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February 15, 2012

Ready to navigate. La Falcon is adorned with a chatty GPS before she sets off north of the capital to Tigre, for Saturday’s getaway. Searing hot sun microwaves our heads inside black helmets but we’re too busy mimicking the Spanish female GPS with her Spanith accenth to mind.

We stop off to sit on the grass and soak up the slow pace riverside. Fishermen are dotted along the railings, a father-mother-daughter trio bake themselves contentedly and sailing boats, speed boats and jet skis breeze by. A peaceful pensive mood settles, punctuated by the next-door screechings of a fierce grandmother to her grandson. ‘WHAT did you just say?’ He looks out at the water and smirks. ‘I just said what dad said.’ ….’And you REPEAT it?’ We smile fixedly at the river, amused and embarrassed. All the while a thousand professional insects are snacking cloak-and-dagger on my legs, an angry work of art that remains four days later.

The river around Tigre separates off into narrow veins that twist and turn past small islands. I visited a friend holidaying on one such island in 2009 and passed the local supermarket on the way…

This is what it’s like from above…

…and down on the ‘ground’…

Back on the Falcon, we whizzed around the town feeling free until. A flat tire. A sweltering and sweaty half an hour later and La Falcon was legless and being manhandled by a short, hefty, mullet-wearing mechanic, who only opened his mouth a fraction to speak and didn’t bother to finish his words. I was the only one who found this. He saved our bacon though.

While La Falcon was under the knife, JP was bereft, surrounded by mechanical accoutrements.

We made it home in one piece, to the choruth of the Spanith GPS.

A flaming tangerine sky ends Valentine’s Day.

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