Sunday. Another restless night, not sure how many people were actually sleeping in my four bed room but at least they all seemed relatively normal. Sarah has had a run-in with some eejit who took the sheets off her bed for his own, and some mentalist girl with crazy eyes who glares at us both constantly for no reason at all. Not only that but the temperature dropped overnight, my feet were freezing, and when I eventually got up the whole breakfast buffet was devastated, leaving half a mug of coffee, a bit of bread and some banana jam. We look at each other with bleary eyes and resolve to head out and eat. This is 11.30am.
Like most places we have been, maps are in short supply, so we are flying blind here. Walking, to the best of our knowledge, towards the main road, we discover ourselves to be in an impossibly hot Mallusk. Car showrooms and gomerias dominate. We walk a few blocks. Nothing is looking useful. It takes a growling stomach to force us to wave down a taxi, who immediately turns in the opposite direction and runs us down to the beaches. We should have been more confident in our assertion that lower numbered blocks were closer to the coast.
The costanera is beautiful and crammed with humans in all their assorted shapes and sizes. We are dropped down near the trendy young people beach; perhaps our driver was trying to flatter us. At least the area was clean and had a buzz about it. Sarah and I like the beach, as agreed over a lunch of antipasti and chips and beer, it was just that we disliked all the other stuff that goes with it, like other people, outdoors activities, posing, sand and seawater. Otherwise it is exactly the sort of thing we enjoy. An indoor beach with no one on it and no sand and freshwater. Brilliant.
Surprisingly full after our light lunch, we wander along the coast back towards Avenida Colón, the street we drove down. The trendy young people beach, with its golden sands and sexy types looking at anything except each other, gives way to a rocky outcrop, followed by a brown sand beach with ugly families on it. Is sand supposed to be brown? Admittedly the whole coastal area was a pleasant walk, and we are happy to see colours for the first time in a while. We spend a few minutes watching a beach rugby sevens tournament, but thirsty prevails, and we enjoy a beer in a less salubrious part of the beach whilst listening to a ska band on a stage entertaining the poor kids who aren’t on the trendy beach. We mosey round a crap shopping mall, a bit like In-Shops, and nearly buy a lot of guff we don’t need, but seems very reasonable for the price. Anyone with an eye towards fake football shirts could fill a stadium with the goods on offer in this place.
Outside the Gran Hotel Mar Del Plata we see some football fans jigging about and roaring on their team who are inside. We see a lot of police. We see some men in combat fatigues with shotguns. We see a tiny tiny tiny bit of trouble. We get bored and wander off.
Somewhere up Avenida Colón we find a nice little restaurant where we have a decent pizza for a change. The clientele initially appear to be a bit of a rotary club type, only to be superseded by a bunch of chubby mums with their whiny babies in tow. Our waiter is, however, surprisingly good, and it seems to be a family-run establishment. We watch Granda making pizza boxes in the corner. Maybe he doesn’t get fed until he has folded a hundred.
It should be a simply taxi ride back, except that Sarah has forgotten to bring the little piece of paper with the address of the hostel with her. Normally not a problem, except we live on a street with an unpronounceable name, and our driver cruises around trying to find the right one. Thank god the taxis are cheap. We have to convince him that our street is far, far away and that we know and understand this. We use the grid system to our advantage, and eventually drive far enough up Avenida Colon to find Olazabal, a street our driver has never heard of. You don’t get this with Mahoods.
One cheeky bottle of Palermo and we head to bed.
Surprisingly full after our light lunch, we wander along the coast back towards Avenida Colón, the street we drove down. The trendy young people beach, with its golden sands and sexy types looking at anything except each other, gives way to a rocky outcrop, followed by a brown sand beach with ugly families on it. Is sand supposed to be brown? Admittedly the whole coastal area was a pleasant walk, and we are happy to see colours for the first time in a while. We spend a few minutes watching a beach rugby sevens tournament, but thirsty prevails, and we enjoy a beer in a less salubrious part of the beach whilst listening to a ska band on a stage entertaining the poor kids who aren’t on the trendy beach. We mosey round a crap shopping mall, a bit like In-Shops, and nearly buy a lot of guff we don’t need, but seems very reasonable for the price. Anyone with an eye towards fake football shirts could fill a stadium with the goods on offer in this place.
Outside the Gran Hotel Mar Del Plata we see some football fans jigging about and roaring on their team who are inside. We see a lot of police. We see some men in combat fatigues with shotguns. We see a tiny tiny tiny bit of trouble. We get bored and wander off.
Yes, I know there can be practical reasons for this, and I know I have friends who have done it, but it just never looks right.
Sarah does a 'mum'. Getting quite good at it too.
One cheeky bottle of Palermo and we head to bed.
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