The Longest Day
We go to a club named Museo tonight. The ambience and music is much better than Club 69 a couple nights ago and I feel like a dancing fool. Dance we do and I’m with the usual group of revelers. The American girl, L, is here for the dancing, the two Aussies to pick up women. Only the girl is successful. The will o the wisp, who I got an unusual introduction to my first night, has disappeared from the hostel to spend some time in Palermo and almost certainly having her fill of men there.
I come back from the bathroom and I have lost everyone, but I’m funky and tipsy enough to continue dancing on my own. I find my way into a posse of beautiful portenas (BsAs women) and we dance around each other until the portenos swarm in and pursue them with characteristic relentlessness until they stop dancing altogether, to my disappointment. Then, as if by some miracle, another cute girl pulls me back onto the dance floor and we dance very close.
The club gradually clears out and my hostel posse comes into view. We’re the last four on the dance floor at 8am. The Aussies are drunk and obnoxious and the two Americans, me included, are putting up with it. We leave the club and one of the Aussies is asking of every taxi driver, street vendor and innocent bystander, in a German accent, "Do you like it hardcore?"
At the request of the Aussies, the taxi driver takes us to a café with jamon and eggs. I order a smorgasbord with croissants, bread, cake, orange juice, peaches, espresso and I devour every bite. Back at the hostel the Aussies order a pitcher of beer at 9am. L has had quite enough and goes off to bed.
I rest on the couch but stay awake to depart for the River Plate vs Boca match. We arrive in the River section and the stadium is spare, a two tiered bowl of cement steps, but this suffices since sitting is rare. A German, Brit and I cleave from the group and chaperone and plop ourselves in the middle of the public section. Once our section fills, the festivities begin: singing, dancing, arm waving in tomahawk fashion, the calling out of "puta" at every offense, real or imagined, of Boca. It is impossible not to get caught in the thrill and though I come in with a soft spot for Boca I can’t help but root for River.
Bags of balloons and newspapers circulate throughout the stands. The balloons are inflated, the newspapers torn to confetti. As the game commences, confetti rains down onto the field and red and white smoke bombs obscure the air.
A large team flag is unfurled and passed down until it covers the whole section and a thousand or so hands take hold and wave. Our section is ninety percent male and college aged, shirtless, pierced, tattooed, fashionably unshaven and shaggy haired.
River goals unleash pandemonium all three times. Fists pump, strangers embrace, and the rush of humanity is enough to knock the unsteady or unprepared off their feet. My Brit neighbor takes cover during every score. Afterwards it is nonstop dancing, jumping, arm waving and singing team songs. This continues well after the 3 to 1 victory. Police cautiously clear and escort the Boca section. The singing continues all the way out of the stadium to the cars and buses all the way to the train station where the cars are overflowing with fans elated with the outcome. They hang out the windows and doors and smack on the metal to keep the beat for their songs. The celebration continues in the Retiro train station and onto the public bus. I wait for the parilla at the hostel and then head to bed giving L a high five along the way, my first sleep in thirty hours. The will o the wisp returns to the hostel from the game and wishes me bueno suerte.
I come back from the bathroom and I have lost everyone, but I’m funky and tipsy enough to continue dancing on my own. I find my way into a posse of beautiful portenas (BsAs women) and we dance around each other until the portenos swarm in and pursue them with characteristic relentlessness until they stop dancing altogether, to my disappointment. Then, as if by some miracle, another cute girl pulls me back onto the dance floor and we dance very close.
The club gradually clears out and my hostel posse comes into view. We’re the last four on the dance floor at 8am. The Aussies are drunk and obnoxious and the two Americans, me included, are putting up with it. We leave the club and one of the Aussies is asking of every taxi driver, street vendor and innocent bystander, in a German accent, "Do you like it hardcore?"
At the request of the Aussies, the taxi driver takes us to a café with jamon and eggs. I order a smorgasbord with croissants, bread, cake, orange juice, peaches, espresso and I devour every bite. Back at the hostel the Aussies order a pitcher of beer at 9am. L has had quite enough and goes off to bed.
I rest on the couch but stay awake to depart for the River Plate vs Boca match. We arrive in the River section and the stadium is spare, a two tiered bowl of cement steps, but this suffices since sitting is rare. A German, Brit and I cleave from the group and chaperone and plop ourselves in the middle of the public section. Once our section fills, the festivities begin: singing, dancing, arm waving in tomahawk fashion, the calling out of "puta" at every offense, real or imagined, of Boca. It is impossible not to get caught in the thrill and though I come in with a soft spot for Boca I can’t help but root for River.
Bags of balloons and newspapers circulate throughout the stands. The balloons are inflated, the newspapers torn to confetti. As the game commences, confetti rains down onto the field and red and white smoke bombs obscure the air.
A large team flag is unfurled and passed down until it covers the whole section and a thousand or so hands take hold and wave. Our section is ninety percent male and college aged, shirtless, pierced, tattooed, fashionably unshaven and shaggy haired.
River goals unleash pandemonium all three times. Fists pump, strangers embrace, and the rush of humanity is enough to knock the unsteady or unprepared off their feet. My Brit neighbor takes cover during every score. Afterwards it is nonstop dancing, jumping, arm waving and singing team songs. This continues well after the 3 to 1 victory. Police cautiously clear and escort the Boca section. The singing continues all the way out of the stadium to the cars and buses all the way to the train station where the cars are overflowing with fans elated with the outcome. They hang out the windows and doors and smack on the metal to keep the beat for their songs. The celebration continues in the Retiro train station and onto the public bus. I wait for the parilla at the hostel and then head to bed giving L a high five along the way, my first sleep in thirty hours. The will o the wisp returns to the hostel from the game and wishes me bueno suerte.
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