Looking Out Over The World

Word was sent to the hostel that the evening would be the night of 'The Houseparty'. Text messages, pigeons, smoke signals and peasant messenger boys were sent to spread the word. After masterfully cooking big steaks for ourselves, making some cheap cocktails and calling each other Barry a lot (an Aussie thing, don't ask) we went to the hostel to collect the twelve or so people we expected round. In true house party fashion we had fully underestimated the numbers and ended up marching thirty people to our flat, including two of my old pals from previous cities who had just landed and heard about the big house party only to see me hosting. Glasses were fashioned from cups, saucepans, soap dishes empty bottles and all other water retaining items, and the cocktails were literally sloshed around. Two or so hours later the drinking games, music and conversation were in full force when there was a knock on the door. The landlady. Myself, Alex and James were summoned outside to be told that the police were downstairs and that everyone would have to leave tout suite. Within 15 minutes the party had moved on to the Roxbury (a local club) with the ease and grace of a drunken bear. Inside the club the alcohol and saliva was flowing like a night in ibiza, and it was clear that the tourists had hit the local nightspot. As the evening, and subsequent inebriation, progressed I returned to the pile of coats to find that my fucking awesome brand new all-singing-all-dancing Columbia jacket was missing. I searched the club high and low, and left that evening drunk and deflated.

The next morning our party paradise had turned into a stinking landfill, complete with sticky floors and empty cans everywhere. To boot we had slept in, and had to check out in 45 minutes. It seemed like mission impossible, especially since Alex was still pissed out of his skull and James was 'hosting' some Danish girl in his bedroom. After 45 minutes of fumbling around and getting nothing done the fateful knock on the door came. It was the landlady. However in a curius twist of fate she had come to apologise for ruining our party and told us to have another hour! The Aussie boys left and I managed to get about 20 steps into the hostel before being dragged back out to go up Cerro Alto, a big mountain with a cablecar and spectacular views of the surrounding area. The fact that everyone was ridiculously hungover made for a very banterous time on the mountain, including a whole album worth of brilliant photos. After such an adventure the 8 or so of us intrepid travellers did what intrepid travellers do: we went for a massive steak. The next day was another day of touring round the lakes in a rental car with the guys and taking another album worth of ridiculous pictures, to be uploaded as soon as possible. Kitty, Sam, Adam and Dan were trying to convince the rest of us to come Skiing with them in Mendoza, but Paul, Andy and I had bigger plans... Road Trip! This was to be drunkenly cemented that evening as we had a night out to celebrate/commiserate our awesome group splitting up. It was such a shame that we couldn't stay together as I hadn't laughed so much, so hard, for as long as I could remember and everyone was brilliant fun.

We also met up with two cool Argentine guys, one of which, Nano, turned up with my coat as he thought I had left the club without it. A happy ending and the remedy to the only blemish on an amazing time in Barriloche.

The Skiers were waved off in a taxi and Andy, Paul and I were left to plan; The Road Trip!!!