So Christmas and New Year in BA: was it AMAZING? My friends back in England have been asking me; was it really different?
Well I don’t want to sound grumpy at all, but….. it wasn’t quite Christmas. All the little PAX elves were working hard – busy days in the hostel, and not much relaxing or enjoying to be done when there’s 45 people to check in, check out, give directions to, feed a banquet, clear up after… you know…. so satisfying to see your guests having a good time, but, no, not really Christmas. I’m suddenly filled with equal parts of respect and admiration and sympathy for all the professions for whom working over the holidays is a regular given: health workers, hospitality, the emergency services. I salute you all, but this alone is almost enough to put me off choosing one of these wholesome and worthwhile careers for myself.
Christmas didn’t start to show itself until early December here – a far cry from the mid-October capitalist rush to cash in on the season of us so-called ‘developed’ nations. And it started slow: a few big shops with a banner or two, and Christmas music (White Christmas? Really? It’s 30 degrees outside!!), then big ‘Christmas Tree’ style light installations along one of the main avenues (guarded against vandalism 24 hours a day of course), and gradually the food in the shops and the decorations and promotions on websites (it being hot, chocolate was widely and disappointingly dismissed in favour of nougat and this yummy peanutty candy called mantecol). But it was all just rather lacklustre. Accuse me if you will of being part of the Disney generation, but this is the capital of Argentina! The Paris of South America! Come on!
Apparently the government does usually make more of an effort – the word ‘recession’ seems to be cited whenever I choose to complain to a local about Christmas, or the lack of variety of food in the supermarkets, or whatever.
We felt much better once we had ‘Christmassed’ the hostel: tree up, tinsel round anything that didn’t move, fairy lights round the bar, and a whole little troop of santas little helpers set to work making paper snowflakes, paper crowns and cotton wool snowmen and snowballs.
But it still wasn’t quite right.
Yes admittedly the weather is too hot, but chatting with Ozzie passengers, they reckoned it didn’t feel right either. It wasn’t the weather.
It was only long after the asado and pudding had been cleared away, and we were sitting around a bottle of wine getting all misty-eyed and reminiscent, that we realised that what we missed most about Christmas at home wasn’t even the Barbie on the beach (Australians), the spicy dried fruits the pervade every dish (the British, of course), crackers (everywhere, except, it seems, Argentina) or filling shoes with sweets on xmas eve (Germans – don’t ask). No, it’s not the national habits or religious rites that seem to make Christmas Christmas, it’s the little things.
Its what time you open your presents, who plays Santa, those family members you only see once a year, falling asleep in front of the queen’s speech, the exact dish you always cook for the family meal, the in-jokes….whatever: it’s the little family rituals that we miss – and that’s why Christmas anywhere else in the world will never be the same.
The endless repeats on TV, the warring in-laws and too many pairs of novelty socks? Sorry, that’s Christmas too….

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This hostel is well known for it’s coolness, like those popular football players from a teen movie. No, actually, it’s a coolness like no other teen movie ever created, like… The ultimate teen movie… Anyway, what not many know is that this hostel is very intellectual too. This is such and erudite hostel, that having one library wasn’t enough. We needed two. We are probably the only hostel in the world with two libraries. You know what they say, the more the better… kind of stuff. The book collection is in one of our rooms, and it’s full with mind blowing medical books. You never know when you will need a medical book. Imagine that suddenly someone suffers from a strong attack of “Hula-hoop Intestine”. How the hell would you cure that? The medical books could be handy. And 911.

Our other library has exchangeable books. Like exchange students, but made out of paper. You give us your book, we give you ours. You could totally rip us off with that. Like, picture the situation that you got the crappiest Danielle Steele novel. It’s called “The story of a poor hot girl who falls in love with the physic culturist sailor nice tough guy with long hair. Part V: Evil step-mother returns”. Well, you could change that brain-melting book for any of our literature classics (without counting the guide books; those are sacred), like for example, “The Da Vinci Code”, “The other hand” (it’s the continuation from “The Hand”), “African Psycho” and many many many other Nobel prize winning books.

So, yes, that`s pretty much it. You know what they say, two libraries think better than one.

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So, I’m the new guy here doing new guy’s stuff. Like, learning stuff, and doing stuff and eating stuff. And telling people this is not a clinic. That kind of stuff. But, seriously, working here is no easy stuff. Woah, I’m saying “stuff” too many times. What the hell: stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff.

Stuff.

Stuff. Stuff.

Stuff. Stuff. Stuff.

Ok, anyway. There’s one thing from this hostel that I’m not sure if I’ll be able to handle: the Awesomeness. It’s just too much. Really. It’s like a gigantic Awesomeness beast with big strong fists of coolness that punch you in the face. This place is just too awesome for my little weak uncool heart. I’m doing my best, really, but the Awesomeness here is just too awesome. I don’t even know how I got this job in the first place. I just woke up one day and I was here. Maybe I was kidnapped and brainwashed. Those kind of things happen all the time. If you wake up one day doing something and you are not really sure why you are doing it in the first place, then I’m sorry but you’ve been probably kidnapped and brainwashed. Seriously.

Actually, I remember going to a job interview. There was another hairy dude who wanted the job. The job interviewer looked at the both of us. In a certain moment she asked me why did I think that I deserved the job, so I answered: “Well. First, because I’m not a monkey”. The hairy guy couldn’t say the same. He truly was a monkey. With a long a tail. I don’t want to sound racist or anything, but I told the job interviewer that I was sure that I could be a much better receptionist than a monkey could ever be. I gotta admit, though, that it was pretty impressive for a monkey to get into a job interview. And not in just any place. It’s not like he went to IBM or something. It was fucking PAX HOSTEL! The capital of awesomeness. The monkey had some talents though. A pretty impressive control of his tail, I must say. He knew how to use the bathroom too. Yeah, he was one hell of a monkey. And, besides, just picture yourself going to Latin America, to PAX HOSTEL!!! (fuck yeah) and there’s a monkey at the reception. It would be totally badass. I always wanted to have my own personal army of monkeys because you can’t kill them. They are just too cute.

Anyway, all I really wanted to say is that I got the job and I’m happy and I just hope that I can survive the unbelievable awesomeness from this place.

I wish you a good day and a talking rock.

Pancho

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The promised land

Abandon all hope ye that enter here. No, this is not the mouth to Dantes hell. This is Buenos Aires. Let me back up a bit. I was led here to BA under false pretenses.As an avid traveller i obviously heard about argentina and buenos aires in particular from the returned diaspora and soaked up their news and views on what seemed like a truly exceptional and rich culture. Being a full-blooded alpha-heterosexual i was especially interested in the women and how they perceived the europeans, of irish descent. “Did they mock us for our pasty white skin, blonde-ish hair and blue eyes?”, I wondered. Did they laugh at our vain attempts to communicate with them in castellano and / or broken spanglish? No! Hell no i was told. In fact all of these things would only add to ones charm, sophistication and exoticness and the argentinean women will flock to your side with absolutely no effort on your behalf……or so the promise went. So with gandhi in one hand and the mouse in the other i booked my flight to the promised land with the sweet sound of ´women are easy in buenos aires´ ringing in my ears.

I feel a kindred spirit with the Nazi´s who came to buenos aireas pre and post war. They also came to buenos aires under false pretenses. They saw the name of this city and saw the name of its inhabitants. The buenos aireans (buenos aryans…come on… its a stretch i know) and thought the city was named after all the ´good white supremicists´ that must have named it. They must have been shocked on getting here. Anyway my vain sexually influenced reason for coming here also turned out to be false and here ends my affinity with the nazi´s. When i got here i found to my horror that the women here do not flock to my side in their masses each one wanting more than the previous. No. Hell no. It turns out its just like home. I can drunkenly walk up to any number of argentinean women in a night club and i will get the same convulsive, horrified half-wretching-in-my-face look as i see in the faces of women at home. My sickly pasty white skin, blue eyes and blond-ish hair doesn´t have a magic influence on the beauties (or the fat trollops now that i mention it). I was lied to. I was deceived. I came here under false pretenses. Abandon all hope ye that enter here. This is no promised land of nympho´s. These argentinea women are smart, intelligent, beautiful and above all else will not fall for your arrogant ´ i´m foreigner so love me´ shit. The dream is almost dead.

I say almost dead as in my travels i have recently heard about the women in Colombia. Their supposed to go crazy for the foreign white skinned, blue eyed blonde-ish hair types. Gandhi in hand and the mouse in the other……i´m booking my ticket to colombia.

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This building (and this phone number) used to be an endocronology clinic, and they didn´t do a very good PR job when they moved house:- 4 months after opening as a hostel, we still get 5-15 phone calls for them each day. To the extent that, with my limited Spanish, if I don´t hear the words ´reserva´ or ´noche´ or ´Nico´ in the first 10 seconds, there’s a good chance that if I interject with ‘quieres la clinica?’, we can quickly and painlessly get the call wrapped up and all move on with our lives. However we’ve had a few occasions to wish we were a clinic these past weeks: I think it all started with my monster feet (allergic reaction to cheap ballet pumps – sorry feet, i´m on a budget!), but then we’ve had Kayley’s neverending tonsillitis (if you would just stay in bed and take the pills…), my body’s violent fluey aversion to returning to work after 2 and a half months off, a chronic stomach bug that almost prevented one couple experiencing the joys of la Cabrera steak, and even a malaria scare! (It wasn’t malaria, thank goodness). We hope you are all feeling better….
Nico, do you think we could set up some commission from the hospital Britanico for giving them such good business?
It’s a strange thing being ill in a hostel – so publicly, with strangers, staff and passengers watching you pad about in your pyjamas feeling sorry for yourself, trying to stifle coughs and sniffs and other physical malfunctions because the rest of your dorm is TRYING to sleep, and attempting to remain polite/cheerful/sociable so you don’t become a complete social outcast when you recover. Not only that, but being ill is when you feel most homesick – you want your own duvet, your own bed, your sofa, your pink fluffy slippers and your complete Friends box set to work your way through. This is when you just want a real cup of tea, chicken soup in the cupboard, and all the pills, potions and lotions that are going to make you feel better without having to go out to the farmacia and learn how to ask for them in Spanish. You don’t want everyone to see you miserable, pale, grumpy, without makeup, and asking how you are with the best and friendliest of intentions. You want your own space and privacy and to not have to talk to anyone until you feel better.
What I’m trying to say, dear pasajeros, is that yes, being ill away from home does suck, but yes, it will probably happen to you at some point on your travels. Most of all, yes we know how you feel – we’ve been there too. So if you need to cower grumpily over a mug of lemsip in the corner of the bar and not talk to anyone, or you want to hide all day behind your bed curtains listening to soft rock ballads on your i-pod, that’s fine, we understand

Debs

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