The intertidal zone

Work and play run together. Here’s the lunch table. Just un poco vino at this time of day…

When is a dog not on the (forbidden) sofa? Meet Pocha.

We happened upon a tango class. Lovely Alejandra (L) gave us two lessons before she and Ariel returned to Buenos Aires. In the class we met lovely Lidia (R) who happens to be a masseuse … Today she fought with the writers’ knots in our backs — and won. Tomorrow we’re going to let her have our forty digits. My first-ever mani-pedi-cure. Don’t cry for me (in) Argentina…

Okay, so the risotto looks oddly like the jellyfish I saw washed up on one of those toxic Auckland beaches the day before I came here, but it tasted fantastic (except that the mushrooms had the texture of, well, jellyfish, probably).

Talking of mushrooms, an hour up the road is the fast-growing city of Mar del Plata, filled in summer with tens of thousands of portenos — Buenos Aireans on holiday. Down at the port, sea lions sport amongst the fishing boats. They make Otago’s ‘Mum’ look like a pixie.

The next largest mammal frequenting our neck of the woods … every house has one, many two. This wag was beside itself to be petted; most are functional. They guard the house.

I walked home from lunch, half an hour along the Atlantic. Note the nor’west arch, and those are mares’ tails on the left. I thought I saw a penguin in the surf, looking to come ashore, but the sandhills are so (newly) built up, there must be many, many birds that have lost their original habitat.

I’m thinking of painting the brickwork when I get home.

Wanting soap, I held my hands under the pink thing. Waved them about. Squeezed it. Nada. Then I realised it was the soap. You wet your hands and carress it…

Go out the door of our little house and look left due west up the sandy road. La pampa begins.

Drive for an hour and a half to Ayacucha. Have a cup of coffee and wonder where everybody is.

Talking about the colour, okay? Fooksia.

I was alarmed when Elena whooped and began to scrabble up these hongos from under the pine trees. You know, the sort that turn to slime, the ones you’d tell your children not to touch. Perfecto, she says. Tomorrow’s risotto. Watch this space.

… to Pinamar four hours down the Atlantic coast.

That’s taken up the first week in Argentina. We’re doing some good work on our novel, have hired bikes which we park inside at night like two pampered ponies. I’m working my way through Spanish Pastries 1, and Calvin and Hobbes, the Spanish version, for the sake of mi languaje.

Papa! Papa! Donde guardas las pistolas?