So far the superiour South American snack to date has been the juicy and flakey saltenas pastries in La Paz. However, Argentina has produced some close competition with its parilla (sizzling hot plate of an assortment of meats, sausages, ribs, chicken, steaks and organs), the lunch menu and dazzling starter buffet at the luminous brick wall bohemian Cafe Clasico y Moderno with its accompanying piano has also been a joy. The multitudes of ice-creams have been sourced and destroyed with consumate skill. At Dylan´s ice-cream parlour we treated ourselved to a 1/4 kilo (the third largest portion available out of nine) vats of creamy dulce-de-leche and patagonico chocolate scoops. Suffice to say that the horror beach body of 2007 is returning.
Same outfit but different helados
Tuesday night brought us to our first tango experience after a day strolling around the NYC SoHo-lite Palermo area, and visiting Eva Peron´s grave at the Recoleta Cemetery. Le Catedral, tucked conspiciously in a darkened corner of Palermo with no neon signs or hints at the activities of the interior, housed what looked like a disused social hall with picture frames of fallen idols (namely that of Carlos Gardel) of the ballroom and a large papier mâché heart by the bar. The only light was emitted by the various candles on the tables and the spotlight on the main wooden floors of the dancing area where lessons in fleet footed assurdness took place in a smokey atmosphere. Matty and I opted not to join in (though if we were to, I would have definitely been the one leading) and instead looked on in sympathy at the rhythmless Westerners with their dragged heels following their graceful partners.
Following a cargo of like minded Japanese and American tourists we visited the historic Cafe Tortoni, which opened its doors in 1873 and seemingly has remained in that glossy evanescent era ever since. Formal waitors with slick side partings and furrowed eye brows ferried us two Submarinos - hot milk with a chocolate bar to dip in.
Some chick in Bueno Aires
Relaxing in the Japanese Gardens
Sinking in a Quilmes at the expat owned and lively pub The Gibraltor, we finally got our calling into the entertainment world after years of promise and heartache. A lady named Ingid, clipboard in hand, spotted the two of us propped up by the bar being ignored in turn by the pretty and slightly gothic waitress and approached us suspiciously. On introducing herself and handing over her business card, she propositioned us to star as models for an international advert promoting Tequila Cueva, which was to be directed by a famous Argentine director at the weekend. Somewhat baffled, we were escorted to the foyer by the lavatories for some headshots and completed details on our vital statistics and acting abilities (we lied). Confoundingly, we got hounded by numerous calls and texts the following day from our agent to confirm our availability but regrettably we were already on route to Puerto Iguassu on the Northern tip of Argentina.
Matty may have taken this picture but we all know he stole the idea from a postcard
Acting like children on the eve of heading over to Disneyland, we were excited to board the 19 hour bus on to our next destination. Like being on a business class international flight our soft cushioned laz-Boy eased us in to watching The Hangover on the private downstairs dvd player as a stewardess of stocky calibre brought us tumblers of Tia Maria on the rocks to send us to sleep to the songs of Marco Antonio Solis, who is fast becoming my favourite sleazy Latina superstar songsmith.
This man is my new hero, and he has a voice of an angel:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5nEwEjqDEQ
I shamefully booked a hostel in the wrong country (who knew that there was a Foz de Iguacu in Brazil as well as in Argentina) and so had to settle for a shabby hostel in Puerto Iguazu on the Argentine side of the falls. Our emergency ponchos were the order of the day on our first day at the falls and they shone under a constant sweeping attack from both rain and the vapours from the numerous waterfalls. We completed, in a haste, both the Inferior and Superior trail circuits and crept up close to the specatular water displays formed by the passing Rio Iguazu passing over a basalt plateau. Most impressive of which, reached after a short Indiana Jones dirt track train ride, was Gargant a del Diablo - Devil´s Throat. Tonnes of surging water plummeting in torrents towards the ground.
Don´t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you´re used to
Another day, another country to explore. This time a twenty minute public bus ride over to Brazil, to the large town of Foz do Iguacu where our initial hostel was provisionally booked. From this side of the national park we encountered a more scenic and wide lensed vista of the site. The park had more of a Jurassic Park feel to the tour with its tropical pine-green bus and rampant racoons darting into the bins and jumping on Matty as condors circled the air with intent. For this occasion we decided to entertain the drones of tourists on a clear day with our enchanting version of TLC´s classic, Waterfalls, to befit the stage.
Buenos Aires Song of the Day: Maria Mendez Grever - What A Difference A Day Makes
From the grande piano of the irresistable Clasica Y Moderna Cafe and Restaurant in central Buenos Aires. It took us a while to realise what the motif was and on realising it we dropped our forks and listened on in appreciation.
Here is the hobbit-like Jamie Cullum´s version on Jools Holland which is excellent
i-Pod Song of the Day: Johnny Cash - Hurt
The video to this is brilliant. Johnny Cash in his final and poignant ode to the world, wife June Carter alongside him, sings over a narration of his life in black and white. His regrets passing by in scenes from his illustrious past. The Nine Inch Nails original pales in comparison, which is rare. Johnny Cash was apparently a troubled Christian which may be why he wished to bind his life in such a way to preserve it prior to his death.
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