The first few days were a high five to Murphy and his Law. I made my connection through Dallas by 2 minutes pulling an Indiana Jones-esque throw-a-golden-statue-under-the-dramatically-slow-closing-door as I tumbled onto my flight. I reported my lost baggage before the luggage belt even started in Buenos Aires. Frankly I didn't mind having to ditch my overpacked brick-heavy bag to have it delivered five days later. My list of life life-savvy additions to be genetically implanted into my soul include, among many things, geographic competency, a mundane superpower and becoming a perfectly prepared feather-light travel packer.
An overnight bus ride and twenty four more hours found us in fabled rustic Argentine wine country and Molly face down in the very rustic gravel next to her dented bike following a visit to a chocolate and absinthe "bodega" of sorts. If I was in any kind of functioning condition when I arrived, this mass of short-term expat turned into a curdled, dusty, tangled mess in a very short time. Perhaps this is what Latin hazing feels like.
Rewind.
I've been spoiled by the little Tuscany of Napa/Sonoma that is our Northern Californian backyard, but what Mendoza did not offer in breadth and dynamism of wines and bourgeois aesthetic it made up for in a quaint local flavor pleasantly (relatively) uncorrupted by tourism in the 12 km. dusty bike ride (akin to a fatal round of Frogger at some points) through a handful of family-owned bodegas that look as though they weren't expecting you. The Argentine wine valleys are known for Malbec, but my favorite ended up being a new varietal we found called Torrontes—I think exclusively grown in Argentina. I special black sheep for a non-fan of white wine.
Turns out Mendoza is a bumpin' town after dark. We arrived in the early afternoon when the cracked sidewalks roll up with their dog poop and everyone goes home to siesta, only to pick back up the party from 1am to dawn. We managed to pick the hostel (Break Point) whose front deck morphed into a dance club beneath a giant screen projecting the best of 80's aerobic dance hits and repeats of the "Call on Me" video. Jackpot. Since Mendoza only took a day to do, we hopped a bus to San Rafael near the Chilean border, the jump-off point for a couple of canyon/rafting/hiking/outdoorsy excursions. In short, we arrived on Sunday, the day of the Nothing's Open No One's Awake and Nothing's Happening, and missed the morning bus to Canyon del Atuel. So we spent a moment moping over maté, visited two more wineries—
above: winemaking equipment from the 1880's at the oldest bodega in San Rafael, a small Italian family-owned operation— the equipment is still in use. Filling the barrels
Barrels of Malbec
...And then, Casa Valentin Bianchi—
less a family bodega and more a wine factory.
So we cruised around bumblefuck San Rafael and ended watching "Nuevo," expecting Daniel Day Lewis tapping in a jazzy musical but halfway through realized perhaps Daniel Day Lewis is not this puppet, and perhaps this is not going to turn into a sexy glitzy musical after all—
In other news, I found a vegetarian empanada place today. That's like finding a unicorn in a field of...anything. And buying it for five pesos. And looking into its misty tie-dyed eyes of sparkling whimsy as it nuzzles your cheek and whinnies "I validate your life choices, also you look really good in those pants."
I've begun logging places for the travel site pseudo-employing me. Trying not to get mugged in the meantime. Also, considering turning this blog into a foreign gastromic venture, though I need to figure out how to take pictures of my own food without attracting attention.
Installment II tomorrow. Spoiler Alert— Tearing down graffiti under the tracks with a new artist friend + Eva Peron's tomb
Besos.
