So on Friday night, instead of going out with some of the other TIPS at my school, I decided to honor an invitation from one of my better students to join her at her house for her boyfriend’s birthday party. I know it probably sounds both awkward and a little shady, but I assure you, it was neither. She and her brother picked me up from school after my last class, and, after picking up one of my other students, we drove back to their apartment. I use the term “birthday party” very loosely, as it was not so much a party as just a gathering of Cat and Fran, my two students, Rey, Cat’s boyfriend, and about 5 other family members or friends of either Cat or Rey (to the left is a picture of me with Cat, Fran, and Rey at my party last weekend.
Not exactly sure why Fran and Rey aren’t smiling, but I promise, they are nicer than they look). As the only gringo there, I was sort of the petting zoo at the public park of the party. In spite of the fact that it was Rey’s birthday, he and Cat kept referring to me as the "honored guest," and Cat even gave me a bottle of wine as a gift before I left. In all the night was a tranquil and entertaining way to spend the evening. Cat’s brother drove Fran and me home at around 3:30, tired, sober, and one bottle of wine richer from the night’s pursuits.
I spent most of Saturday morning packing and cleaning my room, and at around noon, I left to meet up with my friend Matt at the bus station. With the help of a couple books, my video iPod, and some amazing scenery, I survived the 7-hour bus ride without any problems. The highway that the bus takes to get to Mendoza literally drives right past the base camp for Aconcagua, the tallest peak in South America and the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. With little more than the bus ride and about 5 pages describing the logistics of the climb in my guide book, I have now somewhat quixotically decided that I would like to make that summit before I leave South America. Of course, since I won’t be able to do anything with respect to this journey at least until December, should I change my mind, I can always modify this blog entry and hope that all of you will have forgotten that I ever even mentioned it. Foolproof!
When we finally got to Mendoza, we crossed the same street about six times in search of our hostel. It was actually the street that we needed to cross, but being the self-doubter that I am, I preferred to double back about four times before I was convinced I was going the right way. Around the fourth time we crossed, I think I cemented Matt’s impression of me as being crazy as the crab. Nevertheless, once we committed to crossing the street, we found our hostel without any trouble.
After checking in and dropping off our bags, we went to meet up with some friends at an all you can eat restaurant nearby. Unfortunately, the line was out the door, and the hostesses would not let us sit down at our friends’ table. As our stomachs had been doing cartwheels and various other uncomfortable acrobatics for a few hours in a effort to get our attention, Matt and I decided it would be better to get food sooner rather than later. We decided not to wait in line and instead went out in search of another restaurant. Fitting into the trend of Argentine restaurants, the first place we sat was amazing. For about $7US each, we received a huge chunk of beef, salad, and a couple glasses of wine.
Afterward, our friends made good on their promise to eat all that they could, while Matt and I decided to head out on the town. We went to a nearby town that has sort of been swallowed by Mendoza’s expansion called Godoy Cruz, where all the pariches (Argentine word for dance clubs) were. Not wanting to pay any cover charge until we were at least partially convinced that there would be people in the club, the two of us went to a nearby restaurant that was still brimming with people eating their dinner (at this point it was about 1AM). We split a $1 liter of beer, chatted for a bit, asked some locals for the best place to go, and settled on Geo, a discotheque down the street. When we got there, the place was pretty packed, but everyone was just sort of sipping their piscos, fernet-colas, and various other tragos while watching in dismay as some sort of high school cover band comprised of about five 30-somethings tried in vain to get the crowd fired up about the crappy music they were generating. After about 20 interminable minutes of enduring their terribleness, the club finally put on its dancing shoes, turned off the lights, removed all the tables, and booted the pretenders off stage. Before the lead guitarist finished his last chord, the place was already thump-thump-thumping with the rhythm of American pop-turned-techno music. Not exactly sure how to proceed at this point, I figured I might as well not waste the cab fare down here, so I too started to dance. Fortunately, the club was dark enough, and the strobe light blinding enough, that my freeze-framed poses belied what little skill I actually have. I somehow managed to start talking with a group of Argentine girls who laughed hysterically when they found out I was American. Supposedly, they were only laughing because the girl with whom I was dancing had a history of getting hit on by Americans, but I am still suspicious. As there were three of them and only one of me, I sought out to find Matt, who doesn’t speak much Spanish. After a couple of failed attempts, I finally found him, but by that point it was already too late, as the other two girls in the trio had found partners of their own.
Frustrated by the language barrier, the cloud of cigarette fog, and the lack of a dancing partner, Matt left around 3:30. I only stayed for another hour or so before I bailed on my gracious companion, and headed back to the hostel, smelling like my pockets were stuffed with used ashtrays.
As usual, EVERYTHING was closed on Sundays, so Matt and I spent the morning just walking around the main part of the city. Mendoza is more about the lifestyle than the city itself, so if you are noting my conspicuous lack of photos, it is because I simply didn’t take that many. We wandered through many of the town squares, which were all impressively lined with an incredible, and incredibly diverse, array of trees. By the time we got to the main city square, Plaza Independencia, the artisans were only just starting to set up their booths of trinkets and other useless items that tourists just can’t seem to live without. We walked a little farther down the main street and stopped at a little outdoor restaurant about halfway to Mendoza’s incredibly famous park. While we ate our meal in the cool autumn air, I relentlessly pestered our poor waitress to be our tour guide after her shift, as our information regarding the city consisted of what little was written about it in our guide book. She held her ground, citing, among her various excuses, that she was dating a guy who was married but separated. I think she might have gotten the wrong idea about what we were looking for… Perhaps “tour guide” doesn’t translate as it should.
After lunch, we headed over to Mendoza’s version of central park, where we killed the rest of the afternoon, walking, talking, and people watching.
After lapping a narrow, spindly rowing lake, we sat down at a café on the north end and waited for our British friend Ed. When he arrived, we managed to sit, chat, and drink some more, before heading over to the Area Fundacional, which was the former city center before the big earthquake of 1861 obliterated the entirety of town. The museum was small and littered with exhibits that appeared to be out of an 6th grade diorama-fair but interesting nevertheless. On our way back to the hostel, we made a quick stop at the ruins of the most prominent church in the city before the big earthquake, and headed back.
Back at the hostel, we shared a cup of maté that I think I prepared horribly wrong with Lauren, a girl from KC who had been living and working in Paraguay and was taking her last couple days of vacation before returning home to the US. Afterward, we added a few more members to our crew and headed out to dinner. Dinner was in typical Argentine fashion, amazing, cheap, and accompanied with fantastic red wine. Seeing as how it was Sunday, and none of us were really in the mood to pay a lot to go out drinking, we opted for the casino, where over the course of 3 hours I see-sawed between $10 and $30 up before finally hitting a bad streak and finishing down about $10. Still, unlike in KC, the casino served free drinks, so I basically got 3 hours of entertainment and a couple of beers for $10, and that is how I justify my addiction. Think of it what you will.
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