Destination: Rosario, Provincia de Sante Fe, 309 km N of BsAs
As New Yorkers can well attest to (or shout to), if you spend too much time in a bustling city you’re bound to go a little stir-crazy. To escape the cars, pollution, happenings about town, noise and bustle of BsAs I decided to hop a bus to Rosario, a city four hours north in the neighboring province of Sante Fe. After being on a short engaging Taxi ride to the Retiro Bus Station I thank my driver for his kindness and for the conversation. I’m consistently impressed at the articulate, pragmatic and opinionated cabbies here (70% of the time). I buy my bus ticket and forty-five minutes later I’m on the upper level of the double-decker.
On the monitor overhead a romantic comedy starring Reese Witherspoon (sans romance or comedy) is playing. It’s- Just like Heaven. Which- Isn’t. Though should I be struck by lighting tomorrow and Mark Ruffalo and Reese Witherspoon figure prominently in my version of heaven someone quickly accuse me of some heinous crimes in my previous life for which I will be immediately downgraded to a secret fiery hell, perhaps located somewhere in Nevada, Arizona or greater New Jersey, and I can spend eternity playing seven-card stud with privileged high-ranking members of the current U.S. administration.
Pulling into Rosario reminded me of what 1950’s suburban America must have been like. People are out in lawn chairs in the evening in their fenced in front yards, flags wave in the light breeze, people stroll down the streets on bikes and kids are chasing each other and a woman pushes a stroller past, cars roll slowly down the wide lanes. Bus station to cab and my driver tells me, as I’ve heard many a time, or twice, maybe, that Rosarinas are supposed to be the “chicas mas lindas” of Argentina. “Then my eyes have luck” I say. He cackles as we pull up and points to a series of two doors that’s supposed to be my hostel. I walk up stairs and push a buzzer.
The door vibrates open and a woman of about fifty walks down to greet me and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Tanto tiempo” she says as we walk up. And I think she has me confused with someone, because it couldn’t have been such a “long time” if this is my first time here. “Se vengan las chicas?” she asks as I casually say sure tell the girls to come out. Girls to check me in? Guests? A girl comes out wearing- not so much clothing. The next one comes and now it just seems silly for me to be all covered up like this. Uh? This is either the greatest hostel in the world or something’s terribly (?) wrong.
What’s the address here? I ask. The address? Yes. The girls look at me and say nothing. Where am I? I ask more authoritatively. “Mothers house” one says. I look at them. They look at me. One of the girl’s lights up. Are you looking for the hostel? Yes. The two say nothing for a moment. Oh. Next door.
Next door I walk in to the front desk. Hey I say. Hey. I’ve got a reservation. Name? I give. Last? I give. Document or passport? I’m a walking charity. “You know” I start, “I was mistaken.” What? “I went in the wrong entrance. Your neighbors”. No response. “You know your neighbors?” His eyes bulge. “That neighbor?” he says pointing to the wall. I nod. “Ah” he says. Then, “did you?” I shake no. I’m not sure if he believes. Him not believing makes me second guess myself. “Welcome” he says handing back my passport.
Where is everyone? I ask. Not here. Sister Hostel. Four blocks away. You want I see if they have room? See. Two beds, both in five-bed bedrooms. Good. Good. He gives me the address. I walk. If my old hostel reminded me of something out of a Garcia Marquez novella, this one reminds me of the hostel in the movie The Beach. Dreads, Reggae, Marijuana wafting in the air, hammock, Brits, French, Germans, Ecuadorians, Colombians, Sweedes- An international buffet for the mosquitos.
On the monitor overhead a romantic comedy starring Reese Witherspoon (sans romance or comedy) is playing. It’s- Just like Heaven. Which- Isn’t. Though should I be struck by lighting tomorrow and Mark Ruffalo and Reese Witherspoon figure prominently in my version of heaven someone quickly accuse me of some heinous crimes in my previous life for which I will be immediately downgraded to a secret fiery hell, perhaps located somewhere in Nevada, Arizona or greater New Jersey, and I can spend eternity playing seven-card stud with privileged high-ranking members of the current U.S. administration.
Pulling into Rosario reminded me of what 1950’s suburban America must have been like. People are out in lawn chairs in the evening in their fenced in front yards, flags wave in the light breeze, people stroll down the streets on bikes and kids are chasing each other and a woman pushes a stroller past, cars roll slowly down the wide lanes. Bus station to cab and my driver tells me, as I’ve heard many a time, or twice, maybe, that Rosarinas are supposed to be the “chicas mas lindas” of Argentina. “Then my eyes have luck” I say. He cackles as we pull up and points to a series of two doors that’s supposed to be my hostel. I walk up stairs and push a buzzer.
The door vibrates open and a woman of about fifty walks down to greet me and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Tanto tiempo” she says as we walk up. And I think she has me confused with someone, because it couldn’t have been such a “long time” if this is my first time here. “Se vengan las chicas?” she asks as I casually say sure tell the girls to come out. Girls to check me in? Guests? A girl comes out wearing- not so much clothing. The next one comes and now it just seems silly for me to be all covered up like this. Uh? This is either the greatest hostel in the world or something’s terribly (?) wrong.
What’s the address here? I ask. The address? Yes. The girls look at me and say nothing. Where am I? I ask more authoritatively. “Mothers house” one says. I look at them. They look at me. One of the girl’s lights up. Are you looking for the hostel? Yes. The two say nothing for a moment. Oh. Next door.
Next door I walk in to the front desk. Hey I say. Hey. I’ve got a reservation. Name? I give. Last? I give. Document or passport? I’m a walking charity. “You know” I start, “I was mistaken.” What? “I went in the wrong entrance. Your neighbors”. No response. “You know your neighbors?” His eyes bulge. “That neighbor?” he says pointing to the wall. I nod. “Ah” he says. Then, “did you?” I shake no. I’m not sure if he believes. Him not believing makes me second guess myself. “Welcome” he says handing back my passport.
Where is everyone? I ask. Not here. Sister Hostel. Four blocks away. You want I see if they have room? See. Two beds, both in five-bed bedrooms. Good. Good. He gives me the address. I walk. If my old hostel reminded me of something out of a Garcia Marquez novella, this one reminds me of the hostel in the movie The Beach. Dreads, Reggae, Marijuana wafting in the air, hammock, Brits, French, Germans, Ecuadorians, Colombians, Sweedes- An international buffet for the mosquitos.
posted by Matt In The Hat | 4:31 PM
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