The last time we were in BA we were partied out, with Dave and I having to leave the club as shambolic wrecks of once-were-men at 6am, and with George powering on until 2pm the following day. Ahhh youth. So with that behind us we took a break and went on a mini-holiday to Patagonia.
San Carlos de Bariloche is a small skiing town on the border with Chile. Obviously there is not much skiiing to be done when the mountains aren't that high and it's 25C, so I took full advantage of the off-season and booked a 5 star hotel. From this luxury base we performed our now-signature manoeuvre, which is to ask what the very best restaurant in town is for the local specialty and ead straight there. Since we eat at UK times and not much later like the Argentine custom, a reservation is never necessary. And thus we strolled into Don Molina to eat cordero Patagonico, which is basically crucified and roasted lamb. Combined with another fine ten pound, three year old bottle of wine, we once again ate like kings. Steak is better though.
We spent the next afternoon doing some begineers mountain biking, which I had never done before. The contempt I felt for the mountain bike fashion of 17 years ago had somehow stopped me from ever actually taking one off road, and I was delighted to discover that I was actually pretty good at it! I was taking the turns faster than the instructor, cycling more where got off and walked, and putting my feet down for stability less. It was such fantastic fun that we booked the same guys for a tougher ride the next day.
But first there was a quick spot of kayaking to fit in - an hour on a lake at dusk. The lake was mirror-still and the reflections of the snowcapped mountains was perfect as we glided through the water. As the first stars came out the bats flitted around the shore scooping up those insects that the jumping trout missed. And after this, we ate some of those trout, preceded by beautifully juicy empanadas and followed up by ice cream in wonderfully fresh raspberry sauce.
The next day's mountain biking was indeed harder. This time, in order to do the downhill, we needed to complete the 700m ascent. The pain started almost as soon as we got on our bikes at 1:30pm, as the sun beat down mercilessly. The relentless climb was made harder by the fact that the irregular slope made it often impossible to see how far the next turn was as we ground our way up the switchbacks on the side of the mountain. Given that the extent of my cycling these days is a 20 minute sprint from home to work and back, it was a surprise to me that I was able to just keep the pedals churning. There were a few difficult points, such as when a dead dog by the trackside meant I was gagging for a hundred metres or so, but it was generally OK. And after a short stop for the best tasting apple I've ever eaten, the descent was amazing! Through melting snow packs ad drifts of powdery dirt, over roots and through leaf drifts we hammered our way down the mountain side. As soon as we set off, the Dave turned to George and me and predicted, "Somebody's going to fall off at some point on this mountain," and on the first turn he dug his front wheel into the dirt and duly fell off. He doesn't tan, and looked like a cappucino after that fall. Four more of his falls later and we were back where we started, huge grins and bruised palms.
The flight back to BA was at 9pm, so we decided to load ourselves with red meat and alcohol and sleep on it. The first part went to plan, but the flight was a nightmare fairground ride of turbulence, so while sleep was not even remotely possible for me, poor George was a nervous wreck! There was a round of applause from the grateful passengers when the plane landed, but by this time, we had only one thing on our minds: getting back to the party.
After a brief stop at our old hostel to retrieve some stuff we'd left behind and the customary tequila starting gun, we headed out into town and rocked up at an electro club - our first stop for the night. A dude introduced himself with a kiss on the cheek and got us in for free. As Madonna blasted out over a sea of men we realised we were meat, and left before we got packed. The next club was miles away in a taxi, and more than once we thought about turning round and just getting some sleep, but the club turned out to be awesome. The atmosphere, on a Wednesday night, was better than most London clubs manage on the weekend. The women were gorgeous, the drinks reasonable, the dudes friendly and we had a blast until the lights went up at 5am.
And then just when you think the night is over, something even more bizarre happens. The taxi driver for the way back turned to us, leered and said, "Ehhhh hombres... you want chicas?" Ummm, yes? and thus to a strip bar at dawn where Big Boy got more than the dance he asked for, left the club with no dignity and no money and did a runner from a taxi cab miles from home when he realised. Ahhhh Buenos Aires.