Its been said many times that writing is like a muscle, that you need to keep it in practice. For the past week, I haven’t been keeping in practice and have found myself slipping. So hopefully this is again the start of regular blog updates.
Buses in Argentina are incredibly luxurious, they easily top planes. Seats recline almost all the way back and a well-positioned leg rest swings down from the seat in front of you. They serve two meals, they have flight attendants, and even play movies. On the way to Mendoza this past weekend, they played the shitty Al Pacino movie 88 minutes followed by Mr. Bean Goes to School. Nice but random mix, though it was hard to fall asleep to Al Pacino hitting on college girls with a ringtone of Baby Got Back I think it was. Seriously, the movie sucks. Mr. Bean was better when he was taking off a guy’s pants through a stall because his were too short…
Mendoza is an Andean oasis, surrounded by desert on one side and mountains on another. The first thing I noticed in the city was a serious of trenches full of running water that ran along every street. The water gushed down these trenches, sadly often carrying trash with it, through the city.
Our hostel was a youth orientated place with several lounges, WiFi (thank god I could constantly fufill my internet addiction), a pool, two coolers of the local beer “Andes”, and a bar.
Mendoza itself is simply a boring city. The relaxed atmosphere was welcoming, as in when you crossed the street people didn’t speed up to run you over like in Buenos, but it was obvious that the city itself isn’t a destination.
On a brutal side note, as we explored the city, an intense desert wind lashed at us, tearing down trees and sending debris everywhere. I found out later from someone who worked at the hostel that several people died because of flying debris on Friday. The guy himself had an eye patch after being hit by something.
That night, for a small sum, we were treated to an all you can eat parilla (grill) at the hostel. For maybe an hour and a half, the hostel staff brought us endless steak, chorizo sausage, and blood sausage. We washed the steak and chorizo down with cheap wine, in between bites of salad and bread. The steak had some sort of salt glaze over it that made each bite delicious, incredible to savor. The chorizo was pleasantly spicy with a nice juicy texture. Blood sausage tasted surprisingly like chopped liver.
When the hostel staff came with each new plate of meat, everyone chaired, overjoyed that the experience would continue. A combination of party atmosphere and cheap, good food made this meal incredible.
We woke up early to be picked up by a company that would give us a bike and wine tour, a company listed by Lonely Planet as “The Only Bike Company You Should Trust”.
I spoke with the driver on the bus ride to the countryside surrounding Mendoza about the trenches I saw. It turned out that he worked with the irrigation department in the city and explained that these trenches and gutters were part of the irrigation system. They brought water through the city from the mountains, and fed Mendoza’s many tree lined boulevards. From there they ran into the country, feeding the vineyards and countryside. Looking around, seeing almost desert like conditions, I was able to now imagine the area in its springtime glory. When the mountain snows melt, feeding the city and countryside with life.
We got to the bike company, a shack with dilapidated bikes in front. It had charm and local character at least. And a toilet without a seat.
The bike tour turned out to be a bike rental, supply of water, and a map that led us to each vineyard off the town, Maipu’s, main street.
Maipu is not the Napa Valley. Biking along, I felt myself going through an authentic South American experience for once, with stray dogs everywhere, clay houses and things that resemble shacks to us passing as favorable domiciles, and an overall air of actual ruralness.
We took a turn for the first vineyard and found ourselves with no clue where to go until a toothless local pointed the direction. The first vineyard was more of a liquor producer, serving up a wide range of chocolate and other dessert inspired beverages. The multiple combinations of dulce de leche, chocolate, hazelnut, and banana flowed down my throat like a silk blanket. They also sold a wide variety of preserves, chocolates, and their own absinthe. I think you can guess which one I bought as a souvenir to take back to SigEp.
Before taking the turn for the next vineyard, a cop warned us that the last half of the wine tour was blocked off do to fallen trees and flooding, we brushed his warning off.
We took the turn for the next vineyard and someone’s bike tires popped. So now of course we’re asking why the hell Lonely Planet would recommend this bike company. Writing right now, I remember Lonely Planet’s other horrible Argentine recommendation. The "cheap and beautiful" shoes of 28 Sport. Fuck Lonely Planet and their shitty Argentine tour writer. Seriously, that guy must be so disconnected with reality.
Anyways, because the map was pretty vague and general, we found ourselves biking around the vineyard for an hour, looking for the entrance. When we found it, tours were closed. But on the way, we did pass a grape crusher that let off one of the most sweetly smooth smells.
We got back on the main route, got a replacement bike, and continued on. Now fearful that all vineyards would be closing at weird hours, we skipped a place listed as a “deli vineyard?” to get to another one, we wanted a real wine tasting.
Sure enough, we pulled our bikes through a gate, past several bunk houses to find a sign hanging above us that said “Bienbebidos”. Bienvenidos being the Spanish work for welcome and Bebidos being the word for drinks.
The scene presented was almost idyllic with a small wine shop and entrance to the distillery to our left and in front of us a weathered old man working a parilla.
After a mini wine class and tasting, we all bought glasses and took seats at tables, surrounded by the fields of grape vines.
We had a parilla platter and sipped our wine, marveling at the scenery around us. Even though things today had gone far from plan, I had to notice how absolutely lucky I was to be sitting there at that moment. Very few people get the incredible opportunity to sit at a vineyard, after a wine tasting, in beautiful country, on the other side of the world.
After a meal, we continued on the trek. We refused to let a flooded street stop us from reaching the next vineyard, fording the makeshift river like we were on the Oregon Trail and all of our Oxen were in danger.
We arrived at another vineyard and took a tour. They explained the aging process of their various vintages in what was obviously a sales pitch that we paid ten pesos for. A lot of tales about their history and due to their status as a boutique vineyard, their wines are barely available anywhere else in the world. Afterwards, we sat through another wine tasting. After two wine tastings, I can finally say that I’m starting to understand this whole difference in wine flavors thing. I bought two bottles simply because they seemed cheap and tasted good. Other people, older people on the tour who probably knew what they were doing, bought because of the “boutique status” and the hand done nature of the entire process.
We called the bike company to let them know where to pick up the bikes and to see if we could get a ride back to Mendoza. Let’s just say this conversation ended how you think it would. No help. And another strike against Lonely Planet.
Anyways, as we waited for the bus, I crossed the street and looked at the mountains that shot up from the horizon. Off there stood mountains that only exited as a line and a word on a map. Tomorrow, I would be venturing into them. But right now, I marveled at the intricate network and life system that ran through them. The miles of vineyards in front of me lived off a combination of snow from the mountains and gravity. A system built by Indians thousands of years ago, updated by Spanish settlers, transformed a desert into one of the world’s most prestigious wine producing regions. It also gave life to the many people who made their homes here. Water.
The day ended with the nonsensical rejection by the bus of one person’s fare. It took about fifteen minutes to put 2.20 into a machine, and in the process, the whole bus appreciated that universal language of physical comedy. Each time the total was close to being met, all the coins were spat back and all over the floor. People scrambled to help and then couldn’t stop laughing as the entire scene was replayed ad nauseam. Even the bus driver was chuckling.
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