080 / Argentinean cake

080 / Argentinean cake 

Surprisingly, long term travel has something of a sumptuous, multi-course Christmas dinner. At first, everything looks amazing, and you start your travel with the hunger of a family of stoned lions. After devouring the first landmarks, hostels, busses and one night standing conversations, slowly, this feverish eagerness turns into a more accomplished, satisfied feeling. This is when events take their right course and you discover confidently, unhurried new destinations. Later, when your trip comes closer to ending, a feeling of saturation takes the upper hand. Your head spins, stuffed with experiences, encounters and kilometers, similarly like your stomach aches when dessert is served during a lengthy dinner party. Socially obliged, you take a modest piece of that creamy, thick cake. However, the action is often limited to moving the cake around on the plate (while subtly breaking it down like construction workers demolish an old building) rather than actually eating it.


I felt that Argentina was the cake of my big trip. I slowly plunged my spoon in it, ate some beautiful pieces, but I was already too absent minded to capture its full taste. I cycled through Bariloche thinking of us on the Vespa on Boulevard Saint Germain. I hiked in Junín’s Lanin National Park wishing I was running with my buddies through Het Zoniënwoud. I had amazing grilled tenderloin steak, while I was craving typical Wednesday spaghetti with my family. I watched jaw-dropping Tango in Buenos Aires, but I really wanted to freak out on I gotta feeling with my friends in Paris...







In short, it was mazo menos time to return home! After a cool couchsurfing stay in Buenos Aires, I packed for the last time my gear (I initially left with 24kg, now, without a clear explanation 5 kg is M.I.A.).





Seatbelts locked, table tray folded away, luggage in the overhead lockers, electronic devices switched off, but then … in the beginning of the runway, our Airbus 340-600 hesitated like a jumping horse in front of an important hurdle or a city girl when bathing in a fresh lake. No movement… It turned out that a fuel leak in one in the engines made it impossible to take of that night. We taxied back to the terminal, and after 4 hours of confusion, 350 people with tired eyes were shipped off for an Iberia-sponsored night in Hotel ***** Emperador Buenos Aires.




“Are they kidding? My very last flight, delayed… with 19 hours!? Who is responsible for this sabotage? There are multiple suspects…” Here’s my Sherlock Iwannagohomes list of possibilities:

The self-important business man with the cheap suit who loudly declared that flying with that baby screaming some rows in front of him is unacceptable qualifies. That large, noisy Spanish family who was attacking the free five star lunch buffet with smiles from ear to ear could have found a way to extend their holidays in a cheap but classy way. Could it be Murphy? He’s often around whenever there is trouble. Maybe it was the Buenos Aires postcard that I challenged that I would arrive in Paris before it did. Post cards can be mean. And then there is Hotel Emperador. If they can “unexpectedly” host 350 stranded travelers, it must mean they have many empty, unused rooms... maybe too many?

Almost 24hrs later, after getting acquainted with my free Emperador bathroom goodies to kill time, I’m on the same plane, in the same seat, with the same neighbor and the same destination… The baby sleeps, the Spanish stomachs are full, Murphy is shooting a B-class police movie, my postcard has an unbridgeable advance on me and the hotel cashed its fat cheque. The odds are good to make it this time.




22:34 Gepost door Wouter* | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

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