Having a
base and a guaranteed warm shower has provided a welcome opportunity to bring
running back into the weekly routine. Partly
motivated by a desperate need to stave off the accumulation of beer, daily
facturas (Argentinian pastries) and plentiful helpings of tasty
Brasilian-cooked food; twilight jogs, along the riverside or the city´s
boulevards, have been an excellent means
to watch Rosario wind down at the end of the day.
Through CouchSurfing
I´ve also been able to add a weekly
5-a-side football game to the exercise regime, as well as some colourful
new phrases to my Spanish vocabulary. Being good at football is a universal
means by which to instantly establish respect within male company, and sadly
it´s a competence that I lack (I blame my parents). I´ve usually relied on
slightly superior speed or fitness to somewhat mask my mediocre skills, but two
months of Christmas and standing by roadsides (too long for a week´s jogging to
compensate for) have put paid to any of that. I realised this only when my
first box-to-box run nearly brought me to my knees, and sadly it meant that
language-exchange was to be a two-way affair. I couldn´t help noticing that
Spanish invective tends to be four-worded rather than four-lettered, but it´s pretentious
to wonder how much that is linked to respective paces of life...
That I
don´t also know the Spanish for ´touch of a rapist/damp towel´ is therefore completely
due to the genial tolerance of my team. You can´t help feeling you´re the weak
link when your turn in goal coincides with five unanswered goals for your side,
but apparently my performance wasn´t poor enough to be asked not to bother the
next week. They´re a nice bunch of guys, and I was able to again enjoy running
myself into the ground (and trebling my previous week´s goal count) on my
return this week.
Though not
useless enough to prevent my side winning on both occasions, I still felt the
need to find some other way of establishing some sporting credentials. When one of
the guys mentioned he played, and had a spare racket, I therefore leapt on the
chance to have a go at some tennis. Fate contrived to ensure that, after a 6am
return from a night out, and an 8am (well, closer to 9am) start for work, my
attempt to salvage some British pride would be conducted on two hours´ sleep and
whilst probably still drunk. Burning myself on the exhaust-pipe of my
opponent´s motorbike (whilst dopily climbing off) was not the most auspicious
of starts, but fortunately the hours spent on tennis courts rather than football
pitches eventually did tell. The languorous bounce offered by the clay court
certainly helped to get my eye back in; although after having only just been
fully cleaned of the dirt from Misiones, my clothes are now once again
ingrained with red dust. Having buzzed my hair in a vain attempt to cope with
the heat I am no longer told I look like Andy Murray, and although I don´t play
like him either our match still attracted the interest of the gents on the next
court. Sadly I wasn´t able to recognise their comment ´´hay tenis acá´´
(´´there is tennis here´´) as a compliment rather than an observation, and
replied with a confused ´´er, sí´´ and a shrug of the shoulders. Typical
graceless Brit...
The gradual
approach of my departure from Rosario (my train to Córdoba is booked for 20
March) has also prompted efforts to make sure I don´t miss out on anything
before I go. I´ve therefore paid the duty 5-minute trip to the city´s art
gallery (I find it hard to get excited by art here when I´m spoilt back home), seen
a few more of the Paraná´s islands and cycled along the river bank to the
bridge at the top of the city. Hearing
from a hostel-guest of Fisherton, ´the English barrio´, I decided I had to
visit, and made the trip out to the edge of town. Initially separate from
Rosario, the neighbourhood was built to house British railway-builders (led by
one Henry Fisher) in the early 20th century, who helped set up
Argentina´s (limited) rail network in times of a slightly happier Anglo-Argentine
relations. A bizarre island of English-style architecture amongst the
surrounding villas (Argentina´s favelas), the streets of big, expensive houses
come complete with village green, oak trees, and a pretty church, and put me in
mind of a Chigwell in 35degree heat.
Another
legacy of British immigration is Rosario´s top division football team, Newell´s
Old Boys, who´ve been a frequent source of childish amusement. Legendarily
passionate Argentinian support means that their initials are graffitied on
seemingly every unattended wall. It´s like being back home. Tales of the
fervour of supporters here, with fences required to protect referee and players
from the fans, have made going to a match another must-do while I´m here: will look forward to attending their next home game on Sunday.
Life within
the hostel continues to entertain, most recently with the irreverent mock
wedding of two of our long-term guests: the 18-year-old Uruguayan lesbians I´ve
been sharing a dorm with. That´s not as fun as it sounds: it took me as long as
working out the Brayan-Victor relationship to realise they were both girls, and
the frequent public displays of affection have been nauseating. I had no idea
what to expect of a sham lesbian wedding; but this particular affair, conducted
on the hostel terrace, began with the brides walking up the aisle to ´Only Time´, kissing before the end of the vows (presided over by Victor), kissing again
when ´permitted´; before a wedding reception that involved my consuming a good
deal of malbec and dancing in a blonde wig with the cleaning lady. So all in
all pretty good fun.
Thanks to
the fun I´ve had with the hostel community, the Gonzalezes, and the assortment of
sports/drinking buddies throughout Rosario, I´m going to be sad to leave this
place. But although the language has improved, I´ve ended up speaking enough
English to prevent this from being the full-on Spanish immersion that I´d hoped
for. I´m therefore looking forward to being back on holiday again: heading on
to another new city, and then from Córdoba into the surrounding hills.
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