Mendoza was the start of the winding down. Mendoza being the wine capital of Argentina, it was a good place for the winding down to start (wine-ding, winding - no pun intended). Arriving early, G got out the map and asked me where we were staying. I was a bit stuck to answer him because when I had made the reservation over the internet I had not thought to write the address down; unwilling to admit this, I had a guess in a confident tone and crossed my fingers. We had walked for about 15 minutes (with packs) and I was beginning to wonder how I would admit to G that I hadn`t been as sure as I`d sounded about the building number (not a little admission to make at 8am when I the street numbers go up to 2500). I pulled it off this time though and we were soon installed in our little apartment-within-a-hostel, complete with kitchen and large bathroom. It was lovely to be in a private room again - we had been in dorms in El Calafate and Bariloche, and they are very much the domains of the young and partying, and as a result, injurious to our pride. (In El Calafate we had come back to the dorm at about 1am, very worried about waking everyone else up. I had dug out my headtorch so we didn`t need the light, and we both took our shoes off which meant we slid all over the staircase in our socks but the trampling was at a minimum. We were very careful, hardly even whispering, and starting to feel very bad about the little noise we were making - then discovered that we were the only people back and everyone else was still out getting drunk. We felt very old and rather pathetic. Silver lining obviously was that we didn`t have to get ready for bed in silence with the lights off, with the inevitable scuffling and whispered swearing as toes are stubbed and toothbrushes sought).
Back to Mendoza. Graz settled in for a recovery nap (he embraced the South American siesta habit wholeheartedly) and I headed out to have a look about the place and get some `essentials` for the kitchen (tea, milk, apples, 7up, serrano ham, bread). As I had hoped, I found Mendoza to be a very attractive city, with wide avenues, lots of trees, elegant buildings, and plazas of pleasingly regular layout with monuments, statues, and wrought-iron lampshades on prettily blue-tiled square blocks. For the first time in 2 weeks I found myself within 10 paces of decent clothes` shops, but I resisted the strong female urge to try on shoes and, having located a little market and found the provisions I wanted, headed back to the apartment and read Philippa Gregory (joyfully discovered in Bariloche and a welcome relief from `In Patagonia` by Bruce Chatwin and `The Motorcylce Diaries` which, while both very enjoyable reads and very interesting, are not exactly riotous) over several cups of milky tea, before Graeme emerged and subjected me to the most ignominious Monopoly defeat in history. It was all over in an hour and twenty minutes, and it was a revelation to us both that a game could be finished so quickly - when I was little we seemed to play for days and days. Hopefully it is not a portent for the experiences that I will have when I make my first ventures into property ownership later this year. ( I am relieved that I am doing so with G who as all of you who have met him know, is decisive, terse, demanding, strongly assertive, and doesn`t take any nonsense).
It was awkward, given that we were intending to shore up energy, tranquillity and antioxidants before heading home, that Mendoza marked the start of our hispanic hour-keeping - late nights and late rises. Having recovered my dignity after Monopoly we went for dinner at a lovely tapas place whose only drawback was being in the Lonely Planet and therefore full of tourists. Forgetting that we had booked ourselves onto a wine tour for 10am the following day, we proceeded to demolish two bottles of white wine over dinner which meant that getting up early the next morning was unpleasant in the extreme. However, the tour was great fun and only half a day long, which meant we were back at 1pm for a recovery nap. We only visited 2 vineyards, but it was a super opportunity to see the surrounding countryside which was thrillingly like Italy; cypress trees, vineyards, terracotta roofs, gently rolling hills, sunshine and blue sky. The wine we had was lovely too (and a great hair of the dog for our fragility). When it comes to wine-tasting I`m afraid I rather let the side down; G perseveres with his technique but I settle for uninformed swirling and swishing and then finish my glass before the rest of the group have wound up their discussion about the bouquet. Fortunately the first vineyard was an informal, family-run place, where we were shown around by a charming and petite lass who was the neice of the owner and didn`t flicker at the pace at which my merlot disappeared. G helped to distract her with a question about where the winery sourced its cork. She also imparted the gem information that by law, all restaurants in Mendoza must allow you to bring your own wine with you, a genius ruling in my opinion and one of which we made use that night with the malbec-syrah blend we purchased from her uncle.
I was expecting great things of Cordoba, as it is a university town (it has seven of them) and has been named `Cultural Capital of the Americas` by some official body or another. I inferred that this flashy title doesn`t in fact mean that the official body is giving them any cash to achieve or maintain this status, as the city itself is in some need of restoration. The buildings are delapidated and stained with pollution, and the central plaza is full of beggars, gangs of youths and pigeons. It was a stark contrast to Trujillo in Peru, for example, which has had the entire city centre restored and is colourful and majestic. Our hostel was run by a lovely couple who sat us down within an hour of our arrival and went through a photographic book about the region page by page, showing us all the wonderful places we could visit during our stay. They stubbornly refused to accept our pleas that we were only there for 2 nights and were hoping to relax before going to BA, and so it was that I emerged from packing up my rucksack on our day of departure to find Graz being press-ganged into taking me on a day trip to Carlos Paz, a holiday town in the mountains and a 45 minute bus ride away. Us being us we did as we were told and found ourselves 2 hours later in the Argentinian equivalent of Weston Super Mare, with a cablecar that was closed for lunch and a main street lined with souvenir shops and fried chicken restaurants, complete with a neon-red sign offering `PIERCING`. We laughed, took some photos and got the next bus home.
The main reason I wanted to visit Cordoba was to go to a Jesuit mission. As you may have gathered from earlier blogs I find the history of the Catholic church in South America and the rest of the world fascinating, and the Jesuit Order is of particular interest to me because I listened to a podcast about it once and therefore know a little about it - always dangerous. We went to the mission at Jesus Maria just outside Cordoba, which is now simply a church and a museum, since the Order was booted out of South America in the 1780s (hubris, apparently) and wasn`t re-established in the same form when eventually forgiven by the Pope. As we walked out of the bus station and through the town (me once more in the uncomfortable position of not exactly knowing where we were going or what we were looking for but too proud to admit it - also wary that this wasn`t G`s dream day out so he might just turn around and go back to Cordoba if I intimated my uncertainty) I wondered where everyone was, a wonder that increased when we eventually found some signs and a helpful lady and started heading out of town along a dirt road. After 15 minutes or so of walking, and nearing a humpbacked bridge which took us across a river and out into the countryside, a massive crucifixion scene came into view and I sensed we were close. Soon we could see an orchard behind a low rough wall, with fruit trees and henhouses and some of the biggest, smuggest hens I have ever seen. Then we caught sight of the church, with its calm and stark facade and the Argentinian flag flying. The site encompassed the church, the orchard and surrounding fields (the mission had once owned hundreds if not thousands of hectares which were farmed to support education establishments such as the University of Cordoba, but the farms were stripped away and sold off over the centuries and now it is fairly modest) but most charming and interesting was the courtyard attached to the house, which was bordered on three sides by a two storey cloister formed from whitewashed brickwork and on the fourth by an old, high red brick wall; there was a huge tree in one corner which was a gorgeous, English shape, and the grass in the middle of the courtyard had just been cut so the place felt and smelt cool, tranquil and fertile. We looked around the rooms off the cloister and peeked into the church, but the atmosphere of the place was enough for me. It was suddenly easy for me to imagine a community of priests and workers here, working the fields as well as receiving some religious guidance and instruction, practising their music and learning to read and write, while building up riches of which the Spanish monarchy and the Pope himself became so jealous and suspicious that the Order was investigated and closed down. Tragically, it seems that many of the indigenous population who worked at the mission and were protected and educated within it, were dispatched to the mines of Potosi when it was closed down.
The bus ride to BA was overnight, our last overnight bus ride - our last bus ride full stop. We had the most superb seats at the front of the lower deck with masses of legroom, enough room to curl up or stretch out for sleeping, and right in front of the TV. Imagine the disappointment when the film turned out to be one we had seen before - in English this time, granted, but given that it is one of the worst films I have ever, ever seen, that was little compensation. Luckily the luxury of the bus meant that I slept soundly and woke up 30 minutes out of BA being given a very sugary cup of coffee and wondering how I should be feeling given that this was my last stop of the year.
Buenos Aires is an absolutely fabulous city. We had been lucky to find ourselves a private double room in a hostel in the middle of Palermo Viejo (Old Palermo) which is the boutique and restaurant epicentre where all the beautiful people hang out. Our hostel was on the top two floors of a large townhouse, and had high ceilings, lilac walls and pristine white stucco decor and woodwork. It was quite a party place, but G and I had our own things to do so other than exchanging pleasantries over breakfast and buzzing reception to get in and out (there were two doors to get through, one at the bottom and one at the top of a wide curving marble staircase, but only one buzzer - in retrospect it is amazing that we only got stuck in the stairwell once) we kept very much to ourselves. After a good sleep and getting a map from reception we went downstairs and found a large bookshop complete with cafe-bistro next door to the hostel building. Inside there was a big airy conservatory with white walls, black and white checked floor and cool-battered wooden furniture; quietly funky music was on the PA system and customers were invited to browse the books while they drank their coffee. It was perfect, I thought I might have died and gone to heaven. Wandering around Palermo later on, I suggested to G that he might like to do his own thing while I looked around the boutiques, which my friend Jill had said were fantastic, and they were. The streets were straight and lined with trees where they were not lined with shops or cafes, and it was quiet and tranquil, like walking around the mews in Kensington but with cool shops. Later on we went out for dinner and chattered our way through two big platters of sushi and two bottles of white wine - the bill came to about thirty pounds for both of us. Obscene.
Unfortunately the following day was my birthday, and I felt like death warmed up because of the white wine the night before. G had been Father Christmas, setting his alarm for 7am so he could put my presents out on my bedside table while I was still asleep - he said he took one look at me and realised he didn`t need to be too quiet about it and could take his time. For dinner he took me to what is claimed by the LP and other reviewers as `the best steak house in Buenos Aires`. We had only been able to reserve a table for 8:30pm and were worried that we would be the only diners at that time: when we turned up there was a line of people waiting for the place to open so we took a couple of turns before we could get in and claim our table. We had the snootiest waiter alive, but he warmed to us once he realised we were serious and even managed a tiny smile when we left. The food was fabulous - I understand that I can seem a little obsessed with the subject at times but this really was awesome. We both ordered bife de chorizo which is sirloin, and the waiter looked at me and said `half portion?`. I immediately felt like a pig and said `yes please`. Thank god. The steaks were absolutely enormous - G`s (full portion) was about the size of a 6-egg eggbox. Mine was more than a half. They came accompanied with about a dozen ramikins full of tasty side dishes - ratatouille, mushrooms, broccoli and almonds, pureed butternut squash... This was all after a starter of a huge platter of crudo, sundried tomatoes, rocket and mozzarella. Finishing up with cheesecake and washing all of it down with 2 bottles of merlot, I vowed that I would never eat again.
The following day we went (on the subway) to San Telmo which is the `bohemian` quarter and operates an antiques market every Sunday. I am not sufficiently trained to understand what is antique and what is junk (despite having grown up in a town where every second shop is selling antiques) but regardless of that, the place was wonderful. Not only were the street sellers out in force selling photgraphs, paintings, jewelery, glassware, vintage clothes, vinyls and hordes of other bits and pieces, but the musicians and dancers were entertaining the crowds, creating regular pitstops as we wandered along the street. It was all about tango. There were two or three groups of young musicians with violins, pianos and accordions - as we watched one band, a couple in their mid-twenties got up to dance and got a huge round of applause when they finished. The accordion players were passionate and melancholy, stamping their feet and bowing their heads as they played, and all the musicians were intense and brooding. There were some professional (?) dancers as well, one elderly couple who would take in turns to dance with willing volunteers from the crowd. I was intrigued by the huge symbolic significance that seemed to be attached to the tango - nostalgia, melancholy, passion, pride, loss - the artists seemed to be blocking out the world and looking determinedly inward, oblivious to everything but the dance and the music.
Later in the week we went to a tango show at La Confiteria Ideal, one of the old tango halls which now puts on a nightly `cabaret` and during the day is a place for lessons and `milongas` which are, as far as I could make out, like teas-dances - you turn up and dance tango with whoever else might be there, or take your own partners and just spent an hour or so getting away from it all and remembering... what? The downstairs hall was high ceilinged and gilt, with huge dark mirrors and glass cabinets displaying curling posters for shows and, oddly, bottles of gin. The confectionary cabinets were not even half full. We sat next to one of the pillars lining the hall and ordered dinner, which we had just finished when the show started. There were 3 musicians; a double bassist, an accordian-player and a pianist, all around 70 years old and rheumy. The stage was fairly low and perhaps 8m long, with a faded red curtain behind. There were two couples, one far better than the other but both very good as far as I could judge, their faces moulded into fierce expressions of passion, solitude, sorrow, pain. To allow for costume changes, there were also 2 singers who sang bursting with the same emotions that the dancers displayed: there was much chiffon and glitter. It was a little tacky, a little faded, a little sad - but another fantastic night out. The nadir for everyone concerned was when first G and then I was hauled up by the dancers for an informal and brief `milonga` - I don`t think they had any conception how literally they had to take our protestations of `I don`t know the tango`. (I probably didn`t help myself by using the wrong form of the verb so I think I actually told my bloke that HE didn`t know the tango, which was obviously untrue and pretty insulting given the display he had just put on for my edification and enjoyment).
The other highlight in our wonderful week in BA was the city bus tour during which we visited the La Boca football stadium (we were warned by the guide that this was the poorest part of BA, the most violent, the most passionate about soccer, and if anyone happened to ask us what team we supported the answer was strictly `La Boca`). We also saw a great selection of the architecture in BA which is heavily European in influence and very elegant with that crumbling look of a once immensely rich and now struggling city. Some of the bulidings were once private dwellings of the rich and looked like mini castles. They are now mostly museums, organisations, faculties. There were some stunning classical marble statues, Greek goddesses forging their way through invisible armies and violent oceans, pointing the way ahead, confidently gazing towards a better time. Did you know that the Argentinian president is a woman? I didn`t. I saw some pictures of her - she is stunning and looks more like a character from The OC than the Argentinian answer to Gordon Brown.
I have wittered enough. There will be one more post. In the mean time - you just HAVE to go to BA darling.