Salta, La Linda...

...Or so it's called in the tourist brochures and signs entering the northern Argentine province. But I'm in the provincial capital. It's a mix of indigenous-style street vendors, run-down colonial-inspired apartments, and a typical lack of infrastructure. It reminds me a lot of the outskirts of Buenos Aires, or what most of the smaller cities outside of Cap. Fed. look like. The drive into the city gave me a slight glance as to where the province derives its name from. It has an almost desert southwest US feel to it.

The hostel I'm staying in is incredibly well maintained in comparison to the one I've been living in for 3 months. I don't know anyone here though, and I'm hesitant to make friends. That's not why I'm here. I'm here to escape the madness of the capital. I'm here to really experience South America. I've been yearning to escape the traffic, smog, 24-hour bars and pizza shops, protests, parties, girls, and people.

One glaring differece between Salta and Buenos Aires are the prices of everything. Food is about 30% cheaper, which is surprising, considering that I'm in a tourist town. The city of Salta essentially acts as a portal for rural travelers heading north to Bolivia, west to Chile, east to Paraguay, and south to Cordoba, Mendoza, and the capital. For locals, it seems like an urban hub for traders and farmers in the surrounding rural, indigenous provinces. Poverty here is evident, and unlike in Buenos Aires, I really stick out like a sore thumb. This is just a taste of what I'm expecting in Bolivia. Even Argentines stick out there from what I've heard. We shall see.

I'm on my way back to this great little restaurant near where I'm staying which has the best Chicken I've ever had in my life. They use some great spices in their cooking up here, and for 6 pesos, you can't get any better than that. But I'll leave you with a small observation as I sit here in this chilly internet cafe. There's a game on this computer called "Conqueros", which lets you virtually conquer latin America, country by country...and I'm in the most indigenous part of Argentina. If you can't see the irony in that, then don't bother reading any further. That's it. I'm out. Time for Chicken and wide-eyed stares.

What Happens in Rome, Stays in Rome (Or should)

The adage, often attributed to Jorge Luis Borges, that "Argentinians are Italians who speak Spanish, dress like the British and pretend to be French" is, as most adages and stereotypes are, rooted in no small measure of truth.

This works for the people of Argentina who have less shame than nearly anyone I've met minus perhaps the lovely people of Brazil, where an obese man wearing a banana hammock (thong) at his child's piano recital is commonplace. It also makes the viewing of the European Cup considerably less painful. For in normal years that allows the average Argentinian the opportunity to feel as though his or her team has won the cup while cheering on a quarter of the field of sixteen. I say normally because England is usually able to eek out three points against the powerhouse of European football, Macedonia, but not this year.

"When in Rome, do as the Roman's". This is not easy in Buenos Aires given these aforementioned identity issues of the local population. I imagine in order to pull it off you would have to: avoid the shower for a sixth consecutive day, dress yourself in your best ascot making sure your watch fob matches your belt buckle, drown yourself in copious amounts of cologne or AXE bodyspray, fall down in the street(hoping to draw a penalty) as you walk to your Vespa and drive like an idiot dripping in arrogance to meet your friends for Yerba Mate.

Yerba mate is a mixture of god knows what, steeped in hot water, and drank from an affectation that only Argentines and Liberace could find comfortable. More so for Liberace as the metal straw needed for mate consumption looks like Cartier's cock and, well, that's not a huge stretch of the imagination for those of us who remember the flamboyant one. And this brings me to my point....

You, itinerant traveler and hostel dweller, look like a proper cock sipping on this bitter brew. I have seen mountain climbers and trout fisherman that require less gear than a mate drinker. So as you make your way to more impoverished parts of this continent with your 80 Gig Ipod chock full of Manu Chau, reach into your bag for your unholy grail, mate, thermos of boiled Evian, and electric thermometer, please remember the reason people are rolling their eyes is because you truly are a cock, not Che, despite your numerous screenings of The Motorcycle Diaries and T-Shirt.

Don't Be Cheap

I'm sick and tired of people being cheap. Hostel guests tend to be some of the cheapest people I've met. "I'm so broke", "I'll get you back next week", and "Can I have a bite of that", are like annoying broken-english mantras ringing in my ears on a daily basis. This week I finally fucking had it. I had to lay down the law. Let me explain.

There's a young German who works* in the hostel at nights, as kind of like a night manager, in exchange for free rent. He's got another volunteer job during the day, and overall is a nice guy. The problem is that he's incredibly cheap, and tricky about it. Basically, he doesn't get paid for either job, and therefore has to be careful with how he spends. I get that. What I don't get is how brash and downright inconsiderate his cheapness is.

If you're eating something, drinking something, smoking something, or doing something, he wants in, wants some, and pouts if he doesn't get it. Sharing is fucking caring, right? But when does coerced sharing become mooching? Here's when. When someone asks you if you'd like to order food, tells you what they want, makes you order, and then tells you he has no money when the food comes.

I told him the price when I got off the phone, he said cool. Then the doorbell rings, I ask him for cash, and he looks at me like his cat just died and tells me that he has no money. After a "what the fuck" response from me, he blankly stares some more and says he has no cash for a few days except for 10 Brazilian Reais. That would be lovely dovely, except for the fact that we're not in Brazil.

So I paid for the food, tossed it on the table, and gave him another "what the fuck" look. He ultimately got someone to change his Brazilian cash into Argentine pesos, and he paid me. But it's the principle of this that kills me. I work, but make a limited income. I'm in no position to be sugar daddy for anyone, let alone a 20-year-old German I live with. To me, it's the equivalent of walking out on your tab at a restaurant. Plus, this shit adds up.

That's all. Just needed to vent. It's cold today, and I'm thinking of checking out some monkeys at the zoo. Peace out cubscouts.

Welcome to The Hostel Gospel

Hey there boys and girls, and welcome to The Hostel Gospel. The purpose of this site is to muse, document, insult, and scribe what goes on when you live in a youth hostel in a foreign country.

Don't let the name trick you though, this won't be limited to just hostel stories. That's just the launching point. The base of operations. The catalyst for catastrophe. In general, this site's about crossing cultures, languages, customs, sex, drugs, rock and roll, and bathrooms that NEVER work properly. If you've ever traveled, lived in a foreign country, or plan on doing both, then this site's for you.

So sit back, relax, enjoy. And if you have hostel stories of your own, drop me a line and we'll throw it on the site. Also, pics and videos would be much appreciated, as the average internet attention span is about 30 seconds, unless you've got boobie pics or Bollywood midgets break dancing to Hindi music. Do you have any boobie pics?