(old) It’s chilly in Chile

GOOD MORNING ADRIAN! I tested the severity of his hangover but was disappointed that he was fine this morning. I guess passing out at 9pm will do that. That meant we could get going because we’d seen everything Mendoza had to offer. Adrian whinged that he wanted to do another wine tour but I ignored him. Why the hurry? Well, despite the discount we’d asked for the hostel was still one of the most expensive ones and the prices didn’t look much better for the rest of South America. Plus, we wanted to do the NaviMag Patagonia ferry and November 1st the prices went up for high season. So we were going to have to move it, if we wanted to save those pennies. We checked out and told Molly we’d be back if we couldn’t get a seat on a bus to Santiago. But at the bus station we easily got tickets, quickly picked up some food at the station for the ride and were on the bus and on our way out of Argentina. Don’t worry, we’d be back.

The bus took us through the flat wine country and then began the trip up and up and up and up into the Andes. Soon we were surrounded by snow and rocky mountain tops. The landscape reminded me of that movie Alive! and I realized that we weren’t too far from here that those Uruguayans had survived the plane crash by eating each other. Luckily, our bus driver was a huge improvement on his Bolivian counterparts so there was no fear of a remote crash. Plus we had our food supplies just in case. Although the food wasn’t really necessary. I’d forgotten that they fed you on buses down here. Besides food, the ayudante also passed out immigration forms to everyone and even helped us to fill them up. Soon we were passing ski lifts just closed for the season. Although it was warm on the bus, I was glad I’d wisely worn pants. We’d gone from 30º to 0º in just a few hours and we’d go back to 30º when we got to Santiago. So I had pants on but a t-shirt and sandals not a problem on the bus but when we got to the border post I noticed lots of people in front of us milling around outside in the windy mountain pass. I dug out our Bolivian woolly hats and mitts But we sat in the line up of buses and waited. It was Friday and there were two full buses ahead of us and two behind us waiting to be processed. To the right was another line up of fancy cars that were taking part in some sort of cross border rally. Between all the bus passengers, their luggage and all the paperwork for the cars, the border was severely backlogged. Not that I was in a hurry to stand outside in the cold. After an hour, the ayudante led us into the hanger-like border post where we stood in line for another hour. Now it was cold, freezing even, and I stamped my feet to try and keep warm. Two little girls in front of me were very bored and driving their mother crazy. But they held still when they saw me and then started giggling. It was my silly Bolivian hat – they thought it was the most amusing thing ever, probably because it looked like something a child should wear. So I let them play with the dangly bits which kept both of us amused while waiting. We eventually passed through the Argentinean exit and on to the Chilean entrance. Then it was another hour wait while all our luggage was examined. After three hours we were finally back on the bus. And in Chile.

Despite the long wait it was one of the easier borders. We didn't need to change money since we still had some Chilean pesos left over from our time in Iquique and would need our Argentinean when we returned. But now it was time to get back down the mountains. This proved to be tougher than the trip up as the road wound its way down the precarious road. It twisted and turned but that barely slowed the convoy of huge trucks carted goods across the border. The bus had to hug the road to make room for them as they made their way up giving us all a good look of the sheer drop down (photo above). We survived and were soon in the lush green vineyard and farm land of Chile. Thanks to the border delay it was getting late in the day and by the time we finished with the suburban stops it was late by the time we got into Santiago. We were given a light dinner on the bus. Now we didn’t have to worry about finding dinner and could just concentrate on getting to the hostel.

We were definitely in downtown Santiago but I didn’t recognize any of the surrounding street names from the guide book map. We looked around for a subway station but in the chaos of dozens of buses and hundreds of people (and just as many taxi drivers) we couldn’t find it.So we gave up and grabbed a taxi. I gave him the address and the cross streets and even then he overshot the location and had to double back a couple of blocks. Of course he then asked for more money but I refused and despite my basic Spanish I understood a couple of the epithets he muttered under his breath. Hmm, not quite as friendly as the Argentinean taxi driver. But who cares we had arrived at the Moai Viejero Hostel. We didn’t have a reservation and they didn’t have a private room so we grabbed two dorm beds and crashed. Discovering the charms of Santiago would wait until tomorrow.

(old) Don’t drink and bike.

Back in the years I now lovingly call my misspent youth, I used to ride my bike everywhere. To university (when I went), to the club (when I left), around Ottawa, around Toronto. And after dark that often involved riding my bike (with helmet) down side streets with more than a couple of drinks in me. My clubbing days are way behind (by choice) me and so are my cycling days (by bike thievery). But today was a chance to relive those halcyon days of drinking and biking and see if they were just as rose coloured as I remembered. Adrian and I had signed up to do the bikesnwines™ tour of the Mendoza wineries.

Over our free breakfast of corn flakes, medialunas, coffee and juice, I checked my email and saw that Jillian and Dan had replied but the best I could do was suggest a random winery and random time to meet up. Then I sent my sister a happy birthday email. Then it was off to raise a glass or two in her honour at those wineries. We were picked up and dropped off in Maipu at the bikesnwines office where there was a large group already waiting. We were given maps of the area and a briefing about some of the highlights including where we might get some food on the way. Then it was time to grab a bike. They were all yellow but not equal, except for all being equally in bad shape. But eventually Adrian and I both found bikes we could peddle and headed out down the road. Initially there were bike paths at the side of the road but once we left the town the road became smaller and the bike paths disappeared. Neither of our bikes was a particularly easy ride so rather than heading out to the furthest winery we had picked out we ended up at the closest one.

The closest winery also ended up being one of the original ones. La Rural was also a museum. Amongst the industrial and modern vats and distilling equipment were the original wine making instruments, old photos and documents from the winery’s centuries old history. My favourite room had to be the one full of giant oak vats full of aging wine. We took it all in (probably because we weren’t in a hurry to get back on the awful bikes) and then wandered over to the tasting area. For free we were given three half glasses of wine including a malbec. Now, I’m not a wine connoisseur but I’ll do my best. Malbec is an Argentinean varietal so I wanted to like it but can’t say I enjoyed it. It had an almost bitter taste to it. However, the others okay. I blamed this on the sample being free. After all we couldn’t expect them to give away the good stuff. With our free wine sampled we headed back to the bikes and peddled off stopping to watch a tanker pull in and up a one-wheel ramp so that the last bit of grape juice dribbled out of the tank.

We continued down the road. The cycling didn’t get easier but the view was pretty spectacular. Miles of vineyards in front and the snow-capped Andes in the back. After our first tasting I was already feeling my fake Asian flush* coming on (*after a drink, I have a minor allergic reaction to alcohol, however I am not Asian, hence my term fake Asian flush) and it was also midday so we decided to stop in at the Almacen del Sur deli that was mentioned during this morning’s briefing. We turned down a side road and soon reached the “deli”. It looked more like a french country estate and the on site gourmet deli full of organic spreads and tapanades. Delicious but wasn’t going to tide us over. Luckily they also had a café in their garden so we sat down, looked at the menu and immediately began drooling. There was a biker’s quick lunch but it was the tasting menu that we lingered on. $30 each for a huge spread of countless goodies and a bottle of wine. We hemmed and hawed about the splurge before common sense kicked in – we’d never get an opportunity to eat so well for so little, at least not on this trip. We ordered the tasting menu and undid our pants’ buttons in preparation (metaphorically speaking of course)

The food was delicious. The server kept bringing it out, explaining each dish as best she could in English. The first course was a selection of breads and spreads. Tapanade, arugula and pine nut, roasted eggplant, some soft cheese and a vegetable mix. Delish. Then there was the green salad, followed by 7 more dishes cheese and fish stuffed peppers, chicken wings, sauteed shrimp skewers, pork ribs, filo stuffed with lamb, and a potato cake. We were soon stuffed and good thing because we needed something to soak up the alcohol as we washed it all down with a bottle of chardonnay, passing on the malbec this time. But we weren’t finished. Dessert was apple crumble with custard and a coffee. All the food was grown on site and fresh and we enjoyed ever cent we spent. In fact we had so much food in us, the idea of getting back on the bikes wasn’t very alluring.

It was now past 2 (the random time I had suggested to Jillian and Danny that we meet at the random winery). But a glance at the map and it was obvious we were nowhere near the meeting spot. But since it was more than likely possible that they didn’t get the message I didn’t feel too bad about not being there. Instead we headed to the Tempus Alba winery. Only our second winery on our winery tour. As old and traditional as our first stop had been, this place was modern and shiny. Inside our first sight was a bottle of wine draped in the Canadian maple leaf. It had won some major prize at some Canadian wine show. We took it as a good sign and walked through. There was a self-guided walking tour explaining the fermentation process which led us from the vineyards to the restaurant and tasting area. We quickly turned over the food menu and reached for the wine tasting one. We chose to split the three wines for $7 menu. We skipped the Malbec and picked a Tempranillo (another local special), a Syrah and a fancy blend (photo above). The glasses were larger and so were the tastes. It was a good thing we were sharing. Especially when we left and were immediately followed by a motorcycle cop. I waited for the siren to go off and hoped we weren’t as drunk as we felt. I tried my hardest to keep the bike going straight and a decent speed. But sweat trickled down my back in nervous expectation. Back in Canada we’d definitely be arrested for drunk biking (actually, I don’t know if it’s an arrest or a ticket but I do know it’s illegal) but here in Argentina we were followed all the way to the next winery which just happened to be Trapiche, the one I had randomly suggested meeting the others at. Now safely off the bikes, I turned to take a look at the cop. He was now following another group of drunk cyclists in a slow-motion imitation of a cop chase. It was then that I noticed the “Turista” emblazoned on the side of his bike and the flashing light. His job wasn’t to arrest drunk bikers but to protect them from the other vehicles.

Having lost the fuzz on our trail we were finally able to relax. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) we weren’t able to relax with another glass or two of wine. The guide told us we had just missed the 4pm tour and the next didn’t begin until 5pm. Trapiche was Argentina’s largest winery. It looked like a big corporate monstrosity and evidently ran their even the tourist part of their business like a corporation. So we decided to bail and head to the liqueur and chocolate place marked on the map. We’d probably had enough wine by this point any way but you can never have too much chocolate. We had to wait here for a tour too. And after the rest of the day it was a bit more cottage industry than elegant winery. The chocolates were tasty and the liqueurs weren’t bad however we didn’t really need the hot dogs they served to go with it. It was now time to get back to the winesnbikes office. We were definitely a little tipsy because it was suddenly easy to peddle. But that didn’t stop us from having a few après drinks drinks back at the office. We didn’t need them but we started chatting with some of the other recently returned folks and suddenly found ourselves imbibing. After Adrian order and drank another large Quilmes, I cut him off and dragged him to the bus stop. He was definitely now drunk and was completely useless when the bus arrived and I needed to get bus fare from him. He handed me his wallet and went to sit down in one of the few available seats at the back. But there was a problem. I couldn’t pay my fare to the driver, only a machine. And the machine only took coins in a country where no uses or ever has coins. I asked around the bus and met nothing but blank stares. I turned back to the front and was greeted by Dan and Jillian, they were on their way back to town as well. I told them my predicament and they tried to help by breaking my bill into some smaller ones. But I still had no coins. No wonder drinking and biking is acceptable in these parts – it’s virtually impossible to pay for a bus fare. Luckily a stranger on the bus, stepped forward and swiped his pass card for us and I gave him the bills. Thank you, stranger.

With Adrian half passed out in the back of the bus, I stopped to chat to Dan and Jillian who were accompanied by their couchsurfing host Jessica. Somehow we ended up talking about Canadian politics which the two Americans knew more about than me thanks to some Canadian civil servant couchsurfing host they’d had in Mexico. I was put to shame – I only hope that Jessica wasn’t bored by all the North American political babble. But it helped to pass the time until we got back to Mendoza. It was dark when we all got off the bus. Adrian immediately ran across the busy street to pee in front of the rush hour crowd. He may have had no shame but I did especially when Jessica jokingly mentioned that these things don’t happen in Argentina. I tried to excuse his behaviour by saying that they were quite normal in Bolivia where we had just been for the last month. I quickly said my goodbyes to the gang and dragged drunk boy away from further embarrassment. Unfortunately, I dragged him three blocks before realizing we were walking in the opposite direction from our hostel. Ok so perhaps I was a little tipsy too. But the detour back to the hostel did take us past a little completo (hot dog) stand so I could get some more food into Adrian.

We stumbled back into the hostel and while Adrian immediately passed out, I began searching for our Santiago friends, Ivan and Catalina’s contact info. We were headed there next and it would be great to meet up with them for their offer of a city tour. I turned all our bags upside down but couldn’t find it. Just as we’d made contact with Dan and Jillian I’d lost contact with two others. Oh well. If you’re reading this Ivan and Catalina sorry for not ever emailing you but now you know why.

(old) Beat by the meat sweats.

There’s nothing glamourous about the night bus. Maybe the first time it’s a bit exciting because it’s new. But the excitement is soon replaced by worry about the comfort of the seats and security of your belongings before dread sets in. Just how sore am I going to be in the morning? And in the morning, you will be stiff and covered in a layer of what I call bus slime, a charming mixture of sweat, grime and other people’s breath. It was in this condition that we got off the bus in Mendoza just before 9am. Thankfully, Danny and Jillian were in a similar state as we sat down at café in the station to really get acquainted over coffee and medialunas, Argentina’s version of the croissant (think less butter, more sugar). While we’ve been traveling a very similar route at the same time, we still had lots to talk about since they were brave couchsurfers. If you’re not familiar with couchsurfing check out the link, but here’s a basic rundown. If you’re looking for a bed, couch, piece of floor or similar place to crash in a strange town, you hook up with hosts on the site and for free get to stay with a local. Some will act as tour guides as well. Very communal and I did look into it (you know I like free), but decided that it wasn’t for Adrian and I. It takes a lot of planning – you have to email or call the hosts a lot and know where you’re going to be and when. And frankly, Adrian and I don’t always have our sh*t together enough to know that stuff. But Danny and Jillian were super organized and had managed to couchsurf about half of the time on the road. They lots of neat stories about their experiences, enough that it made me want to finally get my sh*t together. They were couchsurfing once again in Mendoza so once we were finished our light breakfast we headed out to catch our cabs – them to their host’s and us to the hostel. Just before taking off, we made plans to plan a biking and wining tour together before heading off in opposite directions.

Our taxi ride was entertaining. As soon as he found out we were Canadian, he launched into a flowing tribute to Canada (I’m surprised with all the Canadian love in Argentina, particularly since it was a Canadian bank that sorta helped destroy the economy in 2001. Maybe the locals don’t know this and I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell them). His daughter was married to Canadian and his grandchildren were Canadian and he loved Canada. When he found out we were from Toronto, he ecstatically said that’s where his daughter and grandchildren lived. But he stopped himself from asking if we knew them. He was originally from Sicily and remarked that there were many Italians in Toronto. I told him there were a lot of Italians in Argentina too. “And now not so many left in Italy,” he said with a smile. When we got to the hostel, he dropped the price of the taxi. “You’re part of my Canadian family,” he said, “You don’t pay tourist prices.” The first time that has ever happened to us. Maybe this was karma’s way of evening out the whole border bus scam. We weren’t even money-wise but it was the nicest cab ride we’d had and the gesture was definitely appreciated.

We hoped our good luck would continue with the hostel. While we’d heard great things about one place, a little research revealed that without a reservation we could find ourselves sleeping in a hammock so we’d chosen another place that was new, a bit more expensive but located in the city centre and had wifi. Inside we were greeted first in Spanish until the girl behind the counter saw we were Canadian. She then switched to Californian. Molly was a super friendly American who’d been working here for the last few months and did her best to make us feel welcome. We even negotiated a bit of a discount for a three-night stay. The hostel was new-ish and full of amenities but it seemed to be empty and a bit more sterile after our time in Salta. But that wasn’t Molly’s fault; she certainly tried and the room was quite nice. We left her to jump in the shower and get rid of the bus slime and hopefully wake up a bit so we could explore the city.

The shower did the trick and we decided to head out and explore the city. We headed to the city museum. The route took us through the pretty tree-lined streets, the shade a necessity in the warm climate. Mendoza was pretty but like the hostel it lacked the charm of Salta. Despite being another old city, it was more spread out and didn’t have many remarkable buildings – it felt almost new. The museum was an exception. Set in a pretty park, it was a copy of an old colonial building. This was the location of the original main plaza which had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1861. Underneath the park was a cavern where one could visit the foundations of the old city but it was closed today so we settled for a visit to the free (my favourite) museum. I was right, the building wasn’t an original but like the park in front had been built over the original foundations which had been excavated inside. The museum was small but well done and gave a nice overview of the history of the city explaining how the earthquake had basically wiped out the entire city. Just outside across the park, one of the few colonial buildings half-stood. The original cathedral which had once stood on the main plaza was in ruins, held up by scaffolding. In the park, an engraving (photo above) showed what the city had looked like before the earthquake. Stupid mother nature and her stupid earthquakes. But people don’t come to Mendoza to see the city. They come to see the area around the city. Or more specifically, the wineries around the city.

Mendoza is the capital of Argentina’s wine industry and a major tourist draw. It was the reason we were here. For months and months I had refused to let Adrian order overpriced wine (just thinking of the budget and his liver), promising him as much as he could drink when we got to Chile and Argentina. So tomorrow was the day he been looking forward to forever. But tomorrow was still a day away. So we puttered around town taking in the ambiance. We stopped by the market to get some food. It was a lot like the St. Lawrence market in Toronto – not so much a fruit and veg stand but a place to get local gourmet treats. However, most of the stalls were either closed or a little beyond our price range. Although they did look tasty. We opted for the “gourmet” hot dogs instead. I can only hope that in this land of meat, that there was a little less mystery in these wieners and more meat.We’d run out of things to see so we headed back to the hostel, past all the fancy cafés and chichi hotels. Although Mendoza, the city wasn’t visually remarkable, there was a good vibe and I imagined it was one of those cities that would be great to live in even if it wasn’t the most beautiful one.

Back at the hostel, I tried to contact Jillian and Dan about the bike tour. But email isn’t the most effective way to make plans so I wasn’t optimistic that we’d actually connect, although I did keep my fingers crossed. Instead I told them that we were going to book through the hostel tour company and hoped that they’d be somewhere nearby. Adrian watched TV and I uploaded some more photos and attempted to catch up on the blog – now only 3 months behind. And that helped pass the time until dinner time, and by dinner time I mean Argentinean dinner time. You see, here dinner is something eaten at 9pm or later and most restaurants don’t even open until 8. So between 5 and 8 if you’re hungry, you’re also SOL. We’d eaten late and light in preparation for this though. Tonight we were going to indulge in a real Argentinean asado at a tenedor libre (that’s bbq at a “free fork” or all you can eat buffet). After weeks of soup, rice and chicken/fish and the last few days of hot dogs, we’d definitely earned it. The folks recommended a place within walking distance of the hostel that they said would be a good price for good food.

We arrived at Caro Pepe just after 8pm, and since we were the only ones there, I’m guessing they had just opened for dinner. The price was a lot more than our hot dogs (perhaps $12 each) but definitely much more appetizing. Since we hadn’t had much to eat we were ready to make the most of it. We skipped ordering wine and instead headed straight to the salad and veggie bar. I swear I’ve never been so excited to see spinach (first corn flakes and now spinach, oh the exciting life I lead). But I was one of the few to do so. The locals who were now trickling in, skipped this area or passed through to pick up some of that mystery sandwich meat before lining up at the asado counter. It’s amazing. Argentineans seem to eat nothing but meat and more meat, at these late hours, washing it down with cups of coffee and bottles of wine. Yet they look far healthier than any North American. It’s another of those great unsolved mysteries of the world that I wish Robert Stack would get to. But I digress. When we felt full of vitamin goodness, it was time to move on to the meat part of the show. Half of the buffet area was taken up by a large barbecue area where entire animals were being charred before our eyes. Now I’m not a big meat eater but I had to try some of the famous Argentinean beef. At the counter I ordered my small steak to which the chef ordered half a chicken and another pile of various meaty bits. He motioned to the bowls of chimichuri sauce to the side and I slathered on a couple of varieties. I’m sorry Ayngelina, but there are no pictures of this food. I was too selfish to remember my camera.

I got through about half of what the chef had piled on my plate when the meat sweats began. I have to say this is the first time I’ve ever experienced them and it wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. Adrian seemed undeterred and went back another load while I felt my pants expanding in the seat. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to move for another hour. Eventually, the sweats subsided enough and I was able to get out of the chair. We settled up and rolled back to the hostel where we promptly passed out from our protein overdose. From this morning’s bus sweats to this evenings meat sweats, we’d come a (very) full uncomfortable circle.