WALKING THE TALK – How Learning Spanish Has Become My Ticket to Adventure

They say one of the best ways to stay sharp as one ages is to learn a new language. Great. But they also say that the best time to learn that new language is when one is about three years old.
Perfect! It’s the best of both worlds for me; I’m a senior citizen who, I’m told, often acts like a three-year-old.

                                      ~   //  ~  //  ~

My roots are a typical American melting-pot amalgam: a little English, a bit of Italian…but mostly German. My family celebrates that heritage in a well-documented trove of family lore and with a few fine decorative and artistic German heirlooms handed down through the generations.

So, naturally, when I faced the choice of either French or German as my foreign language in high school, I went with the deutsch. Never gave it a second thought.

  None of it fit my 
  romantic image of myself as a Mexican 
  fisherman in a previous life. 

AN EPIPHANY
Flash forward to about 2002. It was then, at the age of 57, during one of my several identity crises, that I decided I hated German. Truth be told, I’d never liked the hard, guttural sound of it. I didn’t much care for some of the national characteristics it conjured up for me either. None of it fit my romantic image of myself as a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

Besides, it was becoming quite clear that I might never even visit Germany. But I had been traveling to Mexico, with my parents when I was nine, and a couple of times with friends as an adult. Then I got married, and Sally and I continued the trend, spring-breaking in nearly all of the popular Mexican beach towns.

I think it was Mazatlán where the epiphany happened. As I usually do, I’d boned up on a few basic pleasantries in Spanish so I could be a more gracious visitor, a better representative of my own country.

But on this one short cab ride, when it came time to pay the fare, the limit of my competence in the language came up and bit me. For some reason, cien (a hundred) and diez (ten) switched places in my brain, and I was convinced the driver had stiffed me.

He explained with patience I didn’t deserve. Red-faced, I apologized and handed him the pesos…and a little extra for the painful lesson. And it was at that precise moment that the trajectory of my late-in-life quest for Spanish literacy took off.

IMMERSION IS THE KEY
Next time in Mexico, I decided, I’ll be able to carry on at least a simple “How’re the wife and kids?” conversation with a cab driver—and be able to correctly count my change. Those were my goals.

So I signed up for a St. Paul Public Schools Community Ed. class: Spanish for Beginners. My teacher was Silverio Rios, an engaging 40-something Mexican who’d been living and working in the Twin Cities for several years.

One evening after class I asked Silverio to join me for coffee and we chatted a bit about my goals for learning his first language. Toward the end of that first get-together, he told me of his plans to take small groups of his students on week-long Spanish immersion trips down to the part of central Mexico where he’d grown up.

That idea captivated me, and, as I was then a graphic designer, I offered to design and write his brochure for him. He accepted, offering in exchange a spot on his inaugural trip.

And so, Voces del Español was born. In August 2003, Silverio, I and three other students flew to Mexico City, then bussed to Querétaro City, and finally rented a car for the drive to the charming little town of Tequisquiápan, which would serve as our home base for the week.

The format involved formal classes in the mornings and an excursion each afternoon. Silverio had designed all the activities to encourage our use of the language in everyday experiences, such as buying produce from the local market or ordering dinner at a restaurant for everyone in our group.

Also included in those experiences was joining Silverio’s relatives for typical family events like a birthday, a wedding and going to the cemetery to tend to family graves. On different occasions we helped make bread with his mom and joined in the elaborate preparation of a mole.

WHERE LA ACCION IS
By the end of that first Voces trip, I realized my original goal of engaging in small-talk with a cab driver had already been eclipsed. Now I knew I was capable of more.

My Spanish learning was to become the theme—the key, one could say—to many more travels in Latin America. I eventually went on three more Voces immersion trips with Silverio. With each one, I gained more tools and more confidence in expressing myself. (Not to mention the great joy of being virtually adopted into his family.)

I’ve also travelled to Spain, Peru and Argentina, and attended language schools in Veracruz, Mexico, Panama and Cuba. All, if not dictated by my quest for better Spanish, at least encouraged by it.

   My goal had been edging up too,
   like one of those mechanical rabbits
   that racing dogs chase, always just
   beyond reach.

NOT LOST IN TRANSLATION
One measure of my progress has been the time lapse between when I think of something to say and when the words actually come out of my mouth. I remember quite clearly when that interval was five to ten seconds. In most of my attempts to join a conversation I was getting left behind.

But my competence level kept edging up, and that time interval down. At some point I realized my goal had been edging up too, like one of those mechanical rabbits that racing dogs chase, always just beyond reach. Now I wasn’t going to settle for any less than holding my own in those conversations with native speakers.

I have my moments—occasionally glorified by a couple of tequilas. They’ve included many conversations with Silverio, members of his family or Spanish-speaking friends I’ve met on my own, about a range of topics from art to zoology.

Once I get going, I enter that rarified air where only the relatively fluent survive. Where my mind goes right from hearing the Spanish to replying in Spanish, without passing through an English translation.

I suppose it’s another measure of my progress that I’m now less focused on vocabulary and grammar than on the finer points, like minimizing my English accent and incorporating common filler words—the Spanish equivalents to the English “um,” “well,” “then” or “so”— into my speaking.

Yes, I’ve a ways to go, but I can definitely see the prize. It may be that I’ll never be able to actually grab it; that might take a few months living in a place where no one speaks English. Maybe in my next life.

EMPOWERMENT
It’s amazing, when traveling, what knowing the local language does for a person. For me, it’s been kind of like watching and envying a competent musician, and then, with a ton of work, being able to play myself.

My new second language opens doors—to friendships, to avoiding conflict, to finding my way around. And for Sally, it cuts through the awkwardness of her having to shop using just hand gestures.

I can even feel my Spanish competence affecting my posture as I walk down the street, especially in areas where I may be the only person in that town who looks like me. I enjoy seeing the look on a person’s face when someone who looks so unlikely to be a Spanish speaker handles their language so capably.

More than once, that person has explained that they’d expected me, at best, to speak English with a heavy German accent.

                               ~   //  ~  //  ~ 

POSTSCRIPT: My dad, at about the same age I was when my love affair with Spanish began, was also dreaming of learning the language. He chipped away at it, but with all his home and business responsibilities he never really got past the basics. I know that a great part of my motivation has been to honor his dream and make him proud. I believe I have.

LAST PORTAGE – A Tribute to the Father I Never Knew

As a teenager I, like most adolescents, believed my parents were total nerds. Knew nothing, I thought, about music, sports, adventure, fun—all the stuff I was into. They were so…well…old, that they embarrassed me.

But as they aged, my dad started sorting through his mementos, and when he showed me some of them it opened up a whole new window on his world. Among those relics were a few small black-and-white pictures of him canoeing with his friend, Bob Clough, in Minnesota’s north woods. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, young and fit and happy. I was intrigued.

      This made us not just cool kid and
      dorky father, but kindred spirits.

There were also receipts from outfitters in Ely and Winton, Minnesota, towns near entry points to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW). They listed flour, sugar, lard and various canned goods, all in quantities sufficient for extended stays in the wilderness.

And there was this map, printed on treated canvas, of a portion of Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park, the BWCAW’s even wilder counterpart across the border in Ontario. Hand-drawn on it was a new portage the two had blazed across the base of a long peninsula, cutting off several hours’ paddling time around it. They’d tentatively claimed it on the map with a red arrow and their last initials, C&W.

KINDRED SPIRITS
I’d known Dad was a Boy Scout, but this was something else, something more exciting than good deeds and merit badges. The guy had roughed it on his own terms, for weeks at a time, in true wilderness, back when that word meant more than it does now. A real man’s man. And, since I’d also done many BWCAW and Quetico trips myself, this made us not just cool kid and dorky father, but kindred spirits.

Fast forward to 1997. Dad was 91; I was 52. And that July Dad passed away. Even though Mom was still living, I felt like an orphan. I regretted not having known him better. But finally being aware of that adventurous, woodsman side of his was still pretty special.

When it came time for the family to divvy up Dad’s stuff, I didn’t want much. But I wanted that map. And I got it.

That old cloth map stirred something in me. And during the following year I began planning a canoe trip up to that portage. I invited six friends, with varying degrees of wilderness paddling experience, who I thought would most appreciate the adventure. We put our heads together to plan logistics: dates, route, menu, equipment… And I created graphics for The Memorial Expedition: a six-inch round commemorative plaque and a dozen three-inch souvenir medallions, and had the design sand-etched onto clear glass blanks.

      The miracle material can stop
      a bullet or just about any other
      impact, but, incredibly, is helpless
      against abrasion.

GETTING THERE
On June second, 1998, we headed north for the five-and-a-half-hour drive to the North Shore, the Gunflint Trail and Tuscarora Lodge, where we’d arranged to bunk for the night and rent canoes for the trip. When we left home, temperatures had been summer-like, with predicted highs in the mid-80s. It looked like the warm streak would apply to northwestern Minnesota too, and hold for at least several days. That was good to know, as it allowed me to pack fairly light, always an advantage for a wilderness canoe trip.

Alas, that night, on a cot barely fit for a prisoner, it soon became clear I’d been grossly misled about the weather. With no heat in the bunkhouse, the near-freezing chill easily breached its walls and my flimsy sleeping bag, making for a miserable night.

Next morning, we were introduced to our two slick, nearly transparent, super-light Kevlar canoes. I learned that this miracle material—originally developed by Dupont as a replacement for the five-times-heavier steel belts used in racing tires, and later as the basis of bulletproof body armor—can stop a bullet or just about any other impact, but, incredibly, is helpless against abrasion.

All this to explain why our host applied a strip of silver duct tape along each canoe’s keel at the bow. If we returned the craft with any part of that tape worn through, we’d be charged a penalty. No problem, considering several of us had long ago learned that a canoe’s bow must never, ever touch anything but water or air.

THE TWO SAGS
They loaded up our gear, Carl’s beautiful wood / fiberglass Old Town Canadienne and the two canoes we’d rented, and drove us up to the end of the Gunflint Trail. There we put in at the tip of the long, narrow south arm of Lake Saganaga, one of the BWCAW’s biggest and prettiest glacier-scoured lakes.

We paddled a couple of miles north up the narrow, river-like channel and then into the huge expanse of Big Sag itself.

Then it was west for about six miles across the widest part of Saganaga, skirting its numerous islands and crossing the international border. Once we entered Cache Bay, we had to register with Canadian Customs, letting them know where we were headed and for how many days.

As we paddled away from the rangers’ island, the wind picked up and it started to snow—something I’d only once before encountered up here in June. Luckily, paddling into the wind generated enough body heat to stay quite comfortable…for a while. But soon, the piercing cold was conspiring with high winds and some nasty two-foot waves to deny us much headway, so we found a good landing spot on the lee side of a small island, and built a fire.

The wind kept pounding us for the next couple of hours until, finally, we were able to make a run for it to the nearest decent campsite.

I thought of all the millions of footsteps that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

At the time, officially-designated campsites in the Quetico weren’t shown on the Fisher maps, so we scouted our own site and, hurried by pending nightfall, quickly reacquainted ourselves with the various roles and tasks it takes to set up camp, prepare a meal and protect our food pack from bears.

I shared a tent with my brother-in-law, Carl. Thank goodness neither of us is a super-loud snorer. Nonetheless, it proved to be another long, miserable night, for, once again, the temperature kept dropping, this time to well below freezing.

My ultra-light sleeping bag, with its scant one inch of loft and a rating for about 50 degrees, came up short—or should I say thin—for me, even wearing every stitch of clothing I had. At dawn’s first scant light, still shivering in fetal position, I looked enviously over at Carl, tucked in his brand new LL Bean, five-inch-thick, zero-degree-rated goose down sleeping bag, blissfully sawing wood. It was all I could do not to either crawl in there with him…or punch him!

Next morning, we had breakfast and broke camp rather leisurely, and then paddled west toward Silver Falls, where we made several small portages before entering the very southeastern tip of the narrow, twelve-mile-long Lake Saganagons. (Indeed, its name is that similar to Saganaga’s.)

ETCHED IN STONE AND GLASS
About three miles up the north side of Saganagons, we scoured the irregular shoreline for the legendary portage. In the Quetico, portages are not clearly marked with Forest Service signs as they are in the BWCAW. So it took a while, but we finally spotted it, tucked behind a point that looked like an island. At last, this was it.

I’ve always been a sucker for all things mystical, especially if they involve ceremony. I felt an immediate reverence for this place we were about to consecrate, picturing my dad and his friend standing there, dirty and exhausted, celebrating their success blazing their way across to the other side of the peninsula. And I thought of all the millions of footsteps that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

We paused for trail lunch before starting out across the 52-rod—about 300 feet—trail.

I dug out the small packet of Dad’s ashes I’d filched from the plastic-lined boxful we got from the crematorium. As we slowly retraced my father’s steps, I scattered his ashes here and there, saving some to anoint the lake on the other side.

As we walked back, I scouted the surroundings for the best place to bury the glass plaque and the remaining six medallions. I spotted a rock outcrop with a distinctive, linear groove. Following that line down to the point where it receded beneath the soil, I measured off a few feet past that and dug a hole in the spongy, peat-like earth. And there I carefully laid the glass plaque and six medallions.

After I solemnly replaced and tamped down the soil, we gathered on the trail. There was no question that Dad’s presence was felt. Each of us who felt the inclination offered heartfelt reflections about him and about the extraordinary experience we were sharing. Some read or recited poems; others simply offered their memories of Dad. I shared one of my favorite T.S. Eliot quotes from his Four Quartets:

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

We made camp that night on a lovely island not far from the portage, and laid over there for one more day before heading back home.

Our paddle back across the border was much more tranquil than the one getting to Saganagons—and no snow this time. I think we all felt a sense of accomplishment, as 50-somethings, having proved our mettle against the challenges of the wilderness, albeit for just five days.

And I felt I’d done my father proud, acknowledging a part of him I’d barely known, but came to greatly admire and respect. I realize it’s pure romanticism, but I’ve filed a detailed description of the medallions' burial site, complete with map and photos, with my will.

My hope is that one of my antecedents—who knows how far into the future—might learn of this tribute through family lore, and mount their own quest to find Oscar Willius’s and Bob Clough’s portage and excavate the buried medallions.

Call me a dreamer; I guess it's in my blood.

THE ONES THAT DIDN’T GET AWAY — Catching Trout and More in Pategonia

(This is the sixth and final post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

If you told me a couple years ago I’d ever go trout fishing on a crystal-clear alpine lake in Patagonia, surrounded by the snow-capped Andes, I’d have said “Yeah, in my dreams.”

Well, thanks to a healthy appetite for adventure, and to my brother, Dan, for his world-class travel-planning, those dreams have come true.

THE FLIP SIDE OF FALL
From Mendoza, Dan and I caught the next of our ten flight legs on Aerolineas Argentinas: two hours south to Bariloche, a city of 100,000 situated on the south shore of glacial Lake Nahuel Huapi, in northern Pategonia.

There we rented a car for the three-and-a-half-hour drive north to our lodging near the small town (population 25,000) of San Martin de Los Andes.

Even though the roads are remarkably good, the driving proved challenging for the intermittent rain and high winds. Not to mention the constant distraction of new, neck-craning, post-card views of mountains and lakes around each bend.

Just-blooming wildflowers and the new green of the forests reminded us that we were in the southern hemisphere’s version of November—the same, climatologically, as our May back in Minnesota.

As one might expect on mountain roads, we found ourselves chained to the rear ends of a couple of slow-moving trucks and one maddening hippy-era RV/bus whose driver studiously avoided every opportunity to let us—and dozens of other cars—pass.

With a little help from Google Maps, we arrived at Rio Hermoso Lodge, a jaw-dropping property located inside Lanín National Park. The lodge, built of native wood and stone, is situated right on a bend of the quintessential mountain trout stream.

Our beautiful corner room looks out over the river and the well-manicured lawn where two of the resident horses frolicked, chasing each other back and forth.

    A handsome, 16-inch rainbow trout,
    caught in a crystal-clear mountain
    lake in Patagonia. Could it get any
    better than this?

LAGO FALKNER
The next day dawned sunny and cool. Perfect weather for our day of fishing in some of the most celebrated trout waters in the world. After an excellent buffet breakfast, we met up with Augustine, our friendly, robust guide, and hopped into his truck for the 15-minute ride to Lago Falkner.

Lago Falkner is one of this area’s illustrious Ruta de Los Siete Lagos, the Route of the Seven Lakes. (There are actually at least twice that many gorgeous lakes hereabouts.) Like the others, Falkner was scoured out, west to east, by glaciers during the late Pleistocene Epoch some 25,000 years ago. It is about 12 miles long by less than a mile wide, and runs to an incredible depth of nearly 2,000 feet.

Surrounded as it is by Cerro Falkner (8,000 feet) and several other snow-capped mountains, the lake is a catch basin for cold air, often funneling it into strong winds. So, at last, after two weeks of much warmer than expected weather at our other destinations, our layers of warm clothes would prove their worth today.

    I had to be sure not to give it an inch
    of slack lest it easily slide off of the
    barbless hooks.

WHY IT’S CALLED FISHING, NOT CATCHING
Augustine launched his boat, and, bundled up against the crisp air, we motored down the lake for a couple of miles before he turned toward the south shore and coasted to trolling speed.

Since neither Dan nor I are very good fly-fishermen, Augustine hooked us up a couple of medium-weight spinning rigs (too clunky for this type of fishing; I’d have preferred my own ultra-light gear), with spinner lures. National park fishing regulations call for strict catch-and-release, and every hook used must be barbless.

PHOTO: Pixabay

Within minutes, we could see the trout swimming around, but they weren’t falling for our baits, even when dragged right in front of their noses. To manage expectations Augustine hinted that, with the lake’s water level quite high, he didn’t expect a ton of action.

Determined to prove him wrong, we spent the rest of the morning drifting along that southern shore. Even in the breezy conditions Augustine skillfully maneuvered the boat, keeping the shore just beyond reach of my longest cast.

Despite a couple of halfhearted strikes, our batting average was dwindling with each cast. But watching the changing shoreline, with its rock-strewn banks, driftwood “sculptures” and occasional cascading creeks—not to mention just taking in the amazing views all around us—proved reason enough to keep at it.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

PHOTO: Dan Willius

Finally, after a couple hours’ work—attested to by some serious blisters erupting on our casting hands—I managed to tie into our first fish. It put up a good fight, and I had to be sure not to give it an inch of slack lest it easily slide off of the barbless hooks.

A handsome, 16-inch rainbow trout, caught in a crystal-clear mountain lake in Patagonia. Could it get any better than this? Well, I hoped, yes, if we could now just get Dan hooked up with one too.

Augustine, between boat maneuvers, had been fly fishing—with no luck. At one point, he borrowed Dan’s spinning rod and made a cast. Wouldn’t you know it, after Dan’s and my combined barrage of hundreds of casts, he’s suddenly one for one! (Isn’t a guide supposed to make you feel good about your own fishing skills?)

    After such an amazing meal I would
    have enjoyed a nice nap in the sun,
    but we had work to do.

A SHORE LUNCH LIKE NO OTHER
At any rate, it was time for our shore lunch. Augustine found a good spot, with room to land the boat, start a fire and set up a folding table and chairs. We’d have been quite content with sandwiches, or maybe some fried trout, but no, this is Argentina; he proceeded to whip up a full-on asado for us.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

Salami, cheese and bread to keep us occupied while he grilled; and then some lovely beef tenderloin, pork sausages and morcilla, or blood sausage. It was all complimented with a colorful and delicious beet-and-carrot salad and a bottle of nice Argentine Cabernet.

After such an amazing meal I would have enjoyed a little nap in the sun, but we had work to do. We had to get Dan at least one trout.

Working our way back along the south shore, we finally found a bit of action. Dan reeled in his own nice 16-incher, and I managed to land another, just a bit smaller.

That turned out to be the sum total of our catch for the day. But Augustine had worked very hard for us and given us a true full day of fishing. (Unlike the Mexican Pacific game fish charters I’m accustomed to, which almost always end by about 1:30, he kept us at it until 5:00.)

We headed back to the lodge, settled up with Augustine, and proceeded to the bar to celebrate our memorable day.

SAN MARTIN DE LOS ANDES
On our final day in northern Patagonia, we made the winding, 30-kilometer drive to the village of San Martin, stopping often along the way to photograph the mountains, lakes and swathes of yellow and orange wild flowers that seemed to pour off of each embankment. Once again, the weather was ideal.
 

San Martin, founded in 1898 by loggers and leather merchants, many of them of German descent, sits at the eastern tip of beautiful Lago Lacár. Today, it’s best known as a tourist destination, a jumping-off point for anglers, hikers and hard-core bicyclists. It is the seat of administration for Lanín National Park.

We spent a couple of hours walking around town, checking out the European Alpine-inspired architecture, some fascinating trees and plants, and people watching. We bought sandwiches and soft drinks and sat on the terraced promenade that runs along behind the municipal sand beach.
 

It had turned quite cool again, with a steady 20-30-mile-an-hour wind channeled down the lake’s long, narrow trough, right into our faces.

The morning of our last day, we checked out, chatted briefly with Giselle, the owner and our host, and hit the road back to Bariloche. We were tempted to stop at every scenic pull-over—many of which we’d already done—if only to more indelibly etch the beauty of this place into our souls.

We did stop a few times, but mostly the ride was quiet and reflective.

   …most awesome of all, sharing this 
   great adventure with my smart,
   thoughtful, multi-talented brother.

REFLECTION
San Martin had been the final adventure, our last destination, before the long trek back home. Misty-eyed, I recalled our arrival, just 15 days before, into the busy swirl of Buenos Aires. It seemed like a month.

Buenos Aires, with its amazing parks, the tango show and all those “good airs;” San Antonio de Areco and the unforgettable gaucho fair; our magical, music-infused dinner and those crazy painted rock formations around Salta; Mendoza’s rich, deeply-rooted wine culture; and the breathtaking alpine landscapes and crystalline waters around San Martin de los Andes.

All these indelible impressions; the kind and colorful people we met; the many chances to broaden my grasp of Spanish; the sheer variety of natural and cultural gifts we received. And perhaps most awesome of all, sharing this great adventure with my smart, thoughtful, multi-talented brother.

I’ll never forget it. And if it’s true, as goes the proverb, that “we travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.” then I’d say we both, indeed, captured a bit of living.

AWASH IN MALBEC – The Favors and Flavors of Mendoza

(This is the fifth post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

From Salta, Dan and I flew south to Córdoba and then west to the next stop on our excursion, the west-central city of Mendoza. The provincial capital and its metropolitan area comprise a population of a bit over a million.

Like Salta, this part of Argentina rubs shoulders with the Andes, but here the proximity seems more immediate, with the snow-capped peaks of some of the highest mountains in the Americas serrating the western horizon. At their feet, the broad sweep of the Monte Desert, rendered arable here by constant runoff from the glaciers of the Cordillera.

IMAGE: WinePedia.info

Mendoza is perhaps best known for its chief exports, wine—especially malbec, a robust, fairly dry red whose thick-skinned grapes were first brought to Argentina from France in the 1860s—and olive oil. Today, 75 percent of the world’s acreage of malbec grapes grows in Argentina.

Another of Mendoza’s draws is as a tourist destination. For the wine, yes, but also for a broader, bourgeoning ecotourism industry. The capital city also serves as a jump-off point for climbing expeditions to some of the Andes’s most spectacular peaks, just over 100 kilometers to the west.

(As we cabbed from the airport to our lodging, we spotted one especially stunning snow-capped peak. We assumed it must be Aconcagua, at 22,841 the world’s highest peak outside of Asia. Later we learned that what we’d seen was actually Cerro El Plomo, a mere pipsqueak at just 18,000 feet.)

Aconcagua – IMAGE: WikiPedia

  I discovered that—God strike me dead—
  I don’t really like malbec.

MORE MEAT
We stayed at Lares de Chacras, an elegant-but-unpretentious boutique hotel in the upscale south-metro neighborhood of Chacras de Coria. This part of town is considered the gateway to the Ruta del Vino, or wine route, with stops at a select 15 of the Mendoza area’s 1,500-and-then-some wineries.

(As if we hadn’t known we were in serious wine country, our hotel’s entrance foyer has a glass floor, showing off its own modest wine cellars below.)

Once we’d settled into our room, we headed to Lares’s very inviting patio, where we met two of our fellow guests, women friends from New Zealand, both wine enthusiasts. And here’s where Dan was perhaps most in his element, discussing the merits of various wines, including those of their country and of Australia.

After a nice glass of wine, we were summoned to the outdoor terrace dining area, now joined by a pleasant couple from England, for our asado Argentino, or Argentine barbecue. It appeared that, for most of this group, the wines were the stars of the show. I, with my less sophisticated palette, appreciated the wine, but found that the several-course presentation of various grilled meats gave the vino a run for its money.

(Ironically, it is here, in the malbec capital of the world, I discovered that—God strike me dead—I don’t really like malbec. Maybe it’s the dryness; maybe the ample tannins. But I prefer the somewhat lighter and sweeter Cabernets. In fact, truth be told, I enjoy a good strong mixed drink more than most any wine—though in this wine-centric country cocktails proved hard to come by.)

Five-liter jugs of malbec line the aisles of a small market.

A word about Chacras de Coria: Situated as it is on this broad sweep of flat, open desert, the town surprised us with its lush, oasis-like feel. The streets and roads, well-shaded by phalanxes of gigantic sycamores, pass a range of structures, ranging from modest homes and workaday shops to showy estancias, upscale restaurants, exclusive gift boutiques and of course wine shops.

IMAGE: Trip Advisor

UNDER THE TABLE
Next morning we headed out on our own little wine tour, to two wineries Dan had researched. First on foot to the small La Bodega Canepa, where the current co-owner’s girlfriend, Betiana, gave us a low-key, yet informative, tour of the facility, which has been owned by members of the Canepa family since the 19th century.

Betiana also provided us with a tasting, comparing of some of their styles and vintages, with the obligatory crackers to cleanse the palate between samples. Dan asked if they provided spittoons, one would assume to avoid having his taste buds dulled by inebriation. I and the two twenty-something  Argentine men who’d joined us had no such concern.

IMAGE: Dan Willius

The tasting room itself was memorable. We sat around a glass-top table whose large barrel base is full of corks. One wall is a work of art, a weave of curved barrel staves. Even some of the furniture is crafted of wine-stained staves.
 





   The wines were wonderful, but were
   all but upstaged by the spectacular 
   “tomahawk steak.”

THE HUE OF A VINTNER’S SMILE
After a nice picnic lunch, we called a taxi for the jaunt to our second winery, Piattelli Vineyards, located in Luján de Cuyo, a distinct wine region some 25 miles south of Lares de Chacras. (Lucky we’d opted against our original plan to rent bicycles for our wineries tour!)

Piattelli had caught Dan’s attention for a couple of reasons. First, he’d found and enjoyed some of their wine back home in Minneapolis. Second, it turned out the owners are actually from Minneapolis. Alas, they were not at the winery the day we visited. Nonetheless, we were treated to a private, two-and-a-half-hour tour and tasting experience.

Just outside the spacious, warmly decorated reception hall is a lovely patio which overlooks a holding pond—used to collect and distribute, as needed, the precious run-off from the adjacent mountains. And just beyond the pond—and all around—the vineyards. Somehow the lovely setting seemed even more idyllic when we noticed the pond is full of trout—good-size trout!

Our three-course tasting menu included salad, main course and dessert, each accompanied by either one or two Piattelli wines, most from this vineyard, but one from the company’s other vineyard back in Cafayate.
The wines were wonderful, but were all but upstaged by the spectacular “tomahawk steak” a bone-in rib eye that not only filled our good-sized plates, but whose bone extended six inches beyond.

The wines were poured by one of the bodega’s vintners who gave us an overview of each selection. Later, the head vintner made an appearance and chatted with us for another twenty minutes, going into greater detail about the wines, as well as their production and marketing. (I couldn’t help but notice how stained her teeth were; I suppose that goes with the territory.)

As unexpected as this unhurried, personal conversation with the vintners seemed to me, Dan had come prepared, with pages of questions for them. They appeared quite impressed with the sophistication of his questions, and I felt happy and proud to see him so engaged and energized in this, one of his chief passions.

BLUE FOUNTAINS 
Our last day in Mendoza we headed into the city center to explore and take pictures.

La Plaza de Independencia, along with a quadriplex of other, smaller parks surrounding it a few blocks away, was created following the earthquake that destroyed the city in 1861 as an open-air refuge for Mendocinos in the event of other such disasters.

There are several fountains, a couple of them spouting blue-dyed water—I think I like water’s natural “color” just the way it is, thank you. The largest fountain is the ambitious Friso de la Independencia, a sweep of squirting sculpture representing everything from indigenous peoples, to the Spanish conquest, to liberation, to more recent political and social strife.

One side of the park opens onto lovely Avenida Sarmiento, a cobbled, shaded pedestrian street lined with cafes and animated with street performers.

Next, we rode out to the western fringes of the city to the Cerro de la Gloria, a hill overlooking Mendoza, and home of the Monumento al Ejército de Los Andes, the Monument to the Army of the Andes. This colossal memorial stands over seven stories tall and embodies some 14 tons of bronze. It is the work of Uruguayan sculptor Juan Manuel Ferrari, who, along with several Argentine sculptors, created it from 1911 to 1914 in observance of the centennial of the country’s independence from Spain.

Among the dramatic allegorical depictions, dominant are figures of the soaring, winged Lady Liberty, the heroic General San Martin, leader of the victorious rebellion, and a huge condor that somehow manages to emerge, soaring, from under the pounding hooves of the horses.

(A word of advice: If you ever visit the Cerro de la Gloria by taxi, be sure to have the driver wait for you. Finding a cab back down to the city proved to be quite a challenge. We ended up having to share the one that had waited for an hilarious couple from Curaçao, who playfully demanded all but our first borne great-grandchild for the privilege.)

That evening, back in Chacras de Coria, we walked from our hotel to a restaurant with a lovely, tree-canopied deck. Over a beer and a light meal we culled some of the day’s worst photos from our cameras and recapped our brief time in this memorable place.

Tomorrow, poignantly, we’re off on the final leg of this incredible two-and-a-half-week swing through Argentina—to Bariloche, San Martin de los Andes, and some amazing—we hope—trout fishing.