Crypt-Creeping, Sausage Parties.

So I've finally recovered from my last trip to Argentina. Spent a day lost in El Cemeterio de la Recoleta, crept into crypts, got lost in the antique markets in San Telmo, haggled with Willendorf-Señoras, spent most of my time with my friend Santiago, member of the Argentine branch of Il Divo. (Il Divo is mom-porn.)

Last night I drank about 2 litres of pisco sour. Pisco sour, for those who don't know, is made with a small Peruvian lime called a pica, some ludicrously potent south american spirit, and egg whites. It wasn't until halfway through the second litre that I realized I was full of raw eggs. I had evoked a Susan Powter moment, and had even considered making myself sick. She would have approved of both.

Anyway, the occasion was the 18 de Septiembre, allegedly Chile's independence day. I've been told this actually occurs in February, but September had been lacking in a long weekend, and perhaps they wanted to distract everyone from the anniversary of the military junta in '73. Nonetheless, we celebrated in true sass-bag style at Niko's place in La Reina (with La Reina de La Reina) in a big, gay fonda. A fonda is yet another Chilean word for party, usually characterized by the presence of Huasos (enponchoed Juan-Valdezesque Chilean cowboys), albeit falsos, and Choripan, stubby little red hotdogs drowning in pebre. It was a true sausage party in every sense of the word.

Next year I want to throw a Jane fonda, complete with headbands and unitards.