Day 32 - Overextending the metaphor

Salta to La Viño (100km) -Sunday 18th September


Neither of us really wanted to get up today. The thought of another lazy day was just too tempting (can you actually have a food hangover!?). As ever, we left this decision in the hands of the cycling gods... Ant Sleepily called reception to see if we could have the room for another night when the alarm went off, they tried and failed to arrange this for us, so we dragged ourselves up, fuelled our breakfast addiction and begrudgingly set off to find an open supermarket (they definitely sell food, but definitely don't sell sun cream or maps), and then onwards to a petrol station (apparently they sell maps... They don't really sell maps... nowhere sells maps... Except the 5th petrol station we tried... That actually had a map... Finally!!).
Eventually we were on our way South out the city and heading on the tourist trail towards Cafayte. We knew we'd not get there in one day (over 200km), so were aiming for some towns about half way just before the climb.
The first 30km was a traffic fuelled gauntlet escaping the city (isn't it always!), but we did at least pass several cute and bustling towns (promising that we will find a home this evening). As we were both lacking motivation and the scenery and road wasn't really taking steps to help us, I channelled Nike in the way only a moderately frustrated Emma can (bugger it... let's just do it). Before long I was head down and pedalling like there's no tomorrow taking the rolling countryside in my stride. Ant with his 30kg heavier load was clinging onto my wheel like a lost puppy. (note I'm probably strong enough to take more weight now... Or perhaps I'm still flying on 53% haematocrit... Maybe I'll wait till after the climb tomorrow!). At some point we realised our road could have been transported to the North or South downs and no one would know the difference - it felt like a Sunday outing. You'd think after days of pining for anything other than desert, that the familiarity of "home" would push us along. Although we were loving the gentle ups and downs and lapping up the now much more beautiful scenery, this also bought thoughts of family, friends, pubs and roast dinners. Not good thoughts for a day where you're "just doing it".
Now to feed our habit: It seems that Sunday is barbeque day. Almost every block has someone barbequing a heap of meat and selling it.  In a rather drug like fashion, even if you can't see it happening, you can smell it... in private gardens and behind the hedges. From about 1pm Ant started listing all the charred meat he could see and reporting what he'd eat for lunch!
And then it happened - the rave to our drug addiction... I don't really know if it was a special occasion or a weekly thing, but in El Carrel there was something that resembled a Sunday fête... Barbeques, music, cake stalls, freshly pressed orange juice, tables set out... Our eyes lit up, our stomachs pleaded, we didn't think twice. Come to think of it I don't think we even communicated to each other that we would stop, we just instinctively cycled our bikes off the road, like two synchronised swimmers, towards the charcoaled meat!
An orange juice and many chunks of BBQ goodness later and we were smiling again. I'd even forgotten that a bee had bit my temple just before the town (like a proper bee that you find in hot countries, not its weaker UK cousin... I was not happy... But now I was happy... I had my drug to lift me... Food!).
Soon we were on our way and churning out the last 50km. We stopped half way for some custard filled croissants that Ant had sourced this morning (he kept that quiet! Nom nom nom) and then counted down the km all the way into town.
"Town" is a rather ambitious title for a very sleepy dwelling. We'd had it under good authority (Ant's research and the lady in the tourist office (yes! They actually had a TIC there!!) calling cabiñas and hotels to confirm), that there would be plenty of places to stay. There were NOT plenty of places to stay. There were no places to stay. This was not pleasing, not pleasing at all. Luckily there was a hostal 2km North of the town, that we'd dismissed as looking a bit shabby and plumped it into the "well that's there if we really need it" category... We did really need it, so we did something we try never to do... We back tracked...(cue dramatic sounding "dum dum duuuum").
Turns out it just looks shabby from the outside. A guy (who reminded me of a 60year old Argentinian version of my cousin Drew) showed us to a lovely room with a sofa and TV too! He gleamed with joy when he pointed to things and said their name in English, we gleamed with joy when we spoke Spanish... There was a lot of giggling and some terrible miscommunication. Like after we'd confirmed that "yes, lomo and vino tinto with papas fritas sounds more than OK for supper" (we'd assumed we might be eating stale bread again), and both parties were pleased to have communicated well, and thus perhaps slightly overconfident in each other's ability.  He asked if we would also like "toales"... We looked puzzled... He said "toales", and held his arms up doing what us only described as "a little wiggle"... We started dancing and said..."dance?!"... "salsa?!!"...thinking this was slightly strange, but you never know in Latin America! At which point he was giggling almost uncontrollably and went inside telling us to wait a moment... slightly nervously we awaited his return... He produced two "towels".  We, all three, giggled some more and talked about dancing in the shower in the strange language we'd managed to create!
Dinner was lovely, wine was good, desert was terrible, but best of all we slept really really well... No noise except birds and animals in the trees, pitch black countryside... And a smile on our faces from when we took the wine back to our room and the cheeky chappy did his "toales" dance and said "good night... Try not to dance on the table!" with his trademark chuckle and a grin.
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