Mendoza sits huddled beneath the protective gaze of the Andes; it´s concrete buildings contrasting sharply to the rugged mountain peaks. It´s smaller than Rosario, and less crowded. As Devin and I were surprised to find out, it´s possible to cross the street and not see your life flash before your eyes. We were there for the weekend, for an adventure, for something new and creative and beautiful.
The crown jewel of the city is the Plaza de Independencia. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, as Devin and I wiped the sleep out of our eyes and disembarked from our 13 hour bus ride. We found a hostel, stayed in a ¨Matrimony Suite¨(complete with bubble gum pink walls, curtains, and bed spread) and then decided to wander around and get our bearings. It wasn´t long before we stumbled into the plaza, and upon a dance concert where 50 Mendocino youths were showing off their rhythm. The dancers stood in front of a monumentous fountain that sprayed water 50 feet in the air and occasionally on us if we were standing too close. We stood and watched in awe, until our rumbling stomachs over took our desire to watch.
Two botellas de agua and two plates of gnochis later, we went back to the park with a bottle of wine (and no wine bottle opener...fail) and passed out for two hours on the smooth green grass.
¨Helado!!!¨A wrinkled, darker man, pedaled past our sleeping frames on the ground. Every 30 seconds letting out another yell. ¨Ice cream, here!¨I wondered how many years he had spent saying those words.
The next day we met up with some girls from our program and took a $1 bus to the hot springs. Nestled between two moutains, we spent the day soaking in the scenery and the sun.
Later that night Devin and I decided to nap before we went out on the town, but unfortunately slept a bit too long, and woke up at 9 am the next morning, just in time for our wine tour.
We biked around the bodegas of the Maipú region of Mendoza sans a guide, with only a rudimentary map and two irish girls who found themselves in the same predicament as us. We had paid for a tour, but only been given bikes and a time to return.
¨We close after six,¨The man had told us, ¨So get back before then.¨And with that, he had waved us on our way.
Now, I´m not sure about you, but I don´t really know my way around Maipú very well, or at all really. So we spent the next eight hours of our day searching the streets for these elusive wineries. We found some, and the wine was great. We stopped at a liquor and chocolate factory, and since there were no English speaking guides, I got to translate for our group and for a German couple.
Although it was tough not having a guide, we were able to go at our own pace and enjoy the scenery. It was like something out of a postcard, and if the computer was working I would be able to put up pictures, but imagine this:
Our bikes are in various stages of disrepair, but it seems to match the rundown buildings perfectly. Almost sarcastically, the government has painted¨Maipú, el mejor lugar para vivir¨(Maipú the best place to live) over half torn down buildings and sanitation vehicles. Bricks and pieces of rock lay abandoned, as if someday a work crew will come back and finish the job. On the other side of the road, The Andes rise like ancient watchment, snow still perched on rocky shoulders, and below it's impossible to see anything but the twisted hands of thousands of grape plants reaching for the sunlight. It´s an interesting contradiction, the poverty of the people with the glory of the scenery. The broken, dirty homes and the immaculate bodegas. All four of us pedal past it, listening to the songs of the birds and the roar of the trucks as they plow past us, spraying us with exhaust.
In one moment it´s beautiful, in the next, it´s incredibly sad. It´s a feeling I can´t shake, a gut instinct that all of it can´t exist together, but yet it does. The fountain in Mendoza sprays water and lights up, and in the hot springs people swirl down the water slides, and rich tourists bike around and taste ridiculously expensive wine, while la gente of this breathtaking region work the field, beg for money, living a day to day existence.
I´ve been craving an authentic experience here: something real, not fabricated by the tourists office. But the more time I spend, the more Spanish I speak, I´m coming to realize that my idea of what is an ¨authentic¨experience, may just be a figment of my imagination. Maybe the reality is in the contradictions, in the experiences that are difficult for me to understand, and hard for me to explain. Maybe in these moments of apprehension, of shock, of guilt, I will find whatever I'm looking for.
For now, all I can do is make sure my eyes are open as I pedal by.
The crown jewel of the city is the Plaza de Independencia. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, as Devin and I wiped the sleep out of our eyes and disembarked from our 13 hour bus ride. We found a hostel, stayed in a ¨Matrimony Suite¨(complete with bubble gum pink walls, curtains, and bed spread) and then decided to wander around and get our bearings. It wasn´t long before we stumbled into the plaza, and upon a dance concert where 50 Mendocino youths were showing off their rhythm. The dancers stood in front of a monumentous fountain that sprayed water 50 feet in the air and occasionally on us if we were standing too close. We stood and watched in awe, until our rumbling stomachs over took our desire to watch.
Two botellas de agua and two plates of gnochis later, we went back to the park with a bottle of wine (and no wine bottle opener...fail) and passed out for two hours on the smooth green grass.
¨Helado!!!¨A wrinkled, darker man, pedaled past our sleeping frames on the ground. Every 30 seconds letting out another yell. ¨Ice cream, here!¨I wondered how many years he had spent saying those words.
The next day we met up with some girls from our program and took a $1 bus to the hot springs. Nestled between two moutains, we spent the day soaking in the scenery and the sun.
Later that night Devin and I decided to nap before we went out on the town, but unfortunately slept a bit too long, and woke up at 9 am the next morning, just in time for our wine tour.
We biked around the bodegas of the Maipú region of Mendoza sans a guide, with only a rudimentary map and two irish girls who found themselves in the same predicament as us. We had paid for a tour, but only been given bikes and a time to return.
¨We close after six,¨The man had told us, ¨So get back before then.¨And with that, he had waved us on our way.
Now, I´m not sure about you, but I don´t really know my way around Maipú very well, or at all really. So we spent the next eight hours of our day searching the streets for these elusive wineries. We found some, and the wine was great. We stopped at a liquor and chocolate factory, and since there were no English speaking guides, I got to translate for our group and for a German couple.
Although it was tough not having a guide, we were able to go at our own pace and enjoy the scenery. It was like something out of a postcard, and if the computer was working I would be able to put up pictures, but imagine this:
Our bikes are in various stages of disrepair, but it seems to match the rundown buildings perfectly. Almost sarcastically, the government has painted¨Maipú, el mejor lugar para vivir¨(Maipú the best place to live) over half torn down buildings and sanitation vehicles. Bricks and pieces of rock lay abandoned, as if someday a work crew will come back and finish the job. On the other side of the road, The Andes rise like ancient watchment, snow still perched on rocky shoulders, and below it's impossible to see anything but the twisted hands of thousands of grape plants reaching for the sunlight. It´s an interesting contradiction, the poverty of the people with the glory of the scenery. The broken, dirty homes and the immaculate bodegas. All four of us pedal past it, listening to the songs of the birds and the roar of the trucks as they plow past us, spraying us with exhaust.
In one moment it´s beautiful, in the next, it´s incredibly sad. It´s a feeling I can´t shake, a gut instinct that all of it can´t exist together, but yet it does. The fountain in Mendoza sprays water and lights up, and in the hot springs people swirl down the water slides, and rich tourists bike around and taste ridiculously expensive wine, while la gente of this breathtaking region work the field, beg for money, living a day to day existence.
I´ve been craving an authentic experience here: something real, not fabricated by the tourists office. But the more time I spend, the more Spanish I speak, I´m coming to realize that my idea of what is an ¨authentic¨experience, may just be a figment of my imagination. Maybe the reality is in the contradictions, in the experiences that are difficult for me to understand, and hard for me to explain. Maybe in these moments of apprehension, of shock, of guilt, I will find whatever I'm looking for.
For now, all I can do is make sure my eyes are open as I pedal by.
I never told you, but this is my favorite post yet.
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