The bumbag always has the last laugh

So, we headed over to the subte, the quickest way to get to the centre. I knew there was something up when it took far longer than it should to get my parents and a couple of other people into a relatively empty carriage. Two burly Argentines were cunningly positioning themselves next to us so they had easy access to our bags.
My Stepmum and I had handbags but my Dad was going full-out tourist, sporting the 'bumbag.'
I'll just let you know where I stand on the bumbag. I was raised to be a firm believer in it - at one point during my lifetime it was more or less in fashion. Mr motivator, a hero amongst men, wore one and for this reason I do not like to judge it too much.

Nuff said

However from a travelling point of view, it doesn't exactly hide the fact that you have valuables on you. I understand that all your belongings are in eye view and above that 'sensitive' zone, but... you are a moving target.

'Yes, I have something worthy of stealing, and that is why I have compromised recent fashion trends to wear this bumbag. You can try and steal from me if you wish, but I will see you, you little pikey.'

As the train started, I felt the zip on my handbag opening. I looked down and saw that it was open but thankfully nothing had gone. My head jolted to the man next to me - 'He just tried to steal from me', I gasped with Meerkat alarm velocity.

Unfortunately, what I seem to lack (among many things) is that instinctive fear which tells you a person like that may also be dangerous. Thieving for breakfast, stabbing for lunch, who knows really how far they dabble up the ladder of crime.
But if someone takes something from me, I get very angry and forget about these dangers. I think, for me, the anger stems from the fact that I have irrational, sentimental attachments to just about every inanimate thing I own.
It doesn't matter if I can no longer hear people on the other end of the phone or that my Mp3 player is ten years out of date - I feel guilty getting rid of these things.

Anyway, that day I learnt that my stepmum really has no fear. As soon as the warning came, she looked down to find her bag open and her camera gone. 'My camera's gone, who has it?!'
Not waiting for the inevitable confirmation and apology, she lunged straight for the big man in front of her and began, what I can only describe as 'frisking' him, to try and find the camera. Years of airline service had prepared her for this moment. Before her victim had any time to really register that a short, angry, English lady had begun a full blown patting attack, the man next to him freaked out (perhaps assuming he was next on her body searching rampage) dropped the camera on the floor, and ran off.

Meanwhile, my Dad and his smug bumbag were in the corner wondering what all the female babble was about.

Finally we made it to the ticket office. As we were queuing up, I overheard an authoritative voice announcing to a small group - 'And we are also going to see the White House, where the official offices of the President are.'

The Pink House. No seriously.

Have a peek at the photo to your right... note the subtle shade on the outside of the building. Also note the name - Casa Rosada. You don't have to speak Spanish to realise that this is in no way a direct translation of White House. I'll leave it there.

The bus tour was well worth the money. My parents and their highly tuned property development vision, noticed some stunning shutters ('Do you think they are wood or PVC'?) and good uses of pot plants. You can take the parents out of the property, but you can't take the property developers out of the parents...or something like that.

We hopped off the bus at La Boca -  a very important place in Buenos Aires history, which over the years has developed into an unashamed tourist hotspot. But there is nothing wrong with that - it's bright, it's bustling and you can watch a small show, absorb the ambience and boogy to the incongruous Samba band. Tourist places are touristy for good reason. Sometimes by trying to resist the mainstream and go off the beaten track, you just end up missing out and have no common stories about getting your picture taken with the legend dressed as a hobo/ superhero ant.

You thought I was kidding, didn't you.

The Beatles, the Falklands and that notorious handball

Greeting my parents at the airport with my 63 year old language student may have been a bit of a shock - 'Amy, we knew the men were difficult but...'
Quickly clarifying that he was not my new boyfriend but a student who had kindly offered to drive them from the airport to their hotel, we set off to the city centre.
As we drove up one of the city's main roads, one of the first things my parents noticed was - not the eclectic European architecture or the worlds widest avenue, but the flowering trees....something I had completely over looked in my new pseudo - cosmopolitan life style (I have no time to see trees).

Green eyes

Unlike their visit to Costa Rica however, they decided not to take cuttings for the garden back home. How my stepmother managed to get 32 exotic plant cuttings through two sets of airport customs and back home to our garden alive, shall forever remain a mystery to me.

Looking and sounding like typical Brits, it took only three hours for 'La mano de Dios' to come up in conversation - I warned them both that the Falklands (sorry...Las Malvinas), the Beatles and various football interrogations would be sure to come up eventually.
Now, my Dad's football knowledge is nearly as bad as mine - but he does manage to trump me - whenever he gets asked who he supports he declares triumphantly, Chelsea. I asked him what exactly this fan claim is based on (never having heard him ever mention football)... he replied - 'well I did see them play years ago against Shrewsbury town (where my Dad was brought up), it was 1964 I think, I was wearing a bobble hat and I had one of those rattles...damn fine bobble hat that was, your Grandma knit it...' (Chelsea till I die)

And do we fare better with Beatles talk? Well certainly not in my case...
'You are from England?'
'Yes'
'Do you like the Beatles?
'Yes'
(They begin to sing the words, I sing a couple of words (normally 'Hey Jude') and then fill with dah dahing)
'What? You don't know ALL the lyrics to EVERY one of their songs?'
'No'
'But you're from Engerlaaand!'

A fine example of British living

Yes I am, but neither do I know all the names of the Rolling Stones or have tea at 5.00pm everyday (tea is far too good to restrict to a single hour)...and do I recommend going on a once in a life time trip to England solely to visit Liverpool? How about I shatter your dreams with an episode of Brookside.

It's sometimes hard to explain that England has not remained in a time warp for 50 years and that the place is (culturally) quite different to the 1960's. I found this interview with Gael Garcia Bernal (not Gail, Ga- el, so yes he can still be sexy) which sums it up in some respects...

(Describing his move to London) 'At first, he was shocked by this country's apathy towards politics and culture. As an outsider, he expected the Rolling Stones, the Marquee Club and a thriving art-house cinema scene. What he discovered were the Spice Girls, 'Lock, Stock...' and fellow students who would rather down pints than watch films. '

(I once enraged an Argentine by referring to Pink Floyd as 'he'...Ok ok I know it's 'they', I just always thought it was the name of a band member as well)

Anyway - I'm sorry I digress (see... I do lyrics). The first day we decided to take the open-top yellow bus tour around the city. I knew there was a stop roughly around the zoo area so we headed over there, located it and waited for the bus. Two buses came by both saying that they had no tickets on board and we should have gone to the main office in the centre to buy them. My parents did not look amused. I realised my spontaneous 'lets just see what happens' attitude to travelling wasn't going to fly with these two.

It's a Batho Adventure

It's been a while since my last blog but I am officially starting back up. And what better way to get the ball rolling than a blogfest on my parents visit to Argentina. Yep, the Batho parent team are dropping the strimmer and garden shears and heading over here for two weeks of highly researched and organized adventure. Planned with typical Dad militiary precision, the only things that can really balls this operation up are me and my weak translating skills and, oh yes, the fact that this is South America and 'what your itinerary says' means nothing if the figurative S.A computer says no.