Great last weekend in Mendoza (for a while)

Wrapping up the end of a great weekend.

Friday was a quiet day in the office, going through their website, rewriting their broken English and adding comments where I see fit. Not as easy to do as one would think, as I have to make sure the wine terms I'm correcting are actually what they do. I find out they want to completely overhaul and redesign the website, which I fear is beyond my expertise, but I'll do what I can in the meantime and at least advise within my ability!

Friday night I met up with Jo (the spunky Brit soon-to-be-lawyer who is interning at Zuccardi Winery as a tour guide) for my first real cocktail in a long time at the Azafran cocktail bar (too much wine, we decide!). Dirty martini, stat. Same connection with Jo as I felt with Chris, the French roomie, Jo, the other Brit who is out saving the world, and Karen, the American I met in Mendoza my first time down here. So easy to talk to, laugh with and just feel like myself with. After one very strong cocktail each we wisely decided to find something to eat and went to my second great dinner of the week at 8 Cepas, a wine cellar/ steakhouse where we had reasonably priced salads and empanadas, albeit on the fancy side. Split a bottle of Torrontes and talked normal getting to know you girl stuff. Two and a half hours later, we were ready to meet up with Cara, the Seattle-ite who is sommelier'ing down here and runs our weekly wine club. Went back to the cocktail bar for round 2 and met her waiter friends from Azafran: Facu, an Argentine and Travis, an American. Closed down the bar and headed over to the casino at the Park Hyatt to see if there was a bar there. No luck, and it was too depressing watching everyone mindlessly gamble away the night in fluorescent lighting in the middle of beautiful, untainted Mendoza wine country. We quickly left and found the town's one Irish pub which is always open late. Jo headed home as she had to work early in the morning. The rest of us hung out talking about who knows what, me just sipping the gross Andes beer, until somehow the clock rolled to 5:30 am.

Thankfully able to sleep in a bit (10:00) despite the dorm room atmosphere and enjoyed a few hours of quiet Saturday morning Skyping with my mom and Andrew and generally messing around on the internet. Then threw on my running clothes with all good intentions of a long run in the afternoon and headed over to Carolyn's house for lunch with her and her mom who is visiting from Cali. Carolyn had a wedding last night and needed to get her hair and nails did and her mom wanted to go to the big grocery store out in the suburbs, so I happily stayed and babysat Julia, Carolyn's adorable 15 month old soon to be monster. Changed my first diaper in what seems like decades and also helped package little gifts of alfajores for Carolyn's clients. It's the least I can do since she hooked me up with the gig at Altocedro!

By 5:30 I was off for my run which lasted about 40 minutes as I has to head back to shower and scoop up dessert for a dinner with Paul and his wife. (Paul is the Brit ex-pat I met through my BsAs Spanish teacher Marta). They invited me over for authentic Peruvian food as his wife is Peruvian. I brought a bottle of Malbec Rose that Guillermo had given me as a gift on Friday as well as two tarts from the local bakery. The tarts literally took me 15 minutes to select from the shelves of about 100 ridiculously good looking pies, cakes and petit fours. I consulted with the girl behind the counter, ignoring her recommendation of what was basically a work of chocolate abstract art piled on a cake and finally settled on a membrillo (quince) pie and a ricotta/chocolate torta, both of which are very common down here. Not bad for $9USD. I'd get the ricotta again no questions asked. Paul and Loyda also have a 15 month old son, Thomas, who is closer to his terrible twos than Julia. Very interesting tidbit in raising a bilingual child: Paul only speaks English to Thomas and Loyda only Spanish. He seems to understand both but of course only speaks a toddler's gibberish at this point. Dinner was lovely, with a potato/hard boiled egg/green olive salad with an interesting orange colored dressing made out of cheese, crackers (blended to give a thick consistency), aji, onions, olive oil. Main dish was a stir fry of sorts. Apparently there's a huge Asian influence in Peru? Peppers, steak, scrambled egg, sausage, scallions, rice... and they gave me leftovers! Which I'm graciously eating now, at 10:20 pm.

Which brings me to today. On Jo's recommendation, I decided at the last minute last night to jump on a 7am bus this morning for a day trip to the middle of the Andes, on the way to Chile.Puente del Inca is "the most fascinating natural landmark in Argentina," according to my guidebook, a four hour bus ride away, and close to the base camp of Aconcagua, South America's highest summit. The front desk clerk at the hostel thought I was justalittlecrazy for going by myself and not really knowing what to do once I got there, but I know how dead Mendoza is on Sundays and I felt I could use a little trek to get the heart going. After a 20 minute debrief from the hippy hostel clerk, I felt confident I could figure it out. Got home from Paul's house by 11:30, was in bed at midnight, and up before 6 to catch the bus. Packed some snacks, a huge bottle of water, my book, travel pillow and camera, and I was off to the bus station. By the time I found the right bus company's booth and waited in the ticket line, it was 5 minutes to 7. I hurriedly got my RT ticket for about $12 USD and proceeded to pass out in my seat for the next 3 & 1/2 hours. After confirming with the girl next to me which stop to get off at (bus stops here literally dirt lots on the side of the road), I sleepily descend the bus. Looking around, I see two or three ramshackle cafes, a mini straw market with the routine artisanal souvenirs, as well as a rundown hostel and Army barracks. I instantly think, WTF am I supposed to do now? See a few other kids wandering around and I follow one who looks like he may be friendly to one of the two cafes. I make a beeline for the "bano," I'll let your imagination figure that out, and ask the cafe owner in panicked Spanish what the hell I'm supposed to do here for the next 6 hours until my return bus. He gives me a little speech, sans English, and I order a cafe and sit down, eyeing up the other customers. I take pictures of the cafe's gigantic St. Bernard named Syrah, busy myself with my guidebook, say the hell with it, and muster up the courage to introduce myself to the now newly formed little group of backpackers from my bus. I ask if they're all just there for the day as well and if I can tag along. Of course, of course. A Belgian 30 year old who took two months to travel South America and figure out the next stage of his life, a young Italian couple who mostly kept to themselves, and 23 year old French Arthur, who took a year off from med school to travel the world after a painful breakup. (Dad- of course I had to tell him about you and how Kriss used to pronounce your name... as he said his name changes depending what country he's in. He may be the one other Arthur I've ever met!). The European Union and myself headed down to the ancient crazy colored bridge, all natural rock formations, and the old crumbling hot springs spa that is now out of service. Lots of professional-looking cameras whipped out and pictures taken. Then we walked the 3k up to the base camp of Aconcagua, alongside a highway with massive 18 wheelers and tour buses loudly rolling by. Walking uphill with the famous Argentine wind roaring in our ears, under a technicolor, cloudless blue sky and surrounded by the multi-colored Andes (the various minerals in the rocks turn bits of the mountains green, pink, brown, white, orange... really amazing), I immediately feel happy. We pay 10 pesos to enter the base camp park and do the mini trek to a lookout point to gaze atthe highest mountain in the continent. Leisurely hang around, listen to an argument between Arthur and one of the Italians on why capitalism is good/bad, as well as various other political/philosophic subjects educated 20somethings feel entitled to discuss with strangers. I stayed out of it all. Eventually head back to the bus area, hung at the cafe and caught the 5pm bus back. Mostly talk to the Belgian about all things life, take a bit of a nap, and here I am at my spot on the crackly couch in the hostel, next to the window, listening to the other hostelers talk the backpacking life. Exhausted, looking forward to moving to La Consulta this week (now not sure when now- either Tuesday or Wednesday).