We’ve got some visitors on the way. Twizzle your tache in glee.
Upon arrival in Santiago, we take another metro ride with too much baggage and jostle with the locals, some of which are undoubtedly weighing up the benefit of a smash-and-grab. Joke’s on them to be honest — little but dirty pants and creased, stained clothing in these things. There’s a very loud rap duo commenting on patrons and shoppers and they may well have come at us for being clear, silly gringos but we’ll never know because we don’t speak Spanish. Again, joke’s on them. Look at us outsmarting these guys with our many kilograms and linguistic ignorance.
Santiago is a burgeoning city. Amidst the present energy and accumulating weekend buzz you immediately pick up on its proclivity for activism — political and otherwise. One man paints over a previous slogan to present the Palestinian flag on a full, wide wall. Cafe culture akin to Europe’s nicest nooks is back, but at a cost.
We spend the day mooching and making some final preparations, before heading to the airport early doors, absolutely up to our earlobes in anticipation. We get two coffees and that’s a day’s budget gone. I’m being dramatic for the purposes of drama. Nifty narrative trick.
Everyone reading this probably knows Georgie is a twin, but if you don’t: Georgie is a twin. Her twin is called Bernadine. Also known as Bernie. Also known as B. Also known as The People’s Vet. Also known as Crisp McGee.
Everyone reading this probably knows that Joe is a common name and so it’s more likely than not that I have a friend called Joe, but if you don’t: I’ve got a friend called Joe. He’s been my friend for many years, and has helped me through some of life’s rougher stints.
She and he are out for two weeks of spectacular food, delicious wine, and outdoorsy escapades. Mostly, mind, they are here to join us in raucous laughter and to stew up some outstanding nonsense.
A bit more about Chile’s capital city. Barrio Italia is a gorgeous selection of maybe 12 blocks squared, packed full of bohemian markets, high-quality bakeries, and gelaterias. It’s colourful, sunny, and splendid. It’s one thing, a second thing, and a third thing. It’s the rule of three but times a hundred. Other areas of the city are equally enjoyable.
What do we get up to?
We catch up over drinks, naturally. A fair wad of things have materialised and evolved since our departure back in July. It’s nice to get a handle on things, to hear of successes. Some semblance of a connection with home, but I’m not ready to return.
We head to the Central Market but it’s mostly fish and barren restaurants. After flanking the rushing, chocolate brown river we climb Cerro San Cristobal and gawp at those white tipped Andes mountains in the distance. This is a sweeping, low-rise metropolis for the most part — every direction seems to host different types of buildings, with commercial hubs and neighbourhoods formulated in different patterns. At the top of the hill there’s a big JC. Blessed be he. Died for our sins. You’d do well to remember that the next time you’re sinning. He’s forefronted by terraces of colourful flowers and a super quaint chapel neighbours the whole affair.
The next day we pass over those white tipped mountains in a remarkable border crossing, reaching Mendoza from Santiago. We later learn there are two ranges and a valley in between, so we’ve basically hopped on a bus and travelled the letter M. Whether or not that particular letter tickles your pickle, I’m here to tell you that all its high points are stunning and all its low points are stunning, and it’s nothing short of a fine alphabetic figure to traverse when you’ve got big windows and new company.
Mendoza is fantastic, make no mistake.
The Argentinian economy is not, currently.
In the heart of a hotly contested, rather strange election, inflation is at an all time high and the blue dollar is booming. This parallel exchange rate — a gorgeous legal grey area — was founded back in 2002, so Argentinian's could swerve the absurdly capped 'official' exchange rate and currency controls. Anyway, at time of writing, via Western Union, streetside cambios, or more personable arbolitos, your dollars or sterling get you three times the amount of pesos than if you were you to be dumb and go to an ATM (official rate only). You with me? Only slight pickle in this cash culture is the stacks and constant counting.
Long and short of it is: Argentina is very very affordable for tourists at the moment. And not in the endearing, rudimentary, batch-cooking kind of way that perhaps gives Bolivia and Colombia their charm, but in the ‘oh here’s some quite fancy, quite delicious food and a bottle of extraordinary vino for a very very reasonable price’ kinda way.
And so it goes in Mendoza. We spend a couple of days in the city, eating and drinking our way around its several plazas. Inadvertently, we order a breakfast fit for an entire town, and spend the rest of the day slogging our full bodies around the park searching for mini golf. Alas, there’s only a nice big lake and some swings and plenty of doggos for us to admire and comment on.
The Mendoza province is home to some of Argentina’s most coveted wine regions, and thus to some of the world’s greatest producers. We opt for Luján de Cuyo. When we get there, we immediately realise that the AirBnb host — Gonzalo — is not only a certified legend but a double certified heartthrob. His wife is from Plymouth. Who’d have bloody thunk it. They own the Irish Pub in the city and two or three properties in this quiet, gorgeous neighbourhood of wine country, which they rent out to thirsty folk like us. Their place is spectacular in its attention to detail and in its garden. We enjoy the pool and the sun trap. Pink Floyd’s seminal Wish You Were Here plays out as we toss coins at the Sapo. Sapo is a Peruvian game that involves accurate flinging and point accumulation. Let me see if I’ve got a photo. Should try and get it where you are. Try Amazon. Unbelievable breadth of stuff on there.
That's Sapo! If you get the coin in the frog's mouth it's like 1000 points. Game's done. Thanks for coming. Proper golden snitch type situation.
That's just me squishing Bern
Dignified and wholesome. That's what we are. That's how we'll take in wine region. We'll rent these four bikes and ride around with straight backs and raised chins and swill vintage Malbec in glasses and it'll all be right royal sophisticated. So on our first full day, Alta Vista is where it starts. We take a tour of the winery, complete with fermentation chambers and giant concrete balls and grandiose brick cellar. Then a little tasting session. Guy was quite tight with the portions, but we’ve a warm buzz on by the time we cycle to Clos de Chacras.
This is where it gets silly. We indulge in a more liberal tasting, and it’s fascinating to perceive how the little nibbles change the taste and sensation of the vino. During this session my esteemed colleagues (i.e. Bernie and Georgie) shun me for not identifying the ‘notes’ of each wine. I duno. What am I? Some wine tastes delicious and I like it and I want some more, but I couldn’t tell you when cherry underscores a woody finish and all of it packed up together spells sophistication and power.
Mind you, I was better placed than some in our jolly little party. Joe, being a ginormous and quite impressive workaholic, became ill as anything over the first few days of their holibobs, his body releasing all that pent up stress as soon as it could. All this meant was that he couldn’t smell or taste anything. What a time to be in steak and wine country.
The scenery at these vineyards. The region in general. Sweeping low vines of a uniform height, green as green can be, offset by skies of silly blue, and in the distance you’ve got white capped mountains. Stunning. At Clos de Chacras we eat the most glorious seven course luncheon, complete with wine pairings. We’d already bought and sunk a sparkling number before our table was ready, precisely because the vines were green, the sky was blue, the grass was green etc etc. The lake makes this lovely tinkling noise, and we are who we are. Pissed.
Anyway, splendiferous food. Giggles in abundance. On the cycle back, Georgie topples off her bicycle, hits her head lightly on a bin, and settles for a minute in a bush. These are the levels we’re talking.
The next day is a write off bar a visit to get some groceries. We cook in the evening, stoking a fire and grilling big hunks of steak, accompanied by salad, asparagus and the sorts. Georgie, blessed be the little cotton socks on her little feet, she’s in a right way, so all she does is watch trash on the TV and empty herself of the burden.
Next is Potrerillos. We’ve rented a car, and we stop alongside a big, sandy canyon for some grilled meat. You must be getting the gist: such is the nation. Vegetarians everywhere just look on in disbelief. Potrerillos is a town by a big Dam. The area is quite beautiful, but its vistas are shrouded in an enduring sheen of cloud for much of our stay. The abode is in quite a culty little community spot that we struggle to find at first.
This ‘ecological’ home smells quite a lot like poo. Something to do with its endearing, rudimentary sewage system, perhaps? Or maybe we’re eating too much red meat and drinking too much wine. Either way, it’s got a fine view of the diche, and apparently the mountains, though I’ve said what I need to say about the weather.
We drive up some very gnarly mountain terrain into ski region, where chalets are dotted about and sheer drops line the road. Bernadine, Crisp McGee, Vet Extraordinaire: she’s nervous. We’re obviously more attuned to the constant fear of death. Georgie’s a regular hero at the wheel, too. We spent five hours climbing Lomas Blancas in the constant fog. Altitude contributes to our mild struggle, but there are some glimpses of surrounding beauty among the ice sheets and rocky trails. Our descent takes us down a valley with a stream, and nothing quite compares to the coffee that follows.
The day after we take a windy excursion to the lakeside. No kayaks to be seen on that choppy number, but it's dazzling and brisk and pleasant. Biddly baddly boosh.
Next stop is Uco Valley, perhaps the most stunning and the most esteemed of all the wine regions around Mendoza. I see it. Settlements are sparse, far between, with extraordinary, grandiose vineyards dominating the sidelines of main roads. That said, piles of trash immediately follow bougie vineyards and you’re reminded of this planet’s pitfalls. We’re staying in this gorgeous, one-floor abode in amongst Uco, with great green land out the back. La Azul is the highlight of this stretch — a wonderful vineyard with mountain vistas, top notch food and energy to match. A saxophonist scores our five course lunch.
I ask the taxi driver: ‘is that Lomas Blancas?’ She responds: ‘Yes, snow’. Turns out that means ‘white hill’. Absurd. Definitely a white hill Sam, use your eyes.
I read Flowers of Algernon, and I think I’d like to pen a little review of it properly one day when I’m not lagging painfully behind on these entries. Beautiful book. Thought provoking, touching, incredibly readable.
Anyway, back at our house the late evening sun casts the surrounding, falling blossom in a quite extraordinary light, and Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell provides the perfect, calming accompaniment. We’ve seemingly adopted two wonderful dogs from a nearby farm. They are called Jason Flies (he was chasing flies) and Nacho (our favourite, no shame to say). They keep guard and nuzzle into our legs and welcome us back whenever we return from an excursion.
Then, quite naturally, it's high time for a sophisticated horse-back ride on the gorgeous ranch of our guide, Ignacio. He is a certified gaucho. Owns 150+ horses, and the route takes us through tall, gently swaying trees, via a river (where the horses momentarily refuse to play ball), and into an open field of yellowish wheatgrass, where the mountainous backdrop has us all gawping. Few album cover contenders. Look at ‘em. There are ascents and rocky downhill stretches the horses navigate with attuned ease. Mine does stop to eat all the time, but I afford him the pleasure given his amenable nature. Joe’s ass is entirely dead by about twenty minutes from the end. Quite the experience.
We’re back to Mendoza for a night and the next day someone with oversight and a hand of malice brings forth a spanner for the works. Big windy storm coming from the mountains. Border with Chile is shut for at least 48 hours, so these two can’t go back to Santiago to catch their flight. Alternatives. Frenzy. Fortunately they manage to tweak things and get about their way to London, but via more juicy, fun delays in Buenos Aires. Bit of a pickle to finish, but…
…it’s been most pleasant having these two around. It’s been decadent and delirious at times, but the kinship is strong, and we’ve loved the chance to break up the constant stream of logistics and movement with some localised festivities.
Now what?
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