It all started with our lodging, a hostel picked out of the Lonely Planet for its description as being charming and low-key but friendly. We arrived to find an empty, echoey front hall manned by an indifferent fortysomething guy who looked a bit like Maury Chaykin during the less salubrious moments of Whale Music, who led us to our room. This was painted an extremely depressing shade of old-bachelor yellowing-white, with paint peeling from the ceiling and a window out into a dire little courtyard/airshaft with not much more than a work table and some bits of wood. The bathroom, down the hall, had an uncooperative lock on the door and was one of those where the bathroom _is_ the shower stall, which would have been fine except that the placement of the shower head required you to straddle a bidet to get under it. Needless to say, we didn't want to spend our last days traveling together in this kind of soul-destroying dump; so we immediately returned the key and went in search of other lodgings. This we found in the form of one of the many co-owned HI-affiliated hostels in the town (Hostel Mendoza Internacional), which had the mandatory big board of activities for the week, super-friendly young staff, and all sorts of inviting common space. Had we been less blinded by the bleakness of our first pick, we might have noticed the frequency with which "party" formed part of said big board of activities: a pizza party Wednesday, an asado party Friday, and a pool party every second Sunday or something like that. But we shrugged it off, reckoning that we'd be out on the town until the last unlimited tequila shot had been dispensed and the partiers were bused out to the clubs. And this would, no doubt, have been the case, if I hadn't come down with a terrible cold almost from the moment we unpacked.
As it was, I spent the better part of two days in bed, baking in our un-air-conditioned double room, with a window that looked out over the patio of the hostel's very own bar, which proximity gave rise to the equally unsatisfactory options of closing the window to minimize the omnipresent noise but shut out any breeze, or opening the window, allowing some air to circulate but eliminating any sort of sound barrier. The low point came Wednesday night, our second there, when I had the first real fever of my adult life, and spent the evening with chills, sweats, and a head full of distressing imaginings. Thank God providing needy boyfriends with abundant aid, comfort and reassurance is among my lovely companion's many talents; that night was unpleasant enough but it would have been a real ordeal on my own.
Nor was having a head full of boogers an ideal state to be in when you're in the country's premier wine-producing region. This family-owned bodega's 2005 Malbec? Tastes like Halls. Oh, and what a fine, boogery finish on that award-winning 2004 Merlot! I was worried I wouldn't recover my senses in time, but when Friday morning came I was energetic enough, and clear enough of nostril, that we made the snap decision to head to Maipu, a suburb full of bodegas easily navigated by bike. And so we did, and though it was damn hot on the unshaded portions of the roads -- Mendoza being situated in the middle of the desert, it gets really, really hot in the summer, and all green things in the whole region can only grow thanks to extensive irrigation channels, which include little aqueducts running beside every single meter of sidewalk, whether paved or dirt, in the entire city, to provide water for the many, many shade-providing trees, and to cool the air; but these channels did not quite extend to the roads we had to bike -- we made it to our chosen wineries and had a lovely time waiting out the worst of the day's heat on the blindingly white-decorated rooftop terrace of the very modern bodega Tempus Alba, where the alarmingly gregarious owner, clad in white linen to match the decor, invited us with one hand enthusiastically gripping my shoulder to make ourselves at home on the couches. We did, of course, and the generous glasses of rosado we ordered (review: underwhelming) were enough, after two equally generous flights at our previous stops, to put us quite over the edge. Thus it was that we spent a couple of hilarious hours hanging out in the shade on white couches on a white roof looking out over a sea of electric green vines stretching into the distance under a flawless blue sky.
Back in the city after such a full day, and still not at 100% health-wise, it was beyond our powers to stay out late on Friday night. This, we knew, was our hostel's night to host the party for all its affiliates, whose patrons were bused over for an all-you-can eat asado, followed by unlimited tequila shots, general mayhem, etc. etc. It was a loud one, even after the buses departed around 2, since some folks opted to stay and hang out there a while longer. That was the last straw for us; the next morning we searched out and found new accommodations for our final three nights, the charming, real-hotel (vs hostel) Hotel San Martin, right on the main square, with air conditioning, a closet, fresh linen, and even a pool! (Our lodging difficulties didn't end there, however: on Sunday morning, our hot water tap didn't work in the shower. No big deal, we just skipped that morning's shower; but when we returned that evening, it still didn't work, and we had to switch rooms for our final night. Still not the end of the world, except it seemed like about the millionth accommodation hitch in five days.)
On our last night, after a day that saw us cab out to one final bodega (Escorihuela) only to be informed that it was closed for renovations (stickin' it!), we at last got to The Vines of Mendoza, a fantastic tasting room a block from our hotel. We shared an absolutely delicious flight of stars from Argentina's various regions, and watched, from the comfort of our seat at the tasting bar, as the city where it went seven months without rain last year was inundated by a torrential downpour and then pelted by hail. But it was too late; we were safe inside, with glasses of the country's best wine in hand... a little bit of weather couldn't change our minds. We'd strolled the shady streets, enjoyed the patios along Villanueva, gaped at the mountain scenery on an excellent day tour to Aconcagua, eaten at some fantastic restaurants and succeeded in taking advantage of the region's wineries. Despite all its efforts to convince us otherwise, Mendoza was a fine place indeed. And it's especially satisfying to know we like it in spite of its desire to make us hate it. Now who's stickin' it to who, eh, Mendoza?
That's right.
See you next time, city.
Peace.
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