We knew things had reached a peak when Pablo offered us his ex girlfriend saying, “Two guys, no problem for her.”
Luckily for us, she was back in Buenos Aires and we were in Mendoza. I skipped a few steps there, so let me backtrack.
Mendoza is an easy night bus ride from Buenos Aires. It is an entire world away from what I would have considered my life even at the first of the year.
Retiro is the main bus station in Buenos Aires. It is also connected to both underground and overground train stations. This place is a transport hub. From here, you can link up with numerous bus companies to get you to just about anywhere. If you are fortunate enough to have time to ask around, you may run into the company San Juan Mar del Plata. This bus has waiters, unending hot and cold drinks, movies, wi-fi, wine, whiskey, and even serves damn good meals. This bus was the bomb, and was cheaper than any of the other top tier service providers that offered the same trip. 20 hours on a bus is no joke; ride in style.
The next morning as we shifted restlessly in our seats, wondering how to work the onboard coffee machine, a pair of large almond shaped eyes capped by brown hair and surrounded by a Native American tan peeked over the seat in front of us. She asked us in perfect English if we were from the USA. I could feel Joe tense up in the seat next to me; he was enthralled. Later, Joe would refer to her as “the hottest girl ever.” She had perfect straight teeth, and an infectious smile and laugh. Soon, she and Joe were talking about everything under the sun, in the way that people with nothing to lose can talk. We learned the word for grape, “uva.” We learned that the grapes from this area are dependent on the irrigation that runs down from the nearby mountatins. She told us that the best beef is always exported from Argentina, and that the recent push for soy was ruining the land it was planted on and causing a huge outcry from the farming community. She gave her name as Mirabelle and exited the bus at Villa Mercedes before we ever made it to Mendoza. Joe was nearly in shock afterward with the realization that he had spent nearly the last 20 hours next to this girl and only had an hour of conversation with her. Mirabelle, if you are reading this, Joe would like to propose.
We finally got off the bus in the warm light of morning and went to find ‘Shark’ to get a ride to the hostel. Shark was sadly nowhere to be found, as we were very far from the ocean, but we did find a phone and a taxi. When we arrived at our hostel, the front desk paid the cab, true to their world, and saved us about $2.
If you ever want to go hang out with a bunch of misplaced Rastafarians, try the Hostel Internacional Mendoza. You’ll love it. They have free parties twice a week and the music is matched in its awfulness by its volume.
Mendoza has its own rhythm. It is something to adjust to after leaving B.A. We spent the entire day walking around the city, bought some groceries that were to provide us several meals for the price of what we usually spend on one meal out, and layed around in the central park occasionally climbing trees. Towards the end of the day we found the peatonal, a caminito of sorts, a walking mall directly south of the main plaza and above the main street of San Martin. Everyone in town walks through this place for some reason during the day.
In one of our trips to the Carrefour, a store that simply does not exist within the USA despite being the second largest chain in the world after Walk-Mart, Joe and I managed to come up with the makings of some great guacamole. Part of this particular dish being onions, it may actually kill Joe if he ever ate it as such. So the plan was to make up the guacamole up, including tomatoes, garlic, lime, etc, without the inclusion of the onions so we could separate out a portion for Joe and then add onions to the rest. This wasn’t exactly how things panned out. About halfway through tossing a handful of onions into the mix, I remembered that I may be handing out a death sentence to my companion and panicked. We managed to scrape the onions off to one side and salvage the dish, but it reminded me of how much people with severe food allergies really have to be on the lookout while traveling. This was a constant battle while were were abroad, leading to one of Joe’s first Spanish phrases, “sin cibolla” meaning “without onions.” This didn’t stop several waiters and chefs from making similar attempts on his life, but Joe is still alive today despite all our best efforts and a distinct daily overdose of motorcycles.
The next day we booked a trip to go hiking and rappelling (abseilling) in the Andes and visit some natural hot springs. My friend Joe had never gone rappelling, so I figured this would be a cool thing to do. It was quite fun, though no gloves were provided. When I asked the guide, Leo, why this was, he said it was because you couldn’t feel the rope with gloves on. I replied, “Isn’t that the point?” I don’t think he got it.
We did, though. Rappelling in the Andes was a great opener for my teammate Joe who had never tried it before. By the time we were done, we were very ready for the ensuing hot pools at the base of the cliffs. And what a surprise was in store for me. Yet again, I ran into this magnificently friendly French Canadian girl I met in Chile and en route to Machu Pichu. (Chica, if you are reading this, I apologize profusely for forgetting your name yet again! I tried to find you to get your email, but you were gone before I could find you again. If you email me, I promise to come meet up with you when I am in Canada so I can buy you a beer.)
The spa was lovely, hot, and quite picturesque. It was a full day of adventure and we rolled back into Mendoza with greatness in our minds. Instead, we simply went for a walk. Mendoza seems to center any activity around certain areas. there is a tourist part in the morth west, then 4 quadratic parks surround the main park downtown which connects to the peatonal. Again we found ourselves in the peatonal and went to the same restaraunt for lack of any grand ideas to drink a grape beer they had there. Our same waitress waas there and we actually got her name this time and had some fun chatting about the city and her life. Yoha, short for Johanna, was a gem! Despite the fact that Joe could understand almost nothing of what she said, she made the city really come alive for both of us; such was her charm.
Some nights of the week, the Mendoza Hostel International hosts a pizza party. If you are ever there and thinking of attending, I warn you it is a terrible idea, and for the sake of yoru health and sanity, you should avoid this cacophony of pain and horror. The hostel even offers all-you-can-drink tequila. Now, this is the first time in my life, I have ever heard of all-you-can-drink aaanything, let alone something as disaster filled as a bottle of tequila. Now that I have experienced this, and a couple other instances of all-you-can-drink, I can accurately tell you this is a horrible idea also. Just don’t do it. If you choose to drink, do it with quality, not quantity. This tequila was something reminiscent of cheap vanilla liqueur marinated in a radiator, then watered down runoff from a urinal. I mean it: don’t do it.
Obviously, to be able to say this so adamantly, I, solely for the sake of research, did do it. For any of you who have ever seen me drink tequila before, or have seen me on a neighbors lawn with no pants on after having drunk tequila, you know that this probably didn’t end well. Only my traveling partner knows just how wrong this went. And I hope he is not telling.
The following morning following the level of distaste, and perhaps disgrace, Joe and I had with this particular hostel had reached a breaking point. So we picked up and wheeled across town to check into another roughly equivalent hostel. It was here that we made the amazing and brilliant plan to get some bikes and go ride around to many of the wineries in the area. For the Mormons reading this, Mendoza is known for great wines and perhaps the best Malbecs in the world. Thanks to the worlds cutest couple, Max and Tasha, we knew that the place to get bikes was Mr. Hugo. We did not know that it would give us soooo much more.
We set off in the morning to the main train station, something of a crash site in itself with all the 4 a.m. arrivals lazing about until the hostels allow check-in. The directions to get to Mr. Hugo’s bike rentals are simple. Get on Bus 10, tell the bus driver you are going to Mr. Hugo’s, then get off when he tells you to or when everyone else does. With my newly acquired spanish skills this was less of a problem than it would have been several months ago. I’m glad we followed the directions.
Jumpin on bus 10, I informed our bus driver of our needs.
“My good man, we need to go to Mr. Hugo’s. Will you tell us when to get off?”
Yes, of course, get off right now.
“But we need to go to Mr. Hugo’s. We are taking bus 10, this bus, we just need to know when to get off.”
Yes, I know. Get off right now. You need bus 10, but not this bus 10. get the next one. I’m not stopping there.
I am Jose’s false start.
Eventually we manage to find the correct bus 10 along with several other travelers. As it turns out, we didn’t really have to worry about when to get off, as an emissary from Mr. Hugo’s climbed onto the bus a couple stops before we needed to get off so he could give we new pilgrims the directions to our Promised Land.
Mr. Hugo’s is a mildly orchestrated zoo on the surface; bikes are wheeling in and out of the front gate, a dozen languages are flying around, and for some reason, the owner was pouring out wine to all the renters, even though we were going to be riding around to wine tastings all day. When one of his kids (or grandkids) makes a grab for the wine vase I heard his wife tell them not to because it is the “Gringo Wine.” I’m not sure what that meant, but I downed a glass to take the edge off the hangover.
The bikes were everything I would expect from a bike rental place that caters mostly to low rent alcoholics; basic, bent parts, few gears, durable. I ask for one with a basket on the front because I could never get away with that crap in the USA. It was easier than wearing a backpack all day.
We immediately set out for sustenance. Which we didn’t know was about 7 km away… and we would have to wait for about 30 mintues after arrival for food to arrive. This particular winery, nameless as it shall remain, served us the usual meat con carne and some rather underwhelming wine derivates. This sets the pace for the day with the exception of two places.
Bodega Tempus Alba. If I had to pick one building in all my Latin American travels that I would most love to return to, it would be this winery; Italian man kissing aside. I’ll get to that in a minute.
After a day of muuuch bicycling, average wine and narrow misses with the traffic we were nearly ready to turn in. We knew there was something out there awaiting us, or neither Mendoza nor Mr. Hugo would be so popular. We found it. Tempus Alba is amazing. It lacks all of the rustic backwater feel that I had been surrounded by for months in Latin America. It is pure European svelte awesomeness. The music was fantastic lounge electronica, the fields were beautiful, the breeze was perfect, and the sun was just right. Then came the wine. If you could drink a mixture of silk and ambrosia it would taste very much like the wine we had at Tempus Alba. The only reason we left is that they asked us to leave because they had closed some time before.
On the way out of the winery, the owner came out to see us, as we had been there for much of the afternoon entertaining the employees and guests alike. I’m not sure what the hell he said, but he walked up to both myself and Joe and embraced us and gave us a heartfelt kiss on the cheek before asking us to return when we could. Joe and I walked out in a combined state of tipsy acceptance of our first mankiss, and set off for the only place we knew to still be open on the list of top sites; A La Antigua.
Antigua is unlike the other wineries in Mendoza in that it is not really a winery. Antigua makes all manner of things from chocolates to liqueurs including spreads, james, olive oil, etc. This is where Joe found Absinthe. This is where I found the Russian Death.
Yes, I said Russian Death.
The limiting factor of enjoyment at A La Antigua is that there are so many different things to try, that they cannot let you try everything, there are only so many items you can taste with your roughly $5 entrance fee, that you really must choose wisely. Joe went straight for the Absinthe. May I suggest… the Muerte Rusa.
Muerte Rusa. Russian Death. This overlong bottle of green liquid with questionable bits of hot chili pepper at the bottom, is a source of energy and mirth the like of which the world has never before seen. I didn’t know how powerful this stuff was when I bought two bottles of it. Had I know, I would have ordered a case to be shipped to the USA. More on this later.
Leaving A La Antigua, Joe and I were in a rather disheveled state. We had been up most of the night before drinking something awful. We started the morning with Bread con pan and Gringo Wine, then proceeded to Meat con Carne and about another 2 dozen glasses of wine over the day to finish with absinthe and Russian Death. This was the effing Olympics of drunken bicycle riding.
Joe and I have plenty of exprience riding things on two wheels; we race motorcycles. We have plenty of experience crashing things on two wheels; we race motorcycles. That being said, there was surprisingly little crashing on this particular day; more like a sloth race meandering back and forth across a lane of traffic powered by laughter and Spanglish. It wasn’t long before we were seen for the world class maniacs that we were.
By the Policia.
The Argentine paddy wagon appeared behind us rather suddenly and crept along at our snails pace for a block or two. We eventually noticed it and then decided to continue on our way and see what happened.
Then the lights came on.
Blue lights sprayed the walls and pavement around us like a K-Mart firestorm. Joe turned to ask me if they were pulling us over. I assured him with the certainty of the Righteous that if they were, then they would use the sirens; we were cool to keep going. For once, I was right. The police followed us for what seemed like miles with their lights on until we could get back the relative safety of Mr. Hugo’s courtyard where Mr. Hugo and his family had a full blown party going.
Among this fiesta were a few very cool cats from New Zealand and some local boys. Gringo Wine was flowing like water and madness tinged the conversation everywhere. The Kiwis talked tirelessly about their home country and the greatness there. Black sand, white sand, red sand, jade forests, double rainbow fish, the list went on and on. As all of us steadily marched our sodden parade toward drunkenness Mr. Hugo and the family made the rounds telling all the extranjeros that the last bus 10, the correct bus 10, was pulling up in a few minutes. Winding everything up, tipping the cups, I noticed that the local boys weren’t faring too well, stumbling a bit more than the rest and talking at loud volumes with our Kiwi friends. The locals revealed that there truck was parked outside and recommended everyone pile in and go party in town. Even Joe and I knew this was a matter of taking your life in your hands, but the Kiwi bunch, undaunted, jumped into the back of the truck and it ripped off into the night and what could well have been it’s final voyage.
Tango being one of the large motivating factors for my stay in Argentina, I wanted to keep up the practicing while in Mendoza. While lessons were a little harder to come by, there is a tourist information bureau near the southern end of the peatonal that has fliers and information for lessons and milongue. One of them takes place in the lower level of a bank. This was the first one I attended. It was wonderful. Gone were the silly tourists, absent were the aging experts; the room was filled with 20 and 30 something women and men who seemed to be having a great time. It was time well spent. I was constantly being reminded of what a bad dance partner I was, but I made definite improvement towards the end of the class, and with renewed vigor I made plans to attend two more classes that week at other locations. This didn’t work out so well, since at both the other occasions, the mix of attendees was never as favorable, including mostly old expert couples and first time tourist males. This just meant Joe and I spent more time with our favorite waitress, Yoha.
It was at this restaraunt that I met my all time favorite beggar of all time. Joe and I were deep in conversation over grape beer when a young man rocked up and asked us for money… for an operation for one of his sick family members. We politely declined. He then looked at the table, pointed, and asked, “Then, can I finish your beer?”
Instant Classic.
Eventually, our time in Mendoza was drawing to a close. The first Argentine I had ever met, Pato, lived in Córdoba which was almost en route to our intended destination of Puerto Iguazú and the Iguazú Falls that join Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina in an otherworldly wet mess at the Devil’s Throat. Joe and I decided to reward ourselves with a night out and some good food. In the often-wrong Lonely Planet guide there was a recommendation for a pasta restaurant that had amazing sauces; 390 Pasta.
This is where we met Pablo. This is where things went mad.
Things started out innocently enough with a bottle of wine. For some reason, the outside seating area was unpopulated despite the majesty of the late summer evening. Joe and I were free to talk loud and long with Pablo, our host at 390 Pasta. Initially, this went smoothly, Pablo made magnificent recommendations for sauce and wine pairings, he managed to keep the onions out of Joe’s food, and even made sure our dipping sauce for the bread was constantly refreshed. Somehow, we felt a fast friendship with Pablo, as he felt one for us. Pablo started bringing us free glasses of other wines to try out, then gave us the name of a friend across town who would hook us up with similar treatment if we mentioned his name, writing the information on a brown paper bag for us. Then he brought out some desserts we hadn’t ordered simply because he thought we would like them. And we DID! Then new wine, then champagne, then coffee, all of which simply appeared, unbidden and gratis. Soon we were discussing travel plans with Pablo, he was giving us recommendations and directions on what to avoid and what we must not miss. When he found out we were planning to return to Buenos Aires before leaving for the USA, his eyes lit up. He said we must call his ex gf when we arrived. She would show us around. “Great,” we agreed. This seemed harmless enough and was quite welcome. Then he hit us with a bombshell.
“She take good care of you. Two guys at once, no problem for her. You will see. You must call her.”
Joe and I both decided it was time to take our leave of Pablo before things reached any more new and uncharted territories. Soon we were off to the Bus station to hop yet another 20 hour bus ride to Córdoba and our new friends.
We awoke in a new city, famished and blearily tired, on the morning of a national holiday that, for we foreigners, simply meant no one was working: no one was serving food, or coffee, or driving a taxi. All of this took a back seat to the one burning question in our minds: Where was our hostel?
