Karl and Kara in South America

Kara says: so it's Saturday evening i have myself a glass of wine and a Bridezillas (novias neuroticas) marathon and Karl is strumming his guitar. Today is wonderfully dark and wet and cosy after the last week's heatwave. Dinner will be hot dogs as we are temporarily fridgeless. Karl and the fridge got into a fight over some ice, it turned nasty, Karl was armed with knife (always knew he was a knacker) and in the resulting fracas the fridge was mortally wounded. We escaped the big smoke (and dust and noise and traffic and crowds and heat) during the week and headed across to a small town in Uruguay, Colonia, it'd been handed back and over between the Spanish and the Portugese during the colonical years and now is a cute old town. With fresh air. And silence. And you have to walk really really slowly (don't know why, just something about the atmosphere) and take long long lunches over wine. Now let's see if we can get some photos. Right. Karl sitting under a tree con

Kara says: last weekend we donned our tourist hats again and did a tour of the Boca stadium - Maradona's old team. We have Karl interviewing me on my thoughts and hopes for the coming season, and me trying to imagine the jacuzzi in use.... And as you can see in the dressing room we may have found the origin of the "hand of God" - there are more than a couple of religious statues. Karl in the dressing room trying to look as if he is dejected after his latest lost - luckily he is familiar with this pose. And a very tempting spot for a snack in the stands. Not that the fans here are rough, but they do have some very impressive fences and barbed wire to keep the away fans in their little patch of the stands. It's cleaverly arranged for the away team to enter the stadium through (and unprotected from) the home fans. I'm surprised they don't get deserters at every match. And although we're still (STILL!) not fluent in spanish our proudest moment was doing a to

Kara says: for context see previous entry. I'll be having one just like this.

Kara says: (that's for you, Glen) ok, it's always a surprise what order those photos appear in, hmmm. Anyway this was a trip to the cemetery,as you do when you're on holidays. This is where the rich people of Buenos Aires get buried, it's the place to be seen if you're a corpse. And as you can see they tend to go in for modest little crypts (see picture with me for scale). There's rows and rows and rows of 'em, many of whom look like they may in fact still pop out for a bite in the evenings...i'll have to google it but surely someone's made a bad zombie movie here. And the other photo is the cat Karl keeps trying to adopt kindly fertilising one of our plants. In fact he just strolled through our place and out the back deck, closly followed by the landlord's son who i'm hoping doesn't in fact plan to stay. I don't think even Karl wants a cat and a child. Although now they're both trying to extricate the cat from under the bed so

Back to reality! Alarm clocks, deadlines, homework, it's all too much. So, going to spanish school every morning (and yet somehow, still not fluent?) we have joined the throngs of Buenos Aires commuters squeezing themsleves into the magic subte (underground) trains. The trains are magic because even though they are clearly packed to capacity when they arrive on the platform it's always possible to fit loads more people in. Magic! I think they actually have some sort of vacuum packing device fitted to the aircon. And managed to drag Karl to tango class. Alas there doesn't seem to be the concept of a beginner class here so everyone else is very fancy schmancy flying footwork. We got "special attention" from the teachers and were confined to the retard corner. There must be something special in the air here because Karl has almost found rhythm! And one of his left feet occasionally behaves as if it were a right one. Some photos here. A touristy visit to an old ship

Karl giving serious consideration to a new career in modeling. On our deck, at our front door, in our living-room.