Because I don’t speak Spanish, I am in no position whatsoever to criticize any portenos‘ use of the English language. However, you would think that perhaps before one chose to name one’s restaurant chain using a foreign language, one might consider double-checking the meaning. i.e. “Pizza Bum!”
I can’t resist adding this post about the Sensory Tasting because it was some of the best fun we’ve had on this trip.
To learn how to properly taste wine, the Vines of Mendoza set up this flight of wine and provided us with an instructor to learn some of the finer details on how to properly taste wine. It turns out that just popping off the cork and slugging it back does not equal tasting.
The special tasting room (!!) was prepared with three different, non-blended local wines: a Torrontes, a Bonarda and a Malbec. However, in addition to the wines, there were tasting glasses filled with the flavours that one is meant to experience in each wine. For example, the glass of Bonarda was accompanied by a glass each of earth, dried leaves, quince jam, and pepper. So, after one swirls and takes notes on the wines appearance, one is meant to sniff the aroma and compare it to the raw elements. How much fun is THAT!
And then we got to taste. And taste and taste, and sniff and taste and note… yet another blissful afternoon. Funnily enough, our tolerance for alcohol seems to be increasing with our knowledge of wine.
In my present state of mind*, I find it hard to imagine a better place in the world than Mendoza. They get 300 days of sun a year, the city is filled with huge, gorgeous trees, parillas (Argentine BBQ restaurants which universally serve gargantuan steaks) hover around almost every corner, and they are surrounded by wineries. Oh, and they’re within spitting distance of the Andes, not that I would ever spit wine.
*We just returned to our hostel after having spent all day touring wineries; the last stop was for a 2-hour, 3-course lunch at a bodega’s French restaurant.
We knew we would like it here before we had even arrived because many people we had met had raved about the place. Of course, all they had to say was that the city is known as the Wine Capital of Argentina for us to visit. (Frankly, we would’ve flown to Argentina just for that.) So now we can confirm that, indeed, we do love it here. There are over 800 wineries in the near vicinity and the area is known as the Napa Valley of South America. Why is it that we had not visited sooner?
Anyway, I could go on and on about the wine but will limit myself here to talking about one particular wine tasting facility: Vines of Mendoza. I don’t really know how to label this place; it’s sort of a wine club, tasting room, wine-tour arranger, enthusiasts’ meeting place, wine promoter type place. (They make money by exporting local wines to Europe and America.) But for us, it’s just a great, relaxed place to go to taste, and learn about wine.
Within two hours of our arrival in the city, we headed straight for the Vines based on a very high recommendation from fellow world travellers from Calgary. The atmosphere was not at all pretentious – as one kind of expects when speaking of a wine-reated facility – and we were completely comfortable as soon as we walked in. We got a brief tour and then were introduced to some of the services and tastings they had on offer. It didn’t take us long to decide that we would try the flight of Reserve wines immediately, followed by a Sensory Tasting the next day, and a reservation at the Wine & Cheese night the following day. We were like tipsy flies falling happily into their viney web.
The hour and a half that followed was magnificent. We tasted five of Argentina’s Best wines, complete with an educated and friendly host who walked us through the regions, the varietals, the aging, the aromas and the tasting. (I’m edumacated in the wine, now.) After being so long in Asia without a drop of decent wine to be found, this was an absolutely exquisite way to spend the afternoon.
Really, I can’t say enough how much fun we had and how lovely the wine was, and this was only our first day! The bliss continues unabated.
P.S. If anyone cares to know which are the best reserve wines of Argentina… Angelica Zapata Malbec Alta 2003, O’Fournier Alfa Crux 2002, Bressia Profundo 2003, Carmelo Patti Gran Assemblage 2002, Yacochuya Malbec 2001.
Two random couples we met raved about La Cabrera, a barbeque restaurant in Buenos Aries, one fellow saying he would return to BA just to go there. We showed up at 9pm, an early arrival by Argentinian standards, just to ensure we could get a seat without waiting, which we barely managed.
The steaks are so big that it was recommended that we only order one to share, which we gratefully followed. Janet couldn’t even finish her half. We also ordered a salad which turned out to be nearly the size of a KFC bucket. Luckly we skipped the side of mashed potatoes with carmelized onions, which surely would have been bucket-sized as well. The steaks here were extremely good, but it is really the side dishes which made it an exceptional experience.
Most steaks in Argentina come without sides, which are ordered separately. At La Cabrera meat is served similarly to Korean food, with a dozen little ramekins filled with savory treats—antipasto, mashed potatoes, roasted garlic with a sweet sauce, carmelized pearl onions in demi glaze, sauteed mushrooms with gravy, picked beets, mashed squash, couscous and a couple of others that we didn´t even taste.
We’ll be trying to reproduce the experiece at home.
Finally, after 11 months of travelling, my pocket has been picked.
We took the subway in Buenos Aires during rush hour and, as I was being squashed on board, my skirt pocket was picked of its keys. The keys themselves were pretty inconsequential to us (they were for our luggage locks and we have two spare sets) so I can imagine that they were entirely useless to the stealer.
Marc almost had the wallet taken from his pocket at the same time but, as he had no purse to focus on like me, he noticed the fingers reaching in and clamped his hand over the wallet before anything went missing.
I guess it had to happen sooner or later, I’m just disappointed that it did. I’ll try not to hold it against Buenos Aires.
One of my most perfect days of travel started when we woke up early to a crisp, sunny day in Puerto Santa Cruz, in Patagonia, and drove an hour straight out to Parque Nacional Monte Leon. 
We stopped first at a lookout over the ocean and the island owned and operated by the migratory cormorants. Guano was mined here for European fertilizer until about 1930 and judging by the smell, the birds have worked hard since then to replenish the supply. Fortunately, we had our trusty binoculars and so were able to see a fair bit of avian activity before setting up our cold breakfast in the picnic hut upwind of the island. After breakfast, we decided to take a crack at seeing los penguinos. I was not optimistic because it was so warm, I thought for sure they’d be on their way someplace cooler now and would have abandoned their colony. Plus, the hike through the desert to reach the colony did not inspire confidence for a viewing. This sign was so randomly placed as to seem a joke.
Nevertheless, we continuted and not 5 minutes from that sign we spotted our first tuxedo. Actually, we spotted something black and white in the distance and then were suprised to actually look around and notice that there were penguins everywhere, within a few meters of where we were standing. It was so odd but they were all camped out under bushes, in the shade and sun, hovering around their nests on the flat, arid plain. A little “Where’s Penguino?” to play.
A little further towards the water’s edge, a look-out platform had been built so that we could see for several kilometers in either direction and right down onto the beach. There were hundreds of penguins – no kidding – all over the place. We were able to get quite close to some but resisted the temptation to step over the barriers and into their territory. The beach was off limits. The guanacos totally ignored the signs and the fences and we caught one of them on the penguins’ side red-handed.
I asked one penguin for a picture in front of the beach panorama. He posed like a Russian: arms straight by the sides, no smile, eyes front, look angry.
After much penguin stalking and spying with the binoculars, we went back to the car for a picnic lunch before hitting the beach at low tide for exploring. The weather was perfect for exploring: bright, sunny and cool. We didn’t get to see the iconic landmark of the part – La Gruta – a hollow rock formation carved out by the sea. It had collapsed. No-one told us.
Finally, we settled into our campsite for a night in the car. As per one of the previous posts, we had a great night with some fantastic sunset and sunrise views, and a middle-of-the-night sighting of the Southern Cross constellation. We’re, like, totally in the southern hemisphere, eh.
This is the kind of day that will be excrutiating to recall when I am home and job hunting.
One place in Patagonia that the tourists generally don’t go is Monte Leon National Park on the eastern edge of Argentina. The Lonely Planet said it was pretty nice, but nobody we talked to – local or tourist – had much to say about it or encouraged us to visit. However, the book did say there were penguins, and that’s like, half the reason we came to Patagonia and this was going to be our best shot at seeing them. Given everyone else’s reaction to our plan to head out there, I wasn’t tremendously optimistic about actually witnessing the penguin, but at least we’d get a chance to see some different countryside, maybe some new animals and definitely the southern Atlantic. (It turned out that I can count one of the days on this little side-trip among the best days of my life– but that’s another story.)
So, we rented a cute little Volkswagen, bought a map and a bunch of groceries and fired out onto the 297km gravel road that forms the majority of the connection between El Calafate and Puerto Santa Cruz. I don’t think I’ve ever been so much in the middle of nowhere as we were when we hit that gravel road. 
There was nothing. New Zealand, Mongolia, Siberia: none of them seem to match this kind of nowhere. No towns on the way, no gas stations, no cell-phone towers, or pavement. The only way we knew where we were was by the rusty signs with the names of estancias stuck into the side of the road. These farms were all marked on our map, I guess because there was nothing else to record.
We saw a total of 10 cars that day but a nearly endless stream of wild animals. 
There were the usual suspects of rabbits and sheep, skunks and hawks, but there were also herds and herds of guanacos (sort of like llamas but less fuzzy) and a large bird whose name I don’t know but who looks and runs like an ostrich. Most fantastic of all, we saw a condor. I think we are exceptionally lucky to have spotted it on the side of the road right next to the huge river valley; it took off and floated on a thermal wind up and over and around our car for about 5 minutes. That bird is astonishingly large and to see it fly like that was amazing; this picture, nor my words, can hardly do it justice. We were agog.
The first night on the east coast, we spent in the tiny navy town of Puerto Santa Cruz. You wouldn’t know it from looking down all the deserted streets, the empty beach or the closed restaurants, but this village was utterly bursting with visitors. I don’t get it. Every hotel and inn we asked was full. Every single one! Where was everybody? Very ‘Twilight Zone’. Finally, we were able to snag a room at Pinky’s Inn, a drab and deserted little place at which we stayed quite comfortably. Could only stay one day though- it was fully booked for the following night. (??)
At any rate, this allowed us to spend one full, sunny day at the stunning national park next door and also forced us to sleep in the car that night. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be: a quiet campground, a great view, a couple bottles of wine with our picnic… who knew I’d ever be so happy to sleep in a Golf?
There’s kind of a “set route” for tourists in Patagonia. People generally come to this part of the planet in order to be outside and see glaciers, and the people that live in the towns of Souther
n Argentina have everything ready for us. The starting point for us (and piles of other people) is El Calafate, a town of 18,000 people on the shore of a windy, glacial – and what must be terribly cold in the winter – Lake Argentino. On a clear day, with the Andes sparkling in the background, and the lake reflecting some perfect version of cloudy aquamarine, it reminds me of a blend of Banff and Lake Louise. I felt so at home here, and not just because of the steak nor the quaint stores and chocolate shops on Main Street nor the chilled air or fresh breeze, it was the people that reminded me of home. Half-tourist, half-outdoor folk, with a lot of hotels and restaurants to keep us all mingling.
Anyway, the next stop on the tourist route is El Chaltén. It’s a four-hour bus ride (full of tourists) north towards another glacial lake in the area, to a town founded in 1985 only to keep Chile from annexing the area. It’s wee. A wee, expensive village and it exists in what must be the windiest corridor of the Andes. 
In the three days we were there, the sun shone for approximately five minutes, and the rest of the time it was either grey sky with gale force winds or rainy or both. Mostly both. However, with such a short time there, we couldn’t afford to wait for the weather and so we set out with a woman we met from Iowa and a fellow from Sydney to see Cerro de Torre. It turned out to be a lovely hike through forested area, which kept the wind and rain at bay, and we come upon some gorgeous views…
…but we didn’t see what we were supposed to see as a reward for hiking for 3 hours. Some mountain and a glacier, I guess.
The next day, after thawing our hands and feet, we climbed through the mountains to see Mount Fitzroy, an icon of the Argentinian Andes. Didn’t see it. Had to turn back 30 minutes from the end due to lack of visibility due to sleet. At least there was a micro-brewery in town in which we could sit out the stormy weather. 
We later learned that the morning we left, it cleared right up and they had the best weather they’ve had all season. Great.
The next two places people go in Patagonia are Ushuaia, the southern-most city on the planet (that’s all it does), and Torres del Paine, which is another iconic mountain region but it belongs to Chile. We skipped Torres del Paine (it was expensive, and its name in English sounds like ‘pain’) and we were going to skip Ushuaia, but had to connect through that city in order to fly north back to Buenos Aires. I don’t know how we ended up on that extra long flight but at least now we can say we’ve been as far south as any human is willing to live.
The orientation at our wonderful hostel boiled down to a few options: take the boat ride one day and hike on Perito Moreno glacier the next, unless you want to cheap out and just look at it, because that is what you do in El Calafate. There is only one tour company for the Glacier National Park and one ridiculously high price for each tour. We did as they instructed and signed up for both.
Upon boarding the boat the first day we were disappointed to find we 
had to sit in the middle, far from the windows of the enormous catamaran, but we ended up spending most of our time on deck, trying to shield ourselves from the biting wind while exposing ourselves to as much sun as possible. A frenzy ensued on desk as we approached the first iceberg. Everyone suddenly became paparazzi, pushing and shoving for a prime location and lighting up the iceberg with camera flashes. A single-hulled vessel would surely have tipped over as all the passengers lurched to one side. Fortunately, everyone soon realized that the little chunk of washed up ice was hardly newsworthy, even for the tabloids or their travel blogs. We later circled dozens of larger icebergs with glassy walls, dripping arches and cobalt blue crevices.
After some other travels, we returned to El Calafate for our short trek on the glacier. Donning every warm piece of clothing we have, along with the requisite crampons, we followed our guide up ridges and over crevices. We stood over holes to peer deep into the ice sheet and tried not to drop our camera while trying to take pictures through thick cotton gloves. Janet dropped the camera. And nearly ripped her pants with the crampons. Near the end, we climbed over a ridge to find a table, a dozen glasses and a bottle of scotch. The guides chopped ice from the glacier to further chill our scotch, which we enjoyed standing on the glaciers in our crampons.
Shortly afterward, we saw what we had longed for: a part of the 40 meter ice face broke away, fell into the lake, smashed into tiny pieces and created an enormous wave, which we watched propagate across the lake. One sign stated that the falling ice can throw smaller lethal chucks of ice hundreds of meters. 32 people died between 1968 and 1988.
With the rate that glaciers are melting—having added tons of carbon dioxide to the atmosphere with our plane travel—I feel fortunate to have experienced them.
Finally, FINALLY, we have arrived at our destination of El Calafate in Argentinian Patagonia. 5 days + 7 flights = a state of mind somewhere between relief at having arrived and a profound feeling of “where the hell are we?” We snicker each time we comment to each other, “Do you realize that 3 days ago we were in Tokyo?” or, “What time is it – in ‘here’ time?”, followed by “OK, and what time is it in Bangkok?”
This is the kind of smile that belies the loosely-gripped state of mind one gets after having travelled across half the planet:
Apart from the jet lag, it is brilliant to be here. We couldn’t get further from downtown Tokyo than small town Argentina and the culture shock has been amusing. In fact, it was during our stop-over in LA that we first noticed the change from Euro-Asian to American, which I guess counts as a kind of reverse culture-shock for us. We were mildly surprised to see large vehicles again, after having been surrounded by tiny cars for so long; we kept unintentionally kind of bowing with each thank-you and handing over our cash with both hands; the portion sizes of food were outrageously huge- one portion of burritos in LA was way more than enough for both of us; voices were so, SO loud; Starbucks actually sold the “venti” sized cup again (no-where else did we see this size being sold); and we noticed that our English had changed – we used to speak in rapidly spoken complete sentences, but after having spent 10 months in non-English-speaking countries, our communication had been simplified to just nouns, verbs and charades (i.e. “You have pen?” or “How much this?”)
But now we are here and the living is easy. We are rapidly learning/re-learning Spanish and consuming wine, both things that we’ve been anxiously looking forward to. Three evenings in a row, I’ve had steak for supper and I think that perhaps three might be the limit. Not so with wine, though. I can’t get enough of it or of the view we have from our room in the hostel, America Del Sur, a.k.a. the best hostel in the world. This town is perched on the edge of Lake Argentina which borders a few glaciers in the national park; I can’t see them from the window but the lake and the Andes make a glorious view at any time of day. We haven’t seen the southern cross constellation yet but I’m keeping my eyes peeled. Meanwhile, our jet lag is wearing off, our exercise is increasing, we’re breathing lots of fresh, cool air and are starting to feel invigorated with some the thought of some brilliant hiking in our near future.
Best of all, Argentina is not at all short on fantastic food. When we arrived in El Calafate, we waited as late as we could manage (Argentines eat LATE) before heading out to a recommended wine bar & parilla. Steak again, with a glass of sparkling and a glass of red. Marc had – quote – “the best carpaccio ever”, which was comprised of Patagonian lamb. It was an ultra-decadent, meat-centric celebration of a meal which was perfectly fitted for our first night in Patagonia.