Argentina

Steak

Wine.

Tranquility


5 til 11
Diego poured some more hot water into his teacup then looked at his watch. 5.30pm. He´d finished work and was now at home in his apartment drinking maté. Jesus Christ I´m hungry he thought. There were at least 5 hours to go until dinner. Sometimes he wished that the restaurants in Argentina would open a little earlier, even 8 or 9pm would do. To distract himself from his grumbling stomach he thought about the night ahead of him. He´d put on his pink shirt and slick back his long hair at about 9. At 10 he´d meet his friends, exchange compliments about how good they all looked, and drink some more tea together. At 11 they´d head to the restaurant. He could already smell the grilled rumpsteak, as thick as a telephone directory, drooling blood on his plate. At 1am the bars would open and they´d go out. He´d buy a packet of cigarettes and one fernet and cola - a drink so bitter and repulsive that he´d manage only small intermittent sips and it would last until 7am when it was time to go home.

Since he was a small boy at sleepover parties he´d thought it was extremely cool to stay up all night.

He drank some more tea. His bladder was full and his belly empty. He thought of all the Australian, Irish and English travellers in Argentina who could think of nothing better to do between the hours of 5 and 11pm than to drink piss, so that by the time the bars opened at 1am they were staggering around drunk as gypsies. Jesus H Christ I´m hungry he thought.


Iguazu Falls

Buenos Aires

The lakes district

The slopes

(where are all the people?)

Themed narrative #14
I could smell the old vagrant before I could see him. I was in high spirits walking through the outskirts of the town towards the forest when I passed him. He was sitting on the side of the road, steeped in the stench of beggary. His clothes were tattered and he was scratching like a dog. His eyes picked up when he saw me but I averted my gaze thinking he probably wanted money or some of the spicy beef sausage I was eating at the time. "You be watchin'out for the Brown Goblin!" he squealed at me, and broke into a cackle so high pitched and offensive that a chill ran down my spine and a nearby streetdog began howling. I stopped and stared, slowly chewing my sausage, as spasms of demented laughter shook his frail body. I decided to dismiss his warning as the rambling of a senile fool and I threw a handful of dirt in his eyes for my own amusement before I walked on. Brown Goblin my ass, I thought...

Themes of this narrative: Advice unheeded, mythical creatures, buggery, vagrancy, sausage envy.