I’ve totally forgotten about the England game, and while I really should be moving on, it’s time to hit the Irish bar once again to watch the match. Luis is joining, and at his suggestion I’m leaving tonight to accompany him to his friends flat in San Pedro, a small town off the gringo trail where I’m likely to be the only outsider there. Around three pm I’ve struggled to the pub with my things, looking like a true nomad as I tuck beers away sitting next to two large bags and a guitar. The littlest hobo on the sauce. If Timmy falls down the well this time he’s fucked.
After watching yet another penalty shoot out defeat and enduring a screaming Italian in front of me, I’m feeling dejected, upset and three sheets to the wind. We board a taxi to the bus station, then serenade everyone at the back of the vehicle with a drunk version of wonderwall. I’m told to be quiet by the conductor. A few minutes later I’m asleep, being woken by a kind Australian who has remembered our stop.
I find myself shuffling through the door of an unknown friend of a recently made friend. The yard is adorned with torn items that have fallen victim to the resident Pit Bull Terrier, which they have affectionately named ‘Gringo’. He turns out to be more afraid of me than I am of him. It is a little strange to say the least, but a welcome change from paying hostel environments. Pablo is apparently on a date, so entertaining us is his flatmate, a crazy Argentinian with a dodgy eye and an eye for cocaine. Putting the disappointment of the football behind me, it’s around sunrise before I go to bed, talking crap the whole night and drinking local brews. Somewhere in between we’ve smuggled whiskey into a pool hall that had stopped serving alcohol some time ago. I’m slowly getting used to the Argentinian way of life of late starts and lazy days, but it is likely to be the death of me.
Whiskey pool
I’ve totally forgotten about the England game, and while I really should be moving on, it’s time to hit the Irish bar once again to watch the match. Luis is joining, and at his suggestion I’m leaving tonight to accompany him to his friends flat in San Pedro, a small town off the gringo trail where I’m likely to be the only outsider there. Around three pm I’ve struggled to the pub with my things, looking like a true nomad as I tuck beers away sitting next to two large bags and a guitar. The littlest hobo on the sauce. If Timmy falls down the well this time he’s fucked.
After watching yet another penalty shoot out defeat and enduring a screaming Italian in front of me, I’m feeling dejected, upset and three sheets to the wind. We board a taxi to the bus station, then serenade everyone at the back of the vehicle with a drunk version of wonderwall. I’m told to be quiet by the conductor. A few minutes later I’m asleep, being woken by a kind Australian who has remembered our stop.
I find myself shuffling through the door of an unknown friend of a recently made friend. The yard is adorned with torn items that have fallen victim to the resident Pit Bull Terrier, which they have affectionately named ‘Gringo’. He turns out to be more afraid of me than I am of him. It is a little strange to say the least, but a welcome change from paying hostel environments. Pablo is apparently on a date, so entertaining us is his flatmate, a crazy Argentinian with a dodgy eye and an eye for cocaine. Putting the disappointment of the football behind me, it’s around sunrise before I go to bed, talking crap the whole night and drinking local brews. Somewhere in between we’ve smuggled whiskey into a pool hall that had stopped serving alcohol some time ago. I’m slowly getting used to the Argentinian way of life of late starts and lazy days, but it is likely to be the death of me.