viernes, 19 de agosto de 2011

Inner-thigh Pain and Religious Rabbits


It is probably in all our interests if I offer a quick background to the following events: I've recently set sail from Necochea (south of Buenos Aires - on the coast) and have arrived in Bariloche (inland - essentially halfway down Argentina, where people go to ski in the winter. It was summer when I arrived so people just thrash about in the lakes). More or less, Bariloche marks the the first port of call wherein I am travelling alone, thus hostel life is as fresh as a mountain stream – a simile I would have done best to avoid using in hostels. So:

Detox is being embraced, the whores and transvestites shall take a back seat – the aphoristic one – and I am to become at one with nature. Natural beauty is my oxygen and I breathe it in deeply at every and any self-created moment, acutely aware that the fragility of these moments will soon be apparent and the novelty will wear off. An extract from previous travels in China support this omen: “Oh dear God, delicately placed before our eyes we have yet another piece of natural fucking beauty. There appears to be the exact same hill as gazed upon yesterday unfolding before us, with what is almost definitely another generic, tackily decorated temple.” ('The Beginner's Guide to Natural Fucking Beauty: China, just yellow and red?', 2008)

My reading for the moment is “The Anatomist”. The protagonist has recently discovered the clitoris (cue round of applause) on a dying woman in the 16th century (suppress or soften still running applause) – as far as dying wishes go, this lady's were surpassed...“before I go, leaving you all in a poverty filled abyss, I shall be requesting just one thing...a glass of Tropicana, with pulp...what?...I'm sorry doctor, what was that? You said you've found the whaaaaaaaaatttoohhhsweetgod!” She never ticked all the boxes on her bucket list.

Hostel life is adaptable, I hope:

‘Twas the middle of the night when I heard it: the shrill, hysterical screaming that selfishly awoke me. The screams were akin to those of a child watching a rabbit being burnt at the stake for heretical crimes. Naturally I remained all tucked up: no bunny watching child would force me into unforeseen night-time movement (it’s not right to have the words “child” and “night-time movement” in the same sentence, but alas, this is where they shall lie.) Eventually the mother settled the child and thus my dreams. I still await the apology from the aforementioned child.

Returned to hostel later the next day. Legs ached. Why? Cycling. Days are now spent flying along roads and pathways singing 'Do Re Mi' – it was a throw up between that and a little bouncy number from 'My Fair Lady'. Anyway, I strolled through the hostel door, my gait as if I had just strolled out of Shawshank. A lot of people stood in the room before me, the classic and yet sickening buzz of an overenthusiastic hostel – a climate that I would soon have to get used to – filled the room.

“Just pass through them, up the stairs and hit the showers (cue flashback to face of 'maternal' prep school matron).” I muttered – already I was muttering. I should point out that muttering, to yourself, whilst hovering over the precipice of a large group of strangers, is not a recommended course of action. You tend to give off a less than stable vibe. No one is likely to casually stroll over and remark: “Hey there, I saw you with your chin pressed to your chest and your eyes unnervingly looking ahead, while you muttered busily, and I thought to myself: 'hey he seems like a bloody riot to chat to, and not at all mentally fragile.'”

Despite my internal affairs grinding away, I strolled through the crowd. 'Hey look at me now dad, I'm strolling, through a crowd, of humans..sorry, people, I always call them that, really.' Maybe the intimate little monologue I was constructing should take the blame for this, but no sooner had I finished this victory sentence, then I tripped – probably over some shitty, communal mood-lifting hostel cat.

You have two options to take when confronted with such a shade of public humiliation:

1. You regard yourself in an ever so serious light and fly into deep and quizzical expressions of thought and wonder how on earth this débâcle occurred - it was not your fault. You are YOU.
2. Smile, maybe even let loose a jovial giggle, not too girlish but not too territorial, get up and continue on your way. Maybe engage in light conversation, following eye-contact, with someone close by who could and can not deny standing witness to this. You shall both laugh and everyone will think none the less of you.

In the moment, I saw it fit to combine both these options – 'the moment' takes a lot of blame during the course of one's life... “So what if she had a penis, I was in 'the moment'”.

So, with complete disregard to my prettily laid out options, I let out a girlish giggle whilst simultaneously looking at the soles of my shoes as if the Holy Grail and answer to all public trippings could and WOULD be found there - they aren't. I then arose and walked towards the stairs, turned to a girl 'close by', giggled again (why!?) and said: “Owww, guilty candidate for a broken nail...right there.” She then took me firmly by the hand and we spent the following 4 and a half minutes imitating non-heretical rabbits. Only kidding, she looked at me in complete distaste and wandered off into a sea of hemp and dread-locks... .

Moral of the story: don't make sounds like Maria.

No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario en la entrada