Having left Bariloche and all its picture postcard beauty I expected Mendoza to look exactly the same, especially as the only thing I know about Mendoza is that it is home to some of the best wineries in the world. For some reason I expected a tiny bus station, surrounded by acres of vine trees, and one hostel.
Not for the first time on this trip I find myself painfully wide of the mark. Mendoza is a big cosmopolitan city, and having been re-built following an earthquake in 1861, its wide streets are majestic and impressive. The town's economy is booming, and it has a lot to do with the popularity if its wine, notably the red malbec.
I get to my hostel, the Damajuana, and get a tour around. Swimming pool, little bar area, TV, clean beds, good bathrooms. The place is also bang in the middle of the most popular bar and eating area of the city. Everything is coming up roses for my penultimate living quarters.
It's been 5 months by now and I've had enough of churches, seen plenty of old things in museums, marveled at too much local architecture, and done enough activities. It's time to really focus all my energy on one main goal: drinking and eating my body weight in red wine and steak. So I retire to the pool with a beer and take in the late afternoon sunshine.
I meet a happy Texan called William O'Neil, he's gregarious and laid back, in a way that only Americans can be, and he's great. Turns out he's in my dorm too so we share some beers and agree to go and see the world famous Mr Hugo.
Mr Hugo has basically got the life we all want, he does nothing, earns a shit load of money, gets pissed every day, and makes about 60 - 80 new best friends every single day. Except Sundays. Which he has off to do something even better than what he does the rest of the week. The lucky old fucker.
And how does he do this I hear all 4 of you ask?
Here's how it works:
For 70 peso Mr Hugo will have you collected from your hostel and driven for 30 miles into the heart of stunning wine making country.
You get dropped off and are met by a big smiling fellow with one of those cheery round stomachs, a bit like a beach ball under a shirt, the sort of stomach that doesn't make you want to be sick straight away, more give him a cuddle.
This man (Mr Hugo himself) will then ply you with good wine, and will get you to happily sign an agreement that completely clears him of any blame, fault, or liability should you get mowed down by a lorry or killed whilst out riding one of his bicycles.
Then he'll give you a map, a red bike, another 2 glasses of wine, and wave you off.
Then he sits there and does whatever he wants and waits for you to crash back into his driveway 6 hours later, whereupon you'll be given yet more wine, before he decides to put you in a taxi and send you on your merry way.
Now this may sound like some small time operation Hugo's got going on but he's got 156 bikes in his garage, and the power of word of mouth at his disposal. I'd heard of his amazingness all the way back in Brazil, long before I'd even got to Mendoza, the man is cleaning up. And good luck to him.
Me and Billy get on our bikes and shakily ride off, I've not ridden in 4 months, Bill in 15 years, so the first few hundred meters are quite nervous. And dangerous. We decide to counteract this with a couple of glasses of absinthe, just to settle the nerves.
After the settler we head off around and explore the local wineries, having tastings, and enjoying the sunshine. We finish the tour back at Hugo's, him with a massive 'money for fuck all' grin on his face, and a big jug of wine in his hand. What a legend.
Back at the hostel Billy and I get chatting to some of the other guests, A Frenchmen (who's identity I have been asked to keep secret), a top bloke called Danny, a heart broken lad called Phil, who's Argentinian wife had just left him, and some other assorted peeps. The atmosphere is great and we all have a laugh and I realize that I don't want to go home anymore. This is way too much fun. We hit the bars and have the banter.
We come back to the cool bar next to the hostel and a Danish girl comes up to us and says,
"you guys are staying in our hostel, would you like to join us?"
she then pointed to a table of 3 other Danish girls. Billy jumps over the barrier onto the terrace, I push the Frenchmen out of the way, and Phil somehow manages to just appear at the girls table.
We all set about drinking and chirping to the ladies but it's quickly clear that the Danish girl who invited us over did so because she was all over the Frenchmen. The rest of us are a trio of wing men.
For us the night comes to an abrupt end when a couple of the girls tease Billy about Americas ex president, and foreign policy in general. Billy simply retorts with,
"He's the Daddy of one of my buddies from college and he's a real good guy. Y'all'd like him if you met him"
I've never seen a room empty so fast, and within a few seconds it was just me, Billy, the Frenchmen, and the Danish who wanted the Frenchmen.
"You'd really like him though" says Billy to the backs of the leaving people.
The Frenchmen takes the Danish upstairs, pulls his mattress off his bed, uses it to barricade himself and the Danish into the communal bathroom and proceeds to have loud sex with her.
The master of seduction will then have sex with an American lady on the grass by the pool not even 24 hours later! The guy is a machine.
The following day I have an appointment at one of the biggest wineries in the area, Septima. This has been arranged by a friend of mine who owns a Argentinian steak house in London. I am to have a private tour around the vineyard, factory, and laboratory. Followed by a hour of tasting their entire collection, finally ending with a lunch on the roof terrace of the winery with the international sales director.
It's the best day of my life.
From the table at lunch I could see the Andes, the company was excellent, the food sublime, and the wine heartbreakingly good.
My car arrives and as we drive through the 150 hectares of vine trees, and out of the winery, I'm struck by a wonderful feeling of tranquility and calm. My time is nearing it's end but I know that I've seen and done some wonderful things and I don't mind that it's going to stop soon.
We have another night out in Mendoza, I make jokes about Danny's possibly massive cock (he's 6,7 for god sake! It must be like a lamppost. I got the chance to have a stare a few days later when we went to the cinema, and we both used the toilet post film. I didn't have the bottle and used the cubical. It's one thing to make jokes about a giant cock the size of a elephant trunk, but it's another to stand next to it while you're holding your own tiny* wedge) and we all have a wicked night.
The next day is football in the park with the locals, then a night bus to Buenos Aires.
The end of the line.
*While my Father assures me, almost fanatically, that size doesn't matter, it does. Just ask ------ -------- (ha. no chance I'm writing those! names down. You know who you are)
And mine's more than fine thank you very much. At least I think so.....although an ex did say she didn't feel the passion anymore......maybe it was the passion of a small penis? oh god! what if she was lying to me? people lie to be nice don't they? But they can't all be lying to be nice? Not every single one of them? Can they? I'm not small, 5,9 isn't midget small height wise. And it's in proportion. I guess it's not baton size when it's not busy, but let me tell you! When there's a job to be done! he'll stand up and be counted! I've been to the public pool, it holds its own against the others. But the water's cold! that means shrinkage! oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.
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