pizza and wine and cheese and wine and pizza and chocolate and wine

I wanted to like Buenos Aires. I wanted to believe all the romantic revelations of its carefree lifestyle, the wonderful food, the beautiful parks, the fresh air.

But I arrived about three months too late. Some fluffy-haired politician stepped in and began dismantling the government, which obviously has its benefits for humanity in general, but it also meant that Buenos Aires almost matched Auckland in living costs. Cheese and coffee and CHOCOLATE were way, way overpriced and also SHIT. Yes I’ve mentioned this before but I can’t get over it because HOW DO YOU FUCK UP COFFEE AND CHOCOLATE.

The thing about Buenos Aires, though… until those three months ago, it was crazy affordable. Cheap rent, cheap food, cheap fun. Hence the large expat community of same ilk: disgruntled with their home countries (and the ridiculous price of rent/petrol/cheese) and seeking an easier, less taxing lifestyle. Hence, also, my move.

But, I dunno, it was weird. I’ve travelled some 45-odd countries now (not bragging, this is part of my point) and I’ve never been to a place that’s so… ruled… by expats. Not even Thailand, which has an enormous expat community. [But that was 2018… maybe it’s different now?] Maybe everything has changed. All I know is that Buenos Aires felt like high school: there was an A-team, and you had to be in the A-team to know what was happening and when it was happening, and to be invited to what was happening, and for anyone to acknowledge what you had to say about what was happening. Otherwise, you were nobody.

There was a right way and a wrong way about doing everything, mostly expat-driven; particularly by expats who were aware of the nuances in Argentinian economics/customer service/retail prices/where to eat steak, and were bursting mightily with their knowledge. Which was annoying, and weird, and sort of not much fun.

But not a disaster, by any means. Buenos Aires is unlike anywhere else in the world, and Argentinian folk are among the most ebulient, friendly, helpful people I’ve met. These recent changes have been far harder on locals than on some ignorant twat from New Zealand, and they were kind enough not to point this out.

And now in Rome, where I know no one (bar the ten hundred dark-haired men who have sent me enthusiatic Facebook invitations to ‘meet and talk a little’), I feel like I’m actually travelling again – alone, unguided, veering away from the queues at the Vatican, trying to speak Italian (and getting a response in English), dropping goat cheese all over the floor of my Airbnb, eating too too much bread/pizza/cheese/pizza/cheese/pizza/pizza/pizza and all the snacks that come with aperol spritz (chips, cheese, peanuts, sandwiches, pizza) and drinking $6 bottles of red wine that are 100x better than the $18 bottles of tar juice you get in NZ, and running past ruins from the 14th century (NZ was inhabited when…?!) and hanging my knickers on the line outside my apartment in view of nineteen hundred Roman families.

There are ninety-seven varieties of gorgonzola in every supermarket, and spinach is $3 a kilo (f*ck you Countdown) and red onions are 50c (f*ck you AGAIN Countdown) and there is BASIL and KEFIR and CARROTS and OLIVES and LIMONCELLO and when you speak bad Italian at the checkout staff they don’t glare at you and mutter something derogatory to their colleagues – they smile and speak in English, and we all have a joke about how dumb I am, and it’s kinda nice.

What was my point? I dunno. What I do know is that travel has changed. The world has changed. When I first set out to Ireland in 2006, as a completely naive twat, there was no adventure: everything was about finding a job and enough pennies for your your next sandwich. When I taught English in China in 2011, I was quite comfortably living off a few hundred yuan a day and stuffing myself with tofu and bajiou. From 2016-2019 I lived/travelled around India, Vietnam, Thailand, Mexico, Africa, and Eastern Europe on a few hundred dollars a week.

Now… things cost a shitload more, and you’re not necessarily paying for your comfort. It costs a kidney or two to stay in an Airbnb and eat a fairly basic diet. I cook at home 90% of the time, I don’t visit tourist attractions, I don’t party (what even is that?). Last week (because of age milestone) I treated myself to a week off work and a few beverages, and jesus, it was not cheap. Okay, I had several aperitivos and bought an incredible Bowie t-shirt (of the softest cotton, but that’s irrelevant.)

Having said that, I don’t feel as cheated in Rome as I did in Buenos Aires. I can’t really say why…. certainly the politics are no better here, nor the exchange rate…. so, at the risk of confirming myself as a shallow, sensory-driven being – perhaps it’s the food? And the wine. AND the lack of Americans telling me what to do or how to do it (and/or my ignorance of them). And the fact that chocolate, coffee, and CHEESE not only exist but are AMAZING and don’t cost an organ.

Okay, so I’m a shallow pleasure-seeker.
Oh well.