I was tourist. I thought no, eh, I thought that sleeping in the back room of a textile SMEs in Bangkok, walk to Machu Picchu while some poor kids in sandals brought us food and eating kebab every day in London because everything else was too expensive I got in touch with local realities. Bullshit. Then I lived in London a year: much cheaper is to buy the groceries. I did not Bangkok or Cuzco, but I'm sure there also must have got it all wrong. Or even, 90% of things. I will remain a tourist. Tourist in Montreal and Mendoza, in Montevideo and Moscow, with the Lonely Planet, slippers, like walking (although less and less), with efforts to speak the local language - I nie po ruski gavaru tourist-but in the end.
I was in Buenos Aires a month. In Buenos Aires I am not a tourist. Mind you, I'm not as local as possible. Some things I miss. But you know what? A journalist-blogger gender conversational HATE, hate and D 'Elia hates the car home and the late Fernando Peña, is the story of the emigrant who returns. And the migrant may have gone to work for three months to Porto Alegre, but when again adopts the pose of tourist supposedly sharp observations and tests on the reality of Argentina, the national being, and acceptable physical distance in the city of Buenos Aires. This time step.
I'll definitely re-Fainal Shandan the corner of the desktop on a brand 133 days - and I'll lose the least surprised that generates the town where I was born and spent most of my life. But there are tourists and tourists, eh. An example of tourists not MV via the Scribe. Tourists themselves, " is different than " and JB on bondis in Buenos Aires .
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