It's wine time

   Mendoza is the place you go for wine in South America.  Even the Chileans, rightly proud of their own industry talk wistfully about the Malbec in Mendoza.  On the backpacker trail all the talk is about hiring bikes and touring the bodegas (wineries, sort of).  I have seen Kizzy sway and stagger after two glasses of Lambrini.  So though the thought of her weaving in and out of traffic and ditches on country roads was amusing, I was responsible enough to leave it to the realm of fantasy. 

   We took the bus to Maipu, 15km to the south east, from where we could better explore a few bodegas on foot.  Our bus driver had other ideas, a road diversion sending us miles and miles off course.  We were fortunate to see many of the fields of grapevines and groves of olive trees as we waited hopefully for the bus to head back into town.  I was again reminded that in Spanish you use the same word for “wait” and “hope”.

   Arriving in Maipu in the early afternoon we fell back into our habits from Santiago and enjoyed a long lunch before setting off to taste the wine of two of the more accessible houses.  On our way to the first one we passed the museum of wine and viniculture.  With Kizzy curious as to the processes of wine-making, we ducked in to see if they had an interactive display. 

   This was not a mistake as such but things did not proceed in a normal fashion.  There was no interactive display but it was a bit like entering the house of the Adams family.  A very friendly lady insisted on giving us a tour, entirely in Spanish, wearing a maniacal yet friendly smile he whole time.  The museum was previously the mansion of the premier wine-making family in the region and from what I could tell the tour focussed on the family history and their furniture.  I think Señor Giol consolidated his empire by strategically marrying-off his sister.  And everything in the house was imported from Europe because they didn’t make anything nice in Argentina in the 19^th century.  Then there was something about the Queens of Maipu beauty pageant, and also the antique toilets.  Things were getting a bit surreal before they broke out the wine to be honest.

   Pleasantly the tour finished with a tasting session that we weren’t expecting given the entry to the museum was only AR$5, or about 80p.  After three half-glasses of wine – they seem to do wine-sampling, rather than simply tasting – and a few olive-based canapés Kizzy was starting to feel woozy. 

   By this time it was really quite late and we only had half an hour until the bodegas closed for the evening.  We trotted across the road to the Antigua Bodega Giol, for another largely impenetrable tour in Spanish and a further wine-sampling session. 

   I have very little idea as to the content of the tour, and I already know something about the making of wine.  About the only extra thing I picked up was that I am on an inexorable journey to becoming my father.  I could feel it in my facial muscles as I formed exactly the same expressions I’ve seen on him when trying to look attentive to someone prattling away in a foreign language, too polite let them know they have no real audience. 

   Kizzy was a little less discreet, albeit not by her own design.  She was doing quite well, nodding occasionally and punctuating it with a “si, si” every now and again.  She would have got away with it, except she threw in a “mas o menus” (more or less) with a flourish when the question was very much “yes” or “no”.  The tour guide had the opportunity to look confused at that one, then she clicked and patiently explained in English.  Allowing us our dignity she continued the tour in Spanish and Kizzy went back to “si, si”. 

   After another five half-glasses each, I was also thankful not to be on the bike. This one included the mistela: the sacred that the Giol brand are licenced to make for all of the priests in Argentina.  It is really quite strong, and I have it on good authority that cycling while drunk is not the safest route home. 

   That evening, I think – memory’s a bit hazy, we wandered through Mendoza back to our hostel and came across the rally of the bodegas.  We were a little sad to have missed the harvest festival in late February but were fortunate to stumble across this classic car rally and Harley Davidson convention instead.  It left me wistful for possibilities of a self-drive trip across the Americas.  However, I’m not sure how far we would go on Bolivia’s roads in an MG or a Jag roadster.  It would be awesome until the frostbite set in.