Yesterday morning I left my lovely hotel to fly all the way down Argentina to Usuaia, capital of the islands of Tierra del Fuego which are South America's and the world's - most southern point. Next stop Antartica (though not for me - it's incredibly expensive to tour the ice).
As we drove through the streets of Buenos Aires I saw a little of the city I'd missed the night before. If only I'd turned right instead of left the night before I would have found a friendly looking pizza joint, little neighbourhood bars, leafy streets.. Instead of which I ran down a ramshackle highway with people huddling in the rain and the only point of interest a quaint corner shop selling home-made pasta in ribboned cardboard boxes. And then as we drew up to the domestic airport I saw the muddy mighty waters of the Rio Plata which separates Argentina and Uruguay - it's vast! You can't see the other side. The river's edge was fringed with rickety wooden piers, ferry boats and colourful kiosks selling hot snacks and cold drinks.
And now the adventure really begins.. At the check-in desk I discovered that I'd gone to the wrong airport - not my fault, that of the travel agent - and was now in a race against the clock. Luckily my taxi driver was simultaneously appalled - "what a mess! ring your travel agent now' he shouted, proffering me his phone - and all too ready to put his foot down. As we weaved through the traffic he told me about his home in the countryside, his childless aunts feeding him up on home-made pasta and home cured chorizo when he drops by and his collection of tame foxes.
Anyway with good fortune on my back I made the plane.
As we drove through the streets of Buenos Aires I saw a little of the city I'd missed the night before. If only I'd turned right instead of left the night before I would have found a friendly looking pizza joint, little neighbourhood bars, leafy streets.. Instead of which I ran down a ramshackle highway with people huddling in the rain and the only point of interest a quaint corner shop selling home-made pasta in ribboned cardboard boxes. And then as we drew up to the domestic airport I saw the muddy mighty waters of the Rio Plata which separates Argentina and Uruguay - it's vast! You can't see the other side. The river's edge was fringed with rickety wooden piers, ferry boats and colourful kiosks selling hot snacks and cold drinks.
And now the adventure really begins.. At the check-in desk I discovered that I'd gone to the wrong airport - not my fault, that of the travel agent - and was now in a race against the clock. Luckily my taxi driver was simultaneously appalled - "what a mess! ring your travel agent now' he shouted, proffering me his phone - and all too ready to put his foot down. As we weaved through the traffic he told me about his home in the countryside, his childless aunts feeding him up on home-made pasta and home cured chorizo when he drops by and his collection of tame foxes.
Anyway with good fortune on my back I made the plane.
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