My festival colleague, Leandro from Veintitrés magazine, told me that the jazz fest had come at the perfect time for him: “It will take my mind off the pending World Cup. By the time I get back, there’ll only be three more days until it begins,” he said.

This is true. It’s Tuesday today, and it all starts on Friday. Four years ago, I ‘d just quit my job in publishing in London, had packed up and shipped seven tea crates to Argentina and was bumming around in Spain for several weeks while the WC was on. And what with all the jazz going on at the bottom of the world these past six days, I’d pretty much forgotten about South Africa. I know England is in it (I dug out my navy-blue, short-sleeved nylon T-shirt some weeks ago) and I know Argentina is in it thanks to the excessive amount of Maradona posters pasted into windows, shops and kiosks (he’s not actually playing in it, you know…).

But the World Cup hadn’t reached my radar, to be honest, even though 10 Argentine hooligans were deported back from Southgate, South Africa today. A few weeks ago, I’d invited football guru Hand of Dan in for a chat on BA live , but apart from that and sending my footie shirt to the launderette, that has been the full extent of my awareness and support, until this evening.

Clambering off a plane at Aeroparque to take the 45 bus in San Telmo, having had the pleasure of sitting next to a wee-stinking gentleman for the best part of 30 minutes, I rumbled my butterfly-imprinted suitcase down the broken streets up to my bottle-green front door and was about to stagger up two flights of stairs when I was welcomed with an a capella version of the TV theme music from a teenager neighbour in the ‘family hotel’ (read as high-class squat) three doors down. How did I know it was thus track? Because the TV is always on at work for breaking news, and if I didn’t at the very least recognise that, then a very poor (not in financial terms) journalist I would be.

And it was that little melody that reminded me of where I was exactly: in one of football’s most passionate countries, where the fans live, breathe, sweat and sleeptalk World Cup, from the granny selling my smokes in the corner kiosco to the kids kicking a battered ball about in the street to the die-hard gentlemen who will neglect their families and duties for the next few weeks. A country where everyone has an opinion. What a place to be to catch World Cup fever. Lucky little me.

On BA live, Hand of Dan reckoned he’s the only man in Argentina who believes Argentina will win (and I’ll upload his opinions from that show any moment now). Well, I reckon, and I have no inside information oddly enough, that I’m the only English woman in Argentina who reckons England will win. Sadly, I am actually too financially poor to have a flutter, but what I have decided to do is watch those Argentine hearts, frozen or otherwise, flutter madly over the next month or, with a handkerchief in hand to mop up my feverish brow.

This lady doesn't look like me, Belén or Magda.

I won the work random email raffle much to my delight. So did colleague Belén. Besides basking in the glory that the Herald was good at something (winning random email raffles), we were the proud and happy recipients of a facial each courtesy of cosmetics guru Magda Pisani.

What with a trip to Bariloche, another trip to Cairo via Egypt then a trip to London then a wedding in La Pampa, it was hard to find the time to get together for this female bonding session.

But we finally managed the combo today, the day before Good Thursday (the day before Good Friday, right?). Belu rocked up at 11am and I was to follow at midday.

Preparing to leave the flat, a text message arrived. “The place is kind of 80s,” said Belu. I replied but there was no further response.

I was terrified. I’d seen the photos of magenta eye-shadow combined with a burgundy she-mullet and some kind of vampy suit. I can only imagine she had those jingling peace balls squished into her rock-solid lady parts, in fact I am certain that’s what I heard as she strode across to open the vast wooden door to me in her Santa Fe-Avenue clinic.

The best I can do is send you to www.magdapisani.com.ar here for the full Madga effect. And then you’ll see why I was petrified about how I would look after an hour with Madame Magda.

Oddly, Juan Carlos was the one slapping on then removing gloopy creams, prising away at my nose for all he’s worth – and he knows what he’s doing, he’s been a TV makeup artist since 1977, and used to use sandpaper (fact!) for exfoliation purposes. Blurgh, he filled up a whole bin with discarded tissues covered in my gunk, something he should apparently be doing every 40 days for me.

“I did Ricky Martin’s makeup once, you know. It was even obvious then, you know. That boy wanted me to put extra liner on his lower eye…” said Juan Carlos, who gives himself a facial every fortnight.

Now I’m not knocking his skills, this was probably the best facial treatment I’ve had, and when you came out of the clinic into 32-degree sun at 2pm feeling like a merengue and don’t break into a sweat, well, you know it was worth it.

But I just didn’t want to leave after 60 minutes on the table looking like Magda, who has a facial almost every day and may have been helped out by more than just sandpaper over the years. And the butterfly-shaped rugs and the papyrus obsession were wrong.

But thank you, work raffle. I feel shiner and softer than I have in a while.

Tonight darling, I can only see you before 9pm.

I’m in Mar del Plata this weekend, escaping the outrageous Buenos Aires heat for some beach action and the Magic Numbers gig. (Okay, it’s raining here and in BA, but at least the stifling air isn’t clogging up my wind pipes for a few days.)

Staying chez Kelly, my South African mate, I brought down some Thai red curry paste to cook us up a storm over the weekend – it was smuggled in by special delivery from the UK, so I’ve been saving it for a special moment to share with people who will appreciate it – this shit is hard to get hold of…

Kel’s blue peepers lit up when I told her my culinary plan and out came a pen and paper to compile a shopping list. On it went sweet potato, rice, tomatoes, peas, coconut milk (another hard-to-find essential ingredient which will make this Thai red cuzza all the more worthwhile when we finally eat it), some red peppers, red lager, red wine…

Florencia drove us to Toledo, the local MDP supermarket. Not known for its imported line of goods unlike the national Disco chain (think bottles of Guinness, Bonne Maman strawberry jam, pretzels although Pimms hasn’t quite reached their shelves yet), I was happy to substitute coconut milk for cream but Kelly insisted: she knew where to get it from.

Wandering around Toledo, we tried some trans-fat free oatmeal biscuits, weighed up the pros and cons of packet and ready-to-great hunks of Parmesan cheese (we chose the latter), and selected some alcohol to see the four of us (including friend Chance) through to tomorrow’s curry night.

Flor and I spent time selecting a Benjamin Cabernet Sauvignon, a Las Moras Cabernet Sauvignon and a Valentín Lacrado blend, between $15 and $20 (pesos) each.

Kel had been busy weighing up the veg and hadn’t seen the wines and at the checkout, she delightedly chirped: “We had the Lacrado at our wedding.” It was a nice coincidence, but sadly that was where our renewed vows with Valentin ended.

“You can’t buy that,” said the chubby brunette at the checkout. “It’s ten past nine.”

What? Flor and I looked at each other aghast. We both live in the capital where it’s possible to get almost anything you want at any time of day, and it turned out that the province has a different, stricter adhesion to the law. Our world started to collapse.

Now, it’s not that we’re alcoholics, but we were simply looking forward to a glass of wine with tonight’s pasta. Civilised adults with an average age of 33, the aim was to eat in as it was raining and enjoy the company with some decent food and a splash of vino colapso, as Marsha from Spaced would say.

And for the sake of ten minutes, that little moment of happiness was brutally snatched from us.

Incredulous, we tried to fight it out the checkout woman, but she insisted there was a large sign in the alcohol section. So large that alcohol needs to come with a magnifying glass because all the people in our queue missed it – one man behind us, also a holidaymaker otherwise he’d have known the rules, trudged off to return his plonk.

When I say you can get what you want in BA, I don’t mean everything is legal at all times of day, but there are ways around such inconveniences. Flor started plotting. How could we get round this? We genuinely felt like we were being pushed towards bending the law, positively encouraged due to the 9pm cut-off point.

Perhaps we should have just accepted our lot as responsible adults but as responsible adults we felt we should be allowed to buy alcohol in a supermarket at least until its closes (10pm in Toledo’s case).

Grumbling all the way back to Kelly’s in La Perla neighbourhood, we made unfair comparisons with BA, slagged off the politicians and wondered what we could do.

Parking up, Flor and I went to the corner shop to buy some cigarettes. “Have you got the number for a delivery company by any chance?” asked Flor. “We want to get some alcohol.”

“They don’t just deliver booze,” chortled the girl, and looking at each other, Flor assured her that we only wanted some wine.

Mobile number in hand, the call was made and 30 minutes later, we are now the proud owners of two bottles of Valentin Lacrado.

Arrest us - if you can find us. Flor (left), the two bottles of Valentín and me.

Ah. De dónde sos? Only one taxi driver in BA has ever guessed, first time, where I’m from, after simply telling him where to drive me. And I’ve taken more than one…

And as a getting-to-know-you question, well, I’m over that backpacker’s intro. Just ask me what I did last night and that will give you a far greater insight into me, if you actually care.

I do visibly recoil from “where are you from?” Because it means nothing to me. I just say I’m from here, Buenos Aires, capital of Argentina, as that’s where I live, just like I used to be from Cariló where I was for two years.

At times I’m accused of being unfriendly, aggressive even, by people who think it matters de dónde soy. What, because the whites of my eyes just rolled out the back of my head onto the broken pavement to leave my irises unblinking and enraged in their sockets, that makes me unfriendly?

Does it truly make a difference? Sometimes it just seems you’ll only talk to me because I’m Canadian, or Australian, or Italian. Really, it’s not aggression, it’s just boredom. I find it tedious answering that question which gets asked as regularly as I go to the loo. And if it’s a nationality you’re after, well that final word should clarify it. And if I want to say I’m Argentine or Dominican, just let me be.

But to end on a high note, this video was made by a mate, Gonzalo Mazar, who plays in the electro-gypsy funk band Mama Pulpa. And it’s called De dónde sos?.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wDBEWTSlH0

Scorrish-Catalan actor Gary Piquer plays Principe Orsini in the Uruguayan and Spanish-funded movie which is part Western, part sports drama, part black comedy, a tasty cocktail of a production.

The “prince” is the salesman who has lost heart, and no longer believes in what he does. Manager, parent, best friend to Jacob van Oppen (Jouko Ahola), a wrestler the self-proclaimed prince touts as the strongest man in the world.

Fighting his own battles, the Spanish prince is complex, conniving, and spins such a line about his protege that the small town folk of Santa Maria also stop believing in him.

It’s great news for Piquer, who co-wrote the script with director Alvaro Brechner, to win the best actor accolade in the international film category at Mar del Plata.

When I interviewed him, Piquer said that Brechner was encouraging him to do so with various help books, and although he was an actor of the lazy variety, he would probably continue writing.

Congratulations to the cast and crew of Mal dia. Let’s hope Argentina gets to see it in the cinemas soon.

Thirty-six hours in Mar del Plata for the 24th international film festival doesn’t give a huge amount of scope for cinema going. Still I did what I could, using someone else’s expenses.

Sunday night and day two meant a quick jaunt off the main drag San Martin into the steepest cinema I’ve ever stepped up into, and a light-hearted North American comedy. True Adolescents is a coming-of-age story about the 34-year-old singer of a rock band, on what he considers to be the verge of the big time, and his 14-year-old cousin.

Forced to live with his aunt after burning all other bridges, Sam is convinced into taking Oliver and his best friend Jake on a road trip. Ill equipped, unprepared, the teenagers show Sam the “rock star” how to pull girls, while Sam desperately tries to ascertain pull some kind of rank.

Classic horror stories round the beach campfire result in Sam donning a scary mask to frighten the wimpish Jake, but as he lurches into the boys’ tent to find them… kissing each other.

Silly and light-hearted, Sam (Mark Duplass) is boorish and uncouth but ends up the lovable hero of the day. Just. Which means True Adolescents is just about worth it for the inevitable giggles.

I’ve never dabbled much in South Korean cinema but Castaway on the Moon (or The Adventures of Mr. Kim to give it its Korean real title) tickled my, umm, tickle buds. Lee Hae-Joon’s love story kicks off with a failed suicide attempt, and Kim ends up on a desert island in the middle of the river opposite his city.

His survival instinct kicks in, but little does he know he’s being watched by an otaku girl who hasn’t left her home for three years, who obsessively snaps photos of him and pastes them to her wall. She then takes the step of sending him messages in bottles, which he receives and a one-sided relationship begins.

This film sold 14% of all ticket sales in its first weekend at South Korean cinemas, and it should have sold more. Jae-yeong Jeong as Kim is quirky, expressive and hilarious in his isolation, especially when he reprimands himself for his failed suicide. The photography hones in on his every thought, and the anger when he receives a fried bean rice delivery from his admirer throws into obliteration everything he is working towards to stay on his island. Until the council comes to clean it up.

More attractive than Tom Hanks in Castaway, Jae-yeong Jeon is the modern-day castaway, and this romantic comedy is unconventional and captiviating.

My prayers didn't work... sorry Danny Howells

Bit later than expected, as it’s now 12.30pm but this is make or break time. Will it take place or not?

Turns out it will go ahead but on Saturday, December 19.

Headline act already confirmed as Dutch DJ and producer Tiesto.

But although Creamfield’s PR firm TyT says the GEBA venue will be used, as planned for November 7, inside sources say it has NOT been confirmed as yet.

On the one hand, it’s great it will finally take place and electronic music fans can show the world how much it means to them. On the other, heads should roll because someone in the Creamfields team never got that full approval from the city government – and that makes a mockery of the whole event.

And me? Chuffed to pieces as I get to go to the Mar del Plata film festival and Creamfields….

I'm praying to the god of DJs that Danny Howells be in BA this weekend

Last Thursday, October 29, the Buenos Aires city government confirmed that the 2009 Creamfields BA, the biggest of ‘em all in the whole darned world, had been suspended. And the reason was as simple as this: the government had not authorised permission for it to be held at GEBA in the Palemero neighbourhood.

A cock-up on a grand scale if you please.

Creamfields BA has changed hands this year: that’s to say its main man Martin Gontad of 2 Net, voted into the top 100 of an influential British electronic music magazine’s dance pioneers, is running it independently from the event’s previous promotor Time 4 Fun.

The silence has been noted all round, and more than ever since last Thursday. Clubbers have been talking about CF for months, but no line up was announced until perhaps six weeks ago. Rumours went flying round about Armin van Buuren, Orbital, David Guetta, 2 Many DJS and Danny Howells long before the website went live confirming their presence, and no one could ascertain where it would take place.

The GEBA venue, with half the capacity of 2008′s Autodromo, was then confirmed a month or so ago, and billboards covered the streets.

But despite this disastrous turn of events, perhaps Gontad knows exactly what he is doing. He brought electronic music to Argentina, he’s been promoting for 15 odd years, and all the biggest names play here because of him. He sat on a panel at the second Ibiza International Music Summit this year and frankly this man is unlikely to let the BA city government get the better of his beloved Creamfields.

With four days to go, rumours include a return to the Autodromo or postponing it to December, which seems unlikely given that it will be nigh on impossible to reschedule all these DJs’ diaries, never mind the logisitics of putting up all those stages.

Perhaps he’ll open up the Costa Salguero with its 5,000 capacity for those who already got tickets. Maybe we’ll be travelling round the city all night hunting down our fave DJ who’ve been shipped into some murky club like Cocoliche. Or maybe Gontad will have his way with GEBA after all.

This evening Martin Gontad promised me via email that he would be making an official annoucement at 11am tomorrow.

All I know is that even if Creamfields does take place this Saturday, I won’t be going because I forgot I’m heading to the Mar del Plata International Film Festival…

The San Telmo venue

But here is an additional to what actually happened during the interview. The pair behind the electronic chill-out group, Henry and Sam, had a chat with me outside San Telmo’s La Trastienda on a gorgeously misleading Saturday afternoon.

A half-hour interview turned into a 90-minute chat about Buenos Aires, what to do and where to go as they were staying in town for a few extra days sin manager.

As we nattered about Personal Fest, the differences between a Spanish and Argentine accent and where to get a decent steak, two men sat down beside us and started to slyly move Henry’s laptop bag towards him. It looked as if they were moving it, but turned out they were trying to steal it.

Henry took charge and grabbed it back, saying “I’ll have that thank you,” loudly. The gruesome twosome continued to sit there, and as Henry and Sam then recounted how one of the band got robbed the day the 15-strong band and entourage arrived, none of us really took any notice of the two.

Until 10 minutes later, when one band member to whom we’d just sung happy birthday to, came up to us frantically looking for his bag. Clearly, the gruesome twosome had swiped it.

I felt like crap for not being alert enough, I live here after all and should be aware of this bullshit, but at the same time, the band had record label people around them who should have been looking out for them and their possessions. But I felt pretty useless.

I’ve had my bag swiped in London from under my nose, but I just hate the fact that they may have left Argentina thinking bad thoughts.

I was down $50 while my flat mate lost out on one of these purple babies

I don’t mean to bundle pickpockets and cabbies into the same category but I have only ever been susceptible to the latter ripping me off in Argentina.

On the UK Yahoo! website today http://uk.travel.yahoo.com/p-promo-2946038
Buenos Aires has been ranked the seventh worst place to be pickpocketed by Trip Advisor.

The old yoghurt drink trick is a popular way of getting you to voluntarily part with your bag or coat, often because a helpful thief offers to relieve you of it as they clean you down. Grin and bear the touching up – rather that than calling all your credit card operators with the bad news that your card was stolen.

Another test of mettle is the transvestite testicle grab. Just two weeks ago, late one Friday night, a trannie, heaving bosum in tow, leapt out of a taxi and tried to manhandle a friend. (No names mentioned here…) We told him to keep his hands firmly in his pockets and run, if possible. His iPhone remained where it should have done…

I’ve just touched some wood as I’ve never been on the end of a pick pocket’s nasty little habit. But I have been conned by taxi drivers. When it’s the odd five-peso note, which happened in Mar del Plata, well, you can let it go frankly. Could be a mistake or a small amount of bravado.

But the other day, by taking an eye off the ball for the briefest of moments, I was stung for 50 pesos while my roomate was stung for a further $100, all in the same journey. The shame.

How? The driver, who chatted and buddied his way into our hearts, did some nifty finger work and gave me some change. I was about to shut the door and wander off into the night when boom! “Sorry love, that fifty’s a fake.” Clearly I wasn’t expecting that, so my flat mate handed over a $100 bill. Some more magic, “haven’t you got anything smaller?” and a dodgy note later, it was all so quick and we had no idea what had happened.

A chat with some mates over ceviche last night put losing some money in perspective for me, however. A taxi driver pulled a gun on a girl and threatened to take her to his “brothers. ” She leapt out of the moving vehicle and was lucky to escape with two broken ankles.

I don’t want to bitch about all taxi drivers. But an editor friend has chatted with cabbies who admit they do get together to brag about how much they rip the foreigners off for. Gringo baiting…

I need to keep a sense of perspective over this as I do have my ankles in tact, but I felt foolish to say the least. The lesson? Keep your wits about you on all methods of transport.