What becomes of the broken hearted.

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
1
270
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Trip End Ongoing


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Flag of Argentina  ,
Saturday, June 23, 2012

As hostels go, this has got to be one of the quietest on record.  Quiet as in I'm the only person staying here.  Feeling like death, I simply lie in my wasted private room and mess around on the internet for the whole day.  That is until I decide to go out.  What did you expect?

Going out alone always smacks of desperation, but I don't give a damn.  If there is one thing I'm fairly decent-to-fair at it's speaking to people.  I can make instant friends in a cup.  How long that friendship lasts is a moot point, but on this occasion, I'm out to whittle my way into some unfortunate souls company and remain there for the duration of the binge.  And it is an unfortunate soul I find.

Sebastian is nursing a sickly sweet beer at the bar, staring at the label intently.  He's a man in torment, beaten by whatever discourse has taken place over his smart phone.  Hunched on the bar stool, I anticipate his need to talk before he's leaned in for a question.  "Do you know where this beer is from?"  He nonchalantly opens the conversation.  I know he's not in the mood for small talk, so within minutes he's describing a situation I know all too well.  His girlfriend of (coincidentally enough) three years has gone out with work mates and he's expecting her call.  Of course that never comes, so he's sitting at the bar waiting for her to arrive after pre-arranging a meeting.  Of course she never arrives either, despite some of her work colleagues being present.  Alarm bells are ringing and my new companion recognises it too.

I lost count of the amount of times this happened to me with my ex.  Sat waiting in a bar, or sitting at home, expecting the call or text that never comes, checking the phone every few seconds, staring at old messages for hours.  It's torturous, but regardless of the lack of contact, Sebastian seems to be taking it remarkably well.  Clearly he's not a Scorpio.  I would have been crying into my beer and smashing something.  Within the hour he's suggesting a walk to a decent stretch of clubs.  At the same time he's received a text saying it's over.  I feel the mans pain, but he betrays little.  What a hero.

Before long we're striding up the road in the direction of life.  Here we fatefully bump into mi amigo Luis from the other night, arm in arm with his quarry that has kept him from leaving Mendoza.  I'm actually not up for a big one, content instead to find a local pool hall and play the night away.  All with a view to taking Sebastian's mind off his current problem, beating Luis comfortably on the green baize and flirting intensely with a beautiful Argentinian at the table opposite.  By the time I've been driven home, I feel I've accomplished all three with some degree of success.

 
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