Mendoza, Argentina Pt. 1

The Cata bus... Aka the Daft Punk Bus!

Mendoza was the exact opposite of what we had regularly done the whole trip. It was a backpacker town filled with group activities that backpackers were doing together. We were hesitant about this at first mainly because we had been fighting tooth and nail against the "backpacker" image, but eventually just gave in. We did ditch our suitcases in favor of backpacks so that was the end of that, there was no escaping it. When we were in India we didn't want to go to Goa because it's not the "real India". What's the point of going to India to hang out with other white, perfect English speaking people, eating western food? When we ended up in Varkala for a night, which is basically a mini Goa, we began to understand the need for these little travelers respites. It provides a much needed break from keeping it real in what ever place you may be in. Its a chance to just relax, turn your brain off of foreign language mode for a few seconds, and meet other people which is not as easy as you may think when you don't stay in hostels all the time. that being said, we had a ton of fun in Mendoza and it ended up being one of the definite highlights of the trip.

We took and overnight Cata bus from Buenos Aires, which was actually pretty luxurious. The food was crap but how often do you take a bus ride where there is a stewardess who serves you food? And Cata brand wine? The seats reclined a full 180 degrees so after dinner and a movie we stretched out and dozed off. What we didn't know was that a sauna was included in our bus ride because we both woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, thirsty and gasping for air due to the relentless heat that was blasting out if the vents. I took my long sleeve shirt off, socks off, threw the blanket on the floor and bill opened the curtains to the windows hoping the cool glass would offer some relief. What we saw then was probably the single most spectacular thing I've ever seen in my life. The sky was FULL of stars. You're hearing this from two people who have lived in New York City for a long time. I grew up in Philadelphia, Bill in Long Island. We had never seen something like this. Not even when I went camping as a kid do i remember seeing stars like this. There were billions of stars in the sky, and I could even see the faint glow of the milky way! The freakin milky way! That's something ive only seen on tv and I was seeing it with my own two eyes, craning my neck to get a better view out of the bus window. How is this something I've been missing my whole life? We resolved that the next vaca we take should specifically include star gazing. I watched the sky until the stars began to fade with the impending dawn and fell back asleep.

We arrived around 11am, strapped our backpacks on and walked to our hotel. Taking a cab was out of the question at this point because we were over budget and cabs would only be used in emergencies going forward. It was a 15 minute walk and we saw half the town. Mendoza isn't a great town for general sightseeing. Its tiny. After checking in, eating super ponchos, and wandering around to see the rest of the town we started to investigate our options of adventure activities in the many tourist offices spattered around town. We settled on mountain biking, it looked hard but not too hard. I'll tell you about how hard it was in a sec....

The Andes

Let's fast forward to dinner that evening. We picked a cheap, nondescript place that had a little bit of everything, including the worst waitress that ever walked the planet. It started off well, I ordered my food and a beer. Then things got crazy. She brings over my beer and as she's setting it down she looks at me and asks me if I'm pregnant. I thought I heard her wrong, que? "are you having a baby?" she asks as she points to her stomach. What?! Wtf?! I looked at bill and back at her and was like, um no. Then she apologized and walked away. First of all, who the hell asks someone that, and if you thought I was pregnant why are you serving me alcohol? I had on an oversize crop top, if that makes any sense, and skinny jeans. I knew I had let myself go a little bit on the trip but had I become so completely gross that it warranted a pregnancy comment? Maybe it was the over the counter Spanish birth control, or my upcoming period accompanied by the emotional roller coaster probably caused by the over the counter birth control whose instructions were in Spanish and I couldn't read them.... but I started to cry. And when I went to comfort myself by taking a sip of my beer there was a chip in the glass. So when the waitress came with the food I showed her the chip. Then she came back with a new glass and dumped the beer in which made it spill and foam all over the table, then she apologized some more while throwing napkins on the table. I just kept crying because now I was fat, had no beer and couldn't get this stupid bitch away from me. Bill just had a look of fear on his face. We ate in silence, tears dripping into my pasta, when I blurted out "why don't you make a joke or something?! Why aren't you trying to cheer me up?!" and he replied with a very hurried answer about how he had no idea what to do in this situation and there's no handbook for men with the answer for what to do when someone calls your wife pregnant when she's not pregnant and he was panicking. To his credit, he had tried to make a joke earlier but it flopped. The whole thing ended with me just throwing money on the table and running out of there like a bat out of hell, then calling her nasty names on Facebook. I guess that's what kind of dinner you get for 20 bucks in Mendoza.

Anyways, I was super determined to mountain bike the shit out of my body the next morning, we got up bright and early to eat the somewhat awful hotel breakfast and the adventure company picked us up right on schedule. In the van ride to the "adventure complex" we met some Australian travelers, a couple and another girl traveling on her own, and immediately began comparing notes on the places we had been. They were going rafting and horseback riding so when we arrived at the place we went our separate ways. Bill and I were the only two mountain bikers and when the guide asked us if we had any experience we said no. None whatsoever. I think he didn't expect us to be as bad as we were, but that was HARD! It started off ok, biking through little patches of forest, but then got serious. I mean, we were in the foothills of the Andes and so obviously we were biking up really steep inclines at certain points. We also went down hills over some rough terrain, and I completely wiped out at one point but only walked away with some scratches so I think I did ok. Our efforts were rewarded with some truly breathtaking views of the mountains and a lake. Is it possible that I was turning into an "outdoorsy" person? Nahhh... As soon as we got back to the base camp we grabbed some beers, reconvened with our Australian friends and relaxed until our ride back to town was ready.

The lake in the mountains

Coming up next: wine tours and horseback riding!

-Claire

Getting Pick Pocketed Sucks

I have to back way up for hot minute because I never shared my pick pocket story. I feel like it is my duty to warn travelers the world over of my particular experience leaving Buenos Aires.

That's right, we were leaving. We checked out of our apartment at 5:30 pm and walked to the Subte to take the train to the bus station where we had tickets on the 9:30pm bus to Mendoza. It was the first time I was carrying my new backpack with all my stuff in it and it was heavy. We had ditched our suitcases because we figured backpacks would be the way to go while bussing it through Argentina and Chile. We made the right choice but I wasn't used to lugging this thing around, especially in an extremely crowded metro at rush hour. In addition to the backpack I had my purse, which is like a whole other suitcase on it's own. It had all my makeup, wallet, reading glasses, extra sunglasses, passport, voltage converters, camera, camera accessories, camera battery charger, iPad, iPad charger, some jewelry, a scarf and some other small random things in it. It also had 2 small outside pockets, one was full of tissues and chap stick and the other had my change purse in it.

We were well aware that all of South America is full of petty thieves. Every single guide book will tell you to watch your belongings and don't display electronics or expensive jewelry. After being there for a month I guess I just got a little too relaxed and comfortable in my surroundings. I was stepping onto the train, with the big bag in front of me, struggling with the weight while not hitting anyone. My humongous purse was over my shoulder pushed towards the back. I noticed that some guy was really close behind me, too close. No matter how crowded the subway in New York gets, people always keep their tiny bubble of personal space around them. This is not the case in other parts of the world, I personally think Europe is the worst. It always really annoys me when people are riding my ass so I turned around to be like WTF DUDE and then I knew exactly what was happening. He had his jacket over my bag and when I turned around he ran off the train. My change purse was gone. It only had 5 pesos in it so the money wasn't a big deal but the purse itself was a gift from someone I really care about and I had used it for years. Not to mention that you collect a lot of change while traveling, most countries use coins for small amounts and bills only start in larger denominations.

My enchantment with Argentina was wearing off at this point. Between this, the fake money and getting shortchanged (that was the most expensive coca cola I ever bought) I was leaving with a bad feeling about Buenos Aires. Why do people do things like this? My uncle, who has severe Down Syndrome, goes to work everyday at a gym close to his group home and saves his money to buy his nieces and nephews Christmas presents every year. Now some piece of shit low life asswipe has my change purse that my uncle bought me. Really? I hope he's happy that he has my 5 fucking pesos. I wish I could find this guy and literally strangle his disgusting neck. But putting hurtful energy out into the universe isn't good and I doubt my uncle Tim would condone all the bad language I'm using so i just have to let it go. Most times people are awesome, sometimes they suck hard. Just watch your bag in Buenos Aires!

-Claire

Mr. Hugo's Jetpack Wine Tours

A few weeks ago while researching the city of Mendoza, I was elated to find that there were numerous bicycle wine tours of the infamous Mendozan Wineries. I love bicycles, I love wine. Surely a winning combination. The challenge then was to find a reputable, reviewed and recommended tour operator as there were numerous options. Luckily through the magic of Facebook, we learned that our leading inspiration for this trip (who also happened to be our wedding photographer), had done such a tour himself. Upon his advice, we went with Mr. Hugo.

I had emailed them in advance to ask the basic stuff; hours, dates, costs, etc. Their responses were always in Spanish despite both their website and my inquiries being in English. Odd, but irrelevant. We were set for Saturday, could arrive at our leisure, and the bus was only 40¢. We had yet to ride a collectivo in Argentina, and the ones here were way more manageable to navigate than back in Buenos Aires. It was a far cry from a chicken bus, though live poultry always makes South American bus stories better somehow. Instead, we were joined by three fellow travelers from Amsterdam. They too were heading to the wine highway but without any specific plans. After a brief explanation of the concept of wines AND bicycles, they were sold on the idea. How could anyone from Amsterdam not be excited for bicycles? Have you ever been there? They have more bicycles than pigeons, and Dam Square is ground zero for flying rats.

As soon as we got off the bus we were bombarded by touts on bikes eager to sell us their tours. This was a first for us as every single tout we have seen prior on this trip was a pedestrian in nature. Hopefully this trend of evolution stops at bicycles because I would hate to see touts with more advanced technology. Jet packs are awesome, but in the wrong hands could be menacing. It was easy to waive them off with a simple "no gracias" (because they didn't have jet packs) and we headed straight to Mr. Hugo's.

It was just after noon and the party switch was already on. Casual, nondescript, non offensive club music was playing loudly enough to create atmosphere, but not too loud to drown out conversation. The home made wine was flowing, riders were being briefed, biked up and sent on there way. Map in hand, destinations in mind, no helmets and no waivers. That's just how they roll in Mendoza (and the rest of the world for that matter). Our party of five grew to seven when joined by the Australian couple we had met at our hotel and we were soon on our way as well.

The best bicycle wine advice we received was to start at the end and work your way back. The logic being you will be closer to your final destination at the end of your trip. In other words, the more wine you drink, the less bicycling you have to do. The flip side however, is you start your day with a 12km bike ride. After the first few kilometers we all decided to skip wineries 12 through 9 and start at number eight. This was the second good decision we made in a row, go team!

The winery was great, laid back, antique wine making thingies hung on the wall and a row of benches in front of the counter.  We sampled the young, old, aged and desert wines. The young wine was preferred by most, but we all loved the desert wine. There was a nice walnut after taste and no after burn. Sadly, we couldn't sample their limited, but were able to try their white when we sat down for wine and cheese, completely forgetting about the actual tour of the winery itself in the process. This would turn out to be the only winery we would make all day. It would be all down hill from here.

The next two wineries we attempted were both closed. We had no warning from the organizers that this is was even a possibility. Especially as they were the two most recommended. Instead, we settled for the beer garden, a refreshing change of pace after all of the wine we've been drinking. Typically when you envision a beer garden, giant steins of german beer, long wooden tables, pretzels, schnitzels, and liederhosen all come to mind. However, when the locals decided to create this beer garden they must have been oblivious to the concept of false advertising. Rather than walking into a Bavarian wunderland, we walked into a garden. Like an actual garden. With vegetables. This may have explained why the empañadas were so delicious and why the beers were not.

From there it was an easy jaunt back to Mr. Hugo's. The second best decision we made all day had paid off just in time for us to make our one bad one. Part of Mr. Hugo's allure is the endless, free flowing home made wine and late hours. The wineries close at 6pm and Mr. Hugo stays open till 9pm. What transpired in those three hours was sort of a verbal circus. Though our bodies were well behaved and there was no table dancing (regrettably), mouths were forming words that typically don't sound as intelligent during the inevitable morning after recollection.  Interestingly enough, was that I had not participated in, nor over heard, any conversations leading to sex death or taxes. Instead, I was witness to such gems as "you don't look Australian", "we only budgeted $10,000 for our week in NYC", "how can you not like Madonna if you're gay", and  "New Yorker's aren't in a hurry, we're just efficient walkers" (that last one was Claire). 

As fate would have it, we were spared any further awkwardness of conversations from the wine itself. I had detected a slight slur in my speech and hid my cup to prevent any further refills. It was time to go home. We split a cab back with the Australian couple from our hotel and immediately passed out upon our return. The morning after was spent piecing together the night before, eating breakfast, and regretting nothing (except that Mr Hugo doesn't offer jetpack wine tours).

- Bill