Wednesday was the start and end of almost everything that mattered to me right now. The first day of pursuing our visas for Argentina and the United States, allowing us to get home in just over two weeks, and the Europa League final, Sevilla against Benfica, the culmination of many hours of watching in turmoil as, time and again, the Andalucian rojiblancos pull out yet another white rabbit from the hat. From the penalty shootout against Real Betis, watched in Bar Nacional in Santiago as we tried to distract ourselves from our misfortune, to Stephane M'Bia's last touch of the game which silenced the Mestalla in Valencia, it has been a marvellous tournament. At 2.30pm today, both teams proclaiming desperately that they are not the favourites, Benfica will step forth on the pitch at Juventus Stadium for the second consecutive game, hoping to break the curse which has afflicted them since the early 1960's and denied them European success since. Sevilla, languishing at the bottom of the Primera Liga back in August and predicted to be relegated after the firesale of half the squad, sit comfortably in 5th place, focusing on acquiring their third Europa League trophy in 9 years, and their fifth trophy in that same time. With half the team yet again looking like moving on this summer, will they be able to concentrate on the task in hand?
Alright, so for just one day that all mattered to me more than stupid visas or arguing with HM Passport Office or altitude or money or getting home or anything, and as every hour crept past I started to get nervous, that wonderful nervousness that you feel when your team might just actually be capable of doing something so spectacular that it stops you dead in your tracks and you glow, just like they did, for days and weeks to come.
The church on Plaza Murillo
The Memorial To The Unknown Soldier.
Unfortunately for me and my one-track mind, we are not so blessed with time. After our spartan breakfast ("IF YOU WANT EXTRA PORTIONS YOU MUST PAY FOR THEM" says the little sign on our table) we are out and away, mapless, through the streets of downtown La Paz and on the hunt for our first Unknown Known; the Argentine Embassy. Through some strategic planning, all the embassies seemed to be located close to each other, which ought to save us some leather. A half hour walk from the hostel and La Embajada de Argentina is nestled comfortably beside a primary school bearing enormous child-safety murals. "DO NOT TALK TO STRANGERS" one picture explains. Another shows children decline sweets from a different, though equally sinister man. Nothing so backward about these ideas.
The Argentina Embassy, to our delighted surprise, is incredibly helpful. The visa form is ten elementary questions (name, date of birth, etc) and will cost us a meagre US$50. We sigh with evident relief. Our man in the embassy speaks fine English, explains what supporting documentation we need (bank statements, tickets for airlines, confirmation of all our accomodation whilst in Argentina, all that jazz) and then he can phone the Ministry and ask for their authorisation to issue the visa. Its that simple. We promise to return in an hour and, one prolonged stay in an internet cafe later, we have all the documentation we need, except one.
Across the road we indulge in a fine aspect of Bolivian culture; the coffee-and-bun shop. Oh so good. We fill in our forms, collate our supporting documents, and I find myself yet again entertaining a small child outside the window as her mother looks on amused. Latin American children are wonderfully good fun, curious and entertaining, and mostly very well behaved. We get chatting to the mother as we head back to the embassy, it seems that you could perhaps tar all the Andean peoples with the same brush of excellent hospitality and friendliness as we considered Los Peruanos.
Our missing piece of documentation, as you will understand, is our ticket that shows how and when we will arrive in Argentina. This is very important. For ease, most people fly. We, because we are skint, will be taking a godawful 48 hour bus. The difficulty is that we also need a US visa and do not know when we will receive it. Our man in the embassy would also like evidence that I have a little more money to last us in Buenos Aires for the five days we plan to be there. The big wad of pesos I have stashed away is not evidence enough. That's fine, I think, I'm sure I have enough in my Nationwide account (clue: I didn't).
Preliminaries finished, we stride forth to the US Embassy, about ten minutes down the road. This is a much grander affair than the Argentine building, and we are much less likely to actually get in her without a cavity search. Helpful Receptionist gives us a sheet with guidelines on applying for an Non-immigrant Visa and, that in hand, we walk back up the road and try to find a pub to watch the football.
They're all closed.
The IRISH pub is closed. At 2pm!
You see? I couldn't lie about 'A Beer Recommended For Experts', especially at 7%.
The Liverpool pub is closed. Abbey Road is closed. Every single pub or bar we could find is closed. I did not realise that Bolivia had such a responsible attitude to alcohol consumption. Or perhaps these places are all shut because they are only for stupid tourists at night. Either way, I don't care. We have left enough time to take a taxi back to the hostel in the event of not being able to find a venue but, last chance saloon, we step in a rather fancy looking restaurant with a tv and find the pre-match coverage already started.
It's 2.30pm. The Fear Is Here.
Over the next few hours I drink a few tasty beers, eat an average (bad) Club Sandwich, make various 'ooooh!' and 'HIT IT!' noises, and Sarah tries desperately (badly) to not care about the football (football is winning though, and she knows it) whilst filling in her online Non-Immigrant Visa Application Form. It is confusing in places, humourous in others, and easily finished in half an hour or so. Unlike the football, which lasts over 120 minutes and, when penalties arise, I must stand up and fidget until, vindicated, Sevilla secure themselves another trophy and I have a wee bit of a gurn.
Now all I need are some tickets to the UEFA Super Cup in Cardiff in August and I'll be a happy boy indeed. Which is obviously how I spend my time once we return to the hostel, a pleasant early-evening walk back with the commuters of La Paz queueing politely at the roadside as various colectivos pass and pick up. The little streetfood stalls are doing a roaring trade, burgers and chips and hot sauce penetrating my happy nostrals. The communal PC is mine for a while, I upload as many photos are I can possibly justify, search out cheap hostels in Cardiff for 12th August and weary myself with typing. Day One in La Paz has been productive and enthralling. We have many more such days ahead.
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