up and she laughed.  We returned to the hostel and agreed to go on a city bus tour the following day.  It was so lovely to have company before going home.

Thursday, September 30

I rang Cecilia to confirm a get-together in the evening.  Then I joined up with Vanessa for breakfast followed by a bus tour of Buenos Aires.  Rather than a languid way of seeing the city, as the Lonely Planet described, this particular bus tour was open to a variety of ways and means.  The yellow double-decker bus arrived at the designated spot near the Catedral Metro.  We took our top deck seats.

The rain of the last two days left a chilly air.  It became quite cold as the bus motored along.  The tour took us through the central streets.  We admired the landmark buildings along Avenida de Mayo and the rest of central Buenos Aires before taking a roundabout route to La Boca.  We passed the Boca Juniors Stadium and its yellow painted brick exterior.  Then we arrived at Caminito.  It was a short pedestrian walk lined with corrugated metal buildings of so many different colours.  There were artists everywhere representing the vibrant life of the neighbourhood.  There were also many gift shops, stalls, and a tango dancing demonstration.

The increasing warmth of the sun enhanced the sightseeing experience.  The good thing about this bus tour was the chance to jump off and hop back on whenever or wherever it suited us.  We caught a different bus which took us along Puerto Madero, past the business district and its shiny corporation occupied towers and up to trendy Palermo.

Vanessa’s English was very good, after studying it in college back in 2003 and 2004.  She explained her work as a geologist.  The light waft of tree pollen was beginning to make me sneeze in Palermo.  We hopped off again in Recoleta and found a restaurant where we shared pizza.  We were just a couple of blocks away from the Cementario de La Recoleta.  The walled cemetery was a tranquil setting in the middle of the bustling town.  A Brazilian stopped and questioned all the effort to build such huge monuments to the dead.  However, I viewed it a lot like I did eight months ago.  It seemed to be about something that lasted, an eternal gesture of love.

Visitors were just in awe and marvelled in loud recognition.  Vanessa took it all in her stride with a big happy smile and an expression of acknowledgement.  We caught the final bus back to Catedral and shared some Havana chocolate.  Then I showed Vanessa some decent places to eat on San Martin and Reconquista.  She just couldn’t take another empanada though!  I empathised.

Back in the hostel, a couple of artists were hosting a mini exhibition in the reception area.  A guitar was being played.  One of the Australian teachers called over to me.  She asked whether I’d heard about the chaos in Quito, Ecuador where the police had apparently attacked the president.  I went to an internet cafe to find out more.  It sounded quite serious and an ongoing situation.  I returned and bought a little water colour painting from the artists’ collection.  Then I was invited to bring my guitar out to play one of my songs.  The small audience clapped and cheered.  There was a big smile on my face.

Cecilia soon arrived.  We waited in her car for Vanessa.  It was so good to see Cecilia again after eight months.  She had striking features.  Her father was Japanese and her mother Argentine.  Despite being very busy with her nursing work and two other part-time jobs, she had carefully selected a couple of tango shows we could check out.  One of the venues was closed and the other had a comedy night on instead.  Cecilia drove us around the Defensa district, but we couldn’t find anywhere else.  However, we were rewarded with some excellent night-time sights including the well-lit Casa Rosada’s pink exterior.

We finally called in at the Cafe Tortoni for a midnight meal.  The tango show was just finishing.  We relaxed and caught up on happenings.  Cecilia and Vanessa talked English to each other.  It was fascinating listening to their conversation.  They were complete strangers, but the social art of their talk was so natural.  Cecilia turned to me and smiled so kindly.  She asked was South America what had I expected.  I replied that it was, and that so many good experiences surpassed my expectations.  I then said I felt secure and happy about returning home to a creative and productive life.  Cecilia then paused for thought and said something so sweet.  She added that she was so happy I’d found direction again, and remarked to Vanessa on how I seemed rather a lost soul when we first met in El Chalten.

Cecilia later dropped us off at the hostel.  Vanessa felt tired and went to bed.  I stayed up and climbed the stairs to the balcony bar.  I remained alone as the surrounding city lights glimmered and the night sky glowed.  I drank another glass of red wine and listened to the Buenos Aires street sounds before going back down to my dormitory bed.

Friday, October 1

Over breakfast, I talked to an experienced cyclist called Gaye from Victoria, Australia.  She was waiting for her husband to arrive on Saturday.  Then they were setting off on a three-month road trip through southern Argentina and Chile.  Gaye’s stories were inspirational.  She recounted cycling adventures across central Asia to Iran, India, South Asia and Australia.  It sounded like so much freedom and adventure.

It was a blissful day with Vanessa.  We spent most of the morning at the Buenos Aires Zoo.  Neither of us seemed keen on zoos but it seemed a tranquil place to be.  There were mad looking rabbits, as Vanessa described them, hippos, deer, rhinos, lions and cheetahs.  I enjoyed the butterfly and spider displays and the shy parrots!

We went to a bar near to the hostel for lunch and we talked about relationships.  We were both out of them.  Vanessa had been close to a German guy she’d met a few months ago.  I drew back.  Then I just came out with an introspective line about feeling disconnected and rather cool on matters of love but that I so wanted it to be different.  She replied that it would be.  We both smiled and left it there.

We intended to return to Caminito to buy some gifts, but it was late afternoon and we’d already been there anyway.  So, we strolled among the happy Friday crowds on Avenida Florida.  Vanessa bought another coat to add to her light brown leather jacket she’d purchased a few days ago.  She reckoned the prices were half what they were in Brazil.  She loved her silk and lace neck scarves.  We picked out a couple of nice ones.  Vanessa then helped me to choose some gifts for my family and friends.  She also singled out an inspired one.  It was a book containing the film stills of Diego Maradona’s remarkable second goal against England in the 1986 World Cup!  I bought two, one each for my South Wales friends Paul Griffiths and Neil Jones.  The shopkeeper looked rather puzzled about why an Englishman would want such a thing before Vanessa told her I was Welsh.

On our way back to the hostel we stopped to enjoy a tango street show.  It was such a spectacle.  We loved it and a nearby rock show.  A live band played the Pink Floyd classics Comfortably Numb and Wish You Were Here.  Back in the hostel, the receptionist Mercedes sorted out the bill for my five days stay.  The place was affiliated to Hostelling International, so I was entitled to a discount with my YHA card.  I rested up well into the evening.

Just before 10 Vanessa knocked on my door.  I followed her up to the top balcony bar for an asado (barbecue).  We joined the talkative Oscardo from Northern Argentina and the increasingly drunk Micky from Fortaleza in the north of Brazil.  It was a fantastic feast and we knocked back six bottles of red wine between us.  Vanessa came to sit beside me.  We really enjoyed the house jazz band.  They came on just before midnight and entertained us all with classics like Take Five.  It was another gorgeous night.

Saturday, October 2

A happy, friendly time with Vanessa inspired the makings of another song.  More importantly, it would remind me how I was going to miss my South American experiences, the people I’d met, the ways of life.  Anyway, at a particular moment during Friday, I tried a line of Portuguese.  We were walking along Avenida Florida.  It was a clumsy attempt which prompted fits of laughter.  I said Yo Quero Voces (I Want You), but the moment was soon lost as we carried on walking and laughing.  However, moments later as we stood browsing in a quiet corner of a shop, Vanessa remarked how cold her little feet were.  She then asked me to feel how cold they were.  Yes, they were quite cold…….so, I’m in a spot cos I like this girl, Wanna take her with me ‘round the world.  Gonna make her mine if I take my time, I just might if I treat her right.  Find a proper place where we can stay, call her up, right away…..Yo quero Voces.  The song uses three block chord plucks on A, D and E7, finishing with Yo quero Voces on an A7.  There are almost two different rhythms and melody, with hints of a Dick Dale surf song and the old hit Working in the Coal Mine.  My song writing often germinated when words and good spirits came together.

I was on my way home.  The journey had restored my sense of fun, while realising the opportunities out there.  I felt I’d overcome a long history of low self-esteem.  It was a reawakening, a rebirth.  During breakfast, some of the guests spotted the window cleaners abseiling down the sides of a nearby skyscraper.  Well, there were many opportunities out there!  I felt a heavy heart to be going home though.  It was a clear, sunny morning.  The shuttle bus took a full load of tourists and travellers to Ezeiza International Airport to the south of Buenos Aires.  Along the way I spoke to Juri from Prague.  He was returning from a two week break in the ski resorts above Mendoza.  It was time to get back to work, he jokingly remarked.

At the airport my backpack was securely taped up.  Then there was a long wait at the check-in desk for the 6842 Iberia flight to Madrid.  The queue didn’t move that much.  Time was running out to the final boarding call, but the news came through that the flight had been cancelled.  When my turn came to check in, the desk clerk explained that the aeroplane had a mechanical problem.  She kindly rearranged a seat for me on the 9.35pm 6844 flight, 10 hours later.  I was given a free lunch ticket and spent the rest of the day in the airport.  It was a bit of a come down after the previous week I’d had.

There seemed little else to do in the terminal apart from spells on the internet.  The check-in lady said I’d be entitled to a refund of some of the cost but indicated little else.  I wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere though, unlike some others who became quite restless and agitated when told their flight was cancelled.  I saw one old lady almost leap onto the desk.  She started shouting at a check-in clerk who told her to wait her turn at the back of the queue.

It was another beautiful day but there was no outdoor space to sit down.  I checked my emails again, read for a few hours and rested in the departure lounge.  The calls to board went in stages.  We experienced a smooth take-off into the clear night sky and rose to a steadying height when dinner was served.  I picked an International Herald Tribune to read, watched a bit of a film and snoozed for about six hours.  A wake-up call announced it was breakfast time.  I stood up briefly to stretch my legs and contemplate the day coming.

Sunday, October 3                                                                                             

Time moved forward to 2.30 in the afternoon when our plane landed smoothly in Madrid.  There was the usual applause.  After passport control, I joined the other tired looking passengers for a tube train transfer to the Sunday quiet of Terminal Four.  I was back in Europe.  There were lots more English folks about when I reached the H18 departure gate for the flight back to Heathrow, London.

A backlog of flights resulted in our plane circling over London for an extra 30 minutes before the call came for the pilot to make the descent.  It looked a wet and windswept scene on the ground from recent rainstorms.  I collected my backpack and got through customs and passport control without any hassle.

I withdrew some cash and rang Paul.  He was waiting with Neil in a bar in Victoria Station, so I took the tube.  Half an hour later I was wandering around Victoria where I soon spotted Neil and Paul up in the station’s bar.  We gathered ourselves together.  Then we crossed the street for a couple of pints at The Prince of Wales.  In a few days I would be back home in Glyndwr country!