Cologne Christmas Special

So... we're back.

Whilst there was an ever-so-slim chance of this blog continuing after the South American adventure had finished, the bleak reality of hangovers, lectures and grey British skies soon put an end to that. As the blog was showered with a mixture of praise and piss-taking comments on Nottingham's finest nights out, I couldn't help but feel a sense of vacancy without it in my life. I mean, it was nice to verbally share life thoughts with actual English humans instead of a non-responsive blogging site, but the writing was something I missed.

I couldn't just start again though - there was no chance that I was going to illustrate a night in Ocean as an opener to the comeback tour - and I needed a reason to write. With that in mind, a pre-Christmas trip to Cologne in Germany was the ideal opportunity to soak in some blog magic and ensure that Time to Make Some Mates could make a suitably stunning return to the spotlight. It was the Robbie to my Take That.

The glamour of the comeback was quickly brought back down to Earth as a 5am start at Manchester airport somberly drizzled all over my parade (this ego-driven stance may or may not continue but for now I'm enjoying it). I flew out to Germany with my girlfriend Coralie, yet the Scrooges at RyanAir made sure that our £20 fare would not allow us to sit together and we were promptly separated. We weren't the only ones and a variety of puzzled families and couples went their separate ways to find their cramped individual seats on Michael O'Leary's capital-sucking sleigh. Talk about the charm of the Irish...

A Cidade Maravilhosa

  I promise not all of my titles will be in Portuguese. Although keeping a travel blog on my Year Abroad might seem pretentious, I'm not that bad. Yet sometimes the natural linguistic form is the only viable path of description, and this is very much the case for the city of Rio de Janeiro. Translating to 'The Marvellous City', the native pet-name for Rio, certainly builds up a level of expectation, and crafts a paradisiacal mirage in your head of what awaits once that plane door opens*. Just the thought of that name infused me with a positive buzz when I was feeling slightly more sombre, having said goodbye to everyone at home again for another 6 months. Brazil awaited with open arms, with its biggest gem ready to welcome me to my new home.

Couldn't help myself...

  Also awaiting me were two of my best mates, Adam and Dan, who I previously explained had admirably flown out to Brazil in the midst of busy exam and work periods. Not a bad place to get away from it all, I'm sure they'd reassure you. We were staying in a lively hostel in Copacabana and, from the moment I saw the road signs, Barry Manilow's classic took a permanent residence in my head. There was no Lola and no showgirl though, unfortunately.

  We decided to hit the big dog on day three of the trip and went in search of the real JC. That's right, that guy in all the pictures. The attention seeker with his arms out all wide. There's two ways to reach Christ the Redeemer: bus or walk. Who would be stupid enough to walk in 40C heat? Three English blokes on a budget, that's who.

Meet the Parents

  "So Jack, what do you know about dead bodies?" This was the kind of occasion when a year abroad comes into it's own. It was hardly the category of question that I had been faced with across my 7 years of classroom Spanish interactions. I was sat with the father of Carlos (the Dad of the family I am staying with) in the corner of a post-Baptism family celebration. He reminded me instantly of Robert De Niro's character in the Meet the Parents series. The head of the family with a fascinating history of stories to tell. He took a shine to me, and we had a really in-depth chat about his trip to London and the DNA of serial killers. But not before I mistook him for a stripper.

Honoured to be a temporary member of
this fantastic family 

*Background Information*  Ever since arriving in Argentina, I have presented myself as 'Jack' (or 'Shack' as it is now) and frequently been responded to with a jubilant cry of 'Jack El Destripador'. Primarily I assumed they meant 'Jack the Ripper'; however after experiencing some hysterical laughing with the phrase, a part of me convinced myself that 'Destripador' ('D' sounds almost silent) might mean 'Jack the Stripper'. I'd never heard of any such thing but I guessed it might be a thing here. Anyway that was what I was now going with (with a weird half-hearted stripping charade to match).

  So here I was. I presented myself as 'Shack' and the grandfather laughed as he bellowed 'Shack El Destripador', before saying that he himself used to be a 'Destripador'. I nervously chuckled a long as he already struck me as a joker and I thought he was pulling my leg. This was until he invited me to come and look at his car, in which there was a captain-like hat sitting on the dashboard - you know, the kind a stripper might wear as part of a costume. At this point I was a bit more shocked and he continued to say he did it for a bit of cash here and there. I even asked some questions (that now seem transferable between both a stripper and his actual job) and got answers. It was only when he asked me about the dead bodies that I realised that 'destripador' does in fact mean somebody who deals with dead bodies (and 'Ripper') and not 'stripper'.

 Complete and utter 'vergüenza'.

Would You Like Some Dulce de Leche With That?

It’s the traditional British post-holiday question that often leads the conversations with family, friends and colleagues alike after a week away in the sun.

“Oh how was the food? You never quite know what the food will be like in these places...”

  We’ve all heard it. Anyhow, I suppose when the week away in Benidorm is replaced with a trip to the other side of the world it is quite an intriguing question. When that place is Argentina, world-renowned for its steaks and quality of beef, it’s a topic high on anyone and everyone’s list of inquisitions.

  I’m not traditionally a foody. I eat and I enjoy what I eat but the food is generally not a make or break element of any trip I take. As I’ve mentioned a few times since I’ve been here, in Socratic pensiveness, ‘comida es comida’. You eat it, it fills the spot, it might give you a nice taste along the way. Anyway this all accumulates to the fact that from this article you should expect more Gregg Wallace and less John Torode*.

Flags, Pizza and The Mafia - A Trip to Rosario

  As a football fan, the mentioning of Argentina produces an instinctual reaction of one name to come to mind - Messi. The Greatest of All Time represents something of a religious figure for fans of the beautiful game, and subsequently a pilgrimage to his home-city of Rosario was an essential on my Argentinean itinerary. In addition to Messi, Rosario also boasts the title of the birthplace of the hipster's favourite revolutionist Che Guevara - that makes up quite the fantasy tea party if you ask me. To top it all off, Rosario is known as the most dangerous city in Argentina, rife with the trafficking of both narcotics and human beings...

  If that doesn't scream tourism honeypot I don't know what does.