Rambling on: April 2012

The ride over the Andes was highly recommended as a sight to see. The Andes are quite an impressive mountain range but because this region is so arid, there’s no growth on them. They are literally just giant rocks covered in sand and dirt. No trees, shrubs, rivers or snow (it was summer…). Having seen the lush Andes region of Peru, I was a little bit disappointed.

Then came the border crossing. After a 45 minute wait for a couple of stamps, a half hour wait for a bag scan, we were finally able to get back on the bus. As we all started filtering back on, someone started calling a name out. I was sitting on the top deck at the very back, and the man had a very thick Spanish accent. I couldn’t really make it out. A few more minutes passed and a loud bang startled me. On the ground outside my window, the bus driver was pointing at me and signaling for me to come out. They then asked for my passport. Not knowing what was going on, I was getting really nervous. Here I was at the top of the Andes, miles from anything, thinking, “Am I going to be let into the country?” They took me back to the counter and showed the border guard my stamp, said something in Spanish and motioned for me to get back on the bus. I have no idea what happened, but there were about 5 minutes I thought for sure I wasn’t getting in. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

After that whole fiasco, the ride became much more enjoyable. The Chilean side was far more interesting. Just as the bus leaves the border patrol, it begins its descent. The road had thirty-six turns in total, all numbered, all visible from your window. The bus just kept going back and forth down this mountain. It’s kind of scary in the summer…I can’t imagine how terrifying it would be in winter. As we continued our descent, the mountain peaks mere feet from the bus would occasionally open up and a snow-capped mountain would appear off in the distance. Then the road followed a river much of the rest of the way down and vegetation began to appear along the base of the mountains.

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. Most of the rain comes off the Pacific and drops onto Chile, but stops once it hits the Andes, leaving Mendoza nice and dry.

We hit another snag as we were pulling into the terminal. We sat for two hours on the road, trapped amongst a sea of buses trying to get to the station. My planned six-hour bus ride had turned into ten. By the time I got to my hostel, it was already midnight.

The next day, my last one in South America, was spent on a walking tour. It was simply a way to pass the time. But, I was pleasantly surprised by what the city had to offer. It wasn’t a lot, but it was more interesting that I’d heard and had come to expect. My flight wasn’t until 1130pm, so when the tour was done, I grabbed a couple of beers with some of the other people on the tour. After a few hours of chatting with them, I said my goodbyes, popped my headphones in and walked back to the hostel as the sun dipped below the buildings. Just before the end of the day I was in the air and on my way to a new continent.

I was really excited to be moving on. While two months isn’t nearly enough time to see everything, and there’s plenty more I would like to see, I’d seen and done a lot and was ready for a different culture.

Actually I was just really glad to be going to a country where they spoke English.

Having drunk my face off in Rio, you’d think I’d be done with alcohol for a while. Except, I was going to wine country. There’s no way I could stop now. I had nothing planned for my first day so I just started walking with no direction in mind. I was simply motivated to wander. After a few hours I’d made my way into the large park on the outskirts of town. Mendoza is located in an arid region of Argentina, so the park wasn’t very lush. However there was a hill in the middle of the park that offered outstanding views. To one side was the city and surrounding vineyards. To the other side were the Andes towering from one horizon to the next.

By now it was mid-afternoon and I was dripping with sweat. Having walked well over ten miles, I’d worked up a moster appetite. I wandered back into town in search of food. As I’m walking through town I hear someone screaming “Matt! Matt!” I turn around to see a guy I’d met a month and a half prior in Cartagena. I knew he was Argentinian, but I had no idea he lived and worked in Mendoza. We chatted for a few minutes, exchanged numbers, and went our separate ways. Unfortunately that was the last I saw of him. We were never able to connect during my stay in town.

When I got back into town I’d noticed the streets were eerily empty. At first it felt as if I was in some sort of zombie movie where everyone disappears. It wasn’t until I got back to the hostel that I found out everyone was on Siesta, meaning everyone took a break in the middle of the day. It also meant everything was closed.

Finally after 5, I was able to get some lunch (technically dinner by then) and relax the rest of the evening. But, before I started making dinner, two people from the hostel asked if I wanted to go down to the harvest festival with them and drink some wine. I’d thought the festival was the following weekend. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to be wrong.

I’ve long forgotten their names, but one was an Israeli in his early twenties and the other was an eighteen-year-old girl from Oregon. The girl had a self-proclaimed “hatred” of wine and had never really drank. Her mom forbade it. To her, wine was bitter and disgusting. I now had a goal for the night: make sure this girl gains a newfound appreciation for wine.

The festival had a large stage in the central park with all sorts of singers and other performance acts. More importantly there was a wine tasting round back. Ten dollars got you six glasses of standard wine. I got my own ticket while she and the Israeli shared one. My first sampling was some sweet white. After I gave her a sip, she was off to purchase her own ticket book. We continued on as I kept suggesting sweet reds and whites. When I took her for drunk enough, I then suggested she move to the drier reds. By the end of the night my job was accomplished. She rarely said a bad word about any of the wines and she’d definitely changed her mind about wine. By now it was time to go grab some munchies and pass out.

Two things to be learned from this:

1. Corrupting youth is fun

2. I should never have kids

Less than eight hours later I was in the back of a van en route to some wineries. Our bicycle tour was led by two people: the main guide was an older Argentinian who spoke very good English, the other a young Swede who spoke both English and Spanish, but couldn’t translate one to the other very well. This became a bit of a problem in our first stop. While the head guide went to prep our bicycles, we took a tour of an old Bodega Mansion. The curator spoke no English. He would have say things three different ways before our “translator” could understand. It was highly frustrating.

When that was done we were finally able to get to the point: winery tours. More importantly: tastings. Our first stop was the old Giol winery. Their operations had been moved to a different location so there was no real action going on here and it was rather desolate. I’m still unsure was to whether their casks were still in use or the entire factory was just a tour spot.

After our tasting (I don’t know why anyone would ever spit it out) we cycled a few kilometers to our next stop: Bodega Lopez. This is one of the larger, more commercial bodegas in Mendoza. Much like Robert Mondavi to Napa. I didn’t care for it as the tour was impersonal and mechanical. There was a quick rundown of the basic process, a very meager sampling of their cheapest wine and we were sent packing. Fortunately our next stop would more than make up for it.

Another 8 kilometers up the road we stopped at a small, family owned, organic winery named Familia Ceccin. It is the largest organic vineyard in Mendoza and has been run by the same family for nearly 80 years. The people were incredibly friendly and very passionate about their wine. In the middle of the vineyard sat an old oak tree underneath which sat several tables and chairs. We sat and enjoyed a delicious traditional Argentinian meal along with several bottles of their wine. By the time we actually took the tour of their operations, I already knew their wine was good. It wasn’t until I got to taste their other varieties that I knew I was in love. If I didn’t have another seven months of travel left, I would have purchased a case, or several, and brought them home.

Luckily they import to the U.S. The minute I find a case of their wine, I’m snatching it up.

I’m already waitlisted.

By now, we were done with our bodega tours, but there was one last stop; an olive oil factory. They showed us how olive oil is made, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I knew there was a tasting coming and that’s all I could think about. Boy was it worth it. Twelve tables lined up with different breads smothered in olive oil and some other ingredient. Anything from a simple vinaigrette to a sun-dried tomato or pesto spread. It was the perfect way to cap off our tour.

That night I back to the wine festival with a different set of people from the hostel. However, tonight I went with the four large glasses of premium wine. At one booth I struck up a conversation with one of the men working there. The minute I even hinted that I grew up in the vicinity of Napa, his wine was on the house. It’s like he went out of his way to make a good impression on “the man from California,” even though let’s face it; I’m no wine connoisseur.

The next morning I was on a bus travelling over the Andes towards Santiago for my final day in South America.