Lavish Living is What Real Men Do
Doctor Dinero is a neurologist on a mission. She has exactly 7 days away from her practice and personal demands to enjoy the highlights of Argentina. She doesn’t have time to take poky overland buses, wait in line at communal washrooms or comparison shop for the cheapest empanadas. In order to squeeze the most out of her vacation time she pre-booked everything she wanted to do, and just to make sure I wouldn’t short-circuit her plans with my stinginess, she completely paid my way.
“HELLS YES!” was my reply and my heart lept for joy.
I’ve always wanted to be a kept man - I just could never make a serious go at it because I don’t have the necessary physique or amount of finely groomed chest hair to spend days tanning poolside in a speedo and a gold chain. This was my big chance. Doctor Dinero went ahead and charged our tours, our plane flights and our accommodations all on her credit card. All I had to do was show up and not say or do anything that would get me ejected from her good graces.
It was a week of guidebook highlights for us: we cramponned across the nape of the Perito Moreno glacier, got soaked in a speed boat beneath the falls of Iguazu, wandered around the streets of Buenos Aires from La Caminata in Boca to the antique shops of San Telmo and the tombs of Recolleta Cemetery.
If there is any complaint to lodge against Doctor Dinero it’s only that her photo-taking ability is seriously impaired.
g
Oh and she also has no sense of direction, which is more amusing than nettlesome. She went for a short stroll in El Calafate, a town with a population of around 8000, and showed up 5 hours later, having walked all the way to a nature reserve outside of town situated in the exact opposite direction of our hotel. She is the kind of person who has to ask for directions on the way from the bed to the bathroom. She gets lost moving from one side of the jacuzzi to the other. She needs a compass to apply ketchup to her fries. You get the point.
One night the heat of Puerto Iguazu was sapping all of our energy, so we fetched some pizza and the cheapest whisky available (a brand called Old Smuggler) and brought it back to the hotel room for dinner in.
Flipping through the cable channels I stumbled upon Predator, the classic Schwarzenegger flick. I looked over at Doctor Dinero.
“You don’t mind if we watch this, do you?” I asked.
“You don’t hear me complaining, do you?” she answered.
What a great night! Pizza, whisky, fresh linens and gratuitous violence. What more could a man ask for?
The only downside was that Doctor Dinero is the type of person who asks questions during movies instead of watching and figuring out the answers for herself. We did miss the first 10 minutes or so, but come on is it really that hard to puzzle the plot-line of a shoot-em-up?
Hey, why are they shooting those people?
It’s what real men do.
OK.
I don’t understand why he cut himself with that knife.
It’s what real men do.
OK.
So what, this alien is trying to kill them all?
It’s what real men do.
Yeah but it’s an alien, not a man.
It’s what real alien males do.
Hmmm. OK.
Doctor Dinero left for home 2 days ago. Not only have I lost a cool travel companion, but I have been banished back down to the lower caste. No more indoor pools and all you can eat breakfast buffets. It’s back to the real world and living on a long-term traveller’s budget.
Yesterday I took a bus 4 hours north to a town called Rosario and scored a private room in the cheapest hotel I could find with air conditioning, cable television and unidentifiable stains on the walls (I didn’t ask for these - they come standard). I have tentative plans to hike the amazing Parque Torres de Paine with a friend next week. In the meantime, I think that 3 or 4 days of doing absolutely nothing sounds incredibly appealing.
Unemployed, watching television in my underwear, getting out of bed only to stretch and scratch, leaving the hotel only to get take out food and beer.
It’s what real men do.
——————-


















