Monday. The first day of the week (depending on your calendar). I feel I may have neglected to point out that in South America there are stray dogs everywhere. All different breeds, shapes and sizes, of mostly docile temperament, though sometimes of a grumpy nature. Walk down a street or sit outside a restaurant and you will inevitably be joined by one, probably looking fed, but more often just a mangey, scabby, flea-ridden mess. In Fray Bentos I watched a gang of dogs, twelve strong, led by a scrawny looking medium-sized gurney barkey type wander down the streets in search of some excitement. It was like The Wild One for canines.
One last day in Mar Del Plata. Out to the supermarket for Daniel to collect some supplies, breakfast being crap and all gone anyway. It is funny to go into a corner store in Argentina and find a Chinese couple running it, no less when they have thick Argentine accents. The chap at the counter bawls out the enormous bear-dog that follows me in. Small toasts and marmalade for me for the first meal of the day, Sarah is getting broken baguette and cream cheese. We shall invent coffee somehow. Fruit is cheap and green and orange oranges are the Vitamin C I need, plus bananas and peaches. I have purchased a big bag of Holly Kraps. Honestly, I've no idea what could be in this bag.
The Antares is open now, and we take a comfy seat by the window. This is the menu:
What could we do but work out way throughout it? Perhaps we also ought to have a big conversation about religion whilst we’re at it. Maybe eat some chips with the worst Marie Rose sauce ever? It takes about 2 minutes before we have a big table of baby-boomer Americans beside us, and they are poor at disguising their interest in my (Northern) Ireland shirt. They are also poor at disguising their inability to drink, as the blaze through a couple of halfs. Mentalists. The women are all drinking wine or daiquiris. The place is rammed within an hour, and we have good seats. Outside we watch two girls who may be sisters get narky with a boy in their company who couldn’t be more than 19. He is utterly bungalowed and when his mates eventually leave the bar to take him home they do not look happy about it. That time in my life seems a million years ago, even though I am still friends with Lovejoy. Ha Ha Ha.
I attempt to teach Sarah the words to "Tony Kane Is Magic", a song that quiet singing cannot do justice to, and I explain why, in no uncertain terms, Niall McGinn's ability to play on the left and on the right makes Ronaldo look shite. I'm just saying. There are photos of this. We also, I am sure I should not mention, worked on track titles for the forth-coming HARD MAN album, entitled "VULGAR". At some points we quite literally cried from disgust.
Eventually we have drunk all the beer on the menu, and it seems like Sarah’s love of IPAs has been the most fortuitous, as it is the most interesting beer here. The bill is less than £20 each, and we have change for a taxi home. There, we sit in the back garden and fall into conversation with the other folk staying in the hostel. We swap information about our respective countries, although I learn more about Argentina than they of Norn Iron, and we are all amused about the perception that Latin American countries are all matey. They are more flattered by my comparison between them (Argentines) and the Italians and Germans, which gives me an insight. I am still unhappy as to why the pasta here is crap, although one of our companions does explain to me that Patatas Bravas, which I was led to believe was an Argentine speciality, can easily be found in French restaurants. Typical. 3am rolls round and we call it a night. I am concerned that Sarah might be a little hungover tomorrow morning. I am less concerned about myself.
At some point we gather ourselves together and Sarah points out a museum with the biggest seashells in South America that we should visit. “Let’s walk” is the insane suggestion. At least we know what direction to walk in today. That we are 20 blocks from the museum, nearly 30 from the coast, ought to have warned us. Common sense be damned, we stride forth, and cover the 4km posthaste. A savage car / bike accident has taken place, closing off the hill at the end of Avenida Colon that leads to the sea, so we are able to take some good photos.
I tried to take one photo of one street that would save me having to take any more photos the whole rest of the day. This is that photo. Almost all of Mar Del Plata looks like this, to various degrees of 'cute little house'-ness.
The hill at the top of Avenida Colón that leads to the sea. Its a little more dramatic than this photos might suggest.
Mar Del Plata's Museum of Modern Art. We intended to go here too, however it was only open between 5pm-8pm in the evenings, and by then we had better things to do, like save the world from excess alcohol.
The attractive Museu Del Mar.
Looking back down Avenida Colón. It is not normally this easy to take this sort of picture.
Like so many things in South America, it seems the info on the ‘net is a bit woefully out of date. The Museo Del Mar is shut, and looks like it has been abandoned for a dozen years. We find some other big buildings, unidentifiable, and we are reminded yet again of the limitations of travel books and the internet when your sources are three or four years out of date, and you cannot adequately communicate with the locals. “WHY IS THIS SHUT, GODDAMNIT?” is what we want to ask. There is no one to ask.
This looks like a painting. Even in real life it looks like a painting. But it was very real.
Wander down to the costanera and find the crappy area we wandered around the day before. Encounter a few mediocre street musicians and a woman belting out songs whilst dressed like a mum. A bit weird. There is a skate park full of one-trick children, and plenty of families filling the pavements. Graffiti is everywhere, but not in a good way. I have been determined to find a McDonalds and enjoy a massively underpriced Big Mac, but Sarah is steadfast in her resistance, given that she knows we will be hungry a full 60 minutes later. Stop at a crap corner cafe and have lunch there instead. Watch sweaty people wander about and fail to enjoy a view of the Atlantic Ocean. Eventually wander north and east, arriving at the Antares Brewpub moments before it opened. Sarah is mortified by the idea of standing outside a pub waiting for it to open, so we walk round the block and find another brewpub, this time a German one decorated in shamrocks. This country is a joke.
What could we do but work out way throughout it? Perhaps we also ought to have a big conversation about religion whilst we’re at it. Maybe eat some chips with the worst Marie Rose sauce ever? It takes about 2 minutes before we have a big table of baby-boomer Americans beside us, and they are poor at disguising their interest in my (Northern) Ireland shirt. They are also poor at disguising their inability to drink, as the blaze through a couple of halfs. Mentalists. The women are all drinking wine or daiquiris. The place is rammed within an hour, and we have good seats. Outside we watch two girls who may be sisters get narky with a boy in their company who couldn’t be more than 19. He is utterly bungalowed and when his mates eventually leave the bar to take him home they do not look happy about it. That time in my life seems a million years ago, even though I am still friends with Lovejoy. Ha Ha Ha.
I attempt to teach Sarah the words to "Tony Kane Is Magic", a song that quiet singing cannot do justice to, and I explain why, in no uncertain terms, Niall McGinn's ability to play on the left and on the right makes Ronaldo look shite. I'm just saying. There are photos of this. We also, I am sure I should not mention, worked on track titles for the forth-coming HARD MAN album, entitled "VULGAR". At some points we quite literally cried from disgust.
Our very very dead exciting patatas fritas. This orange muck is half-mayo, half ketchup, with a hefty teaspoon of white ground pepper thrown in. The parsley was pretty good though.
These are the Americans in the foreground. Notice the lack of beer on their table... in a brewpub.
As much as Sarah wanted one for each hand, I just couldn't allow it without phoning her mother.
And this is why.
SOOOOOOO PRETTY.
Eventually we have drunk all the beer on the menu, and it seems like Sarah’s love of IPAs has been the most fortuitous, as it is the most interesting beer here. The bill is less than £20 each, and we have change for a taxi home. There, we sit in the back garden and fall into conversation with the other folk staying in the hostel. We swap information about our respective countries, although I learn more about Argentina than they of Norn Iron, and we are all amused about the perception that Latin American countries are all matey. They are more flattered by my comparison between them (Argentines) and the Italians and Germans, which gives me an insight. I am still unhappy as to why the pasta here is crap, although one of our companions does explain to me that Patatas Bravas, which I was led to believe was an Argentine speciality, can easily be found in French restaurants. Typical. 3am rolls round and we call it a night. I am concerned that Sarah might be a little hungover tomorrow morning. I am less concerned about myself.
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